Author: Nadya Tolokonnikova

Stop Making Stupid People Famous!
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If Satan Didn’t Exist

RED TIDE — Final Scene

Interior: A vast, dimly lit underground silo somewhere in Siberia. The steel skeleton of an old SS-18 missile rises like a relic of a darker age—but it has been transformed. Its surface is no longer dull military gray; it gleams with panels, antennae, and delicate lattice structures. It looks less like a weapon… and more like something meant to ascend.

Snow falls through the open silo doors above, drifting down like ash.

G.I. JOE stands at the base, staring upward. His voice is low, almost reverent.

G.I. JOE
I spent my whole life training to stop this thing…
And now you’re telling me it’s humanity’s salvation?

NADYA RIOT—President of Russia—steps forward. Calm. Composed. Unafraid. She wears no military uniform, only a stark white coat that almost blends with the falling snow.

NADYA
Salvation is just another word we use when we’re afraid of extinction.

She gestures upward. The missile hums faintly, alive.

NADYA (CONT’D)
This was built to end the world. So I asked myself… why not make it begin one instead?

G.I. JOE
You’re still lighting the fuse.

NADYA
Yes. But now… it leads somewhere.

A low rumble builds. The missile begins to shift—panels unfolding, segments rotating. The warhead splits open, revealing a radiant core. Light spills out, soft at first… then blinding.

G.I. JOE shields his eyes.

G.I. JOE
What the hell is that?

NADYA (quietly)
Hope… engineered from fear.

The structure continues transforming—metal wings unfurling, not literal but suggestive, geometric and luminous. The machine no longer resembles a weapon. It resembles something mythic… an “angel” forged from steel and fire.

G.I. JOE
You turned the Devil into an angel.

NADYA
No…
We revealed what it always was.

The rumble crescendos. Snow whips into a cyclone around them.

G.I. JOE
And if you’re wrong?

Nadya turns to him, her expression unreadable—half sorrow, half defiance.

NADYA
Then we end as we were always going to.

A beat. The light intensifies.

G.I. JOE
You really believe this will save us?

NADYA
I believe humanity needs something to push against… something to define itself.

She looks back up at the blazing construct.

NADYA (CONT’D)
Enemy. God. Devil. It doesn’t matter what we call it.

The engines ignite—silent at first, then roaring like a rising storm.

NADYA (final line, almost a whisper):
If Satan didn’t exist…
we would create him.

The “angel” ascends—bursting from the silo in a column of light, tearing through the clouds. The sky glows.

Joe watches, frozen between awe and dread.

Cut to black.

END

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Flowers in my Hair

A rooftop at dawn. Moscow still half-asleep.
Concrete breathes cold. Somewhere, a siren rehearses the future.

Nadya Riot sits cross-legged on the edge, boots scuffed, guitar case beside her. She has dandelion flowers woven through her hair, yellow against the gray. She plucks one, blows—seeds scatter like quiet manifestos.

RED SON stands nearby, cape barely moving, eyes red not with rage but with listening.

NADYA RIOT:
They call it weakness, you know. Flowers. Songs. A girl with a guitar instead of a gun.
(smiles)
But dandelions crack sidewalks. They don’t ask permission.

RED SON:
In my world, revolutions arrive wearing uniforms. They carry certainty like a weapon.
(pauses)
You arrive… unarmed.

NADYA RIOT:
Unarmed isn’t the same as harmless. Punk was never about chaos—it was about truth said too loud.
I don’t want a throne toppled. I want fear embarrassed.
I want people to laugh at it until it shrinks.

RED SON:
Power does not fear laughter. It fears organization.

NADYA RIOT:
Then watch closely.
Music organizes breathing.
Choruses organize strangers.
Silence organizes courage.

(She places a dandelion behind his ear. Absurd. Tender.)

RED SON:
I could stop tanks. I could bend history with my hands.

NADYA RIOT:
And they’d rebuild the tanks with better steel.
But try stopping a song once it’s learned.
Try arresting a memory.

RED SON:
You dream of a peaceful revolution.

NADYA RIOT:
No. I practice it.
Every time someone chooses joy over obedience.
Every time a girl sings when she’s told to kneel.

(The wind lifts. Seeds drift across the city.)

RED SON:
What do you want from me?

NADYA RIOT:
Nothing heroic.
Just don’t crush the flowers when you land.

(She stands, slings the guitar over her shoulder.)

NADYA RIOT (softly):
Even empires are temporary.
But dandelions—
they come back every spring.

Red Son watches the seeds disappear into the morning light, uncertain for the first time whether strength is measured in force… or in what refuses to be afraid.

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Too Rich To Be Cool

The setting is a dimly lit, sticker-plastered dive bar backroom. Yugo Joe is nursing a lukewarm beer, while Nadya Riot is busy stitching a “Tax the Rich” patch onto a frayed denim vest.

Yugo Joe: (Sighing, gesturing at a news clip on the muted TV) Look at that guy. Another gold-plated tower, another fleet of planes. It’s exhausting, Nadya. How can anyone think being that rich is “cool”? It’s just… heavy.

Nadya Riot: (Without looking up) Cool? Joe, the man’s aesthetic is “dictator chic” from a 1980s catalog. There’s no soul in it. You can’t be cool when you’re obsessed with your own name in neon. Coolness requires a certain amount of detachment, right? He’s the opposite. He’s attached to every cent.

Yugo Joe: Exactly! It’s the selfishness that kills it for me. I always thought being cool meant being a man of the people—or at least having enough self-awareness to share the room. He treats the whole world like his personal lobby. If you aren’t helping him win, you don’t exist.

Nadya Riot: It’s a scarcity mindset, which is hilarious for a billionaire. He acts like if he gives away a crumb of credit or a dollar of tax, his whole ego will deflate. Real coolness is generative. It’s punk, it’s DIY, it’s collective energy. You can’t buy “edge” at a country club, I don’t care how many zeros are in your bank account.

Yugo Joe: Right? He’s got all the money in the world and he uses it to buy… more of the same. More mirrors. It’s like he’s stuck in a loop of trying to prove he’s the biggest guy in the room. A cool person doesn’t have to tell you they’re the “best” every five minutes. They just are.

Nadya Riot: (She bites the thread and finally looks up) It’s because he’s a consumer, Joe. A professional consumer. He consumes attention, land, and loyalty. But art? Rebellion? Authentic style? Those things require sacrifice and empathy. He’s too selfish to ever let a moment be about something bigger than himself.

Yugo Joe: I guess that’s the tragedy of it. He’s got the resources to change the world, but he’s too busy checking the gold leaf on his bathroom fixtures.

Nadya Riot: Let him have his gold. It’s heavy, it’s soft, and it’s gaudy. I’ll take a canvas jacket and a loud guitar any day. You can’t be a rebel when you are the system.