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Chapter Text

Something about the night doesn’t bode well, Muldoon thinks. The air is humid and wet, sweat pricking on his brow and on the back of his neck, the recent onslaught of tropical storms keeping them all on their toes as the park came closer and closer to being completed. The rifle in his hand is a familiar weight, and his thumb brushes against the smooth metal in a subconscious attempt to reassure himself that he is armed and prepared to deal with anything, even as his mind prickles with awareness of the… animal slowly being transported into the reinforced enclosure.

Muldoon had never bothered to cultivate his ability, had never really known it was possible because he’d never met anyone else like him, and hadn’t thought that there was anyone else like him until Dr. Wu had informed him that people like him, whose minds could connect uniquely with animals, while rare, were out there, and that Hammond was hoping to hire as many as he could to become handlers for the exhibits. He better hope that those that he hires aren’t prone to migraines or can work through them, Muldoon thinks drily, because ever since coming to the island, ibuprofen had become his best friend. Even working as a game warden, or hell, going to the zoo didn’t make his head feel so full , as if stuffed to the brim with cotton and pulsing with pain on the worst days. 

He’s gotten good at blocking them out, though. The minds of dinosaurs are ancient things that permeate the island like an ever present fog, but that also makes them easy to evade, Muldoon weaving his consciousness around them until they’re little more than quiet radio chatter in the distant part of his mind. 

The raptors though…

He glances back up to the heavy metal container, the steel bars too thick for him to see the raptor from where he is, the artificial, overly bright lights of their machinery distorted by a thin sheen of rain. It rustles the leaves of the tropical trees as it’s moved into position in front of the paddock, and the men around him, already tense, wind tighter when they hear the faint sound of her hissing. 

Her thoughts hurt to touch. They’re a ball of predator instincts, sharper than that of the T-rex, and skirting around her mind feels like a fruitless endeavor because it feels like she can sense him back, and she tests his mind like she tests the fences, looking for an in, looking for a weakness to exploit to shred his mind, make him prey. Muldoon has stubbornly clung to the walls of his mind, avoiding her and her pack’s attacks, because he prides himself on being smarter, on being the better predator, and so far he’s won . 

The container is set down. Muldoon moves his team into place. He gives them orders to begin pushing the container into the wall of the paddock, mouth pulling thin when they flinch away at the sound of her screech. She can’t do anything to them, though, not within the steel cage and the weapons in their hands give them all a flimsy sort of confidence. They push, she spits and hisses, waiting, angry.

Muldoon clutches his gun tighter, then quickly relaxes his grip, gritting his teeth instead. The container creaks loudly with the effort of the men pushing it forwards to connect with the paddock, but even louder is the sharp cry of the raptor, startling the workers away for a moment before they cautiously return to their stations. Muldoon doesn’t blame them for their wariness, sweat beading on his own forehead, both from nerves and from the humidity of the wet tropics. The container locks in place, the workers relaxing minutely at the sound of the clicks locking in, and one of them slowly climbs the ladder onto the top of the container, hands shaking with the knowledge that beneath him is one of the most dangerous creatures on the entire island. It may not be the t-rex (god help the people who had that assignment), but he’s heard the horror stories of the scientists who lost fingers to the things as babies, and the back of his neck crawls with the weight of her gaze, his shadow fallen in broken streaks through the thin slits in the metal. 

“Raise the gate!” Muldoon calls. 

Several things happen in what feels like the blink of an eye. 

The man atop the container does as he’s told, slowly raising the heavy steel gate, unprepared for the way the raptor crashes forwards before the thing is fully up, and somehow the force of it sends the container barreling back, unattaching from the locks of the paddock, and the worker comes toppling down, the wind knocked out of him from the fall. There is no reprieve even then, as he feels teeth clamp down around his foot and the creature snatches him back, his hands only just snatching onto the side of the cage in desperation. There is the sound of electricity zapping at tough, leather hide, ineffective darts shot into a raptor that refuses to fall, and Muldoon latches onto the worker, heart pounding in his throat, nearly breathless as he begs at the other workers to pick up a real fucking rifle and shoot her . 

