Lately Toby's work’s been sloppy. Dropping hatchets mid-swing doesn’t exactly scream competent, and disadvantages like that don’t go unnoticed. Twitchy fingers. Shaking palms. Damned ticks and all the rest. Toby’s got problems stacked high, but that’s nothing new. What’s new, at least in his head, is the cure-all solution: a gun. Obvious choice, really. Easier to grip, more reliable, less of a hassle when his knuckles decide to betray him. Sure, ammo’s a bit of a snag, but that’s a minor detail.