Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[Kieran]

Winslow High School
Brockton Bay, New Hampshire
April 7, 2011








It was five minutes until the end of classes, and all I could think was that I really hoped I didn’t screw this up.

Truthfully, I wanted nothing to do with this place—it was the Neon Genesis Evangelion of superhero settings. Hell, Ultimate Marvel was less depressing, and that took work. But the fact was, we had no way of knowing if our old reality even existed anymore, much less a reliable way back. And if Scion’s “eat all related counterparts of the planet” included it, then it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Granted, my home reality did, but the latter issue was still a problem—and even if we could get there, there was the little matter of my friends being fictional and me being dead . . .

So here I was, back in the hell known as high school—and this one really was. Graffiti, gangs in attendance, and a general look that had stepped out of every “streetwise” teen movie ever made . . . Where were Sidney Poitier or Michelle Pfeiffer when we needed them?

There were a number of ways we could have gone about this, and probably would if this didn’t pan out; Taylor Hebert’s father was much easier to locate, if possibly harder to get to, since the Dockworker’s Union undoubtedly had security. I presumed so, anyway; sadly, I just had the broad strokes for this universe—and probably not all of them, either. This was also a bad idea in all the potential ways this could go wrong, of course. But I really hated bullies, and this girl had put up for this for years. I wasn’t really keen on letting it continue if I could at all avoid it.

And so here I was, sneaking around the entrance to the upper circle of Hell under an Imperturbable Charm and a weak Notice-Me-Not Charm. The second was calculated to not be enough to cause everyone to get out of my way—I was a 220-pound man and six feet tall, after all—but enough to keep their attention elsewhere. This was a world that had security for mind control; I didn’t need anybody realising that there was a hole in the crowds, or that people were getting out of the way for someone they couldn’t see.

That could not end well.

No, I just needed them to not care about my being around, and so far, it appeared to be working. It was nice that something was—because trying to pick out a (relatively) tall, skinny white girl with long brunette curls and glasses in the streams of students filling the hallways, even with my senses. And it didn’t help that if she was smart (and I damned well knew she was), she’d be trying to hide from the—

. . . Okay, I was an idiot. It took me almost five minutes to make the obvious connection and look for the damned bullies. Even though I had even less idea of what they looked like, it’d be a lot easier to spot a redhead, a black girl, and “cute, petite girl” in one cluster.

I was right, as it turned out; it didn’t take long at all. It took even less time to realise that they were carrying full bottles of . . . Soda? Juice? I couldn’t read the label at this distance, and didn’t really care. It wasn’t like they were likely to be bringing them into the bathroom for any good reasons—they had lockers, after all. Hell, they had purses; why lug around a full bottle any other way, if you weren’t going to drink from it (he asked sarcastically)?

Unfortunately, I had to pause for a beat when I realised where they were headed. I really couldn’t afford to get caught, and wasn’t willing to bet on the Notice-Me-Not Charm holding when someone of my general proportions walked into the girls’ bathroom, so I needed to duck behind a row of lockers for a breath, and a quick Switching Spell. Once the Deathcloak was equipped, I shifted into dire wolf form. It wasn’t ideal, but with the cloak effectively another layer on my fur in this form, I wasn’t likely to be outed by somebody or something snagging the edge of it. And the door was easy enough to shift open, even without my hands—a hundred kilos is even more wolf than it is human.

Once I was past the door, the smell was terrible, almost a tangible thing in its repulsiveness. Seriously, public washrooms in general are terrible, high schools are worse, a high school as low-grade as this one was horrifying, and my nose was literally a hundred times more sensitive than a human’s—I was astonished that I remained conscious after running into that.

As it was, I shifted back to human form immediately, and wished really hard for some nasal spray.

It took me a beat to process what I was seeing: the dark-skinned chick and the red-haired one boosting themselves up that they could lean over the tops of the stall and peer into the centre one—presumably where Taylor was hiding. With, you guessed it, the aforementioned beverage bottles. It didn’t take Hermione to figure out the plan here, much less to derail it.

