A heavily censored image of a corpse lights up on the screen, presented in greyscale. You don’t have the security privileges to see the full picture, it seems, but it's obvious this death was not caused by natural means. There is heavy discoloration along the shoulders, ribs, cheeks. Their eyes are wide open. A textbox appears on screen.
Status: Enemy Combatant.
Deceased.
Cause of death: [REDACTED].
You open the menu to the left of your screen, and a text box pops up. How lucky. You get to witness what happened to the poor bastard--on the cellular level.
The sequencing program tries to rebuild the genome, but every strand collapses into noise--breaks, gaps, and corrupted alignments. You log each failure, one by one, watching the patterns blur into a jagged mess of damage. The genome reconstruction fails again, strands fragmenting into incoherent strings, unreadable beyond the scars of targeted interference.
Radiation, chemical scarring, targeted gene disruption, whatever killed this person left its signature burned into their cells. You record the data mechanically, though the weight pressing in behind your ribs is sharper than any line on the graphs.
You’ve seen a lot, working for Talon. People tend to disassociate, compartmentalize the small traumas they encounter to focus on the task at hand. You knew you’d grow numb to seeing this kind of thing eventually.
You just never thought that falling in love would be the thing that finally made you feel hollow.
Everything fell apart after you told her you loved her. It’s only been a few days since that night at the bunker -- the night you never thought would end in heartbreak. The night Moira pulled away and vanished like nothing between you had ever happened.
So now you just show up, keep your head down, and do the work. What else is there to do? The white sterile walls seem to contort and bend around you, making you feel trapped--as much of an experiment as any other in this place.
Your fingers tap away at the keyboard as you focus on making progress, not letting a single word escape your lips, not daring to breathe out of turn or avert your eyes. The pain gnaws at you in the pauses, the breaks, the quiet moments where nothing can distract you.
And so you latch onto scraps instead. A typo in the UI, the uneven breathing of a coworker a few desks over… anything to think about but the silence she left behind.
You tell yourself you’re respecting her wishes. Maybe she needs this distance. That maybe it really is for the best.
And then, without warning, she walks past.
You feel your head lock in place, scared to even look in her direction. By the time you build up the courage to even glance over, she’s almost gone.
But just for a split second, you see her.
The blur of her lab coat, her hair like fire burning against the dark night air. Her eyes flick toward you for just a moment: And there's nothing there. Not one hint of recognition, a spark of the closeness you once shared. You might as well have been invisible.
Your chest tightens. You feel like you're about to throw up. This is what it was always supposed to be like, you try to think to yourself. A few months ago you wouldn’t have thought twice about this. Maybe this is what "normal" is supposed to feel like again. But if so, it's so much worse than you remembered.
You’d told yourself this emptiness was necessary, that she needed the space and you’d honor that. But the moment she passes, something in your chest contracts, sharp and involuntary. You feel the lies you told yourself crumble in moments.
You miss her.
You want her back.
The thought lingers long after she vanishes into her lab, heavy enough that you almost forget you’re still at work. A shuffle of papers nearby pulls you back--two researchers at the next desk, speaking in voices pitched low, careful not to garner too much attention.
“Did you see her?” one mutters, not daring to say her name. Their eyes darted toward the door she vanished through. “She hasn’t acted that strange since…” A pause, the words catching in their throat. “Since the Doomfist incident.”
The other shifts uneasily in their seat, glancing around before answering. “Don’t say that too loud, she nearly blew him up in front of all of us! You really think she’d hesitate with anyone else?”
Silence stretches awkwardly between them, they don’t push further. But the word echoes, loud in your ears.
Strange.
A flicker of offense cuts through you. The sheer audacity of them, speaking so casually about her like she isn’t capable of tearing them apart, body and mind, for less. Shame on them. Part of you thinks she ought to use them as test subjects, let them see firsthand the cost of that kind of talk.
And yet… the thought won’t settle. Even before you knew her, no one would have dared to speak of her this way. Fear kept their mouths shut. Maybe respect, too. But now whispers pass through easily, and that word they chose--strange--clings to you like smoke. There really might be something off with her today.
You think about the way her gaze slid past you, the way her stride held no hesitation, no spark of the woman who once let you close.
