Don't Call It A Gift

Noriko had, finally, consented to wearing what might be deemed proper clothing for a lady--depending on exactly what kind of lady you were talking about and who you asked. She still wore trousers, though fitted ones beneath the flowy, open-backed tunic she'd had made (it was easy, it was cool, she did not care what other people thought about it).

She rather liked the city, at least much better than the country outside of it, though she hadn't seen much of it since getting an idea: she was going to make Jaime a hand that moved. She'd seen prosthetics in her own world that could do so, and they weren't even the complicated bioelectrically-powered ones. Sure, the old dudes in robes and chains had a lot to say about it, but the opinions of old guys who didn't know what she was doing were not her problem. It was with that mindset, and the lax hand held by the strings that would hopefully control the fingers, that she breezed through Jaime's door, calling out.

"Hey, Blondie! You free for an hour or two? I got something I need you to try on."