Dr. Ian Malcom was still trying to process what he had just witnessed. He staggered down the shadowy dusty corridor, sparsely lit by burning lanterns casting ghoulish shadows across the halls of a medieval dungeon. This area was completely untouched by Hammond's modernistic contemporary designs, and Malcolm noted he walked upon a dirt floor. Occasionally an alien-looking lizard scurried past his leather boots into the shadows. Periodically, bystanders passed him, muttering to each other in their own guttural language. They regarded him, the foreigner, with curious glances.

A young couple passed him by, the woman speaking to the man in a hushed voice and then breaking out into laugher along with her husband or male companion -it occurred to him that relationship arrangements were probably different than in the modern world. The man, wearing an orange and white poncho, high leather boosts and bleached white trousers, made a cup shape with his hand and pressed in to his mouth attempted to suppress his laughter. Apparently, they thought Malcolm was drunk and he wished, under these bizarre circumstances, they were right. The halls widened, the ceiling slowly ascending like a cavern as he walked deeper into the arena's chambers. He shuddered, reaching for a nearby wall to stabilize himself as the ground shook, dust rattling down from the ancient ceiling, the thunderous roaring of the crowd could still be heard through the stone walls, as if traveled down the guts of some ancient beast groaning in its sleep. Everything deeply unsettled him.

Malcolm understood now that everything he had previously seen on the Island, including the technological innovation and unprecedented genetic advancements was no different than the backstory of the atom bomb. Fine science fueled by billions of dollars only leading to more wanton destruction instead of the betterment of humanity. Malcolm didn't know what to think about Hammond's monsters. They were the unfiltered manifestations of some mythological nightmare and he wondered to himself, as he stalked down the halls with his arms folded behind his back like a priest, if the creatures naturally behaved that way, so intently aggressive and vindictive, or if they were simply mutants, artificial spectacles for the crowd's amusements.

As for the villagers, they appeared to be a race of Jekyll and Hydes. At first, they were friendly, jovial, and surprisingly well versed in world affairs. If Malcolm had met one of the islanders in any metropolitan city, minus the tribal clothing, he would have never been able to recognize Asteran heritage. The Asterans themselves were extremely diverse, composed of various races and ethnicities, yet all seamlessly communicating in the same alien tongue. There were no signs of dissension, conflicts, or confusion. Everyone carried their daily tasks, going about their business under disturbed.

The Asterians themselves were all healthy-looking, clean, fit, youthful, and there were no indications of disease and malnourishment. There didn't seem to be any signs of sexism emanating from either side. The women, Malcolm blushingly noted, were attractive - some notably beautiful - and some were scantly clad in a blend of tribal garments and armor, yet the men regarded them with totally equal respect. Gennaro boldly shot glances back and forth between them and the party. Malcolm just shook his head. The women themselves carried themselves powerfully and boldly like the men, yet they were not standoffish or aloof. The air was remarkably cleaner than Malcolm had experienced elsewhere and there was not a single dot of smog in the air. Astera, Ian Malcolm had first observed, was the unprecedented model for Utopia.

However, as soon as they entered the arena walls and the games began, he was surrounded by a seething mass of barbarians, cursing and roaring in blood lust. Ian remembered how many of them were still smiling like giddy children at the dead monster, and the philosopher shuddered. He might as well have been teleported to ancient Rome. Perhaps the bloodthirst games provided the indigenous tribes a type of catharsis, uniting each other in vice as well as responsibilities. Either way, all Malcolm could see around him was delicately managed chaos that not be contained forever.

Malcolm entered into a large chamber, almost like a temple. At the other end of the chapel was a small entryway leading back outside to the village. Malcolm, immersed in thought, eyes down cast, didn't even know where he was going or what paths took him here. He noticed the walls and the vaulted ceiling were constructed from perfectly hewn granite and marble gleaming almost liquidly in the burning glow of the torches. Malcolm looked closer and saw indescribably elaborate murals, apparently displaying the history of the ancient Asterans.

