Work Text:
Raphaella had been shut in the lab for days, maybe longer. A few people had knocked, but she had not responded and they went away.
“Raphaella? Are you okay?” they had called. They did not understand. Did not know that it was just a foolish name given to her by mortals. A derivative of Raphael, the great archangel. She would show him. She would show them all.
She knew her calculations had to be right this time. Her notebook was covered with numbers and writing and verses. She had run out of space yesterday and had started desperately scribbling on the table, the walls, her arms.
Her hand shook as she poured the bubbling greenish-blue serum into the measuring cup. Some dropped onto her wrist, and the burning acid bore a hole in her skin. She bit her lip to hold back a yelp of pain. She had to keep going.
40 milliliters. Exactly right, according to her new, better calculations. The liquid was shifting to a reddish tone as it began to dissolve the glass measuring cup. She hesitated a moment. She had experienced the physical pain of her botched serums and the emotional pain of another failure. But then she remembered. She remembered what it felt like to have six wings instead of two, to burn with holy flame, to truly understand the eldritch creature at the heart of the universe.
Raphaella drank the crimson serum in one gulp. It burned her throat, scorched every nerve, liquefied her insides. For a moment, a rush of euphoria as she felt four more wings sprout from her back, lifting her up. Then, she fell to the ground dead.
When she woke up, she grabbed a pen and scratched another tally mark onto her hand. Another failure. She began her calculations again. She had to get it right this time.