Thanks to all the amazing people who followed, favorited, and reviewed! Shout outs to frytrix, Guest, bunny's pumpkin patch, Apache Thunderbird, Archeops567, LightningScar, billie75865, Countdown, iamdaraptor, d wright for reviewing! In response to questions:
frytrix: I have this story planned out in a surprising amount of detail for me, so I can tell you how soon Eric starts hanging with velociraptors again. We have this chapter and the next for the aftermath back home, which is very important for later because we find out just what happened to InGen in these chapters. Then, we have one chapter for him becoming Owen Grady, and one more for his post name change, pre Jurassic World time, where we find out how he gets to the point where he accepts a job from them. Then, he starts having interactions with velociraptors again. So, three chapters from now. Unfortunately, I can't speed the pace of the story any faster than it already is. I don't have meaningless chapters; every time I post something, it includes information that ties into the overall plot later on. So, the only way the story makes sense is if I add all of this background information. But, I can promise that he will have much Raptor Squad bonding in his future. Hope this was of help!
Archeops567: I'm in this for the long run. This fic is going beyond Jurassic World.
LightningScar: I should have looked up the healing time; it slipped my mind. It's, however, possible to break one's rib without piercing the lung, depending on the way it breaks. However, your points are valid and my insertion has therefore lessened the reality of this situation. That one's on me. So, sorry about that everyone! Thanks for logicking me, I appreciate it (I'm not being sarcastic, I actually appreciate it. It helps me make things more realistic in the future).
Iamdaraptor: You didn't have a question, but I realize there's been a slight miscommunication. I never specified which Rex Eric first saw fight the Spino, because at that point of time Eric hadn't named them yet. However, it had been Set, not Anubis, that Eric witnessed fighting during his solo time on Sorna. The only time Anubis fought Sobek was when he died in the movie.
Also, important! This chapter is made up of snapshots of what happens when they get back from Costa Rica. The first three segments happen right after one another, but the rest are time jumps from the previous for a few weeks or so. Just so you all know, because this would get confusing otherwise.
Of Astronomers and Astronauts
Chapter Ten: How Can You Learn to Breathe, When You Haven't Even Stopped Drowning Yet? (First, You Need Someone to Teach You How to Swim.)
Awareness came slowly.
First, it was a dull throb at the base of his skull; then, a sharp pain behind his eyes. The sounds of the night reached his ears next, filled with keening, haunting sounds that crawled up his spine and invaded his mind. Slowly, Eric Kirby pried open his eyelids and painfully pulled himself into sitting position. Something had happened… Something had… What had happened? It was foggy. Only bright, bursting flashes of falling, of crashing, of getting lost. He had been looking for something… Or was it someone? Who had been with him?
Where was he?
Eric blearily looked around, lifting his hand to the back of his neck with a sharp wince; it came away bloody. He must have hit his head; maybe that was why he was having such a hard time remembering what had happened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and Eric began to take in his surroundings. They were… familiar. Tall trees, a grassy clearing, large boulders…
Isla Sorna.
Eric scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain. Something had happened; something had gone wrong. There had been a crash, an accident… He couldn't remember. And maybe it didn't matter, because he was here now, out in the open, at night. He needed to figure out where he was so that he could find his way back to his water truck, and there he could figure out what had happened and if there was someone else here and…
It was too late.
Eric was surrounded by glowing eyes that were creeping ever so closer.
He scrambled in his pocket for a flare (he had insisted on having one on his person at all times, much to his parent's consternation). Now, he was glad for his paranoid streak. He yanked out the life-saving plastic device. He could scare off the troodons, then find Rose and hope for help a second time, and then he could figure out how to get off of this island again. Quickly, Eric cracked open the top of the flare…
And it didn't light. It didn't even spark. Eric let the useless piece of plastic fall to the ground with a dull thud. He could still make this work; he'd beat his way through the troodons with a stick if he had to. He started backing away from the burning eyes… and he heard a groan behind him. Shocked, Eric glanced over his shoulder, only to see Dr. Grant lying prone on the forest floor. He was laid out on his side, turned away from Eric, obviously injured. Somehow, he must have gotten stuck here too. That was fine; Eric could get him out of here too, somehow, and they'd both get off of this island together.
Not taking his eyes off of the approaching predators, Eric quickly squatted down next to the doctor. He placed his hand Alan's back and shook him. "Dr. Grant," he hissed. "Dr. Grant we need to get out of here."
Alan only groaned louder. Worried, he rolled over the paleontologist.
Eric jerked back, repulsed, at the sight that greeted him. He turned over and retched, bile burning his throat and his nose and he didn't care because oh God.
Ensconced in his childhood idol's mutilated abdomen were two small, white eggs.
The troodons had already gotten to him.
A low rattle drew his attention upwards. Eric looked up from the reeking contents of his stomach, gasping, to be greeted by the sight of a lone troodon standing before him.
It leapt for his throat.
The moment Eric Kirby woke up, he instinctively clamped his hands over his mouth to muffle his screams.
(After all, you can never be sure of what your screams may attract.)
Gasping for breath, Eric slowly pieced together his surroundings.
There were no troodons.
There was no jungle.
He wasn't on Isla Sorna.
He was in his bedroom.
He was safe.
(That last one was a lie Eric told himself to make his parents happy. There was no safe, not anymore.)
(But maybe, one day, he would believe it.)
Eric stumbled out of bed, tripping over his twisted bed sheets. He tried to calm his racing heart, but he couldn't. All he could see were glowing eyes and two small, white eggs and so much red. He needed to breathe. He needed to get away. He couldn't, because Dr. Grant was bleeding and dying and he couldn't do anything. But he wasn't, was he? Dr. Grant had gotten off of Sorna with them; he was back at his university. Eric could remember that. But what if he was wrong? What if…?
Fumbling, Eric pulled out the phone his parents had given him when they got back to the States and punched in the doctor's number. He slid down against the wall and pulled his knees up against his chest as the phone rang. Panic clutched his chest tighter the longer it remained unanswered, but right before it went to voicemail Eric heard a sleepy, "H-Hello?"
Relief flooded through Eric. "Dr. Grant! I - I thought… I was worried that…" he trailed off. Now that the panic of the moment had passed, Eric was embarrassed. He had called the professor at what, three am? All because of some stupid nightmare? What happened to handling it? "I'm being stupid," he finished quietly. "I'm sorry I woke you."
He went to hang up, only to be stopped as Dr. Grant said through the receiver, "Eric, wait! Don't hang up! It's fine; I wasn't sleeping."
Eric snorted at the blatant lie but stayed on the line, clutching the phone tighter as he stared at the dark walls of his bedroom, the last vestiges of his dream still churning in his mind. "I'm here."
"You haven't been calling us much lately; we were getting worried. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. I'm sorry I haven't been calling; things have been hectic here," Eric lied as guilt curled in his stomach. He hadn't been calling because he didn't want anyone to be worried about him, but it seemed to have produced the opposite effect. He had wanted to get his head on straight before he called again; he didn't want them to see how badly he had been faring. However, it seemed to be easier said than done.