He saw vivid images of clouds, towns, hunters, and (this might have brought a chuckle to under different circumstances) little cat people. Walking alongside the walls, he saw images of more of Hammond's monsters. He recognized some of the creatures, including the freakish bird in the arena. But there were other, more stranger creatures. Some of them look liked prehistoric animals, either Saurian lizards, Ice Age beasts, and sea monsters. Other creatures, he could not even categorize and he wondered how many of these things Hammond resurrected. Recalling the manic look in Hammond's eyes during the onslaught of the area games, Malcom could only imagine. As he circled the room, the images grew more vivid, combing up the walls into the dome of the ceiling like an eastern orthodox cathedral, images of dragons and hunters, and saints staring down him ominously.

On one side of the dome appeared to be a grotesque bullish-looking giant black lizard with building tusks and writhing in flames; the creature opposite was of similar build, yet appeared to covered in ice, standing in some desolate frigid wasteland. Its skin was pitch white and its chin looked like a great shovel. The artist perfectly rendered the eyes of the monster which were void of sanity and filled with a sense of butchery. Ian could not understand why, but the ice monster unnerved him more than the flaming one.

"The overseers of the gates of the sphere, one at the gate of the frost, the other at gate of the burning, maintaining the balance of the elements that keep our world in motion."

Ian Malcolm stepped back in shock, having believed he was alone. He turned about, looking for the voice's source. "Hello?" he muttered. His eyes locked on a silhouette emerging from the shadows, walking into the orange burning light of a nearby torch mounted upon a pillar in an iron holder, the black metal carved into the skull of a horned dragon. A woman came into view, her alien appearance piquing Malcolm's interest. Her ethnicity was unidentifiable, but she appeared to a combination of European and Asian descent, having narrow eyes, a long face ending in a pointed chin, slightly hooded by a slender aquiline nose. Her long jet black hair trailed down to her hips and ending two thick braids at the front. She wore a long kimono-style robe, midnight blue, with a thick dark blue poncho. But what stood out the most were her long, narrow pointed ears.

The Asterans were a very exotic group, yet they basically appeared to be a greatly mixed and diverse community; this woman, he could tell, was not entirely human. The woman gave Malcom an odd but warm smile, observing his unease at her presence. Malcolm coughed, attempt to recover himself and regain his avant-garde composure. "Ian Malcom?" She greeted, in the form of a question. He was unfamiliar with the Asterian's gestures for greeting and simply nodded. "My name is difficult to pronounce in your tongue. I am the third fleet master. Apologies for startling you." Malcolm blushed.

"Oh no, I'm alright. I mean, it's this place," Malcolm glided a finger around him indicating his surroundings. "A little more archaic than I expected. Different. Dark. A sharp contrast from Hammond's pretty lines and smooth surfaces. I'm fairly alarmed here" He smirked.

"Bones are only as grotesque as fear of the unknown coerces the ignorant to perceive; yet without them, there can be no body." She responded.

Malcolm pursed his lips. He estimated 75% chance that he was going to like this woman."You said you were fleet master?"

"I'm a captain, head of the research department, and typically deal with expeditions, mainly into the islands interior and subterranean areas. The games bore me at times. I find myself drifting for solace and reflection."

"And silence, I can imagine. You Asterans have quite an old-fashioned take on 'entertainment ". he gestured with his fingers

She laughed teasingly at him. "Not much different from your American Football"

"Yeah, but the players don't run around with medieval weapons trying to kill each other. . .'least not on purpose... " The fleet master cocked an eyebrow. Ian thought to himself, bit his lips, and realized he was being seriously contradicted. "Yeah, excuse me for fulfilling the stereotype of the double standard Westerner."Malcolm briskly walked over to the looming mural ahead briskly changing the subject. Needless to say, the woman was both mystifing and hunbling. "I'm assuming this is your creation story."

The fleet master nodded and walked over to the wall, making no footfalls and she appeared to almost drifting like a ghost. "The sagas of detailing the history of Wyverians and Astera, the world, and the lessons learned never again to make similar mistakes."

