The scyther was an older man, but not old enough to be called elderly. His worn face had a sprinkle of grey hairs and he wore a brown cap, brown overalls and a white shirt. He was in a ground shelter that smelled of stone and damp earth, infused with the peppery scent of gunpowder. A single lightblub flickered above him and he snorted deeply, stopping in his toils for a moment to knock on his back. He was tough to the point that his shoulders were like steel and his hands were more calluses than skin; a bit of cold shouldn't bother him as much as it did.

After a moment of rest, he went back to his work. He was making a gorgeous AK-47, a special order for his friend's surprise birthday party. He screwed the muzzle onto the end and looked down into it to make sure it was on straight. There. It was finished! He weighed it in his hands, tested the scope, made sure his measurements were all right. He made sure the chamber didn't drop out when it was being loaded and that it would feed properly. Right, then! Time to test it out.

He got up with one of those goofy smirks he used as a smile. He carried the gun out on its strap, going up the stairs to a hidden hatch entrance in the middle of a small field behind his house. He lived in a smaller city with almost rural settings. His proud stone house was at the edge of town. He had the hidden hatch, a wide field, a shed and a trail leading into the forest, where his target range was set up. In the town was the store his own papa had left him,Pins and Pistols.

He was headed to the shed. It was one of his rules to keep the guns separate from their bullets. Safer that way, too. He slipped into the shed and began to rummage through the shelves of boxes. He found the calibre and type he sought and pulled the box out into the field. He made a face as he hauled it. A bit weighty…he didn't think it was a fresh stock.

Instead of continuing to the target range to sight the gun and see how it fired just now, he nudged the box's lid open with his foot. Inside was a pale egg with a pair of pointed ears and an undeniably recognizable tail. His face lit up. Finally, an heir for the next generation. He was starting to fear he'd never find someone to take the shop over when he passed. He gave a toothy grin as he hauled the egg up to his head and put his ear to it. A tiny heart beat inside.

"Alright, hold tight little guy." He muttered, putting the shelled form back in the box with the rest of the bullets. He hauled it off to the gun target range. He still had a job to do, after all.

As he walked, he put his tongue in his cheek. He was trying to think of a name for the little nipper. He had been raised with a brother who, from an unfortunate gun accident, had died when they were teenagers. As tribute, he'd name the egg after him. "Skyler." He said over his shoulder, to the box. "That's you, little friend. S'a good name."