Dr. Grant wasn't buying it either. "Eric, what happened?"
"It was nothing," he responded weakly. "Just a stupid nightmare."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Alright." The professor seemed to be thinking. "Let's talk about something else then. How's San Diego?"
They hadn't gone back to Enid. Instead, his father had sold his business and home, and moved in with Eric and his mom. He was in the process of opening a new Kirby's Paint and Tile Plus in San Diego, but it was still in the works.
When Eric had asked why they were staying in San Diego instead of going back to Enid, his parents had simply stated, "Better opportunities."
He had quickly learnt that they really meant, "Better psychiatrists."
"It's fine," he muttered.
"But…"
Eric sighed. "There are a lot of people here. Can we change the subject, please?"
Eric still was very uncomfortable with the masses; he was starting to think that this would be a permanent affliction. Every time he went into a crowded space his heart started racing and he began searching for a way out. It only got worse when someone recognized him; then, people started crowding in and asking him questions, and it was all Eric could do not to panic.
"Okay… Your parents told me you're homeschooled now. How's that going?"
"Something else," Eric automatically responded.
School had been an unmitigated disaster.
His parents had suggested he take some time before going back to school; his "Psychiatrist of the Week," as Eric liked to refer to the many shrinks he had gone to, had concurred. But Eric had wanted something to be normal again so badly, and the tedium of the eighth grade had seemed perfect. So he had pushed and pushed, and his parents had finally agreed. Come September 1st Eric had walked up the sidewalk to Lincoln Junior High, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this would work out.
In hindsight, the fact that he was hopeful for something should have been the first warning sign.
At first, no one had noticed him, which was the way he preferred. It's not like he was advertising the fact that he was going back to school; they probably didn't expect him to return so soon. Then, he saw Miranda Black.
Miranda had been his first friend when he had moved to San Diego; they had been lab partners, and the friendship had stuck. She was standing on the school steps, facing away from him, reading one of her many science fiction novels as she leaned against the railing. Eric had walked up behind her, and, with what he hoped was not a nervous smile, said, "Hey Miranda."
Miranda took one look at him and burst into tears.
Eric had floundered; he hadn't figured out how to deal with people yet, let alone crying females he may or may not have a slight crush on. Miranda, for her part, had been inconsolable. She had flung her arms around Eric's neck and sobbed that oh God you're alive I thought you were dead thank God you're alive. Eric had awkwardly patted her shoulder and ultimately failed at comforting her, while gawking sixth graders took pictures of the scene, despite Eric's rather impressive Stare o' Death. Miranda had to be sent home before class even started.
It had gone downhill from there.
When the teachers had introduced the class, most of them had done that little 'get to know your classmates' spiel, where the students introduced themselves and said one thing they did that summer. Every time they got to Eric, they just shifted awkwardly before eventually skipping him, all while Eric slouched lower in his seat, embarrassed. Some of the students, mainly from the younger years but some from his own grade, had walked up and asked for his autograph. Others had started rudely asking about everything that had happened, as if they had some sort of right to know about the worst thing that he had ever went through. The worst, however, were the gawkers. They were the ones that watched him like he was about to do something insane and mind blowing. The ones that acted as if Eric was some kind of superhero, or someone not entirely human. He couldn't stand being around them. Painstakingly, Eric had made it through the school day and gone to Cross Country tryouts after school. He had hoped that would go better; after all, he had been on the team with a lot of these guys the year before. They were friends.
It did not go better.
Most of them had acted uncomfortable around Eric. They had fumbled for words and winced every time they said something that could even relate tangentially to Sorna, apologizing for statements Eric really didn't see a problem with. Others had stared, grilling him on everything that had happened just like so many others already had that day. But this, this was different. These were his friends. Or, they were supposed to be; now, Eric wasn't so sure. Others… Eric wasn't really sure how to describe how they were acting. He would have called it jealous, but it couldn't be that. How could you be jealous of spending two months fighting for your life?
Eric had excelled during cross country tryouts, but he was one of the few that did. He hadn't been surprised at this fact, however; most of his classmates tended to slack off on their training during the summer; Eric hadn't had that luxury. However, walking back to the locker rooms he overheard a few of the couldn't-possibly-be-jealous kids talking, and it seemed they had a very different outlook on the reason.
They hadn't exactly been subtle in their jeers, though they probably thought they had been. Eric had heard them making bitter, sneering comments about how the tryouts had been unfair, because how could the coaches expect them to outrun someone that spent the summer racing dinosaurs? He heard them say that perfect little Eric Kirby should be off reveling in his newfound fame instead of wrecking their chances of making the team.
And he realized, they were jealous. They were jealous of his celebrity, whether or not it was completely unwanted. They hadn't even stopped for a second to consider how much his fame had cost, how much it was still costing him. Anger had curled in his stomach, tight and hot and twisting his insides until he had trouble breathing. Roughly, he brushed past the embarrassed yet self-righteous kids who had just realized they had been overheard. Then, he walked into the practically deserted school and stumbled around the hallways until he was sure that no one had followed him. Once he was certain he was alone, Eric found the nearest trash can and emptied the contents of his stomach into it, until all that remained was that red-hot hate. He had ended up spending God only knew how long curled up against the wall, trying to fend off the sudden rush of memories.
If those boys wanted his life, then they could have it, and all that came with it. They could have the nightmares and the pain and the guilt that sometimes threatened to swallow him whole. They could have the fame; Eric Kirby just wanted his old life back, thank you very much. Still, deep down, he knew that if he had the choice, he would never switch circumstances with those boys, for one very simple reason: Eric wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. Vaguely, he wondered if realizations like that were what maturity felt like. Eventually, Eric gathered the memories into a tight little ball and pushed them deep, deep inside himself, where they would keep until the nightmares woke him again. He walked home from school that day feeling like he was drowning, and, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how to breath again.
Still, Eric had gone back to Lincoln the next day with a renewed determination. If he had survived Isla Sorna, then he could survive middle school. Maybe.
He made it until lunch.
The day had been going relatively well, all things considered. Miranda had come back to school and had apologized for her outburst, despite Eric's protests that it wasn't necessary. They had begun navigating through the awkward waters that occurred when one hormonal teenager had a maybe-sorta crush on the other, who happened to still be recovering from the emotional trauma of getting the news of her best friend's death, only to discover he was not in fact dead. Eric thought that their friendship was well on its way to normalcy. They had sat down at a lunch table in the corner, ignoring all the whispers and stares Eric was garnering, when it happened.
Vincent McGraw was a bully, plain and simple. Eric and he had gotten along like oil and water - which is to say, not at all. Vince had harbored a grudge against Eric since he had moved to San Diego, when he had stood up to him on his first day of school when he saw the bulky boy tormenting a younger kid, then proceeded to wipe the floor with Vincent when said boy had tried to ambush Eric while he was walking home. (Yet another reason to be thankful his father had forced him to take those martial arts classes.) Frankly, the animosity had been mutual.
