Part 2: Operation Sherwood

London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared, and battle come down, London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls…

The distant music floated on the wind, weaving its way between the trees of Hyde Park and eventually reaching the ears of Steven Muldoon. He turned up his collar against the brisk December breeze, cast a rueful glance to the skies and continued on his way home.

The sound of The Clash gradually faded as Steve left Hyde Park and made his way through the darkening East London streets. Streetlights began to ignite as he walked, each casting an individual, insignificant cone of light against the winter gloom. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed as a fire engine threaded its way through the rush hour traffic, no doubt on a mission to perform some act of heroism.

Heroism. Look where heroism gets you.

The bitter thought flashed through the young man's mind. He was a young man indeed now, at 18 years of age. Two years since he was orphaned.

Two whole years.

When stated in such a fashion it sounded like a long time, but the events of that fateful weekend on the Isla Nublar felt like they had occurred only yesterday. The physical pain had subsided long ago, but the mental pain was still there – as strong as ever, along with a tremendous sense of loss… A crippling feeling of emptiness that inescapably followed him throughout his every waking moment, and most of his sleeping ones.

Steve had despised his time in Hospital during the immediate aftermath of the Isla Nublar incident. He could remember waking up for the first time, aware of the uncanny sensation of being somehow distanced from his aching, battered body. People had been there, smartly dressed ones, sitting at the foot of his bed. One of them had asked how he was feeling, before inquiring if Steve would mind answering a few questions. Steve had nodded groggily, but was not expecting the barrage of questions that followed. Slowly, he had answered them as best he could - they were mainly geared around Jurassic Park, what he had seen, what he had done. This had brought home to Steve the fate of his father, the realisation sweeping over him like a tide and causing the tears saved from outside the maintenance shed to flow. Despite this, the questioning had continued and Steve, distressed and confused, gave increasingly vague answers until at last a doctor arrived and chased the suited men away.

Steve had been discharged from Hospital several weeks later and immediately flown to a large InGen complex in Washington – Steve couldn't remember where exactly, his memory was increasingly blurred from this point onwards. He was taken into a building that felt uncomfortably like the administration centre, back on the Isla Nublar. He had been ushered into a small office where several executives were waiting for him – Steve recognised a few of them as the same people that had questioned him in Hospital. He was told that his services as warden were no longer required, due to the immediate closure of the Jurassic Park enterprise. Of course, Steve had immediately asked what was being done about his father's death, but was instantly shown a clause in his contract detailing that any incident involving Muldoon senior would result in instant termination of Steve's contract, no questions asked. There was also a clause regarding secrecy, stating that all employees were subject to certain signatory acts that the Muldoons had apparently agreed to – Bob had always joked about reading the small print. Dumbfounded, Steve had demanded to see John Hammond but was told, in so many words, to get lost.

Steve still had nightmares about this ordeal – possibly even more so than the actual happenings on the Isla Nublar. After all, he had been brought up as a hunter, and facing dinosaurs in combat was no different to taking down a bloated man-eater. But this complete and utter abandonment was something else altogether – in every sense of the word, he was alone, and this scared him far more than any Reptilian horror ever could.

Steve had never told anyone about his nightmares, nor his past for that matter. Even if InGen hadn't sworn him to secrecy, there was nothing to be gained from grassing the company up – besides, who in their right mind was going to believe an 18-year-old refuse collector of dubious national tax authenticity. That was what he was reduced to now, of course – Steve no longer led the demanding life of a game warden. Instead, he spent his days traipsing the streets of old London town, tracking nothing more dangerous than Poodles and hunting only tin cans and crisp packets – objects not known for their deadly nature.

Living the dream.

Although Steve had lost almost all of his possessions on the Isla Nublar, his passport and savings had been kept on the mainland by InGen and subsequently returned to him. The money had been just enough to buy him a flight to Heathrow and rent him a grubby little East London flat. He considered it better just to lay low and get on with life after Jurassic Park, not to mention life after Bob Muldoon. Steve had been brought up to take care of himself and had no problem staying alive – it was just the absence of a friendly face that was the issue.

Steve was nearing the end of his short walk through the maze of residential streets and back alleys that lead to the estate containing his abode. The final passageway was the longest and coincidently the darkest, as the watery winter sun had almost completely faded into black by the time he reached it. He entered the alley and strode on, hunching his shoulders against the freezing wind that was funnelled down the urban valley of tower blocks and multi-story car parks.

Steve was about half way down the passageway when he noticed them at first – a group of about six youths, each brandishing a small bottle in hand and frequently taking swigs of the liquid contained within. Somehow, Steve doubted that it was orange juice.

