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Chapter Text

“Dr. O'Deorain,” calls a small, German-accented voice, laced with hesitance.

“Dr. Ziegler,” comes the smooth, almost indifferent reply. Moira’s voice was as cold as the sterile lights overhead, her gaze unyielding, fixated on her work.

Mercy steps forward, her expression a blend of worry and frustration as she studies the equipment surrounding them, the lifeless samples preserved in sterile containers. "I’ve heard of your experiments. Is there truly no other way to stabilise your cellular mutations?” Her voice softens, a disappointed sigh slipping through. “I refuse to believe that.”

Moira’s movement slows, her posture stiffening slightly. With a deliberate, almost theatrical turn, she looks at Mercy, the faintest hint of offence flickering across her face. A small scoff escapes her lips, an edge of disdain creeping into her expression.

“Imperfections,” she begins, her tone biting, “Are a small price to pay for genetic advancement, Dr. Ziegler.”

“I’m not one to disagree,” Mercy quickly corrects, raising her arms in mock surrender as she steps back, the tension thick between them. “We all have our imperfections, but am I wrong for worrying about the inevitable irreversible changes?” Her voice softens, genuine concern flickering in her eyes. She had seen the consequences of unchecked ambition, and the thought of Moira’s experiments spiralling out of control filled her with dread.

Moira’s offended expression drops, a cruel smile spreading across her face like a predator savouring a slow victory. The atmosphere shifts, electric and charged with unspoken tension. Her eyes narrow slightly, half-lidded with a mix of amusement and malice as she looks down at Mercy, who stands firm yet visibly shaken.

“You’re correct,” Moira replies, her tone dripping with sadistic joy. “We do have our imperfections, don’t we? But you,” she leans in closer, her voice a low whisper that seems to echo in the sterile lab, “you’re not a real angel, are you?”

The words hang heavy in the air, a taunt that cuts deep, insinuating the darkness that lurked beneath Mercy’s facade. In that moment, Mercy feels the weight of Moira’s scrutiny, the accusation lingering like a shadow.

“You know,” Moira says, leaning down to Mercy’s ear, her breath sending a shiver down her spine, “I could make you an angel, Angela.”

The name rolled off Moira's tongue like a siren song, seductive and dangerous, wrapping around Mercy like a silken thread. For a brief moment, Mercy's eyes widen, a mix of surprise and unease flashing across her features. She tenses, the warmth of Moira’s hand resting on her shoulder igniting a flicker of conflicting emotions. The smoothness of her honeyed voice was overwhelming, an intoxicating blend of temptation and danger that wrapped around her like a noose, as if offering a glimpse into a power she had long sought but feared to embrace.

For a fleeting moment, the thought crept in. Could Moira truly offer her a path to perfection, to transcend the imperfections that weighed so heavily on her soul?

But reality crashed back in an instant, like a cold wave dousing her momentary thrill. Shaking off the haze, Mercy straightens her spine, her resolve hardening. “Dr. O’Deorain,” she rebuts sharply, her voice firm and authoritative, “I suggest you keep your dark thoughts to yourself and do not let them affect our practice. If not, I shall see to it you are removed from our laboratory.”

With that, she turns on her heel, a swirl of emotions churning within her as she strides toward her private office. Each step felt heavy, her heart racing as she wrestled with the seductive pull of Moira’s offer and the knowledge of the darkness that lay beneath it. As she reaches the door, she glances back, locking eyes with Moira one last time. The look exchanged between them was charged with tension. One that was quickly broken.

The door closed behind her with a resounding click, but the weight of Moira’s proposition lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the line they walked between ambition and morality.

“I am as much an angel as she is a devil,” Mercy mutters to herself, her voice echoing in the quiet of her office. She presses her hands against the polished surface of her desk, the wood smooth beneath her fingertips but devoid of warmth.

“Neither exists regardless,” she continues, the weight of her words sinking into the silence. The truth of her statement hangs in the air, heavy with the gravity of her thoughts. She felt the boundaries between light and darkness blurring, the lines she had drawn in her mind beginning to dissolve.

Moira’s words echoed in her head, haunting her, taunting her. Could she truly become something more—something divine? The thought both terrified and intrigued her. She glanced at the instruments scattered across her desk, symbols of her ambition and the lengths she was willing to go to achieve her goals.
But at what cost? In her quest for progress, had she lost sight of her own humanity?

As the questions swirled within her, Mercy felt the chill of uncertainty seep into her bones, tightening around her heart like a vice. She took a deep breath, willing herself to focus, to push aside the insidious thoughts that threatened to consume her.

“Get it together, Angela,” she murmured, attempting to ground herself in the present. “You are not defined by her. You are more than this.” But even as she said the words, doubt gnawed at her, whispering that perhaps the devil had already found a way into her soul.

“Am I really thinking about this?” Mercy nearly shouts, the sharp edge of her voice breaking the quiet of her office. In a flash of frustration, she drives her fist into the hardwood desk, the polished surface barely giving under the force. As pain shoots through her hand, she quickly recoils, hissing through clenched teeth as she clasps her aching knuckles with her other hand, the sting anchoring her back to the present.

Don’t be an idiot! she scolds herself, her mind a chaotic storm of anger and shame. You’re better than this.
The mere fact that she’d allowed herself to be rattled by Moira’s dark allure infuriated her. She’d been taunted, tempted to entertain a path that went against every principle she held dear.

Mercy’s breath came faster, her pulse hammering in her ears as she paced the small office. She was too seasoned, too logical to be so affected by Moira’s words—by her touch, her voice, that unnerving promise of transformation. It was foolishness, she told herself, pressing her fingertips against her temples, as if the physical act might help drive out the lingering echoes of Moira’s taunts.

But as much as she wanted to brush it off as mere teasing, she couldn’t deny the hold Moira had on her thoughts. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of a cliff, the lure of something darker, more powerful, reaching out from the abyss below. But she couldn’t afford to fall. She had her work, her responsibilities, and—most importantly—her own integrity to uphold.

“I may not be her angel,” she mutters with a huff, feigning indifference even as her heart races, “As if I am bothered by that fact.” Mercy moves around the edge of her desk, her fingers grazing the polished wood, grounding herself in its smooth, solid surface. She lets herself sink gracefully into her plush leather chair, its familiar comfort a stark contrast to the unsettling thoughts stirring within her.

I do not need her, she tells herself firmly. Her touch is not Genji’s. The thought brings a pang of longing and regret. Genji’s presence had always been gentle, a steadying hand that had once brought light into her darkest moments. His memory still held her heart, even as the harsh, magnetic pull of Moira’s influence lingered, trying to inch its way into that same space.

She presses her fingers to her temples, almost as if trying to will herself into dispelling the strange allure that Moira had planted in her mind. What am I doing? She wonders, guilt gnawing at her. Her dedication to Genji was unshakable—she had loved him for his resilience, his honour. By contrast, Moira’s presence felt like a shadow encroaching on the parts of her soul she wanted to keep pure.

Mercy closes her eyes, steadying her breathing. Genji was light; Moira was dark. And she knew which path she belonged on.

Chapter Text

Sitting at her desk, Mercy groans as she leans back in her chair, the weight of the day pressing heavily on her shoulders. She drops her pen onto the desk with a faint clatter, her gaze settling on the mountain of paperwork sprawled before her, each form and report part of the endless cycle she was caught in. Her lips press into a tight line of displeasure as she surveys the uncompleted pile, her usual focus dimmed by a gnawing restlessness she couldn’t quite shake.

Beyond the sanctuary of her office walls, Moira was in her element, completely absorbed in her work. The soft clinking of glass echoed from her workstation as she meticulously poured different-coloured liquids over her live specimens, each drop conjuring a reaction in the petri dishes beneath her watchful gaze. The creatures writhed, shifting and twisting in response to the various serums, their tiny movements reflected in the gleam of Moira’s eyes. A hint of sadistic joy glinted on her face, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as she studied each reaction, her fascination as unsettling as it was consuming.

Mercy could almost feel Moira’s presence seeping through the walls, her twisted sense of delight a shadow that seemed to hover just beyond the door. A shiver crept down her spine, though she remained perfectly still. As she watched the endless stack of papers, a sense of dread settled in her stomach, a quiet fear that all her efforts, all her principles, might one day be as warped and distorted as the experiments Moira observed with such relish.

She leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk and taking a steadying breath. She needed to focus, to distance herself from the unsettling influence lurking outside her door.

But she couldn’t focus. No matter how hard she tried to redirect her thoughts, the gnawing worry refused to be silenced. What if Moira’s ambitions extended beyond the lab rats and petri dishes? The possibility that Moira might soon begin using live humans as her “specimens” sent a cold, sick, and unwanted feeling twisting through her stomach.

Mercy could picture it too clearly: her colleagues, bright and compassionate minds, pressured into assisting in dark, inhumane practices that they’d never willingly endorse. The idea of the lab—a place she’d once cherished as a haven of discovery and healing—transforming into something grotesque, made her skin crawl. She couldn’t let this happen. She wouldn’t.

Steeling herself, Mercy rose from her chair, set with quiet determination. She had to keep an eye on Moira’s work, to ensure that her experiments stayed within ethical boundaries. The thought of confronting Moira made her chest tighten; she knew the woman’s wrath could be formidable, and Moira rarely took kindly to interference. But Mercy couldn’t shake the feeling that her presence, however unwelcome, was a necessary precaution.

With a final steadying breath, she moved toward the door, every step heavy with resolve.

Pushing open her office door, Mercy steps into the dim, sterile light of the lab, her heels clacking sharply against the tiled floor, breaking the heavy silence that blanketed the room. Her gaze fixes on Moira, who stands hunched over a series of petri dishes, her face alight with a dark fascination that makes Mercy’s skin crawl.

“Dr. O’Deorain,” Mercy calls, her tone calm but firm, a quiet alert of her presence. She leans casually against one of the tables across from Moira, though her body language belies her intent. Her eyes, sharp and observant, watching Moira’s every move as the scientist looks up, only for a moment, before returning her focus to the twisted specimen wriggling beneath her tweezers.

