The first rays of morning light peeked through the newspaper-shrouded windows, briefly causing Angela to grimace as she shielded her heavy eyes from the soft glow. She looked down and away when the golden beams trickled through the spaces between her fingers, directing her vision towards the small calendar she kept in the poor excuse for a kitchen-turned-laboratory.
Two weeks, she remarked inwardly as she realized the date. Has it really gone by that fast?
She snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves and brushed back her hair as she braved the sunlight and focused on the centrifuge, which had just wound down to a standstill. The concoction, now dulled from a sandy yellow to an eerie obsidian after nonstop testing, swirled erratically as she picked the vial up, radiating an intense heat that nearly caused her to drop it before she could place it on the counter next to the Petri dish of Ghost Serum. She winced as she pulled off the glove, slightly singed from the heat, and studied over her fingers; Thankfully, it looked like they weren't going to blister if she left them unattended.
Gott sei Dank, she thought. I can't afford to waste any more time.
Almost as an instinct she checked over her shoulder, expecting to see Jack monitoring her progress. For the past two weeks he'd been as busy as she had; If he wasn't out killing any Talon agents on their trail, he was watching her like a hawk as she worked, looking over every minute detail and demanding constant updates that bordered on incessant as time progressed. Sometimes he'd even disappear off the face of the earth for days on end, only to show up again out of the blue, wanting another update. Angela had asked him one time where he'd gone after noticing fresh blood on his gloves, but he ignored her as though the question was never posed.
This time, however, she knew he was just in the apartment bedroom, and as such Angela sighed with relief and rolled her bloodshot eyes. "You're getting paranoid, Angela." she murmured to herself. "There's no one else here and there's nothing wrong."
She pushed aside an unplugged electric Bunsen burner and a growing mountain of empty Chinese food containers in a search for the two most valuable piece of equipment she had in the apartment kitchen-turned-laboratory. For a moment her eyes widened in distress, but a quick rifling through her pockets found her datapad to be, in retrospect, exactly where she'd left them last night.
She let an exhale grow into a yawn and tried to harvest whatever would pass for rest from a long blink before turning on the two devices. "Mixing process complete," she noted in the recorder. "The formula looks to be growing unstable, most likely as a result of repeated tests as well as the more dramatic temperature range that Test Twenty Five proved necessary. I'll have to chill it for a few minutes longer before running the next one."
She paused briefly to yawn again, stretching her arms above her head and rotating her shoulders as she did so to work out the stiffness of fatigue. "But for now, that will have to wait," she continued. "Now I just need to find my syringe."
With a moment's more searching and a moment spared for a self-deprecating smirk she had, and soon the needle was filled with the sable liquid. The inky Ghost Serum on the Petri Dish seemed to squirm as she suspended it over the dish, something she noted in her datapad.
"As for a hypothesis," she added to the recorder. " well... something good. This is the last fresh piece of Ghost Serum left, and Jack's going to get even more anxious if I ask him for another DNA sample. To that end," she said through another yawn. "beginning Test Thirty One."
As the last of the syringe's drops were emptied out, she reached for her datapad and readied a simulated, looped animation with a few taps. The video showed the formula's effects taking hold in just a few seconds, solidifying and shattering the Serum in the same way as when it had last been used.
Gruesome details aside, Angela knew, there were more than a few changes she'd had to make. It had taken her four days of eighteen hour work to solve what she'd labelled 'the Moira problem' where affected Serum would return to full form unless it was bonded with living tissue. Another five days after that, the healing properties of the American super-soldier chemicals were found to practically negate any severe damage done to living DNA. Remembering how she'd missed that for so long and how furious Jack had gotten made Angela gently slap her forehead, but like every other obstacle she'd faced, she knew, she could beat it.
Even if some seemed so much harder than others...
But before she could solve this or any other problem, Angela reminded herself, there was one thing she wanted to do.
She rubbed her left eye gingerly, flinching as it seared with pain for a second like a lance through a boil and waiting in vain for the blurry picture it sent to her brain to focus. This had all begun on the night she and Jack had returned from killing Moira, and over the two weeks it had grown from a question mark to an annoyance, and then to a concern. When she nearly tripped over a loose floorboard she hadn't seen three days ago, it became clear that time to solve this problem had to be reserved.
