So for this fic, I've aged Angela down to about 26 or so, give or take three years. (16-19 year age difference, maybe?). It should also be assumed that she has not been recruited by Overwatch yet. She is young, eager to meet great scientific minds, and earning for purpose. So hopefully this addresses any confusion you as my reader might encounter.
Also, I genuinely apologize for those who have more knowledge of brewing and alcohol than I do. I had to Wiki this stuff, as my experience with alcohol and the process of beer-making is limited to basic knowledge and a few gin-and-tonics.
Thank you, feel free to let me know if you have questions, and please enjoy.
***********************
Angela blamed her friend for this.
Katja, her close friend and study partner-turned-coworker, had taken a semester abroad to study biodiversity, traveling Europe's cities and providences, snapping pictures, and generally making Angela quite jealous of the many, many destinations, rural and urban alike, that she wound up at. The conferences all sounded so fascinating, and the landscapes were awe-inspiring, excepting Ireland, which, according to Katja, had been so foggy that she could get very few actual pictures. And yet from Ireland came the strangest text Katja had sent over her studies abroad.
YouHAVE TO see this.
The attached link was to a bar somewhere in Galway, but Katja wouldn't explain it. She'd looked the place up out of curiosity. It didn't seem particularly special, with a 3.6 star rating and reviews touting its cheap, tasty beer but also noting that the decor was "old-fashioned" and the bartender could be…the reviews said "rude" and "sarcastic", but they probably meant something else. Angela failed to understand why the bar was worth visiting, and attempted inquiries got her nowhere, other than further insistence that Angela should visit the place. So she'd blocked out a week in mid-April, as not much was happening then, made reservations, booked a plane ticket, and flown here.
Upon arriving after spending a few days in Dublin, she thought that Katja, who knew her so well, was pranking her.
One look told her she'd probably hate the place. The cluster of people hanging out outside the door, cigarettes waggling from their mouths as they talked, was enough to make her choke even though she stood across the sign-lit street, the faint din of laughter and jumbled conversation enough to make her reconsider going back to the hotel for earplugs. But Katja insisted that she go inside to "have a look around".
She crossed the street and, holding her breath, weaved her way through the smokers lingering outside the door. She cracked the door open and slipped inside, but was nearly catapulted back out by the blast of noise that met her.
Irish music belted at top volume from speakers that vanished amidst the shadowed ceiling. Much of the bar was still bedecked in festive gold and green; tinsel boas clung to every railing, and light-up shamrocks hung in strings from the ceiling. Neon signs featuring a scowling leprechaun with his fists raised flickered here and there. It was ludicrously over-the-top this far past St. Patrick's Day, but, unlike most of the copy-and-paste "futuristic" bars, with their plastic-and metal furniture, strobe lighting, and indistinguishable techno beats, she supposed it had a certain charm.
To somebody else, perhaps Katja.
She peered through the crowd. Apparently there was someone here she knew, but she didn't see anyone of note. The chattering, shouting, laughing mass of people, cast in shadow by the poor lighting, were indistinguishable from one another, and even when she got a closer look at some of them, she still didn't recognize anybody, man or woman. She shrugged and squeezed through the crowd towards the better-lit bar. She was here already; she might as well try the beer.
The bartender was mopping up the counter while a patron groused over his spilled drink. Like the bar surrounding her, the bartender herself was bedecked in a gold and green cross-hatched black vest and plain but still striking emerald tie worn over a black suit, her short, perfectly-groomed flame-red hair clashing brilliantly with the vibrant greens surrounding her. Angela squinted at the almost-stereotypically Irish woman. She did seem vaguely familiar, but Angela could not remember where she'd seen the woman before.
"Hey kid, you do know this spot's reserved, right?"
She turned to face a man frowning down on her. He was pointing to a sign behind the bar that said BAR RESERVED: VIP ONLY.
"I just want a beer, and then I'll leave," she said coolly, refusing to let this "v.i.p." treat her like a doormat.
The man scowled at her, then turned.
"Hey, Moira!"
Angela swallowed a gasp. The name was definitely familiar, but the woman could just have the same name. The bartender turned, and sharp eyes scrutinized the man from beneath razor eyebrows. Angela couldn't quite make out the woman's eyes, the incontrovertible proof that this woman was who Angela thought she was, but peering too closely at the woman's face might lead to some uncomfortable questions. Moira turned and analyzed her with the same piercing gaze, but the light was too dim to make out the precise color of the woman's irises.
"Yes?"
The man jabbed a thumb at her. "Kid's hogging my space. Do me favor and get her a beer so that she gets outta my hair."
