Ana Amari had been a legend. On the battlefield, she'd been an excellent shot. Both in and of combat, her no-nonsense cold demeanour had been off-putting, if one were to go by many of the accounts accumalated about her. Fareeha neither had the pleasure of fighting alongside her mother nor the crawling unease of dealing with her exceptionally harsh attitude.

But none of these things mattered.

Ana Amari was dead.

Pharah did have some memories of her mother where they hunted game. It'd been an exercise designed to numb Fareeha towards the act of killing, which, looking back on it, she understood why the decorated sniper did it, yet she still despised it, even years after the event. She recalled her mother's disappointment, that she didn't inherit her killer instinct from her. Her arms had been shaking so badly before, during, and after her first kill, and she'd come that close to breaking down and being reduced to a blubbering wreck.

When Pharah joined the reformed Overwatch, comparisons with her mother were going to be inevitable. That didn't mean she was going to just take it lying down. She detested being compared with Ana Amari. It was not the Ana Amari who taught her how to snipe and hunt. They only ever imagined the member of the original team, not the mother that she loved.

Pharah's father was gentler and more amicable than her mother had been. Reserved and soft-spoken, he did tend to get passionate and hot-headed about subjects that were close to the heart. Ana had remarked more than once that Pharah had her father's passion and zest. People that knew her family noted the similarities in looks, right down to the tattoo under her eye and her dark gaze. But Ana had kept the angular visage, with sharp cheekbones and the predatory look that'd cross it whenever she found a target in her sights.

By all accounts, Ana Amari had been a terrifying woman.

However, terrifying or not, her reputation and her quickfire talent did not prevent the tragedy that begot the Amaris.

It had not been long after Overwatch's disbandment. A year had passed. Or was it two? Time somewhat blurred in Fareeha's memories. Her mother had been attacked at the family home in the middle of the night. The event had seared a tear in Fareeha's heart, which then tore into a gaping wound that festered and persisted.

Her murderer had escaped justice that night. But now he was found. Found and locked up in a secure section of the Watchpoint. Which didn't please her. The only thing that'd make Pharah happy was to answer blood with blood.

Helmet under her arm, she marched into the lab where she knew Mercy would be working. Mercy was one of those members of Overwatch who had been wary of her involvement, but the doctor wisened up and quickly accepted that Fareeha was not her mother. Apparently she and Mercy had butted heads a lot, over various things.

Pharah admired Mercy for many of her qualities: her benevolence, kindness, grace, and beauty. The doctor gave warm smiles to her and always proved that she was there for the newcomer. A wave of apprehension crashed upon Pharah. She was not going to enjoy this.

She stepped inside.

The laboratory was sparse, save for one corner from which a thick scent of chemicals originated. So thick, that for one short frightening moment Pharah felt she couldn't breathe.

She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe, wrinkling her nose. "That is pungent."

Mercy swung her head round over her shoulder. "Fareeha? Good morning."

"Mercy, I... We need to talk." Pharah crossed the floor over to where the doctor was.

Ziegler huffed air out through her lips, returning her gaze to a piece of glassware filled up with dark fluid. "Can't it wait? I am in the middle of something very important."

Pharah said, "Exactly what I wanted to speak with you about."

"If you're here to say I'm overtaxing myself, then save it. You wouldn't be the first to make such a remark."

"With all due respect, I really don't think you should be nursing a psychopathic ghost back to health."

"Well, you're the first to tell me that," noted Mercy drily.

"I'm serious, doctor."

"Winston authorised the treatment. And in any case, Reaper is my patient, which, I know, sounds very weird," Mercy admitted, pulling a face.

Pharah's features contorted into a scowl. "He's a terrorist first and foremost, and he does not deserve your help. Or have you forgotten how many of your friends and colleagues he's slaughtered?"

Mercy scowled right back at her. "No, I haven't forgotten. But a deal's a deal, Fareeha, and I will honour my end of it."

"And him? Has he honoured his side of the deal? No, he hasn't. He hasn't even offered any intel to us."

"Oh he has. Just to neither of us. Me, for all too many reasons, and you..." Mercy trailed off as she resumed the experiment at hand.

"I know why. Reaper's a coward, afraid to face justice," responded Pharah harshly. "What I want to know is why you care so goddamn much about him."

"I don't," was the lofty reply.

"Yes, you do," she accused. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be working so hard on that drug for him. You wouldn't be slaving away day and night in here if you didn't care."

"I'm guessing you disapprove."

"'Disapprove'? Oh it goes far beyond that, Mercy. He made my mother unrecognisable after he tore her apart! You think I just 'disapprove' a bit? I can still remember finding her body... For God's sake, stop whatever you're doing and just look at me."

Equipment clattered upon hitting the bench. Mercy turned to Pharah. She was not clad in her Valkyrie Suit, instead opting for a white overcoat and knee-high boots.

"Reaper is an abomination. I don't care if you think it's your fault that he's like that, or whatever, but you need to stop. He doesn't deserve saving."

"What do you want me to say? That I hate him? That I think he should be executed for his crimes? That I wish he faded away into nothing already? All of those things are true by the way, but that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to save him."

Pharah couldn't believe what she was hearing. She gaped at Mercy. Pharah's mind whirred. It was not all that unbelievable actually, now that she thought about it. Mercy had a duty to her patients, or so she thought, and she wouldn't give up, not even if it was Reaper, of all people. But still.

"Mercy, I don't know who he is or what he meant to you, but I demand an explanation," decided Pharah, folding her arms after placing her helmet on the bench. A pang of jealousy struck her. Why would she be jealous? It wasn't like Mercy had been close to Reaper in his past life, right? She derailed that train of thought. Whatever the case, Mercy was blinded by something.

"How come you know so much about this stuff, anyway?" Pharah waved to the equipment at Mercy's station.

Mercy hesitated. "Because... I'm the reason he's like that," she confessed.

"What?!"

"After that day," going by Mercy's expression, her mind were in another place and time, "he was in a critical state. I had to do something. Do you understand?" She grabbed a startled Pharah by the shoulders. "I had to try. And what I did was... well, I created a monster. Mercy's monster. Has a ring to it, no?" Angela's smirk was self-deprecating and lacked all mirth.

She let go of the Egyptian warrior and reached out one hand to steady herself. "I know it. He knows it. Neither of us are happy about the fact."

"It's the guilt, isn't it? It's caught up with you. That's why you're doing this. That's why you are willing to do everything in your power to actually give him what he wants."

Mercy's silence was the only answer she needed. She couldn't help the dark chuckle that bubbled up from her throat.

"What's so amusing?"

"The angel wants absolution."

Mercy frowned. "I don't call myself that. And you're wrong. I don't want absolution. I won't get it anyway. What I want is to put at least some things behind me."

Pharah shook her head. "I can see your mind's all set, doctor. You're making a mistake."

"I've made many over the years. But this isn't one of them."