So this was written in bits and pieces, commuting to and from work, drowsily clacking away in the odd wee hour, etc. Might come off as a bit fragmented, I don't know. In any case, love it or hate it, here's chapter 12 of In Loco Parentis. I really want to thank all the people who've inspired me to continue writing. Your reviews are like music to my ears! And to all new readers (yeah I see you people, your faves and follows come to my inbox), I would love it bunches if you let me know your thoughts on this baby!- Tyler


Claire Dearing was a woman of ambition. From heading up student committees, to hosting fundraisers and pitching big ideas to even bigger corporations at a very young age, Claire had been voted 'Most Likely to Succeed' in school – and spent her entire life attaining that status.

Everything Claire Dearing did, she did with precision. Even when she'd been a doe-eyed apprentice at Masrani Corps, her skills set did not go unnoticed. Long before she'd even paid her dues, Claire had been hauled up the promotion ladder by Simon Masrani. He'd set her up as the assistant assets manager at his shiny, new theme park – Jurassic World.

Many others would have shrank away from such a daunting task. Claire thrived on it. Her often ruthless pragmatism was the yin to Simon's yang. Once again, Claire rocketed upwards, going from assistant to senior assets manager, then head of park operations.

After the series of events triggered by the I-rex escape, Claire had floundered, uncertain for the first time in her life as to whether her ambition was her Achilles Heel. She'd had Owen to support her, but their relationship, although forged through the flames of hardship, had been as new and daunting as her future.

Used to dealing with the flighty, whimsical Simon Masrani, Claire had come up against an enigma in Owen Grady. Sure, he was sarcastic and dismissive (and a huge, huge flirt). But he also had a level head and plenty of experience digging his way out of problems. And, like Claire, Owen was used to giving orders. They had found themselves fighting for the reins so often that it nearly destroyed their relationship…

Until they'd realized that they had to respect each other enough to share them.

Yes, Claire Dearing was a woman of ambition. Which is why she found it incredibly hard work to play dumb in the face of Tucker's blatant assassination attempt. Her and Fisher's plan to give the man enough rope to hang himself was a sound, but painful, strategy.

Still, it didn't mean she could just sit around avoiding the man. After all, there was work to do. An evacuation didn't just plan itself.

Claire slipped out of bed before the sun had fully risen. Owen was still tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling in soft waves. She paused, admiring the view, and resisting the urge to feel guilty about crushing pain meds into his dinner. Owen was still healing, and yesterday's events had taken a toll on his progress. If he'd thought his winces and gasps would go unnoticed, he was wrong.

Stan was snoring softly on the sofa-bed, heavy bass thumping from his headphones. Claire kicked aside a pile of clothes on her way out.

"Like father, like son." She muttered.

When Claire arrived at the clinic, she saw two of Fisher's people standing guard outside. The burly men were stopping anyone who attempted to enter. Off to one side, Tucker and his entourage were engaged in heated conversation with another agent.

Claire approached the clinic door, eyebrows raised in apprehension, "What happened here?" She addressed one of the suit-clad men.

He removed his shades, "Miss Dearing? You're cleared for entry. Agent Fisher is waiting for you inside."

"But what's going on?"

"There was an attempt made on Agent Fisher's life last night. She fought off her assailant, but they fled before we were able to apprehend them."

"Oh my god." Claire breathed in disbelief, "Well, aren't there cameras in the clinic?"

"Mr. Tucker is denying our agents access to the files. He insists they obtain a warrant."

"I see." Claire nodded at the man as she hurried inside. The hallway was a mess. Broken glass lay in fragments along one length that had been taped off by the feds. They were mingled with droplets of dried blood.

Claire reached Fisher's room and sighed in relief to see the woman in relative health. The only new addition to her injuries was a nasty black eye.

The special agent nodded at the smartly-dressed young woman beside her, excusing her as Claire walked in. The two were alone in moments.

"Does no one ever bring balloons in this lousy place?" Fisher broke the ice with a dry jab.

"I brought muffins." Claire extracted a steaming Tupperware from her tote bag.

"Chocolate?"

"Gluten-free."

"Well, aren't you a riot?" Fisher lay back on her pillow, "It's a wonder Grady hasn't offed himself."

Claire ignored the comment, occupying the seat beside the woman's bed. She crossed one slender leg over the other, "What happened? Who attacked you?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be twisting Tucker's arm for the security footage." Fisher reached onto her desk and bit down on a cigarette, "Aren't gonna tell on me, are you? I'm still all nerves."

"It's your body."

