"I can't do that," she flatly states.
"What? What the hell do you mean?" you ask her, outraged and confused.
"Exactly what I said. I can't help you," she says again. You can tell from her tone that she's not joking, but she's got a smirk on her face. What gives?
"And exactly why can't you?" you say, frustrated as hell.
"I told you, this is a wildlife preserve. The only way to preserve the wildlife here is for noone to ever find out about this place," she says.
"And what the hell is so special about the animals here?" you ask.
She digs into her pocket, tossing you an ID card. Looking down at it, you see a picture of the ranger. Emblazoned on it are simply a few words. "Bramwell, Cindy" beneath her picture, and along the top of the card, "Stonegate National Lycanthrope Preserve".
You look back up at her in disbelief. "Lycanthrope?" you ask, "As in 'werewolves'?"
"That's right," she says, her eyes changing from brown to yellow in an instant, "And all that stuff about us needing the moon is a lie!" She holds a hand out, letting you see the fur race down the back of it as her nails grow. Her forearms begin to swell, and the buttons on the cuffs of her sleeves pop off as muscle begins to build. Her chest bulges outward, her breasts forcing the shirt open, and more fur covers her torso as extra teats begin to grow. Her pantlegs tear, and the button pops off of the waistband of her pants as well. Her face stretches into a muzzle as her ears push the hat off of her head. She lets out a deafening howl, and snarls, advancing on you, her eyes not reflecting any humanity inside.