"Anything for such charming company," Moira said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The Irish woman peered down at Angela. "That'll be two-fifty."
Angela passed over the money, and Moira disappeared for a moment, returning with not a bottle, but a full pint of foamy amber brew. The stein rattled against the countertop as she set it down. An annoyed look crossed the bartender's face, and she turned away, giving her right arm a brief but vigorous shake. Angela gasped. In that motion, the light had briefly reflected off her face in such a way that she'd seen the woman's heterochromic eyes. She was only familiar with one person who had that specific genetic mutation.
Impossible.
Moira O'Deorain- infamous, estranged geneticist- was standing right in front of her. Serving alcohol.
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
Angela found a quieter corner in the back, sharing her table with a couple that seemed more interested in the feel of each other's lips on various parts of their faces than her as they got progressively more and more drunk. She sipped her beer in silence, composing her thoughts. How would she even initiate a conversation with the imposing woman, and when would this bloody bar clear out enough so that they could have a relatively normal talk? She wanted to ask the woman so many questions; what was she doing here, why did she leave the sciences, why bartending of all things, and most importantly, how did she brew her beer? The amber liquid was indeed delicious, and at the price Moira was selling it, Angela was shocked she could make any money at all.
A more troubling thought occurred to her. Was this what Katja wanted her to find? A washed-out genius stuck in some ass-end job in an obscure corner of Galway, Ireland? True, Angela may not like Moira's methods, but that didn't necessarily mean Angela wanted her to fail. Nobody deserved failure, especially in something they truly loved. The Irish scientist was probably suffocating here, chained by the weight of a damaged reputation and drowning in some sub-par job. She could only imagine how that would feel; she was only just rising in the medical community herself, and she adored what she did. To have her career ended so abruptly and harshly would probably have devastating effects on her. She sat, pondering this as the people slowly filtered out around her. The more angles she looked at the Moira-the-bartender puzzle from, the more depressing it became. Did those tremors in Moira's hands have anything to do with where she currently was?
The music stopped as the night wore on, leaving an eerie, ringing quiet in its place. Lights flickered on, their switches flipped by unseen hands, and waiters spread out and began to clean the tables, ushering the last few customers out the door. She stood up as one of the staff approached her.
"I know you're closing," she said preemptively, "but I want to speak with the bartender."
The man's mouth thinned. "All right, but make it quick."
Moira was polishing the glassware, her face set in a slight frown as she rubbed at the wall of the beer stein she held. She looked up as Angela approached.
"We're closing for the night. You want more, come back tomorrow," she said flatly.
"I just want to talk."
"Then come back tomorrow. I'll still be here," she told Angela, focusing her attention back on the stein.
"Please, Doctor O'Deorain."
Moira set the stein down with a little more force than necessary and leveled a scorching look at her. "No one's called me that in a long time. Why are you here?"
"One of my friends told me there was someone here I would recognize. I studied and still study in the medical field. I'm familiar with your name and your research."
Moira tossed her towel onto the bar and put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing, her tall, lean form towering above Angela. "Explain yourself," she demanded. "Because if you're interested in an interview, I'll throw you out right now."
"She bothering you, Moira?" One of the staff asked, his tone threatening.
"I'm just looking for the truth. Just for myself. And maybe a friend." Angela said.
Moira paused for a long moment, appraising her. "Fine," she said finally. "But make it short, Miss Ziegler. It's late." She walked out from behind the bar and sat down at one of the tables, gesturing at the empty seat across from her. The waiter let her shoulder go, and she joined the tall Irish woman.
"So, Miss Ziegler? Where do your…inquires…start?" Moira asked, lacing her long fingers together and peering at Angela, her mouth and eyes both narrowed in warning.
"What actually happened to you? I saw the news and heard what they said, but I've been watching you most of the night and-"
"And your conclusions?"
"Something's not right here. I don't think the news gave us the whole story."
"As it is wont to," Moira drawled. "And you're right. You know I was thrown out of Futura Genetics for my methodologies, but that's not the real reason why they tossed me out. They could have cared less about that." She pulled her hands apart and set her right hand on the tabletop. It quivered of its own accord, ta-tapping against the wood in an uneven rhythm.
Indignation flared inside Angela, her hands clenching involuntarily on the table. "A shaky hand? That's all they fired you for?"
"It was worse before the medication. I was working in my lab one day, and I knocked over some of the chemical vials by accident. The reaction caused a fire. I tried to contain it, but they had to evacuate the building."
Angela stared at her in shock. "But that's-"
"Discrimination, I know. I can't file a lawsuit against them, though. My colleagues advised me many times to hire an assistant to help avoid lab accidents, but I wouldn't listen. And because they fired me for my incorrect," she spat the word, "methods, I can't take Futura to court."
