A/N: What if Ian Malcolm had died in the first incident on Isla Nublar, and Robert Muldoon had survived, as in the books? This is a reworking of the second film, combining elements from both the films and the books to keep things interesting and unexpected. The characters are the film versions, with perhaps some elements from the books included, and Hammond is still alive.

Rated M for language and for potential sexual content further down the line. (And note that the title may be subject to change. I only tend to figure out a decent title halfway through a story)

All comments and concrit are hugely appreciated.

Chapter One

The Sound of the Rain

Robert should have known they wouldn't leave him alone for long. One way or the other, they'd figure out some way to drag him back into the whole bloody mess. When he saw Ludlow arrive, he was sitting at the bar in the pub that he'd started to think of as his local, a glass of single malt in his hand. No doubt the first of many.

He liked the pub. Its clientele was a strange mix: hikers, old men of indeterminate age, football fans, and groups of kids dressed up to the nines, stopping in for a quick pint before they moved onto the clubs in Keighley.

You didn't get pubs like this outside of England. In a place like this, the doubts couldn't creep in. Even when it was raining he only had to look around at his surroundings to remind himself that he was safe. If he went outside, it wouldn't be thick tropical jungle that met him, but narrow twisting streets and houses built of pale Yorkshire stone. Dry stone walls bordering muddy fields filled with soggy miserable-looking sheep...

Nothing to hunt him here.

No fucking dinosaurs.

Just Peter sodding Ludlow. Looking out of place in his expensive trench coat, and shaking the rain from his umbrella. He was thin and balding, with wire-rimmed spectacles that made him look prissy and ineffectual. But Robert, who was already aware of Ludlow's reputation, knew better. Prissy he might be, but he could also be vicious, and his eyes were already scanning the pub. He glanced at the group of football supporters with a moue of distaste, and then his gaze moved on, finally coming to rest on Robert.

He groaned inwardly. Foolish to think that screening his calls and throwing the letters away unread would be enough to get this bastard off his back. And Hammond had warned him, hadn't he?

Should have listened, Rob. Should have sent the message loud and clear: leave me the fuck alone.

Well, he'd get his chance now, because Peter Ludlow was weaving through the tables towards him.

"You're a hard man to find, Mr Muldoon," he said, perching on the edge of a bar stool with the air of a man who'd never perched on a bar stool in his life and wasn't all that happy about doing so now.

"I try."

Across the bar, the football supporters burst into a sudden roar. Ludlow winced and glanced around with a startled expression. Good God, Robert thought, eyeing him with distaste. You'd think the man had never been in a pub in his bloody life.

Ludlow beckoned Sean, the landlord, over with an imperious twitch of his fingers that set Robert's teeth on edge.

A twitch of Sean's eyebrows sent the message, 'friend of yours?' at Robert? And Robert gave a slight grimace and a shake of his head in reply. As Sean waited with barely concealed contempt, Ludlow ordered a glass of white wine, and then turned to Robert, eyebrows raised.

"And for you, Mr Muldoon?" His gaze darted to the whisky. "Another?"

Wordlessly, Robert tilted the glass in Sean's direction. The landlord turned away, poured their drinks. Ludlow paid, plucked his wineglass from the bar and gave it a suspicious, surreptitious sniff. He held it by the stem as if he was holding a rose. The football supporters began to roar again, the noise stuttering off when the striker fumbled the ball. Over the mutterings, one of them snapped, "You stupid fucker."

Ludlow flinched. Robert sipped his whisky, hiding a smile.

"Do you think," Ludlow said, picking his words, "that we could go somewhere a little quieter?"

"Here's quiet enough for me," Robert said, then he followed Ludlow's meaningful glance at the barman and he sighed. "Fine."

They moved through an archway to the quieter back room, heated by a real fire crackling in a stone fireplace. Robert paused to scratch behind the ears of the elderly black Labrador on the faded rug in front of the fire. It fixed him with mournful warm brown eyes and then huffed a heartfelt sigh, resting its chin back on its paws. Ludlow shrugged off the trench coat, and draped it over the back of a chair. As he slid along the banquette seating, Robert sat opposite him.

"You understand, of course," Ludlow said, "that this conversation remains confidential. As far as InGen is concerned, the non-disclosure agreement you signed remains in place."

Robert grunted. "How exactly did you find me?"

Ludlow smiled. Behind the glasses of his spectacles, his blue eyes were cold, almost reptilian. Robert felt a memory rise up in his mind, a memory of being hunted. It was a disconcerting feeling. This prim scrawny man was no threat at all to him, and yet still Robert felt a shiver of fear creeping down his spine. "I spoke to one of your neighbours. He mentioned you come here sometimes." He plucked the menu from the table and pretended to study it, his lip curling in distaste. "He said you come here a lot, actually."

"Well, they do excellent whisky," Robert said.

