Chapter Text
I know that this is . . . all very difficult for you. I care about you, and I know what it is to—well, to wonder about what’s become of someone you care for. And so I’m going to tell you the truth, but please, Jack, let it stay here, in this room, between us. No files, no recordings.
I’ve . . . never told anyone else about all of this, for reasons I’m sure will be abundantly clear by the end of it all. It’s not a happy story, and I am not proud of what I’ve done, of what I was party to. But please, know that. Know that it was long ago, and it was not the me you know now. If you are the friend I know you to be, you will not think ill of me when all is said and done.
It happened, or at least it began, before we came to Overwatch. Long before, by most definitions you could still call me a child. Fifteen. I probably shouldn’t have been at university alone, or at the very least left to make so many unsupervised decisions. Perhaps I wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if I’d had more guidance. But unfortunately people often mistake intelligence for wisdom, and most thought I was capable enough to pursue my degree on my own.
Moira had already been at the university for some time, she had recently begun at the medical school. No, she’s not a medical doctor, and there’s good reason why.
I’m not sure what she saw in me. I liked to think, and still hope, that it was that I was intelligent and capable, I showed promise as a doctor. Sometimes I think maybe she was lonely. God knows I was. Imagine being fifteen years old at a university. You’re not old enough to be taken seriously by even your youngest peers, you’re treated like a child by everyone. It was nice, that she didn’t treat me like a child. I like to think she thought I was capable. I like to think she was lonely, and we both needed a friend. Sometimes, though, I can see how easily she isolated me, manipulated me, used me. I think. I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t want to admit the things I did.
I’m sorry, you’re right, this isn’t about that. Where was I?
Moira. She wasn’t secretive, not back then. She told everyone about her hypothesis, that with the right mixture, a perfect solution, she could breathe life back into the dead. Perhaps that’s why we forged a friendship. You know I, of course, have long been interested in ways to regenerate tissue, to bring our soldiers back from the brink of death. That is not a new interest, though it has . . . I have become more tame in my own pursuits, after everything.
Moira, you see, saw the body as simply a machine, one which could be manipulated with the right tools. There might be a way, she thought, to continue life beyond “death.” I was intrigued, of course. Looking back, of course you think it ghastly, Jack, but without the benefit of hindsight . . . well, how different does healing and resuscitation really sound from reanimation and necromancy?
Her ideas were wild, but fascinating. She was so charismatic, and I was so very young. Forgive me my foolishness, I was a young girl, and I had not yet seen the darkness in the world, in her eyes. I only saw possibility. My own youthful idealism, I suppose.
Other than me, Moira had no one. A pariah. Some could stomach her ideas, but it was well known soon enough that she had already begun experimenting on small animals of various kinds. Mice and rabbits, mostly, as they were easy to acquire for research.
Where others saw horrors, I was shown Moira’s success. For each species she had developed a separate solution; solutions which brought some semblance of motion, some shadow of life. The problem she had found, however, was that what worked on rabbits would not work on mice would not work on frogs. For each species, a different solution was required. If her goal was to be realized, if the resurrection of a human were to come to pass, she required human subjects on which to experiment.
As you pointed out, Moira is not a medical doctor in her own right. She began the course, but she never completed it. She was smart enough, absolutely, too smart for her own good most would say. She thought she was smarter than everyone. When she demanded use of human specimens, access to the cadavers, her request was vehemently denied by none other than the dean himself. You’ve read about him, I’m sure. Harold Winston? He was brilliant, the work he did on the epigenetic causes of—Sorry, yes, well, I believe Moira somewhat idolized him, she told me once it was his position as the dean that caused her to choose which school to attend, I think she felt she had something to prove. But you heard of his passing, I’m sure? And of what happened after he . . .? Well, I’ll get to that later.
It was he who denied Moira use of the cadavers kept for anatomical and surgical study at the university, which soured her to him, most definitely.
