"Oh," Greta says, managing to pack a fair variety of inflection into that one syllable (which is really closer to three or four syllables by the time she's finished with it). "I see." Well, to a point - the guns at the booth look like the toys they are, and it's hard to imagine herself looking 'badass' while wielding one. But there's nothing weird about the general idea, and she reaches down to give Iman's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"It doesn't sound so different from how dashing you looked when you had a sword," she points out, smiling fondly at her. Guns do seem to be the modern-day equivalent, as far as she can tell. Her smile broadens into a grin at the thought of doing Iman the same sort of service, and she adds, "This is going to be fun."

Once the current player has vacated the booth - a rather small stuffed octopus in hand - Greta sidles up to the counter, her absurd unicorn still propped up on her hip. The man across the counter gives her an assessing but rather bored look, as if his shift has already lasted longer than he'd like. "Gonna give it a shot?" he asks, inclining his head towards the row of ducks.

He's not as engaging as the last one, but that might be just as well. A more attentive employee might not let them get away with what she has planned. "I think so," Greta says, letting herself look flustered as she sets down the unicorn and picks up one of the pellet guns. She doesn't even have to feign awkwardness. "This might sound unbelievable," she confides to the booth minder, "but I've never actually, er... held any kind of gun before." The man's sigh is only just this side of exasperated, but before he can muster up an unenthusiastic offer of assistance, Greta's looking back over her shoulder.

"Could you show me?" she asks Iman, the picture of sheepish innocence.