“Dr. Ziegler,” Moira responds, her tone as smooth and disinterested as ever. With precise hands, she uses the tweezers to lift a grotesquely mutated specimen, lowering it into another dish where a second, less-affected creature squirms.
The mutated specimen wastes no time. It dives upon the other, tearing into it with unnerving speed, peeling its slimy skin as it devours its prey. The weaker slug-like creature writhes, its tiny body convulsing in silent agony until it’s rendered still. Mercy’s breath catches, repulsed, though Moira shows no such hesitance, her smirk only deepening as she glances back at Mercy.

“Fascinating, no?” Moira murmurs, raising a brow with a glint in her eye that seems to dare Mercy to look away, her expression brimming with satisfaction. Mercy feels the hidden threat in Moira’s gaze, the hint that this “experiment” was only the beginning of her ambitions, a mere preview of what she might one day achieve.

Mercy meets her gaze, struggling to mask her disgust. “And what exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Moira?” Her voice is steady, though the tension coils within her like a drawn wire. Moira’s smirk widens.

“Understanding, Dr. Ziegler,” she replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “True progress requires sacrifices. Nature itself is cruel—why should we pretend otherwise?”

Mercy’s fingers dig into the edge of the table, her pulse quickening. “Progress,” she echoes, her voice laced with scepticism, “isn’t an excuse for cruelty.”

Moira only laughs, a low, chilling sound, before returning her gaze to the specimens. “Perhaps, Dr. Ziegler. But then, not all of us aspire to be angels.”

“I am not an angel, Dr. O’Deorain,” Mercy snaps, her voice sharp, her face set in a hard, almost bitter expression. The words hang in the air, laden with frustration and an underlying weariness that Moira catches with a slight, knowing tilt of her head.

“Perhaps not yet,” Moira murmurs, her tone unhurried as she rests her long, gloved fingers on the examination table. Her gaze lifts to meet Mercy’s, unwavering, cold yet oddly intent. The calculated intensity in Moira’s eyes sends an uncomfortable shiver down Mercy’s spine, a chill that only deepens as Moira holds her gaze, as though dissecting her, reading something buried beneath the facade Mercy wears like armour.

Mercy’s resolve falters for a split second, her breath hitching under Moira’s penetrating stare. The suggestion lingers, unspoken but clear, as if Moira saw the darkness Mercy tried so hard to deny, the part of her that could imagine crossing lines if it meant achieving her goals. Moira’s words echo in Mercy’s mind, twisting, gnawing—Perhaps not yet.

Mercy narrows her eyes, regaining her composure. “Is that what you see in me, Dr. O’Deorain? A potential monster?” Her tone is harsh, defensive, though her own words unsettle her as she speaks them.

Moira’s lips curl into a small, almost smug smile. “I see potential, Dr. Ziegler. True advancement requires more than restraint. Sometimes, one must embrace imperfection… embrace what lies beneath.”

Mercy’s hands tighten into fists as she forces herself to hold Moira’s gaze, to stand firm against the discomfort coiling within her. She knew what Moira was implying, the insidious offer hidden behind her words, tempting her with a path she knew she couldn’t follow—no matter how tempting or necessary Moira claimed it was.

But Moira only watched her, her smile unwavering, waiting for Mercy’s resolve to crack, her eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a predator who knows her prey isn’t as strong as it pretends to be.

“You aren’t a monster,” Moira sighs after a long silence, her voice dipping to an uncharacteristic murmur as she lifts the torn, slimy specimen in the petri dish. She examines it with her usual critical eye, though dissecting every broken cell. “I merely want to help you become who you’re truly meant to be.”

Mercy’s chest tightens at the words, her stomach twisting with unease. Her gaze flickers to the grotesque creature in Moira’s hands, a sickening parallel to the very changes Moira hinted she could make within Mercy herself.

Setting the petri dish down with a soft clink, Moira turns her gaze to Mercy, eyes narrowing as she studies her with unnerving intensity, as if mapping out where each improvement would go. “Have you ever considered an upgrade from those mechanical wings?” she muses, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I could make you a true angel, Angela—give you more than those clunky machines could ever offer. Just let me.”

Mercy feels her pulse quicken, her mind recoiling at the suggestion, yet a small, treacherous part of her almost wavers, drawn in by the promise of power, perfection—even flight unrestrained by metal and wire. But another part of her shudders, haunted by the knowledge that with Moira, any "gift" came with an unbearable price.

Mercy’s heart races, an instinctive reaction to the thinly veiled promise behind Moira’s words. The notion digs into her, both revolting and—somehow—tempting, as if Moira’s influence had seeped into her very core, pressing against the deepest doubts she harboured about her own ideals. Her wings had always been a symbol of her mission, of her dedication to healing, to helping. And yet, standing here under Moira’s gaze, she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that the offer was more than just an invitation to a new path—it was an invitation to abandon her humanity.

Moira’s expression doesn’t falter, but her smile fades into something unreadable. “There’s nothing twisted in becoming the best of what you already are, Angela. You wouldn’t lose yourself. I would see to that.”

For a moment, Mercy’s stern facade wavers, and something softer, almost vulnerable, crosses her expression as she looks at Moira. It’s a look that Moira hasn’t seen before—one that’s unguarded, curious, perhaps even a little lost.

“Prove yourself to me,” Mercy says, her voice barely above a whisper. She crosses her arms, as if to shield herself from the decision she’s teetering on, her brows knit together in cautious thought. “And I’ll… consider it.”

The promise is laced with uncertainty, yet it hangs between them, heavy with possibility. Moira’s eyes brighten, her lips curving into a satisfied smile, her face almost reverent as she takes a slow, measured step closer.

“I promise, Angela. I’ll make you my angel.” Moira’s voice is steady, a vow more than a statement. Her fingers brush against Mercy’s arm, a light touch that sends a thrill up her spine.
For a brief, unsettling moment, Mercy doesn’t pull away. Her breath catches as Moira’s words linger, the promise echoing in her mind, weaving itself around her thoughts, her convictions. She feels the warmth of Moira’s gaze, intense and unyielding, and the weight of what she’s agreeing to begins to settle on her shoulders, pressing down, filling her with a mix of dread and anticipation.

Somewhere, a voice in the back of her mind warns her to stop, to turn back. But under Moira’s gaze, that voice feels faint, as if it’s slipping away, buried beneath the dangerous allure Moira promises.

Chapter Text

As Mercy watches Moira's precise, almost clinical movements, her gaze narrows, scrutinising every flick of the tweezers, every unsettling adjustment. She’s pulled from her silent observation by the sound of the lab door opening, and she turns just in time to see Genji step in, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.

“Angela, are you done wi—” he starts, but his words falter when he notices Moira. His grip on the bouquet tightens instinctively, and his posture stiffens, wary.

“Done with… work?” he finishes, his voice strained as his eyes flicker between Mercy and the dismembered specimens on the table.

Mercy’s face softens at the sight of him, a warm smile breaking through her guarded expression as she steps forward. Gently, she takes the flowers from his grasp, brushing her fingertips along his hand before pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Ah, Genji,” she murmurs, holding the bouquet close to her chest. “I was just overseeing Dr. O’Deorain’s investigations.”

At the affectionate display, Moira’s brows furrow, her jaw tightening as she casts Genji a sideways, critical look. With a slight sneer, she picks up one of the slug-like specimens, ripping it apart in a swift, practised motion. She feeds half of the writhing creature to a larger, purple specimen that immediately begins devouring it.

Genji’s gaze drifts to the gruesome scene, and he shifts uncomfortably, his eyes filled with a silent disapproval. “I can’t imagine there’s much here for you to oversee, Angela,” he says quietly, his tone laced with concern as his hand hovers protectively near her shoulder. “These… investigations seem to be progressing just fine on their own.”
Genji’s jaw tightens and he glances back to Mercy, his eyes silently pleading with her. But Mercy only stands there, caught in the space between them, the bouquet clutched in her hand, her face an unreadable mask.

After a moment of watching Moira, Mercy hums softly, a smile breaking through her unreadable expression as she turns back to Genji. She gently reaches up, taking the hand that hovers protectively over her shoulder and intertwining her fingers with his.
“Come on,” she says, her voice light and soothing, an effort to lift the heavy atmosphere in the lab as she leads him toward the door.

Stepping outside into the sterile corridor, the fluorescent lights feel warmer, and the unsettling sounds of the lab fade into the background. Mercy glances back briefly, catching Moira’s sharp gaze lingering on them, a smirk playing on her lips. A chill runs down her spine, but she shakes it off, focusing on Genji.

“How was your day?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, genuinely wanting to hear about him, to escape the darkness of the lab, even if just for a moment.

Genji relaxes slightly, a smile creeping onto his face as he squeezes her hand. “It was good, actually. I was thinking of trying out that new café down the street. They have a few unique drinks I thought you might like.” His eyes light up with excitement, a stark contrast to the cold, clinical environment they just left behind.

Mercy’s heart swells at the thought, grateful for his presence and the warmth he brings. “That sounds wonderful,” she replies, her smile widening. “Just what I need after… all of that.”

Back in the lab, Moira grits her teeth, slamming a fist down on the table in frustration. The force knocks one of her petri dishes over, sending a foul purple lump of a specimen tumbling out and onto the table with a wet slap—the mucus spilling across the solid resin surface, creating an unsettling mess that glistens under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Her brows furrowed, Moira leans down, pinching the creature between two gloved fingers. She squeezes it slightly, her expression remaining disturbingly neutral as she observes the thick mucus leaking down her rubber gloves. The specimen writhes in her grip, struggling to break free from the pressure, its desperate movements sending a surge of satisfaction through her.

A smirk slowly makes its way onto her face as an unsettling thought crosses her mind. I wonder how much it would take for my angel to struggle beneath me, she muses, her dark imagination igniting with twisted possibilities.

Moira straightens, her eyes glinting with sadistic glee as she watches the creature squirm, a perverse reflection of the power she craves. The lab, with its sterile surfaces and muted colours, suddenly feels charged with an electric tension, the air thick with unspoken intentions. She imagines Angela’s wide, innocent eyes meeting her own, the hesitation that would dance across her face, and the quiet realisation that Moira held the reins to her fate.

The thought sends a thrill through her—a delicious blend of control and anticipation. Soon, she tells herself, the smirk growing as she turns back to her experiments, already plotting the next steps to bring her vision to life. With each new discovery, she feels closer to transforming Mercy into the angel she believes she was meant to be, an angel who could truly embrace her potential—if only she would submit to Moira's will.

