At least 80% of fibre-optic cables globally go via the U.S. This

Host: The night was thick with fog, and the city lights flickered like dying stars beneath the weight of the mist. From the twenty-second floor of a glass tower, the world looked both beautiful and unforgiving—a grid of light concealing secrets beneath every hum of electricity.

Inside, the office was dim. Rows of servers blinked rhythmically, their faint blue glow pulsing like veins in the body of a sleeping giant. The sound of humming machines filled the air, constant, mechanical, alive.

Jack stood before the window, his reflection fractured by the glass. He held a small flash drive between his fingers, turning it over like a coin of fate. Jeeny sat at the corner of the table, her laptop open, its screen casting soft light across her face—half angel, half fire.

Jeeny: “William Binney once said, ‘At least 80% of fibre-optic cables globally go via the U.S. This is no accident and allows the U.S. to view all communication coming in. At least 80% of all audio calls, not just metadata, are recorded and stored in the U.S. The NSA lies about what it stores.’”

(She looks up, her eyes reflecting the cold digital light.)
“Do you believe that, Jack? That almost everything we say, every word we whisper into a phone, is stored somewhere, waiting to be used?”

Jack: (smirking) “Believe it? I helped build the damn systems. And yes, it’s true—though it’s not as cinematic as Binney makes it sound. The truth is quieter, colder. It’s not evil—it’s infrastructure.”

Host: The servers hummed louder, as if responding to his words. The blue glow shimmered across Jack’s face, etching hard lines of fatigue and guilt.

Jeeny: “Infrastructure? You call mass surveillance infrastructure? That’s like calling a loaded gun a safety device.”

Jack: “It is a safety device. You think freedom exists without control? You think peace survives without surveillance? Information is the new border. And like any border, it has to be guarded.”

Jeeny: “Guarded from whom, Jack? From enemies—or from citizens?”

Host: The air between them tightened, the hum of machines rising like static electricity. Jeeny’s fingers curled into fists on the table, her voice trembling not with fear, but with conviction.

Jeeny: “Binney risked his life to expose that truth. He saw what you see—and he walked away. Don’t you ever wonder what it cost him to tell the world that we were all being watched?”

Jack: “He was idealistic. And idealists always forget that safety isn’t free. The world runs on secrets, Jeeny. Always has. You just prefer your illusions neat and patriotic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I prefer my humanity unmonitored.”

Host: The rain began to fall, heavy and deliberate, sliding down the windows like tears tracing glass. In the reflection, their faces appeared ghostly—two silhouettes locked in moral combat.

Jack: “You think privacy is sacred. But privacy is obsolete. Every app, every click, every keystroke—you’ve already surrendered your soul. The NSA just collects what people already gave away.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a priest for the Church of Control. What you call surrender, I call exploitation. People didn’t give it away, Jack—they were tricked into believing connection was freedom.”

Host: The lights flickered. A distant thunder rolled across the city. The servers blinked on, then off, then on again—like the heartbeat of a machine god deciding whether to listen.

Jack: “You talk about freedom like it’s eternal. But freedom is fragile—it’s a luxury we defend through data. Without intelligence, we’d still be burying bodies from the next terrorist attack. Binney’s right about the scope, wrong about the purpose.”

Jeeny: “You mean the justification. There’s always one, isn’t there? The greater good. National security. The war on terror. But at what point does protection become possession?”

Host: Jack turned away from the window, his eyes dark, reflective, almost haunted. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

Jack: “You think I don’t ask myself that? I built systems to listen—not to control. But somewhere along the way, they stopped listening for threats and started listening to everyone.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s how it always begins—with good intentions.”

Host: The sound of the rain grew steadier, mingling with the low electronic hum—a strange harmony of nature and machinery. Jeeny closed her laptop, stood, and walked slowly toward him.

Jeeny: “Binney said the NSA lies about what it stores. Do you?”

Jack: (long pause) “Not anymore.”

Host: A lightning flash illuminated the room—sharp, white, merciless. For an instant, their faces looked carved in stone, two statues caught between truth and betrayal.

Jeeny: “You once told me you believe in reason above all else. So tell me, Jack—what’s reasonable about collecting the voices of billions? What are you reasoning toward?”

Jack: “Survival. Information is power, Jeeny. And power keeps the peace.”

Jeeny: “No. Power silences peace.”

Host: Her voice rose, then broke—a crack of pain beneath the certainty. She stepped closer until she was only a breath away. The flickering lights reflected in her eyes like twin fires.

Jeeny: “You call it safety, but what you’ve built is fear—an invisible cage dressed up as protection. Do you know what happens to people who grow up believing someone’s always listening? They stop speaking. They stop dreaming.”

Jack: “Maybe silence is the cost of security.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Then maybe security isn’t worth its price.”

Host: The room fell silent. Only the hum of the machines remained—like the slow breathing of a sleeping monster that had forgotten it was alive. Jack looked down at the flash drive in his hand, the smallest object in the room and yet the heaviest.

Jack: “You know what’s on this drive?”

Jeeny: “No. But I can guess—it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Truth’s too romantic a word. It’s data. Names, calls, messages. Millions of them.”

Jeeny: “Then give it to me. Let the world see.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And watch the world burn?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it needs to. Maybe fire is the only way to see the ashes for what they are.”

Host: The rain began to ease, leaving the air heavy but clear. A single light above the desk flickered, steadying into a dull glow. Jack placed the flash drive on the table, his hand trembling slightly.

Jack: “You sound like Binney. You think truth will save us.”

Jeeny: “No. But lies will destroy us.”

Host: The silence that followed was absolute, deep enough to feel sacred. Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a sliver of the moon, pale and unblinking—a celestial eye watching over both sinner and saint alike.

Jack: “If I give this to you, they’ll come for both of us.”

Jeeny: “They already are, Jack. The moment you built the system, you built your own prison.”

Host: He looked at her then—really looked. In her eyes, he saw not rebellion, but mercy. Not rage, but clarity. Slowly, he pushed the flash drive across the table toward her.

Jack: “Then let them come.”

Host: Jeeny picked up the drive and slipped it into her pocket. For a long moment, neither spoke. The servers hummed one final time, then fell into silence as she shut them down. The blue glow faded, leaving only darkness and the soft rhythm of the rain.

And as they stepped out into the cleansed night, William Binney’s words echoed between them—not as accusation, but as revelation:

That power, when hidden in silence, becomes its own enemy.

And sometimes, the only way to reclaim your humanity… is to let the truth be heard.