"Hmm." Another twitch of Ludlow's lips. He glanced around, eyeing the collection of horse brasses hanging above the fireplace. "Have you heard from my uncle?"

"Not since the funeral," Robert said. "He called to pay his respects. The usual, you know."

A slight tightening of Ludlow's lips. "Yes," he said, sipping his wine. "Your father, wasn't it? I'm sorry for your loss."

Robert inclined his head, thinking, you lying piece of shit.

"And he didn't mention... anything about Costa Rica? About InGen?"

Robert sipped his whisky, considered, then gave a shake of his head. "The topic didn't come up," he lied. "The call was brief. Bad connection. How is John Hammond these days?"

"I'm afraid his health is failing." Ludlow shrugged. There was no change in his expression, and Robert clenched his jaw. Not that he owed John Hammond much – the bastard had almost got him killed after all – but, damn it, he still liked the man. He deserved better from his family than this grasping greedy little shit.

And Ludlow was already changing the subject as if his uncle was the last thing he wanted to discuss. "I'd have thought you'd have gone back to Africa."

"I fancied being somewhere cold for a change."

Ludlow grunted, glanced at the window, at the glass streaked with rain. "Well, you came to the right place. Personally whenever I come back to England I can't wait to get back to the US."

Well, fuck off back there then. "The answer is no."

"I haven't even asked you a question, Mr Muldoon."

"Whatever the hell the question is. The answer is no."

Those cold eyes lingered on him. Robert wondered if he'd like Ludlow more if the bastard didn't remind him so much of a reptile. It was Ludlow's eyes that disturbed him, devoid of the warmth and twinkle in his uncle's. Although the two man actually had a lot in common. Grandfatherly Hammond may have been, but despite his act of kindly benevolence he had a deep and abiding love of money and power. And still, Robert liked him. Trusted him, despite his misgivings.

"Perhaps," Ludlow said, "if you'd just let me-"

"No."

"Mr Muldoon, I've come a long way to speak with you in person."

"Well." Robert lifted his glass. "Then I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey."

Ludlow's lips tightened. He stared at his wine, swirled it in the glass for a few moments, before he gave a final nod. "Are you certain my uncle hasn't contacted you?"

"I told you-"

"Other than to pay his condolences, I mean."

Robert didn't answer. Ludlow lifted his head and stared hard at him. And Robert felt another prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He felt the heat of the fire against his skin, and for a moment he was back there. Crouched in the jungle with the SPAS-12 shotgun in his arms, his gaze fixed on the creature – the fucking monster – half-concealed in the undergrowth. Knowing she would rip his guts out if she got the chance. Knowing she'd probably enjoy it.

Christ, he thought. The raptors are dead. They're all dead, you bloody fool.

But if they were dead, then what the hell was Peter Ludlow doing here? What on Earth could he want? If the animals on Isla Nublar were all dead, then why-

It doesn't matter what he wants.

"If you change your mind," Ludlow said, "you know how to get in touch. Even if it's just to talk things over, you'll be well compensated, I can assure you."

Robert gave him a thin smile. "I have no interest in working for InGen again, Mr Ludlow."

Another long silence, and then Ludlow gave a sharp little nod and adjusted his French cuffs. "I understand, of course, and I appreciate you giving your time, Mr Muldoon. And of course for your continuing discretion." He seemed to be about to say something more, then he gave a shake of his head. His sly little smile turned Robert's dislike of the man into active loathing. "Between you and me, I'm not altogether sure that I blame you."

"'Blame me'?"

But Ludlow was already on his feet, leaving the glass of wine half drunk. He reached for his coat, and pulled it on. "Good night, Mr Muldoon. The Labrador lifted its head with a whine as Ludlow moved past and out through the arch. Robert stared after him, eyes narrowed.

He doesn't blame me? What the fuck did he mean by that?

Then he gave himself a shake. It hardly mattered, did it? He'd finished with all that. He'd been considering retirement for a while, even before his father's death had drawn him back to England and away from his post at the tiger sanctuary in India. He'd liked the position, but he was getting too old for it really, and he couldn't stand the monsoon season. He'd managed to stick it out for two years before he realised just how much the sound of the rain drumming on the roof was getting to him. His fear, measured in units of bottles of whisky.

It was the rain and the heat, the smell of the sweat on his skin which never quite evaporated because of the humidity. It wasn't Costa Rica, but when he was tired and drunk and the rain was beating out its rhythmic tattoo on the ceiling, he began to imagine otherwise...

Yes, Yorkshire was cold. As far as Robert was concerned, that was one of its selling points. No mistaking Yorkshire for Costa Rica. Even when it was raining.

