Act III - The Vanishing Flower
One evening, Mark left work earlier than usual. The flat was empty. The silence made the place feel larger than it was. Mark lingered in the kitchen for a while, then, unable to resist, drifted towards Will’s room.
The bookcase loomed. Its shelves were lined like sentries, each volume humming faintly with unseen energy. Mark’s hand hovered, trembling, until at last he pulled out a slim copy of Flowers for Algernon. The air shifted, and before he could change his mind, the world folded around him.
Scene: A Lecture Hall, 1960s America
Rows of professors and journalists in grey suits. Cigarette smoke curls upwards. Charlie stands at the podium, dazzling, articulate. Mark finds himself seated in the front row, awkward in his office attire, trying not to be noticed.
CHARLIE (confidently, to the audience):
As you can see, the results are unequivocal. Algernon’s progress, and mine, demonstrate that intelligence can be dramatically increased—if only temporarily.
(Applause. Mark claps too loudly, then immediately stops, embarrassed. A stern professor in spectacles turns to him.)
PROFESSOR:
You there. What’s your field? You look… informed.
MARK (panicking):
Oh—I—I’m just… visiting. Business sector. Software, you know, spreadsheets and… bug fixes.
(Murmurs ripple. Another scientist leans forward.)
SCIENTIST:
Software? Intriguing. What advances might we expect from your… research?
MARK (blurting out without thinking):
Well—neural networks, mostly. Artificial intelligence, deep learning, all that.
(The hall falls silent. Every head swivels towards him. Charlie tilts his head, curious. The professors exchange rapid whispers, pens scratching furiously.)
PROFESSOR:
Neural… networks? Machines that think?
MARK (realising too late):
Oh God. I wasn’t meant to—no, forget I said that. Pretend it was a joke. Ha. Ha.
(But the damage is done. The room erupts—voices overlapping, scientists shouting questions, reporters scribbling frantically. Charlie himself descends from the podium, eyes alight with fascination.)
CHARLIE:
Gentlemen, he must come with us. If what he says is true, we have touched only the edge of a vast frontier.
(Two researchers seize Mark by the elbows. He squeaks in protest but is already being swept towards the doors, his chair toppling behind him.)
MARK (protesting weakly):
No, no, really, I’m not qualified—I can barely fix my Wi-Fi!
(Nobody listens. The lecture hall’s chatter swells into a frenzy as Mark is carried out, Charlie following eagerly. The doors slam shut, cutting off the smoke and applause. The scene shifts towards the sterile glow of a laboratory.)
Scene: A Research Institute
Fluorescent lights buzz. The walls are white, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant and chalk dust. Mark is ushered inside by a gaggle of white coats, planted in front of a blackboard scrawled with formulae. Charlie stands beside him, eyes sharp, posture taut with the confidence of a new mind.
SCIENTIST #1 (eagerly):
Tell us more, Mr… Mark, was it? Neural networks—layers of artificial neurons, you said?
MARK (nervous laugh):
Yes, well—it’s just, er, a way of copying how the brain works. You feed it examples, adjust the weights, and eventually it can recognise patterns…
(He trails off. The room falls into a hush. Then the scribbling begins—pens scratching, chalk squealing as equations blossom across the board. Faces glow with intellectual hunger.)
SCIENTIST #2 (almost trembling):
If such a machine can learn, then it can predict—yes? Could it forecast the stability of compounds, the long-term effects of a treatment?
SCIENTIST #3 (eyes shining):
Imagine it! A network that sees what years of trial cannot. We could calculate the permanence of this intelligence, the very durability of genius itself!
(Mark freezes. The words strike too close. His palms sweat. He forces a laugh, but it comes out strangled. Charlie notices, head tilting, gaze narrowing. The room quiets, watching Mark’s unease.)
CHARLIE:
Why do you hesitate?
MARK (voice low, cracking):
Because… because I know what your equations will show.
(The silence is electric. Every eye locks on him. He gulps, then blurts it out, unable to hold it in.)
MARK:
It doesn’t last. The treatment, the brilliance—your mind will rise to heights unimagined… but then it falls. You will fall. Back to where you began, perhaps worse.
(A beat of stunned silence. Then chaos. Scientists shout over one another. One man sinks into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Another smashes his chalk against the board, muttering “years wasted, all wasted.” The room fractures into despair. Charlie stands rigid, his face crumpling, tears spilling sudden and unrestrained. Mark takes a step towards him, but halts, helpless.)
CHARLIE (through tears):
So it was only borrowed time. My mind—my very self—nothing more than an experiment with an expiry date.
MARK (pleading):
I didn’t want to say it—I shouldn’t—
(Charlie lifts a hand to silence him. Slowly, his sobs subside. He wipes his face, inhales, and when he looks up again, his gaze is luminous, steadier than ever. His voice carries a new weight—acceptance laced with defiance.)
CHARLIE (offering the bouquet):
Nothing lasts forever. And it doesn’t matter. In this instant we are thinking, we are questioning, we exist. That is enough.
(Mark takes the flowers, clutching them as tears stream down his face. Around them the lab seems to dim, the white walls blurring, as though reality itself cannot contain the weight of the moment.)
Scene: The Flat, Evening
(The fluorescent lab dissolves. Chalkboards, scientists, Charlie’s luminous eyes—gone. Mark jerks awake, sobbing. His arms tighten, expecting flowers, but instead they’re wrapped around Will. Will’s shirt is damp from Mark’s tears.)
WILL (low, with steel in his voice):
You should never have touched that book. Do you even realise how dangerous it is?
(Mark stiffens, guilt flashing in his wet eyes. But then Will exhales, his hand stroking the back of Mark’s damp hair, his voice softening.)
WILL:
Foolish as you are… Tell me, what did you see?
MARK (shuddering, voice raw):
A story I wish I’d never entered. A life so brief, a mind that burned so brightly and then crumbled into dust. I saw that nothing lasts: not knowledge, not triumph, not even the flowers I held. Everything slips away.
(Will studies him, eyes narrowing, a shadow of something darker crossing his face. His next words are almost a whisper, edged with danger and comfort alike.)
WILL:
Not in my world. In here, memory never fades. Even if you became a fool, even if you turned to ash: what you’ve been, what we’ve shared, would be kept… perfectly.
(Mark’s breath hitches—half afraid, half soothed. He leans into Will, trembling, unsure whether to resist or surrender. Then Amber’s voice cuts across the tension from the kitchen.)
AMBER (brisk, irreverent):
Oi, enough melodrama! Dinner’s on the table before it burns. Move it, lads.
(At the dining table, plates clatter. Mark sits between Will and Amber, eyes still red. He looks around the three of them, voice small but searching.)
MARK:
Do you think… one day, the four of us will drift apart? Go our own ways?
AMBER (snorting, ladling stew with theatrical disdain):
Maybe. But even then we’ll remember your disasters. No escaping those, sunshine.
WAI (grinning, mouth already full):
Honestly, I’m the one who should worry. You three are all geniuses. I’m just the village idiot tagging along.
AMBER (whacking him lightly with a spoon):
Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not nearly interesting enough to be the village idiot.
WAI:
Hey! I was being vulnerable here! Cruel, cruel woman...
(Wai splutters; Amber smirks. Their bickering ignites once more. Mark lets out a shaky laugh, the weight in his chest easing. The clatter of cutlery and playful insults fill the flat, pulling him back into the warmth of the everyday—even as the bookcase looms silently in the next room, waiting for its turn again.)