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Prologue

"Tell me you're joking."

"Jokes are funny, Da," she replied, tilting her head to the sky and basking in the smoldering rays of the Central American sun. It reminded her of Africa, of her wild dogs and elephants and cheetahs, of her days watching over the preserve. A pang of regret hit her hard in the chest and she prayed, not for the first time, that her father's concerns weren't going to come and bite her in the ass.

"Not all of them," he retorted sharply; she could envision the deep furrow over his sky blue eyes as he glared down his hooked nose at her and thanked God she wasn't physically present for that disappointed scowl. "This one sure as hell isn't. You weren't there, Crys, you don't know-"

"I know," she growled suddenly, slamming her tumbler of whiskey onto the rickety step beside her hard enough to nearly shatter the glass - or the step, "I do know. I saw what happened, Da. I might notta been there, but I saw what it did. What they did to you."

"And yet you still took the job," he snarled, "even after all they did. That damned place nearly killed me! It'll kill you too if you're not careful-"

"But I am," she stood, rolling the tension from her shoulders and groaning as a slick, silver Mercedes pulled up toward her bungalow, "it's kinda my job - and don't you start on the whole 'it was mine, too,' shit, because I know. God knows you tell me every damn day. Things are different now. I wouldn't be here if they weren't. I'd be on the first plane back to the mainland, willing to hear every last 'I told you so' you had to offer."

He snorted at that, half distressed and half amused. Cracking a grin, she knew she had him.

The threat of him being right gets him every time, she thought with a victorious smirk, noting with a click of her tongue, "Look, Da, I understand your worries. I really do. I don't wanna see what happened to you happen to anyone here. But I've got this. I do. You just have to trust me."

"I do, pet, I do," he conceded, his tone gruffer with reluctance, "it's them I don't trust."

"Well they are marching up to my bungalow as we speak, madder than hell it'd seem," she commented lightly, unconcerned as Claire, the park's operations manager, came striding across the lush lawn with a furious scowl painted across her pale face. A glance at her watch told Crys that she was an hour late to some meeting or other Claire had emailed her about the night before.

Explains the constant buzzin' phone in my ear, she mused with a smothered grin; she didn't want to make the redhead even more upset. The ear-chewings she got were aggravating, to say the least.

"Don't let 'em do anything to endanger you, Crys, you or those fools that actually pay money to go to that death trap," her father warned her, "so help me God, I hear one thing and I'm-"

"'-on the first plane down there,' I know, I know," Crys muttered with an affectionate laugh; truly, for all his paranoia and misgivings, he really did have her best interests at heart, "I gotta go; this is prob'ly gonna get ugly. I'll talk to ya later, alright, Da? Love you."

"You, as well, pet," he muttered, grumbling to himself even as she pulled the phone from her ear and disconnected the call. Rounding on the charging redhead, she raised a hand in greeting and noted cheerfully, "Mornin', Claire. How can I-"

"An hour and-," Claire paused mid-rant to check her dainty silver wristwatch, "seventeen minutes, Crystelle! I called you six times… no answer. Looks like your phone's in working order, though."

She eyed the iPhone Crys tucked into one of the many pockets of her cargo shorts in disdain. Though, truthfully, Crys couldn't be certain if it was the phone, or the shorts that had her more irritated. If Claire was anything - and she was a lot of things Crys wouldn't dare say in her presence - it was professional.

Crys was the opposite. Dressed in her preferred khaki shorts, a black wife-beater, a pair of weather-beaten hiking boots, and her da's infamous hat, she was dressed practically, not professionally. And this meeting, she had been told, was one for which she probably should have donned a Claire-like outfit. A smart gray pencil skirt and matching blazer, with a white blouse underneath, and four-inch gray pumps to match.

But how was she supposed to take off at a moment's notice, be it to respond to a crisis or run for her life? Nah, these boots had done her well in the past and she'd be hard-pressed to don a pair of heels unless she was off-duty. Which was rare, to be honest. In a place like Jurassic World, there were enough concerns to keep her phone at the ready and her boots at the end of her bed.

"-lucky Mr. Masrani asked for you personally, I swear, or you would've been fired long before this-," Claire grumbled, gesturing to the Mercedes and spinning on a heel. She strode off, expecting Crys to follow her, still grumbling under her breath about Crys's lack of professionalism, selflessness, and - style?

Oh, that's hitting below the belt, she snorted, but followed the operations manager without complaint. It would be more of a headache than it was worth, just like with her father. Let them rant, that was her philosophy. Well, a philosophy she'd stolen from Owen, but…

It wasn't the first time Claire had threatened her job, nor would it be the last. Crys supposed the should be grateful that Masrani came to bat for her as often as he did… and that Claire really had no power over her position at the park. Operations manager she might be, but she had no say in Masrani's hiring of the game warden.

"Who're we meeting with anyway?" Crys interrupted Claire's rantings as easily as she did her father's, "Pepsi? Coke? Disney? You know, I really don't have time for this-"

"But you have time to talk to your father for over an hour, when you should be at the Innovation Center with me, meeting with Nike?" Claire released a long-suffering sigh, as though Crys should've remembered the company willing to offer thousands, maybe millions, of dollars in endorsements to the park, "tell me how that makes sense."

"My da has firsthand experience of what happens when a place like this fails, in case you've forgotten, Claire," Crys retorted, her normally light tone adopting a steely edge as her crystal eyes flashed. Her father would be proud of the way Claire buckled under her forceful glower and turned away. "Any input I can get from him is more than welcome, by me and Masrani."

