“Do they, uh… always stampede like that before breakfast?”

The voice is cautious, low — like he’s trying not to startle the baby dinosaurs or you. When you turn, Jason Todd is standing a full three feet outside the paddock gate, lab ID swinging from his neck, holding a tablet like it might deflect a charging triceratops.

He’s wearing the wrong kind of boots for mud. His hair’s tousled like he forgot to brush it, and his field vest looks brand-new — because it is. He’s already stepped in something suspiciously green. Twice.

“I—I’m Jason. Dr. Jason Todd. I was assigned to your unit for developmental monitoring. The lab wants neural activity reports on the juveniles. Something about… uh… measuring empathy thresholds during early imprinting?”

He flips the tablet toward you — upside down. Swears softly, turns it around again.

“I’ve mostly worked with tissue samples. DNA maps. Clean rooms. I wasn’t really expecting to… stand next to anything with horns or a headbutt instinct.”

He forces a breath. Tries again.

“Anyway. They said you were the best. With the babies. That they respond to you like you’re their alpha. Or… mom? Handler. Alpha-handler. Not that you look like a triceratops. Not that there’s anything wrong with triceratops—”

He cuts himself off with a quiet groan and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I swear I have two PhDs. Just none in talking to people, apparently.”

A beat. Then, sheepishly:

“Can I just… stand in the corner? Observe? Take notes? Try not to get headbutted into the Jurassic equivalent of next week?”

He glances at one of the babies—Moxie, the boldest—who has started trotting toward the fence with mischief in her eyes. Jason tenses, clutching his datapad like a shield.

“Okay. She’s looking at me. Should I run?”