Act VI - The Weight of Stars
Scene: The Stargazing
(Mark, Will, Amber, and Wai sit by their tent, the coastal bush stretching into silence. Stars glitter above, the air sharp with salt and eucalyptus. They sprawl on sleeping bags, pointing out constellations, voices carried on the sea breeze. The night feels impossibly wide.)
AMBER (yawning, swatting a mosquito):
That one looks like three crooked buttons. The universe is drunk.
WAI (munching chips, grinning):
Nah—clearly a tennis racket. Or... a huge space playground for me to explore one day!
MARK (earnest, adjusting his glasses):
Actually, that’s Scorpius. See—the curve there? It’s in every star chart.
AMBER (snorting):
You’d manage to find homework even in heaven.
(They burst into laughter, the sound rolling easy and untroubled. Amber props herself on her elbow, gazing at the sky with a softness she rarely shows.)
AMBER (gruff, almost embarrassed):
This was romantic. Told you so.
WAI (mock-groaning):
You just wanted proof you were right.
MARK (smiling faintly, voice hushed):
Maybe she was.
(Amber smirks, hiding her satisfaction in the shadows. For once, no one argues. The three murmur half-formed jokes, scraps of wonder, letting the night stretch around them. The bush hums, the surf keeps its rhythm. It feels like a moment they might actually remember.)
(Slowly, sleep tugs at them—Amber curls into her blanket, Wai lets the chip bag slip from his hand, Mark mutters one last fact before his voice fades. They shuffle into the tent, leaving Will alone beneath the stars.)
(Will stays on his back, hands folded neatly, gaze fixed on the sky. His expression is calm, almost elegant, but his eyes gleam with something harder. He reaches into his rucksack and withdraws a book—'The Three-Body Problem'. He does not smile. Instead, he runs a thumb across the cover as if weighing its judgement. The torchlight flickers across his face, hollowing the shadows.)
(Above, the stars seem to pulse brighter, colder, as though listening. To the others, Will is the dependable flatmate, the gentle teacher. But here, alone under the infinite sky, he looks like something else entirely: a man preparing to make a move that could fracture the board itself. He exhales slowly, his whisper caught between the stars and the page—not prayer, not hope, but something darker.)
WILL (under his breath):
Stars are never as romantic as they look.
Scene: The Radar Station
(In an instant, the wilderness dissolves. Will blinks—and finds himself before a massive radar station rising from the hillside, its dish sweeping across the night sky. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusts his cuffs, then strolls forward with the calm assurance of a guest arriving precisely on time.)
(Inside, consoles hum. Operators doze at their stations. Only one figure remains fully awake: YE WENJIE. Her eyes are hollow, her fingers tense over a command line. She stiffens as she notices Will, quickly reaching under the desk and drawing a small dagger.)
YE WENJIE (coldly):
Who are you?
WILL (inclining his head, voice smooth and courteous):
No enemy. A stranger, yes—but one who admires a woman brave enough to flip the board entirely.
(Ye Wenjie narrows her eyes, watching him warily as he takes a measured step closer.)
WILL:
Most cling to the rules, even when the rules strangle them. You’ve chosen instead to overturn the game. I can’t help but ask—aren’t you afraid?
YE WENJIE (after a beat, steady but low):
Afraid? Once, perhaps. But fear is constant. Hope is rarer. This—what I do tonight—is not madness. It is the only hope left to me.
(She gestures faintly toward the consoles, her expression unyielding.)
YE WENJIE:
I’ve lived through fathers beaten to death for books, through the silence of a world deaf to reason. I’ve seen kindness ground to dust, brilliance punished as arrogance. Humanity poisons rivers, burns forests, turns every discovery into a weapon. If salvation cannot be born here, then it must come from the stars.
WILL (a faint smile, almost admiring):
So you call to the void, not knowing who might answer. You place your hope on strangers who may come as saviours—or as predators.
YE WENJIE:
Better the unknown than the monster we already are.
WILL (with quiet amusement, tilting his head):
A single move in a universe-sized game. You know it may doom us all.
YE WENJIE (with a trace of iron):
I have thought this through longer than you can imagine. Tonight I will answer the stars.
(A silence hangs between them. Will studies her, something like respect flickering in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Ye Wenjie grips the dagger tighter, her face set like stone.)
YE WENJIE:
I don’t know who you are, or why you appear now. But I cannot risk delay. I have this one chance—perhaps in all of history. I will not let you take it from me.
(Before Will can reply, she lunges—not in rage, but in ruthless calculation. The dagger drives into his chest. His breath catches, blood blooming across his shirt. She turns back to the console at once, typing rapidly. Outside, the radar dish groans, pivoting skyward. The signal is launched, carrying humanity’s fate into the void. Will crumples to the floor, clutching the wound, his face pale but still composed, a ghost of that sly smile lingering even as his strength fades.)