Not long ago you looked forward to coming here, to working alongside her, progress and purpose tied together with stolen tender moments- even the absurd luxury of a half-flirty remark across her desk. Now the work feels darker.
The genome patterns blur in front of you, unstable, jagged, unfinished. Like something critical is missing. Like you’re watching the whole place slowly fray at the edges.
By the time you finish logging the rest of the corrupted strands of DNA, your report is like a graveyard of data points: dates, times, collapses, failures, organized neatly into a structure that only makes the destruction feel sharper.
Still, it’s done. That’s all that matters. You unconsciously let out a quiet groan under your breath as you stand, your joints stiff from the long hours at your desk.
You grab the bundle of papers and the small, black flash drive sticking out of your computer, and make your way over to turn in your work.
The short walk to Moira’s lab feels like you’re walking through a stranger's house, the non-descript paneling of the walls you’ve walked past countless times seeming to grow and shrink when you’re not looking, feeling claustrophobic.
Your heart aches as it droops against the top of your stomach. Each step feels heavy.
The sight of the door to Moira’s personal lab snaps you out of your spiraling, bringing you back to reality. You build up the courage to knock on the door, but, to your surprise, the door is already ajar.
“...Moira?”
Your voice comes out lower than you intended, the sound swallowed by the droning hum of equipment.
No answer.
Perhaps against your better judgement, you step inside, feeling like an intruder. She’d be more upset if I wasted her time getting this data to her, you tell yourself, as you walk through the dimly lit laboratory towards her desk.
You neatly organize the papers in your hands before placing them on the desk, the small drive making a small clink sound as it hits the hard surface. The monitor inches from your head flashes to life, grabbing your attention, the harsh glow of blue and white gently illuminating the dark room.
Your eyes dart across the screen, and catch on an open window: a block of dense text, its title in bold at the top. Your chest tightens. It looks less like research and more like someone searching for answers they shouldn’t need.
Dopamine and Oxytocin: Mechanisms of Reward, Tolerance, and Dependency.
Dopamine? As in, the happy chemicals? What could that be about?, you think to yourself.
You try to make sense of it, it's probably related to the project, some obscure angle you aren’t aware of. Talon’s work branches into countless fields, after all. But, the longer you stare, the less it fits.
You and your coworkers work in genetics and DNA- this is outside of your limited knowledge, and, maybe even Moira’s. So what is this doing here? Why would she be reading this?
It doesn’t look like part of a larger project; there’s no notes or attached data sets, just a single article that anyone could pull from the web. Which only makes it stranger. It doesn’t feel like research, but, something more… personal. Like someone searching for answers that they shouldn’t need to ask. Not someone like her, anyway.
You swallow, feeling unsettled. Whatever this is, something is definitely wrong. Something is up with Moira, and you feel scared thinking too hard about what it might be.
You pull your eyes away, only to notice another window minimized in the corner of the screen: her messages.
Against your better judgment, you grab hold of the mouse and click.
Two drafts sit waiting in the folder.
The first is addressed to Akande Ogundimu. Just seeing his name makes your pulse quicken.
Still, your eyes catch on the opening lines before you can stop yourself.
Project Cicatrix proceeding as expected. Cellular resistance to damage is holding under repeated strain…
Your chest goes tight. You scroll no further. This isn’t your place. This is information you shouldn’t know- information that, if you’re caught reading, could cost you far more than your job.
You avert your eyes, throat dry, willing yourself to forget the glimpse you caught.
But then you see it.
A second draft. Shorter. Simpler.
Your eyes dart across the screen, and widen as you realize who it's addressed to.
Y/N.
It's addressed to you.
Your breath stalls in your chest. Curiosity claws at you before caution can stop it, tugging you toward the unopened message. The second window opening on the screen lights up the room further, straining your eyes. For a moment your eyes falter before glazing over the first few words. But before you can make out anything-
“What are you doing in my lab?”
Her voice slices through the air like a scalpel.
She’s behind you.
Your body freezes, the cursor hovering over the email trembles as your fingers grip the mouse; The sound of your own heartbeat practically blows out your ears, drowning out the hum of the nearby lab equipment.
Breaking free from your own paralysis, you turn around. She’s standing in the doorway, a backlit silhouette with a white glowing outline of the sterile hallway lights. For the briefest moment, her eyes widen--not in anger, but recognition. Panic.