"Mistakes?" He saw at the base of the walls faded images of heaving oceans, large sprawling armadas of fleets encircling larger draconic sea beasts. The mouths of the creatures spewed forth smoke and fire like volcanoes. Other parts of the mural depicted great winged serpents cutting through the air with what appeared to be zeppelins chasing after them "They're hunting them." Malcolm said.

"For everything" the Fleet master breathed. "food, honor, understanding, but also for supremacy. We sought to rule the seas, be masters of the earth and the air. They met a terrible fate, again, not so different from your people." In his mind's eye, Malcolm saw visions of the whalers throughout the pacific cutting blooding swaths in whale populations for the sake of commerce, mass herds of bison once thundering across the north America planes reduce to a meager population. Malcolm understood her point, and she did not have to interpret the mural any further.

Malcolm calculated his next question. He wanted to ask more questions about the Asteran's legacy and their origins but decided against it. Malcolm saw faint signs of grief in the fleet master's eyes as she reminisced the past. Besides, from what he'd observed on the island so far and the images within this temple or cathedral (he didn't quite know how to categorize it, it could have been both); allowing his imagination to run with it, he speculated the Asterans obviously had something to do with Atlantis, The Amazons, Shangri La, El Dorado, or other figures in ancient mythologies of the world. His mind drifted again and he caught it like a hat blown off in the wind. Malcolm was a scientist first, a natural philosopher and theorist hardened by years of academia. He needed to ask the strong questions and get it off his chest. "Fleet master, I'm not being judgmental, and I am not going to pretend to be the divine herald of reason, but I have to ask. . ."

"You believe Mr. Hammond is leading my people down the same path to make the same mistakes" He froze as she read his mind nearly word for word. "Hammond intends to restore our legacy with his technological achievements paired with our own knowledge and heritage. He plans for our people, for all of us." The fleet master spoke almost robotically, like reciting a propaganda pamphlet. Malcolm saw a slight glint of doubt in her eyes and the fleet master recognized knew she didn't believe everything she was saying. "But," she said in a different, less whimsical tone "his eccentricity and ambition does unnerve me at times and I understand that, ultimately, the quest for greater wealth is what brought him to us after all."

"Yeah, And, after all, who knows where it will take him or what he'll do to get more."

"Another lesson from history." They had barely known each other and they were almost finishing each other's sentences. Again, Malcolm coughed, blushing slightly, and attempted to change the subject. "Who are those delightful characters?" He pointed at the top of the dome, indicating the two monstrous fiends staring each other down. "You said were overseers that kept the world in motion?"

"Yes," The Fleetmaster said. "The black and white gods preserved the balance that we disturbed . . . ."

Ian Malcolm stared deeply at the dome at the top of the Temple, slowly tracing the elaborate exchange upon the granite surface. Between the two leviathans, one representing fire and the other ice. Between them appear to be a mass of shadow, flame, and light. for a moment, Malcolm thought he was staring at the burning gorge of a volcano, the fire and smoke rising up between the two great beasts; but as the scientist stared deeply at the swirling Mass, he began to see a strange outline of what appeared to be another, more diabolical looking creature. It was another Draconian being, but this one truly looked like an ancient medieval dragon of old breathing in the fire and smoke,, as well as immediately bringing Tolkien's fables to mind.

It occurred to Ian that this was the "black dragon" Dr. Grant mentioned - the fiendish monster that not even the Wyvern expert himself believed in. It had a long serpentine neck, a horned head, and looking more closely its great wings stretched throughout the temple walls as if encumbering all who stood beneath its fiery gaze. Aside from the beast's savage visage, the one thing that stood out the most was its yellow, malevolent, piercing eyes that almost seemed alive, dominating the room. It was as if the image was alive and it was staring deeply into Malcolm's soul, testing everything he knew or thought he had known about the universe. There was nothing in those eyes but hate for human life. "And I presume that when the Asterans upset this balance, this guy showed up," Malcolm said thoughtfully, sliding his tongue beneath his gums. Malcolm spoke quieter as if not to disturb the sanctity of this creature's dwelling, "is that the fruits of your mistakes?"

"Yes," the Fleetmaster said bitterly, her jaw and eyes tightening, her mind again clouded with woeful memories,"...the Wyvern of Destiny: Heaven and Earth are his..."


