A/N: This story is otherwise known on my labtop under the label "In which I Found a beautiful prompt and decided to raise it as my own (after getting permission, of course, as Ao3's wonderwhatthisbuttondoes, the author responsible for this lovely prompt, was kind enough to let me take it in and raise it to be an actual story), because dead!Raptor Squad and no Squad!Owen makes me a Sad Panda."
NOTE #1: I have watched all the films, including 2015's Jurassic World, BUT I have not (not yet, because I definitely plan to when I have time!) read the actual book series. Therefore, any and all usage/depictions of the characters, places, dino-science, etc. in this story are set in a post-Jurassic World ending AU that adheres partly to film!verse logic, and partly to whatever my own tea-soaked brain can come up with after ideas hatched once I began reading so many lovely stories for this fandom.
NOTE #2: No dead raptors here. Absolutely none at all. I don't care how insanely ridiculous and non-canonical it is, this (and any Jurassic Park/Jurassic World fanwriting, really) is still set in a universe where you can have dinosaurs cloned and created from mosquito-filled amber (never mind the 6.8 million year DNA half-life expiration date getting handwaved), as well as the DNA of tree frogs, cuttlefish, and human beings. I pay no tribute to that strange thing that most sensible people call logic, nor the equally wily beast called Canon.
Note #3: As with all of my stories, updates are over 85% likely to be sporadic and consist of either really long, or really short chapter uploads, as I have a massive amount of schoolwork and side-projects to deal with over 95% of the time and can't always get time to write. Please keep this in mind, as I will do my best to update when I can, and make it worth your while to read.
OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: I have not, currently do not, and undoubtedly will never, ever own anything pertaining to Mr. Michael Chrichton's glorious Jurassic Park literary works, nor the also amazing Jurassic Park film franchise. Please don't feed me to the Mosasaurus, the second set of terrifying sharp teeth in the upper palate would mean no escape from becoming a human-sized appetiser.
WARNING: Violence, foul language, death scenes (not of main characters!), detailed descriptions of blood, gore, and dinosaur hunting scenarios. Dubious understanding (internet, don't fail me now!) of Jurassic Park and Jurassic World dino-science and (what is likely to be butchering of, unfortunately) actual biological science. Please prepare yourself for possibly squicky moments!
Working with an injured human often proved, no matter if one ranged from being a simple good Samaritan trying to keep someone alive while calling for help to a fully-qualified surgeon about to perform risky open-heart heart surgery or beyond, to be a rather trying experience, especially given the varying degrees of pain and damage involved, the medical supplies available, and the injured party's willingness and ability to cooperate.
Working with a velociraptor, was, as one could easily imagine, quite a bit harder, in no small part due to the viciously-sharp sickle claw, the equally dangerous mouthful of sharp teeth and enhanced senses, or even the simple fact that the average raptor weighed in at roughly several hundred pounds and had millions of years of ingrained killer instinct to use in combination with the kind of predatory intelligence that allowed for opening doors, setting traps, and solving every last puzzle they had ever been given.
Suffice to say, it was still a far cry better than when he was working with Hoskins.
Owen Grady had been called many things over the course of his life, including "a lunatic with no self-preservation instincts!" (his mother still claimed his decision to join the Navy and work with dolphins for underwater minefield location was the seed that turned into both an ulcer and the reason for her aspirin-stuffed medicine cabinet), an insanely hard worker (and "Not in a good way, Owen!", as Barry was able to recount a dozen instances of him staying overnight at the raptor enclosure during the first month to reassure the pack that their all-too-breakable human Alpha had not decided to abandon them and that Blue was not allowed to usurp his position, even with the occasional ambush thrown in), "A complete failure of a dating possibility" (Claire would let go of the Board Shorts incident when the Mosasaur grew legs instead of flippers and walked on land), and, fueled by the concerned whispers of lab workers who had caught him sneaking into the raptor hatchery at night to watch over the eggs, "The Raptor Whisperer". To his girls, the scaly, fierce, terrifyingly smart apex predators that haunted the dreams of Alan Grant even today, he was "Alpha", the raptor-who-wasn't that had hand-raised them in both his home and the eventually built enclosure, bottle-fed them pureed meat when their infant teeth had yet to fully sharpen enough to rip through an entire pig, taught them a hundred and one tricks and commands and had the scars to prove it. He was the one who had brought them up with both affection and stern teachings, rode with them into battle, and had watched as their world had torn itself apart within all of a few moments, and rewritten with missing pieces (pack gone dead no no no) that same night.
Now, however, the lone remaining dinosaur trainer and handler of the ravaged Jurassic World theme park had found himself with a new title: impromptu field medic.
Surveying what he had to work with, Owen could only offer equal parts mental cursing and thanks.