McGraw had used his brains (or lack thereof) to come up with an ill-planned scheme for embarrassing Eric, then proceeded to carry out said plan at lunch. He had put on a dinosaur mask and walked up behind Eric, playing a loud recording of a roar in hopes of startling the boy into crying or running or something equally humiliating in front of the entire school.
This did not happen.
Eric had felt the presence behind him and heard the roar, and automatically went into flashback mode, which had the unfortunate consequence of triggering his Fight or Flight instinct. At that time, Eric had been pinned between the table and the whatever-it-was behind him, automatically ruling out Flight. So, Eric had fought instead. He had grabbed the nearest object - which just so happened to be his very thick, incredibly heavy Biology textbook - and spun around, slamming it into the snout of the 'animal' behind him. He heard a large crack, and had been about to ram the textbook into the scaly figure again when a hand on his wrist snapped him back to reality. Miranda had been standing next to him, white faced and scared - scared of him - while the previously loud cafeteria plunged into silence. Eric had glanced around the room, wondering why he wasn't in a jungle and was that Vincent McGraw groaning on the ground, before he helplessly spluttered, "What?"
For his troubles, McGraw got a broken nose and a one-way ticket to juvie for causing a PTSD attack in a twelve year old boy. Eric, well, he hadn't been expelled per se. Instead, the principal ever-so-delicately pointed out that he may fare better at home, then sent Eric to clean out his locker while he called his parents to pick him up. Eric had packed his meager belongings into his backpack and left the school feeling completely alone and more than a little bit miserable, exactly one and a half days into his tenure. From that moment on, his teacher had been his computer and whatever he could dig up in the library.
So yes, his current schooling situation was a bit of a sore subject at the moment.
"Eric…" Dr. Grant trailed off. "Do you remember what I asked you back on Sorna?"
(No, I mean are you… okay?)
(I don't know. Maybe if we get off this island I could find out.)
Eric finally knew the answer to that question.
"I'm not okay," he whispered. "I don't think I'll ever be okay again."
"Eric, these things take time, but they will get better-"
"No, I need you to listen to me!" The last thing Eric wanted to hear was another everything will get better speech. "I need you to understand." He had tried to make someone understand before. Psychiatrist Number Three had been unusually tolerable, and Eric had actually tried to explain things to her instead of just evading the questions. But she hadn't understood, at all.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, "I'm listening, Eric."
Eric sucked in a shaky breath before beginning. "When you guys were on Sorna and Nublar, you were only on there for a few days." He paused before continuing. "I wasn't. In nature, you adapt to the environment or you die. But when you and everyone else were on the islands, you didn't need to adapt; you weren't there long enough to make it necessary. But I was there for so long, and I didn't want to die, so I adapted instead. I changed everything about how I used to live and how I thought, in order to survive. And now," Eric said shakily as he sucked in another too-painful-why-is-it-so-painful breath, "now I don't know how to change back. It's like everyone else is playing some game, but I don't know the rules. I - I keep having nightmares, I can't let my raptor claw out of my sight, I have to carry a flare everywhere I go, and I can't figure out how to explain to anyone why. I don't understand what to do or how to handle this anymore, and I can't even begin to figure it out. I - I feel like I can't breathe all the time and I don't know why. It's - It's like I forgot all I knew about people while I was on Sorna, and - and now I'm relearning it all and I just can't."
Dr. Grant was silent, probably still trying to take in everything Eric had just dumped on him. Deciding that if he had already gone this far he might as well tell him everything, Eric continued. "For the most part, Isla Sorna was Hell," he whispered, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. "I spent the entire time terrified, the longest I went without getting attacked was around six hours, and the closest things I had to friends were the velociraptors that would eat me if they were given the chance. Even though I don't hate it, I would never go back… But I can't seem to figure out how to live anywhere else."
Silence rang through the phone, and just when Eric was beginning to suspect the doctor had hung up, Alan spoke. "When I got off of Nublar I couldn't figure out how to live again." he said lowly. "I kept trying to make things exactly how they used to be, but it kept falling apart. Every time I tried, all I could do was look at everyone else and think about how… innocent they all were. There they were, their biggest worries being getting to the grocery store before it closed, while I couldn't close my eyes without seeing a Rex attacking."
"What did you do?"
"I realized that things weren't going to go back to normal, so I started to try and find a new normal instead. And, thanks to Malcolm, Ellie, and Billy, it worked for the most part. While the memories would still bother me sometimes, I was coping. I could function again. Eric, we can't change what happened to us, but we can try and deal with it. And we don't do it alone; we all need to help each other to do it." For a moment, Alan paused, before continuing. "Eric… Have you told your parents any of this?"
The young boy shook his head, then realizing the doctor couldn't see him said, "I didn't want to worry them."
"Your parents care about you; they wouldn't want you to hide this from them. Maybe you should consider talking about at least part of this with them."
"Maybe," he parroted. "Goodnight, Dr. Grant. I'm sorry I woke you."
"Don't be. I told you when I gave you my number that you can call me whenever you need to, and I meant it. Goodnight, Eric." He went to hang up the phone when he heard Alan say, "And Eric?"
"Yeah?"
"You know that we're here for you, right? Your parents, Ellie, Malcolm, Billy and I, we're here for you."
"I know."
And he meant it.
It's strange how their home had changed completely but not at all since they had gotten back from Isla Sorna.
It was still the same house. Same worn sofa that his mother had found at a flea market their third day in San Diego and immediately dragged home, claiming it had "character;" same big, fluffy blanket that had been lugged here from Enid spread across the top of the sofa; and the same coffee table covered in water rings ("You're supposed to use a coaster, Eric"). Same home.
(He always had to shut up the small part of him whispering that his home was a cramped water truck on an island located off the west coast of Costa Rica. This was his home; he just had to get used to it again. And that shouldn't be too hard (he hoped). Here, there was no blood stains or tattered, filthy bandages or the scent of illness permeating the stuffy air. Here was where his parents called home, and Eric would too. Eventually.)
But in so many small ways, it was completely and utterly different. The phone was still sitting dead on the countertop from when his father had gotten annoyed at the persistent calls of the reporters and ripped its plug from the wall. The windows used to have thin, white lacey curtains that his mother had loved because they let in a lot of "natural light." Now, they were covered in dark, heavy drapes that could keep the flashing cameras of the gawking press out of their home. A small, blinking box of their new security system was next to the door, made necessary by the Kirby family's new celebrity status. Tiny, persistent reminders that Eric's life would never be the same.
Eric hadn't given a single interview since he returned from Sorna. There had been offers, of course, from just about every single major and minor news station in the country, and a few from out of it. His parents had been very clear: No one was talking to their son if he didn't want to speak to them. Eric had also been very clear: He did not want to speak to them. Not that that had stopped the most tenacious of them. Or any of them.
It may not have been as bad if they weren't living in San Diego. San Diego, where the T-Rex had attacked after it escaped from InGen's "control" (didn't they realize there was no such thing?). San Diego, whose people was still grieving for all those that had lost their lives in the resulting rampage. San Diego, where everyone wanted to know how Eric had done it, how he had survived.
