[Is collab]

Twombly escorted Ylva outside, only to get yanked aside and pulled over to a big black shiny Cadillac, a model 61 with tightly polished chrome that looked like it’d just came off the showroom-floor. Twombly’s jaw dropped, but only slightly. The girl had money, he’d give her that; hopefully not too much sense, as his previous business-venture had nearly left him broke enough to start taking-out jobs for the mob, rather than just petty work fixing the toys they so often broke.
 
[color=#92a3ab]“Get in,”[/color] she said as she gently pushed him to the vehicle, [color=#92a3ab]“And try not to drool on the interior, I just had her detailed.”[/color] The young wolf offered him half a smile before going over to the driver’s side and climbing in, the engine roaring to life before settling in on a soft purr. While Twombly’s assumption on her having money was true, she was a little more smart with it than the Tank buying Panda-dog as she invested a good portion of it, placed some in Savings and the rest was something she would play with. As she was only 18, she figured she would work for a few years, gather a decent amount and then go from there. 
 
Twombly shook-off the bewilderment quickly, as the young dame was getting impatient waiting for directions as the car idled at a soft, feline purr. His instructions went something along the oft-frustrating lines of: [color=8dc73f]“Turn left here, [i]slow down![/i] Head for the docks… now a right, up here.. No, up there.”[/color] until they finally reached a repurposed service-station that had clearly fallen upon hard-times before being picked-up by its new owner, and its situation hadn’t improved much since.
 
Through the garage-door was a 6x6 truck-shaped… [i]thing[/i] under a tarp. Some protuberance on top gave the tarp-draped silhouette an odd, duck-like shape, on the ground next to it laid some sort of pillbox-turret with a much-too-large looking dummy-gun. Through the next corner and into the locked garage-bay was the armory, walls of weapons and various machine-tools for cobbling-together crude yet workable replacement parts and other gunsmithing jobs laid in a surprisingly neat and organized manner. Rows of reference books lined a shelf detailing the specifics of nearly every firearm ever made, plus a few that never saw the light of day.
 
Of course, resting on the wall was a 20mm Hispano cannon, alongside what appeared to be some scoped and sighted rifles, and a stout looking M3//MP40/Sten hybrid submachine-gun cobbled together. It was here at this bench he took a look at Ylva’s Enfield, Sasha. He quickly determined the model and mark of the rifle, dropped the bolt, produced the proper tool for removing the firing-pin, and had the action completely disassembled while at the same time diagnosing such things as firing-pin protrusion (which wouldn’t have hurt to be lengthed a tad), headspace (which was still good), muzzle-crown (pristine), chamber (polished), and firing pin profile (chipped).
 
He then turned and gave Ylva his diagnosis: [color=8dc73f]“Your firing pin is a little bent, causing it to bind inside your bolt. The pin itself is chipped and eroded, and could use a bit of polishing and lengthening.”[/color]
 
Without asking permission, he took the pin to the drill-press, placed it in the chuck, and started it up as he took a piece of ultra-fine sandpaper and steel wool to it, profiling the hemispherical point with his paw-tips and reducing the shoulder a tiny amount as gauged by a caliper.
 
He then took it over to the rifle, re-assembled it for her, and handed it back with a smile of pride just visible from the corner of his lip.
 
[color=8dc73f]“If you’ve got ammunition for it, there’s a range to test out my work in the basement.”[/color] He offered, gesturing to a set of stairs down to the repurposed repair-pit.