She will, Moira thinks, the dark promise solidifying in her mind. She’ll submit.

Her eyes narrow with resolve as she steps away from her experimentation, leaving the twitching, dismembered specimens behind. With a slow, deliberate stride, she crosses the lab, her heels echoing sharply against the tiled floor, each step a testament to her unyielding determination. She stops before a tall, locked cabinet, an ominous metal structure that looms in the corner of the room. The air around it is thick, carrying the unmistakable stench of decay, like a whisper of death seeping through the tiny gaps in the cabinet door.

Moira pulls a set of keys from the lanyard in her pocket, her gloved fingers moving with eerie precision as she selects the one key reserved for this particular lock. As she turns it, the lock clicks, and she pulls the cabinet door open. Instantly, the stench of rotting skin and foetid flesh assaults her senses, a rancid wave that would make most recoil. But Moira’s expression remains neutral, her gaze calm, undisturbed, as if the smell is nothing more than an old friend.

Inside, shelves are lined with vials of strange liquids and unlabeled specimens, small, shrivelled bodies twisted beyond recognition. Her gaze moves over them without a hint of repulsion, a glimmer of interest sparking instead. She reaches in, taking hold of a small container—a dull grey one marked only by a faded label in her own jagged handwriting.

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she pictures Angela, transformed, unyielding. She doesn’t yet understand the gift I’m offering her, Moira thinks, a flicker of satisfaction deepening in her eyes. But she will.

Setting the container down, Moira lets her fingers brush over the assortment of skin patches within, feeling the varying textures under her gloved fingertips. Some patches are rough, hardened from past lives, while others still bear traces of body hair embedded in the flesh. She picks up a few of the coarser patches, examining the delicate crosshatch of tissue beneath the surface, calculating the potential in each flawed layer.

Her gaze shifts, landing on a collection of bones nestled in the cabinet. Methodically, she retrieves each one, her hands assembling a small heap of humeri, radii, ulnae, phalanges, and metacarpals with meticulous precision. Each bone, a relic from discarded trials, holds a unique quality she appraises with critical interest, assessing strength, structure, and fragility. In her mind, they are parts of a grander vision—a framework she’s been crafting in secret, piece by piece, waiting for the perfect moment.

Securing the cabinet once more, she cradles the stack of skin and bones, moving swiftly across the lab and into the solitude of her private office. The silence is heavy here, almost reverent. She deposits the grisly collection on her workbench, arranging each piece with an almost reverential care. Here, beyond prying eyes, she allows herself the smallest smile as she imagines Mercy transformed—a creature of bone and sinew, tempered in the fires of her ambition.

Soon, Angela, Moira thinks, tracing a finger over the delicate curvature of a phalange. I will make you stronger, better… beautiful in ways you cannot yet imagine.

Chapter Text

Hours have slipped away, as Moira works with clinical patience in her private office. She carves with precise, almost reverent strokes, hollowing out each bone, drawing out the marrow until they are delicate shells, emptied of their substance yet preserved in form. The weightless structures begin to pile up, fragile yet potent with the promise of purpose.

Moira pauses, examining the faint sheen on her gloves, the thin smear of marrow across her tools. A vessel, she thinks, running a gloved finger along the edge of one skeletal fragment. I only need my model—my fitting angel to bear these wings.

With a sharp exhale, she sets down the knife, her fingers stiff from hours of work. The remnants of bone dust cling to her gloves as she pulls them off, her hands trembling slightly from the intensity of her focus. She grabs a small leather-bound journal from her desk, its pages filled with sketches, notes, and blueprints for her designs— tucking it into her coat pocket, a smirk flickering over her lips as she stands, taking one last glance at her work before stepping into the lab. Her heels click with a resonant rhythm across the sterile tiles as she heads down the hallway, her eyes fixed on the doors ahead.

Outside, the afternoon air bites as she leaves the building and strides purposefully toward the café down the street.

The café is warm, filled with soft laughter and the gentle clinking of cups against saucers. The air smells of coffee and faintly of vanilla, an almost sickly sweetness that hangs over the small, bustling space. Moira takes it all in with a grimace, the cosy atmosphere far too much for her preferences.
Her gaze darts around until she spots Mercy, seated with Genji at a corner table, her laughter soft, her gaze kind as she listens to whatever story he’s telling her.

Moira’s expression tightens, but she maintains her poise, stepping carefully to a table behind Genji where she has the perfect, unobstructed view of her angel. She sits down, her presence a shadow in the cheery space, and pulls out her leather-bound journal, placing it carefully on the table. Her fingers wrap around her pen, tapping it slowly, rhythmically, as her eyes bore into Mercy.

Every detail is catalogued—the way Mercy leans forward slightly, her fingers wrapped around her coffee cup, the smile tugging at her lips, the way her hair catches the light from the café’s chandelier. Moira’s gaze sharpens, taking in every movement, every flicker of emotion, her pen poised to record even the smallest observation.

Perfect, she thinks, a smirk barely lifting the corner of her lips. Just a few adjustments, and she will be everything I envision.

Moira flips to a blank page, the familiar texture of the paper beneath her fingers grounding her as she begins to sketch. Her pen moves swiftly at first, tracing the rough shape of Mercy’s profile, her gaze lifting periodically to study the real-life model. Mercy’s expression is soft, almost serene, sketching the curve of Mercy’s jaw, the arch of her neck, the gentle softness—qualities Moira sees as misplaced, weak. I could change that, she thinks with a glint in her eye, make her stronger, truer.

As her pen slides down the page, she adds a rough outline of the wings she envisions, something grand and commanding, worthy of an angel forged through science rather than myth. The outline is there, but it feels incomplete. She frowns, and her gaze narrows as she imagines Mercy adorned in wings of her own creation. She draws again, scratching in the long, elegant feathers—too soft, no, not right.
She scowls, struggling to convey the complexity she sees in her mind, her hand pressing down harder, her lines turning sharper, angrier, giving the wings an angular, almost weapon-like quality—her frustration building. She huffs under her breath, the wings don’t yet match her vision; they lack the raw elegance she demands.

The café’s soft clatter fades away as Moira’s world narrows to her sketchbook, the lines, and the whisper of her pen against paper. Every stroke is a step closer to her goal, a way to capture Mercy’s potential and reshape it. If only she would let me already, Moira muses bitterly, glancing up once more, catching the gentle tilt of Mercy’s head as she laughs at something Genji says.

A sharp pang hits her chest—envy, desire, perhaps both. Her grip tightens as she presses down, the pen nib scratching furiously against the page as her scowl deepens. She doesn’t realise, Moira thinks, barely containing her irritation. She’s wasting her gifts in complacency, but I can show her.

Moira’s frustration seeps into every fibre of her being, the tension building as she watches Mercy from across the café. Tossing her journal and pen down, she reclines back, her lips pressing into a tight line as she fixes an unrestrained, piercing glare on Mercy. Too human, she thinks bitterly.

How dare she settle for such limitations? To Moira, it’s almost insulting. Angela has everything she needs to ascend, to embrace something far greater than her feeble compassion and wavering resolve. Moira’s jaw clenches as she watches the doctor smile softly at Genji, and laugh. Wasted…, the word slithers into her mind, sour and thick.

What Mercy doesn’t understand is that Moira’s vision for her is beyond anything as small as humanity. Moira is offering transformation, liberation, and the potential for unrestrained power. And yet here she is, basking in mortal comforts.

With a quiet, bitter sigh, Moira lets her gaze fall back to her journal, where her furious sketches lay sprawled across the page, raw and unfiltered. She traces the outline of her unfinished wings, knowing that with her hands, she could carve those wings into being. Angela could become the angel she’s always pretended to be—but only if Mercy dared to let Moira pull her from the mundane trappings of her humanity.

Moira's mind twisted in a fevered loop, each passing second spent watching Mercy from afar stoking the flames of her obsession. She needs me, Moira told herself, fingers twitching as she fought the urge to walk over, to shake some sense into the woman across the café. The vision she had, her designs, the wings—these were not mere fantasies; they were a higher calling. She was not just going to change Mercy; she was going to perfect her.

The more she let herself stew in this need, the sharper and more consuming it became, gnawing at her sanity. Her hand involuntarily reached for her journal again, trembling slightly as she sketched more, refining every line and detail of the wings, the sharpness of the feather edges, the structural support she'd implement. She could practically feel the heft of those wings in her hands, feel the cold metal under her fingers as she attached them, and hear Angela’s gasp as she finally understood. She’d already begun, in her mind, the delicate surgery, the first incision to peel back the mortal limitations Mercy clung to so tightly.

But for Mercy to submit, Moira knew she had to prove herself worthy of this divine undertaking. It wasn’t enough to be a scientist, a visionary—she needed to be needed by her. This wasn’t just about moulding an angel out of flesh and bone; it was about becoming the only person Angela would turn to, the only one she’d trust to take her beyond mere mortal limits.

Each look she cast in Mercy’s direction made her pulse quicken with fervour. The desire thrummed within her, a maddening rhythm she couldn't silence. If she couldn’t show Mercy the truth, she would have to make her see it by force, whatever it took. Mercy had to become her angel, even if it meant losing every last shred of restraint Moira still clung to.

Each movement of her pen was calculated, every line etched with an obsession that simmered just below the surface. Mercy was talking to Genji, a pure smile on her face, but Moira’s mind was far from any sentiment of camaraderie or warmth.
With every glance, she sketched out precise details, envisioning the wings—imposing and intricate, with fibres and sinews that could carry her “angel” beyond the limits of human frailty. She traced feathered arches, notes written alongside on methods to reinforce bone structures, calculations on strength ratios, and adjustments for flexibility and durability. She wanted wings that would make Angela untouchable by anyone but her.

A dangerous glint in her eye, Moira pressed down harder with her pen, filling the page with annotations and sketches until her lines grew almost erratic. The thought of Mercy’s transformation twisted her lips into a smile, an image of perfection she could nearly taste.

Looking down at her creation, Moira’s lips curled into a wide grin, satisfaction rippling through her as she closed the journal with a quiet snap. It was perfect. This vision of wings, her angel, would be brought to life, moulded under her precise hand. Her eyes flickered with something dark and ambitious as she closed the journal, fingers lingering over its worn leather cover, almost as if savouring the weight of her own brilliance.