(What they didn't say was, "Why did you survive when the person I loved didn't?")
He wished they would leave him alone. He wished that they would stop asking him about how he had survived the Rexes, because he couldn't take looking one more bereaved, sobbing person in the eye and telling them that he was so, so very sorry for their loss, but there was nothing they could have done to save them, so it was probably best to stop thinking about the blood and the teeth and the oh God oh please God help me before it drove them mad. (Not in so many words, of course. Mostly, he just apologized and stood there helplessly as yet another desperate soul shattered right in front of him, all the while wanting nothing more than to run until nobody could find him.) He wished that everyone would just give him enough space to breath, because relearning how was hard enough without everyone crowding him to the point of suffocation.
His parents were seated at the table, awake despite the hour. Eric had noticed that they had been getting less and less sleep at night, but he had been so preoccupied with his own nightmares he hadn't been able to get up the courage to ask them about theirs. They had them too, of course. It wasn't as bad as Eric's night terrors, but sometimes, long after his torments had driven him from sleep, he would hear them startle awake. Those nights they would come in to check on him, and he would pretend to be sleeping so they wouldn't realize that he had been staring at the same patch of blank white wall for three and a half hours, trying to burn the red of Ben's blood from his mind. Nightmares weren't the only reason that his parents were awake. They were worried about him. They were worried about what had happened and the fact that he hadn't been able to keep a therapist for more than a few sessions (one hadn't even lasted fifteen minutes) and how he hadn't cried once since this entire mess started. They were worried about the fact that despite their reassurances, Eric had refused to open up to anyone about what had happened.
His father noticed him first. He had glanced up, only to see Eric standing at the top of the staircase watching them awkwardly. "Hey, Eric. Couldn't sleep?"
Eric cleared his throat nervously before answering. "Nightmare," he replied succinctly.
His parents exchanged a quick, not-as-subtle-as-they-thought-it-was glance. "Do you want to talk about it?" his mother ventured.
It was the first time he had actually admitted that he was having trouble with nightmares. They had all figured out that he was having them, but Eric had resolutely refused to so much as acknowledge their existence out loud. Until now.
Dr. Grant's words had resonated with Eric. While he wasn't about to bear his soul to the world, he had decided not to lock his parents out (as much) anymore. It was only hurting both of them. Still he shook his head. "I need to talk to you."
His father straightened. "Okay."
"I need to talk to you. About Sorna. About what happened there," he rambled. "But I can't. Every time I try it ends up getting jumbled and confusing and I can't figure out how to continue without it getting even more tangled than before. So I'm not going to talk. I wrote this," Eric said, fumbling for his leather bound journal. "For you. While I was on Sorna, that is. And I thought I was going to die, so I made this so that you would know what happened to me. But then I didn't die, and this became something else. It became something to write everything in, because that was the only way I could get what happened out of my head. And I didn't want you to know. I didn't want anyone to know. So I kept the journal, and didn't let anyone read it, because I was scared what they would think if they did. What you would think. But I'm not anymore, not really. Actually, no, that's wrong, I am scared but I was scared on Sorna and you guys still came, so I figure that I should take the risk on this one too. So… yeah," he finished awkwardly, setting the journal down next to his dumbfounded parents. "You can read it if you want. You don't have to, but you can. I won't mind." Then, he turned and ran back up the stairs, ignoring his mother's bewildered, "Eric!"
He didn't go back to bed.
Instead, he stayed by the stairs, just out of sight. He slid down the face of the wall and pressed his back against its surface until he could pretend that he was disappearing into oblivion. He pulled his knees up against his chest and listened as his father began to read aloud.
Then, he listened as his parents began to cry.
He didn't cry with them.
Getting out of the house was an ordeal in itself.
Apparently as long as they were on "public property," the press could stalk whoever they wanted, even if said person was underage and traumatized. Which was why the noble members of the press corps had been camping outside of Eric's house since they returned from Costa Rica, harassing him every chance they got. Eric had taken to walking out of the back door and hopping four consecutive fences before landing on a street far away from where the shantytown of reporters had been set up.
Eric had no idea how they haven't figured it out yet. He's literally gone two weeks without leaving through the front door. What, did they think he was teleporting everywhere?
That escape route was fine when he was walking somewhere alone. However, when he was going out in the car with his parents, he had to deal with them. Mainly, it consisted of them slowly wading through the sea of flashing cameras before climbing in their SUV, where his father made liberal use of the horn and threatened to run them over if they didn't move.
Eric really, really hoped they got tired of him soon, because he was most certainly tired of them.
Once they were finally free of the people, Eric could finally relax (somewhat. He didn't actually relax all that much anymore). Quickly, the landscape outside the window blurred into a uniform image of highways and buildings. For several hours, the occupants of the vehicle remained in a companionable silence. Eric absently watched as the landscape bled from city to suburbia.
Ellie's husband, Mark, had received a promotion not long after she returned from Costa Rica. He was now heading up the Los Angeles office of the State Department, and as such had moved his family to a suburb an hour out of the city, three hours away from the Kirby household in San Diego.
The Degler family's new home was exactly how he pictured it would be. Located in nice, symmetrical suburbia, it purported a good school and a lack of Tyrannosaurus Rexes rampaging through the streets. It was far away enough from San Diego that any dinosaur attack would likely be stopped before it reached their home by the military or vindicated mathematicians, whoever was quicker. Dr. Degler would probably like living here.
His father pulled the car up the driveway as a smiling Ellie walked out to greet them, baby Alex on her hip and Charlie toddling after her. "It's great to see you," she enthused as they exited the vehicle. "Come on in; Mark's just starting the barbeque."
His parents and Ellie had conspired to instigate bi-weekly dinner nights, meaning that every two weeks one family would drive three hours to meet the other. Eric didn't mind; he was happy to see Dr. Degler again. However, he was under no illusion that a big factor in deciding to start wasn't an attempt to keep an eye on him.
While Alan hadn't said anything about what Eric had told him, everyone else still knew that something had happened. The others had seemed to take the night time phone call to Dr. Grant as a signal he was more open to discussing what had happened, and he was… kind of. While he still wasn't ready to come out about everything that occurred on Sorna (he wouldn't ever be, he thought), he wasn't going to isolate himself anymore; that hadn't even worked in the first place. So he reached out. He spoke with Dr. Grant daily, Dr. Degler would call every few days, and he and Billy had a constant stream of emails and phone calls running between them. Dr. Malcolm would spontaneously call at random intervals, try to convert him to the "correct" manner of thinking, checkup to make sure he was okay, then go radio silent for a while.