Setting aside the datapad, she reached for another device, one that looked like a modified optometrist's eye examiner mounted on the rusty pole of a broken desk lamp. She sniffed in mild amusement as she twisted a few knobs into place, finding herself in the awkward position of believing that this side project was necessary, but still not wanting to do it. Maybe this, she pondered, was why some of her old patients had complained about their physicals even as she'd examined them. Not just in the Oasis clinic, but the other members of Overwatch back in the day even. Winston, Tracer, Ana, Torbjorn; They'd all said in partial jest that they could think of other places they wanted to be. Even Genji had come up with a funny quip or two. Although she was sure he hadn't realized, the cyborg could be a very charming conversationalist when he wanted to.
Like that one day before everything happened...
The musing faded away like morning dew under the sun as reality checked back in. Once the last piece on the device was in place, she readied a new recording and leaned in so that the machine could do its job.
"Angela's Log: Supplemental." she said as the mechanisms gently whirred and clicked. "I've been noticing a physical deterioration as of late in my left eye. Previous tests showed no signs of brain trauma, no correlation was found to Reaper's scar, and my overall health has been stable. I had Jack pick up some cataract medication, but its effect has been negligible. Hopefully a thorough retinal scan will get to the bottom of this mystery before it leads to me making a mistake."
By the time she'd shut off her recorder, the examiner had completed its task and was already wirelessly uploading the information to her datapad to be analyzed. Thanks to an automated deciphering program she'd uploaded some time ago, all she had to do was wait.
Wait, and hope that both of today's experiments were successful.
A sharp crack and an icy sizzle served as the perfect segue back to the main task. She turned her head over to see what it was, to which the rest of her followed suit when the question was answered. In the Petri dish, the two mixtures had coalesced and interacted exactly how they were simulated to; The thin, ethereal vapours of the Ghost Serum had completely solidified and crumbled into a hundred solid chunks, twinkling like glass in the shimmering sun.
Angela's jaw dropped nearly as fast as the recorder, though she was able to snatch the latter before it could hit the floor. She leaned over the counter's edge, regarding the results with equal parts disbelief and optimistic shock. Taking the syringe up again, she gently prodded one of the larger fragments before impaling it cleanly and splitting it in two. Nothing came out from the inside, and the two dodecahedronal shards otherwise lost no integrity.
When she raised the recorder and turned it on, she saw her hands were shaking. Her voice was no different.
"Update on the Ghost Serum. I... I..."
Her sentence was paused as she rushed into a flurry of movement. The empty Chinese containers were sent flying as she swiped them aside in a single long motion, plugged in the Bunsen burner, and heated it to the maximum setting. With a pair of tongs she managed to snatch from the counter just before they tipped over the counter's edge with the food containers, she held the fragment over its electric coils for several seconds before placing the objects back in their original spots.
When she lifted the recorder again, she silently hoped she hadn't accidentally kept it on the whole time. The relief she felt when she visually confirmed where her fingers had rested, though, did nothing to slow the drum-beat of her heart.
"Okay, heat did nothing so..." Her voice went hoarse just from thinking about the words. "I did it." She held herself up at the counter's edge with her elbow as her knees threatened to buckle and she felt light-headed from hyperventilation. "I did it. By Gott im Himmel, I did it."
The abrupt, wonderful urge to shout to the heavens loud enough for God to hear overtook her, and so that was exactly what she did until catharsis swept over her in a tidal wave, finally bringing her to her knees and sending a deluge of tears streaming down her face. Their raw sting on her scar and the thick oils on her hair's unkempt locks didn't matter; In fact, she barely noticed them for one simple reason.
Reaper's days were now officially numbered.
She doubled over and collapsed onto her side as the effects of sustained euphoria on her fatigue-ravaged mind and body began to take their toll. Tears still rolled down from her face onto the scratchy carpeted floor as the desire to fall into a sleep that could gladly last an eternity grew from within until it was all she thought about.
