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"How long has she been here?" I asked, unable to tear my gaze away.

"Three years," Imogen said softly. "She was caught in a terrorist attack on one of the outer colonies. We've made progress, but it's slow going."

I turned to look at Imogen, seeing her in a new light. The weight of responsibility she carried, the lives that depended on her skills and dedication. It was a different battle than what I was used to, but no less intense.

As we continued our tour, Imogen showed me the research labs where they developed new cybernetic enhancements, the state-of-the-art operating theaters, and the rehabilitation facilities where patients like me learned to adapt to their new bodies.

Throughout it all, I watched Imogen as much as our surroundings. The way her eyes lit up when she explained a complex piece of technology, the gentle way she interacted with patients and staff alike, the determination that radiated from her with every step.

It was during a quiet moment, as we paused in an observation room overlooking the city, that I finally worked up the courage to ask that had been nagging at me.

"Imogen," I said, my voice gruff with emotion I wasn't used to expressing. "Why did you choose this? To be a doctor, I mean. To specialize in cybernetics."

She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape beyond the window. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, tinged with an old pain.

"I had a brother," she said, her words catching me off guard. "Younger than me by a few years. He was born with a degenerative condition. Hisnervous system was slowly shutting down, bit by bit."

I remained silent, sensing that she needed to get this out.

"The doctors on our colony world did what they could, but their resources were limited," Imogen continued. "They told us that with the right cybernetic enhancements, he could have a normal life. But we couldn't afford it, and the waiting list for government assistance was years long."

She turned to me then, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "He died when I was sixteen. And I swore that day that I would do everything in my power to make sure no one else had to go through what my family did. That's why I'm here, why I do what I do."

The raw emotion in her voice, the pain and determination, hit me like a physical blow. In that moment, I saw Imogen not just as the skilled doctor who had saved my life, but as a warrior in her own right, fighting battles every bit as crucial as the ones I had fought on distant battlefields.

Without thinking, I reached out with my organic hand, gently wiping away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. The touch sent a joltthrough me, a warmth that spread from my fingertips to my core.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words feeling inadequate. "For your loss, and for not understanding sooner."

Imogen gave me a watery smile, leaning into my touch for just a moment before stepping back. "Thank you," she said softly. "I don't talk about it much, but I'm glad you know."

As we made our way back to my room, a comfortable silence fell between us. My mind was reeling from everything I'd seen and learned, not just about the medical facility, but about Imogen herself.

Back in the familiar confines of my recovery room, I found myself restless, unable to settle. The cybernetic arm whirred softly as I clenched and unclenched my fist, a nervous habit I'd developed since the surgery.

"Something on your mind?" Imogen asked, her keen eyes missing nothing.

I hesitated, unsure how to put my tumultuous thoughts into words. "I'm conflicted," I admitted finally.

Imogen pulled up a chair, her expression open and encouraging. "About what?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "About everything. This place, this technology. You." The last word came out barely above a whisper, but I knew she heard it.

"My whole life, I've been trained to be a warrior," I continued, the words pouring out now that I'd started. "To see the world in terms of threats and assets, to value strength above all else. But here, I'm seeing a different kind of strength. In you, in the work you do."

Imogen listened intently, her gaze never leaving mine.

"And it's making me question everything I thought I knew," I said, frustration creeping into my voice. "Who am I if not a warrior? What's my purpose if not to fight?"

"Oh, Norn," Imogen said softly, reaching out to take my hand. The warmth of her touch sent a shiver through me. "Being a warrior isn't just about physical combat. It's about fighting for what you believe in, protecting those who can't protect themselves. And from what I've seen, you have that in spades."

Her words washed over me, soothing some of the turmoil in my mind. But there was more, something I was afraid to voice, even to myself.

"There's something else," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "Something I don't know how to handle."

Imogen squeezed my hand gently, encouragingly. "You can tell me anything, Norn. You know that."

I looked at her then, really looked at her. The warmth in her green eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, the stray strand of auburn hair that had escaped her braid. And I felt it again, that surge of warmth, of longing, that I'd been trying to ignore for weeks.