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Tired, hungry, injured, and worst of all, terrified, The Handler practically dragged herself from atop the roof of the warehouse, shamefully limping her way towards her truck. Everything hurt. She herself had no idea how she even survived the large DPW transporting truck colliding with her, sending her flying into the wall, only to be stuck underneath a fallen concrete beam. She assumed the Atrociraptors must’ve moved it off of her before she woke up, since it was completely gone by the time she regained consciousness, allowing her to breathe. Other than that, everything else was a blur. She only remembered coming out of her temporary coma full of rage. Spending several days and weeks trying to assassinate these kids; her own blood sweat and tears were poured into tracking them down alone. To constantly be bested by these children only fueled her anger further, only to be bested by her own morality once she finally had them cornered.
Looking down from the roof, her gaze full of hatred and anger, she found herself blinded by her own frustration, that she almost didn’t notice when only one raptor showed up when she blew her whistle. It even took her a second to realize just how exhausted and injured her raptors were, hell, they could barely even stand up. Conflicted with her own feelings, and the feelings of her companions, she eventually chose to back down. She couldn’t possibly live with herself if she chose to blow the whistle and let the raptors sic’ the Nublar Five. The risk of death for the raptors were at an all time high by then, she just couldn’t dare to go through with it.
Even if Santos had something to say about it.
The trudge back to the truck was not only painful physically, but emotionally. Just watching her raptors struggle to even walk made her own heart ache. She couldn’t imagine what would’ve happened had she decided to press on with her task. Making it back to the truck with everyone alive was a win enough.
The Handler pressed her back against the side of the truck, sliding down till she was sitting on the ground. She sucked the air through her teeth, clutching her left arm as it throbbed in pain if she were to even move it by an inch. Taking in shallow breaths, she looked up to the sky through half-lidded eyes, the exhaustion beginning to take a toll on her. All she could think about at this moment was how pissed Santos would be once she told her she failed at her task. Surely the consequences would be severe, but then again, if the raptors were dead, Santos probably wouldn’t be too happy about losing her “assets” either, so overall it would be a lose-lose situation. Seems like the Nublar Five weren’t the only ones backed into a corner.
The Atrociraptors flopped onto the ground right next to her, their own breathing patterns matched with hers, showing just how exhausted the entire family was. The knot in her stomach composed purely of guilt only tightened when she saw the cuts and lacerations all over the raptors bodies. Letting out a shaky breath, she patted Ghost on the head, who gladly melted into her touch, chuffing and purring as she stroked her rough scales. Tiger and Panthera shifted their large bodies closer to her, resting their heads on her legs, making the same affectionate noises the albino Atrociraptor made. It was amusing to her that the Atrociraptors were this quick to forgive her over a mistake she partially caused because she wasn’t careful enough. During the excruciating trudge back, she had swarms of thoughts in her head, telling her that she should’ve been more cautious of her surroundings, been quicker with her reaction times, blow her whistle quick enough rather than waste precious time teasing her victims before killing them off. Maybe if she had killed Cabrera earlier rather than wasting time standing there listening to him and Jensen go back and forth, she could’ve not only completed her tasks, but have also kept any injuries both to her and her raptors from occurring.
But despite her mistakes, the Atrociraptors continued to snuggle and reassure her as if she had only unintentionally stepped on their tails rather than almost cause their deaths. Their blood was on her guilty shaking hands, and yet they sought their touch on their aching bodies. It almost made her laugh seeing just how empathetic these beautiful creatures were, and just how much they cared for their family, and the fact they saw her as part of it.
Their comfort was enough to get her to lift herself slowly and achingly off the ground, reaching into her pocket for the little button to open the compartments designated for each raptor. But as they opened, the raptors simply stared into them, and back at her, as if they were hesitant to go in; confused, she blew a long breath into her whistle, a specific command for them to retreat into their compartments, but they never moved an inch. In fact, they lowered their heads, chittering at her, like they were trying to tell her something, making high pitched chuffs, almost like the whine of a dog. It had only just occurred to her that the compartments were a few feet above the ground, to which the Atrociraptors were required to leap into, but because of their injuries, getting in would prove difficult. They looked to her for assistance, and so, without hesitance, she provided; she owed them the world anyway, the least she could do is help them into their compartments.