That is, until she saw the hologram.
She figured the old disc had to have been at the foot of the Chinese takeout mountain, swept away in the avalanche she'd created and turned on when it had careened to a halt on the floor. Seeing the thin scars stretched over his image and his optimistically stoic expression erased most of her fatigue and replaced it with a reminder of her obligations.
She peered over at the door to his room as she picked it and herself up, briefly surprised that Jack hadn't come out when he'd heard the commotion. But then again, she thought, it didn't really matter since she was going to tell him anyways. After all, this was their moment of triumph. Everything that they'd worked, for, fought for, and even...
It had all been so that they could finally put an end to that monster and his reign of terror. With slow, wobbly steps, she made for a drawer just underneath the instruments of Reyes' demise, sliding it open with a jerk and retrieving her pistol for the first time since Oasis.
Two weeks that felt like a lifetime and far too soon all at once.
Her hand shook like a leaf as she wrapped her palm around the grip and remembered how stiff the trigger was, and staring over the stubby grey barrel tied her stomach in so many knots she nearly vomited. Still, she was able to force everything back down and hang the pistol on a belt loop with a carabiner.
Soon, she told herself. Soon, but not yet.
With a click, she shut off the hologram in her other hand and placed it on the counter. A confident smile crossed her lips, and though the result was meek compared to what she'd hoped would come naturally, it did bring a temporary relief that she made sure to savour.
There's still one last thing to set right, she thought. A monster to kill and a hero to help me with it.
It would be the last time she ever thought of Jack in such a way.
The empty thud stopped her in her tracks like a brick wall, and like the other times in the past fortnight she did a slow three hundred sixty degree turn in place, looking and listening for anything that proved Reaper had finally caught up. Like every other instance she could feel the adrenaline stiffening her muscles in ready of whether she chose fight or flight, and like every time before she let herself droop once a few minutes of discerning shapes from shadows cast by dull yellow bulbs had proven nothing was there.
Until it happened again.
The thuds had been a mainstay all throughout the past weeks, so much so that Angela had once joked to Jack that the apartment might be haunted. Predictably, he'd responded with a harsh demand that she keep focused, but the small laugh she got out of it had been a bright spot in an otherwise colourless length of time.
But they'd never been like this. Not just with the anomaly of how close together they were this time, but with all her energies no longer solely devoted to one thing and one thing only, the sound came to her in greater depth. It pierced hauntingly through the deadened air as she crossed one arm over and grasped her other tightly. She flinched when it happened again; Each one resonated off the wooden walls in a desperate, human way that squeezed her ribs tight around her lungs.
Angela hadn't believed in ghosts since she was five years old, but she'd always been game to hear one of Reinhardt's famous stories, even if they were all just variations on the same basic plot. That had all changed when Reyes made his return; Suddenly ghosts became something real and sinister, more than just a misty illusion that haunted a person's dreams.
No, what Angela had her eyes and ears back on a swivel for was truly a monster if there ever was one. What she looked for was born from the ashes of good people and enabled by those too endeared or too consumed to see it, going further and further past the point of no return until even the most cruel and inhuman things imaginable couldn't be put past them.
The bump came again. Listening for it like a grazing herd animal would listen for a predator, she picked out the sound's location, a deduction that raised more questions than it answered when the only thing in its direction was a solid wall. Under the ancient incandescent bulbs buzzing above her, the already dull colours of the room swirled together into a mass of grey and brown that only the most vibrant shades could stand out from.
Something as vibrant as blood-red.
The patch was dammed a foot from the wall by the edge of the carpet, and its fresh, scarlet radiance drew Angela closer with the same curiosity as a moth to a flame. Regarding the patch, her dreary mind racked itself for answers as to why the walls would be leaking blood. It seemed like something out of Reinhardt's stories, and the concept made her smirk accordingly as she propped herself against the wall with one arm.
The next sound she heard wasn't another thud. It was a click. At the same time, things began to click in her thoughts as well.