His head crackles with pain, the bloody raptor eviscerating through his panicked walls, seeing him as nothing more than an obstacle to her meal. They are prey to her, prey who have trapped her and kept her from a proper hunt, and now she’s lashing out, something that’s almost like spite powering her fury.  

The man is slipping through his fingers and between the cacophony of noise that is the spray of bullets and electricity (it shouldn’t feel like a goddamn warzone, it’s a park for fucks sake), he can hear the man’s sobs, pain and fear in his voice as he begs Muldoon to not let go. The raptor screeches again, and for one single moment, Muldoon thinks that maybe they can salvage this- before she regains her hold on the man and snatches him all the way back. 

They save him, what’s left of him, when she finally goes down, and the quiet that it leaves in his head is strange, blank, shredded paper pieces. Maybe whatever brain damage he got from the encounter is the reason Muldoon didn’t leave when he had the chance.

Chapter Text

Ian had thought that he would have the weekend to himself. A bit of time at his favorite bar, flirting with his favorite bartender, maybe going home with someone else if he was lucky, ending up smashed on his couch with his shoes still on if he wasn’t. His own mistake of course, it’s there in his text log that he had promised, months ago, that he would take his son in for the week starting from that weekend because his ex has terrible timing, though he’ll admit he would much rather be at home, asleep, rather than waiting for his ex-wife at the airport to drop off their kid. 

Ian Malcom has four kids, and only two of them are related to each other, a pair of teenage twins he hasn’t seen in person since they were toddlers (he and their mother hadn’t exactly ended things off well, even if they were cordial enough now). The twins are also the only ones that look anything like him, pale and dark-haired, their beetle black eyes gleaming brightly at him from pictures that their mother would send him from time to time. It was good to know they were doing alright, considering how much of a jerk he’d been all those years ago, and he’s been trying to make up for it by being more present in his younger kids’ lives, though that wasn’t very easy at times. His youngest daughter was Kelly, nine years old and who looked almost entirely like her mother, all black curls and dark skin, eyes as warm as a summer day. Ian liked to say that her smile was entirely made up of his charm. Her smarts too, were definitely his, so of course she was a straight-A girl on track for the best colleges his child support could offer. 

His middle child, Owen, is a year older than Kelly, and like her, holds little resemblance to Ian. Though he’s pale like his older siblings, his face is dotted with freckles, taking after his mother in his pale ginger hair and green eyes. 

He sighs, shading his eyes with his hand as the sun beats down on his hair, light blue shirt sticking to his ribs from the sheet of sweat his body was producing, which made his shower from earlier that morning entirely counterproductive. He could go inside and shelter against the early morning heat with the airport’s air condition, but if the sidewalk outside felt crowded and claustrophobic, he couldn’t imagine the inside being much better, a pulse of people constantly spilling in and out of the doors in waves, either just coming in or hurrying to catch their flight. Sheri Grady typically understood his disdain for airports anyways and she had said that she would be fine meeting him outside with Owen if he promised to drop her off at her hotel for the night on their phone call the night before. He had offered her the guest room in his apartment while she was in San Francisco (just for the night), but she had insisted that she would be happier staying in the hotel and that it would be good for Owen to get used to not having her for the night. 

Ian shifts positions on the bench again when he feels his legs beginning to fall asleep, fiddling with the keys in his hands and starting to wish that he’d thought to bring a book or something when he hears a warm voice call his name. He watches as two familiar figures detach from the throng of people, red hair catching fire in the sunlight, the shorter of the two clutching tightly at the straps of his blue backpack. 

“Hey kiddo!” Ian greets cheerfully when they’re close enough, crouching down so he isn’t looming over Owen, hoping he looks open and friendly. Kelly wouldn’t hesitate to rush in for a hug, but Owen lingers back, avoidant other than for a soft “hello” muttered under his breath. 

Ian pats him on a tiny shoulder, letting him know that it’s nice to see him before drawing himself back up to his full height to speak to Sheri, accepting her friendly cheek kiss and hug. She was probably the friendliest of his ex-wives, the others tending to be just polite (which was fair), and the ones that he didn’t have children with (two of them, one who hadn’t wanted kids and one who couldn’t have them) never even talked to him anymore, and while Ian understands that he can be. Difficult. And probably deserves the quiet treatment, it’s refreshing to be met with a friend rather than what felt like a casual acquaintance. 

