Our Lady’ s Home

Story Scene: โ€œOh Freedom, Where Do I Begin?โ€

In a quiet cafรฉ in Vancouver, the rain taps softly against the windows.
Nelly Furtado stares down at her tea like sheโ€™s searching for an answer inside the steam.

โ€œSometimes,โ€ she says, โ€œI feel like every step of my life is being examined by doctors and experts. Charts, diagnoses, interviewsโ€ฆ it never ends.โ€

Across from her sits Joe Jukic, flipping through a small Bible.

Nelly sighs and half-laughs. โ€œYou know that line from my song Party? I keep hearing it in my head lately.โ€

She looks up and quotes her own lyric:

โ€œOh freedomโ€ฆ where do I begin?โ€

Joe nods slowly and turns the page toward her.

โ€œMaybe here,โ€ he says, pointing.

He reads aloud from Psalm 91:

โ€œWhoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.โ€

Joe closes the book gently.

โ€œThatโ€™s security,โ€ he says. โ€œNot committees. Not psychiatric interrogations. Just faith and a quiet life. If someone needs to confess something, they go to a priestโ€”not a panel.โ€

Nelly leans back, thinking.

Joe continues, half-smiling.

โ€œAnd if you want greener pasturesโ€ฆ weโ€™ve got friends. Even warriors.โ€

He gestures jokingly like a bodyguard arriving.

โ€œMarko Perkoviฤ‡ Thompson will protect us.โ€

Nelly laughs at the absurd image.

Joe shrugs.

โ€œIโ€™m serious about one thing though. People act like weโ€™re trapped. But weโ€™re not.โ€

He points out the window toward the gray Vancouver skyline.

โ€œWeโ€™re not living behind the Berlin Wall.โ€

He spreads his hands.

โ€œWe can pack a bag, get on a plane, and go somewhere peaceful if we want. Nobodyโ€™s stopping us.โ€

Nelly looks out at the rain again.

โ€œFreedom,โ€ she murmurs.

Then she smiles faintly.

โ€œMaybe thatโ€™s where the party actually starts.โ€ ๐ŸŽถ

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A Cry For Help

Solid Snake and the Hollywood Conspiracy

Solid Snake took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he sat in the dimly lit motel room. The neon lights of Los Angeles flickered through the blinds, casting broken shadows across the cheap wooden table. His hands trembled slightlyโ€”whether from the years of combat, the drugs the government pumped into him, or the sheer weight of what he had uncovered, he wasnโ€™t sure.

He had seen the horrors of war, but this was something different. This was a battlefield without bullets, without exosuits or genome soldiers. This was a war of the mind, a war fought with contracts, manipulation, and trauma-based control. And at the heart of it all were the names that no one dared to whisper too loudlyโ€”MGM, Warner Brothers, the Bronfman family, Geffen. The real puppet masters.

The industry was more than just a machine designed to print moneyโ€”it was a fortress of control. They took bright-eyed dreamers and turned them into disposable commodities, forcing them into contracts that stole their freedom, their dignity, their very souls. If they resisted, they were blacklisted. If they obeyed, they were rewarded with wealth, but at a cost no sane person would pay willingly.

Snake had been in Croatia, trying to disappear, but he couldnโ€™t ignore the distress call embedded in Nelly Furtadoโ€™s song Party. It wasnโ€™t just musicโ€”it was a coded SOS, a cry for help disguised as a club anthem. The lyrics spoke of control, of being trapped, of the unseen forces pushing artists into submission. Nelly wasnโ€™t just a pop starโ€”she was a prisoner in plain sight, like so many before her. Monroe. Houston. Winehouse. The list was endless.

He had returned to America with a mission. He wasnโ€™t alone. Vigilant Citizen and Pseudo-Occult Media had been tracking the industry’s darkest secrets for years. They had the research, the receipts, the proof of a system built on ritual humiliation and absolute control. But what good was knowledge without action?

Snake knew what needed to be done.

With a grimace, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small metal case filled with government-issued stabilizers. They said they were for his โ€˜condition,โ€™ but he knew better. The drugs kept him docile, kept him from thinking too clearly, kept him from connecting the dots too fast. He palmed a pill, considered it, then crushed it against the table. He needed his mind sharp.

The mission was simple: infiltrate the system, expose the handlers, and rescue the ones still trapped inside. The elite didnโ€™t fear lawsuits. They didnโ€™t fear protests. They feared the light of truth, and thatโ€™s exactly what Snake was going to shine on them.

He loaded his SOCOM pistol and grabbed his codec. This wasnโ€™t Shadow Moses, but it was just as deadly. The enemy didnโ€™t wear uniforms, but their power was just as insidious.

It was time to bring down Hollywoodโ€™s secret war machine.

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