Then, in the next blink, her mask snaps back into place.
“Oh. It's you.”
The whites of her eyes seem to glow in the darkness of the lab, staring right through you. Your throat works uselessly as you stammer out a response.
“Ah- M--Doctor, sorry, I was just- just dropping off the report.”
She doesn’t move an inch. Her face is stone, unreadable. You brace yourself for her to yell at you for entering her lab without permission. Already your brain drafts up an apology, an explanation, remembering the door was already open and you swear you heard her inside- anything to keep her from being upset with you.
“Leave it on my desk.”
In the next moment she’s gone.
Her lab coat flares at the hem as she sweeps past you into the hallway without another word. The door clicks shut behind her, the harsh sound echoing through the lab.
You’re left standing alone in the middle of the room, utterly confused. Moira O’Deorain, the woman who would flay a man alive in the name of progress, just walked out of her own lab to avoid another minute in your presence. Maybe she trusts you enough to leave you alone here. Or maybe, somehow, it’s fear that keeps her from staying.
The thought twists in your chest.
You gather yourself and walk to her desk briskly, organizing the papers once again in a needless polite ritual. Before you can even turn around, your eyes lock onto the screen again.
It's all there, you think to yourself, all of Talon’s scientific secrets. You wouldn’t dare break her trust like that, and the idea of trying to learn what all of your work has truly amounted to is something you would never want to see. No secret message is worth any kind of potential retribution.
Except for one.
You drag the window into view, and read the message.
Y/N,
I haven’t been honest with you. Come over. I can
The message cuts off, left incomplete and unspoken. The cursor blinks at the end of the line, steady and indifferent. Each pulse of that flashing black line feels like an alarm light going off, a deafening silence that mocks you, reminding you that you’re looking at something you aren’t supposed to be seeing.
Your breath holds in your throat as you lean in closer, as if the words might resolve themselves if you just got a bit closer. Your mind races, dragging you in a dozen different directions at once.
What hasn’t she been honest about? Is it about your relationship with her or, something else? Was she trying to warn you about something? Or reveal the actual purpose of your work? Each question feels equally impossible, but you still cling to any possible explanation like driftwood in a storm.
The sterile glow of the monitor finally starts to burn your eyes, and for a moment, you force yourself to look away. The white paneling of the laboratory walls reflect the screen lights back at you in a pale shimmer, so clean and impersonal that you can almost forget where you are. You count the seconds in your head, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself that whatever this is, it’s just another layer of work you don’t understand yet, something with a reasonable and sound explanation.
When you glance back the message is gone.
The monitor looks exactly as it did before, the same windows open, same blank desktop background. The window is just… gone. The cursor sits in the corner, waiting patiently for input, but the words you just read are nowhere to be found.
You look behind you, again, to your left and then your right. You don’t feel alone anymore, and right now, that’s not much better. You feel as though you’re really in too deep.
Seconds feel like hours as you find the resolve to walk away and just leave. Your throat feels dry as you finally step back from the desk, and make your way toward the heavy laboratory door. You feel the muscles in your forearms ache as you strain to get the door open.
Maybe it was just a glitch, you tell yourself, or some automated Talon security system. Maybe you only thought you saw that message.
Whatever the case, it’s gone now, leaving you no proof of what you read, no evidence except the memory of those words looping endlessly in your head.
…
Minutes slump into hours, then hours into minutes again as the clocks edge closer to night time. The office seems to let out a collective silent sigh of relief, as one by one people shuffle out the doors, muttering about dinner plans and commutes. Even the hummbuzz of the fluorescent lights seem to calm as the day's chaos fades away.
You and a handful of your coworkers remain at your desks, desperate to finish your assignments on time, or just to have less to do the following week.
“Finally”, Moira utters, emerging from the hallway suddenly.
Your heart sinks into your chest as you hear her voice again, but, still, you glance over instinctively.
She walks over to the exit where a group of strangers loiter around the door. One of them balances a handful of stacked boxes in their arms, while the others, some Talon soldiers, stand stiffly nearby, tightly gripping their pulse rifles.
She sweeps toward them, her lab coat flimsily trailing behind like a beaten up flag. The man carrying the box steps closer, clearing his throat nervously.