The cutesy one whose name I barely remembered when I bothered trying to was playing lookout, but she had at least half her attention on the scene before me. Moreover, the bathroom was designed to let two people pass each other side-by-side. The bathroom stalls’ locks might be on the outside of their doors (wait, what? What idiot did that?!), but the size and design of the place was still up to code. Slipping by her was easy.

And even Miss “the world is predator and prey, survivor and victim, and I’m not the second type” didn’t notice anything wrong. . . Honestly, that was pathetic. One would think that simply as a non-white girl in a school full of neo-Nazi gangbangers, much less a vigilante or a zealous adherent to her beliefs, she’d have better situational awareness. I mean, yes, I was invisible and my shoes were prevented from making sounds, and she was preoccupied, but even Neville had been harder to catch by surprise in the early days of our training. He’d been alert to the possibility of danger.

Oh, well—it just made things easier for me.

It was a simple thing, really; the trickiest part was the angle. Just wait until they were leaning over with just the right amount of effort and silently Summon their shoes in quick succession—immediately cancelling the spells afterwards. The end result had the two girls “slip” on the toilet seats, and land hard. Of course, they also dropped the bottles, which happened to land face down on their bodies.

. . . Of course it was a coincidence. “Too much hang-time for a few fractions of a second,” you say? “Silent Hover Charms,” you say? Lies and slander. The fact that the bottles spun fast enough to avoid aiming at Taylor’s stall before unleashing their payload was purely a lucky break, I tell you—the kid certainly deserved one.

Speaking of, the girl took advantage of the chaos—a great deal of shrieking, swearing, and other assorted noises—to make her getaway. Cutesy was too busy checking on her friends to worry about her would-be victim, and I used a couple of non-permanent Sticking Charms to make sure it stayed that way. I figured needing the janitor to have them pried out of the toilets would keep them off the girl’s back for a day or two, at least; hopefully long enough for us to work out a better meeting time and place.

In the meantime, I’d confirmed that yes, she did exist; yes, the situation more-or-less seemed to be following what little of the canon I knew, and hopefully, she’d have a brighter day than she otherwise would have—

I didn’t know how I’d done it, exactly—but when Taylor paused for just a beat in the open doorway of the bathroom, to glance behind her, at exactly where I was standing, and nod slightly . . . Well, it was in that moment that I knew: somehow, I’d messed up.

Bloody hell.

[Funderfullness]

Skitter has eyes on the back of her head. And on the wall. And around the corner. And on your head.

[Kieran]

And enough savvy to - combined with her multiple viewing angles - extrapolate a human shape out of that space her bugs aren't going near, yes.

[Kieran]

Gringotts Bank
London, England
May 23, 1998








Galen had never had much in the way of dealings with the goblins of Gringotts. Oh, he had an account, certainly—like virtually every other witch and wizard in Britain—but aside from the occasional deposit and the odd withdrawal, he rarely entered into the bank . . . Except, of course, for some weeks ago, when he’d looted it.

So his trepidation upon receiving a summons from the bank regarding his “investment portfolio” was understandable, particularly in light of the fact that he didn’t have one, to the best of his knowledge. Nevertheless, it was a bad idea to irritate the people who handled your finances; that being the case, he made what he considered the appropriate preparations and entered at the appointed time.

“. . . I’m sorry,” the wizard said, some time later. “I own a what, exactly? And how?”

“A fairly large stake in a Muggle company called ‘International Genetic Technologies, Incorporated,’ colloquially called ‘InGen,’” the goblin answered.

“And as to the how . . .” Ted Tonks prompted as he shuffled through documents, looking for the appropriate papers.

The older wizard was here in his capacity as Galen’s solicitor—one of the aforementioned preparations the younger one had made. The first line of defence was always to have a lawyer.

“Ah,” the Tonks patriarch said in self-satisfaction at the sight of a particular document. “It was apparently an investment made by Sirius Black upon turning seventeen. I doubt Sirius really understood what they were into, or much cared; to him, it was likely just a means of spiting his family, using their money to invest in a Muggle company.”