It wasn't just him that needed help with dealing with what happened. Dr. Grant would ring him in the middle of the night, just like Eric had rung him, to make sure the nightmares hadn't been real. Eric and Billy had an unspoken agreement to pretend that the only reason the elder boy called him randomly, sounding panicked and distraught, was to give him impromptu Spanish lessons, rather than reassure himself that he had saved the younger from the pteranodons. Dr. Degler and Dr. Malcolm didn't really call Eric because they hadn't been on the island together, but occasionally Ian would ring to grill him about the raptors, trying to make sense of the Hell that had happened during his own two day sojourn on Sorna. As for his parents… Well, Eric didn't think he would have been able to keep going without them, and the feeling was mutual. The group had a strange dynamic. They came from radically different backgrounds and walks of life, but had somehow become completely and utterly dependent on one another. They kept each other sane.
"Hello again, Eric," Mr. Degler called as they entered the backyard.
Eric nodded in greeting. "Hello, Mr. Degler."
Mark Degler had been one of the people at the airfield when the plane finally brought them back from Costa Rica. He had been waiting for his wife, excited to see her after she had ran off in a whirlwind to go save her best friend, and had meet the entire group as consequence.
Eric listened absently as the adult began to engage in small talk when, suddenly, he felt a tug on his leg. His muscles tensed, his mind flying through the list of things it could possibly be. Compys? No, too big. Too small for a dilophosaurus. Most predators would have attacked immediately instead of giving him warning. Could its claws have gotten stuck in his pant leg?
"'Scuse me," came the insistent young voice, breaking him from his reverie.
Eric looked down with a smile pasted on his face, not giving any indication of his previous thoughts. "Yeah, Charlie?"
"My mama says you saw real dinosaurs like the dinosaur man," the three year old said, staring at him intently.
"That's right, Charlie."
Charlie looked at him for a moment, stunned, before nodding in that decisive, matter of fact manner that only toddlers seemed to possess. "You play dinosaurs with me now," he proclaimed, tugging Eric towards his sandbox.
"Charlie, honey, I'm not so sure that's a good idea," Ellie said, speaking up from where she had been watching the exchange. "You can go play with your dinosaurs alone."
"No, that's okay," Eric said, smiling at the boy. "I'd love to play dinosaurs with you, Charlie."
The now happy child excitedly tugged the preteen towards the other end of the backyard and dragged him down into seated position when they reached the sandbox. Charlie plucked one of the plastic toys from the ground and held it out to Eric reverently. "This is a herbivore," he declared earnestly. "He's my favorite."
Eric smiled. He remembered when he treated his velociraptor Dr. Grant gave him the same way. "You like brachiosaurus, huh. I like them too."
Charlie frowned. "Herbivore," he corrected.
"Brachiosaurus are herbivores-" Eric began, then stopped when he saw he was only confusing the kid. He'd explain it when Charlie was older. "Does your herbivore have a name?"
The boy nodded, content. "Will."
"I knew a few brachiosa - herbivores. One was named Diana, and the other was Echo."
Charlie's eyes went wide. "You knew real herbivores?"
This fact seemed to make Charlie decide that Eric was the coolest person he had ever met. After playing with the toys for several minutes, he suddenly looked up at Eric and stared at him intently. "What's your favorite?"
"Huh?"
"I like herbivore dinosaurs. What do you like?"
Eric began to answer, then stopped. This question was much more personal to him than it was to Charlie; after all, dinosaurs had been his companions for a long time. What was his favorite? He thought of silly, fumbling Echo, who used to tip over because of her gawky neck. He thought of Toto, running up to him every time he saw Eric, and of Glinda, watching over her children with a careful eye. He thought of Nephthys, who scared him half to death but still had a kind of breathtaking, sublime beauty. Eric grinned. He knew who was his favorite, and it was most definitely not one that the others would approve of. He leaned forward and said, "Can you keep a secret, Charlie?"
The boy nodded earnestly.
Eric smiled again. "Velociraptors."
Eric was at the end of his rope. There was literally nothing left that hadn't been tainted by Sorna. There was only one thing he could think of that may bring him some sense of normalcy.
Eric shoved open the door to the animal shelter, feeling the cool air hit his face as he entered. He had volunteered at a small, no-kill shelter once a week when he first moved to San Diego, but had fallen out of the practice after he had gotten back from Costa Rica. Now, thrust back into the old memories, he smiled. Eric glanced around the familiar room. The lobby was a cramped space consisting of a reception desk, a couple cheap chairs, and a peg board with pictures of the animals. Eric grinned as he found a picture of a happier, more innocent Eric with his arms wrapped around a massive, slobbering Great Dane. It had been taken right before he left for Costa Rica.
A gasp had him spinning around. Behind him was a young, pretty woman with purple streaks through her black locks and a white lab coat covering her Arctic Monkeys shirt. She overcame her shock and ran up and drew Eric into a hug. "Hey, Boss Lady," he murmured in her ear. "How's the fort holding up?"
Dr. Cassandra "Call Me Cass Or You're Fired" Lopez ran the shelter while simultaneously being the resident vet. When she graduated from veterinary school Cass decided that the revolving door of sick animals and pompous pet owners otherwise known as Vet Clinics wasn't for her, and had landed the job running this shelter a couple years before Eric first stumbled through the double doors with a stray cat in his arms. She had been the one to encourage Eric to volunteer, and she had been more of a friend than a boss to the boy. Cass still ran a tight ship in her little domain, but she knew how to have fun while she was at it.
Cass pulled back, staring at Eric intently. "My God, Eric," she murmured. "They said you were-"
"Dead?" he finished with sardonic twist to his lips. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
Cass punched his arm. "Seriously, Eric?"
"What?" he defended. "Do you have any idea how rare it is to get the chance to say that line? How can you not expect me to use it?"
Cass rolled her eyes. "Same old Kirby, I see."
"Need any help? I mean, I know it's been a while, and you've probably got someone else filling my shift, but I was hoping…"
Cass shook her head. "Saturday at two was always your shift. When they told me you had been in an accident and… Well, I couldn't bring myself to find someone to fill it. Then, I heard about… everything, and, well, I guess I was hoping you'd come back when you were ready."
Eric gave her a small, painful smile. He had missed her. She had always been so fiery and passionate and alive. She always knew how to make someone laugh. "I'm late for my shift, then."
She cleared her throat. "Right," she said decisively. "Now, no slacking off. You've got a lot of work to catch up on."
Eric saluted. "Yes, Dr. Cass, ma'am!"
Cass swatted him. "None of your cheek, either."
Eric grinned, laughing, as he walked towards the door that led to the kennels. As he passed the reception desk, a crumpled piece of paper caught his eye. "Abusing the tabloids again, Cass? You know, if we were sticking to tradition we'd be abusing them together."
Cassandra was one of those people that bought the cheap rags for the sole reason of mocking them. Every Saturday she would pick up the ones that proclaimed that the Royal Family were really aliens and the only reliable facts would be the day that the paper was printed on (and sometimes not even then), so that she and Eric could mock them in concert before ceremoniously crumpling them up and having a competition as to who could throw more of the papers into the recycling bin across the room.
Cass looked decidedly shifty. "Those are nothing. And you're late for work, remember? You need to go catch up rather than reading that trash."
