Several years went by since the incident, and there were very few other Sharp Claw Pokémon encounters since. Both of which ended peacefully with some harsh words and the distinct sound of racking a shell, much to the delight of the Pokémon. The survivors of the encounters told the others the horrors of what could happen if they strayed to the cabin on the outskirts. Word got around amongst the members, and they became much more selective in their movements. If Wilson had to say one thing positive about the Sharp Claw Pokémon, it would be that they knew when to quit. They quickly learned to associate humans and the sounds of their guns with fear, and thus avoidance. Wilson still didn't like them at all, though. The bitterness they dug into him was forgotten and covered up well when Jack Hotchkiss, Wilson's grandson and budding hunter, traveled north to visit.

It was late afternoon accompanied with moderate snowfall and cracks of golden light peeking through the layer of gray clouds. Jack Hotchkiss had finally arrived at his grandfather's cabin out in the snow. He was a tall man like his grandfather, but slender, standing at 6' 4" and weighing about 190 pounds. Jack's eyes were a dazzling icy blue color, unlike his grandfather's brown eyes. His outfit for the winter was also in arctic camo like Wilson's, but his outfit leaned more on the darker side with more dark grays and black splotches contrasting with Wilson's lighter coat. Both were equally thick, protective, and stylish. Jack also had simple, long-cuffed black gloves a solid black knitted cap to keep his head and hands warm.

This was the first time Jack had ventured out to the cabin, and the drastic differences in the environment await him. No internet access, video games, convenience of stores and shopping centers, or agitation of noisy and polluting traffic around for miles. Jack didn't mind coming out to the chillier side of the countryside for a change of pace. In fact, he was beginning to look forward to it, for he had something to look forward to this year. Not only could he escape the tedium of living in the large cities, he was given an opportunity to learn how to hunt like his grandfather, for real.

Jack had successfully applied for a hunting permit and a weapon license and was raring to go. He was never much of a shooter, but the allure of traveling north to go hunting got him roped up in firearms, hunting, and being an outdoorsman in general. With some help from his grandfather, he sorted out the legal paperwork and got himself the proper permits to authorize him hunting and owning his first gun. Was it really worth it to stomp around in below freezing temperatures for hours on end for the vain chance to make his grandfather proud? Turning back was still an option.

A bad one at that.

Jack wouldn't make it all for naught. Jack wouldn't crush Wilson's hopes and expectations of getting a taste of what would make a real man in his eyes. Jack would man up and face the beginning to his journey as an outdoorsman. And it would all start inside the snow-blanketed cabin. The young man felt so anxious about visiting his grizzled grandfather to engage in a free-spirited hunt, that he couldn't turn back. Jack looked out the windows and at the golden beams peeking through the clouds amidst the snowfall. It looked mighty cold out, but breathtaking.
"Okay," Jack said aloud to himself as he opened the door, "it's just a little snow."

Glacial winds spat at him with sharp winds whipping across his face and cutting into his soul. A startled "brrrrrroof!" escaped his lips upon leaving the warm sanctum of his vehicle and out to the elements. It sure was way more temperate back south!

Jack hurried to grab the case containing his gun and legal paperwork and his weapon's black leather holster before bolting to the cabin's door like a frightened Skitty.

"Come on, a little wind won't kill you," Jack thought to himself as he plodded through the snow, "I can do this. I can do this, no turning back now." Every step closer to the cabin made his heart race faster and faster as reality started to seep into his mind. Who knows how much time he would spend out here, and what if it gets much worse? Knowing that some powerful Pokémon might turn the tables against him and his body will be forever lost? Or he'll be frozen out and claimed by hypothermia from spending too much time outside? These things started to pool in his mind from the chilly reminder all around him. His multi-layered clothing didn't help much to thwart the cold.

It would take a while to get used to the cold, at least.

Jack did his best to mentally shove his second-thoughts away by focusing on the pink-red stained processing stations around the cabin.