He considered his next move; the gang were at the far end of the alley, meaning that he could easily turn back and take the long way round to his estate. A while ago, Steven Muldoon would have simply walked on and taken his chances with the gang – after all, this was the man who fought rogue Lions, rampaging Elephants and escaped Velociraptors for living, so a drunken group of kids should pose no threat to him whatsoever. But now things were different, and the thought of carrying on didn't even cross Steve's mind. Something had changed in the young man in the aftermath of Jurassic Park – it was as if a part of him had been left behind on that tropical island he knew so well. A part of him he had never recovered.

The cold wind whipping about him, Steve wearily turned on his heel and retraced his steps out of the alley. As he neared the end of passage, he heard a noise from behind and glanced back over his shoulder – there was some kind of disturbance among the youths.

It seemed a figure had entered the alley from the end nearest the gang and walked slap bang into them. The figure was a boy of about fourteen and looked to be carrying a rucksack. Steve could hear raised voices and, as far as could make out, the youths wanted something from the newcomer. Apparently, this something was not delivered, and a scuffle broke out. The fight didn't last long and the boy was soon pinned against the wall by two of the gang members, while the others went through his rucksack. Then, there was an exclamation of tipsy triumph as one of the searchers pulled out a small item and waved it aloft. Steve was frozen; he could do nothing more than stand there and watch, his fascination similar to when he had watched the Tyrannosaur devour the trouser-less lawyer two years ago – except this time, in a situation where he could possibly be of greater use, doing nothing.

At this point, the boy said something that obviously angered his captors and received a punch for his troubles. The two holding him shoved him to the floor and unleashed a barrage of kicks, the kid curling up in an attempt to protect himself from the violent onslaught. One of the other youths eventually pulled the two attackers away from their victim and the group moved out of the alley, laughing amongst themselves and smashing their bottles on the ground.

Finally, Steve shook himself out of his daze. He took off back down the alley in the direction of the gang, moving faster than he had done for a very long time. He soon reached the crumpled body of the boy, who was struggling to stand.

"You okay?" Steve asked guiltily.

The kid ignored him and scrabbled about for his rucksack, his hand eventually clasping the straps. He finally managed to get to his feet and stumbled off into the night, back the way he had come just minutes before, leaving Steve standing in the alley, alone with his thoughts.

Shit.

Steve stared at the ground and saw blood – lots of blood. He cursed soundly and kicked the wall in frustration.

What the hell is happening to me!

Steve stood there for a few seconds before trudging out of the alley, glancing around for any trace of the boy or the gang more in hope than expectation. Of course, there was nothing to be seen.

He made his way up the external stairway at the back of his apartment block, the wind doing its best to rip him from the metal framework, and walked seven doors down. The eighth was his. His frozen hands fumbled with his keys and, as the first flecks of snow began to fall, he let himself in and slammed the door shut behind him.

The interior of the apartment was dark and Steve felt his way into the tiny kitchenette, his fingers following the wall until he reached the light switch. The lights buzzed on dimly, illuminating most of the apartment. He worked his way around turning on the lights, knowing which ones had working bulbs. This didn't take the young man long – there were only four rooms as such, separated by thin partition walls.

Steve removed his orange work jacket and threw it deftly onto a peg behind the door. As he did so, he saw there were three envelopes sitting on the doormat.

Strange… Who knows I live here?

He picked the three letters up and sat down on his grimy sofa. The first letter contained an invoice, demanding that he pay the outstanding rent on his flat, or else. Truth be told, Steve had been receiving these letters for weeks and nothing had happened – he hoped it would stay that way, at least until payday.

The second letter was encased in a spotless white envelope, of the kind often employed by legal firms, seeming very out of place in Steve's current surroundings. He ripped the letter open with a flourish, half expecting to find a court summons inside. Instead, he discovered the envelope contained a folded piece of A4 and a smaller, rectangular piece of thick paper.

Steve unfolded the A4 and took an involuntary intake of breath. The logo in the top right corner was that of InGen. The creators of Jurassic Park. His old employers. The company his father had lost his life serving.

How the hell did they know where to find me?

Needless to say, this was the first time Steve had received any sort of communication from the genetics company – he imagined they had conveniently forgotten he existed, especially considering the terms on which they parted. He hastily began to read the document.

Dear Mr. Muldoon,

I hope this finds you well.

I am writing to most humbly request your consultation upon a matter of the utmost importance. Unfortunately the nature of this advice is such that you will be required to attend a meeting at my place of residence, but please rest assured, your service fee will be more than adequate. In fact, I am offering you the sum of twenty thousand dollars in cash to be provided upon your arrival. I trust that you will not let me down.