“Uh, yes, Dr. O’Deorain? We’re just here to confirm your delivery, uh, buffers, solvents, and the bulk order of benzo-”
“I’m sorry,” Moira cuts in, her voice sharp as glass. “Did I pay you to read aloud the highly confidential list of materials I ordered?”
“W-”
“Stop. Stop talking.”
The man blinks. “Um. Sorry, where should-”
“Outside my lab! Obviously!”, she snaps, glaring down at the man before sinking her face into a single open palm, “Do you think this is a vacation just because you’re a few miles from Oasis?”
The poor delivery man wilts, clutching the packages like a shield as he mumbles out an inaudible apology under his breath. The soldiers don’t even look at him, they just freeze like they were ordered to stand at attention. They follow behind as they quickly make their way to Moira’s lab.
“Mo chroí, they just hire anyone, don’t they… Dia ár sábháil…”
You avert your eyes, not wanting to catch the same volatile glare.. You’ve seen Moira be cruel and cold, but, now? She’s…snapping at people, emotional. Almost skittish.
You immediately think that it’s because she misses you. But quickly, you try to dismiss such a notion. You’d love to think that, of course, that she’s unraveling because you’re not there to anchor her anymore, that she wishes she could just have you be there for her. But it feels embarrassingly self-centered; irrational, even, despite the chaos of everything that’s happened these past months.
It’s probably just work, you tell yourself. The genetic data you’ve been scraping over, the censored images of corpses, things that just feel wrong to look at even after all you’ve seen. She knows more about this work than you do, assuredly so.
But then again… Moira O’Deorain? Being shaken up by her own research? It’s hard to even imagine. Maybe she really is just losing her touch. Or it is you. No, don’t go there. Just focus. Finish your shift.
You turn back to your computer- only to be surprised that the screen seems to be off.
“Huh. Weird”, you say aloud to yourself. You could have sworn it was on just a second ago.
You reach for the power button, when suddenly, the screen flashes to life, bright colors flickering as a text prompt appears and then disappears all within the span of less than a second. Then, like nothing happened, your computer looks like it did before, the same windows open.
“O-Okay?”
You feel unnerved. What the hell was that? Are Talon’s operating systems just bugged? You remember the unfinished emails Moira wrote that were deleted while you weren’t looking, maybe this is something like that. But, you were only looking away from your screen for a few minutes. Is there some kind of interference?
You grit your teeth, trying to disregard the worry in your chest, and get back to typing. You’re just being paranoid, you think to yourself.
That’s when you feel something cold touch your shoulder.
“EEP!- OH, oh it's… it's you.”
It's just your omnic coworker. “Pardon me”, he says politely in a hushed voice. You wonder if he was causing the interference, before quickly disregarding the thought. That has to be some kind of omnic-racism, surely...
“Sorry, you kinda startled me there. Do you need something?”, you ask.
“Would you mind fetching the viral vector samples for me please?”
“The… huh? Oh, those, yeah, I can get them, sure. But, why are you asking me?”
The omnic tilts its head, “You’re the only one here who has access. I’d rather not bother Dr. O’Deorain if I can help it…”
“I do?”
“Erm, yes, I believe so. She has you listed as “top assistant” in the roster. Did she not tell you?”
“No, she… didn’t…”, you say, your voice trailing off. The omnic seems just as puzzled as you are. You weren’t aware of any promotion. You feel your stomach tightening, the thought of her changing your role without telling you and having to go into her lab again. But still, you’d feel bad leaving your coworker hanging.
“I’ll just go get them real quick”, you say, quickly getting up and heading toward the hallway.
You quickly get up from your chair and head over to the hallway, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. Each frantic step seems to echo louder than the last.
When you reach her lab, the door is sealed shut. You hesitate for a few moments, before grabbing your Talon ID card and pressing it against the reader, expecting, almost hoping, for it to buzz red.
Instead, the lock clicks, and the door slides open with a hydraulic hiss.
Inside, the lab is dark except for the pale glow of monitors. Moira sits at her desk, her back to you, the blue light carving a thin halo around her silhouette. She doesn’t turn when she speaks.
“Come in,” she orders, her voice monotone. Almost… bored sounding. She speaks with a calm confidence. She knows it's you there, since no one else could open that door. Like she’s been waiting for you.