"Well, maybe I won't have to do the dirty work," Jack said aloud as he thought about carcasses being held up and processed into usable meat, as disgusting as it may be. It bought him a little reprieve as he reached for the doorknob.

"It'll work out; just take it one step at a time…"

He hesitated, swallowed, gave a deep sigh, knocked as much snow off his feet as he could, and pushed the door inward.

"All right, here goes."

Warmth from the interior rushed forward to contrast with the frozen air around Jack and immediately made him feel more at ease. He walked in and quickly shut the door behind him before he feasted his eyes on the interiors of the trapper cabin.

It seemed much bigger on the inside than on the outside, given it was already rather large for being out in the middle of nowhere. The floor, wall, and ceiling were made up of a hearty mix of lightened and darkened pines, oaks, and spruce woods. Directly across from the door was a bulky fireplace with a few large logs fiercely burning in the pit with a large metal pot fixated in the middle. In front of the fireplace was a black wooden table with two matching black chairs for eating. Two elaborate cabinets made of gorgeous red wood, one on each side of fireplace, housed an extensive collection of firearms of all types at first, with even more in the drawers inside and near the base. Near the middle were two tall, rounded, cushioned high back chairs colored hunter green for lounging. On the left side was a more traditional wood-burning stove used for most of the cooking; a rudimentary sink and cupboards containing plates and eating utensils were right with it. On the right side of the cabin were two queen sized beds that looked recently cleaned and covered with a coffee-colored chevron pattern. In between the two beds is a nightstand holding more sorts of knickknacks unknown to Jack, and in front of the nightstand was a trap door to a cellar for storage of other items. A few other pieces of furniture and appliances were scattered about the cabin, seemingly at random. Above the rightmost bed was Wilson's favorite shotgun; the very same old-fashioned one used for his hunting expeditions.

And of course, the main takeaway: the tops of the walls adorned with the trophies from various Pokémon Wilson shot during his expeditions. All sorts of Pokémon had their prized and untarnished heads or trophy equivalent mounted on the walls, or in the case of the single Ursaring, a rug. The biggest one that stood out was a magnificent twenty-point Sawsbuck directly above the fireplace. It stared forever forward without any signs of emotion or thought, yet perfectly preserved. It was easily Wilson' biggest kill, and he would happily tell the story again and again over a long night over a crackling fire and a bottle of whiskey. The whole atmosphere felt amazing to Jack, who never had an up close experience with such a home before.

This wasn't taking into account the man who owned it all; Wilson Hotchkiss. If Jack didn't know any better, he would easily assume he stepped into the home of one of those apocalypse planners, complete with more guns and ammo than he could imagine, with the occasional bottle of liquid courage. Wilson did tend to fulfill that stereotype during some of his more violent and alcohol-fueled rants.

Jack brushed off a little more snow and Wilson looked behind the green chair he was sitting in. He gave a tender smile to his grandson and stood up,

"Welcome to the wild north," Wilson said as he went for a handshake, "I'm glad you came!"

"I'm glad I did as well," Jack said as he shook Wilson's hand, noting the power grip between them.

"That air was cold, huh? Heheh." Wilson laughed as he looked at Jack's case.

"The first breath felt good," Jack replied, "but I'm really glad I'm in somewhere warm."

"Well, you're gonna have to get real used to the elements around here. What's in the case?"

Jack sat down in the other green chair and opened the case to reveal the contents. Inside was a single shot, break-action rifle chambered for an intermediate cartridge with the factory standard steel finish, jet black plastic furniture, and accompanying scope. The only outside accessory was a black cloth band draped over the synthetic stock with half a dozen furrowed cylinders for securely holding spare cartridges within arm's reach. Along with the gun came the legal paperwork and a large box of ammo. The word "ENCORE" was printed inside the case material right underneath the handle in a blocky font, indicating the model and name of Jack's rifle.

It was a respectable choice for a first firearm, especially for hunting. The rifle itself still looked brand new because Jack hardly used it outside of occasional target practice and a one-time job of getting rid of some unwanted Ratatta from his friend's property back in the summer. But his shining moment to put himself and the gun to the real test was not far off. Wilson was a little surprised at his grandson's presentation as Jack handed him the documents.