Eric glanced at her warily. "So I'll stay behind late, then. Besides, we always read these. What could be so bad that…." Eric's eyebrows flew up as he read the story. "Oh. Well, that's one I haven't heard before."
The ruthlessly smashed paper had a grainy photograph of Dr. Grant along with the caption, WHY HE REALLY WENT TO SORNA. THE TRUTH ABOUT HIS CONNECTION TO ERIC KIRBY in massive block letters. He had quickly found the article and read it. Honestly, it wasn't the worst thing they had ever claimed. Their "tell-all" relayed the "truth:" Eric was really the secret love child of a torrid affair between Alan and his mother, and Dr. Grant had in reality gone to Isla Sorna to save his son.
"You're not mad?" Cass said cautiously.
Eric snorted. "You do realize that since the Jurassic Park Incident was revealed, they've said that Dr. Grant's had torrid affairs with Dr. Degler, Dr. Malcolm, Julia Roberts, John Hammond, Harrison Ford, Billy, my father, Angelina Jolie, half of the cast of Friends, and, oh yeah, the Queen of England? This is mild in that's not half so bad as it is for Dr. Malcolm. Honestly, how can they say that he was seen with Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe on New Year's Eve at the turn of the century? They were both dead!"
Cass looked stunned for a moment, before she shook her head and continued. "No, are you mad at me for buying it?"
Eric furrowed his brow. "Why would I be? You always buy the crappy newspapers. We read them together, remember?"
"It objectifies you! It's making money by lying about your personal life! And I was one of the people they made money off of!"
Eric shrugged. "It's annoying, really annoying, don't get me wrong. I'm really fed up with being stalked by these reporters; it's freaking me out. But anyone stupid enough to actually believe what they're peddling deserves to be fleeced, and it would be hypocritical to get mad at the people who buy it for laughs, seeing as I used to do the same thing. Now," he said, holding up the rag. "Shall we commence with the ceremonial Destruction of Falsehoods?"
Cass stared at him for a long moment before letting out a choked, slightly hysterical laugh. "Sure. Though, I've got to warn you I've been practicing my aim since I last saw you; you won't be able to win so easily this time."
Eric snorted. "Keep telling yourself that, Boss Lady. I spent the summer nailing dilophosaurus in the heads with rocks; I kill at Garbage Basketball." He let a crumpled piece of paper sail through the air; it landed dead center in the green bin.
Cass was staring at him. "How can you joke about that?"
Eric shrugged. "If I can't joke about my near death experiences, what can I joke about?" It wasn't like he was joking about the troodons; all in all, the dilophosaurus hadn't been that traumatizing, except for the time one tried to eat Dr. Grant. In a twisted sense, a lot of his antics on that island were funny, if you had a somewhat dark sense of humor.
"Um, how about not your near death experiences?"
Eric shrugged, His title defended, he turned towards the door, ready to work.
"Hey, Eric?" Cass said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're back."
Eric smiled. "Me too."
"Buddy, I can wait just as long as you can. I'm not going anywhere."
Eric continued the stare down between himself and the dissenter. Then, he raised his hand again. "Eyes on me."
The scruffy dog before him perked up, his mangled ear shooting in the air. Buddy was a six month veteran of the shelter, and Eric was hoping that they could find a family for the dog soon, but at the moment it seemed unlikely. Buddy had exactly one and a half ears, a mottled coat, and mismatched eyes, one pale blue and the other dark brown. While he and Cass found him adorable, the rest of the dog-loving community did not agree. So, Eric came up with a plan. Sooner or later, they'd find someone who found the canine cute also, but those prospective families may still forgo the loveable mutt for one of the fresh-faced, eternally bouncing pups. However, if Buddy came well-trained they might choose him over something that would still chew on the couch cushions. The only logical step was for Eric to figure out how to train him. He had gone to the library and picked up every dog training guide he could find, researched Pavlov's experiments with dogs and classical conditioning, and even gone to a seminar on animal training, in order to develop something that may succeed. And if it did, he'd extend his training program to the rest of the shelter's occupants. It would be a big time commitment, but the animals were worth it. It wasn't that he was finding excuses to hide at the shelter. Absolutely not.
He loved the shelter. He loved the dogs and the cats and the occasional rabbit that found their way into these hallowed walls. And if he felt more comfortable around animals than he did people… Well, it was only natural considering how strange everyone was acting, right? And if he still couldn't walk into the kennels if the lights were turned off because the reflective eyes made him think of troodons, then at least he wasn't jumping at random noises more. Being around animals was helping. Every time he went to the shelter he walked away feeling calmer, and with a better handle on things. He had only returned to work here a little over a month ago, and his mental state had already improved. It was more than any psychiatrist he had seen could boast.
Eric sucked in a deep breath. "Okay. This time for sure." He jerked his hand as he began to walk backwards. "And we're moving."
Buddy followed him, trotting happily through the winding halls of the kennels. This was definitely an improvement. When they had started, Eric couldn't even get Buddy to stand up on command. He raised his palm towards Buddy. "Stop."
Buddy stopped. Eric faced his palm to the ground. "Lie down."
Buddy laid down. Eric spun his index finger. "Roll over."
Buddy rolled on his back and back into seated position. Eric jerked his hand up. "Stand up."
Buddy complied. Eric pointed his index towards the ceiling. "Reach for the sky."
The canine hopped on its hind legs, holding his paws towards the roof. A smile quirked at Eric's lips. He made a 'finger gun' with his thumb and index and jerked it once. "Play dead."
Dramatically, Buddy flopped backwards off of his hind legs and laid prone on the ground. For several moments, he was still… Then, a pale blue eye peeked into sight as Buddy glanced at Eric. Eric grinned. "Good boy!" he enthused. Buddy hopped up excitedly and waddled over to Eric, who was holding out a dog treat. "You are going to rock that next meet-and-greet; I can feel it," he praised as Buddy slathered him with slobbery kisses. For the thousandth time, Eric wished he could take the dog home with him, but his father was allergic. "You want to go show Cass?" he asked as he lugged the dog into his arms. "Let's go show Cass."
Eric loved the animal shelter.
As he pushed open the door of the kennels, he called out, "Hey, Cass! Come see my star pupil-"
A camera flash greeted him. Eric's grin fell from his face as he took in the scene before him. A red-faced Cass was glaring at a overweight, greasy man with all of her Latino fury. Said man, completely ignorant to the peril his life was in, flashed him a nicotine stained grin and said, "Hey, Eric! Big smiles!"
Eric most certainly did not have a big smile for this man.
Someone had found out about the shelter. Somehow, this man had figured out that he was volunteering here and had come, to the shelter, to find him.
Eric felt… violated. This was his space. It had already gotten to the point that he couldn't even leave his own house without being bombarded; there was no respite! The shelter was the one place he didn't have to be Eric Kirby, Dinosaur Disaster Survivor Extraordinaire; here, he was just Eric, a kid that was most certainly not okay but was slowly getting better. Why was it that the freaking press corps felt the need to take every place he felt comfortable in?