The mention of the park's owner set Claire's teeth on edge, Crys could see. Her jaw ticked and she said nothing, instead stepping on the gas and flying through the jungle in a desperate attempt to reach the Innovation Center and salvage what she could of the meeting.

Crys smirked; a victory over the haughty redhead always put her in a good mood. She wasn't one to compete with the other females at the park, but she and Claire were too different to really be friends. They could barely be called acquaintances, truthfully. They tolerated each other because they had to, because Masrani often tried to get them to collaborate on projects which always failed miserably unless one of them backed out of it and let the other handle it.

Crys watched the beautiful, emerald foliage pass her by, keeping an eye out for any stray animals. There weren't supposed to be any out and about this far north, but one never could be too careful. Dinosaurs were crafty - just ask her father - and despite herself, some of his paranoia had rubbed off on her.

Well, they didn't make her park warden for nothing, she supposed.

Constant vigilance, and all that…

Claire was rambling about someone or other, probably one of the guys they were supposed to be meeting from Nike, when the walkie-talkie at Crys's hip crackled to life, a masculine voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt. Tugging it free, she brought it to her lips and queried, "This is Ranger Rick; say again?"

While she wasn't male, or a raccoon for that matter, 'Ranger Rick' had been one of Owen's very first nicknames for her when she arrived on the island, fresh from Kenya and decked out much like she was today. It stuck with the rest of the employees, and everyone, from command central to the hatchery, called her that over the walkies.

"There ya're, Ranger Rick," Owen's voice teased, "been tryin' to call you all morning."

"Yeah, well, Da was goin' off; you know how he is," she grinned affectionately, ignoring Claire's aggravated huff and watching the fluffy white clouds roll by.

"That I do, Ranger Rick," the raptor's alpha replied with a laugh; he had had the pleasure of meeting her father once, when she had first taken the job. He had flown down specifically to ensure the park was safe enough for his little girl to work there. Course, it would never be safe enough - which he had shouted to Owen when he offered, rather irrationally, to show him the raptor paddock - but Crys had been persistent. "But hey, I need to ask you a favor…"

"Oh, God, what is it?"

"Crys, we don't have time for this," Claire snapped, reaching for the walkie and growling, "Mr. Grady, whatever this favor is, it's going to have to wait. Crystelle is going to a meeting, a meeting she's already late for, and can't help you with whatever is - undoubtedly - more important than another park endorsement."

The sarcasm dripped from her words and Crys fought the urge to roll her eyes. Whatever Owen needed, was, probably, more important than the meeting. At least to the two of them. She and Owen were of a similar mindset; if it came to the animals, it should have been their - and everyone else's - first priority.

"Aw, shit, well fine, Captain Buzzkill," Owen grumbled, sighing heavily, "alright, then, Crystelle, when you're done selling your body to these guys, come to the raptor paddock. That favor I need? It's pretty huge."

"Sure I shouldn't be there now?" Crys queried hopefully, biting down on the tip of her tongue to keep from cackling at Owen's incredibly appropos name for the redheaded ice queen. Sure, they'd used it over the walkies, but no one had been brave enough to call her that in her presence. Her face was about the same flaming shade as her hair, Crys noted gleefully.

"Nah, I don't wanna get you in trouble," he stage-whispered, well aware, now, that Claire could hear his every word, "good luck with your meeting, Ranger Rick. Don't catch any STDs, alright?"

"You just don't want me to give you any," she retorted with a grin, rolling her eyes playfully as he groaned, "God, I love it when you talk dirty. Starlord, over and out."

"Oh, you wish you were as cool as Peter Quill, Owen," Crys snorted, eyes to the ceiling as she waited for his retort.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I said over and out," Owen barked over Barry laughing loudly in the background, "I'm over and out… oh, and how dare you say I'm not as cool as Starlord? I'm cooler than Starlord- you wounded me, Ranger Rick, honestly… Hey, can't we just go back to talking dirty? Ya know what, never mind; the magic is over. Like I'm over and out."

Laughing, Crys tucked the walkie safely back in its holster, fastidiously ignoring Claire's unhappy glare. Five, four, three, two-

"You know, fraternizing with fellow employees is frowned upon, Crystelle," Claire noted disapprovingly, pulling up to the rear entrance of the Innovation Center and throwing the Mercedes in park, "what you and Mr. Grady are doing is-"

"Nothing actually," Crys replied truthfully, clambering out of the blessed air conditioning and into the humid heat, shoving the hat from her head and raking a hand through her short, auburn locks, "Owen and I share a mutual interest in dinosaurs, Marvel movies, and alcohol. We're not together; he's just a flirty guy. Calm yourself, Claire; jealousy doesn't become you."

The operations manager flushed, irritation flooding her features at the mention of any attraction she may have - at one point - felt toward the raptor handler. After their failed date, she had avoided him like the plague - an action that was mutual, Crys noticed. Of course, she and Barry had teased him relentlessly for even asking her out in the first place; he had weakly retorted one of the other handlers, though he conveniently forgot which, had dared him to do it.

"I'm not- I wasn't… Mr. Masrani-"

"-would not frown upon employee fraternization, as long as it didn't interfere with work," Crys quipped, to which Claire had no response, "he's all about love and freedom and happiness… kind of a modern day hippie, only a trillionaire. So don't gimme that bullshit. Anyway, like I said, there's nothing going on between me and Owen. Now, where the fuck are these Nike asshats?"

Claire, her eyes wide and pinned on something over her left shoulder, blanched and Crys spun on a heel. The Nike asshats were standing directly behind her, faces in varying stages of surprise.

Slamming her hat atop her head, she groaned, "Ah, fuck."