I used to be pretty damn good at skiing—black diamonds, moguls, carving through fresh powder like a pro. But now? Let’s just say life has a sense of humor. Now I’m living with a hernia, just like that Weird Al Yankovic song. Not exactly the Olympic comeback story I had in mind.
Anyway, I’ll be on the lookout for you this Thursday, February 13th. No pressure, no expectations—just hoping to cross paths. Maybe the universe will align.
G.I. Joe leans in with a smirk. “So, I heard you like basketball.”
Nelly Furtado raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Maybe. Why?”
Joe crosses his arms. “Well, I’m heading to watch some wheelchair basketball tomorrow morning at 8:20 AM. Real warriors on that court. If you’re a good girl, you’ll come watch the game with me.”
Nelly chuckles, tilting her head. “And if I’m not?”
Joe shrugs. “Then no courtside seats for you. And no church after.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Church, huh? You trying to save my soul, Joe?”
He grins. “Something like that. But first—basketball.”
Solid Snake stood in the sterile, dimly lit medical bay of HQ, arms crossed, his battle-worn face tense with frustration. The overhead fluorescents hummed softly as he addressed the lead scientist, Dr. Clark, and her team.
“I need stem cells,” Snake stated bluntly. “A peacekeeper—one of ours—lost the use of his legs at Medak Pocket. He deserves a second chance.”
Dr. Clark adjusted her glasses, looking up from a tablet filled with classified medical data. “Snake, you know the protocols. Even with today’s advancements, spinal regeneration via stem cells is still—”
“I don’t want excuses,” Snake cut in. “I want solutions. This man was sent into hell to keep the peace, and he came back broken. Now he’s rotting in a wheelchair because politicians only care about peacekeepers when they’re useful.”
One of the younger doctors, a Croatian named Dr. Stjepan, cleared his throat. “Medak Pocket… that was a brutal battle. The things they saw there…” He hesitated, then met Snake’s piercing gaze. “If he survived that, he deserves better than to be forgotten.”
Dr. Clark sighed, setting her tablet down. “The problem isn’t capability, Snake. It’s authorization. The Pentagon won’t approve experimental treatments for non-combat personnel.”
Snake clenched his jaw. “That’s bull. This guy fought harder for peace than most of those ‘combat personnel’ ever did. The politicians didn’t want the world to know about Medak Pocket because it messed with their narrative.”
Dr. Stjepan exhaled sharply. “And if we go around the system?”
A cold smirk crossed Snake’s face. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Dr. Clark narrowed her eyes. “You’re suggesting we acquire the necessary stem cells… off the books?”
“You said it, not me,” Snake muttered.
Silence hung in the air.
Finally, Dr. Stjepan nodded. “I have some contacts at a private lab in Zagreb. They’ve been making breakthroughs in neuroregeneration.”
Dr. Clark crossed her arms. “If we get caught, it’s both our careers.”
Snake shrugged. “If we don’t, a soldier who gave everything for peace is left to rot. I don’t know about you, but I can live with the first option.”
Dr. Clark sighed. “Alright, Snake. But if anyone asks, this conversation never happened.”