Perhaps that is why Moira sought me out, gained my trust and admiration, to gain access to the cadavers. Being a prodigy is not without its perks, you see, and I was lucky enough to secure one of the few coveted lab assistant positions. If that were so, if Moira had orchestrated such a thing from the very beginning, I had no inkling of it then. Don’t look at me like that, Jack, I was only a girl.
We would speak at length about her ideas, her latest tweaks to her concoctions, and how we might go about testing her hypothesis despite the roadblocks she encountered. I believed in her, and for good reason. I’d seen what she could do with the animals, grotesque though it seems now, and I thought . . . well, I don’t really know what I thought, but certainly I never imagined what might come of it all.
Moira, quite the same, didn’t seem interested in the far-reaching ramifications of her research. I honestly don’t know if she knew what she might do if she ever succeeded. It was a curiosity that seemed to drive her, to know just what she could do. A need for vindication, a need to show us all the world through her eyes.
And I wished to see what she could do as well. And yes, when it comes to the vision, I say she, and not we, and I hope you will allow me that, Jack. I will not pretend I am innocent by action, far from it. But we’ve known each other a long time. You know I was free of malice, and I never meant for . . .
I’m getting ahead of myself. You need to know where it all began, to know how it came to . . . whatever all of this was.
Yes, Moira was certain that with the right mixture, a perfect concoction to jump-start the body once more, she could bring complete life back into a subject thought dead. But, as you know, the body begins to decompose the moment death occurs. Delicate cells, cells of the utmost importance, begin to break down. Neurological cells, in particular, degrade at a rapid rate after the moment of death, and this sort of degradation would render Moira’s concoction useless, as it could only reinvigorate cells, not repair damage. I only thank God that we parted ways before my own research came to fruition, lest we have a much greater catastrophe on our hands. If she were able to repair the tissue first . . .
After Winston had prohibited her from continuing her research, Moira reached out to me, her closest and only friend, and I am sorry to say I was quick to offer my assistance. I should have known, of course, you needn’t say it, but foolishness is the right of the young.
Moira needed fresh specimens for her research. To this day I wish to believe she was not serious when she discussed the possibility of exhuming subjects freshly interred, but in hindsight I cannot be certain. It made no matter, for in my eagerness to please my charismatic friend, my only friend, Jack, I was willing to share the codes for the cadaver storage in exchange for only a promise she would take none that would be easily noticed missing. I’m sure that sounds strange to you, but it was a large school, with many labs and many more students. And it’s true, after so much time, so many bodies, they all began to look the same. If Moira was certain to take only those not already toe-tagged for a particular lab activity, well, it was unlikely anyone would notice them missing.
She employed my help, of course. You saw her when she was here. Tall, yes, but slight. Neither one of us could have taken a subject out alone, I’m sure, but together we managed. Even with the two of us, we were not able to move a body far without arousing suspicion, and we couldn’t work in the dormitory, of course, the smell would have been immense at the very least. Never mind the sounds. Yes, the sounds, be patient, I’m getting there.
There was a groundskeeper’s shack, beyond the loading dock where the trucks would bring the cadavers donated for study. Off the dock and through a clutch of thick trees. It hadn’t been used in decades, I think, even the equipment put there for storage was covered in rust, forgotten. It was perfect, even more so after all the equipment had been cleared out. No one knew the equipment was there, Moira explained, and so no one would miss it, and the money she received from selling it off to local machinists was put to good use outfitting our new laboratory.
It would never be so grand as the facilities just through the trees, but Moira required very little specialized equipment. A basic chemical laboratory was all we really needed, and if not for the massive table onto which specimens could be placed, surely anyone who happened upon our workshop would think it for making illicit drugs.
You can stop with the faces. I told you before I began that you would see me in a different light after this, but you’re the one who insisted I tell you. You want to know what happened, don’t you? To Gabriel? Then, please, don’t look at me like that. I keep this quiet, and I expect you to do so as well, once I’ve gotten it all out. I’ve already said I am not proud of what I did, and I will say it many more times before the end of this night, I’m sure.