"Goddamn perp nearly had me for a minute." Fisher's hands shook slightly as she lit up, "I was flying high on meds. I really don't remember much."

"They told me you fought whoever it was off."

"Yeah, guess I got'em good. You know, instinct or whatever." The agent waved at the medical tray beside her, "Apparently I stuck'em with some bandage scissors."

"So just test the DNA."

"Tucker's barred us from the lab. Says we need a warrant to invade the premises and use his equipment." Fisher took a long drag of her cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling, "I put in for the warrants, obviously, but who knows how long it's gonna take with the Costa Ricans blacking out our feeds."

Claire's mouth tightened, "You know Tucker is behind this. First, the Compys and now, a hitman? Our silence is being mistaken for weakness, Fisher. We need to send a message." Before it's my turn. She didn't voice the unspoken fear.

"Couldn't agree more." The woman raised an eyebrow, "I'm cleared to leave the clinic this afternoon. As soon as I'm out, I'm handing Tucker my inspection findings, telling him I'm shutting the place down."

"Perfect." Claire clapped her palms together, "I'll let Owen know and we can begin overseeing the evacuation process."

Fisher nodded, "I've already notified the Costa Ricans and asked them to send us some ferries. But Grady pretty much begged me to give you and Stanley a space on my boat, so…"

The red-head smiled coldly, "Thank you, but we'll only need a place for Stan."

"Oh? How come?"

"I think we both agree that Isla Nublar isn't the healthiest place to raise a child."

"No," Jolene tapped the butt of her depleted smoke stick onto the floor, "I meant, why aren't you leaving? Grady's right to worry, Claire. Tucker's got you marked for something big, and you aren't talking."

Claire's ice-queen smile remained fixed as she rose to stand, "I have no idea what you mean. But thank you for your concern. If you need me, I'll be at HQ commencing the evacuation."

Fisher sighed, then flopped onto her pillow once more, "Have it your way, then. I'll keep my security tight, but I'd like to assign you some protection. Things could get hairy."

"I have a Glock in my purse I know how to use." Claire checked her watch, "But I'm sure Owen would appreciate the extra security for Stanley."

"Oh yeah. Heard Randall showed up last night." Fisher let out a throat laugh, "Who's he think he is; the new sheriff in town?"

"I'm late for a meet with Lowery." Claire shouldered her bag, "Good to see you're alright. Call me if you need me." She headed for the door.

"You forgot your brownies!" Fisher called after her, waving a hand at the Tupperware container on her bedside desk.

"Gluten-free muffins." Claire reminded her staunchly as she left the room.

She told herself the hateful looks she received from Tucker (and Randall, though his sneer was obstructed by his swollen jaw) were unimportant. They might've been.

But they were unnerving, all the same.


When Stanley Simmons woke up, bleary-eyed and rocking a terrific case of bed-hair, he waited for the bucket of cold water. Or the clash of cymbals. Some sort of cruel and unusual wake-up call to justify the fact that his watch read 11:45 AM and Owen had not yet dragged him out of bed.

A quick trip to the bathroom and a rigorous face-wash later, and Stan had to accept that this was no dream. The cabin was quiet save for the chirping of Isla Nublar's birdlife. Still clad in a t-shirt and boxers, Stan stumbled over and pressed his ear to the bedroom door.

More silence greeted him.

He shrugged, told himself that it was none of his business, and had a go at the new box of cereal Claire had left him on the counter…

Along with a note, explaining she would be out for the majority of the day and that she had her spare cell phone along should an emergency arise.

The note was probably for Owen.

Dumping his bowl in the sink and splashing a second helping of cold water into his eyes, Stan headed for his clothes.

He was just pulling on his jeans when Owen's cell phone – lying on the kitchen counter where he always left the damn thing – began to peal.

Stan rolled his eyes, "Journey? What, did he buy that tune in a ringtone museum?"

He tugged on his shoes and looked up as Barry sounded on the voicemail.

"Owen, it's me. I talked to Doctor Shriver this morning. He says Blue needs fresh bandages and more painkillers and tranquilizers. I would bring them over myself, but things are crazy. I don't know if you heard about Fisher."

Stan froze mid-balance as he laced up one shoe.

"As soon as you get this message, go to the clinic. Maria left the package in the lobby. Drop it off at the paddock and get back as soon as you can."

Chewing at his cheek, Stan realized he would have to brave the proverbial lion's den if Blue was to get her treatment in time. Sure, the raptor had tried to kill him – repeatedly. But she had also saved Claire's life, and her current injury was largely due to him.

Rolling his eyes, Stan pounded on the bedroom door.

"Owen!"

Nothing.