Cass bustled between them, giving the man her patented I-have-a-taser-and-I'm-a-bit-trigger-happy look. "Get. Out," she snarled. The now dangerously oblivious man continued snapping pictures. He gave her a lazy smile. "Come on, sweetheart, don't be like that. How about a nice pic with you, the kid, and the dog? Boys will love you."
Eric watched the scene with a detached sort of horror usually reserved for natural disasters and train crashes. Dear God, she was actually reaching for her taser. Eric watched as the bristling Cass reached into her deep lab coat pocket, pinning the man with an enraged stare, about to shock him into oblivion… When suddenly, the entrance swung open. Eric spun around, only to see… "Dr. Malcolm?" he choked out.
The unflappable Ian Malcolm strutted through the doors and took in the scene before him with a raised eyebrow. Eric stuttered, "What… How…"
"Your parents told me you were here. Now, come on," he said, walking forward and snatching Buddy from his hands before wincing at the dog's appearance and passing him to a dumbfounded Cass. "We've got things to do, places to be, and not a lot of time to do it. Here you go Miss, please take this, uh, lovely specimen of breeding. Wonderful to meet you, very nice taser. Good God, man, why are you still here when she's a second away from knocking you on your ass? Are you really that stupid?" Spinning away from the startled reporter, he swung an arm around Eric's shoulder and bustled him out of the doors, leading him into a bright red convertible. Numbly, Eric climbed in and clicked in his seat belt as the mathematician started the car.
They had been driving for several minutes when Eric calmly asked, "Dr. Malcolm?"
"Yes?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood."
"...You live in Texas."
Malcolm sighed. "Alright, kid, you caught me. The truth is, I need help… It's my daughter's birthday and I have no idea what to get her. She's a few years older than you," he said, eyeing Eric intently. "So what do girls around your age like? Barbies? Scented candles? Volkswagens?"
Eric stared at him incredulously. "So, let me get this straight. Your daughter's birthday was coming up..."
"Yes."
"And you didn't know what to get her…"
"Yep."
"So you decided to drive to San Diego, from Texas, to pick up a kid that has never met your daughter, and ask his opinion?"
"That about covers it."
Eric stared at him.
Malcolm yielded. "Look, it really is my daughter's birthday. Her mother has some work thing in France so I'm driving up to San Francisco to pick her up so that she can spend the next couple weeks with me. I just made a pit stop here."
Eric kept staring at him.
"... Also, what's this I hear about a Dr. Snyder?"
And the truth is revealed. "It's nothing," Eric denied.
"It didn't sound like nothing when your parents told me about it."
Dr. Snyder had been yet another member of Eric's revolving door of psychiatrists. Every single one of them had tried to "help him heal" and every single one of them had failed. It wasn't so much of a testament to their skill as therapists (though some of them had been truly terrible), as Eric's unusual situation. Strangely enough, a kid getting stranded alone on a dinosaur infested island for two months had never come up in the history of medicine. Kidnapping victims were more common than anyone would like to admit, and there had been one or two minors that had been shipwrecked on a remote island (though these were few and far between), but no one had ever encountered a case like Eric's, so no one was quite sure how to deal with it. All of his therapists had had theories, of course, but all of them had met with failure. Dr. Snyder had just been one of many. Granted, he was one of the worst and the most enduring, but he was still just one of many. Eric just could just tolerate him a little (lot) less than all of the others.
Whenever he went to a session with the doctor, Snyder would go on and on about denial and coming to terms with what had happened. He wasn't in denial. He knew what happened. He knew better than anyone else. He just wasn't about to flaunt what had happened to the world. What's worse, the man wouldn't listen. Every time Eric actually made the effort to try to explain something to him, he would just make a noncommittal sound and plow through with whatever he had been jawing about. He wouldn't stop going on about how it was okay to cry! Eric knew that it would be okay to cry. He knew that there was nothing wrong with it. He just couldn't anymore. A few weeks after Erc first started seeing him, he got fed up with the humdrum and asked to go to the bathroom, where he promptly climbed out the window and took off down the street. That experience had been the last straw. No more psychiatrists, not for him.
Of course, he hadn't expected Malcolm to drive here from Texas.
"Look, it really is nothing. I'm getting better; I promise."
Malcolm didn't look convinced. Eric changed the subject. "Thanks for that earlier. Interrupting the reporter, I mean. You know… They're probably gonna say that you're my dad now."
Ian snorted. "Oh, yeah, I heard you were secretly a Grant. I can see that. Lack of respect for higher level mathematics must run in the family. So… Birthday presents. Any ideas?"
"I'm not that great with girls. Or people in general. Maybe you should get her a pony; every kid wants a pony at some point in their life."
"..."
"She already has a pony, doesn't she?"
"Any other ideas?"
Eric paused for a moment, then grinned. "I've got the perfect idea."
Ian only stayed in town for a few hours before continuing on his way to San Francisco. They drove around the sights ("...and this is the street that the Rex almost managed to chomp my bumper…"), debated animal behaviorism ("Are you crazy? There's no way the Titanosaur was migratory!"), and not long after he arrived Dr. Malcolm was on his way, Buddy riding shotgun with a bright red bow wrapped around his neck ("Kelly will love him, and he'll drive my ex crazy...").
The day had been eventful, all things considered. Cass had avoided a lawsuit for electrocuting a member of the press, Buddy got a home… and Malcolm had managed to elicit a promise from Eric to try talking to someone about the things that were troubling him, even if it wasn't a psychiatrist.
"What the hell is this?"
Eric eyed the man warily as he walked in kitchen. "Hello to you too, Dr. Grant."
For the first time since Eric had met him, Dr. Grant seemed legitimately upset at him. "Eric," he said sternly. "What is this?"
"I'm pretty sure it's self explanatory."
"Eric," his mom said sharply. "Dr. Grant drove a long way for an explanation, and your father and I want one too."
Eric blinked and stared at the adults gathered around the kitchen table. Dear God, this actually looked like an intervention. "Don't you live in Colorado?"
"I had a lecture nearby and I thought it would be better to handle this in person - you know what? Not the point! We are discussing this," he said sternly, sliding the innocuous piece of paper across the table.
Internally, Eric groaned. While he knew it would have probably caused trouble, he had been hoping Dr. Grant would take it, no questions asked. Foolish, he knew, but he had still done it. "It's a check; I thought that it's purpose was pretty clear."
"Eric, this is a check for-"
"For how much you are owed for coming to Sorna," Eric finished firmly. "It's the payment you agreed upon, so it's the payment you're getting."
"Eric, it's not your job to pay off our debts," his father broke in, frowning.
"But I was the reason you got it in the first place! It was my fault!"
The three of them stared at his outburst. "Eric-" his mother began, but Eric cut her off.
