Fic: The Genuine Moral Incentive
I suspect you never wanted moral philosophy in your Doctor Who fic, but if you did, well. Today's your day!
The Genuine Moral Incentive
Doctor Who
Rating: PG
(off-screen sex)
Characters: Five/Ainley!Master, Coordinator Engin
Wordcount: 1,300ish
Summary: A dialogue.
A/N: Title (and many of the ideas) from Schopenhauer's Ueber das Fundament der Moral (On the Basis of Morality). Opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own.
There was a room. In the room were a bed, and a chair, and two renegade Time Lords. The Doctor sat and stared at the Master.
"Where are we?" The Master looked around the room, up and down, searching in vain for a door or a TARDIS.
"Nowhere," said the Doctor. He crossed his legs and tried to project calm. "I have a question for you."
"Hmm?" The Master prowled around the room, his hands mapping the walls.
"How many people have you murdered?" The Doctor didn't turn as the Master left his field of vision. Instead he tipped his head back and crossed his arms as well.
"I really have no idea, Doctor. Do you think I keep a running total?" The Master, apparently satisfied that there was no means of escape for either of them, brought himself to stand just behind the Doctor, leaning down so his breath crept along the Doctor's nape.
"I don't know what I thought." The Doctor stood up, turning to look down at the Master.
"Why are we here? Is it actually for the sole purpose of asking me bizarre questions that you have removed yourself from your TARDIS, your companions, your safety nets?" The Master leered, smugly, already confident in the answer.
"Indulge me, Master." The Master's confidence hardened the Doctor's resolve, and he leant in until their noses were practically brushing. The chair kept them separated, briefly, and then was gone. "How many people have you killed, at a guess?"
"Only one who mattered."
The Doctor wasn't sure which one of them started the kiss. But it was him that steered them to the bed and him who pulled the Master down.
---
Afterwards the Master seemed to be dozing off, but the Doctor had no intention of letting him do so.
"Do you feel badly when you kill someone?"
The Master sighed, but didn't move his head off of the pillow he was sharing with the Doctor.
"Answer the question. Do you?"
"No." The Master rolled his eyes, and the Doctor was momentarily distracted by the flash of grey-blue.
"Did you ever?"
"I can't remember properly." The Master hesitated, and then continued to speak, slowly. "I know the first time I killed I was sick for days. But I think I was just afraid of being found out."
"You don't feel any moral compunction? None at all?" The Doctor tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out as flat, dead.
"I'm sorry." The Master's eyes flickered and his expression hardened. The Doctor hadn't even realized he had been more open than usual before.
"Why are you sorry?" The Doctor's tone wavered, and he stopped in the act of saying something else.
"Because I'm making you upset." The Master frowned.
"No! You're supposed to be sorry for killing people." The Doctor's control broke completely, and he was pulling at the Master's shoulders, shaking him. "Why can't you understand this?"
"I understand, Doctor." The Master shoved away the Doctor's hands, pushing them apart. They struggled briefly, foolishly, until they were lying on opposite sides of the bed, only just facing each other.
"I understand intellectually that you think I should react to death in a certain way," said the Master, at last. "But I can't make myself feel it. And why should I? Because you say it's right to feel guilt where I only see triumph?"
"This lack of conscience makes you a monster," said the Doctor. He got up, searching out his scattered clothes.
"Hardly. It makes you a monster, Doctor." The Master raised an eyebrow at the Doctor's attempts to put on his trousers backwards. "I do not think what I do is wrong - I want to rule, to dominate, and I do so. What else could be expected of me? But you, Doctor," the Master's voice grew more heated, and he gestured furiously, "you know what you do is wrong. You speak of right conduct and morals, and then you turn to me."
"I'm trying to save you," said the Doctor. He snapped his braces on.
"I don't even recognize your salvation as a reality. And you enable my behavior every time you fall into my arms."
"I'm not responsible for you." The Doctor turned his back.
"Aren't you? Your precious morals might say different, if you weren't capable of ignoring them every time they bother you." The Master's voice grew bitter, but he didn't move from the bed. "What separates you from me isn't that you're guided by your morals, but that they make you feel guilty afterwards."
"Stop it." The Doctor picked up his coat from the floor.
"You'll be upset about this encounter for weeks now, won't you? And I'll only be pleased that it occurred and sorry that it had to end." The Doctor looked over his shoulder despite himself and caught the Master grinning, smugly, as if to illustrate his point.