He was drunk by the time he said his goodbyes to Sean and made his way out of the pub and down the narrow street. Past the church, with its display of Remembrance Day poppy wreaths, and along the winding alley that ran alongside the beck. He could see the park beyong, the darkness between the trees. Somewhere a fox screamed, and Robert went still as he felt an itch on the back of his neck. The sensation of being watched, of being hunted. Then he gave himself a shake. He was being a fool. He hadn't intended to get so drunk tonight.

And his bloody leg was aching again.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and dropped his head back, feeling the rain on his face. The raindrops needled at his chapped skin as he crossed over the stone bridge. He paused halfway and leaned on the side, staring down at the water. The water in the beck was high, churning over the stones in a torrent.

I'm home, he thought, and wondered why he didn't believe it for a minute. He knew the answer. He hadn't thought of England as home for a long time. Strange to be in a country where the largest predators were badgers. Where he didn't have to worry about any of the wildlife trying to kill him.

John's right, he thought. And Ludlow too.

Damn them both.

He wasn't going to be able to stick it out here. Not with his leg aching the way it did every time it rained. Wouldn't be long before he was bored out of his skull. He'd drink himself to death. Or worse: end up just like his father, bitter and miserable, mourning his empty life. Wishing he'd done more...

The process had already begun.

Twenty years down the line he'd be sitting in the pub, muttering about how he used to work with dinosaurs. How he'd wrangled a T-rex once. The tolerant weary faces of the regulars, exchanging looks over his head when they thought he couldn't see. And then returning to the empty house. The faint musty smell of damp and the grubby kitchen and no one waiting for him...

Christ, he did need to stop drinking so bloody much. He was turning into a miserable fucker. Getting melancholy.

He reached the small terraced house that had belonged to his father and now belonged to him. Noted grimly how his hand shook as he tried to insert the key into the lock. He concentrated, until the shakes were only the slightest tremor, and tried again. As always, the door stuck thanks to the rain and he forced it open with his shoulder. He stepped over the letters on the mat, and slammed the door shut behind him, stood for a moment in the quiet hall. The smell of his father's aftershave lingered on the air, as if it had sunk into the wallpaper along with the smoke of countless cigarettes.

The message light was flashing on the phone and he paused, staring down at it with narrowed eyes. Probably Ludlow, he thought. But he was pretty sure he didn't want to hear whatever message the bastard had left for him.

He shrugged off his jacket and moved into the kitchen at the back, telling himself he was going to find something to eat. Instead, he poured himself a glass of whisky from the bottle on the counter. He went into the living room, and sank down on the mouldering sofa, stared out at the darkness of the garden. At the rain streaking the windows.

Something's hunting him. In the darkness, the leaf litter of the jungle is soft beneath his boots. Somewhere behind him, a man screams, the sound ragged and filled with pain. Robert knows somehow that it's Jophery Brown, the worker they lost to the raptors. Jophery Brown who he couldn't save.

Robert tries to turn around, because the man has two children and another on the way, and he can't let Jophery die again. He's fixed to the spot. No matter how fights, he cannot move, and all the time Jophery is screaming, howling like an animal in agony. He no longer sounds human.

And then ahead of Robert, the bushes rustle. The rain pounds down around him, so heavy it runs into his eyes, blinding him. He shakes his head, blinking to clear his vision, and sees the cold glint of a reptilian eye through the leaves. It's her. He knows it's her: she's finally come for him. The rotting musky stink of her fills his lungs, and nausea rises up in his gut. The gun in his hands feels too heavy, and his movements are slow, the air seeming to thicken like molasses. He knows his movements are too slow, that he's utterly fucked, even as he raises the gun and takes aim.

And in a blur of movement and claws and teeth, something speeds out of the undergrowth towards him and he knows he's going to die-

He jerked awake, screaming. The empty glass tumbled from his lap, and came to a rest against the TV stand. He sat frozen and gasping, staring at the hollow eyes of his reflection in the rain-streaked window.

"Christ!" He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hands over his face, until his heart slowed to a more natural pace. His leg ached, sending stabbing pains shooting up towards his groin.

Just a fucking dream.

And still the rain continued to drum against the window, echoing the sound in his dream. Making him think for a moment... Making him feel he was somewhere else.

He dropped his hands from his face, and pushed himself up, grunting for a moment as his leg protested. He moved towards the French doors, and reached for the lock. For a moment it seemed as if something moved on the other side of the glass. Something large and deadly, with intelligent eyes focused on him and him alone. Robert exhaled, and deliberately unlocked the door, gripped the handle and hauled it open. Immediately the cold air struck him with a forcible blow.

The motion light flicked on, illuminating the garden with a corona of light,

Nothing was out there waiting for him. Nothing but the sodden lawn littered with rotting leaves. The shadows that danced at the outskirts, concealing God knows what from his view. He his forehead against the glass.

Losing my fucking mind.

With no further movement, the light flicked off.

