"Oh, that's nice of you!" Mafyyil brushes the last crumbs of her muffin (that's still a muffin, just a Muffin That Horrible Things Happened To) from the front of her dress and puts the weird-looking small blue umbrella that unfolds into a flower (yes, make that Really Horrible Things That Are Not Supposed To Happen To Muffins) into one of her pockets; she fully intends to keep it and write a poem on its petals. She then critically eyes the range's setup.

[What kind of targets are we using, anyway?]