"If everyone was like you," said the Doctor, "we'd all be dead."
"If everyone was like me," said the Master, "there'd be far less unhappiness in the universe. I'm a realist, Doctor."
"I don't think anyone's ever accused you of that." The Doctor laughed shortly, humorlessly.
"Oh, but I am," said the Master, ignoring the mockery. "I recognize the limits of my reason. I don't try to instill artificial motivations in myself. My actions stem naturally from my wants and needs."
"Now who's trying to convert who?" The Doctor opened a door that hadn't been there until then.
"Yes, that's right, run, now that the balance of power has shifted." An odd note of vindication crept in to mix with the bitterness in the Master's voice. "What are you afraid of, that I might be right? That you might be happier without all that metaphysical baggage weighing you down?"
"I don't know if I'd be happier." The Doctor paused, half out of the door. "But I know that I would be broken inside. Try to get yourself fixed, Master."
The Doctor shut the door on the Master's chuckle.
---
Engin carefully lifted the Matrix headset off of the Doctor. The Doctor's expression gradually cleared, and when he opened his eyes his jaw was set and there were no lines creasing his brow. The forced calm was in stark contrast to the varied emotions Engin had seen while the Doctor was under. He had wanted to look away from the Doctor's raw, open face, but he couldn't adequately monitor the Doctor's condition by staring at his feet. Now there was no need to watch the Doctor, and Engin was glad of it.
"Did you get what you wanted?" asked Engin, carefully.
"What I wanted?" The Doctor shook his head minutely as he stood up, swaying a little from the return to the physical world. "Tell me, Engin, how much of that was real? How much was simply projections from my mind?"
"Hard to say," said Engin. He busied himself with the Matrix controls, clearing the settings and doing other tasks that were hardly necessary.
"Try." The Doctor leant over the console, hands in his pockets.
"Well, the Master's records are hardly in ideal conditions," began Engin. He let himself natter on about the technical details until something in the Doctor's eyes stopped him. "I don't know," he said, at last.
"How useless," murmured the Doctor, and Engin raised his eyebrows. The Doctor shrugged. "Talking to myself."
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
The Doctor nodded, and turned away. Engin focused on the controls again, and when he looked up only the fading outline of the Doctor's TARDIS was visible.
The Genuine Moral Incentive
Doctor Who
Rating: PG
(off-screen sex)
Characters: Five/Ainley!Master, Coordinator Engin
Wordcount: 1,300ish
Summary: A dialogue.
A/N: Title (and many of the ideas) from Schopenhauer's Ueber das Fundament der Moral (On the Basis of Morality). Opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own.
There was a room. In the room were a bed, and a chair, and two renegade Time Lords. The Doctor sat and stared at the Master.
"Where are we?" The Master looked around the room, up and down, searching in vain for a door or a TARDIS.
"Nowhere," said the Doctor. He crossed his legs and tried to project calm. "I have a question for you."
"Hmm?" The Master prowled around the room, his hands mapping the walls.
"How many people have you murdered?" The Doctor didn't turn as the Master left his field of vision. Instead he tipped his head back and crossed his arms as well.
"I really have no idea, Doctor. Do you think I keep a running total?" The Master, apparently satisfied that there was no means of escape for either of them, brought himself to stand just behind the Doctor, leaning down so his breath crept along the Doctor's nape.
"I don't know what I thought." The Doctor stood up, turning to look down at the Master.
"Why are we here? Is it actually for the sole purpose of asking me bizarre questions that you have removed yourself from your TARDIS, your companions, your safety nets?" The Master leered, smugly, already confident in the answer.
"Indulge me, Master." The Master's confidence hardened the Doctor's resolve, and he leant in until their noses were practically brushing. The chair kept them separated, briefly, and then was gone. "How many people have you killed, at a guess?"
"Only one who mattered."
The Doctor wasn't sure which one of them started the kiss. But it was him that steered them to the bed and him who pulled the Master down.
---
Afterwards the Master seemed to be dozing off, but the Doctor had no intention of letting him do so.
"Do you feel badly when you kill someone?"
The Master sighed, but didn't move his head off of the pillow he was sharing with the Doctor.
"Answer the question. Do you?"
"No." The Master rolled his eyes, and the Doctor was momentarily distracted by the flash of grey-blue.
"Did you ever?"