“Thanks so much for taking him this week, I know this was off schedule and a bit short notice, but I really couldn’t find anyone else to take him and I didn’t want to drop him so abruptly with a babysitter he wouldn’t know-” she starts, flustered with gratitude. 

“No, no, of course I’d look after him, he’s my son! Besides, I’m sure you could use some time to yourself, and me and Owen could use some time to get closer, y’know?” Ian assures her, giving her the same pat on her shoulder that he’d given Owen. She’d always been very sweet and bubbly, a breath of fresh air in comparison to Ian’s cynicism, and while Ian can’t quite match her enthusiasm, his smile comes a bit easier, the knot in his chest loosening slightly as he picks up Owen’s suitcase (which Sheri had been carrying) and begins to guide them towards his shiny black car. 

“God, you really never stopped being goth, huh”, Sheri laughs, opening the backdoor for Owen and making sure he’s buckled in before climbing into the passenger seat. Ian tucks the suitcase in the footwell of the backseat, nowhere near big enough to go through the effort of putting it in the trunk. 

“Hey, I wore blue today!” he retorts, plucking at his collar even though Sheri isn’t looking at him. Sheri doesn’t point out his black jeans, boots, or bracelets, but her little smirk conveys enough that she doesn’t have to. Ian shrugs- he can’t help that black looks unambiguously cool. 

He and Sheri chatter on the way to the hotel while Owen reads quietly in the backseat, having dug out a cheap, pulpy sci-fi novel that Ian wasn’t sure a kid his age should be reading, along with a Walkman out of his backpack, opting to remove himself of any possibility of being spoken to and blocking out any of their conversation. He was a bit of an odd kid, very quiet at times, then entirely too chatty at others and he had a strange habit of talking to animals, as if he could genuinely understand what they were saying. Once Ian drops Sheri off at the hotel she had booked in advance, there isn’t much conversation to be had and Owen only quickly raises his hand to wave her goodbye before ducking his head back down, not seeming angry or upset, but not particularly pleased either. 

Owen had always been a bit of a weird kid, one Ian had never been able to really understand much, his normal charm falling flat with him where Kelly would laugh or groan or roll her eyes. Just react, in general. Well, if Owen could entertain himself, then Ian could work on his manuscript and maybe make his editors happy for once. 

...

Among the cluster of bills and other such mail in his hand is a strange invitation from someone who claims to be an associate of John Hammond. The heavy cardstock letter is brief and cordial, a phone number at the bottom for any questions he may have, and considering how vague the invitation is, he obviously has a few. Ian winces as he looks at the event date, brow furrowing as he glances at Owen, who hasn’t said very much to him since they got home and had only switched from his book to a Gameboy as soon as his mom was gone, entirely disinterested in making nice with him. 

“This weekend, hm?” He says softly, stepping out of his living room and into the kitchen, glancing again at the phone number before tapping it into the landline on the wall, curling his hand around the cool plastic of the white telephone. The line rings three times before-

“Gennaro”, answers the clipped voice from the other end.

“Yes, ah, this is Ian Malcolm and I receiv-”

“Oh, yes yes! Hello Dr. Malcolm”, Gennaro hums, sounding a little more cordial now, though the hint of no nonsense remains in his tone. “You received Mr. Hammond’s invitation? Good, we would prefer to have an answer as soon as possible. We understand this is somewhat short notice, but Mr. Hammond has assured me that this chance is once in a lifetime and that-”

“Hold on”, Ian interrupts, his brow furrowed. “What exactly is this an invitation for? This is all very vague and, uh, kinda creepy if you ask me, you know? What kind of rich guy invites a bunch of paleontologists onto his secret island on a weekend just for kicks?”

“He’s just looking for a second opinion on something”, Gennaro replies, not very happy about being cut off and sounding it. 

Ian sighs. “Look, I have my kid over this weekend so unless he’s fine with having a little kid running around his expensive shit, I’ll have to say no.”

There is a pause on the other end. Ian wonders if this is the end of the conversation, considers hanging up the phone and storing the whole thing away for later when he isn’t busy when Gennaro speaks up again, the sound of shuffled papers muffled over the crackle of the speaker. 