"Look, I don't need the money, and I don't want it. So keep it, give it to Billy, use it to fund a dig, whatever, just… just don't give it to me," he said desperately. Then, Eric turned and ran out of the room, pushing through the hallway and out of the front door. Thankfully, the press had abandoned their post when they realized camping out in front of his house wasn't getting them any pictures, and Paris Hilton had gotten into some relationship drama so they had run off to go stalk her instead. He was down the sidewalk like a shot, and stumbled to a stop at a bench, where he sat down heavily.
He knew he couldn't keep escaping, keep running away from his problems, but for now, it was the best coping mechanism he could come up with. You can only improve one step at a time, right?
The check had been stupid, but… Well, the idea had gotten stuck in his mind considering what last week had been. He had overheard his parents talking about starting a payment schedule to repay Dr. Grant, and had decided to pay it off himself. Besides, it's not like he couldn't afford it.
A lot of people that Eric had never met before decided to donate funds to him when the story first broke. Eric had no idea why, but a lot of things that were happening back then had confused him. He and his parents had floundered at what to do with it, until they eventually decided to put it all into a college savings account for him, which ended up becoming enough that it would fund several doctorates if he so wished to pursue them. However, Eric couldn't touch those funds until he went to college.
Then, he published his journal.
He hadn't published the entire thing; in fact, it had been heavily edited. Pretty much everything that had been printed pertained to a dinosaur behavior that he had observed; none of it was the deeper, emotional sections that he had written in his darkest of moments. As to why he had published it was more complicated. Part of it was because nobody had stopped questioning him as to what had happened, and he was hoping if he gave them some kind of answer they would stop (they hadn't, not really). Another part of it was that really, nobody had ever gotten to study dinosaurs up close for an extended period of time, and it was a crime against science if he withheld his findings from them. In actuality, the only questions he hadn't minded answering were the pure, unemotional questions from the paleontologists and animal behaviorists that had called to grill him. Another part of him was hoping that if people read it, they would understand that dinosaurs weren't some kind of controllable variable; they were animals and they needed to be respected. But a really, really big reason behind his decision were the survivors of the San Diego Incident. So many of them were still coming to him, trying to figure out what was so freaking special about him that he had lived when their loved ones had died (they didn't seem to understand that the answer was nothing). And Eric… he just couldn't take it anymore. They needed some kind of closure, something to let them know that there was nothing they could have done. And well, Eric had devoted many a page to the abilities of the Rex. If anything could help them find the answers they were looking for, it would be his journal.
So, for whatever the reason, he had published it. And then people wouldn't stop buying it. It was ridiculous how many people bought it. And in the confusion of the sudden insurgence of funds, they had been at a loss what to do with it. They had it in a minor's account, but they were still working on a better long-term solution.
And in the chaos, Eric wrote a check with numbers he had wrangled from an unsuspecting Billy, and then mailed it to Dr. Grant.
Eric wasn't entirely certain about the legality of the situation. Did he need parental approval for such a large withdrawal? Could the check even be deposited? He wasn't all that sure; this had been one of his more impulsive decisions. But in the end, it didn't really matter, not to him. It hadn't even made a dent in his newly acquired wealth, wealth that he still wasn't entirely sure what to do with. His parents refused to take any of it, and Eric certainly didn't need that much money.
"Can I sit?"
Eric glanced up to see Dr. Grant standing next to the bench. He shrugged and scooted over, not looking at his companion.
"Eric… What happened? You were happy, opening up to people, having fun at the shelter… And then suddenly you go radio silent for a few weeks and I end up getting a check in the mail last week! What's wrong?"
For a long time, Eric was silent. Then, "It was Ben's birthday last week."
Alan froze.
Eric cleared his throat and continued, staring fixedly at his hands. "He would have been turning forty-three. He, uh, didn't have any family. No siblings, no spouse, no kids, no parents. Nobody to miss him. Just me and my mom. Not many people seem to remember him anymore. They didn't really mention him all that much when the story broke. But I remember him. I remember how he would play catch with me and how he would call me bud a - and how he screamed when the velociraptors attacked. I - I remember how much he bled before they finally ended him." Eric sat there, sucking in ragged, painful breaths before he continued. "He was going to propose to my mom. That night, after we got back from parasailing, at dinner. It's why we chose to go parasailing that day, actually. He told my mom he had booked some fancy restaurant for dinner and she wanted us out of the way while she was getting ready. He hadn't wanted to tip her off to the surprise, so he agreed to go that day. Ben asked me for permission," Eric said, twisting his lips into a painful smile. "To propose to my mom, that is. Before we went to Costa Rica. I - I told him to ask her. They made each other happy. I haven't told my parents about any of this. I - I just don't - don't know how. I don't know how to tell them that he wanted to be a part of our family, or how he died, or that I can't even bring myself to hate the animal that killed him. I just…. I just don't know anymore."
"When we were on Sorna, you spoke about Ben," Alan said tentatively. "You said that he told you to run, that he was trying to protect you."
Slowly, Eric nodded in reply.
"It sounded like he cared about you a lot. And if he did he wouldn't want you to spend your entire life dwelling on what had happened to him. He'd want you to be happy."
Eric let loose a short, bitter laugh. "It's not that simple."
"Things rarely are."
"I keep seeing them. Ben and those men on the boat and Udesky and those mercenaries I never even met. They're dead because of me."
"Eric, no they're not."
"But I choose the-"
"They're not!" Alan bit out forcefully. "Blame fate, InGen, nature, whatever, but don't blame yourself, because it's not your fault."
Eric was silent. Then, "Did they have families? I mean, I tried to find out, but I didn't have full names on most of them and I couldn't find the ones that I did. If they do… I want to help them. I know it can't replace who they lost, but… I want to help."
Understanding dawned on Dr. Grant's face. "That's why you sent the check. You couldn't find any of the families to help, so you sent it to the person you knew."
Eric shrugged. "We do owe you that money. I'm can just pay it back in full. I still don't want that back, by the way."
"Eric, this is a lot of money; I can't take this from you."
He snorted. "Wait ten minutes. People will have bought enough copies of the book to replace that amount."
"Fame bothering you?"
Eric scrunched up his face. "The public's fascination with me disturbs me on various levels."
Alan shifted uncomfortably. "They do get some pretty strange ideas."
Eric shot him a sarcastic grin. "Oh yeah, Dad, I heard that you had another dalliance with Lizzie."
"I have no idea where they got that from! I've never even been to England!"
Eric laughed.
Have you guys ever Google searched tabloid headlines? The first thing that pops up is Alien Bible Found, They Worship Oprah! And that is one of the more mild headlines. This was a beast of a chapter. Long, long time to write. So, here we find out how Eric became interested in animal training.
Also, remember how in chapter six, Alan asked Eric what his favorite dinosaur was growing up, and Eric answered it was the velociraptor. Was. Past tense. Here, he's telling Charlie it is the velociraptor. Present tense.
This was the main chapter where Eric struggles with his mental health. While he's going to have problems throughout the story, because trauma like this doesn't go away, this was the brunt of it. Wow, he only has two chapters left for being Eric Kirby, and in the second of those he's in the process of becoming Owen Grady. This is gonna be interesting. Stay tuned!