Sliding the journal into her pocket, she casts one last glance at Mercy from across the café. The blonde was completely absorbed in her conversation with Genji, her laugh light and warm. Moira felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name—admiration mingled with an obsessive longing—as she watched Mercy’s every gesture.
In that brief moment, it was like time froze, Mercy’s smile and laughter sparking something both dangerous and exhilarating within Moira. She smirked to herself, then quickly slipped out of the café, leaving as quietly as she had come, unnoticed by the woman who had consumed her every waking thought.
As Moira rounded the corner onto a quieter street, her eyes caught sight of a small, white pigeon pecking at crumbs on the pavement. She paused, watching the bird’s delicate, rhythmic movements as it tilted its head to meet her gaze, seemingly unafraid.

A slow grin spread across her face, an idea sparking in her mind. She crouched, the edges of her lab coat brushing against the pavement as she reached out slowly. It flinched, fluttering its wings as if to escape. But Moira was faster. With a swift flick of her wrist, her biotic grasp enveloped the bird, draining just enough energy to weaken it, sending it stumbling back to the ground in a helpless, shivering heap.

Gently, almost lovingly, she scooped up the fragile creature, holding it close as it quivered against her chest. This little creature was the perfect model, a symbol of purity and innocence—whilst being a dirty sky rat.

With swift, purposeful strides, Moira navigated the winding concrete path that led to the lab's entrance, her coat billowing slightly with her pace. Shadows stretched and distorted in the dim evening light, but her expression remained unflinching.
The building loomed ahead, an unassuming structure.

The stark lighting of the lab cast a harsh glow over Moira as she walked, her heels clicking in a steady rhythm across the tiled floor, echoing through the empty halls. She kept the pigeon cradled close, its faint, panicked fluttering against her chest a reminder of the fragile life she held—a life that, in her hands, would soon be reimagined into something new, something better.

Upon reaching her office, she nudged the door open with her shoulder and slipped inside, immediately locking it behind her. She crossed to her workbench, an expanse of polished steel glistening under the fluorescent lights, and gently set the bird down on the cold surface. The pigeon twitched, attempting one last, feeble attempt to escape, but it was already too late.

She glanced down at the bird, tilting her head as she observed its weakened state. It trembled, feathers ruffling slightly as it tried in vain to stand. Moira reached for her gloves, pulling them on with a practised snap.
Moira’s fingers danced over her equipment, her mind sharpening with each step in her process. Every tool, every vial and scalpel, was part of a meticulous plan. This pigeon, she mused, would serve as a test—a mere prototype for her grander designs. For her angel.

“Let’s see what we can create,” she murmured, almost to herself, her eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and malice.

Chapter Text

The floor was strewn with feathers, a chaotic mosaic of soft white marred with streaks of crimson. Some feathers bore remnants of skin and sinew at their hollow bases, evidence of a methodical but ruthless process. The scene was brutal—a show of Moira’s unwavering dedication to her vision.

On the workbench lay the source of the carnage: the pigeon, half-flayed and quivering. Its exposed wet flesh glistened under the harsh fluorescent light, its shallow breaths punctuated by the occasional twitch of its mutilated body. Its eyes, once vibrant with life, now stared vacantly, glazed over with the haze of unbearable pain and exhaustion.

Moira stood above it, her gloved hands steady as she adjusted her instruments. She observed the dying creature with clinical detachment, her expression betraying neither pity nor remorse. The pigeon’s suffering was an inconvenience, not a deterrent.

“You’ll endure,” she muttered, her voice a low, venomous whisper. “You have to. For her.”

Reaching for a syringe, she carefully filled it with a luminous purple liquid, her creation—the culmination of countless nights spent perfecting her formula. Holding it up to the light, she inspected it, a pleased smirk tugging at her lips.

With the precision of a surgeon, she plunged the needle into the bird’s trembling body, injecting the concoction with deliberate care. The pigeon spasmed, a final, desperate thrash, but Moira’s grip was unyielding, the bird stilled.

Leaning down, Moira pressed a single gloved finger into the bird’s fragile chest, firm enough to elicit a pained twitch from the small creature. Its dazed eyes blinked slowly, dragged back to consciousness unwillingly by the pressure.

“Not yet,” She whispered, her voice smooth and low, as though she were soothing a frightened child. “We have much to discover with you.”

She lifted the tiny body into her hand, fingers wrapping around it like a cage. With the other hand, she tugged the bird’s wing, stretching it taut, exposing the mangled mess of half-plucked feathers and raw skin. Her eyes scanned every detail- how the feathers were rooted, the subtle curve of bone beneath muscle, the tremble of its wing as it resisted in her grasp.
“Curious,” She murmured, brushing her fingers against the remaining plumage, pulling them back against the grain.

She placed the bird down gently- almost sadistically lovingly- onto the cold metal of her workbench, grabbing her pen and journal once more. Her hand moved quickly, sketching the anatomy, noting the ratios, scribbling down possible structural enhancements.
But halfway through, she stopped.
Her gaze shifted to the bird, and something darker passed over her face. Setting her pen down, she picked the bird up again, ignoring its squeals of fear.
With steady hands, she lifted the pen once more- this time to the bird’s wing. With cold, mechanical precision, she drew a set of dotted lines, surgical guidelines mimicking those seen before a cosmetic operation. Lines to separate skin from sinew. Markings of where to cut, where to graft.
Where to reshape perfection.

The bird seemed to sense its impending fate, letting out a high-pitched screech, thrashing in her iron grip. Feathers tore further, its small body convulsing with what little strength that remained. Its beady eyes, wide with terror, seemed to plead. It didn’t want to die like this.

“Endure it,” Moira hissed, tightening her grip until its bones creaked. “For her.”

This wasn’t cruelty. This was art.
This was the future.
And she would see it through- no matter what she had to destroy to build it.

Chapter Text

It was quiet.
Eerily quiet.

It was a kind of stillness that felt unreal, like even the walls themselves were holding their breath. The usual soft hum of machinery was absent, the sterile glow of overhead lights casting long, unmoving shadows into the room.

Mercy was giggling softly as she stepped inside, her laughter like a dropped beaker as it breaks the silence. Genji followed close behind, his hand finding her waist with a practised ease. In a fluid motion, he lifted her onto one of the pristine, stainless steel examination tables, his touch was delicate and deliberate. His mask is already off- a rarity for anyone other than Mercy- allowing him to place feather-light kisses along her jaw and cheeks, each one lingering a second longer than the last.
Finally, he reached her lips, capturing them in a kiss. A kiss that was gentle, unhurried, full of an affection that only came with time.

Mercy slimed at him, her hands slipping around his neck as his palms travelled up her sides. One of his hands- warm, human- found the edge of her cardigan, carefully undoing buttons one by one. His thumb brushed over the skin above her breast.

“Ahem,”
A sharp, deliberate cough, slicing through the air almost like a scalpel.

The two froze. Mercy’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes flicked towards the source.

Moira.

The geneticist stood just outside her office, arms crossed, and leaning against the door frame with an expression that was neutral, but edged with subtle hints of judgement.

“I’d like to assume,” Moira stated calmly. “You weren’t aware of my presence.”

“Moira- Doctor!” Mercy blurted, her voice pitching slightly higher as she scrambled to shove Genji away. He stumbled backward, his expression flickering with embarrassment- or maybe hurt?- as he stepped aside. Mercy jumped down from the table, hastily pulling her cardigan closed, fumbling with the buttons as she avoided both of their gazes.

“I wasn’t aware you were… staying after hours,” She mumbled, cheeks flushed as she smoothed the front of her clothes. “My apologies for interrupting your work.”

Moira’s shoes clicked sharply against the laminate floor as she made her way across the room, her hands folding behind her back.
“Quite the opposite, Dr. Ziegler,” She replied coolly. “In fact, I had a question. One I believe your boundless expertise may assist me with.”

Mercy narrowed her eyes, wary. “...Go on.”

“To create a hybrid,” Moira began, her tone deceptively academic, “One would need to alter the DNA at a molecular level. Yes?”

“You already know that, Doctor,” Mercy said dryly, folding her arms across her chest. “You have degrees stacked higher than I have projects. This isn’t a first-year seminar.”

“Regardless,” Moira pressed, voice calm yet insistent, “How could one alter DNA without relying on evolution? Hypothetically, of course. I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

Mercy stared at her, blinking. A small incredulous scoff escaped her lips.
“You’ve literally turned someone into a shadow, Moira. I can’t begin to understand how that mind of yours hasn’t come up with a dozen solutions already.”

Moira gave no reply. She simply looked at Mercy- still, silent, waiting.

Mercy exhaled through her nose, resigned. She leaned back against one of the nearby workbenches, brushing her hair behind one ear.
“Fine,” She said. “Intentional intervention through biotechnology or genetic engineering is your most direct route. CRISPR-Cas9, gene therapy, mutagenesis, synthetic biology, recombinant DNA technology. You know this!”

Moira raised a brow, her expression tight with impatience.

“Right, sorry,” Mercy muttered. “For someone like you, gene therapy or mutagenesis would be the most appropriate. You could use chemical radiation exposure to induce mutations, that’s mutagenesis. Or go the gene therapy route and use a viral vector to deliver the desired genetic material. Efficient, if ethically questionable. Which, knowing you… isn’t exactly a concern.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ziegler,” Moira said, turning on her heel. “As you were.”
She vanished back into her office without another word, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

The silence returned

Genji shifted uncomfortably in place, his cybernetic hand brushing the back of his neck.
“Angela…” He began softly, his tone gentle. “I don’t feel safe continuing. Not with her around.”

“Neither do I,” She replied, her voice quieter now, more tired than flustered. She reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his. “Let’s go to my place.”

Chapter Text

“Genji-” Mercy laughed, her voice laced with both breathlessness and warning, “I haven’t even opened the door yet.”

But her protest was half-hearted, breaking into soft giggles as Genji’s lips traced the sensitive curve of her neck.
His mouth moved with soft persistence, planting a trail of kisses along her skin, his breath hot and uneven. A gasp caught in her throat as his teeth grazed just beneath her ear- the slight sensation almost enough to make her knees weaken.

Fumbling with her keys, Mercy struggled to keep her composure, her hands shaking from urgency.
After managing, she shoves the door open with a burst of energy- practically tearing it off its hinges- dragging both of them into the dim warmth of her apartment.
The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the world outside.