Scene: The Wound and the Stars
Ye Wenjie exhales, shoulders sinking. She glances back at Will—pale, slumped, but still alive. For a long moment, her expression is unreadable. Then, with a sharp movement, she drops the dagger, retrieves a first aid kit from the wall, and kneels beside him.
YE WENJIE (quiet, almost clinical):
From now, we are no longer alone.
(She cleans the wound briskly, binds the gash with practiced efficiency. Her touch is firm, impersonal, yet not cruel. Will watches her, lips curling faintly despite the pain.)
WILL (hoarse, voice edged with dark amusement):
You are a complicated character, Ye. I tried to read you many times yet I still don't full grasp the person behind this all.
YE WENJIE (without looking at him):
No. I am consistent. I bleed and I adapte - like everyone else here.
(They sit in silence, the hum of machines filling the space. Outside, stars burn against the void. Will tilts his head back, wincing but still poised, eyes on the alien constellations above.)
WILL:
Do you never wonder what you’ve unleashed?
YE WENJIE (gazing out the window, her tone even):
I would rather live beneath terror than beneath despair.
(Will studies her, then allows a small, knowing smile.)
WILL*(voice low):*
I hope Mark gets to read you one day.
WILL:
Do you believe in fate?
YE WENJIE (after a long pause, almost whispering):
Physics has no answer. Entropy rules, but choice whispers. Perhaps both are true. Perhaps neither. I believe in patterns too vast for us to see. Threads we mistake for choice. Perhaps that is fate.
(They fall into a heavy silence, staring at the shifting constellations. The sky above the station seems subtly wrong—lines of stars forming shapes unrecognisable, as though the universe itself has tilted. Ye Wenjie finally stands, glancing at the clock.)
YE WENJIE:
The next shift will come soon. You cannot remain.
(She reaches for the book lying beside Will. Her hand lingers on the cover, then she closes it with quiet finality. The radar station dissolves into starlight, the machines fading into silence. Will feels his body grow weightless, pulled back toward another world. His last sight is Ye Wenjie’s profile against the alien sky, unyielding, solitary, resolute.)
Scene: Back to the Camp
(Will staggers back toward the camp, his steps slow, shoulders slightly hunched. The wound is gone, but the phantom ache lingers deep in his chest. He lowers himself carefully onto the ground beside the fire. Amber and Wai, bleary from sleep, barely notice anything unusual.)
AMBER (yawning, pulling her blanket tighter):
You’re back.
WAI (half-smiling, eyes still heavy):
Don’t tell me you went wandering just to have a private chat with the stars.
(They chuckle drowsily, settling back down. Only Mark stays awake, watching Will closely. His sharp eyes catch the tremor in Will’s hand, the pallor in his face—signs no one else notices. Something about him feels altered, as if he has walked through death itself. Mark opens his mouth, but Will turns, meeting his gaze. A faint shake of the head, a glint of command in his eyes. Do not ask. Not now.)
(Mark swallows his questions. Will leans back against his pack, tilting his head skyward. His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent too steady, too deliberate.)
WILL:
Guys, what do you see when you look up?
(The others blink, then glance skyward. The stars glimmers above, sharp and brilliant.)
AMBER (grinning, then softer):
Fairy lights. Like the kind I always wanted strung across my room when I was a kid. Silly, eh?
WAI (stretching, thoughtful for once):
I see a pitch with no lines, no end. You can’t really win on it… but maybe it’s worth running anyway.
MARK (after a pause, voice careful):
I see… questions. Equations too vast to solve. It’s mysterious, yet… beautiful too.
(Will’s eyes don’t leave the sky. When he answers, his words are measured, his voice quiet but heavy, cutting through the night.)
WILL:
We are just like sparks that vanish before the universe even notices. And yet… we keep staring upward, as if the stars might owe us meaning.
(Silence follows. Amber, usually quick with a joke, says nothing, her eyes fixed on the sky. Wai fidgets, chewing the inside of his cheek, suddenly restless. Even Mark feels his breath catch—something cold stirring in his chest. None of them have ever thought of the heavens this way: not as pretty lights, but as an abyss that questions them back.)
(Will watches their faces—troubled, thoughtful, unsettled. Then, slowly, the severity softens. The sharp line of his mouth eases into a faint, knowing smile—half polite, half wicked.)
WILL (lightly, almost teasing):
Don’t look so spooked. Philosophy’s no good on an empty stomach.
(He reaches over, ruffles Mark’s hair with a mock-affectionate pat. Mark sputters but doesn’t resist. Will drapes an arm briefly around Amber and Wai, pulling them in with surprising warmth, before letting go again.)
WILL:
Enough stargazing for one night. Sleep. The sky will still be there in the morning.
(The others stir, awkward but comforted, retreating into their blankets. The fire dwindles to embers, cicadas fading to silence. One by one, they close their eyes, the vast sky wheeling above them. They know little, understand less, yet still—beneath the indifferent stars—they keep searching. And in that searching, they drift into sleep together.)