As the section of wall she leaned on gave way by a few inches and began to swing inward on hidden hinges, questions she'd been too tired to ask at first glance incinerated her exhaustion and rose a disturbed curiosity in its place like bread rising in an oven, questions like 'why was there blood coming from behind a wall?' 'why is there a hidden door?' and 'does Jack know about this?' that she immediately came to realize would be answered as soon as she opened the door.
To that end, she did so gingerly, hoping that the hinges didn't squeak and give her away; Some little nagging notion fed by curiosity and adrenaline had latched itself onto her predictions, telling her that discretion was key. The less Jack knew at that moment, the better. That, and she was too entranced by the mystery to call for him.
When the door finally swung open to lay the room's secrets to bare, she'd gone in a hundred ideas of what could have awaited her, ranging from harmless to horrifying and any one of them as valid as the other.
The truth, as it turned out, was a hundred times worse than any of them.
Even before her eyes had adjusted to the utter blackness, she was stonewalled by a sinus-burning smell of iron, ammonia, and God only knew what else, the same combination of things she could feel sloshing sickeningly under her feet. All of it was made even more vile by the intense heat that hung within its confines, beating oppressively on her after just a step inside.
As the light from the main area finally penetrated into the void, it revealed a scene akin to a horror movie. "What happened here?" she mouthed as she saw that the room, barely four feet long by five across, was entirely bare. No lights, no fixtures, nothing but blood-stained walls and cold concrete floors from top to bottom.
Nothing, except for the source of the thuds.
Another one echoed through the dark emptiness, allowing Angela to finally pinpoint its location, and what she found stopped her breathing cold.
There was no ghost. It was a woman.
A woman she knew, and when she recognized her she cupped a hand over her dropped jaw.
Fio.
The former Blackwatch pilot, retired for almost a dozen years last Angela had heard, was on the floor in little more than her underwear, gagged and in the fetal position, her hands and feet bound so tightly that the duct tape exposed raw, festering muscle. Her figure was severely emaciated and much of her skin was caked in filth, making sure the cuts and puss-filled abrasions looked and smelled ferociously disgusting. Her auburn hair had been messily shaved, leaving long bloody scars running inbetween scraggly patches. Her emerald eyes, filled with a daring twinkle last Angela had seen them, stared blindly into space, while her face conveyed only an expression of delirious pain. When her head lolled backwards from the wall and rolled heavily, it revealed a rotting hole where her right ear should have been.
Angela could barely comprehend what she saw, but a doctor's compassion kept her together in spite of the horror. She crouched down next to Fio, staying as quiet as possible knowing that the poor woman was still oblivious to her presence. With each passing second, she could feel everything inside of herself rising like the tide, poised to burst free at a moment's notice. It was only a few seconds before she physically removed herself to catch the breath she'd been holding to try to force back the tears. With a drawn-out exhale, though, she sewed her courage to the sticking place as best she could and readied to dive once more unto the breach.
But before she could make a house call, the doctor needed to get her tools.
In spite of the clutter, she was able to locate what she needed in only a couple minutes: Cotton balls, antiseptic, steri-strips, a scalpel, an IV drip of nanobiotics, and a blanket were all carried under her arms as she re-entered the scene. She paused briefly in the doorway, looking over her shoulder again before shaking a notion out of her head and closing the door behind her until it was almost shut, but still cracked open.
Angela's actions towards Fio were as instinctive as they were gentle. She'd been there for people in an even worse physical state than the former Blackwatch pilot, though something about the circumstances felt twice as disturbing...
No, she thought as she pursed her lips. It can't be. It wouldn't be.
She buried herself deeper in her work, bandaging her patient's lacerations and dabbing the infections with the cotton balls and antiseptic. The sting must have been enough to draw Fio back to lucidity, since the weak but purposeful leveling of her head showed Angela that there was still someone home behind the lights.
She crouched closer, keeping her movements slow and predictable. Fio's listless gaze wandered around her immediate front as it fell out of the middle distance, and the last thing the doctor wanted to do was startle her in her condition.
Butterflies danced in Angela's stomach as she watched her patient twitch with each dab of antiseptic. Even now she clung to a faint scrap of hope, if only to ward off a cold, scary truth. She forced herself to breathe through her nose as an internal dialogue wracked her mind.
