[Hospital Therapy Wing โ Late Afternoon]
Dr. Luka Kovaฤ stands by the window, thumbing through a patient chart, concerned. He grabs the pager and sends a quick message.
Pager Message:
โDr. Nelly Furtado to Therapy Room 3. Urgent consult.โ
Moments later, Dr. Nelly Furtado strides in, a warm but firm presence. She nods at Luka, who breathes a sigh of relief.
Dr. Luka Kovaฤ (low voice):
โThanks for coming, Nelly. Itโs Angelina Jolie. Sheโsโฆ in a volatile mood. Talking about grand futures one minute, self-harm the next. If it were up to meโฆโ (he smiles wryly) โโฆIโd endorse Shiloh for UN President already. But right now, Angelina needs focus, not despair.โ
He steps closer to Angelina, who is sitting cross-legged on the therapy couch, fidgeting with a pen โ too tightly.
Dr. Luka Kovaฤ (gentle, steady):
โMs. Jolie, listen to me carefully. I greenlight your ambitions โ all of them. The world needs your heart, not your silence. But pleaseโฆ do not sever your aorta with a pen. Not today. Not ever.โ
Angelina looks up at him, blinking, caught between a tear and a laugh. Dr. Nelly moves in smoothly to take over the session, her voice like a balm.
Title: The Young Pope and the Shadow Beneath the Mind
Setting: A dimly lit chamber in the Apostolic Palace, candlelight flickers against the faces of gathered physicians, psychologists, and Vatican advisers. Angelina Jolie is not present, but her case looms over the room like incense smoke. Pope Pius XIII enters, wearing stark white, eyes burning with righteous clarity.
Pope Pius XIII (calm but cutting):
“I’ve read the case notes. The testimonies. The contradictions. And the silences between the lines.”
The doctors exchange cautious glances.
Pius XIII:
“Some of you claim Angelina suffers from false memory syndrome. That the horrors she recalls โ the rituals, the masks, the torches, the blood โ are inventions. Distortions. Psychological noise.”
He walks slowly, hands behind his back, stopping in front of the lead psychologist.
Pius XIII (low voice):
“But I wonderโฆ is it her mind that’s confused? Or is it your faith that’s gone blind?”
A long silence.
Pius XIII (sharper now):
“There is a Satanic network in this world. It has many faces โ not just the grotesque masks of cults, but the marble smiles of billionaires, the wine-soaked feasts of secret clubs, the eyes of men who believe they are gods.”
He turns to face the whole room.
Pius XIII:
“These rituals exist. They are not folklore. They are the religion of power. And if you โ in your pride โ dismiss them as delusions, then you are not healers. You are useful idiots, or worse โ merchants of Mammon, who will say anything for a grant, a headline, or a raise.”
A younger doctor stammers:
Psychiatrist:
“But Holy Fatherโฆ itโs hard to proveโฆ”
Pius XIII (interrupting, voice like thunder):
“Because the devil buries his footprints in gold. Because you don’t want to see them.”
He steps closer.
Pius XIII:
“You think you’re practicing science. But if you ignore evil, you are practicing cowardice. And no soul was ever healed by a coward.”
He pauses. Then, quietly:
Pius XIII:
“I will not let her be devoured by the wolves of reason who have no room for mystery โ or memory. If you will not believe her, I will.”
The doctors bow their heads. The candles seem to flicker stronger, as if in agreement.
G.I. Joe Monologue: โThe Real Newsโ
[Camera pans over a war-torn landscape of cable news towers crumbling. G.I. Joe steps forward, scarred but standing strong, his voice calm, grave, and clear.]
G.I. Joe:
They used to say, โKnowing is half the battle.โ
But these daysโฆ youโve got to fight just to know anything real.
We all saw the island.
The flight logs. The cameras. The masks.
The kind of parties where invitations are whispered in code
and power is bought with silence.
And then you flip the channelโ
Boom. There it is.
Cartoon Network.
And I hear Bono in the background singing:
“The real news is on the Cartoon Networkโฆ”
Because our cartoons told you more truth
than their prime-time propaganda ever will.
I fought Cobra, sure.
But Cobra wasnโt just a snakeโit was a system.
A cult of wealth and war.
With temples in the woods and mansions on the cliffs.
And yeah, some of their rituals werenโt fiction.
Bohemian Grove. The owl.
Mock sacrifices that werenโt always mock.
You see, when the powerful want to hide,
they wrap themselves in myth
and call it art, or therapy, or performance.
But kids like us? We saw it.
We saw it allโdrawn in ink on plastic lunchboxes.
Truth in technicolor.
Now, Iโm not here to name names or spread shadows.
Iโm here to warn:
Not everything buried is gone.
Not every hero wears a cape.
And not every villain wears a mask.
They call it “conspiracy” to make you look crazy.
But when the smoke clears and the hard drives crash,
whatโs left?
The questions. The bodies. The broken silence.
We protect freedom.
We fight for the innocent.
We tell the truthโeven when it hurts.
Because in the endโฆ
G.I. Joe knows:
The cartoons werenโt just for kids.
They were warnings.
They were maps.
They were prophecy.
And now you know.
[He looks at the cameraโthen fades to static.]
Lady Jaye Monologue: โThe Islandโ
[Interior โ dim military barracks. A single lamp glows. Lady Jaye sits at her bunk, sharpening a knife slowly. The storm outside beats against the windows. She speaks, not to anyoneโjust to herself, or maybe the ghosts.]
Lady Jaye:
They call it an island.
But islands are supposed to be safe.
Palm trees. Sunlight. Peace.
This one was different.
We all saw itโat least the part they let us see.
The flight logs.
The cameras.
The dead man in a jail cell who wasnโt supposed to die.
It wasnโt a resort. It was a machine.
A ritual ground built by billionaires,
where power was the only passport.
Girls flown in like cargo.
Names dropped like hints in courtrooms that never finish the trial.
They told us it was a โconspiracy.โ
But a conspiracy doesnโt leave photographs.
It doesnโt leave victims with names,
with tears,
with stories the news wonโt air.
Iโm a soldier.
Iโve been behind enemy lines.
Iโve seen what men do when they think no oneโs watching.
And that place?
That island?
It wasnโt just Epstein.
It was a mirror.
A cracked oneโshowing us the truth
about who really runs the world when the cameras cut.
And hereโs the part that keeps me awake at night:
We knew.
Not all of itโbut enough.
Enough to raise alarms.
Enough to act.
But we didnโt.
Or we couldnโt.
Or maybeโฆ we werenโt allowed to.
You want the truth?
Here it is:
Evil doesnโt always wear a mask.
Sometimes it wears designer suits.
Sometimes it throws fundraisers.
Sometimes it walks free.
But not forever.
Because even islands sink.
Even shadows get caught in the light.
And I swear this on my uniform,
on my blood,
on every girl who never got to grow oldโ
the storm is coming for them.
[She sheaths the knife. Lights out.]