“Well, you’re in luck Dr. Malcolm; Mr. Hammond will be inviting his own grandchildren to stay for the weekend as well, so you won’t be alone in taking a child along. It would be encouraged, even. If you’d like, I can give you an hour to think about it.” Gennaro doesn’t end it as a question, letting Ian know that the time limit was not a suggestion and any later would be considered an automatic forfeit. 

“Sure. Okay, ah, I’ll call you back soon, then”, Ian says. Gennaro bids him a good day and hangs up, leaving Ian to ponder over the invitation. 

John Hammond, huh? 

Owen is still playing his game when he strides back into the living room, not bothering to look up despite Ian’s shadow looming over him. It could be fun, maybe, Ian thinks. Especially if Hammond is bringing his own grandkids along…

“Hey Owen, don’t unpack, we’re going to stay somewhere else for the weekend.” Wherever that ended up being, anyways.

Chapter Text

The helicopter is loud and overwhelming. The adults are loud and annoying. His mother had said he’d have fun staying with Ian, and Ian had said that this trip- entirely last minute by the way he had begun to pack his duffle bag- would be cool, but adults tend to be liars who tend to think Owen can’t see through them. It’s not like Owen has a choice about going either way, so he doesn’t understand why they have to pretend it’ll be a pleasant experience when they clearly don’t know. 

This is why Owen prefers animals. Animals are blunt and easy to read and don’t usually hide their intentions because they don’t usually have a reason to- their social hierarchy is simple and rarely changing and is also probably why Owen sucks at making friends. He can’t just scratch another kid behind the ears like he could a cat, unfortunately. But adults are the worst, he thinks, because they make everything so complicated, and it’s not like Owen can read their minds the way he could a dog’s and know what they wanted from him. Other kids aren’t easy , but they don’t make things as overwhelming as adults do.

He tunes out the conversation that Ian starts up with Dr. Sattler to look at the approaching island, a great misshapen block of greenery and rock, the waters surrounding it a blinding shade of blue, glistening with the reflection of the sun. There’s something that feels off about the island, but Owen can’t pinpoint it, feeling as if he’s entered a strange radio channel and none of the songs are in a language he recognizes. Is there something odd about the animals there? His range isn’t very wide, but what he’s able to feel feels… big. Bigger than anything he’s ever seen before, which doesn’t seem right because he’s been to the zoo before and even the elephants, with their great size and sharp minds didn’t feel anything like this. A glance at the adults tells him nothing, Mr. Hammond and the lawyer guy who Owen never bothered to remember the name of deep in conversation, Ian and Dr. Sattler laughing at some joke that Ian had made and Dr. Grant-

Dr. Grant looks out the window as Owen had, blue eyes searching and focused, as if something strange had caught his attention. Owen wonders what it could be when there’s nothing really visible from here yet; only a vague tickle in the back of his mind that something here is different. 

The sudden turbulence of the helicopter beginning its descent jumbles his thoughts, clutching tightly at his father’s arm with one hand and using the other to brace against the side of the cockpit, his tummy doing an awful flip as the helicopter shudders once more. Mr. Hammond calls out for them to pull on their seatbelts, which is made difficult because Owen doesn’t seem to have one (Ian ends up having to hold him, and for once, Owen doesn’t protest being treated like a little kid, sure that if he wasn’t holding onto his father, he’d be much closer to throwing up, the nausea roiling in his belly made worse by the wave of noise that comes off the island as they get closer to landing). Dr. Grant doesn’t have much luck with the seatbelts either. 

“We’ll have landed by the time you figure it out”, Mr. Hammond says, bemused, to which Dr. Grant responds by tying the two ends of the seat belt around his waist, seeming smug about his solution. 

When they finally hit the landing pad in the space of cleared out jungle, Owen nearly trips over himself trying to scramble out of the helicopter, only kept from falling by Ian grabbing him by the back of the shirt to put him down. Owen scowls, taking a step away from the chatter and feeling his irritation spike at this entire ordeal, his head pulsing because whatever is on this island is loud and it hates him. 

“Alan, are you okay?” Dr. Sattler asks Dr. Grant, a slender hand ghosting over Dr. Grant’s shoulder as the man presses his palm over one of his eyes. 

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Just the change in air pressure”, he grumbles, waving her away. 