"Here's the important stuff," Jack announced as Wilson read the documents, "I could not have done it without your help, you know. This paperwork sucks."

Wilson gave a silent nod to confirm that everything was A-OK. He returned the documents as Jack held up the rifle.

"And the really important stuff," Jack said a bit smugly as he gazed at his face depicted on the weapon permit. On the permit was the face of a handsome young man with a tall body sporting a well-shaven face, blue eyes, and a scalp adorned with a black, unkempt haircut slightly dipping at the left half of his face to give him that street smart look; a picture of Jack Hotchkiss. He imagined himself as the perfect, budding outdoorsman. Jack envisioned a scenario where he was out in the boreal winter wilderness and stalking a massive, trophy-worthy Pokémon against the elements. He took aim and fired the moment they made eye contact to drop it instantly. A young man following in his grandfather's footsteps to get glory only achieved by pitting yourself against a fierce Pokémon on their grounds. No matter what challenge might be thrown his way on this hunting trip, Jack would be happy to face it head on to prove himself in the face of his grandfather.

That's what Jack thought. Such fantasies were painfully naïve to the grizzled veteran who knew that if they went out looking for Pokémon to shoot like he did solo, Jack wouldn't be coming back.

Jack's fantasies evaporated with a sudden locking click sound from his rifle. Wilson asked Jack if he knew what it was chambered for. He grabbed the box of ammo and read off the caliber:

"Three-oh-eight. Middle of the road stuff and said to be a fantastic round for any job."

Wilson liked that answer, even if his grandson needed some assistance.

"You made a good decision. You can't really go wrong with three-aught-eight for anything. However, it might not cut it for some of the larger game up here, especially with the level you're at."

Jack looked befuddled and asked his grandfather what he meant.

"Now, don't get me wrong, I love the round myself, but the game around here gets big. Big and tough. There's nothing wrong using it, but if you're going to be using a three-aught-eight around these parts, you really need to make sure what you're doing. For something like a giant Ursaring, your gun won't cut it in your hands." Wilson ended by handing the rifle back to his grandson and asking, "Have you done any prior hunting at all before making it here?"

Now being put in the spotlight, Jack told of his actual experience using his firearm outside of properly storing and cleaning it. "I hunted some Ratatta with it to help out a friend. It worked great for dealing with them! I-"

Wilson silently interrupted Jack by giving him a stern glance and then scolding him,

"That isn't hunting, that's just shooting. There's a difference between hunting and shooting something. When you sit in the snow all day with nothing but your gun in your clutches, hoping that something will walk by when your body is already rattling from the elements before nightfall, and take a shot at it, that's hunting. Or when you walk several miles to the heart of the woods and wait for several hours every day, lining up your sights on your target with your finger on the trigger, wait for the absolute perfect moment to pull it to bring it down, then bringing it back with it draped over your shoulders, that's hunting."

Wilson's voice started to grow violent as he rattled on between hunting and shooting, especially when specific Pokémon were involved.

"Now, when you have half a dozen filthy Weavile invade your property, stealing meat from the game you had to go to the chasing through a mile of bitter snow and haul back with barely any sunlight to guide you, that's different. You rush out with your gun and start blasting them point blank to make sure they will never, ever bother you again. That's shooting. Hell, even if I intentionally went out to look for Weavile or Sneasel to shoot- guess what? That's not hunting, that's just shooting!"

Wilson ended his rant with Jack shocked. He never liked arguments, especially ones with career hunters that had an entire stockpile of guns, ammo, and fueled by meat and booze. But his voice during the comments on the Weavile piqued Jack's interest. Why was Wilson so bitter bringing up the subject of Weavile? Jack manned up and asked the hunter more about the Pokémon he despised the most.

"Weavile? What about them?" Wilson grunted as he sauntered to the beds, still obviously agitated.