You step into the darkness. The door closes behind you with a heavy, airtight seal.
Moira works away at her computer, the only light source in the lab. She doesn’t seem to pay you any mind. You turn around, looking at the stacked shelves aside the exit, your eyes darting around trying to find the samples. Nothing.
You turn to ask Moira where they are, but, you stop yourself. You should at least say hello first, right?
The words catch in your throat, but, quietly, you speak, “Good evening.”
No response.
Your eyes drift back toward the sharp lines of her shoulders, hunched over the monitor, exhausted. The flicker of the screen dances against her pale skin. On the table beside her, a bottle of whiskey, nearly empty.
You really feel like you shouldn’t be here. Judging by what little you can see, that’s probably true. Meekly, you speak up again.
“I need to grab the vector samples. Wh-”
“Bottom shelf on the left. The rest are in cold storage.”
“...Thanks.”
You feel like you’re going to throw up. You quickly spot what she’s talking about and grab the small pouch from the shelf. It feels cold and squishy in your hand. But you have it now. You turn to the door to leave, but, before you can even reach for the card scanner, you hesitate.
Your eyes adjust to the dark. You see the familiar walls of the lab a little more clearly now. It reminds you of the fun the two of you had before. So recently it felt like the two of you were so close, so comfortable together. You haven’t felt this [uncomfortable] here since she first experimented on you. The images replay in your head like a memory of a dream, unable to close your eyes.
It feels wrong to just walk out now. Especially since Moira, apparently, gave you a promotion without telling you. After everything, you feel you should at least say thank you.
You turn away from the exit and face her. Your voice catches, then steadies, “Thank you for the promotion, Dr. O’Deorain.” You try to make it polite, measured. Grateful without being personal.
Again, no response.
You sigh silently, turning back around to the door. You’re halfway through reaching for the button when her voice slices through the lab.
“Y/N.”
She says your name in a deathly serious, but still tired, voice. It takes a second before you realize what just happened. You turn, slowly to face her, looking up at her face engulfed in shadows. You didn’t even hear her footstops.
She looks… exhausted.
You look down and see she's holding something out in her hand.
A keycard.
Your stomach plummets.
The bunker.
“Do you remember where it is?” Her voice hoarse, but steady.
“Yes,” you answer, maybe too quickly. “I memorized it.”
A crack appears in her composure, her face flickering with an emotion you don’t recognize. In an instant, she recomposes herself like it never happened.
“I want you to come there. Tonight.”
The words sear into your soul. You can feel your pulse rising to your throat. After everything that’s happened, this was the last thing you expected her to do. Is this about the unfinished message she was going to send to you? Is this where things finally turn around? If so then… why does she look so miserable?
That’s when the question enters your mind.
“Is… that an order?”, you ask, swallowing hard.
Her eyes subtly widened before narrowing, like she wasn’t expecting you to ask that, like the answer was a given.
Moira moves closer to you, closing the distance in two long strides until the aura of her presence seems to flare against you like a wall of fire. You look up, and see the tiredness etched into her. The dark crescents under her eyes. The taut strain in her mouth. But her gaze doesn’t falter.
Her voice falls low, like a threat, “If you’re going to come over, keep it brief. I don’t have time for sentiment.”
That does not answer your question.
Her face is still, but her hand, the one holding the keycard, trembles. Just barely. Enough so that when she presses it into your palm, you feel it. The hard plastic feels cool against your skin.
Her fingers graze against yours. Electricity sparks up your arm as they linger a fraction of a second too long.
Your throat is dry, your lungs tight with anticipation. You want to say something, a thank you, or a question of if this is optional, anything. But your voice is gone. You can’t even really articulate why you’re so nervous. It's like your body is on auto-pilot.
So, you do the only thing you can think of. You nod, put the keycard in your pocket, and slip out the door before the moment threatens to swallow you whole. It feels like Moira’s eyes are still watching you from behind, and it felt that way the entire drive home.
…
Sitting alone in your nearly pitch black apartment, you hold the keycard in your hand in a tight grip. The smooth reflective plastic just barely shimmers off the orange streetlights outside, with the opposite side stained in the subtle blue glow of your kitchen.