Within moments, Genji’s hands were already at her cardigan, moving with practised precision as he slipped it from her shoulders and tossed it aside. She was left in nothing but her soft tank top and fitted jeans, her skin prickling with goosebumps from the sudden change in temperature- or maybe from him.

He guided her backwards, each step a teasing negotiation of space, until her knees hit the edge of the couch. With a surprised laugh, she collapsed onto the cushions, only for Genji to follow her down, catching himself with his arms as he hovered above her.
His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

“Angela,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, her name falling from his lips, heavy with need.

She looked up at him, her blonde hair fanned across the cushions, blue eyes soft and full of something unspoken.
“Genji,” she replied gently. Her hand rose to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing across the high curve of his cheekbone.
His eyes fluttered closed at her touch.

“How I love you, Angela,” he murmured, tilting his head to press a gentle kiss to her palm. Time seemed to slow, the moment tender in its intimacy.
His voice dropped even lower, hoarse and earnest. “You have no idea what you do to me, my blossom.”

Taking her hand carefully in his, he guided it to his chest and pressed there, just over his heart.
It beat frantically beneath her touch- fast and vulnerable, human.

Mercy’s fingers flexed slightly, feeling the rhythm of him. That fragile, chaotic rhythm, proving he was alive, that he was here, with her, not just a memory of man rebuilt in steel.

Her voice was soft when she finally answered.
“Then show me.”

Without saying another word, Mercy leaned forward, closing the small gap between them. Their lips met softly at first- a gentle collision of familiarity and longing- before deepening, slow and sure. Her arms curled around Genji’s neck, fingers threading through the hair at the base of his scalp, pulling him closer with a quiet urgency that left no room for hesitation.

He responded instinctively, one hand slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips tracing the soft warmth of her skin.
His touch was reverent, almost worshipful. His warm, human palm cupped her breast tenderly, thumb brushing over the delicate curve with aching care. At the same time, his other hand- cool, metallic- pressed against her hip, the contrast making her shiver.

“Cold,” she murmured against his lips, a faint furrow forming between her brows.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his expression full of a quiet apology.
“Shh, I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
Genji’s warm hand slid lower, his thumb gently toying with the waistband of her pants, his gaze rising to meet hers in silent question.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, her voice a quiet affirmation as she nodded, lifting her hips just enough to help him slide the fabric down her legs. His touch was slow, respectful, savouring the moment rather than rushing through it.
He pressed a kiss to her knee as he removed them, discarding them to the side.

Then, with care, his hand found the damp patch on her underwear. His middle finger moved slowly, up and down, teasingly light. Mercy’s breath caught in her throat, a soft gasp escaping her lips as her hips lifted slightly into his touch.

“I love you, Angela,” Genji said quietly, voice thick with emotion as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to breathe her in, to memorise every part of this moment. “I’m so lucky I get to call you mine. You mean everything to me. You are my everything.”
Her hand found his jaw, fingers tilting his face back toward hers. Her eyes searched his, filled with warmth, vulnerability, and something deeper.

“Genji…” she exhaled his name like a prayer, her lips pulling into a soft smile. “You know I’m not poetic. No words I know could ever describe how much I love you.”

His gaze softened.

“Then it’s your turn to show me,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Genji took his time, tugging her underwear down slowly, as though removing something sacred. He let it slide past her thighs with gentle fingers, the fabric catching briefly on her knees before finally being cast aside- forgotten in a heap somewhere on the floor.
For a moment, he paused, just looking at her. Drinking in every inch of bare skin, every soft curve revealed to him.
His eyes, dark with awe, eventually rose back to her face, locking with hers.

Still wordless, he carefully guided her legs to straddle his hips, hands firm but tender as he adjusted her positioning. His touch carried no demand, only deep care for her.

Then, he lowered one hand between her thighs, the air between them charged with anticipation. His middle and ring finger traced the slick heat of her slit, moving in deliberate, featherlight strokes.
He watched her face intently, searching for every reaction- every flutter of her lashes, every small hitch of breath.

When he slowly began to push his fingers inside her, there was no resistance. It hadn’t been long since their last time, and her body welcomed him with a soft wet noise.
Mercy’s breath caught for a second, lips parting as her eyes fluttered closed. She let herself sink back into the sofa, her muscles relaxing as her legs eased further open around him.

He started to move his fingers, slowly sliding in and out with a rhythmic pace, gradually curling and scissoring them to stretch her with care.
His thumb traveled up, brushing against her clit in small, slow circles, the contrast of pressure cursing her back to arch slightly, her breathing quickening.

A soft moan escaped her lips- delicate, involuntary- the sound enough to make Genji’s heart swell. He leaned in a little, unable to take his eyes off her face, completely captivated by her.

Suddenly, her eyes opened- hazy and half-lidded- and she caught him staring.
With a flustered expression, she groaned and lifted an arm to shield her face.
“Don’t watch it,” she mumbled, half-kicking at his side, more out of embarrassment than irritation. Her voice was tinged with bashfulness, her cheeks burning a lovely shade of pink.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and affectionate.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, though he didn’t look sorry at all.

He gently withdrew his fingers, eliciting a soft gasp from her as he leaned closer, his metallic hand cradling her face with surprising gentleness. His other hand, slick with her arousal, rested on her hip.

“I can’t help it,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “I’m just… so happy you let me do this. That you trust me, Angela. You have no idea what that means to me.”
His words were something steady and real. Mercy’s eyes softened, her breath still coming unevenly as she reached up to cup the hand on her face, turning to press a kiss to his palm.

She tried to hold onto the glare she gave him, lips pressed into a mock pout, but it didn’t last long. The annoyance in her eyes softened, melting into something far warmer as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
She shifted beneath him, pushing herself up slightly to press against the unmistakable shape of his clothed arousal. The pressure sent a subtle thrill through her spine, and she tilted her head towards him, just enough to whisper in his ear.

“I’m not just letting you do this, Genji. I want this too.”

Her voice was hushed but steady, heavy with sincerity. She reached for him, her fingertips brushing along the waistband of his pants before curling into the fabric.

Her eyes met his.
That was all the encouragement he needed.

In a flurry, Genji fumbled to tug his pants down, the urgency causing him to stumble forward slightly. He caught himself on his forearm with a sheepish laugh, their bodies nearly colliding.
Mercy let out a quiet giggle of her own, watching him as he rid himself of the last layer between them, his pants joining the scattered pile of clothing on the floor.

Settling himself between her legs, Genji let out a low sigh. His cock, already hard and heavy, came to rest against her slick heat. The contact made them both inhale sharply, a quiet tension humming in the air like a pulled string waiting to snap.

“Angela…” he murmured, her name slipping from his lips like a prayer. He rolled his hips slowly, grinding his length up against her, the tip brushing her clit in a teasing glide. It pulled a small sound from her throat, and he nearly lost control right then and there. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she replied softly, reaching down between them. Her fingers wrapped around him gently, guiding him to her entrance. “I appreciate that you always ask, but right now… I couldn’t be more impatient either.”
Her words were breathless, her voice shaky with want.

Genji’s eyes flicked up to hers, lingering for just a second as though asking once more for silent permission. She gave a small nod- and that was enough.

He lowered himself again, bracing his hands on her hips as he dipped his head into the crook of her neck. His lips found her skin, scattering tender, open-mouthed kisses there, his warm breath enough to make her shiver. Then, with a trembling sigh, he slowly pushed forward.

The initial stretch made her gasp- her eyes flying wide, lips parting. Her back arched instinctively, legs curling around his waist as she gripped his shoulders for grounding. Her nails dug into his human shoulder, leaving half-moon marks in his skin, but he welcomed the sensation.

He wasn’t overly large, but he didn’t need to be. He knew every inch of her, every rhythm she responded to. And more importantly, he knew how to treat her- not just as someone he desired, but as someone to be cherished.
Each movement,
Each sigh,
Each careful press of his lips to her throat,
It was all laced with a quiet adoration.

“Are you alright?” he whispered into her skin.
She nodded, already breathless. “I’m perfect.”

A breathy curse slips from her lips as Genji sinks into her fully.
Mercy’s back arches slightly against the cushions, head tilted back, eyes shut as she tries to steady her breathing.
The fullness, the heat, the way his body fits against hers- it overwhelms her in the best possible way.

But then, a few seconds later, soft giggles bubble from her throat, interrupting the moment.
Genji pauses, lifting his head from the crook of her neck. His brows knit with a mix of concern and confusion as he looks down at her.
“Angela?” he asks gently.

She waves a hand dismissively, still breathless, eyes shining. “No, no it’s nothing,” she says through her laughter. “I just… I love you so much.” Her fingers brush against his cheek affectionately.

For a second, Genji can only blink. Her words hit him like a warm gust of air. His eyes widen slightly, and he turns his head to the side, suddenly bashful. A grin creeps across his face anyway, one he can’t stop even if he tried. His ears, barely visible beneath his hair, turn a soft pink.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, still grinning as he meets her gaze again, his voice a quiet mix of awe and amusement.

Mercy’s hands grasp his shoulders, her fingers curling slightly into his skin as he rocks into her again- slow, controlled, purposeful. Her body responds instinctively, small gasps and sweet whines falling from her lips as he finds that rhythm they both crave.
He pulls out almost entirely before sinking back in with a deep thrust that steals her breath. A sharp, stuttering moan escapes her, and she buries her face in his shoulder, clutching him tightly as her body trembles with pleasure.

“Oh my… God… Genji…”
Her voice is soft, strained, like the words are being ripped out from the deepest part of her chest. Her head tips back, lips parted, eyes fluttering half-closed in a haze of sensation.

“I’m here, Angela,” he whispers, lips brushing against her jaw as he presses a kiss there. His voice is steady, grounded. “I’m right here.”

His hips begin to move faster now, each thrust smoother and more confident, chasing the high slowly building within his body. One hand slides up her chest to cup her breast, thumbing softly over her nipple through her shirt, the other stays firm on her hip.

His breathing begins to hitch. He’s close.

With one final, shaky thrust, he groans and pulls out quickly, just in time.
Hunched slightly over her, he strokes himself a few times, then with a strained moan, he comes- warm release spilling across her shirt in thick, slow spurts. His muscles twitch slightly, his cock throbbing in his hand until it finally stills.

