"Remmy. No. No I cannot enter your enclosure and give you chin scritches. Yes, I know you want them. And yes, I would like to give you scritches, but..." The gray-feathered, dusky blue furred griffon sighs, her ears flicking down as the console's speakers crackle and fizzle, both input and outputs overloaded to hell and back by the cataclysmic volume of a monstrous roar of frustration. She counts down in her head, grasping the edge of her desk in preparation, knowing exactly how many seconds it'll take for the monster's tantrum roar to travel the 3 kilometers between their enclosure and her office. Nine seconds is not enough time to completely formulate a plan to explain dosimetry to a 50 story tall, nuclear-powered abomination of a coyote woman with the attention span of a drunk valley girl. And probably not enough to prevent a second containment breach and subsequent rampage, but it was her job as "flagship attraction handler" to try.
Her office shakes, the windows rattle, a few things fall of their shelves, despite the mandatory restraint systems applied to just about anything at risk of tremor-induced calamity. The distance and heavily insulated walls dull the skull-shattering volume, enough to turn a mind-bending blast of bestial noise capable of vaporizing tanks, collapsing thoracic cavities, and cratering skyscrapers at close range into something more akin to someone grumpily shouting "roar!" at the top of their lungs.
"Okay, hon, I know you're angry, but roaring won't fix this! And no, it's not your fault either so don't blame yourself!" That last part was a bit of a lie. The 'friendly' lick she was given this morning after an island-spanning game of fetch with a scuttled ferry was more than enough to put her WELL past any safe, or sane, radiation dosage limits for the rest of the year. "It's just...Well, you're dangerous and I'm-yes hon, you're VERY dangerous and it's VERY cute and I'm VERY proud of you but let's-" A giddy, rambling cacophony of snarling giggles, yips and yaps to embarrass krakatoa, and an utterly indecipherable deluge of excited rambling all the horrible, monstrous, dangerous, devastating things Remmy was capable of doing to the...Cutiecrumbs followed, and would not be interrupted. The beast's giggling and the rhythmic THUMP THUMP THUMP of her wagging tails is starting to send tremors through the research and administrative campus. Deep breath, try again.
"Remmy? Remmy? REMMY! HEY! Sweetie, right here I need to-"
"Yes I DO know what your atomic breath does to...Literally everything else it's very...Cute."
"...No hon, I don't need to see right now, you showed me yesterday and might have hit an airliner and knocked out satellite TV broadcasts for most of Brazil. ...yes I AM very proud of you, that was very impressive."
This was...going nowhere, and actively flying further offtrack. The catbird shuffles her wings, chirping in soft frustration. The microphone unmuted, the sound enough of a small prey-like noise to break the leviathan's giddy rambling as it blared over the distant enclosure's loudspeakers. Big, green eyes wide, ears perked an alert, fangs being licked. A twinge of primal fear despite the training, the practice, the many, many hours of reviewing security footage, rampage highlights, uncensored hard-to-get, should-be-banned-from-any-broadcast-and-website rampage highlights. "Uh...Um...Remmy...ah...How about uh...if you promise to be really, REALLY nice, I can get a new chin-scratcher...robot in for you? Exactly like the one you...chewed to bits and were told could never be replaced. ...Mostly."
She had time to dive for a pair of earmuffs before the roaring started, joyful at least this time, ducking and covering under her desk as the quakes and jolts of a girl's gigaton zoomies kicked off. Cataclysm averted for the umpteenth time this week, visitor complaints soon to start pouring in about the noise and shaking, but at least there wasn't a 600 foot-tall ditzaster making her temper tantrum the problem of several hundred guests. Cynthia allows herself and a flustered sigh of relief even as the horizon flashes a searing, blinding green, and begins flicking through her tablet's requisition system for a forklift, one of those rotating brushes for massaging cows, and whatever the hell it would take to remote control the damn thing.