The card feels heavy in your hand, like you have to make a constant conscious effort to keep it held tight. It's blank, nothing obvious, nothing meaningful to a stranger- it's a blank white card sparsely dotted with small black circles and lines. And despite that, it feels like by holding it, you’re holding a part of her. And like holding hands tightly, you can almost seem to feel the card holding you back. An equal and opposite reaction. It's a pressure, certainly, but you can’t quite put your finger on if it's a comforting one or not- not now.
I can just say no.
You think the phrase to yourself in your head.
But why? Of course you want to go, don’t you? No one is forcing you to. Nothing physically, anyway, is stopping you from just sitting here and not moving a muscle. But that doesn’t mean that Moira wouldn’t… react to that. Maybe she wouldn’t even be upset. Maybe she just wanted to see what you’d do, observe. Or maybe you’d wind up dead. Or worse, fired.
You think back to the conversation you had with her in her dark laboratory. She didn’t say whether or not this was an actual order. Maybe that was the intent, maybe she wanted it to be ambiguous. Maybe she didn’t want to feel like she was using you. Or, she wants plausible deniability. Or maybe this actually is an order and you really, really need to get going. You have no idea.
A dark corner of your apartment seems to call out to you silently, your eyes fixating on the inky blackness your eyes struggle to adjust to. You should be scared right now. Betrayed, even, at the idea that Moira would choose to… “use” you.
She’s coercing you into having sex with her. But you can’t help but feel a turning and twisting in your stomach at the thought of it- one that doesn’t make you all that uncomfortable. It’s thrilling, even. This is the kind of thing you signed up for, right?
You feel a sense of guilt, almost wanting to beat yourself up over not feeling bad about this, as if quietly mourning a lost “normal” version of yourself that never really existed.
The card slots perfectly into your pocket as you stand up, and walk towards the front door. Before long, the biting air of the cold night gnaws at your exposed skin, the bright streetlights behind you just barely illuminating the sidewalk.
It's dead quiet. Not even wind, just a deafeningly silent stillness.
Your eyes scan up and down the street, trying to spot one of those driverless taxis. They always tend to only show up when you don’t need them. You stop trying after a minute, realizing you’ll just have to call one on your phone. Damn.
Your hand again brushes against the keycard in your pocket as you fish out your phone. You quickly tap in your info, looking up a few more times just to see if any taxis are nearby.
That’s when you see something strange.
Across the street, just a couple houses over, there’s a large, white van. A quite large van, now that you think about it, a good foot or two taller than the other vehicles lining the street. The streetlights don’t do much to illuminate it, but you can tell it's a lot bulkier than the other cars nearby- almost military-looking, like something they’d drive around soldiers in during the Omnic Crisis. When did any of your neighbors get their hands on tech like that?
You put your phone back into your pocket, but you can’t help but continue to look in the van’s direction. A creeping feeling slowly folds over you like a growing shadow.
I’m just being paranoid. I work for Talon, if anything I’m being normal right now.
You tell yourself you’re just feeling anxious about seeing Moira again, but you know that isn’t true. You feel as though you aren’t alone right now. Everything starts to feel more “real” now, like a nightmare slowly settling in after a dream.
There’s nothing to worry about.
You momentarily consider going back inside your apartment. You don’t feel very safe. Being out here, alone, in the dark. You could turn back. But right now… being with Moira sounds a lot better.
Your eyes remain locked on the van as you wait for the cab to show up, your body turned to face it, keeping one hand in your pocket as if to signal you’re armed. You aren’t.
The minutes drag on, but eventually you hear the sound of the driverless taxi closing in. You take one last cursory look around your surroundings before climbing inside. You seem to lose your balance for just a moment, as you fall into the seat that seems way too low for you.
The door closes behind you, tinted windows making your ride feel more professional than it ought to be. You blink several times trying to adjust, before sighing as you press the small light button above you.
The taxi sighs out an electric hum as it starts moving down the road, leaving your apartment behind.
. . .
Every turn down these long, dark roads, surrounded by trees on all sides, makes your pulse spike. Sharp spindly branches crowd and coalesce across the sky, obscuring what little moonlight can break through the tinted windows. The taxi hums with a steady electrical pulse beneath you, too calm and smooth to the point of uneasiness.
You keep glancing out the windows, expecting to see something in the darkness behind you. Headlights. Movement. Anything. But there’s nothing. Just endless forest and the quiet, unbroken road.
