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.”
Joe Jukic leaned against the counter of Cafe Algarve, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stared into his cappuccino. “You know, Nelly,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia, “I still remember that yellow dress you wore at Sister Helen’s sock hop back in ’89.”
Nelly Furtado, seated across from him, raised an eyebrow. She stirred her tea with deliberate slowness, her curiosity piqued. “The yellow dress? Really?” she asked, a playful smirk forming. “What about it?”
Joe chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “It was unforgettable. You lit up the room. I didn’t know how to dance back then—still don’t, to be honest. But I remember making eye contact with you before I chickened out and went outside to smoke those Pop Eye candy cigarettes. You know, the ones that made you feel cool even though you weren’t.”
Nelly burst out laughing, her voice echoing through Cafe Algarve. “Joe, are you serious? Candy cigarettes? You were trying to be a rebel with sugar sticks?”
Joe shrugged, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Hey, they were the height of cool for a 12-year-old.”
Her laughter faded, and her expression turned serious. “Joe, you’re not still smoking, are you?”
He hesitated, his smile faltering. “Well…”
“Joe Camel,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re being targeted for termination.”
Joe blinked, caught off guard. “Termination?”
“That’s right,” Nelly said, her tone firm. “At the Invictus concert autograph signing next month, I’m breaking every single one of your cigarettes. You hear me?”
Joe’s grin returned, this time with a defiant edge. “Come take them, then. Molon Labe.”
Nelly leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I will. And when I’m done, you’ll thank me.”
Joe’s laughter filled the air, a mix of amusement and challenge. “Alright, Nelly. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes.”
Cafe Algarve buzzed around them, but for a moment, it felt like they were back in 1989, two teenagers trading playful jabs at a sock hop. Only this time, the stakes were higher, and the laughter was seasoned with the weight of years gone by.