Dr. Grant ignored the burning pain of the hot Chrome railing that had been absorbing the fierce sun's heat, still hot despite the coming twilight. He was rushing with adrenaline, almost more so than when he had witnessed the fierce battle in the arena. This moment, Grant noted, was entirely different than before. Up until now, he had found the live beasts somewhat foreign to him, but this creature was the only one with who Dr. Grant was most familiar. When Hammond had first mentioned the Yian Garuga paddock, all Dr. Grant could think of was observing it.

The adult paleontologist had to mentally accept the joy of a child being taken into Santa Claus's toy factory. The harsh drive towards the paddock through the dirt and money roads had been taken in uncomfortable silence. Again, he and Malcolm stared off into the distance as if in some meditative trance and Dr. Grant, who disliked the chaotician's mindless ramblings preferred silence. The only people who spoke in the party were Hammond himself and the attorney, speaking in hushed voices barely audible under the roaring engines and blowing wind of the convoy.

Obviously, gladiatorial combat is not remotely what Dr. Grant had expected, despite Hammond's rambling about the sanctity of these fights and roots in Asteran heritage, Dr. Grant was unimpressed. He had spent his whole life envisioning the Wyverns roaming the Earth, and the chance to see a living, breathing, firebreathing specimen was inconceivable. Seeing one of them resurrected only to be butchered in an arena and exploited was like observing a newly established shooting range in a panda reserve. Dr. Grant had much to say to Hammond about this, but for the time being, he held his tongue. This was a chance of a lifetime. It was not time to offend the eccentric CEO quite yet.

Meanwhile, the attorney was bitterly sipping on an espresso and working the alcohol out of his system; he apparently lost a heavy wager and was very upset, but he was so vastly impressed by Hammond's Wyvern Park thus far, his minor lost was nothing compared to what fortunes would be gained in the future. Dr. Grant swore he almost saw dollar signs forming in the shrewd New Yorker's dark pupils.

The party trudged through the mud, then over the concrete pavement as they neared the paddock. They stared at what looked like a military outpost, a massive fortress in the dark Twilight. Prior to entering the paddock, they went through two checkpoints, heavily fortified electrical fences all monitored by heavily armed Asterians guards. They carried brutish-looking lances with absurdly large, heavy bayonets and shotgun barrels interlocked into the staffs themselves. Looking more closly, Grant observed another row of towers encircling paddock, manning large menacing looking ballistae. Twilight was approaching, the sun gradually melting into the mountain-lined horizon, jutting like great monstrous teeth in the distance.

"Isn't this a bit excessive?" Ellie muttered to Dr. Grant, snapping him out of his reverie as they continued along the steel walkway. "The specifimen's we found weren't particularly large."

"Yes," Grant responded "but remember the bone density of wyverns far exceeds any known animal species. That's not what made them dangerous. They were master strategists, beyond pack hunters. Do you remember the enlarged cranial cavities? They were almost as large as a human's. They made dolphins and chimps look like turkeys." He looked at the dark fortress, reminding him of a gulag in some third-world country rather than an animal preserve. "If what my research suggests is true," Grant continued " they'll find it a way out of there is one. Hammond wasn't wrong on this one. . ."

"Spared no expense" Sattler mimicked.

They made their way up a network of stairs until they reached a large platform overlooking the interior of the pen. It was heavily loaded with jungle foliage, almost like an overgrown botanical garden with little visibility. There was still enough sunlight to the back stone wall and the dirt-covered base of the enclosure; nevertheless, the party's field of view was heavily obscured, say for the distant call of birds or the gentle hum of the electric fence.

Grant was starting to become disappointed, until he saw Hammond's face. He stood still, hands folded over the amber jewel of his cane stabilizing his aging, yet surprisingly agile frame. Hammond, again, had that same mischievous, Rumpelstiltskin-esque sneer. Grant didn't know why, but he instinctively released the hand rails he'd been clinging to in hot anticipation and took a step back. Ellie looked at Grant, confused, and then did likewise.