“You good, kid?” Ian asks him, handing Owen the backpack that he had stuffed under the seat. Owen nods, more intent on focusing on making his head stop hurting than Ian’s lukewarm attempt at trying to check on him. The pain he’d felt at his first zoo trip didn’t compare to this, as if he were surrounded on all sides by elephants with minds too vast for him to really understand. Hopefully he would get used to it, or better yet, they’d leave the jungle and go to a part of the island where his head didn’t feel moments away from splitting in half. 

They’re all shuffled into the three jeeps waiting for them to the side of the landing pad and Owen wilts at the thought of more driving. Spending his entire weekend in a car was not what he’d hoped for, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. 

Still, ,at some point, the noise in his head begins to settle, separating from one big wall of thought and feelings into individuals scattered around the island. His range feels like it’s been expanded a little, and he’s tempted to try and seek out what kind of strange animals make up Isla Nublar that can be so strong, but Owen figures that it wouldn’t probably wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s tempting, though, when these animals feel like nothing he’s ever encountered, a wide and yawning void slowly starting to react to the receptiveness of his mind, trying to nudge him back. Owen keeps his mind closed off as best as he can, intrigued but not interested in having his mind played with like a cat with a canary. 

Everything seems to freeze when they all finally come to a stop, the adults gasping and Owen feeling the animals before he sees them, stomach feeling queasy at the thought of there being anything so big right in front of him. When he finally dares to look up, Owen wonders if his eyes are lying to him, the great beast so incomprehensibly large that Owen barely registers its gentle presence in his mind. Hunger, the warmth of nearby herd, the Little Animals in their Buzzing Travel Things, echoes loudly in his head.

“Crazy son of a bitch, you did it”, Ian says quietly, a smile wide on his face. 

They’re dinosaurs. It’s impossible to believe, but Owen is seeing them with his own eyes (they feel like they’re trying to bulge out of his head), a massive long–neck, its leathery hide the color of cement, feet making the ground tremble with every step that it takes. He watches, slack-jawed, as it stands on its hind legs to reach higher into the trees, and Owen thinks that if it were any taller, he could climb it all the way up into the sky, close enough for his fingers to skim the clouds. 

Mr. Hammond grins, wide and proud, looking like a cloud himself in his white linen suit, hand clenched tightly around his cane, his thumb stroking the amber stone at the top. 

“Welcome to Jurassic Park”, he says, pale eyes a little misty as he looks over the green fields, the glittering lake in the distance where the rest of the brontosaurus herd plays. 

Oh , Owen thinks. Suddenly this trip doesn’t seem all that bad after all.

Chapter Text

 Owen is reeling. It’s surreal, and he’s half sure that he may be dreaming because it doesn’t feel quite real, even with his head gently ringing with the aftermath of having shared his mind with a real life, honest to god dinosaur.It’s a feeling almost more tangible than the humid heat against his skin.  

There’s a constant hum from the adults as they ride to the visitor's center, mostly between his dad, Dr. Sattler and Mr. Hammond, with interceptions from Mr. Gennaro. Dr. Grant seems like he’s lost in thought, eyes far away and gleaming with awe, occasionally turning around as if he could still see the brachiosaurus if he just looked hard enough, something Owen can sympathize with as he  tries to stretch his ability again because the brachiosaurus’ mind had been like nothing he had ever felt. He feels almost dizzy when he steps out of the jeep, head pulsing like he’s had too much ice-cream too fast, though it’s slowly starting to settle down, a new Awareness spreading through his mind. 

“C’mon, c’mon, we have a very packed schedule and I want to get through as much of the introductory things as possible so the rest of the weekend can be spent enjoying yourselves”, Hammond chimes, unable to wipe the grand smile off his face and marshaling them forward with his cane. 

“Told you it would be cool, didn’t I?” Ian turns to grin at Owen, and though Owen could respond with a sharp remark about how he couldn’t have possibly predicted this , he instead extends an olive branch of a smile, wanting to see more, feel more . 

“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty amazing”, he says, which catches Mr. Hammonds attention because the man positively beams at him, his bright blue eyes gleaming behind his wire frame glasses. 

“Excellent! I couldn’t be more delighted to hear it!” Hammond cheers as he opens the grand doors to the visitor's center. 