Eventually, you start to recognize the trees. They slowly taper off to reveal a grassy field and the vast open sky. You let out a sigh of relief as you tap the stop button.
The taxi glides to a halt, the door conveniently sliding open for you. The familiar cold night air rushes back, enveloping your body once more, as you step out onto the asphalt, and make your way down into the grass.
Behind you, the cab quietly closes back up and zooms down the rest of the road, its taillights shrinking into two red dots before vanishing into the darkness.
You scan your surroundings again, trying to spot… well, anything. Just to make sure you weren’t followed, you tell yourself. Your pupils bounce from tree to tree and across the grass, trying to lock on to anything your eyes can reach. A shadow, a silhouette, anything that would justify the knot in your chest. But you’re only met with silence.
Moonlight ripples across the tall grass, the field seeming to stretch on for an eternity, only stopped by the skyline of the distant city. The ground gives gently beneath you as you walk towards your target, grass brushing against your legs. Each step is careful and deliberate, like your senses are tuned far too sharply to the silence around you.
Then out of nowhere--
…wwwWWWOOOOOOOSH!!!
The sound rips through the night behind you.
You turn around instantly, trying not to lose your balance as your eyes lock onto the road behind you. You can’t make anything out, but the sound reverberates through the air. Something very loud and very fast just tore down the road seconds ago.
What the hell was that?
You drag a hand down your face and force out a shaky breath. A truck. Just a truck. Must have been in a hurry, the damn thing might run over that taxi down the road.
Enough of this stupid paranoia. You just want to see her.
You turn back toward the field and continue your trek. The hill, before obscured by shadow, now rises ahead of you, stout against the pale grass like a landmark etched into your memory. You feel your face go pale as you approach it, picking up the pace as you close the gap, hand already in your pocket.
You press the keycard against the flat metal surface. A low hum answers you, as lights flicker to life along the structure, the door gently sliding open.
You swallow.
“Alright. No going back now.”, you say under your breath, finally stepping inside.
The short metallic hallway seems to stretch on forever as you approach the entrance to Moira’s bedroom, the door already open. “I’m here”, you say, foolishly worried about startling her as if she didn’t hear the door. As if she didn’t know you would come.
You see her sprawled out across the bed, still with her lab coat wrapped around her body tightly like she didn’t even bother taking it off before laying down. Strands of her messy red hair fall across her face, almost covering her eyes- dark, and rimmed with exhaustion.
Her tired expression seems to hold the weight of the world, filling you with an unfamiliar sense of pride that you are privileged enough to see her in this state. There’s an empty glass of whiskey on the nightstand.
You watch with wide eyes as she stands, slowly, until she approaches you. She towers over you, forcing you to look up to make eye contact.
“I have had a very fucking rough week,” she said, not even bothering to greet you. She towers over you as her eyes meet with yours. “You’re going to help me destress.”
You know exactly what she’s asking for, and so does she. Even now, with you within her grasp, she still refuses to clarify what she said before- if it really is your choice to be here, and if this is an official order. Not that it matters. Not now, anyways. You know what your answer was always going to be.
“Okay.”
The word leaves your mouth without a single thought, and without hesitation.
Something flickers across her face, her eyes widen subtly and her lips just part, like she’s about to say something. You can’t quite tell what that expression means. Surprise? Guilt? Maybe disappointment, like she was expecting you to argue, maybe even hoping for it.
And now she has to sit with the fact that you just... agreed.
Her jaw tightens and she steps closer to you, but then stops wordlessly. Her weight seems to just barely lean towards you, as if she’s bracing herself against something. Her face remains expressionless but her hands seem to grasp at nothing at her sides. Trembling, just barely, as if she’s silently calculating how to touch you without it being intimate.
The room feels like it's shrinking around you two, with a heat in the air that fills your lungs. Beneath eyes that seem covered in shadow, she exhales sharply from her lips like an unspoken command. You step closer.
You knew what was coming… and you knew you wanted it as badly as she did.
[Hi!! I’m sorry, but Reddit does have a character limit for posts (and i dont wanna get banned for posting porn) so if you wanna read the rest of the story it's on my AO3. Sorry… pls have mercy mods i need this… my moira’s kind of homeless….]
Continue reading: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70761506/chapters/206206696