Thank you. I know it’s somewhat beyond understanding, but thank you for trying. Where was I?
Oh yes, the laboratory. As I’ve said, Moira used the proceeds from selling off the old equipment to procure for us the chemical devices and any other apparatus we might need. The table, an old thing covered in rust and God knows what, I found tucked into a basement storage room, and we were able to move it together without notice; if I recall there was a big football match that night, and whenever we heard the crowd roar from the stadium we could take the time to drop the heavy table and rest.
The chemicals themselves were not particularly rare or valuable, and even Moira retained access to such mundane supply closets. She wasn’t expelled, you see, she was a most brilliant student, of course. The university would have hated to lose a scientist of her caliber. She simply was diverted onto a PhD track when she was barred from research that was wholly medical. I know that look, you’re right, she was not pleased whatsoever. I heard every word of just how displeased she was for several weeks. I suppose it’s why I told her about the groundskeeper’s cabin that I’d found on one of my walks, why I helped her move that table, why I participated in her godforsaken experiments.
I hated seeing someone I cared about suffer. I’m sure you understand, Jack.
The most difficult piece of equipment was the incinerator, and of course the one we worked hardest to get would be the one that never did prove of any use. A small alteration to my assistant’s badge let me pass easily enough as university administration, and when we told the installers that the incinerator was for trash and other non-compostable debris they didn’t ask questions. Why would they? You know me, and you’ve seen Moira. Imagine us younger, and I, at least, smiling as sweetly as I can. What would there be to question?
We had everything we needed, except the subjects, but like I said, there were options within the storage vaults not so far from our hideaway. If the specimen were to come from a hospital not associated with the university it was automatically of no use to us; frequently they had already undergone autopsy, and always they were embalmed or otherwise treated with preservative. Even if this had been done immediately following death, we could not be sure that the chemicals used would not conflict in some manner with Moira’s solution.
Those who passed within the university’s teaching hospital, however, were ideal subjects for our experimentation, and with my access to the morgue it was simple enough to move around a toe tag in order to secure fresh, undamaged specimens. I say undamaged because, as you can imagine, an injury so great as to cause death would render the body useless for rebirth as well. We tried instead to focus on subjects whose cause of death were something more simple; those who died of stroke or myocardial infarction were ideal. And so Moira tasked me with watching the logs and registers for any viable specimen that might come into the school’s stores.
As it happened, it wasn’t long at all after we completed the preparations of our unauthorized laboratory that a subject appeared. A young man in his early twenties. He was dark of hair, and though he was short, he was broad and I’d not be able to bring him myself. I’d told Moira of him, and oh how excited she had been. I felt I’d done well, and she told me as much.
I did not see my friend again until she tapped surreptitiously on the low hatch window of the morgue late into my solitary shift. The window outside opened to the ground, but within the basement it was high-up, short and wide, and I struggled to pass the subject to her. She cursed at me, and she scrambled down through the window to join me, and together we heaved the poor soul out onto the pavement.
If you’re picturing some grotesque scene of Moira O’Deorain and I dragging a corpse through the forest in the middle of a pitch-black night, well, you’re right to do so. You’d think I’d have put an end to it there. I’d think I’d have put an end to it there. But I imagine it is a strange thing that comes over those who study medicine, those of us who spent our time in the morgues: It is easier to divorce the person from the vessel once the spirit has left it, and I think that I felt only as though I were doing a favor for my friend, ghoulish a favor though it was.
By the light of the lamps in our quiet little laboratory deep in the woods, we heaved the subject to the rusty metal table with significant difficulty, for neither of us possessed much strength to speak of. Moira was ecstatic, I remember well the way she smiled so wickedly at the boy on the table, how happily she readied the solution. It was the chance she’d been waiting for, finally a subject fit for her solution.