Breathing heavily, he stays there for a moment, head lowered as he recovers. Then, without a word, he reaches up with his metallic hand to brush the damp hair off his forehead. The faint clink of the metal limb against his skin barely registers to Mercy- she’s watching him through hooded eyes, lips parted, her chest rising and falling, on the brink of her pleasure.

His cool thumb drifts downward again, making contact with her clit.

She initially flinches at the cold, gasping softly, but the sensation quickly morphs into pleasure. Her thighs twitch as he begins to circle her clit slowly with practiced precision.
“C’mon, Angela,” he murmurs, his warm human hand trailing down her waist to her thigh.

Her eyes snap open as a tremor builds in her core. Her hips buck slightly into his touch, her breath catching in her throat.
The orgasm hits her suddenly, a wave crashing through her with a guttural whine as her body spasms, legs trembling. Her slick heat gushes against his hand, soaking his cold fingers as she shudders beneath him.

Collapsing back onto the couch, her chest rises and falls rapidly, she stares up at the ceiling in stunned silence for a few seconds before slowly sitting up on unsteady arms.
She blinks down at her shirt, now streaked with his cum, and lets out a soft, annoyed huff.

“We need to shower,” she says finally, glancing down at herself.

Genji lifts his head, a faux hurt look flickering across his features.
“That’s the first thing you say? Not that you love me, or that it felt good?” he asks with a pout.

Mercy gives him a flat look. “You’re not the one covered in cum.”

He raises both his hands in a dramatic show of evidence- his metal hand still glistening, and his human hand marked faintly with dried remnants of their earlier foreplay. He arches a brow.

“...Okay,” she concedes, lips twitching into a faint grin. “It was amazing, as usual. I love you. Now we shower.”

Genji chuckles softly, watching her rise to her feet on wobbly legs. She sways lightly, catching herself on the back of the couch. He stands close behind her, hands outstretched just incase, his own legs not much steadier.

Chapter Text

“Angela, I have an important question.”

Moira’s flat shoes strike the linoleum, a sharp rhythm echoing off the walls as she trailed slowly behind Mercy through the medical wing. The tension in the air was tangible- Mercy’s shoulders already tensing before she had even turned around to respond.

“Yes, Doctor?” Mercy sighed, lowering herself wearily onto her stool at the lab bench. She looked up at Moira with the kind of tired patience born from repeated interruptions- exhaustion, expectant, and mild irritation.

“How much do you weigh?” Moira asked without skipping a beat, pulling a pen from the pocket of her lab coat. She tapped it twice against the metal bench before flipping open a small, worn leather-bound journal.

Mercy blinked slowly, lips parting in disbelief before a hand lifted to her forehead, massaging the space just between her eyes.

“Doctor O’Deorain, I’m not exactly self-conscious, but you can’t just ask someone that out of nowhere,” she said, with a sigh. “That’s basic social etiquette. You can’t ask anyone that. But… since I already know you won’t stop until you get it- sixty-eight kilos.”

She glanced up beneath her lashes, her voice flat. “I’m not sure what to expect next. Please don’t throw me across the room or something.”

Moira gave her a single nod, as if that settled the great mystery, and scratched down the number with methodical precision.
“Thank you,” she murmured.

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and walked away, her coat billowing behind her.
Mercy watched her go with narrowed eyes before turning back to her notes, muttering something about mad scientists and basic boundaries.

Moira swept back into her private office, the click of the door shutting behind her louder than necessary. Her orange eyes locked immediately onto the open curtain beside her desk, the translucent polyester swaying slightly, allowing the outer lab to peek in.

Unacceptable.

She crossed the room in three long strides, her fingers curling tightly around the curtain.
With a violent pull, she snapped it shut, the force tearing a small hole in the flimsy material. Her gaze lingered on the tear for a moment.

No one could see what she was working on.

Not yet.

This was sacred work. A gift to evolution. A triumph waiting to unfold.

Crossing back to the corner of the office, she extended one long-fingered hand and brushed it almost reverently along the artificial human skeleton mounted in the corner. Her nails- sharp, stained, and claw-like- dug into the scapula.
With a sudden wrench, she tore it from the frame. The rest of the bones clattered to the ground, a pile of brittle ivory crumpling in a heap behind her.

She grinned. There was something wicked in the expression- something almost feral.

Turning back to her desk, she tossed the scapula onto the metal surface. It bounced once, then stilled beside an array of carefully laid out components.

A scalpel.
Two clavicles.
Six humeri.
Multiple metacarpals and phalanges.
Paired radii and ulnae.
And the prototype- the scapula.

Her fingers traced each piece with care.

These bones would be wings.

But not just wings.
Flight-capable appendages, powerful enough to lift a human body- specifically, Angela’s body- into the sky.
The skeletal structure needed to be light, hollow, yet strong enough to support vertical thrust.
Mercy’s natural bones couldn’t be hollowed out- they were too dense, too… essential.
The wings would have to compensate, become more than attachments. They would be extensions of her, in every way.

Moira leaned over the table, her palms planting firmly on either side of the design layout. Bone marrow shavings dusted the table, evidence of her late night trials to replicate the real structural density whilst minimising mass. She stared at the diagram scrawled in ink between the scattered bones: a spinal column drawn with surgical precision, annotated with symbols and calculations.

Angela would need spinal reinforcement.

Without it, she’d crumble under the force of lift and drag.

A bird that cannot fly is no angel. It’s just a mistake. A failed experiment. And Moira never made mistakes.

She considered her options.

Stem cell regeneration, combined with synthetic collagen, could fortify the intervertebral discs- turning soft cushioning tissue into a hyperdense shock-absorbing material. A biological spring embedded in the spine. Perfect for withstanding the violent rhythm of wingbeats. Perfect for absorbing impact during landing. Perfect for her angel.

But she needed more than strength.

She needed control.

Her fingers itched as she reached down to the skeleton remains, lifting a mock spinal cord- thin plastic vertebrae held together with embedded wiring.
Holding it carefully, she began to wrap a length of string around it, mimicking how the ligaments might multiply and thicken. With enough modification, she could force the body to grow more connective tissue. Dense, fibrous tendrils wrapping around the spine like vines. Like armour.

Muscle and bone still wasn’t enough.

The brain would need to evolve.

She would have to force it.

A sympathetic nerve core, grown parallel to the spinal cord, could control wing motion independently from the limbs. A new neural circuit- one devoted solely to flight.

That meant reshaping the cerebellum.
Rerouting the vestibular system.
Altering her angel’s balance, her reflexes, her awareness of space.

It would be delicate work. One wrong incision, and her beautiful subject would collapse like the artificial skeleton behind her.

But if she succeeded?

Angela Ziegler would no longer be human.

She would be something more.

A new species. A miracle.
A masterpiece born of flesh, bone, and a vision.

Moira inhaled slowly, her chest rising with something dangerously close to reverence. She stared down at the scattered pieces on her desk.
Not just a body. Not just bones.

This was art.

And she would paint an angel with her science.

But not yet.
Not until it was perfect.

And it would be.

Because Moira O’Deorain would accept nothing less.

Chapter Text

The lab was silent, apart from the low hum of equipment left running overnight and the occasional rustle of paper disturbed by the soft sweep of a hand.
Mercy sat alone at the rear-most bench, a warm cone of light from the overhead lamp casting a faint golden halo across her workspace. A pair of thin-framed, square glasses perched delicately on the tip of her nose, their lenses catching the glow of her laptop. Strewn across the table before her was a cluttered spread of reports, data sheets, and medical diagrams, some annotated in hurried scrawls.

Outwardly, she appeared the picture of calm efficiency. Her movements were careful, her posture composed—but the signs of strain were there for anyone who knew where to look.
The faint crease between her brows that hadn’t eased all evening.
The rigid set of her shoulders.
The way her thumb kept brushing over the corner of a page without turning it.
She was unraveling in silence, quietly, methodically, as all good scientists did.

From behind the tinted glass of her office, Moira had been watching. She had been sealed away for hours—longer, really. No one had dared disturb her. The only sounds from her private quarters had been sporadic, occasional clatter, the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and the unsettling whir of unfamiliar machinery. But no one questioned her. By now, they knew better.

The main lab was mostly dark. Most of the staff had gone home. Shadows spilled across the tiled floor and reached into corners where light no longer touched. In the stillness, Mercy was almost invisible, tucked quietly in her corner.

But not to Moira.

Never to Moira.

Where others might overlook her, Moira saw her in startling clarity. Even in darkness, Mercy radiated—an effortless, golden glow that pierced the gloom like a holy beacon. That brilliance… it fascinated Moira. It captivated her. It burned. And still, she couldn’t look away.

Her shoes—flats, as always—clicked softly as she stepped out from her office and approached, her walk brisk and purposeful. She moved with the clinical grace of someone who had long since memorized every inch of the room. Her eyes didn’t waver from the woman ahead.

“Dr. Ziegler,” she said coolly, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the ambient whir of machinery. “You don’t have an office of your own to go over those files?”
Mercy didn’t look up at first. She merely continued scanning the page in front of her, lips pursed in concentration, until she finally spoke—her tone clipped, weary.
“I’m not disturbing anyone, am I?”
Moira cocked her head slightly. “Is there a need for the attitude, Dr. Ziegler?”
Now Mercy looked up, her glasses catching the light as she tilted her head toward the taller woman. The furrow in her brow deepened for a moment before her expression smoothed out—replaced by something cooler, something guarded.

“I’m simply trying to reconcile a few irregularities in our inventory,” she said at last, her fingers gathering a stack of reports as she spoke. “We seem to be missing several pieces of equipment—tools, reagents, custom imports. And the cleaning crew discovered a… rather curious storage unit.”
Her voice slowed on that last sentence, the syllables heavy with implication. Her eyes lifted to meet Moira’s, sharp now, suspicious.

“A locked cupboard. Unauthorized. Full of restricted medical prototypes and mechanical components that weren’t cleared by logistics.” Her gaze narrowed. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
She stood slowly, hands pressing into the table, the scrape of her chair against the floor punctuating her words. “You’ve been stealing from our stockpile. Hoarding whatever you can get your hands on. For your experiments.”
Moira didn’t flinch. Her expression remained neutral, almost bored, as she circled the table with slow, measured steps. Her fingers ghosted along the surface of the bench, tracing its edge like she might an old memory.

