Untitled

Source: The Island of Doctor Moreau
Characters: Moreau, M'ling
Warnings: N/A

Summary: Moreau and M'ling have a conversation about pain.

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Two figures sit on an outside patio as dusk falls. Misshapen hands tap on the surface of a wooden table in an odd pattern, rhythm only evident to those willing to listen. There are scattered plates and empty glasses, the remnants of a shared dinner. Moreau watches the horizon. M'ling watches Moreau.

"Doctor," he starts uncertainly.

"Yes?"

M'ling shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He takes a deep breath, and speaks again: "You have said many times that pain is a needless thing-"

"I have said that, yes," Moreau interrupts.

There is a silence. M'ling huffs, eyes darting downwards as Moreau tilts his head towards him. He pulls his hands from the cluttered surface to rest them in his lap, and sighs. He looks up towards Moreau, their eyes meeting in an painful tension. Moreau blinks. M'ling looks back down. After some time, Moreau speaks again.

"Pain exists in abundance that goes far beyond our need for it," he says in a matter-of-fact way.

M'ling's ears twitch as he looks back up towards Moreau, unconsciously mimicking a threatened dog in both his posture and expression.

"There is pain in your life too, then?" His voice is a little softer now, though no more steady.

"There is pain in all life," Moreau answers simply.

"No, no, what I mean to say is-"

"No."

"You-" M'ling stops, curling and uncurling his fingers in his lap, face scrunched up in painful thought. "That is not what I meant," he says eventually. Moreau is silent. He turns back towards the dimming horizon.

"I do apologize," his tone is careful, lacking in all emotion.

Across the table, M'ling pushes himself back further into his chair, a squirming mass of coiled tension thinly veiled by scarred flesh. He closes his eyes, and breathes.

Moreau continues: "I do- for the process itself. For all it did entail. I mean that, I truly do."

M'ling stretches his legs out, claws working against the floorboards in soft scratches only barely audible. He stands up, and stares at Moreau for what feels like an eternity before turning his own gaze to the horizon- To the setting sun, the inevitable retreat of all insight, all that does exist in the world. Those eternal dreams of mankind, a concept so foreign he can barely grasp it.

"It doesn't matter," he says finally.

M'ling leaves with no farewell, and Moreau's eyes do not stray.