AN: The style is meant to be evocative of Bakker's and with the first paragraph deliberately mirroring the opening of Bakker's work. This copying is not meant as plagiarism, and I give Bakker full credit. I can only hope this work captures the spirit of his, a raptor's story from her own point of view.
If you haven't read it, I encourage you all to track down a copy.
A pair of fierce but beautiful eyes blink in the light, not sunlight, but the cold artificial white light of a Jurassic World hatchery. The eyes look upward as she pushes her way out of the shell, above her is a low glass ceiling, the lid of an incubator that was automatically raised when the eggs showed signs of movement. The eyes belong to a baby raptor, a female who is the first of the clutch to hatch.
The nest in which she is born exists is more akin to a laboratory than a nesting ground. She sniffs the air but cannot catch an organic scent, her nose overwhelmed by the sterile scent of alcohol. She continues to sniff all the same, trying to catch the scent of others like her, as her eyes continue search for her parents.
Raptor chicks are helpless when they hatch, and rely entirely on the protection of their parents and flock. Even now, born million of years away from a time where her kind lived and bred, the need for the nurturing touch of her mother is written in her DNA, as her need for food. She is born hungry and lonely, her shrill cries are calls for help.
If the chick could put her thoughts into a human language, the might be: Mommy? Where are you? Here I am mommy! Hungry! I need you.
"Why didn't you tell me they were hatching?" asks a man rushing into the lab. He is not dressed in a white sterile lab coat, but a simple shirt and cargo pants.
When he leans over the nest, she catches the scent of dirt and the salt of his skin. His flesh is the first real, organic scent she's caught. While the chick does not understand the human's words, her only focus is on him.
"We weren't sure when they'd all hatch or how many would be viable. We were going call you once we'd transferred the healthy chicks to the nursery," says one of the hatchery's attendants from behind her clipboard. The chick cannot smell her, she is not close and her scent is masked behind latex gloves, a plastic head cap, and disinfectant. "We'll need to weigh her and take her vitals."
"Can it wait?" asks the man. His name is Owen Grady. He is an animal behaviorist. Guided by the works of Dr. Harding and Dr. Grant, he has come to theorize the existence of a strong familial bond between raptors beginning the moment the chicks hatch and, like some modern birds, imprint on the first thing they see.
He brings his face close to hers, their eyes locked on each other. He reaches out to touch her, stroking her neck. She trills a happy purring sound, and then screeches again and opens her mouth like a young bird waiting for food. Owen reaches into his backpack and retrieves a bag of fruit beetle grubs, specially raised and fed to be stuffed full of nutrients. He picks up the grubs one by one with feeding tongs and offers them to the chick.
"Mr. Grady?" asks the scientist.
"These first moments are critical," he says. "I don't know how much you know about the first raptors humans tried to raise in captivity."
"I'm familiar with the Jurassic Park incident," she replies.
Owen continues to feed the chick as he speaks, staying close to her. The close presence of another warm living thing comforts the young raptor as much as the food he is giving her.
"I mean how they were raised, one at a time, separate, never socialized with each other or people. Any bonds they formed as chicks were broken since it was a team of scientists handling them. Even before the park lost power, there were problems. The majority of the raptors they bred were killed by the big female before they ever had a chance to escape."
"Isn't violence common in nature?" she asks.
"Depends on what animals," he replies, "'course there's nothing like them living, but when you look at pack hunters with complex social structures you don't see mass killings. Male lions will fight for dominance, kill rival's cubs to bring the lionesses into heat, but aside from changes in dominant males the pride is cohesive. In wolves, there's no such thing as an alpha subduing the pack trough strength, the leaders are the ones who take care of the others."
"So you think by becoming their leader, you can tame them?"
"No, trained isn't the same as tame," he says, "A falconer might train a bird to kill for him, but it'll never be tamed. These animals are killers, and once they're bigger one wrong move-" He trails off, and strokes chick's neck again once she's had her fill. "Up 'til now raptors have been deemed too aggressive to be put on display, but maybe if I raise 'em right they'll be manageable. At least for me."
"I'll leave you too it then," she says, "but I will need to give her a check up eventually. For now, subject Bravo appears healthy."
"Bravo?" he asks.
"You'll be their Alpha, we've named the rest alphabetically. She's the first; we'll name them as they come. We've selected for a range of color variations, so you'll be able to tell them apart. She the stripe on her side."
"Bravo the blue," he says, "my little Blue."
The chick nuzzled against him then stands, stumbling towards Owen on unsteady legs. He picks her up gingerly and holds her close. She takes in his scent fully, comforted it by it. The raptor has imprinted on his face and will memorize ever detail of Owen, the way he smells, and the sound of his voice. Mommy is here. I love you, Mommy.