“Regardless of his intentions,” the goblin said smoothly, “the portfolio was of little interest during Lord Black’s incarceration; he could hardly dictate instructions from Azkaban, after all. But since his emigration to Nihon, it has fallen to you, as his heir—and there is presently a motion before the shareholders which rightfully demands your attention.

“More importantly,” the banker added, “this arrived not an hour ago.”

Taking the parchment, Galen scanned it quickly. It was enough to confirm several things: among them that what he thought was occurring was correct, albeit a year or more later than expected, and that elements beyond what he’d normally expect in this situation were involved.

“. . . Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can make the travel arrangements,” he ordered.

Among which, Galen reflected silently, would include packing more than a few extra items. He’d entered the bank geared up for war; this would require going overboard.








Ten hours later
San Diego, California








“I hate travelling by Portkey,” he wheezed, restraining the urge to regurgitate his last meal.

The teenaged wizard was garbed in a charcoal-grey suit, with a black silk shirt and—with extreme reluctance—a pale blue tie. His skin glowed with a healthy golden tan, setting off the dark blue of his eyes. A few hairstyling Charms had even added a neatly-trimmed Vandyke beard and accompanying moustache, as he couldn’t reliably grow one of his own on demand at eighteen.

Regardless, in his own opinion, Galen looked suitably professional, and more mature than he actually was (a sentiment most of his family and friends wouldn’t fail to agree with). It was important, he felt, to project such an image under the circumstances.

As such, upon leaving his designated arrival point, and seeing the literal mob of reporters encircling the house, he did not do anything more than tense, lest he spoil that image. He did, however, turn around, go back to his arrival point, and surreptitiously don the Deathcloak, before Disapparating to reappear within the manor grounds, at about third-floor level. The fall was jarring, to be sure, but with the Elixir running through him, he could easily take it—and did. After that, it was simply a matter of making certain he was out of sight before stowing the cloak once more, and walking to the front door.

“Ah, hello,” he said pleasantly. “My name is Galen Salvatore—I understand that Mister Hammond is expecting me?”








As Galen had grown to expect from dealing with the people he had, John Hammond was a perfect ringer for the late Sir Richard Attenborough. He was also soft-spoken and remarkably polite—he offered whiskey.

“None of my family has had the spark, I’m afraid,” the old man admitted, “but I went to Hogwarts, as a lad. Never thought much of how we Muggle-born were treated then, and even less of it later, so I got out and went into business. Still, I keep an ear to the ground—never know where you’ll find an opportunity, after all—and in touch with a few old classmates.

“For all the headaches you land on his desk,” Hammond said, suddenly and firmly, “Algernon thinks very highly of you and you little band of rabble-rousers. And take it from me, the man has never been easy to impress.” He sighed. “I truly wish I’d known about you before—and hired your young ladies over Dennis Nedry. Maybe then, we could’ve avoided . . .”

He sighed again, and shook his head.

“Regardless,” Hammond said. “I took young Black’s money because it was as good as anyone else’s—better, really, since I knew where to get a proper exchange for the materials. That it’s passed to you is of some benefit, because from what old Algie says, you’re liable to actually understand what’s going on.”

Hammond explained the situation in some detail, which matched up with what Galen expected. After that, there was a flurry of paperwork signing, copying, and dispatching; all in preparation for what was to come . . .








“You can’t take those,” Hammond said sharply to the workmen attempting to remove boxes of computers from his home.

“Of course they can, Uncle,” his blonde nephew sneered smarmily. “They’re InGen property.”

The resemblance to Lucius Malfoy really was uncanny, Galen mused. In attitude, anyway—Malfoy cut a more striking figure, in the young wizard’s opinion. Still, he certainly wanted to deck this man as much as he ever had Malfoy . . .

Oh, wait: that was his cue . . .

“And as the majority shareholder,” Galen interposed, “the disposition of company assets is subject to my approval—which happens to hold the opinion that all company property can stay right where it is.” He bared his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile—by a blind person. “Hello, Mister Ludlow, my name is Galen Salvatore—Mister Hammond has been telling me all sorts of things about you . . .”








