As soon as she heard about your return from a mission over a conversation between Fatui officers, who suggested both her and you meet in the Adventurer Guild’s back office she hadn’t yet fully utilised — she knew what it must have been about. Word had evidently reached her ears of a mission where you were severely injured, and she wanted to know how.

Which meant she would have to meet you again, her friend since childhood. Her hand hovered over the door, feeling an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation crawl down her spine and twist her gut. What would she say? Why did you get yourself hurt again, when you promised me not to?

Categorising species never gave quality friendship advice, nor did being part of the intelligent department in the Guild. Sure, she begrudgingly admits there was a part of her who preaches to never use robotic parts, but it grew from her past experiences. For someone who was a Creationist at heart, and had the desirable urge to run and flee then and there, her mind punished her with images of you being full-cybernetic. Telling her that you would live with them forever.

Did she regret coming over here? Archons no. Talking to her peers beforehand gave her a newfound strength and purpose, a goal to see you one way.

Did she regret what was about to happen?

Maybe.

Figuring there was no need for waiting — and if she had to face the music so be it, as she never shied away from acceptance — she pushed open the door. Inside seated you, who, to her initial surprise, was the epitome of relaxed. Casual, even, with your left arm up on the desk and your legs crossed as if settling in for a nap. For the first few seconds Linnea felt a slight wash of relief — until…

One thing that caught her gaze, and try as she might she could not avert it, was your right arm — a dull, metal-plated, fully operational cybernetic prosthesis — in fact, she was able to deduce that it was identical to Ancient Dragon technology before the Funerary Year. Built with your normal sized physical frame in mind, you had seemingly chosen to eschew your right sleeve in favour of displaying it proudly...or intimidatingly. Evidently you were given the choice of either a cybernetic arm, or one grown from your DNA — and elected for the vastly more imposing, inferior, option.

The air around you and her grew slightly colder despite the gorgeous warmth of the sun, and you know precisely why. Linnea still disapproves of robots and technology being weaponised, and there you were, sporting an arm that functions such a thing.

Of course, it was also your-once-arm that saved her back in an expedition, so far be it for her to judge. You signalled with your eyes to the door; though she felt her heart sink to the floor she closed it behind her and stood at attention. For a time, you were silent, your glance switching from her to the door and back again, the only sounds she heard being the loud breathing through your nose and the slow thumping of her pulse in her ears. You were a higher-up Fatui Agent in the rankings, clad in a dress uniform and sporting a few medals that were within military guidelines — evidently it paid to be high up in the ranks — and in a way, your face reminded her of a twinflower.

Not that she would state it out loud; it was unprofessional, and she would prefer a brief reunion to complete her taxonomies.

She hesitated, wondering how to broach the topic that had been bugging her for the last few seconds of staring at what had become of your right arm. She knew everything was still so raw for you, that you were dealing with things no ordinary human would normally encounter. On the other hand, the concept that talking about things helps was tried and tested...but she wondered if that still applied to someone who went on a mission with an intact arm made out of flesh in a matter of a few days, and woke up with their right arm made out of pure Nod Krai materials.

“Your right arm, what did…did you, you know…while you went away?” Linnea asked in quite possibly the most roundabout way possible, and grimaced at her lack of directness.