The kid is growling, but Riccin does not give a single fuck what sort of raucous noise they want to rattle up: it's not like they can do shit. Their apartment is a thirty minute fucking walk, and they're not dawdling.

That changes when the kid starts yowling about drones. The first high pitch noise goes straight into one audiosponge and cuts into their pan, and Riccin hisses, their ears immediately pinning back defensively and their free hand clamping over one. The other hand is occupied with the kid, though.

Not for long. The kid starts hitting them and they shake them, hard, and then drop them for good measure.