Enver finished up a couple of stitches on one of the night’s contenders. He hardly sustained any damage. The whiner just wanted to keep his looks in place. But if Garvan was willing to pay him to put in a few cosmetic stitches, all the better for it.

"How are things out at the Ward?" Chance asked, as he slapped Enver on the back. Chance’s new cybernetics had healed beautifully. The ex-fighter wore a tight T-shirt which Enver could see the outline of the new titanium chest plate hiding his cybernetic lung through. The man had never been a fan of being a cyborg, but his newfound relationship with Verity, Imogen's best friend, had relaxed his worries a bit.

Personally, Enver didn’t particularly mind being a cyborg. He knew what he was in for when he signed up.

"Mostly quiet, usual breaks and sprains, one woman is in a bad situation and can't go home. Could you give Mason a call about that for me? See if he can come out my way sometime soon?"

“Sure, never hurts to have Cyn City PD on speed dial."

"Last night we had a rough one come in. Need to get in touch with a cynker, half the dude’s leg was ripped off."

"How the hell did he get all the way out to the Ward?" Chance asked eyes wide.

"No idea. One minute I was doing rounds, the next I heard screaming out front of the building. Guy was just lying on the steps like someone had dropped him off, but there were no dust trails to show if a hovercar or rickshaw had taken off. Maybe he teleported."

Enver chuckled at his own joke. Shit if there were cyborgs in the world, why couldn't they have some of the good things from the old sci-fi books.

"Well, let me know if you need any help, man," Chance offered. "I got to head back. It’s late, and Verity is waiting up for me."

"It's nice to see a man in love." Enver teased, tying off the thread of last stitch.

"Don't knock it ‘til you’ve tried it." Chance made his way through the small crowd still lingering in the basement of the Ball & Joint where the illegal cyborg fights took place. During the bouts, this room filled to the gills, people literally on each other's backs trying to see the action. But now it was mostly a few regulars and fighters waiting around for Garvan to hand out the wallet.

Enver tossed the used needle into the decontamination bin he kept in his medical bag and pulled off the blue gloves he wore. His mechanical hands were the highest grade available at the time the military had installed them, dexterous, sensitive, and capable of controlled minuscule movements. His hands made it so he could perform high-level surgery even when the equipment needed wasn't available. All he needed was something to cut with, and if worst came to worse, he had been known to pull a piece of metal off his own arm in order to make the necessary slice. But those were battle times. This was just an illegal fight club with a bunch of hotheaded fuckers who didn't realize what they were risking.

Enver tossed blue gloves over the bar into the trash and waved at Hollywood as he made his way to the back door.

"See ya tomorrow, Doc," the kid called out with his infectious smile. Nothing ever seemed to get Hollywood down. If Enver could pick one person he wished he understood, it would be him. That unending optimism and bottomless pit of friendliness combined with the intimidating body and cybernetics created the most discordant reaction Enver had ever experienced.

He strapped the medical bag to the back of his bike—an old Minsk he’d been keeping alive however he had to—and turned the key. The reliable beast roared to life in the never quiet streets of Cyn City, and he headed toward the Badlands. The cobblestone streets and narrow passages were no longer maintained for vehicles. They were strictly for foot traffic and rickshaw travel. Enver switched gears and hit the gas, surging through the barren alleys on the outskirts of the slums. He took the roads with the most curves, standing up off the seat so the bumpity bump of the cobblestones didn't slam up into his ass and cause him to bite down on his teeth.

Enver made a sharp turn to the left and before him opened up the expanse of the deadlands. It reminded him of being in the Gaul desert where nothing but sand and more sand spread out before you. Of his time as a medic in the Trans-Atlantic war. When he’d been deployed, he knew exactly what was expected of him. Something about that had been freeing, just perform your duty, complete your assignment, and then fuck off until your next call.