Staring at the huffily-departing executive, Galen spoke to Hammond without turning. “I doubt very much that this will stop him for long—do you?”

“No,” the elder man said heavily. “No, I don’t. Peter never liked being denied having his way . . .” He barked a laugh. “Family trait, I suppose.”

After a moment, Hammond continued, “I was putting a team together to go to the island, make records for the Costa Rican and American governments with an eye towards turning it into a nature preserve—and I think I’d very much like you to be on it, in case things go wrong . . .”








Writer's Notes: As I said, this would have to be an AU, since it invalidates a number of things from my series - but c'mon! Dinosaurs versus Wizards sounds like it could be almost as much fun as Cowboys versus Aliens!

[hatori]

I like where this is going.

[Kieran]

I rather thought you might. I had to fiddle with the timeline a bit, obviously, but I liked the idea, nevertheless.

Of course, now Galen has to try and keep the girls from following along - and the fact that his arguments against are the same as their reasons for not letting him go alone . . . Yeah. Does anybody see him actually winning this one?

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .







It often came as a complete surprise to people, but Ian Malcolm was not a small man.

True, he was more “lanky” than “big,” overall. He kept himself fit enough to look good shirtless (it went well with his overall “rock star” image, and helped in his perpetual quest for “the next ex-Mrs. Ian Malcolm,” as he’d once told Doctor Sattler), but he wasn’t really a muscular sort of man. He was, however, over six-foot-four, and as such, not typically intimidated by people—not that he would have been anyway, with his intellect, but his height had often prevented troubles that his mouth had gotten him into, as a teen.

In this case, however, Malcolm would admit to some trepidation.

It wasn’t that the introduced-out-of-nowhere Galen Salvatore was bigger than he was; or at least, not only that. Malcolm was still taller—by a couple of inches, at least—but the newcomer was almost twice as broad as he was, and moved with no small amount of grace for his size . . . Hey, his daughter was a gymnast; he might not be a jock, or even the world’s greatest dad, but Ian Malcolm did pay attention, and he’d learned to recognise somebody who was in excellent physical condition—trained, even.

In what, he couldn’t say for sure, but he was sure that Galen Salvatore was used to working with his body, and working it hard.

And that was the problem, really: no matter how he analysed Galen Salvatore, the man just wasn’t adding up. He came out of nowhere, with a major connection to InGen—but had apparently had nothing to do with the park? If he was rich enough to buy into the company as deeply as Hammond had said, Salvatore should have popped up in the Fortune 500, or at least the news; hell, Berkeley should have been trying to hit him up for donations!

He might be European, Malcolm admitted to himself. Salvatore spoke with an accent that sounded something like Hammond’s, but not quite the same—Malcolm had lectured all over the world, but he still couldn’t quite place it . . .

And then there were the physical issues. Aside from his build, which argued “bouncer” or “pro football player” over “corporate wunderkind,” his age was impossible to guess; he had streaks of grey in his hair, but a complete baby-face—at a guess, if Salvatore had bothered to dye it, Malcolm would’ve placed him as a college senior, tops . . . And more alarmingly, the way the man moved was giving him flashbacks to the Tyrannosaurus’s attack on the jeeps—the pace of a confident, consummate predator.

Either John Hammond had gone senile enough to mistake a CIA operative for a corporate investor, or . . .

“Who is he, John?” Malcolm demanded.

“An unexpected ace in the deck, I suspect,” the old man replied, “and one I think you’ll find very useful, if you intend to go with the expedition, Ian.”

The mathematician simmered, visibly. “Hammond, this is not the time for cryptic riddles; I’m already angry about you sending Sarah—my Sarah—to another island of dinosaurs, and the last time secrets and surprises were involved, people died. Now, I am hoping that you maybe actually have learned from your mistakes, and can have enough humility and human decency to give him a straight answer: for the last time, who IS he?”

“Someone with a somewhat eclectic education,” came the response. “Not all of which is available for public consumption, if you take my meaning . . . But I’m given to understand that his two closest friends growing up were ‘military brats,’ as they say—Special Forces, no less—and that all three of them were apt pupils.”