After several minutes of fruitless knocking, Stan tried the handle and was surprised to find the door creaking open in compliance.

Stan approached the massive figure sprawled across the king-size mattress. At least the man was wearing something resembling clothing. He inched cautiously closer, stopping just out of arm's reach.

"Owen." He tried. "Owen! Wakey, wakey."

The man was out cold.

"Owen, come on. OWEN!"

Feeling an irrational fear begin pounding in his chest (and ignoring the deep-set reason behind it), Stanley gingerly stretched out a hand and shook Owen's broad shoulder.

"Owen, wake up!" He shook harder, and then attempted poking at the man's ribcage, "Dad!"

The dread grew like a weed. Stan remembered the last time he'd felt this way, and, throwing all caution to wind, snatched up Owen's wrist and felt for a pulse.

Fortunately, the steady thumping under his fingertips managed to reassure Stan that his father was not, in fact, dead. Blowing out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Stan examined the conundrum before him. Owen was all but comatose – likely an after-effect of the past few days' action – and Blue was in pain.

To his credit, Stan was honestly taking the altruistic road when he slapped a post-it on Owen's door. He had no way of knowing when the man would waken, and it was imperative that Blue receive her medical package as soon as possible. He could call Claire and ask her to do it, but it sounded like the woman had enough on her plate. And it just so happened Stan's schedule had been cleared.

In fact, Owen had personally handed in his son's resignation to Randall with his fist…and boot.

Wait, am I grounded? Stan shut the cabin door behind him, No, His Royal Majesty was too busy beating the crap out of Randall to bring that up. Besides, the paddock's not exactly off the beaten trail.

That much was true. While on the far side of the island, the paddock Barry and Owen had chosen was still part of the original Jurassic World circuit and well within the confines of the wall.

Stan set off, ambling down the crumbling pavement of the old park boulevard. After one too many stares from the bustling personnel, he yanked up his hood and adopted a scowl. Remembering Owen's less-than-veiled warning about two persona-non-grata, Stan kept a low profile. He ducked his head as the truck ferrying the wall crew kicked up a cloud of dust beside him.

Arriving at the clinic, Stan narrowed his eyes at the team of black-clad feds swarming the area. He tucked his hands into his pockets and approached the guard at the doors.

The man looked down his straight, long nose at the boy. Stan cleared his throat.

"Here to pick up a medical package for Doctor Shriver." He matched the deadpan expression on the agent's face with one of his own.

"Wait." The man informed him curtly, then muttered into his earpiece. Stan arched onto his tiptoes in an effort to look over his massive shoulder. He barely caught a glimpse of the chaos in the hallway when a mousy nurse appeared with the goods.

Deciding (wisely) against commandeering another vehicle, Stan bolstered his grip on the hefty bag and set off on foot. It was about a half-hour trek, but the path was paved, albeit slightly overgrown. Birds twittered and cicadas chirped in the long grass as it waved in the tropical breeze. A freshness hung in the air, lingering from the previous night's storm. It made the mud and mosquitos a little more tolerable.

The paddock gate was a fortress of steel, shrouded in vines that had flourished in the year since the park had been abandoned. Stan squinted in the midday sun, running a finger across the enclosure's specs sheet. It had previously housed triceratops, but since all the surviving herbivores had been moved as far from the wall as possible, the paddock was now derelict.

Stan set down his burden and pressed the intercom.

After a moment, a voice crackled, "What do you want?"

"You the dino vet?" Stan glanced around him as he spoke, doing his best to look bored and unaffected should he be on camera.

"What do you want?"

"Got a special delivery for a Doctor Shriver. That you?"

Silence. Then, "Wait there."

Stan waited. Not as though he had a freaking choice. He kicked his scuffed converse in the dirt and tried not to think about what could be lurking in the brush.

He was leaning against the door when it buzzed open, nearly tripping him the process. Doctor Shriver was a portly man with a frazzled countenance and a bald spot. He took the package from Stan without so much as a 'thank you' and moved to shut the door.

"Hey, wait!" Stan wedged his foot in.

"I hope you're not expecting a tip, young man!"

"I just want to see Blue. How is she doing?"

"She's heavily sedated and nursing a broken limb, that's how she's doing. Seeing her will do absolutely no good whatsoever. Now if you'll excuse me!" The final words rang in the slam of the gate.

"Asshat!" Stan made sure to yell the slur. He flipped the shrouded paddock – and Doctor Shirver – the bird with both hands before turning on his heel. Guilt riddled with anger brewed in Stan like a storm cloud, and he took a seat on a fallen tree trunk in an attempt to calm himself down.