“Was I now?” she murmured, voice low and smooth.
Mercy followed her movement with her eyes, her stance tense, defensive. “I don’t know anyone else sick enough to do it,” she snapped.
Moira paused opposite her, standing just a step too close. Her amber gaze flickered over Mercy’s face, dissecting every flicker of anger, every trace of disdain. Then she smiled. Just faintly. Just enough.

“Quite the sour tongue you’ve developed, Doctor,” Moira hummed, a thread of amusement weaving dangerously through her tone. “Is that frustration I hear? Or… jealousy?”
Mercy stiffened. Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing at first—just clenched her jaw as though biting back words too sharp to speak aloud.
“You’ve compromised our research,” she said finally, her voice low and laced with restrained anger. “You’ve endangered your colleagues. You hoard supplies, disappear without explanation, leave the lab in disarray. You treat this facility like your personal playground.”

Moira said nothing at first. Just watched her. Then, a slow, deliberate smile curved her lips.
“And yet,” she murmured, “Here you are. Still working late. Still curious. Still… watching me.”

She stepped closer, her palms coming to rest on the desk between them. The gesture mirrored Mercy’s own without mockery—only intention. Her voice dropped, a velvet hush, like a secret uncoiling in the dark.

“You could have reported me. But you didn’t.”
A silence bloomed between them. Dense. Heavy.

Mercy’s reply came eventually, quiet but firm.
“I’m not like you.”

Moira’s smile deepened—never cruel, but cool. Knowing. Eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“No,” she said softly. “But you could be.”

Mercy’s fists clenched at her sides, the tendons in her wrist standing out beneath her skin. “I would never subject someone to the things you do. To your experiments. Your violations.”

Moira tilted her head, her voice lowering to something almost tender. Almost sincere.
“I would never hurt you, Angela.”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

A pause.

“But you would,” Moira murmured, leaning in slightly, her tall frame casting a thin shadow over the desk. “You’d let me if you understood. If you saw what I see.”
Her voice, now a near-whisper, curled around Mercy’s name like silk. “I could make you stronger. You’d never have to lose anyone again. You could protect them. Protect him.”

She didn’t need to say who. Mercy already knew.

And that, more than anything, terrified her.

She stood still.

The words hung in the air like smoke—suffocating and slow. You could protect him. They echoed in her mind, cruel in their softness.
Angela’s mouth was dry. Her pulse, however composed her face remained, betrayed her—pounding hot and heavy in her throat like a warning bell that no one else could hear.

“You don’t know anything about him,” she said at last. But the words didn’t land like she’d meant them to. They trembled, thin and cracked like old glass.
Moira only tilted her head slightly, like she was peering at a curious specimen under glass. “Oh, I know enough.”

She stepped back from the desk in a smooth, practiced motion, fingers trailing across the cold surface like she was tracing the edges of a memory.
“I know you’d let the world burn for the people you love,” she said, voice wrapped in velvet. “I admire that. I do the same. Just… without the sentiment.”

Angela exhaled, quiet and strained, her fingers curling slightly on the desk.

“I don’t need your admiration,” she muttered, her eyes dropping back to the cluster of reports in front of her. Their ink had blurred. She wasn’t reading. She couldn’t. Her vision was elsewhere—trapped in the implication of everything Moira had just said.

“No,” Moira said, her tone dipping again, quieter now. Sharper. “But you crave understanding.”
She took a few more steps, her shoes whispering against the polished floor.
“You want to fix the world,” Moira continued. “You’ve always wanted that. But aren’t you tired, Angela? Tired of watching it bleed in your hands—no matter how hard you try to hold it together?”

That made Mercy’s eyes lift.

Moira wasn’t looking at her anymore. She was hovering near the light switch by the exit, her long shadow cutting across the floor like a blade.

“You think I don’t see it?” she asked. “The way you stay after hours. The way you grind yourself to exhaustion. You carry the dead like luggage, even when no one else remembers their names. But you’re trapped—by what you refuse to become. By the lines you’ve sworn never to cross.”

The silence between them sharpened.

“You don’t understand me,” Mercy said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.
Moira turned her head just slightly, enough for Mercy to see the edge of her smile.
“I don’t need to. Not yet.”
Her hand hovered near the light switch but didn’t move.
“One day, when you’re ready,” she said, almost whispering, “You’ll understand that salvation doesn’t come without sacrifice.”

Then she left, her footsteps fading into the dim corridor like a fading heartbeat.

Mercy stood in the quiet that followed, every muscle in her body taut, frozen. Her shoulders twitched like they wanted to move—but to do what, she didn’t know.

And then her eyes lowered to the corner of her desk.

One of her scalpel cases was missing.

Again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Mercy arrived early—earlier than usual, earlier than reasonable. The sky outside was still dressed in dawn’s first pale veil, its soft gray-blue light casting long shadows through the windows of the Overwatch medical lab. Everything was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hum of the overhead fluorescents sound like thunder.

She moved silently, her white coat slipping over her shoulders like a shroud. Her steps echoed faintly on the linoleum as she passed the observation table, the locked medical cabinets, the spare lockers. Her fingers grazed the edge of the stainless steel benches without thought. Everything looked untouched. Sterile. Normal.

Almost.

The air felt different.

Not colder, not warmer—just… disturbed. Like a scentless ghost had passed through before her. Like someone had been here.

Like Moira had been here.

Mercy’s shoulders stiffened as she reached her desk. The computer terminal patiently in sleep mode, awaiting her login. Her chair was pushed in, her files stacked neatly, her equipment arranged exactly the way she’d left it.

And yet something inside her whispered, This is wrong.

She slid into the seat slowly, powered on her screen, and tried to work. Tried to focus. But her fingers hovered uselessly above the keys. Her mind wasn’t here. Not really.

Moira’s voice, so smooth and precise, still lingered at the base of her skull like a toxin in her blood.

You’ll understand one day.

Mercy swallowed. The echo of it made her feel ill.

She told herself she wouldn’t check. That it didn’t matter. That there was no point in confirming what she already feared. But her hand moved anyway—slow, cautious, mechanical.

She reached for the drawer beside her knee.

Her heart sank.

Another tool was gone. Not a scalpel this time. A bone drill.

Mercy stared at the empty slot for a long moment, her hand frozen on the drawer handle.

Then she stood.

She didn’t think. Her body simply moved—past the desks, down the sterile hallway, through the double doors leading to the research offices. Her pace quickened the closer she got, rage and confusion twisting inside her chest like wires pulling taut.

Moira’s door was ajar.

Mercy paused just outside, her hand hovering inches from the handle.

The light inside was low, an eerie red glow from one of the wall-mounted diagnostics casting long, liquid shadows across the floor. The faint buzz of a fan whirred somewhere deep in the room, rhythmic and constant.

She pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was warmer. Staler. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, bleach, and something sharper beneath it—metallic. Tangy.

There were papers spread across the desk. Scattered, not disorganized—Moira never left chaos by accident. Beside them was something long and pale. Mercy’s breath caught.

Bone.

Polished, drilled, and precisely cut. Artificial, maybe—but too realistic. Tendons, or synthetic replicas of them, were coiled neatly like threads beside it. There were sketches too, anatomical drawings of a human spine in varying stages of reinforcement and modification. Notes lined the margins in surgical, looping script.

Her name was among them.

Not “Dr. Ziegler.”

Just—“Angela.”

She took a step forward, then another, her body tight with restrained tension. Her eyes scanned the notes. Keywords leapt out like blades:

Neuromuscular grafting.
Hyperdense cartilage.
Flight vector correction.
Subject: Angela.

Her pulse climbed steadily, rising in her ears like a siren.

“I thought you might come,” came the voice from the far corner of the room.

Mercy spun. Moira emerged from the shadows like she had been waiting all along, her long figure half-silhouetted against the red glow.

“Curiosity gets the better of even the most righteous,” she said smoothly.

Mercy’s breath caught.

“You’ve been stealing my equipment.”

Moira didn’t flinch. “Borrowing,” she corrected, her tone light, as though it were a trivial misunderstanding. “Refining. I’ve simply repurposed tools that were being underutilized.”

Mercy stepped back instinctively. “You’re experimenting on something you haven’t even tested. You’re tampering with organics, with bone, with synthetic tissue. This—this is reckless. Dangerous.”

“And yet,” Moira said, approaching slowly, “it works.”

Mercy’s voice hardened. “What I do preserves life. What you do… desecrates it.”

Moira’s head tilted slightly. “Is that what you think? That I desecrate life?”

“You manipulate it,” Mercy snapped. “You twist it.”

Moira smiled faintly. “I elevate it.”

Mercy turned away from her, clenching her fists at her sides. But Moira wasn’t done. She never was.

“You’re not here because of principle,” Moira said. “You’re here because you saw your name. Because, somewhere, some part of you wonders—what if?”

Mercy froze.

“What if the pain didn’t have to end in death?” Moira continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, coming up behind her. “What if you didn’t have to watch them die? What if your work wasn’t enough anymore—and mine was?”

Mercy turned to face her, anger in her eyes. “Don’t pretend to care about my patients. About him.”

Moira’s voice turned gentle, almost mournful. “I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

A beat. Mercy’s breath caught again, caught between disbelief and something darker.

“You would sacrifice me,” she said bitterly.

“No,” Moira said, stepping closer. “I would empower you. I would make you what the world needs. An angel who never falls.”

Angela looked away, shaken. Her voice dropped. “And in return?”

“Nothing,” Moira replied. “Only the truth. The truth you already know.”

A long pause.

Mercy’s eyes dropped to the notes on the desk. Her name, again and again. Her body, dissected on the page like blueprints. She wanted to tear them apart. But she didn’t move.

“You don’t need to be afraid of what you could become,” Moira said gently, her voice curling around her like smoke. “You should be afraid of what happens if you don’t.”

Angela swallowed, her throat dry. “And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll keep watching them die,” Moira said simply. “And I’ll keep building something better.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

Angela stared down at the desk. Her hand hovered over the page again. Trembling.

Behind her, Moira didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The weight of her presence was enough.

Mercy didn’t pick up the notes.

But she didn’t destroy them, either.

“You’re sick,” Mercy says after a while, her breath catching in her throat the moment the words leave her lips. She didn’t mean for it to come out like that—sharp, accusatory. But it does.

It lands like a stone dropped in still water. Too loud in the silence. Too honest.