I have included in this correspondence an aeroplane ticket to Washington D.C. and have also taken the liberty of arranging a private chauffeur to collect you from the airport and transport you to my abode upon the arrival of your flight.

Yours sincerely,

John Hammond

C.E.O.

InGen Corp.

Steve had to read the letter again, and then once more before it sunk in.

Firstly; what an utter, utter bastard.

Secondly; why on earth would he ask for my help after all this time?

Thirdly; when it was me in trouble, he wouldn't even face me like a man. Palmed me off like a bloody stray dog. But when it's the other way round, he expects me to come running!

Fourthly; but twenty thousand dollars?! I could pay my rent for years with that and still have enough to buy a proper telly…

Bewildered, Steve took a closer look at the smaller piece of paper – it was indeed an airline ticket, from London Heathrow to Washington. The date of the flight was, funnily enough, tomorrow.

The question really is, do I want to get involved with InGen and that wanker Hammond again? Probably better to keep away from him and his shitty corporation, healthier too…

Steve could think of plenty of reasons either way, but eventually the rent invoice, lying discarded on the table, caught his eye – and in particular, the line that read "Final Notice: Outstanding Payment".

Well then, looks like I don't have a bloody choice. Can't risk getting turfed out of this old place, I've nowhere else to go.

Steve came to a reluctant conclusion. He tossed the letter down and walked over to a large cupboard, secured with a combination padlock. This was the only object in the flat that belonged to Steve; the other furnishings (if they could be described as such) came along with the apartment.

Steve set the tumblers on the well-worn padlock to the correct position – the numbers read 7734 – and it slipped open with a slight click. Inside, the apparently unremarkable cupboard contained all of Steve's worldly possessions: his passport and documents, an envelope containing a small quantity of loose change, an old alarm clock, a pair of white overalls (courtesy of the hospital), a couple of t-shirts, his combat trousers & hunting belt, Bob Muldoon's hat, a pocketbook and a small plastic card.

The latter two objects had been gifts from the Murphy children – they had visited Steve shortly after he woke up in hospital. Obviously under orders, they had awkwardly thanked him for his help and wished him well before being ushered out by two people Steve assumed to be their parents. However, despite drifting in and out of consciousness, Steve distinctly remembered Lex distracting her mum and dad by pointing out the window, giving Tim a chance to place two small objects on the warden's bedside table. Then, he had hauled his small frame up onto the hospital bed and whispered in Steve's ear, "When you're better, come and see me back home. I want to know all about the Triceratops."

On Steve's bedside table was a small paperback book, entitled "The Spotter's Guide to Dinosaurs". Adorably, Tim had written out his full name and address on the inside cover, just in case.

The other object was a small piece of plastic card upon which was inscribed the code "XP-011972", along with the Jurassic Park logo. Steve supposed Lex must have taken it from the control room before things got greasy and figured he should have it back.

Steve picked up the book and carefully turned the pages. On each there was a picture of a dinosaur, along with a paragraph on the depicted animal's characteristics. Steve smiled as he saw the faded pencil tick beside the picture of a Triceratops for the umpteenth time – Tim had seen that one.

Steve reached deeper into the cupboard and pulled out the alarm clock, padlocked the doors shut and consulted the airline ticket again, setting the hands on the clock accordingly. He stood for a moment, preparing himself; then hit the light switch and slumped down on the sofa, instantly falling into a fitful sleep.

There were lights above his head, extremely bright ones, their brilliant glare mirrored in his eyes – he wasn't sure how he knew that…

He suddenly became aware there were people standing by his bed talking, just out of his field of vision, but try as he might, he could not hear what was being said…

He tried to crane his neck and catch a glimpse, but this effort was brought up short by an almost material wall of agony searing through his body. His body? He couldn't feel his legs! He tried kicked out in fright, desperately attempting to reassure himself his limbs were still there. Sure enough, more pain exploded through his semi-consciousness. Steve was forced to keep still, the throbbing subsiding slightly as he did so…

Listening out, he noticed the voices by his bed had changed pitch – they were getting closer. He realised they were angry, but he couldn't for the life of him make out the words…

The speech echoed round his head, seeming to bounce off the walls of his skull. He knew he must have cried out in terror because the voices immediately began to recede, replaced by the feeling of strong hands gripping his body. They held him tighter and tighter still, He shook himself frantically, ignoring the returning agony but to no avail – they wouldn't let go! Exhausted, he summoned one last rush of energy and rolled over and over, falling down, away from those sharp, vicious hands…

**Thump**

Steve woke up on the floor.