War is big business. It's a lot of money going to and fro, and

Host: The train station was nearly empty at midnight, just the hum of electric lights and the faint echo of a distant announcement. The rain had just stopped, leaving the platform slick, shining under the flicker of tired lamps. Somewhere far away, a train horn cried through the fog—mournful, distant, and familiar, like a memory that refused to fade.

Jack stood near a bench, hands in his coat pockets, his face half-lit by the vending machine’s pale glow. Jeeny sat nearby, a small cup of instant coffee trembling in her hands, her eyes lost in the slow drip of water from the station’s steel beams. Between them lay a folded newspaper, its front page headline heavy with yesterday’s war.

On the margin, scrawled in black ink, the quote:
“War is big business. It's a lot of money going to and fro, and unfortunately a lot of angst, and a lot of fear, and a lot of doubt. And eventually a lot of wonderful people, like soldiers, like men and women that are out there trying to do the best they can, they come back being wounded on many levels.”
— Jon Anderson

Host: The air was cold, but their silence was colder. The world around them seemed suspended—half in peace, half in the memory of something broken.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how strange it is, Jack? That someone can make a living off the price of death?”

Jack: “Strange? No. Predictable.”

Jeeny: “Predictable?”

Jack: “Yeah. War’s not about hate anymore, Jeeny. It’s about logistics, contracts, oil, defense systems. The language just changed. They don’t sell violence—they sell ‘security.’”

Jeeny: “But people die the same way.”

Jack: “Sure. But death doesn’t make headlines unless it’s profitable. You ever notice that? The footage stops when the stock markets open.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes burned—half with anger, half with heartbreak. She set her cup down, the steam rising like a sigh.

Jeeny: “You talk like the whole world’s a machine built to consume itself.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Every empire was a factory before it was a flag. Rome, Britain, America—they all built their greatness on contracts written in blood.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel way to see it.”

Jack: “Cruel, but accurate. You think the soldier on the front line is fighting for honor? No. He’s fighting for a paycheck, or a promise, or because he’s too young to know better.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair, Jack. You’ve never looked into the eyes of someone who fights because they believe in something.”

Jack: “Belief is the cheapest weapon of all. It’s how you convince people to die for ideas they’ll never benefit from.”

Host: The rain started again—slow, steady. Drops hit the metal roof like the ticking of an impatient clock. Jeeny pulled her scarf tighter, her voice trembling, but clear.

Jeeny: “My brother went to Afghanistan. He was nineteen. He said he wanted to protect people—to make a difference. You’d call that naivety. But when he came back… he wasn’t him anymore. His smile was gone. He flinched at fireworks. He couldn’t stand in a crowded room. That wasn’t business, Jack. That was human.”

Jack: “I’m not saying he wasn’t. But the machine doesn’t care, Jeeny. It feeds on people like him—‘wonderful people,’ like Anderson said. You know why it works? Because good people think they’re the heroes of a noble story.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It works because too many people stop believing they can change the ending.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring into the dark tunnel beyond the tracks, where nothing moved but echoes.

Jack: “You sound like every peace activist who’s ever been ignored. The truth is, peace doesn’t pay. Guns do. There’s profit in chaos. There’s economy in fear.”

Jeeny: “And yet every war ends, doesn’t it? Somehow, despite all the money, despite all the pain—people still stop. They still try again.”

Jack: “Until the next one starts.”

Jeeny: “But that moment of stopping—that’s where humanity lives. Even one second of peace is worth the fight for it.”

Host: The station lights flickered, buzzing softly, and a low rumble echoed through the rails. A freight train approached—its lights cutting through the mist, a metal beast carrying unseen cargo. The wind from its motion swept across their faces, cold and electric.

Jack: “You know what’s inside those cars? Ammunition, armor plates, drone parts. Same line that brings groceries in peacetime carries weapons in war. It’s seamless.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the real tragedy. That the same hands that feed us are the ones that destroy us.”

Jack: “And the same money funds both. That’s the genius of it.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost impressed.”

Jack: “I’m not. Just tired. You can’t fight what’s built into the system.”

Jeeny: “You can. But first, you have to refuse to become part of it.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like ash settling after flame. Jack stared at her—long, thoughtful, uncertain. There was something in her voice that cracked his armor, even if just for a moment.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the image of that little girl running through Vietnam—burned, naked, crying? That photograph ended a war faster than any treaty. Sometimes all it takes is for the world to see what it’s done.”

Jack: “Yeah. For a while. And then it forgets. Humanity’s attention span is shorter than a headline.”

Jeeny: “But the girl remembers. The soldiers remember. Every wound carries its own truth. Maybe wars don’t end when treaties are signed—they end when memory becomes unbearable.”

Jack: “So memory’s our last weapon?”

Jeeny: “No. Compassion is. Memory without compassion just becomes trauma. Compassion turns it into resolve.”

Host: The train roared past, the ground shaking beneath their feet. A single tear slipped from Jeeny’s eye, lost to the rain. Jack’s face softened in the passing light—years of cynicism flickering under something raw, almost remorseful.

Jack: “You know, I once knew a man—served in Iraq. He said the hardest part wasn’t killing; it was coming home. Said the silence was louder than the bombs. That’s what Anderson meant, isn’t it? Wounded on many levels. The kind of wound that doesn’t bleed.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that waits for you in mirrors.”

Jack: “You think anyone can heal from that?”

Jeeny: “Only when they stop fighting themselves.”

Host: The last car of the train passed, leaving only the scent of metal and rain. The station was quiet again, just the hum of the night. Jeeny reached for the folded newspaper, smoothed its edges, and read the quote again under her breath.

Jeeny: “War is big business… and yet every wound it leaves is unpaid.”

Jack: “And every wound it leaves is the bill humanity keeps forgetting to settle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe someday we’ll learn that the real profit is peace.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s when peace will finally bankrupt us all.”

Jeeny: “Then let it.”

Host: The camera would pull back then—the two figures on the platform, the endless tracks stretching into fog, and the faint reflection of their faces in the wet ground: one hardened by realism, the other illuminated by fragile hope.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint scent of smoke and rain. Jeeny closed her eyes, breathing deeply, as though reclaiming something lost.

Host: And in that moment, with the world between wars and the night between breaths, two people sat waiting—not for a train, but for a change that might never come, yet still deserved to be believed in.

Host: The lights dimmed. The silence deepened. Somewhere, far beyond the tracks, another horn called out—a cry between commerce and conscience, echoing through the dark.