As he sat there, fists digging into the rotting wood, Stan became aware of a presence standing behind him. For a minute, he froze, fearing that Blue's pack had finally caught up to him.

Stan was relieved – yet considerably annoyed at having been scared shitless – when Tucker eased himself to sit beside the young man.

"I love it out here." Tucker's brow was shiny with its usual coating of sweat. His cream-colored suit sported several grass stains that suggested he had intentionally snuck up on Stan. This little detail only served to further anger Stanley.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"I thought you were a little old for Stranger Danger, Stanley."

"You aren't strange. You're psychotic. Now beat it."

To Stan's irritation, Tucker gave a chuckle, "Don't worry, Stan." He patted the young man's knee, "What Daddy doesn't know won't hurt him."

Stan shot up, jerking out of Tucker's reach, "You touch me again, he's gonna know alright!"

"Relax." Tucker held up a palm, face warped in disgust "I didn't come out here to molest you, if that's what you're implying."

"Just harass me, is that it?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"And I need you to leave me alone."

Tucker rested an elbow on one crossed knee and tapped his forehead, "You know, call me crazy, but…I could've sworn I heard you asking whoever is inside that paddock if you could see Blue."

Stan paused mid-turn. His jaw clenched and he fought to control the wild beat his heart was suddenly dancing to. "You heard wrong."

"Oh I don't think I did. In fact," Tucker rose to his feet laboriously, "I think your daddy is hiding his little pet in there. And the thing is, I have to ask myself; what if information like that found its way into the wrong hands?"

When Stan turned, it was to cast Tucker a thoroughly unimpressed expression, "I wouldn't quit your day job, Sherlock."

"Don't misunderstand me. Personally, I have nothing against Blue. She's an impressive animal, and a valuable InGen asset. I'd never hurt a scale on her head, but…" Tucker raised his eyebrows at the ground, "…there are a lot of people on this island who lost friends because of her. Take my security team, for instance. One of my best guys watched his brother's throat torn out by Blue's new raptor pack a month ago. That kind of shit does stuff to a man, Stanley. It changes him. Yep, I reckon they'd storm this place with rocket launchers and a battering ram if they found out Blue was hiding here."

"You know, as fascinating as it is listening to your monologue," Stan snapped, "I was serious when I said I'm not meant to be talking with you. It'd hurt my rep. And, probably, the back of my head. So if you're finished…"

"How much danger do you think your rep would be in if Owen's precious little raptor got killed because of you?" Tucker's tone went ugly, matching the snarl on his face, "Now I have a very selective memory, Stanley. I could conveniently forget this whole thing ever happened. And in return, you could do me a solid."

Stan grit his teeth, wishing with all his might that he could throw a punch like Owen. He was backed into a corner, and he knew it.

"Let's just pretend for a second that I hypothetically accept your generous offer. What's the solid?"

"Oh, it's a stinch, really." Tucker rubbed his sweaty palms together, "I just need you to find out exactly who Claire Dearing spoke to and where she was on the night my office was raided."

"If you think I'm going to enable your obsession with stalking her…"

"I guess you didn't hear there was an attempt on Agent Fisher's life last night. Luckily, she fought them off, but word on the street says Dearing is next on the hit list. Someone is trying to silence her, someone who might be the real enemy in this picture. You get me?"

Stan's mind raced. He knew that Owen and Claire had gone out that night and pawned him off to Barry. He was, however, flummoxed by the notion that they could actually be responsible for the break-in. Claire was here with an all-access pass courtesy of Masrani Corps. She didn't need to sneak around. In Stan's mind, that would be far beneath Claire Dearing…although, he wouldn't put it past Owen.

"So let me get this straight." He eyed Tucker stonily, "I get you Claire's alibi, and you leave Blue alone."

"That's the deal."

"And you back off of Claire, as well."

"Of course. If she's innocent."

"The only thing Claire's guilty of is having you for a colleague."

Tucker chuckled again, but this time it was sinister, "Oh, you are so much like your father."

"If I was like Owen," Stan smiled acidly, "I'd have knocked your teeth out by now. But while we're on the subject, he can't know I'm talking to you. How are we supposed to communicate?"

"Don't worry about that. Just find out what you can, and I'll contact you through a third party. The back of your head will remain unscathed."

Stan turned to leave, shuddering with revulsion. He just wanted to get as far away from the slime-ball as was humanly possible.

"You see how well we play ball together, Stanley?" Tucker called after him as he ploughed down the path, "This is what you'd call a win-win situation!"


You know what ELSE is a win-win situation? Me posting and you reviewing. That. - Tyler