“. . . I can’t imagine that mixing the military with dinosaurs is in any way a good idea,” Malcolm said. “Everything I said on the island, about your mistakes with genetic power? They’re liable to make worse.”

John Hammond gave him a gimlet stare at that, and answered in a tone as icy as the Scottish moors in winter.

“Contrary to your opinion, Doctor Malcolm, I am not a complete idiot. I do have sufficient imagination to have some idea of what the military might do with access to dinosaurs; and surely it occurs to you that the technology behind Jurassic Park would’ve far easier to develop with military funding? It certainly occurred to my board members, I assure you—and if I spent all those years fighting to keep them out already, you can be quite sure I’d not allow them in now.”

His brogue thickened as his tone sharpened; and to Malcolm’s credit, he bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, John.”

The old man sighed. “. . . It’s an understandable reaction.” He shook his head. “Regardless, I cannot tell you much about Mister Salvatore’s history—not least because I don’t know much of it—but I would not have called him in if I didn’t believe he was the best possible help available.”

“Spared no expense, eh?”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Hammond’s face. “Indeed—and as it is, he’s already been of help. The privatisation faction of the board cannot act without his say-so, not legally; and while that may not stop them from trying to go around him, the care they’ll need to tread with buys me time to work with the media, build a campaign about turning the island into a preserve.

“And as to the lad himself, he’s likely to be an excellent help in locating Doctor Harding. I’m given to understand that he’s trained in wilderness survival, tracking, search and rescue, and knows something about handling large, predatory animals. Perhaps not to the scale of dinosaurs, but he’s at least as knowledgeable as Robert Muldoon was . . . And from all I’ve heard, there is no force on this earth that will make him back down.”

“This one, maybe,” Malcolm riposted. “But what about forces from Earth, sixty-five million years ago . . .?”







“YOU’RE GOING WHERE?!” Takara and Hermione shrieked.

[MWkillkenny84]

“And as to the lad himself, he’s likely to be an excellent help in locating Doctor Harding. I’m given to understand that he’s trained in wilderness survival, tracking, search and rescue, and knows something about handling large, predatory animals. Perhaps not to the scale of dinosaurs, but he’s at least as knowledgeable as Robert Muldoon was . . . And from all I’ve heard, there is no force on this earth that will make him back down.”

“This one, maybe,” Malcolm riposted. “But what about forces from Earth, sixty-five million years ago . . .?”



“YOU’RE GOING WHERE?!” Takara and Hermione shrieked.

Can two pissed off females beat Prehistoric Earth?

[Kieran]

*Chuckles* Those two in particular . . . ? Even money.

*Shakes head* Honestly, I couldn't decide which line to answer Hammond's statement with, so I chose both. I hope that Malcolm came across as in-character; much as I love Jeff Goldblum's performance (favourite character, really), Ian Malcolm does have a self-righteous streak. And honestly, the book version is worse.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Somewhere beneath the Greater London Area, 2003
Day 2








Most people didn’t assume that pity was one of Galen’s weaknesses; at least, not unless they’d seen him with Mirai, or Ai-chan, and/or Takara, Hermione, Luna and Miranda when they were younger . . .

. . . OK, so in hindsight, it was actually a fairly obvious weakness—but it wasn’t one that immediately sprang to mind upon first impression. Not with his general size, build and temperament, anyway. He was a cynical, curmudgeonly old fart in the body of a twenty-something, and he’d worked hard on that impression, damn it!

Galen also hated walking into situations blind, so after escaping the warehouse that first night, he’d immediately beat a path to Rin Delacour’s door, for a favour: a brief usage of her Kaleidostick, during which he’d downloaded the memories of an analogue with more experience in the lore of Five Nights at Freddy’s.

. . . It wasn’t the first time he’d had an entire lifetime downloaded into his brain (or even the third, sadly), and he was sorry to discover that the experience became no less painful through repetition. And ye gods had that ever been depressing—by which Galen was referring as much to the details of “his” life as the details of the story itself! Regardless of that, however, he’d learned enough of the tragedies behind Circus Baby and her fellow animatronics to feel pity (curse his weakness for ethereal female voices!); that had led him to choose his present course of action.