Gennaro shrugged. "Hammond, these are beautiful plants." He said sarcastically, though well hidden. "Is this the botanical garden on the way to Gerudo paddock? You said they were the wolves of your island."

Hammond nodded. "This is that very paddock."

"I don't see anything." Gennaro pointed out the obvious.

"In a zoo, do you always see every animal in it's respective enclosure in the same spot, time, and manner exactly when you want to?"

"There are too many trees to even see it"

"The Yian Garuga's natural habitat is typically heavily dense jungles, only venturing into planes for hunting if need be. Open spaces tend to spook them, and we want them to feel conformable."

Gennaro was going to mention the onslaught he watched hours before, but actually enjoyed that part and saved his insults. The sun was sinking, the enclosure was growing darker, and Gennaro was losing patience for Hammond's antics. It wasn't funny anymore. Gennaro pulled out his smartphone and turned the flash light on. The pen was still dark, but the flashlight enabled him to see more. He scanned the pen slowly for any signs of life and but saw nothing. The pen was empty and Gennaro, ticked he'd been dragged out here for nothing, was about to ask Hammond to leave already. Yet, his eyes caught something.

For a moment, he thought the leaves shifted color - it happened before Gennaro could take his next breath. An immense, mass tore out of the foliage sending leaves and twigs flying, followed by an ear-splitting shriek. The thing crashed into the electrified fence, shaking the metal platform like an earthquake. Gennaro, in a combination of panic and momentum, was hurled back. The electrified fence lit up as if a bolt of lighting narrowly missed them and the air now stank of burnt flesh.

The rest of the party darted pack in terror. Only Hammond stood there as if nothing had happened and the threw is head back, roaring in laughter." I told them you were spooked easily!"

Grant, recovering himself, neared the pen. "They ambushed us," Grant thought to himself. "They anticipated our every move, waited till we let our guard down. . ."

"You alright, good old boy?" Hammond said.

As Gennaro slowly got up, he bit down on his tongue so hard, he thought he tasted blood. He wanted to curse Hammond inside and out, but the continual visions of revenue this project could produce slowed him down and he held his peace. Patience, Gennaro reminded himself.

Meanwhile, Hammond busily calming down a group of guards that quickly rushed to the group's assistance, again speaking in his own broken version of the Asterian's dialect, like a parent to a child. Malcolm, who had remained silent stared up at the towers, observing the guards were pointing the ballistae directly into the enclosure. Grant stared at the chaotician, the twilight sun reflecting ominously off the man's sunglasses. There was something different about Malcolm, Grant noticed, but would discuss this another time. For now, he would indulge in a brief child's fantasy.

He walked calmly over to the pen, staring into the darkness. His vision had now become accustomed to the lightless enclosure and he could see the drifting mass of the creature as it stalked the pen with graceful fluidity of ink, black against black. "We meet at last," He muttered quietly. "I don't like seeing you fenced in like this, but for the time being, I'm glad you are. . ."

He could hear the beast's reptilian hiss over the hum of the electric fence, a low grumble like the combined rumble of an angry hound and a diesel engine. He could finally it's eyes, small red burning dots; but there was a higher intellect, of mix of curiosity and predatory calculation. The thing could already tell Grant was familiar with its movements, since Grant had spent most of his life speculating the beast's attack patterns. For some haunting reason, Grant knew that was not staring back in intimidation, which was common with most animals; it was studying the alien-human as well.

The beast itself was completely hideous, the faint dusk light revealing the almost mutant features of the actually fearsome bird wyvern. It's long, vulpine skull ended in the razor-sharp, bulbous and spiked bill, the bottom half protruding upward like a shattered wine glass, greatly giving the wyvern a brutish, repugnant look. Around the back of the bead were large fleshly membranes jutting out like humongous bat ears, yet Grant knew they were in fact vestigial, permanently contracted frills. The Wyverns lower jaw was lined with greying fur, and although it was a reptile, bore mammalian traits with it's lively movements as turned its side to assess it's territory. Yet, what stood most were its piercing, crimson eyes that almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the pen. As it stared back at Grant in interim, it almost seemed to pant like a dog rather than a hissing lizard. Grant understood it was, despite its grotesque appearance, still just an animal; however, he saw a type of mania in the thing's eyes and felt as though he looking into the eyes of a reckless psychopath behind bars in some maximum-security prison.

