FILL: The Lucifer Effect [6/7]
anonymous
November 4 2010, 03:50:58 UTC
John’s hands were tight on the arms of his chair. He swallowed, and it seemed to echo in the room, to bounce off of the white walls and back to him. Something internal was humming. He felt as though he was watching the scene from somewhere behind and above himself. He let his face show nothing.
“What I’m saying,” Mycroft said, “is that evil is ubiquitous. It is omnipresent. You have an interest in the evil of man, John, but to say that is to say you have an interest in man, full stop. The serpent is all of us. I’ve arranged the deaths of twenty-eight people, and who is to say that they didn’t deserve it? Who is to say that the men you will kill in the army - don’t look so shocked, please, it is unbefitting of your intelligence - who is to say that those men will deserve it? Where is the line drawn between good and evil? Can you walk me there and point it out to me? Can you say, ‘This is what we have decided, this is the definition of good’? I don’t think you can, John. And it’s time to consider the idea of not trying anymore.”
“How can you know what I’m looking for?” John asked hotly, overcoming the overwhelming strangeness and the speed at which the situation devolved into - whatever this was, a lecture or an intervention. “And why would it matter to you?”
Mycroft let out a breath that sounded almost like a sigh. “I’ve seen men spend their entire lives searching for something good. It is a waste of their abilities. Particularly in a man like you. You are training to be a doctor, but you plan to join the army. The desire to help and the desire to harm, or to aid those who desire to arm, are two deeply conflicting things, John, but they exist in equal parts inside of you, and they haven’t rent your soul apart yet. You hate it, but it is more of a strength than any other quality you possess. There is nothing wholly good in this world, and no matter how deeply you look, some things will never be anything but wholly evil. I am the only person who is able to tell you this, because I may be the only person you will ever meet who is able to see the world without the film of fear and doubt and emotion that you must look through at all times.”
One of John’s hands had strayed too far across the table as he sat listening with rapt attention and ignoring the silent battle of agreement and disagreement raging in his mind. Mycroft pulled the chain from his left wrist as far as it would go and placed his hand over John’s, trapping it there, cool and smooth, and John had the half-hysterical thought that Mycroft’s heart rate had probably not yet risen past seventy-five beats per minute, while John’s own pulse raced and jumped in his neck, and his heart pounded at the base of his throat.
“You must understand, John,” Mycroft said, forcing their eyes to lock across the table, “that there is nothing pure in you. You are tainted by the things you want, or don't want. Every thought, every emotion you have is run through a filter to determine whether it is appropriate. I have no such filter. I am the only person who is able to tell you that the world you are searching for does not exist. Lucifer fell here, if he ever fell at all. And it is better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.”
John let the words sink into him. He let his eyes rest on Mycroft’s cool, pale hand over his, long fingers splayed and soft against his. “What if I choose not to believe that?” he asked.
Mycroft pulled his hand away and sat back against his chair. “Then there will be a lot of disappointment in your life,” he said. “And you will end up wishing that you had taken my advice.”
John watched Mycroft carefully. “I think you’re wrong about that,” he murmured.
Mycroft cast his eyes to the ceiling. “The broken idealist,” he sighed. “That’s your future. I wish you luck in it.”
“What I’m saying,” Mycroft said, “is that evil is ubiquitous. It is omnipresent. You have an interest in the evil of man, John, but to say that is to say you have an interest in man, full stop. The serpent is all of us. I’ve arranged the deaths of twenty-eight people, and who is to say that they didn’t deserve it? Who is to say that the men you will kill in the army - don’t look so shocked, please, it is unbefitting of your intelligence - who is to say that those men will deserve it? Where is the line drawn between good and evil? Can you walk me there and point it out to me? Can you say, ‘This is what we have decided, this is the definition of good’? I don’t think you can, John. And it’s time to consider the idea of not trying anymore.”
“How can you know what I’m looking for?” John asked hotly, overcoming the overwhelming strangeness and the speed at which the situation devolved into - whatever this was, a lecture or an intervention. “And why would it matter to you?”
Mycroft let out a breath that sounded almost like a sigh. “I’ve seen men spend their entire lives searching for something good. It is a waste of their abilities. Particularly in a man like you. You are training to be a doctor, but you plan to join the army. The desire to help and the desire to harm, or to aid those who desire to arm, are two deeply conflicting things, John, but they exist in equal parts inside of you, and they haven’t rent your soul apart yet. You hate it, but it is more of a strength than any other quality you possess. There is nothing wholly good in this world, and no matter how deeply you look, some things will never be anything but wholly evil. I am the only person who is able to tell you this, because I may be the only person you will ever meet who is able to see the world without the film of fear and doubt and emotion that you must look through at all times.”
One of John’s hands had strayed too far across the table as he sat listening with rapt attention and ignoring the silent battle of agreement and disagreement raging in his mind. Mycroft pulled the chain from his left wrist as far as it would go and placed his hand over John’s, trapping it there, cool and smooth, and John had the half-hysterical thought that Mycroft’s heart rate had probably not yet risen past seventy-five beats per minute, while John’s own pulse raced and jumped in his neck, and his heart pounded at the base of his throat.
“You must understand, John,” Mycroft said, forcing their eyes to lock across the table, “that there is nothing pure in you. You are tainted by the things you want, or don't want. Every thought, every emotion you have is run through a filter to determine whether it is appropriate. I have no such filter. I am the only person who is able to tell you that the world you are searching for does not exist. Lucifer fell here, if he ever fell at all. And it is better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.”
John let the words sink into him. He let his eyes rest on Mycroft’s cool, pale hand over his, long fingers splayed and soft against his. “What if I choose not to believe that?” he asked.
Mycroft pulled his hand away and sat back against his chair. “Then there will be a lot of disappointment in your life,” he said. “And you will end up wishing that you had taken my advice.”
John watched Mycroft carefully. “I think you’re wrong about that,” he murmured.
Mycroft cast his eyes to the ceiling. “The broken idealist,” he sighed. “That’s your future. I wish you luck in it.”
John raised an eyebrow. “We’re finished, then?”
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