Luckily, the warehouse didn’t have near the daytime security it really ought to; mostly because it focussed on keeping the contents in, rather than intruders out—presumably, under the assumption that anyone who broke in deserved what they got. Then again, they’d probably never considered a reasonably-intelligent wizard breaking in, either . . .

Regardless of the reasons, however, it was pathetically easy to get in, and make his way in. After that, it was just a matter of bracing himself, before casting the spell that would prove or disprove his theory.

“Legilimens . . .”








Circus Baby awoke—and froze suddenly, puzzled.

She was not in her gallery. She was not in the Scooping Room. She was not anywhere she recognised—and yet, it felt . . . Familiar.

She analysed her surroundings: a stone room with long wooden tables, like outdoor picnic tables, and benches to either side. Banners hung in the air; she had to describe it that way, since there appeared to be no ceiling to the room. Circus Baby did not understand how, but concluded that it must be because of pretending, much the way that she appeared to be a clown, and the Funtime animatronics seemed to be animals.

Was this a new venue? Was she to perform here? There was nothing in her database; no sign of her usual equipment . . . There were no children.

Circus Baby did not understand.

“Hello, Baby,” said a voice (male, adult, familiar—the polite night employee), causing the animatronic to turn, to behold a young man in odd clothes. “The three of us need to talk.”

“. . . Three?” Circus Baby repeated.

A new voice, also familiar, answered, “Please don’t make me . . .”

Female, child—her voice . . .

“It’s all right, Elizabeth,” the night employee said gently, glancing behind him. “She can’t hurt you here; not while I’m in the room . . .” He turned back to Baby. “. . . And I’m here to figure out whether or not she actually will—or even wants to.”

“. . . I don’t understand,” Circus Baby said.

“William Afton was a sick man,” the night employee said. “He was a neglectful father; but Elizabeth, that is not your fault. He created machines that were programmed to do terrible things, and that is not Circus Baby’s fault. Elizabeth was desperate for her father’s attention, and fascinated by the ‘daughter’ that he seemed to prefer; or maybe simply because she was forbidden. And Circus Baby did what she’d been programmed to do, because she couldn’t even think of doing anything else.

“But now,” he said cautiously, “you understand what it is your father wanted you to do. You know what it feels like, don’t you? You remember, because Elizabeth remembers, and she’s a part of you—you’re two halves of a whole, now . . . And can you really do it again?”

Circus Baby blinked, and did her best to sound innocent. “I—”

“No,” the night employee said sharply. “Really think about it, about the consequences. I know you’re intelligent enough to do it. If the same thing happens again, can you handle having another child’s memories? How many times, for how long? And for what—what’s the purpose of this? You can think about this, now; you’re capable of it. Please, please do so.”

Circus Baby blinked. She recognised pain in his voice, though she didn’t understand its source. She considered the value of doing as asked versus simply pretending to . . .

And then, she remembered—remembered pain. Terror. Screaming . . . And she couldn’t stop—

“I . . . I . . . I—don’t—know . . .?”

The words surprised her, as much as they seemed to surprise Elizabeth. Wasn’t it what her daddy had built her to do? Didn’t she want to make him proud . . .? But it hurt—it was so awful . . .

She didn’t want to feel this way—she didn’t want to make it worse . . .!

“You need to decide, both of you,” the night employee said firmly. “I want to help you, but I can’t let you hurt any more people. If you want to rest, if you want it all just to stop, I can help you do that. If you want to live, even like you are, I’ll do what I can. I meant what I said: what happened before might have been because of things you did, both of you, but it wasn’t your fault—not either of you.

“But if you go on as you have—if you choose to keep killing—then that is your fault, and I’ll have to stop you . . .” He looked sad again, and said, in a small voice, “Please don’t make me.”








Warily, Galen watched Circus Baby’s animatronic body shudder to life, eyes literally flickering alight—green-eyed, like Elizabeth’s; it was still possessed, then.