On one hand, they were alive. Beaten, bruised, exhausted, with more injuries than should ever be for their species in this day and age (especially considering how few actual threats they had compared to the rest of the park), but they were alive.
On the other hand, they were hurt. Owen still marveled that they had made it, given the circumstances (don't think about it don't think about it). He still could see the explosion from the launched missile as the InGen soldier fired directly at Charlie, smell the horrific scent of roasted flesh from the restaurant incinerator when Delta had been thrown in, hear the sickening crunch as the Indominus' jaws closed tight, a flesh-and-bone bear-trap of too many teeth around Echo's struggling body before flinging her away like a child's toy...
Nope, not gonna think about it. Definitely not.
He wrapped another round of salve-smeared bandages around Charlie's burnt, scaly skin, wondering grimly what the chances were that infection wouldn't set in. Indecision could be just as dangerous as the actual injuries. If he left her skin exposed, the wound could "breathe" and might heal faster, but the winds that often plagued the island weather would carry the scent of blood and weakened flesh for miles, a beacon for any of the escaped carnivorous dinosaurs that had gotten loose during the initial havoc. They couldn't afford any extra dangers. Owen may have worked with some of Earth's most lethal land-bound predators for over half a decade now, but he knew all too well that the gun he'd taken during the initial park destruction would be next to useless if any of the meat-eating former exhibits descended on his home en mass.
No, no, don't think about that either. Just...just focus.
Focus; yes, he could do that. Focus on what was in front of him right now, not the grisly what-ifs of the potential future. They were here, they were still alive and breathing (he refused to think too deeply on Charlie's wheezing gasps for air, Echo's rattling cough, Blue and Delta's pained hisses) and as long as he was still alive and breathing, they had a chance. A slim, pathetic little wisp of a chance, but it was still there and he was not letting go, dammit.
Smear burn salve on Charlie and Delta. Put antiseptic and bandages on Echo's bite-marks after cleaning out excess debris. Put antibacterial ointment on Blue's cuts and scrapes and hope (not pray, not for this, who would answer for what most likely were considered abominations anyway?) that the discoloration on her sleek, gunmetal-and-navy hide was not due to cracked ribs or internal bleeding creating surface bruises. Stuff everyone full of painkillers until they're woozy up to their eyeballs, so that Delta would stop trying to gnaw off the bandages and Charlie would stop making those pitiful little crooning hisses that sounded like she was a five-day-old hatchling begging for food again and he could breathe for a moment before the guilt crushed him (should've known should've anticipated this should've left the island should've could've would've shut up shut up SHUT UP).
Weary eyes looked at the supplies on hand. Antiseptic creams, antibacterial ointments, packaged syringes and over-the-counter medicines and syrups, countless bandages and swabs, boxes of surgical gloves, bottles of rubbing alcohol, tweezers, a bag crammed full of every bottle of the strongest dinosaur-friendly painkillers he could find from the vet's office (abandoned, door lying on the ground a dozen feet from where it was ripped off. No humans in sight. Coats and jackets left on waiting room chairs, they left in a hurry. Blood and glass on the floor, footprints lead outside. Two windows smashed open. Did one of the Dimorphodons fly in by mistake?). Owen had taken everything that looked it like might even be remotely useful, including a dental equipment bag from the park's staff-only hospital, a surgical scalpel, several large, battery-operated heating pads taken from the abandoned incubation rooms at the labs, and an restaurant defibrillator that had been part of the standard help services available.
Better too much than too little, I guess.
The mixing bowl's contents had fouled again. Frowning at the bloody water he'd just rinsed his hands in, he walked out onto the dock, bowl in hand, and tossed it out into the lake, watching the thin, web-like strands of red vanish as they mixed together. The bowl had emptied, but for a few moments, the water was murky and churning as fish loomed up out of the depths to examine the source of the odd smell.
Need to remember the fish for later, he noted to himself. A supply drop to the island was highly unlikely, given the evacuation of the entire park earlier, and scavenging food and water from the abandoned stores would only be viable during daylight hours, when he was at least able to see if something was hunting him. Fish would offer protein, Omega-3 fatty acids, vitamin D, and a way to possibly keep Echo from chewing off her bandages due to the promise of something to kill and eat. Before the carnage caused by the Indominous incident, he'd fished when he had the time to, the act a hobby, a cheap and easy way to mentally de-stress from the exhausting, constant pressures of maintaining Alpha status in a den of carnivorous pack members; now, it was a potential survival method, and possibly one of the few ways to get a somewhat steady supply of nutrients once the park ran out of unexpired packaged goods.