Ellie placed a hand over her mouth in shock. "Oh God . . . ." she mumbled, seeing the wyvern in it hideous glory.

". . . .It's beautiful" Grant moaned in awe, finishing Kelly's sentence, though not her thought.

Suddenly, Grant's moment was disturbed by a loud engine, and a huge crane drooped down into the paddock, now dropping a large steer strapped by a thick leather harness slowing to into the pit. The creature was moaning pitifully in confusion, and Kelly felt sorry for it.

"Arby's anyone?" Gennaro jested, yet no one paid attention to him.

"The Garugas have been on a fast since yesterday, strictly for your viewing pleasure. They had to be held in separate pens of course. . . . " Grant shot Hammond an angry glare as he said this. No wonder they'd been so aggressive, Grant thought. The crane slowly lowered the oxen to its fate, sinking into the black abyss of the pen's foliage. There was a moment of silence...

Dr. Grant understood the beast's were assessing their prey, a predator's custom. Then, it began: the creatures snarled and hissed as they closed in a on the defenseless ox, tearing through the shrubbery to get to it. When the Yian's made contact, they savagely tackled the ox, Grant hearing rib snapping impact, the steel platform rattling as if itself attacked, as they hurled the ox to ground and began ripping it apart. The thing screamed and Grant was grateful for the enclosure's darkness. Even if Grant had not attended the arena, this spectacle still would have been too much. The walls of the paddock shook repeatedly, spilling loose dust and dirt clods.

"We're thinking about making this an optional viewing for our guests," Hammond explained with the collected tone of a home salesman. "Scheduled feedings are actually quite popular in some animal reserves. . . . ."

Grant, slack-jawed, stared at Hammond. The deranged tycoon now displayed a different visage, as he watched the creatures feeding on the remains of the ox. Hammond emanated a type of religiosity that repulsed the convicted cryptozoologist, and Dr. Grant realized Hammond was not revealing the havoc wrought by the Asterians, but his own power of creation. Hammond turned and looked back at Grant, beaming smugly, with self-righteous eyes that whispered Look at what I can do. . . .

"They should all be destroyed," Howled a throaty voice, above the loud growls and snarls coming from the Yian's feast. Grant and the others turned as a large muscular form walked boastfully towards them. He was somewhat of a silhouette, sunlight draping over him. For a moment, Grant almost thought he was the another Asterian, with his powerful build and broad shoulders. Yet, as he neared Grant recognized that he was not Asterian at all.

"Quite the comedian as usual!" Hammond retorted. "Everyone, allow me to introduce you to Tembo Roland, our preservation overmaster from South America, Brazil to me more precise. He's an expert at jungle ecology. Please pardon the paranoia, he's one of the few non-Asterians who's dealt with Wyverns before."

"What do you mean 'Dealt with before'? Before what? How? You mean off the island?" Malcolm chimed in. Gennaro shot an accusing look at Hammond, the attorney's neck tightened and breath quickened.

"Have any of these things escaped the island?" Gennaro asked, with a shaking finger pointing down at the hell-birds.

"No! no, what I meant was. . . ." Hammond lied, yet before he could finish his sentence, Roland cut it.

"I've worked here for a few years now. Hammond hired me because of my expertise in big game hunting and security management. I'm some what of independent contract, you would say."

"So you are a mercenary?" Malcolm said bluntly.

"Former French Foreign legion, British SAS before that. Went from that to tour hunts in the Amazonian basin after the legislators loosed hunting regs up. I met this fine fellow over here (he nodded into Hammond's direction) following a...moderately successful hunt. . .and here I am." The bald Brit felt his leather belt.