Why are you still here?
Because she needs medical attention and you're a doctor, that's why.
There's only one reason why Fio needs you right now.
How do you know that? There could be any number of reasons why she's here.
Stop being dense and look around you! What do you need, a handwritten letter saying 'Dear Angela, I tortured Blackwatch's old pilot. No hard feelings, Jack Morrison'?!
Whatever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?
Whatever happened to the woman so sick of excuses she never wanted to see Geneva again, or to the woman who quit Overwatch a second time? Whatever happened to Ana's warning about that monster?!
Reyes is the monster!
Then what's Jack?
He's... We... I... You don't know what happened here!
Really? Then how's about you pull off that gag and ask Fio herself?
Shaking her head finally snapped her back to reality and the task at hand. She had better things to do than debate with herself, she knew.
And yet, as she reached for her next item, something inside her thoughts felt unshakable. She sighed audibly and hung her head; She knew exactly what this notion was, what it meant, and most annoyingly of all the only way to get rid of it.
"Alright then," she whispered through pursed lips. "I will."
She felt around until the next tool she clutched in her hands was the scalpel, which she swiftly put to the duct tape bonds on Fio's feet. With a swift stroke once the outer layer had been penetrated they were severed, allowing Fio's left leg at the shins to bend limply in an unnatural direction. Angela gingerly straightened the leg out, hoping that keeping her patient calm would work in lieu of a proper splint for a compound fracture.
The gag was next; Angela shifted her tool to her other hand as she pulled it down. The bundled piece of cloth had been on so long that the beginnings of bedsores had formed on Fio's cheeks and the back of her neck. Angela reactively peeled her eyes away from the rancid ulcers, only to see her patient staring her down.
Fio's emerald eyes had finally found a semblance of focus, and the fear in them made Angela feel like her soul was being pierced clean through. Around the pupils thin spokes of blood snaked inwards, and Angela could see that the former pilot was shaking like a leaf.
She kept her voice soft, her speech slow, and maintained direct eye contact. "It's okay," she affirmed. "It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."
She reached for the blanket and held it up, a wordless offer to wrap it around. When Fio flinched in response, Angela repealed her extended hand and laid the blanket in a crumpled pile at the door, watching as the poor soul winced in pain and looked down at her shattered leg confusedly.
"If it hurts," Angela said, being sure to keep close but not too much so. "I can help you." She reached for the IV drip with her free hand, holding it in her palm.
Fio looked up blankly at Angela, then down at her feet again, not noticing it.
"We've met before. I'm Angela."
She looked over the doctor's shoulder, her pupils shrinking as the creeping strands of light made contact.
"Angela Ziegler. Do you remember me?"
With another quick slice, the duct tape was severed at her wrists, which dropped like a stone to her sides from behind. She flinched again and Angela could see her trying to move an arm as though it were a totally foreign concept.
"Do you know how you got here?" she asked. Feeling the words come off her tongue left a lingering bad taste. "Do you know why you're here?"
Fio didn't answer again, which Angela quickly realized was because her eyes were transfixed on something else.
Something that she instantly dropped to the floor when she realized it was in full view, light shining off the pointed edge.
By then, though, it was too late.
Fio's shaking increased violently, her chest heaved with hyperventilating speed, and from between her quivering lips came a high-pitched whimper that carried pure, unfiltered terror. Angela attempted to move closer and telegraphed an attempt to offer a gentle touch, but the gesture only turned the former pilot's whimpers to blood-curdling screams. She crawled frantically into the deepest part of the room's corner she could, ignoring the physical agony she had to have been in, and collapsed into uncontrolled dry sobs of frightened hysteria.
Angela couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened to her, another human being, that had broken her so badly. Just seeing it in front of her threatened to be too much for her sense of empathy, and it was only a scrunched face and folding her arms over her chest that kept the dam from bursting. The action also worked twofold: Powerlessly watching the tragic scene of emotional damage play out sapped all the heat from her body, leaving her feeling icy cold in the Iranian heat.
Cold, and alone, and angry.