We knew, of course, that full reanimation would not be seen that night; for it was a first trial, and those are rarely truly successful. In fact, we had very little idea of what we might see once Moira had administered her elixir, and I recall a mounting fear which I shared openly with her, a fear that if the young man’s body were to return to some state resembling life, but his mind were somehow left behind, what might happen to him? To us?
Moira had smiled, not the fiendish grin but something softer, something almost kind. I know you think me a fool, Jack, to have trusted her, but there were times when it seemed . . .
The old leather straps were still affixed to the dissection table, and after Moira tightened them around the subject she patted me on the shoulder, but it was a fleeting comfort over an altogether worthless precaution.
I had stepped back, then, as Moira had pulled on her gloves. As wholly invested as I must admit I was, it was her moment of triumph, if that was what we were about to witness, and I only looked on, transfixed as she filled the syringe with the carefully calculated, perfectly formulated solution. Without ceremony she pushed the entire contents deep into the median cubital vein, and each of us held our breath. I remember the sound of the old-fashioned ticking clock; it had been there when we found the shack, and Moira had wished to keep it.
Time passed so slowly that night, I was afraid to speak lest I drown out any sound our subject might make as he returned to the realm of the living once more; some of the rabbits Moira had used for early solutions had let loose such terrible screams, she had told me. And so I was quiet.
Every minute or so Moira would move the bell of her stethoscope around the subject’s chest, listening intently. Her frown never left, stern and determined, and far from triumphant. For her part, though, Moira had never been one to admit defeat, and after nearly a full hour had passed, she simply sighed. When I’d asked her if we had failed, she smiled then, and she shook her head. The solution had failed, but we would not. I know you see her as a monster, Jack, even more after what’s happened. And probably more still, after you’ve heard all I have to say. I can’t say you’re wrong. But she had a way . . . an overpowering charisma . . .
Because she would not give up, neither would I, and she bid me to keep watch for any change while she made adjustments to the solution. She thought, it seemed, that there might be more that could be done. I suspect she feared she would not get another specimen for some time, and she wished to make the most of it.
She was flawless in her work, always. To this day I’ve never seen someone so deft, so swift as Moira was that night, preparing her second solution. I was captivated, I should say, and if any change came over our subject before it happened, well, I had not been watching as I had been instructed.
It was so wholly unexpected that I think I screamed, though it would undoubtedly have been drowned out by the very noise that caused it, the most hellish thing ever heard upon this earth. I did not look to the specimen, but turned away in horror, my hands clasped over my ears to drown out the deafening noise. From the table there arose such a diabolic sound, such an unfathomable wail that I had thought the denizens of hell themselves had come calling to our little shack. And perhaps, in a way, they had.
But Moira, too, had been affected. Another series of events that I did not see, but it was later that she explained that she believed she dropped a highly flammable reagent onto her kerosene lamp. I do not know if it was the resulting fire or the horrific cacophony arising from the table that drove Moira from the cabin, dragging me violently with her through the underbrush.
It was not until we had neared the morgue once more that the full force hit. The explosion rocking the ground beneath my feet was, I think, what finally pulled me from my shock. I would presume that the fire from Moira’s reagent, a small thing by itself, had found its way to our small store of our more volatile, combustible agents. I cannot be sure; no one could, for when the investigators made their way into the rubble the following day it was found that the old ground keeper’s shack had been burned wholly beyond recognition, and for that we were thankful, lest there be more investigation into just what had been happening in our makeshift laboratory.
Far more disturbing, at least to the two of us, was the second piece of news published that same day, something most people took little notice of: A break-in, crude and violent, as though some beast had tried to force its way in to the very laboratory in which I was meant to be working that night. It had made it difficult to sleep, and in the time that followed it was common that I would catch Moira looking over her shoulder, and rarely could she stand to be alone when night fell.