Riding out into the deadlands was the closest he came to peace since he’d returned home. The air got hotter, his lungs got drier, and everything fell into place. At the Ward, he never had time off, but he knew exactly what was expected of him. No complications. No drama.

Inside the Ward, all the sleeping patients’ breathing synchronized. Enver walked through the rows of patients checking each chart to make sure no one needed medication and skimming the last stats Imogen had recorded.

Imogen presented a mind-bending problem. He wanted rid of her. He needed her to get out of here, to move on with her life and start living in the real world, not out here hiding away from real life, dwelling on the past. Chance had told him the highlights of what happened to her with the ecovangelists: kicked out for falling in love with the wrong person after having her baby aborted without her consent. Enver’s temperature spiked. It was unthinkable. His heart tightened just thinking about it. He'd be revolted no matter who had been through an ordeal like that, but the idea of someone treating Imogen so cruelly filled in with an unfamiliar rage. He wanted to protect her, to defend her against anyone who would treat her with such disrespect.

The need to take care of her had been growing inside him since she'd arrived, which only proved it was time for her to fucking move on.

Nothing good could come from him getting emotionally involved with him and she’d been through more than enough.

His thoughts wandered as he continued down the aisle until he came to the cyborg who had stumbled into the Ward earlier that day. Where there should have been a mangled mess of metal and machinery, an immaculately reconstructed cybernetic leg rested.

"What the ever-loving fuck?"

He picked up the chart and studied it, searching for any possible hint that a cynker had been there in the night. He knew it was impossible. Cynkers didn't make night calls unless you are paying more credits than Enver could possibly scrounge up. It had been his plan to comm around in the morning and find someone who would make their way out here. But now it that wouldn’t be necessary, which was gonna be nothing but a fuck load of trouble for Enver.

He studied the chart and saw that Imogen had dispensed narcotics (from his locked cabinet!) and detailed her repairs. At least she kept really good fucking notes.

He should set them on fire, haul the cyborg out of the Ward, leave him somewhere in the city, and pretend he’d never been here.

Cynkers didn't take well to unguilded mechanics.

It was the kind of thing that could get you stripped for usable veins and organs.

He swore under his breath and slipped the chart back into its holder next to the cyborg’s bed. He felt the man's forehead which showed no sign of fever or perspiration. Whatever Imogen had done, she’d done it well. But she’d also fucked them both.

She's going to get us both killed

Enver stormed out of the Ward and up the stairs to the fourth floor.

He should go to bed. Just turn right, head down the hall, climb into bed, and deal with it in the morning. But his pulse raced, and his fear was equaled only by the excitement of knowing Imogen had the potential to be a cynker. If only she hadn't fucked it all up already.

He stormed straight ahead and whipped open door.

"What do you think—?" Imogen stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around her torso. She wore only a tank top and a loose pair of knee-length shorts. Her nipples pushed against the fabric of the camisole and the clothes hugged her tight waist.

Enver turned his back on her as soon as he registered he had been standing there gaping like a fool. "I'm sorry, I… I am… Sorry. I didn't think."

She rustled behind him, but he didn't dare turn around for fear he'd make the same mistake again.

"What do you want?"

"Do I turnaround or should I just go?" Enver asked sheepishly.

"You can turn," Imogen conceded.

When Enver turned around Imogen stood in front of him with a silk bathrobe patched together from multiple patterns tied tightly around her waist. It did nothing to conceal the actual shape of her body, and only created the illusion of modesty. If anything, it was sexier than what she'd been in before.

"What do you want? You cannot just come bursting in here whenever you want to. We agreed to certain boundaries when I moved in. This is my room. I'm not supposed to have to deal with this." Imogen’s hands clenched the fabric at her sides, as she raged at Enver.

He splayed his hands out in apology. "I really am sorry for barging in on you. I hadn't meant to. I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly," Imogen chided.

"Don't get quite so freaking high and mighty on me," Enver countered, anger quickly replacing embarrassment. "Do you have any comprehension of what you've fucking done?"