"And what were your methods?" Angela asked, raising an eyebrow.
Moira snorted. "No less immoral than what they are practicing on the Lunar Base. I trust as a good scientist you're keeping up with their research?"
"I know they're studying human intelligence through the use of apes."
"Keep looking into it and judge me according to theirwork, then." Moira stood up.
Angela also stood up. "But why stay here? And why bartending? It doesn't seem-"
Moira let out a humorless bark of laughter. "It doesn't seem like me? True, it's not my first choice for a job, but I do have my reasons." Her face hardened. "It would be nearly impossible to find a job in the scientific community with my current reputation, and I had to face the fact that my career in the research field was over due to a combination of my own pride and human stupidity. My father left me his bar in his will, so I came back here and picked up where he left off."
"But why not sell it and move on?"
"Because, Miss Ziegler, it was easier for me to just disappear. Here, no one knows me by my scientific reputation, just by my father's name and what he left behind. It was a chance to start over for me, however…menial… the position." The Irish woman turned and began to walk away.
"But are you happy here?"
"I am...", she hesitated, "…accustomed to this."
"Would you go back if you could?"
Moira froze. Her head slowly turned, looking back at Angela. "Come here, Miss Ziegler. I want to show you something your kindred mind might be interested in."
Angela cautiously followed her into a locked backroom and down a flight of stairs. Two doors led off the staircase. The first was aged, warped wood with fading silver letters spelling CELLAR, but the other was steel, fitted with a keypad. Moira fished a ring of keys from her pocket, inserted a key, and typed in an eight-digit passcode with a speed that made Angela's head spin. The door opened silently, and a wash of warm, moist air flooded out. Angela followed the bartender and found herself in half-miniature hothouse, half-laboratory surrounded by racks of equipment and wheat, barley, and hop plants that grew from floor to ceiling. She wasn't an expert on beer or hops, but she was pretty sure the cone-shaped fruits weren't supposed to be the size of her palm. Moira crossed to one of the plants and rolled one of the oversized fruits in her hand.
"I've been breeding and engineering my father's high-yield seeds for years, tweaking the genes of my crops to ensure the greatest harvest and the best taste. My beer uses onlymy modified seeds." She turned to Angela. "I've studied the chemical composition of my most popular blind-taste-test flavors and tweaked my crops to produce these precise chemical compounds. This is all I have left from my previous work and interests, but it's kept my mind relatively busy and my bills paid."
"And that?" Angela pointed to the barley.
"I planned to do the same thing with whiskey. Considering my current prognosis, however, I doubt I'll live to see results." Moira's voice took on a heavy, sharp, bitter tone, as though absorbing the flavor of the hops around her.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because that is how the die of chance was cast, Miss Ziegler. This may look impressive," she gestured to her equipment, "but it is not sufficient to help me, and I do not have the tools to deal with my genetic insufficiency. Eventually this," she extended her trembling hand and eyed it with distaste, "will consume me."
An idea exploded into Angela's head. "You don't have access to the things you need, but I might. If you gave me instructions on what to do, I could send you the results, and you might be able to help yourself," she offered. "Or I might even be able to get some equipment or supplies if you need it."
Moira straightened and cocked her head in curiosity, her dual-colored eyes gleaming. "A most generous offer, Miss Ziegler. But tell me; what is your price for this?"
"I want to keep in regular contact. I mean, you're one of the smartest minds in genetics…well, ever, right? Maybe you can help me with my research."
The geneticist-turned-bartender laughed. "Flattery is not needed to win my approval. Of course I can help you, and I'd be glad to as long as you can help me."
Angela stuck out a hand, and Moira wrapped her own long, cold, pale fingers around Angela's shorter, warmer ones in a short but surprisingly strong handshake.
"I'll be in touch, Miss Ziegler. Oh, and do me a favor by keeping my little lab a secret, would you?"
"Done."
Moira's smile widened. "Good." She glanced around, her eyes glittering in anticipation. "I may have to make some modifications to my work space…"
VVVVVVVVVVVVVV
A/N: The inspiration for this fic...
Dare I say it came to me in a dream? Because that is literally what happened. I woke up with the image of Moira the bartender stamped into my head and I was like "hey, I'm gonna make this work because POTATOES" (and because I wanted to see Moira dressed in festive colors).
So here it is, with as little sense as it makes. Hopefully I've stayed in character, if not in canon, and hopefully you enjoyed part one. I'm thinking this will be broken into three parts.
Hope to see you next chapter!