Need more bait. He looked at the empty bucket as he picked it up off the end of the dock, the grimy quarter-inch of dirty water at the bottom seeming to mock him. He looked back at the bungalow, staring into the nearest window and watching for a flutter in the drawn curtains. In his mind's eye, Owen was jarringly revisited by flashes of squealing, live pigs, whole and pink and fat, running in fear from sickle-claws and razor-sharp teeth as four sets of feet stalked their prey with the lazy grace of a predator toying with their food.
Need lots more bait.
He began to put the bucket back down; his hands involuntarily spasmed and the bucket dropped out of his grip, rolling across the wooden surface with a clatter that, somehow, suddenly, sounded much too loud. Owen looked at his hands for a moment, staring for a second at the fine tremors wracking the bloody digits. Need to stop that. Can't give them a reason to doubt me again.
Trembling in animals, when viewed by predators, generally implied a weakness of some sort, and after the fiasco with the Indominus, he was unwilling to provide another potential reason for them to distrust him. Yes, they had returned (and he would remember the sweet ache of that reunion in his bones for the rest of his days), but he knew now (no, not now, I always knew, I just didn't understand) that their relationship was not an invincible structure; like any other, it had its points where it could break, and where it could mend.
He was not willing to let it break again, ever.
He opened a bottle of water from the scavenged rations shoved into his backpack, dribbling a few capfuls onto a (relatively clean, but what did it matter? Raptors don't care about your stupid kitchen implements) dishtowel and scrubbing his hands clean until the skin felt raw. Taking a rock from the shore, he tied the bloodied towel around it, swung it over his head once, twice, then let it fly through the air and into the lake, sinking down after a moment. When he couldn't see the dirty white cloth (ghostly now, he thinks, it was a ghost that sank and I drowned it) at all anymore, he headed back inside, boots laced up tight enough to require a crowbar to pry them off his feet and ankles (can't take them off yet, what if I need to go out and get more supplies? Charlie needs more burn salve and Echo's still wheezing. Maybe I need to get a humidifier? and then he doubles over, fist buried in his own midsection from the sick urge to both cry and laugh, because who had ever heard of using steam to fix a genetically-modified hybrid predator's possibly pierced lungs?).
Dimly, his mind registered the sound of rain falling outside as he closed the door and shoved a towel back into place under it, but he paid it no more attention than a lion would pay a blade of grass. There was a roof overhead, and he'd already boarded up the windows and put plastic over them (can't have the windows smashing open, glass everywhere and panicking everyone), and jammed over a dozen thick towels (taken from the park's hotel suites, no one was coming back to stay anyhow, so what was the harm? No one would want to stay in a five-star hotel when over a hundred of the last guests to check in got eaten before they could even come collect their luggage. No one wants to hear about the whirlpool Jacuzzi area, or the fully-stocked bar, or gourmet meals when they were just as likely to end up on the menu as the room service) into every crack or door seam to act as extra insulation. Even with the park's electrical generators offline for the foreseeable future in the wake of the dinosaur rampage and island evacuation, they were unlikely to suffer from a temperature drop or a moderate weather change.
He stared at the mess of his bungalow, taking in the sight of the four sleeping forms taking up the vast majority of his floor and bed. Blue had claimed the lion's share of the mattress, hissing softly at Echo when the other raptor had tried to climb on, but allowing the lower half of the bed to be used so long as she could claim the blanket and pillow. Delta had seized no less than four of the blankets Owen dragged out of his closet and arranged them into a makeshift nest a foot away from her sisters to curl in, arranging herself nose to tail. After several moments of soft chuffing and hisses, she moved over just enough to let Charlie crawl into the space between the nest and Owen's bed, effectively letting the youngest pack member squash between her older siblings. The air smelled sharp, almost tangy, overripe with the scent of sweat, blood, and antiseptic.
Owen, as he'd expected, was left to pick a spot in the bungalow to sleep in with the remaining bedding, and took the opportunity to set up a makeshift bed in the corner out of the leftover blankets and towels and a handful of shirts layered together for a pillow. Lying on his side and turning his head so that he could maintain eye contact, he lay down in the dark, the sheathed end of his knife digging painfully into his hip from where it was being pushed against the floor.
One hand held the handle, fingers wrapped around the length of metal and leather in a loose grip. A single pull up, and it would be free. His free hand reached from under the beach towel he was using for bedcovers (a little ripped, but it came from the Mosasaur's gift shop, so it was plenty big enough) and pulled the towel up to his chin, partly for warmth and partly for concealment.
The girls had all hatched as fully lethal life forms, armed to the teeth for a war fought millions of years ago, aided by a ravenous hunger and an even more ravenous intellect to match. He was hopeful that things would improve between them all with time and effort, but if things became too rough...
Owen was hopeful, but he wasn't stupid.
Besides, he thought, watching Blue's single visible golden eye from where she peered out from his bed, a raptor's got to have their own sickle-claw, right?