Full skeletons hang from the ceiling like museum displays, the T-rex posing in a whirling roar, a banner hanging over the entry declaring  WHEN DINOSAURS RULED THE EARTH , a mural of a jungle and dinosaurs painted onto one of the walls further back; a food court if Owen had to guess from all the tables chairs inside it. It’s still under construction, parts of it covered in transparent tarps, a few workers carefully moving around Hammond’s party as they paint the rest of the walls white. Most of them seem to be packing up for the afternoon, likely preparing for the storm Owen’s heard about on the news. 

“And what do you think, Dr. Grant?” Mr. Hammon asks. He leads them up a spiral staircase, intent on showing off the finished features of the visitor’s center before taking them down a special explanation of how he accomplished making living dinosaurs, followed by lunch. 

“I think we’re out of a job”, Grant responds wrly, earning a chuckle from Sattler. 

Ian quickly retorts, “don’t you mean extinct?” and Grant huffs, amused.

They enter a room that resembles a small theater, like the sort that Owen thinks he’d see at the aquarium; built for small groups at a time so that they could watch a brief film about the animals being taken care of. He’s personally never cared much about genetics, but in this one case, he’s curious about the process of how they made the dinosaurs (and honestly, who wouldn’t be?) His dad is far more animated than Owen’s ever seen him, in deep discussion with Sattler and Grant about their own personal theories as to what the process may need to include before Hammond quickly hushes them, standing next to the screen as they wait for the movie to start. He seems all too excited to talk to the version of himself that appears on the screen, in a black suit to contrast the real John Hammond’s white linen. It’s a bit cheesy, but Mr. Hammond has a grandfatherly charm to him and Owen leans up, hoping that the explanation isn’t too over his head. 

He could try asking Ian if doesn’t fully get something, because if there’s one thing that his dad’s always been good at, it’s explaining things in a concise manner, but he’d rather be able to figure it out on his own. 

Mostly, though, he wants to go out into the park again and see the animals for himself, remembering the feeling of being as tiny as an ant the moment the brachiosaurus had entered his mind. The fact that there’s more of them makes his heart race and he thinks again of the first time he’s ever visited a zoo, the lions rumbling in his head about the heat, the elephants so vast and intelligent that he would spend hours in front of the enclosure speaking with them while his mother watched from a bench, having no idea why her son wasn’t all interested in anything else. 

The explanation in the film is simple enough, which is likely what Hammond was going for, though Owen is sure that there must be more complicated steps to making a dinosaur than pulling blood from fossilized mosquitoes and jamming frog DNA in there, but it’s an explanation he’s perfectly satisfied with. A glimpse at his dad and the other two doctors though, and he knows that they’ll have even more questions. Ian’s posture is relaxed, but there’s a glint to his eye that says the cogs in his brain are turning a million miles a second while Dr. Grant leans forward, pressing his hands together, thinking over the pieces of information he’s been given. Dr. Sattler presses her lips into a thin line, her bright blue eyes scrutinizing the film to the very end, and when the odd theater-ride stops, all three immediately turn to face Hammond, scrambling to have their questions answered like a bunch of overeager kids.

“It’s alright, I’ll show you, you’ll have a chance to ask the scientists themselves”, Hammond assures them. 

Owen appreciates the doctors’ urgency in moving the ride’s safety rail, scurrying just behind Dr. Sattler before Ian remembers that he’s there and slows down, dropping a hand on his shoulder to keep track of him. 

“Should we be allowing children into the lab?” Mr Gennaro asks once he and Mr. Hammond catches up, eying Owen shrewdly. 

“I won’t touch anything”, Owen promises at the same time that Ian says, “I’ll keep an I on him”, and while Mr. Gennaro doesn’t look convinced, Mr. Hammond seems to think it’s perfectly fine. 

“I wouldn’t want to leave the lad alone while everyone else is enjoying themselves”, Hammond hums, ruffling Owen’s hair.

Henry had been warned that there would be guests in the lab sometime before they had to leave for the mainland to wait out the storm, so he isn’t surprised when John waltzes into the lab with several people trailing behind him, each of them with an expression of awe and wonder. 

“G’day Henry!” John greets.