"No, it's just that why do you hate them so much? Are they really that bad? I mean, sure they-"

Big mistake.

Wilson whipped himself around and pointed a thick finger at Jack to continue his rant. "Boy, you don't know the half of it."

Whenever Wilson used the term "boy" like this, nothing good ever followed. He continued his rant from his grandson accidentally giving him more ammo to work with.

"You think they care? Huh? They are like giant Ratatta. Even worse than giant Ratatta, they are far worse. They're Ratatta with sharper claws and brains. They don't breed as fast, but the damage they do is way worse than some gnawing on beams. Coming here and tearing up my property, my meat, my way of living! Pests. Nothing more! If you found one, would you really sit down, call it over with food, and see what happens as it learns there's food to be found here after it rips off your arms and leers are you? They spread diseases, kill off all the other good game, and destroy your home. That's what you get if you want them around. Do you really want them around? Fuckin' assholes ruinin' it for everybody else! There's a reason why people carry guns, Jack! And all of them ain't for huntin'! Fuck 'em. To hell with them!"

The longer Wilson ranted, the more his speech started to slip and slur, and the more violent he sounded. Jack miraculously kept his cool with the trapper's tantrum.

"You're mad because some Weavile came, scratched your property, and ate some meat from the Stantler you shot? But you don't see them around since then, right?"

Wilson ignored Jack's comments and allowed his formal speech begin to take a nosedive. "That ain't even the haffa it. And the worst part? They're smart. They know how to adapt to whatever method you throw at them."

Wilson stopped himself and reached for the shotgun held on the wall in between the beds and above the nightstand.

"Well, except for this. Fuckers won't bother me after eatin' this!"

Wilson carelessly waved the gun around and racked the pump back from muscle memory, making Jack sweat bullets. If Jack knew one thing about guns at all, it would be that you never point one at something unless you are absolutely sure you want to shoot it, loaded or not.

"And that's the only thing I'm glad of!"

Jack immediately took a step back and to the side as Wilson escalated the situation. The hunter looked at his terrified grandson for a moment and then back at the shotgun he was holding. He started to sober up.

"Grandpa! Are you insane?!"

Wilson put the shotgun down on the left bed and hung his head in shame. He covered his chiseled face with his palm out of guilt.

"Jack… please forgive me. I get so worked up sometimes."

Jack kept his distance while his heart was madly pounding out of terror. Could his supposed role model accidentally blow his head off from ranting about Pokémon? Jack was starting to regret coming here. Some hunting trip it would turn out to be if he had to go back home in a box.

"Please, don't hold it against me," sobbed Wilson. "I didn't mean to lash out. It's just-it's just so, ugh. Let's pretend that never happened and move on."

Jack took another step back to be safe. Now that his role model was in less of a shooting mood, he could try to talk with him in a more civilized manner about the Pokémon that made him upset.

"But if they are…vermin like you say," Jack reasoned with risk, "then maybe my Encore is also perfect for hunting them. You did say they were like giant Ratatta, and I did put my gun to use against them. Three O' Eight is still good there, right?"

Wilson looked up at the son with a bit of reconciliation.

"…Yeah, that's a good point. Your gun's ideal for the smaller and medium stuff because of the caliber it's in, so it should thankfully have no problem dealing with a Weavile you find. 'Course for a big mother Ursaring, not really. Do you have any spare barrels?"

"Just this one," answered Jack as Wilson scratched his beard in displeasure.

"You'll have to take extra good care of your gun, then. They're built tough, true, but it's still vulnerable to being exposed to enough ice water, or any gunk. Anyway, you'll need a different one, and I'll happily lend you one of mine. But, you will need something much stronger in case you run across one of the big boys in these lands.

Wilson merrily patted the barrel of his prized hunting shotgun.

"Something like this."

Jack was still hesitant about Wilson and the shotgun.

"Is it loaded?" Jack asked.

Wilson blinked his eyes to sober up fully. "Oh, absolutely not. Leaving around loaded guns is how accidents happen. You didn't really think I was going to shoot you, were you?"