First, she gently pushed Panthera to the edge of the compartment, till he was facing it, his arms propped onto the ledge. Behind him, The Handler positioned her hand on her good arm on his hamstring, using the side of her body where her bad arm was to provide extra support as she pushed him into the compartment while he lifted himself with all his strength, until he was successfully inside. He chirped a “thank you” as The Handler was hunched over gasping for air after having to push and support an over two hundred pound theropod off the ground using one arm. She slowly moved her head towards the two remaining raptors, who waited patiently for her to lift them as well, their eyes big and happy as if they completely forgot about their injuries, and as if they’ve completely forgotten just how big they were. The Handler hesitated, not because of the fact that she had to push two more large dinosaurs into the truck, but because they only needed her help because in her head, their injuries were because of her stupidity. Even though her raptors reassured her in their own way that everything that happened wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t help but constantly think about ways that this could’ve all been avoided.
While assisting the remaining raptors into the truck, her mind wandered, and was stuck on how she’d exactly handle a situation like this. Her raptors were injured, as well as she, the facility she was supposed to secretly keep an eye on was a complete mess, and all five of the people she had a hit on, she chose to let get away. Her stomach ached, not just from lack of proper nutrition from the days she’s been on the road, but the nerves of what might come next after this.
She slowly stumbled to the driver’s side of the truck, her hand still clutching her injured arm; taking in slow breaths to conserve what little energy she had left. Even getting into the truck was exhausting enough, no wonder the raptors needed her help…
Before even starting the engine, she sat there, her head leaned back on the headrest, taking in deep breaths. Her throat felt dry, and good lord she was sweating like crazy. She yearned for a shower desperately. She was so busy with her work she has completely disregarded herself and her own health. The inside of her truck was a mess, full of empty beef jerky wrappers, which were the only things she was surviving off of the whole time she was on the road. The adrenaline coursing through her had completely subsided by now, replaced only with the feeling of unease as she heard the sound of the ship’s horns blaring as it prepared to cast off. Just seeing the large sea vessel made her think about Santos, and the look on her face once she found out about all the mess that had occurred at this one facility alone.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone, which was somehow still intact despite the several cracks on the screen protector. Opening it to the pre-set home screen and wallpaper she never bothered to personalize and change. She had more important matters than personifying this phone she’d most likely end up disposing of later.
She stared blankly at the messages icon, seeing that little number in the top corner of the app. She only had a few contacts saved. One being Jensen, some other workers, Captain Lang, hell even Darius Bowman when she called him to check if he was still in his cabin, before her horrid attempt at an assassination. It wasn’t until she was pulled out of her swarm of thoughts when Jensen suddenly began calling her. She stared deadpan at his contact for a good few seconds, unsure if she should answer it or not. She was frozen in place, her thoughts still swarming in the back of her head that she didn’t even realize the call had suddenly cut out. Her gaze returning back to the messages icon. Letting out a shallow huff, she opened it, the pinned contact being Santos’s. And of course, a string of messages that she had sent Santos earlier, majority of it being coordinates, locations, addresses, invoices, DPW files, etc etc.
And of course, a more recent message, from just two hours earlier.
"Is it finished?" Written in that grey chat bubble. It being Dudley Cabrera’s assassination, The Handler assumed.
Trailing her pale fingers along the keyboard, she typed out a simple, short reply.
"Yes. All taken care of." She paused, before she’d send it off. Debating whether or not she should mention the fact the entire facility as a whole now was destroyed, but of course, Santos would ask why, and she’d be forced to tell her it was the work of the Nublar Five, whom Santos most likely already assumed that they’d be dead by now.
With another short breath, she sent it off. Not yet informing Santos about the Nublar Five, or the facility.
She grabbed the lever of her seat, pulling it back so she was now laying back, facing upwards at the ceiling. Her mind a hurricane of predictions of what’s to come. What would she do now that the Nublar Five were still alive, and with the Louisiana Facility no longer being secure. Would she go to another facility? Continue to hunt down the Nublar Five until they were all dead? Her brain was an absolute mess, the tapping of her fingers on the lever, still latching tight on to it, were the only sounds that filled the truck, besides her slow heavy exhales.
At least that journalist Nublar girl was dead. She thought to herself, feeling some form of relief that got at least one of the members. Would be a shame if she somehow survived, could she have survived…? No, definitely not.