John had told him about that feeling he wished to inspire in people with these animals, of humbling them through the sheer magnitude of discovery and Henry would be lying if he said that his chest wasn’t welling with pride over his work. He had always hoped to do something grand, something special, a breakthrough in genetics that would mark his page in history, and this is something that he would have never dreamed of being possible. John may have been the one who approached him, but it was his own brilliance that had led his team of geneticists to success. 

He watches curiously (a bit warily) as the child of the group wanders over to the incubating eggs, brows pinched, his head tilted slightly to the side. A moment later, Dr. Grant joins him, a curious look to both of them and Henry suddenly straightens as he wonders if they might be what he thinks they are. 

“I think one of ‘em’s gonna hatch soon”, Owen says, jumping slightly when not a second after he’s done speaking, one of the eggs begins to wobble and everyone else quickly crowds around it, pushing him closer to the incubator. 

Henry observes carefully, noting the way Owen’s face screws up with discomfort, fingers pressing against his temple as the little creature struggles to break through its egg, the way Dr. Grant seems almost frozen even as he leans down to get a closer look, eyes round and moonlike. 

Fascinating, Henry thinks, scribbling a small note on the margins of his report sheet.

He can feel the tiny thing’s mind before the first cracks appear, and for a moment Alan can’t hear the other voices in the room, not Hammond introducing them to the head geneticist, nor Ellie commenting on the impressive amount of automation, he barely even notices Owen anymore despite him commenting first about the egg. 

The tiny thing comes out hissing, sharp littling claws pushing and scraping through the membrane, little needle teeth snapping even as Hammond removes a piece of eggshell from its head. Its thoughts are warbling, formless, likely calling out for a parent that Alan doesn’t think exists. John explains that he’s there for the birth of every single animal, that they imprint on the first thing they see and there’s something that sharpens in Alan’s chest when he realizes that the little thing’s eyes are on him, crooning out for him . 

The spell is broken when Ian brings up concerns that hadn’t occurred to Alan at all, about the sort of manipulation of nature that John’s scientists were attempting. Ian sees things in shades of chaos, and while Alan doesn’t completely agree with his theories, he does see the merit in what he says, the caution with which he approaches things because Alan has been a scientist himself for far too long to know that very few things were set in stone. 

Discovery and evolution are tricky things. 

Holding the little dinosaur in his hands is a strange feeling, its thoughts beginning to clear up a little as it instinctually calls for a pack , and Alan feels his blood freeze, fingers pausing against its- her- mouth where its teeth threaten to draw blood. The structure of it is familiar to him, the claws, so, so tiny but already razor sharp and he’d be a fool to not recognize it, but…

“What species is this?” he asks softly. 

“Velociraptor”, says Dr. Wu, looking up from his clipboard. 

Oh god , Alan thinks, looking at the tiny, snarling creature in his hands, little screeches hissed from between its teeth, “You bred raptors.”

“Are you alright?”

Owen looks up at Dr. Sattler, her mouth pulled down in a concerned frown, having slowed her pace to match his when she realized that he had been lagging behind the group. Ian had told him he could stay in the visitor’s center if he wanted, since they would be going right back after viewing the raptor paddock (as Alan had demanded), but despite the pain in his head, Owen wants to see them too, drawn in like a magnet. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I think it’s just the heat getting to me”, Owen lies. The humidity is thick and Owen’s been sweating since they arrived on the island so it’s not entirely false. 

“Alan gets pretty bad headaches too”, Sattler nods, her pace stumbling when they hear the loud, piercing screech of what could only be a fully grown raptor. Owen claps his hands over his ears, nearly stopping all the way at the wall of noise that wracks his brain as they close in on the paddock. 

“It’s alright, honey, I’m sure it’s safe”, Sattler murmurs, gently pushing him to catch up with everyone else. 

Ian’s frowning at the harnessed cow they’re dangling over the top of the cage while Dr. Grant’s face is somewhere between fascination and disgust. Owen can hear the raptors loud and clear, waiting on opposite sides of the paddock, curiously prodding at him, new, new, what are you? Not pack, food, food is being brought down, but what are you? And Owen feels a shiver crawl up his spine, fingers tightening around the handrail because he doesn’t know if his mind is being torn apart or expanding. The cow is dull in comparison, confused as to why its hooves aren’t on the ground and Owen feels bad for it, heart crawling up his throat at the raptor’s rising excitement. 