Malcolm flared his eyebrows as if someone dropped a dollar bill in his lap. "...Er, FFL and Sas, a little up there for a 'biological reserve, don't ya think? What exactly is someone, uh, like you, needed here for. . .? "

Roland merely shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips as if acknowledging a child's crumbs on his shirt. "It means bloody well what you already know what it means," He said, cooly as ice, smiling slightly, yet eyes void of any life. His face was scarred, pockmarked, like old worn lesser and despite Malcolm's immediate assumptions about the foreign jarhead, there was a higher, dark intellect the theorist could never fully understand, and perhaps did not want to. Malcolm backed off and Hammond watched the two, simply enjoying the interaction.

Grant, for the moment, wasn't interested in matching wits now. He approached Roland, hand outstretched. "Dr. Grant."

"Roland" Grant winced under the soldier's firm grasp.

"I'm a paleontologist, basically the one and only leading expert on Wyverns. I have studied fossilized specimens of Wyverns for years, particularly the Flying Wyverns. But I've so many questions for a live witness like yourself, I'm not sure where to start: What kind of metabolism do they have? What's their growth rates?"

"Well, they're essentially all like reptiles; I've been told they're lifespans're is in indefinite. As for their metabolism," Roland waved an introductory hand towards the beasts, who were now gnawing on bones, snaps and crunches filling the party's ears, "You've seen it."

Grant chuckled awkwardly."I assuming their fast for bipedal-"

Roland laughed humorlessly, "They could catch most automobiles like a lion over a wildebeest, on dirt anyway. The sprint is like nothing you ever seen but, thank God, they can't maintain it long, not with that weight. The same could go for flying if they ever get one in the open..."

"I wish I could I see it. . . " Grant dreamed.

"No, you don't, unless it out through a bunker. They're good where they are. . . ."

"Do you release them into open areas?" Grant had to ask.

"Not Yet, they don't quite do well socially outside their species. From what I've experienced, none of the Wyverns do. They're all fiercely territorial, but these boys, oh, they have no respect."

"Yes, yes, yes, which is why we take extreme precautions, while retaining some sense of aesthics. After this is, supposed to be a park. Not a military base," Hammond reassured

"I'm guessing they're intelligent." Grant assume according to his research

"Extremely intelligent, even problem solving, 'specially ol' Deadeye. . ."

"Here it comes. . ." Hammond sighed.

"He's the oldest Yian Garuga of the three. We generated eight at first, but when he strolled in, he played Genghis Khan and took over the pack. He killed all but two of the others. One lucky bastard managed to gouge his eye out but, the king spared him and left him as the beta. They seem to have a twisted sense of honor among them. That one - -when he looks at you, he's reading you, studying your movements, even listening to the way you breath. Deadeye's the reason we have to feed 'em like this. He had them all attacking the fences when the feeders came, scanning desperately for any holes in the system."

"Coordinated attack patterns" Grant muttered slowly.

"Right," Roland nodded. "They were testing the fences for weaknesses. Systematically. And they found them..."

"What about the feeders?" Ellie asked

Roland stretched his jaw, his eyes growing dark with distant memories, almost staring off into nothingness. He hesitated, but before he could answer, he was interrupted against by the grinding, roar of the crane's fierce engines it lifted what was left of the harness out of the paddock: it had been torn to shreds, a dangling mess of pipes and leather stained with blood. "I see. . . . " Grant summarized.

There was murky silence after the crane's motors died down, against interrupted by the distant calls of birds and, now as the sun sunk in the east, chittering insect swarms. Hammond broke the quiet. "Well," he clapped his hands together. "Who's hungry?"

The party just stared at him. Moments later, the crew departed. Grant and others shook Roland's hand a second and bode him farewell. Night fell. As they descended again down the metallic stare way, brightly lit by burning white industrial floodlights, each member looking like a black silhouette themsevles. Malcolm struggled behind taking his time, again, as if in some trance. Kelly turned and caught up with him?

"So what do you think about all this. . . " Ellie asked him.

Malcolm thought before he spoke. "Why don't you go first?"

"Well..." she sighed,"I think it's all just a disgusting display of power...and I'm thinking about going vegan. You?"

They reached the base of the parking lot and made their way towards the running jeeps. He stared dead at Hammond.

"I repeat," Ian sighed. "Crazy...son of a bitch. . . ."