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 slightly—whether from the years of combat, the drugs the government pumped into him, or the sheer weight of what he had uncovered, he wasn’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 loudly—MGM, Warner Brothers, the Bronfman family, Geffen. The real puppet masters.
The industry was more than just a machine designed to print money—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 couldn’t ignore the distress call embedded in Nelly Furtado’s song Party. It wasn’t just music—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 wasn’t just a pop star—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 wasn’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 ‘condition,’ 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 didn’t fear lawsuits. They didn’t fear protests. They feared the light of truth, and that’s exactly what Snake was going to shine on them.
He loaded his SOCOM pistol and grabbed his codec. This wasn’t Shadow Moses, but it was just as deadly. The enemy didn’t wear uniforms, but their power was just as insidious.
It was time to bring down Hollywood’s secret war machine.