He knows that the cow isn’t even all the way down when the raptors pounce, screaming as they eat with a horrible ferocity. 

“They should all be destroyed”, chimes a new voice, and Hammond introduces them to Robert Muldoon, a man who looks at the raptor paddock with less intrigue than he does with a certain certainty of doom. 

“No need to be so alarmist, we spared no expense on security of course”, Hammond chides him before turning to answer a few questions from Ian and Sattler. 

Owen is more interested in the questions that Dr. Grant asks, the ones about the raptor’s intelligence. 

“They show problem solving intelligence”, Muldoon says gravely. “Especially the big one. That’s why we have to feed them like this. She had the others attacking the fences every time the feeder came by. 

“But the fences are electric, aren’t they?” Dr. Sattler points out. 

“They are. They were testing them for weakness, never attacking the same place twice.” Muldoon glances over at the rustling foliage, the screeches of the raptors fiercesom in the momentary silence. “The remember.”

They know him , Owen realizes with a start as he shifts his focus back to the raptors. They’ve finished eating and the empty harness is being brought back up, torn to shreds and slathered in blood, and the raptors are cooing about the hunter, the hunter, does the hunter have a pack? He who smells like dust and youngling? Part of the hunter’s pack? 

The man who smells like dust ? Owen wonders. Not his dad, and obviously not Mr. Hammond. Dr. Grant?

He wants to lean forward on the railing, but Ian catches the back of his shirt and pulls him back, a low warning under his breath about that being dangerous. 

“Well! Who’s hungry?” Mr. Hammond’s cheery tone seems misplaced, but he herds them on regardless.

Lunch is a bit of a tense affair, and though it’s partially Ian’s fault, he doesn’t really care. His misgivings had begun when they’d entered the lab, and now they had grown into a bad feeling that sat bitter on his tongue, the reckless lack of humility that Hammond and Gennaro show as they talk about merchandising makes him feel sick. 

Seeing a dinosaur in the living flesh had been… stunning. Ian, in all his verboseness could not accurately describe the bubble of awe that had swelled in his chest when he’d seen it, vocalizing as it ate and seeing the birth of one had been a strange, almost mystical experience, one he could barely fathom. Even the raptors, horrifying as they were, had been breathtaking in the way that only dangerous animals on the hunt like that could be. But the idea of this being anything more than a testing of theories, of these scientists and Hammond pushing to put a price tag on this feels wrong. 

He isn’t shy about letting his opinion be heard either, pointing out that for all their security measures, for all their planning, there were things they simply couldn’t predict. 

Ellie nods. “Sure, we have theories on how these animals lived, but nothing concrete, and you can’t assume that you’ll know how any one animal will react to another. John, it’s one  thing to do something like this when you’re keeping it contained, but you want to add in tourists and kids and- and it just seems-”

“It seems reckless”, Ian finishes. 

Hammond turns beseeching eyes to Alan, who had been quiet until this point, his expression neutral as Ian and Ellie explained their misgivings. His opinion is a little less harsh, but it isn’t the positive that Hammond had been hoping for, his expression a little disbelieving as he looks between the three scientists. 

“To think I brought you out here to defend me, but the only one I have on my side is the bloodsucking lawyer”, Hammond laughs incredulously. 

Ian hazards a glance at his son, remembering for the first time that he’s there and winces a little. This had been a bit of an intense conversation to have in front of a ten year old, but he doesn’t regret it. He’s made his stance clear, and it’ll take more than John’s assurance that he knows what he’s doing to change his mind. 

The conversation, and subsequently lunch, come to an end when a server comes to whisper something in Hammond’s ear. John quickly recovers his wide grin at whatever news he’s received, steepling his hands together. 

“They’re here”, he announces.

“Grandpa!” shout the children, a teenage girl and a boy Owen’s age, as they run into the visitor’s center and knock Hammond down the stairs. 

Alan does not appreciate the look of excitement that Ellie shoots back at him, having already had to hold back a grimace at it when she had seen Malcom appear with Owen trailing behind him. He doesn’t bother holding back his chagrin this time, feeling very, very tired all of a sudden.