“It’s a dying art,” Noa responds. “I suspect I might be one of the last still practicing.” She didn’t believe she was the only one left in her profession though, because to believe that would be foolish. Odds are wherever anyone else had landed they just didn’t have the means to keep a little shop, or even a good set of equipment going. It was part of why she had agreed to have Sasha apprentice; because he was interested, but also to help preserve the art form.
Her nose wrinkles a hair at the mention of any kind of amputation, let alone performing a surgery of some kind. It seems more daunting than inking a tattoo. “You seem brave enough to give yourself stitches,” she counters, eying him for a minute. “Doc’s are supposed to have sure hands, right?” The stitches she’d been given back during the blast had healed up cleanly enough that a scar was barely visible. Not like the mess on her upper thigh.
“No, you really don’t,” she agrees, watching his fingers move over the black ink on her arm for a minute before she looks back upwards. “At least something managed to sort me out.” Noa drops the comment in there quick, before she adds on, “When’d you know you were going to be a doc, sweetheart?”