Jack didn't answer. Wilson's comment only made him more uncomfortable.

"Trust me," Wilson beckoned with his hands, "it's not loaded. There's no ammo in it. I've been doing this for a long while, so you have my word."

Jack finally accepted it and came right in front of Wilson. He leaned down to examine his prized shotgun.

It was in pristine condition; one could easily mistake it having just been manufactured and sold in the past month, let alone being used for many years of arctic and boreal hunting. It had the standard twenty-inch barrel with a spotless heat shield, even though it was mostly for traditional decoration in this environment. The metal had a very faint bluing finish to it, a subtle but attractive detail. The stock and pump were made out of a very fine, slightly darker walnut wood with the grain running horizontally. The pump also sported vertical grooves for better texture and handling. It was none other than a model Winchester 1897 shotgun, precisely the trench configuration of all things. The gun was an all-Unova marvel of a firearm. Jack was floored by how nice it looked after all of its service.

"This thing's over a hundred years old and still working after being through all this crap?" Jack questioned in awe. Wilson gave a hearty laugh.

"Not quite. The design has been around for over a century, but this one isn't literally a hundred years old. This one is a more modern example, so this one is closer to fifty years old. More of a replica you could say, since getting the real ones dating back to the first thousand production numbers is tedious and expensive. Still, you can't argue that it's a classic. You wanna hold it?"

Jack's eyes lit up as he firmly shook his head in approval. Wilson handed the gun to Jack and turned it about for a closer examination. It was a couple of pounds heavier, and he certainly felt it. He felt enchanted by just holding it and aiming it around the cabin idly. He paused for a moment, gripped the pump, and gave it a rack back then forth to make the parts work in unison with the signature klickklack. Jack laughed lightly at realizing why his grandfather used this instead of something more modern: it had character like no other hunting firearm did.

The young man murmured a "Wow…" before respectfully handing it back to his grandfather, but he couldn't back Wilson scooted closer to the nightstand and was digging around in the top drawer. Jack asked what he was looking for as he still clenched Wilson's gun. Wilson pulled out a honey-colored box of ammo to show Jack as he took back the gun and laid it on the bed.

"And here's the second half. I think you can figure out why I use this stuff."
Jack held the box of ammo to his face and widened once more. It was a box of shotgun shells, but not any shells. They were slugs: a uniform projectile instead of multiple pellets. But these were not regular slugs. The box depicted a yellow projectile with a metal coat, and beside it was the same projectile on its side with the metal coat expanding into six sharp petals like a Spring flower. He leaned is head back in shock from the box art.

(What kind of ammo is this?)

Wilson carefully fished his hand in the drawer again to pull out a typical shotgun slug and two of the yellow projectiles, one that has expanded and one that has not.

"Is this real?" Jack questioned again as he put the box of ammo with the shotgun and sat down with Wilson. Wilson opened his palm and began to explain why he used such an odd loadout for hunting.

"I'm fond of slugs because you can get much more distance with them, and they offer much more precision. I did some research, and I think I found my favorite ones, heh."

Wilson set the two yellow slugs down and pointed at the standard one in his palm.

"This is your everyday slug. Looks like a big bullet, right? Functions pretty much like one. Then I found out about these…"

He set the slug down and grabbed the unexpanded yellow slug.

"These are exotic. You'd be hard pressed to find a place that makes ammo like this, but I did. The company the makes this is far, far from Unova, but there are a few gun shops that stock these slugs to save me time and money. That company also makes different ammo, and I tried a few of 'em out before, but I'd say this is the best."

"So why go through the trouble of acquiring such weird ammo? Why not use a normal round?"

Wilson cleared his throat and settled in as he explained his affection for these slugs.

"First off, it's a great slug by itself; just about all of them are, really. Hollow point, solid steel, and encased in polymer. Besides, you wouldn't want to get hit by this thing, would you?"

Jack started to get a little tense in the conversation just thinking about being a target.

