Ah. He could see that. Either of those things. Both those things. And they're happy thoughts. An artist in a studio, fingertips dark with ink, hair mussed, squinting thoughtfully at a subject of a portrait. A student, holodisk reader tucked under her arm, giving some Betan professor a bit of sass in class. Far better images than this - the cold girl, fragmenting under the stresses of this conflict, bound in the heavy skirts and traditions of the Vor class. Fated to die from body-birthing a child, fated to die in this dirty war.

"What a charming image," he says cautiously. Then: "So...Why don't you?"