Moira doesn’t react right away. She simply tilts her head, watching her. Observing.

Mercy shifts on her feet. The air between them grows heavier, more suffocating. She tries to look away, but Moira steps closer, slow and deliberate.

“Oh?” Moira’s voice is quiet, almost amused. “And what diagnosis have you come to, Doctor Ziegler?”

Mercy’s jaw tightens. “You mutilate. You steal. You lie. That’s not science—it’s obsession.”

“You call it mutilation,” Moira says, taking another step forward. “I call it innovation.”

Her gaze sharpens, her tone cooling. “And you call it stealing because somewhere inside you, there’s a gnawing truth you refuse to admit—you want what I have. You want the freedom to stop asking permission.”

Mercy flinches.

It’s subtle, nearly imperceptible. But Moira sees it. Of course she does.

“And what would you have me do?” Moira continues, her voice low and steady. “Let them rot? Let him die because your sense of ethics demands we sit on our hands until the last breath escapes them?”

“Don’t bring him into this,” Mercy hisses, her voice trembling. “You don’t get to use him.”

“I’m not using him,” Moira replies softly. “I’m trying to give you a way to save him.”

Silence.

Angela looks away, her throat tight, pulse thrumming in her ears. She hates that Moira says it so calmly. Hates how her voice curls around the rawest parts of her and sinks in like a needle.

“He’s not a pawn,” Angela whispers. “He’s not leverage.”

“No,” Moira agrees. “He’s a weakness. One I’m offering to turn into strength.”

Mercy closes her eyes for a moment, just one moment. The exhaustion hits her like a wave. The late nights. The impossible choices. The war against time, biology, and morality. All of it pressing into her spine, and now this—Moira, weaving her poisoned logic like silk.

“You think this is strength?” Mercy opens her eyes again, glaring. “Playing God with people’s lives?”

Moira gives a soft, amused exhale. “You say that like we haven’t both already done it.”

That silences her. Moira’s eyes gleam. She steps forward again, and this time she’s close—closer than before. Within reach.

“I’ve seen the lengths you’ll go to,” Moira says, her voice now velvet-smooth. “You bend the laws of life and death. You suspend time with Valkyrie just to keep someone breathing a little longer. You resurrected a man, Angela.”

The name hits like a blade.

Mercy stiffens, visibly.

Moira smiles slowly. “You didn’t flinch when they called you a miracle worker. But the moment I mirror your choices—call them what they are—you recoil.”

“That was different,” Mercy says quietly. “I did it to save someone. Not to remake them.”

“Intent does not erase the result.”

Mercy swallows, staring at the bone on the table—the prototype that shouldn’t exist. Her voice falters when she speaks again. “You’d turn me into something I’m not.”

Moira’s expression softens, in that eerie way it sometimes does—gentle but wrong, like porcelain with a crack beneath the surface.

“I would turn you into what you are,” she says. “You are already extraordinary. I want to free you from the guilt that chains you to mediocrity.”

Her hand lifts, almost like she’s about to reach for Mercy’s cheek—but stops, suspended midair. A quiet threat in its tenderness.

“Imagine flying without restraint,” Moira murmurs. “Not hovering. Not floating. Soaring. Your wings not a machine, but an extension of your body. Of your will.”

Mercy’s breath catches.

“You don’t know what I want,” she whispers, but it’s weak. Brittle.

“I know you want control,” Moira answers. “Over your patients’ lives. Over your own limitations. Over your grief. That’s why you work yourself to the bone. That’s why you haven’t slept.”

Her hand finally moves—but it’s not a caress. It’s a pointed motion as she places a new schematic on the desk in front of her.

“You think I want to hurt you, Angela,” Moira says softly, “but I don’t. I want to free you.”

Mercy stares at the paper, at the terrifying precision of it. Her spine rendered as though it were blueprints. Her nervous system stretched out like string. Her body redesigned for flight—no longer just a healer, but a weapon. A force.

“You could walk away,” Moira adds. “Leave this office. Condemn me. Pretend this never happened.”

Mercy doesn’t move.

“Or,” Moira says, her voice sinking to a whisper, “you could pick up the page.”

The room is still. So still.

Mercy’s hand doesn’t tremble this time.

She picks up the page.

Just to look, she tells herself.

Just to understand.

Mercy unfolded the schematic.

It was what she expected at first—precise spinal diagrams, notations detailing vertebrae spacing, weight displacement, muscle anchoring.

But just beneath the technical text, in the margins, Moira had written something else. Not a letter. Not a plea. But something in between.

A theory. A philosophy. A blueprint for something unholy in the shape of science.

Mercy read.

Subject: Angela (Z.) — proposed physiological enhancement model

Preliminary assumption: existing skeletal and muscular structures insufficient for sustained vertical lift or midair stabilization without augmentation.

Solution: exoskeletal graft integration; reinforced vertebral ligaments; synthetic collagen binding agents to replace intervertebral discs.

Neural rerouting proposed via second peripheral conduction system: sympathetic subcord branching from thoracic spinal nerves.

Optional: cerebellar expansion to enhance vestibular function and in-air reaction time. Consider targeting posterior lobe.

Note: emotional resistance likely. Ethically driven hesitation should be accounted for in communication strategy.

You’ve given everything to keep others alive. What if, for once, you chose to keep yourself from breaking instead?

Psychological profile suggests self-sacrificial tendencies. Subject is more likely to accept changes framed as protective—especially toward designated individuals (see: Genji). Leverage accordingly.

They call you a guardian angel. Let me give you the wings.
— M.O’D.

Mercy stared.

She should have torn it in half. Reported her. Said something.

But instead, she folded the paper once, neatly, and tucked it into the inner pocket of her coat.

Just to document, she told herself.

But her fingers didn’t leave the fabric right away.

And across the lab, in the silence that followed, she thought she could still hear Moira’s voice—cool, clinical, and unmistakably close.

Chapter Text

Mercy’s pen scratched neatly across the chart, her handwriting as steady as her pulse.
Respiratory rate: twenty-two. Oxygen saturation: ninety-three percent.
Stable, but fragile.
Human life was always fragile.

She adjusted the ventilator by a fraction, listening as the machine sighed in rhythm with the patient’s lungs. The artificial cadence filled the sterile room, a lullaby of pressure and release. Tubes and wires traced over the body like veins made of plastic and steel, imitating life where it faltered.

The body had limits.
It always had limits.
Healing could be encouraged, supported, nudged even—but never forced. Never accelerated beyond what nature allowed. She had always believed that. No—she had built her career on that conviction.

Her pen hovered above the paper, a pause she couldn’t name. Her hand trembled, subtle but undeniable, as if some thought lingered unbidden in her wrist.
She drew in a sharp breath, blinked hard, and forced the ink forward: Continue present intervention. Reassess in 24 hours.

The clinical note closed with a line. Final. Precise. And yet her gaze drifted—not to the patient, not to the machine, but to her own coat pocket.
She could feel it there, a paper, folded so small and yet unbearably heavy. Paper should never weigh more than flesh. And still, that sheet of careful writing dragged at her shoulders like lead.

She had forgotten to remove it. Or perhaps she had chosen not to. She didn’t know.

Mercy shifted her stance and tucked the clipboard under one arm, but the thought pressed deeper, almost tactile.
She imagined it—not the engineered frame of her Valkyrie suit, not the metallic harness she had grown accustomed to donning like second skin—but something else. Something alive.

Bone stretching. Tendons pulling taut. Sinew splitting, feather shafts breaking through torn flesh in grotesque symmetry.

It should have unsettled her.

It didn’t.

Instead, the image rooted in her with quiet insistence, like marrow filling hollow bone. The idea of wings no longer belonging to her invention. No turbines. No steel. No engineering.
These wings carried a different kind of promise. They belonged to something else, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.

A grotesque miracle.
And it felt almost… right.

Her chart snapped shut with more force than necessary. She pressed it flat against her chest, as if shielding herself from her own thoughts.
Silence filled the room again, broken only by the mechanical rhythm of assisted breath. Clinical as ever, she told herself. Professional. Rational. And yet, the folded page in her pocket burned hotter than any fever she’d ever charted.

Angela sat at her desk hours later, the dim light of the med-bay lamp stretching her shadow long and thin across the wall. She should have been resting. She should have been reviewing lab results or closing her eyes for just a moment. Instead, the page lay unfolded before her, its neat lines illuminated like a scripture.

Her eyes traced the words she had already memorized, though she refused to admit it.
Each line was sterile at first glance, almost clinical in tone—measurements, analogies, chemical structures. Moira’s handwriting was sharp, deliberate, an incision on paper. But beneath the science, in the spaces between diagrams and annotations, something else lingered. Something whispered.

You’ve given everything to keep others alive. What if, for once, you chose to keep yourself from breaking instead?
They call you a guardian angel. Let me give you the wings.

Mercy’s lips pressed into a thin line. The rational part of her—the part that wrote charts, that trusted numbers and limits—knew this was manipulation. She knew this was temptation dressed as logic.

But another part… listened.

The words threaded through her thoughts, not demanding, not loud, but steady. A parasite doesn’t shout. It waits. It burrows. It convinces its host that it belongs there, that it was always meant to be part of them.

And Mercy realized, with a shiver, that she was already hosting something she hadn’t consented to.

She brushed her fingertips over the paper, careful not to smudge the ink. As though the words would dissolve if touched too harshly. She traced the diagrams absently: wing anatomy, skeletal modifications, neural integration. They were obscene in their detail. Not fantasies, not crude sketches, but blueprints. It wasn’t imagination Moira had offered her—it was a possibility.

A possibility that hummed against Angela’s skin like static.

She closed her eyes and for a moment—just a moment—she let herself drift. The lamp-light faded into something softer, the sterile med-bay tilting sideways in her mind. She smelled ozone, sharp and biting, like the air before a storm. And beneath it, feathers. The phantom scent of warmth pressed against her cheek.

When she opened her eyes again, her hand still hovered above the paper. She had written nothing, but her fingers twitched as if they had. Her pen rested nearby, waiting, daring.

The page asked nothing of her. And yet it asked everything.

She exhaled, a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She folded the note once, twice, tucked it back into her pocket. But the imprint of the ink lingered on her mind long after it was hidden again.

And for the first time in years, Mercy realized she wasn’t sure which limits belonged to the body—and which belonged to herself.