It was Ludlow's fault. That bastard. Showing up here, invading his life. Refusing to leave him alone even when he'd made it clear he wasn't interested. They'd almost killed him, for fuck's sake, with their greed and arrogance. Even Hammond, who'd been so caught up in triumph and magical fucking wonder that he refused to listen to reason.

Hammond... He chewed on his lip, glancing towards the hall. Then he cast one last look at the garden, and pulled the French doors shut. Locked them again, ignoring the twinge of foolishness he felt at how it made him feel a little better. A little safer.

As if a fragile plate of double-glazing could protect him from a Velociraptor if one happened to be lurking in his garden.

He didn't bother to check the time, just moved out into the hall and picked up the phone, waited as it rang. He wasn't even thinking now; he just felt tired and numb and hollow. And just as he was starting to think about hanging up and getting another glass of whisky, someone picked up.

"This is John Hammond."

He was too damn drunk. Hadn't even thought about what he was going to say. Not that it would have mattered; he suspected the words would have caught in his throat in any case, no matter how carefully he'd planned them. He hadn't been prepared for how tired Hammond sounded, how old.

"John," he said, leaning against the wall. "It's me."

About all he could manage. The dream – the nightmare – had shaken him. Well, that and all the whisky.

There was a long moment of silence on the end of the line, as if John Hammond was trying to figure out who he was. Then: "Robert?" His soft Scottish tone was filled with a note of genuine delight, but it wasn't enough to mask how hoarse his voice was. "My God, my boy, it's wonderful to hear from you. How are things there in England?"

"Wet."

"Ah, raining is it?"

"Just a bit."

"And how did the funeral go? Did you get the wreath I sent?"

"John." An edge in his voice. Hammond fell silent, and Robert's hand tightened around the handset. "You were right. Peter Ludlow came to see me."

"Ah. I thought he might."

He closed his eyes, listened to the wind howling outside. It sounded like a wolf, but oddly it calmed him a little. At least it didn't sound like a fucking dinosaur.

"I'm sorry, Robert. I'd thought if you ignored him, made it clear you weren't interested, he might leave you alone."

"Well, he didn't, did he?" he snapped. "What the hell does he want?"

Hammond sighed. When he spoke again, all the false cheer and joviality had gone from his tone. He sounded tired, almost as tired as Robert. "He wants InGen, Robert. He wants to take it out from under me."

"Can he do that?"

"If he can get the support of the shareholders, then, yes, I'm afraid he can. And then..." Hammond paused. "What exactly did you tell him, Robert?"

"What do you bloody think I told him? I told him no. What the hell is he doing, John? And what does he want with me? The park's finished. The animals are all dead." And he hated himself for the pleading note that had entered his voice with those last words. He bit the inside of his cheek, tried not to think about a reptilian shape moving through the jungle. He waited for Hammond to reassure him, to fuss and fret over the exhaustion in his voice.

But it didn't come. There was no sound from Hammond except a long slow exhalation.

An icy sensation crept over his skin. "Tell me the animals are all dead, John."

"Robert..." And then Hammond trailed off again. Robert found himself staring at his reflection in the foxed mirror hanging on the wall across from him. When Hammond spoke again, his voice had regained that false brittle tone. "You sound tired, my boy. Have you been sleeping?"

Now he's fussing. Robert clenched his jaw. "Answer the question, John. Why does Ludlow want me?"

"I can't, Robert. Not over the phone. But if you come to New York-"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not coming to America."

"Now, look, I know you don't want to leave England, but what Peter's doing... He's like a terrier, that boy. Always was. Once he's got an idea in his head, he's never going to let it go. And he's not going to let this go, I know that. You'll be seeing him again, you mark my words." Hammond paused. "I need your help, Robert. Come to New York, and I'll give you the answers you're looking for, I promise you that."

He was going to say no. To hang up the phone and pull out the lead and be done with the whole fucking lot of them, but in the howling wind outside he heard Jophery Brown screaming. Heard the tropical rain drumming on the roof of a maintenance shed.

His grip tightened around the handset. John Hammond didn't have any answers to give him, he was pretty sure of that. Not answers he wanted to hear at any rate.

I'm fifty-one, he thought. I'm too bloody old for this.

"I'll come," he said. "To New York." And then, over the sound of the old man's delight, "But nothing else, John. I'm promising nothing."

And John Hammond, like always, heard only what he wanted to hear. "Of course, of course. It'll be a delight to see you if nothing else, dear boy. You know I spoke to Ellie Sattler the other day, you remember Ellie, don't you? Lovely girl, and a fine palaeobotanist in her own right these days. Did you hear she's expecting her first child? Such a shame it didn't work out between her and Dr Grant."

Jesus. What the hell am I doing?

Too exhausted to cut in, he listened to John Hammond prattling on, waiting for his chance to interrupt and disengage from the conversation. Saw again in his mind the dark shape slipping through the jungle, all speed and teeth and claws.

He knew it was hunting.