"What I’ve done?" Imogen stepped toward him and pointed a finger in his face. "I don't say anything about your language most of the time, but that doesn't mean I like it. And I certainly didn’t agree that you get to speak to me in that tone. I understand this isn’t the compound, and you people do things differently here. But in no way do I deserve such disrespect." Her shortly cropped blonde hair fell into her face, and she blew it out of the way with irritation. Usually she had it wrapped up in a scarf to keep it out of the way—or to hide, he wasn’t sure—when working on patients. Enver hadn’t realized just how well it framed her face.

He shook his head and laughed, the kind of cruel unsympathetic laugh most people would be surprised to hear come from his mouth. "I show you disrespect? I'll talk however the fuck I want in my own house, where you live for free—"

"— I work —"

"—and I certainly don't need to extend you any special courtesy after you've just put both our lives in danger. What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Enver screamed, his arms out wide.

For a moment they both just stood there staring at each other. Enver didn't even know what else to say, he knew why she’d done it. She was a good person who wanted to help someone. But she didn't understand the world they lived in. Or the price of the consequences.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Imogen said primly.

"I know you don't. That's half the fucking problem. You don't know anything. If you had any fucking idea how to do anything, I wouldn’t have to spend my time being your babysitter and your teacher and your boss. I’m too exhausted to be your housemate or your fucking friend!” Tears mounted in Imogen's eyes, and Enver bit his lip to keep from continuing. He wanted to rail on the girl, show her just how stupid and completely fucked up she was for putting them in the situation. But at the same time, he desperately didn't want to see those tears fall.

Enver took a deep breath and tried again. "What did you do to that cyborg?"

Imogen’s face changed as quickly as the wind over the salt rivers. "I put him back together. I used my machine, the one you listened to. I’m going to call it a harmonizer. All I did was pull the sensor box from under his plesh and listen, it told me exactly what I needed to do." Her excitement and enthusiasm over what she considered to be an achievement was infectious. Her hands fluttered in the air as she talked about the connections she could find by listening to the current. She had done something amazing without even realizing it. But was that excitement worth the price they would certainly pay?

"You aren’t a guilded cynker." Enver said the word slowly, making sure she understood exactly what he meant.

Imogen’s face screwed up in confusion. "I know that."

"Unguilded cynkers aren't allowed to work on cyborgs."

Imogen replaced her hands on her hips and shifted her weight to the side. It gave her the appearance of a defiant teenager. "Who says?"

"The guild. Don't you get it? Cyborgs are industry here. Making them, fixing them, even dispensing of them when they're dead. The rest of us aren’t allowed to do it. The whole economy in the slums is based on it. Why do you think I call a cynker every time a cyborg comes in here with a booboo?"

Imogen just shrugged and looked at him skeptically. "I figured you were afraid to work on them."

Enver couldn't help but laugh. Him afraid of cyborgs? Medically or otherwise, the concept was ridiculous. "I'm not afraid to work on cyborgs. I could save myself a shit-ton of money by doing things myself. But I'd rather pay out the nose than have my ass dragged through the streets, literally."

Imogen’s face paled. Good, maybe he’d actually gotten through to her.

"Did I break some law by fixing him?”

"No." Enver took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. "Not an official law anyway, just the unspoken law of the slums. The cynkers deal with the Cybernetics, medics deal with wetware. That's the way it works and if we work together, everybody's able to get what they need. When medics start messing with cybernetics, somebody usually ends up dead."

"But I'm not a medic."

"No, but I am, and with you living here any cynker would consider you a part of my team.”

Imogen shivered for a moment and took a step forward. In the back of Enver’s mind he imagined she would come close, bury her head in his chest and let him wrap his arms around her, comfort her in whatever way he could.

A stupid thought.

Imogen stopped short, her young face now tinged with the fear he had been trying to get her to understand, but which he now hated to see. "What are we going to do?”

"I don't know yet, but we'll figure something out."