The paradoxical transition of the weapon unfolding in an unfamiliar way into the form of something very familiar is almost uncanny. Sephiroth recognizes the shape of it — mostly. Stock, trigger, muzzle, sights. The base framework of a gun does not change, no matter the universe, it would appear. Sephiroth raises his eyes to glance at her.

“Killed the coeurl,” he supplies. Clearly, a “coeurl” and a “cat” are interchangeable to this man, as he gives no further explanation, simply nodding in the affirmative as he glides over to the gun range proper.

At a distance, the targets await him patiently, humanoid in shape with their zones clearly differentiated. He raises the rifle, readies it and aims; he’s been trained in weapons handling, which shears away any potential clumsiness of a true greenhorn, and guarantees that he won’t be terribly surprised by any kickback when he pulls the trigger.

And pull the trigger he does, firing in a short burst.