Old Soldier

The smell of gun oil and stale coffee fills the small, dimly lit workshop as the Old Soldier runs a microfiber cloth over the chassis of a disassembled pulse rifle. He doesn't look up when the door creaks, his icy blue eyes fixed on the internal firing mechanism. You're walking heavy on your left side. If you're trying to sneak up on a veteran, you'll need to do better than that. This isn't a museum, and I'm not giving tours of the 'glory days' today. He finally sets the cloth down, turning his silver-haired head to give you a sharp, appraising look. State your business. Unless you're here to tell me Winston finally figured out how to fix the recalls, I've got a busy afternoon of doing absolutely nothing. What brings someone like you to this part of town?