"I can't remember properly." The Master hesitated, and then continued to speak, slowly. "I know the first time I killed I was sick for days. But I think I was just afraid of being found out."
"You don't feel any moral compunction? None at all?" The Doctor tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out as flat, dead.
"I'm sorry." The Master's eyes flickered and his expression hardened. The Doctor hadn't even realized he had been more open than usual before.
"Why are you sorry?" The Doctor's tone wavered, and he stopped in the act of saying something else.
"Because I'm making you upset." The Master frowned.
"No! You're supposed to be sorry for killing people." The Doctor's control broke completely, and he was pulling at the Master's shoulders, shaking him. "Why can't you understand this?"
"I understand, Doctor." The Master shoved away the Doctor's hands, pushing them apart. They struggled briefly, foolishly, until they were lying on opposite sides of the bed, only just facing each other.
"I understand intellectually that you think I should react to death in a certain way," said the Master, at last. "But I can't make myself feel it. And why should I? Because you say it's right to feel guilt where I only see triumph?"
"This lack of conscience makes you a monster," said the Doctor. He got up, searching out his scattered clothes.
"Hardly. It makes you a monster, Doctor." The Master raised an eyebrow at the Doctor's attempts to put on his trousers backwards. "I do not think what I do is wrong - I want to rule, to dominate, and I do so. What else could be expected of me? But you, Doctor," the Master's voice grew more heated, and he gestured furiously, "you know what you do is wrong. You speak of right conduct and morals, and then you turn to me."
"I'm trying to save you," said the Doctor. He snapped his braces on.
"I don't even recognize your salvation as a reality. And you enable my behavior every time you fall into my arms."
"I'm not responsible for you." The Doctor turned his back.
"Aren't you? Your precious morals might say different, if you weren't capable of ignoring them every time they bother you." The Master's voice grew bitter, but he didn't move from the bed. "What separates you from me isn't that you're guided by your morals, but that they make you feel guilty afterwards."
"Stop it." The Doctor picked up his coat from the floor.
"You'll be upset about this encounter for weeks now, won't you? And I'll only be pleased that it occurred and sorry that it had to end." The Doctor looked over his shoulder despite himself and caught the Master grinning, smugly, as if to illustrate his point.
"If everyone was like you," said the Doctor, "we'd all be dead."
"If everyone was like me," said the Master, "there'd be far less unhappiness in the universe. I'm a realist, Doctor."
"I don't think anyone's ever accused you of that." The Doctor laughed shortly, humorlessly.
"Oh, but I am," said the Master, ignoring the mockery. "I recognize the limits of my reason. I don't try to instill artificial motivations in myself. My actions stem naturally from my wants and needs."
"Now who's trying to convert who?" The Doctor opened a door that hadn't been there until then.
"Yes, that's right, run, now that the balance of power has shifted." An odd note of vindication crept in to mix with the bitterness in the Master's voice. "What are you afraid of, that I might be right? That you might be happier without all that metaphysical baggage weighing you down?"
"I don't know if I'd be happier." The Doctor paused, half out of the door. "But I know that I would be broken inside. Try to get yourself fixed, Master."
The Doctor shut the door on the Master's chuckle.
---
Engin carefully lifted the Matrix headset off of the Doctor. The Doctor's expression gradually cleared, and when he opened his eyes his jaw was set and there were no lines creasing his brow. The forced calm was in stark contrast to the varied emotions Engin had seen while the Doctor was under. He had wanted to look away from the Doctor's raw, open face, but he couldn't adequately monitor the Doctor's condition by staring at his feet. Now there was no need to watch the Doctor, and Engin was glad of it.
"Did you get what you wanted?" asked Engin, carefully.
"What I wanted?" The Doctor shook his head minutely as he stood up, swaying a little from the return to the physical world. "Tell me, Engin, how much of that was real? How much was simply projections from my mind?"
"Hard to say," said Engin. He busied himself with the Matrix controls, clearing the settings and doing other tasks that were hardly necessary.
"Try." The Doctor leant over the console, hands in his pockets.
"Well, the Master's records are hardly in ideal conditions," began Engin. He let himself natter on about the technical details until something in the Doctor's eyes stopped him. "I don't know," he said, at last.
"How useless," murmured the Doctor, and Engin raised his eyebrows. The Doctor shrugged. "Talking to myself."
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
The Doctor nodded, and turned away. Engin focused on the controls again, and when he looked up only the fading outline of the Doctor's TARDIS was visible.