"I don't wanna get shot by anything."

Wilson pointed to the metal layer near the top of the slug.

"And this is where the real beauty comes in. See the metal strips? Look closely." Wilson then exchanged the slug in his hand for the expanded, ruined one. "The real power behind these slugs is when you hit something with them."

Jack's faced turned sour at seeing one of those squashed slugs up close in person. He shuddered at what it hit, Pokémon or not. Wilson continued to lecture about his ammo of choice.

"In addition to the primary projectile, you also have six secondary projectiles that expand and fragment into separate paths when you hit something. In total, you have one vast wound cavity where you aimed combined you have six smaller wound cavities surrounding it. That's seven individual wound channels and not even factoring in the shock from the initial hit. Good shots will absolutely punch through anything, from thick foliage to the hide of a Tyranitar, not that there's any of them up here. Even bad shots can still deal enough damage to vital organs to bring something down, and it's not like it's easy to dig out a piece of sharp metal smaller than pinky nail several inches deep in you. Combine this with the slam firing power of my shotgun, and nothing can give me trouble."

Jack was silent and incredibly impressed. He imagined one of these boring straight through his chest and having a few sharp metal petals veer into the heart or lungs. Let alone up to six in total.

(Holy crap! I don't wanna get shot by THAT!)

"Trust me when I say that these slugs are what allowed me get my very own Ursaring rug. It sniffed me out, stood up and roared, and I shot it a few inches from the heart. But because these slugs expand, some of the fragments careened right into its heart to bring it down without any more fuss. If I were using any slugs, I would've been made into a rug instead."

A fierce wind blew against cabin; tree branches knocking into each other, winds pounding on the windows, and an icy gust rattling the door to steal away attention from ammo chatter. The grizzled grandfather turned his head curiously towards the door.

"Oh, that reminds me…" Wilson stood up and put the slugs and ammo box back into the drawer to get a red box of standard buckshot and a black box containing more orthodox slugs. He turned and looked at Jack, still sitting on the bed with admiration.

"Now, you still gotta ways to go before I'll let you use this in a real hunt. But for the time being, why don't we head out back to my shooting range and mold you into a proper shooter rather than talk about it? I can tell you other things about hunting in North Unova, but I know you're real eager in getting acquainted with your gear."
Jack had a humongous grin on his face as he got up and grabbed Wilson's shotgun.

"Sure! Let's go before we get snowed in!"

The two men shook heads in thrilled acceptance. Jack ran back to grab his gun and some of his ammo as Wilson was already moving towards the door.

"Get your stuff; you should start with your own guns first, then you can move to mine. I'll set you up with buckshot and normal slugs for practice. Those slugs I just showed you are suited for when we go out hunting something more threatening than some paper and dummies."

Jack laughed at Wilson's joke and followed closely behind with the shotgun over his shoulder, feeling empowered again.

…Then Wilson opened the door and blasted both men with a sudden piercing mass of cold air rushing in. Being tucked inside such a toasty and protective cabin made Jack forget about the conditions outside.

"Brrrplplploofff!"

"Oh come on, Jack. That wasn't even a cold one."

[Author's note: I never do author's notes, but I figure that this is the perfect time for one. The guns are real: Wilson's is a Winchester Model 1897 and Jack's is a Thompson Center (T/C) Encore. Jack's encore is a line from Thompson Center's single shot weapons and is open for a lot of customization. You can get one chambered for nearly any caliber you can think of. Even better is that you can go from a pistol to a rifle, or a whole new cartridge chambering, in just a few tools and a few minutes. As for those exotic slugs with the expanding petals, they are in fact, real! They're made by a company called DDupleks in Latvia, and DDupleks also makes a whole bunch of unusual, highly effective shotgun ammo. You can find some of their ammo domestically in the U.S. as well. There's nothing like hunting in the dead of winter with a century-old styled shotgun with cutting-edge modern ammo for it in addition to a sleek, highly customizable single-shot rifle, eh?]