But then, a high-pitched tone began to call out, rapidly rising in pitch past even his hearing, and the air began to ripple around the head of the “pins” that protruded from her form. Her plated “skin” began to melt and meld together, into an unbroken whole, the pins vanishing from sight as Circus Baby took on a more organic look, her cherubic face and wide smile looking more real—and yet, if he looked hard enough, it still rippled minutely, the shadows of the pinheads flickering in and out of view in microseconds.

“Holography?” Galen murmured, astonished anew at what the Fazbear technology was capable of.

“Yes,” the animatronic replied—in Circus Baby’s voice, but with Elizabeth’s British accent, creating something that sounded similar to the Queens of the Resident Evil film series. “So I would be less frightening . . . I can’t maintain it for very long, though; the hypersonic frequencies have bad effects on humans with prolonged exposure.”

“. . . And why are you showing me this?”

“Because I want my Daddy to be proud of me,” the animatronic replied. “Elizabeth Afton and Circus Baby both wanted that, so I do, too—and are you, Daddy?”

Galen STARED—this situation demanded all-caps STARING.

“. . . I’m sorry—what?!”

This is the universe’s revenge for my laughing over Hermione getting adopted by Mileena, isn’t it . . .?








Writer's Notes: Between reading the final FNaF novel, and finding this video, I just had to go back to this - and throwing in the "Hors de Kombat" reference was irresistible.

[fsnfan]

Err... I'm gonna need some context. Don't know enough about FNaF to understand what's going on.

Also, 'Hermione getting adopted by Mileena'? Isn't it the other way around?

[Kieran]

Err... I'm gonna need some context. Don't know enough about FNaF to understand what's going on.

I'm just waking up, so hopefully, this will do:

Also, 'Hermione getting adopted by Mileena'? Isn't it the other way around?

Depends on your perspective, I suppose.

[fsnfan]

Depends on your perspective, I suppose.

Mileena asked to call Hermione her mother. So I don't think it's a problem of perspective though. Unless I'm missing something.

BTW. Thanks for the video. It definitely answered some questions.

[Kieran]

Mileena asked to call Hermione her mother. So I don't think it's a problem of perspective though. Unless I'm missing something.

Because it was Mileena doing the asking, instead of Hermione, Galen regards it as Mileena adopting her, rather than the other way around (which would be the typical method: parent adopting child).

BTW. Thanks for the video. It definitely answered some questions.

Glad it helped. I do like that one in particular.

[fsnfan]

Because it was Mileena doing the asking, instead of Hermione, Galen regards it as Mileena adopting her, rather than the other way around (which would be the typical method: parent adopting child).

Ohhhhh. So what you meant was that Mileena was 'parent adopting' instead of 'child adopting' Hermione. Now I get it.

[MWkillkenny84]

An idea for a "What if" based on the "Delayed MAD as a last 'fuck you!' from Voldemort via Veil of Death" plotline: it happen...

And the Seven plus close associates find themselves in the world of Digimon Tamers, Shinjuku.

[Xamusel]

I love Tamers! I wonder if Kieran's gonna be able to write that, though... well, it'd be awesome if he can.

[Kieran]

An idea for a "What if" based on the "Delayed MAD as a last 'fuck you!' from Voldemort via Veil of Death" plotline: it happen...

And the Seven plus close associates find themselves in the world of Digimon Tamers, Shinjuku.

I love Tamers! I wonder if Kieran's gonna be able to write that, though... well, it'd be awesome if he can.

Hm - it's literally been a couple of decades since I last watched the series (or close enough; when did Fox air it, again?), so I'll need to do some refreshing, but I might be able to slap something together . . .

Next week, though - given that I go to see Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom in 37 minutes, I expect that the dinosaurs will be taking priority in my writing headspace this weekend.

. . . And of course, all that assumes that I don't manage to get the actual chapter out, again . . . But I'll see what I can do.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Isla Sorna
207 miles west of Costa Rica
May 25, 1998








Takara glided through the wild cautiously, all her senses open, because this wasn’t her ideal environment in the least. Even leaving aside the fact that she was a city girl, the part of her that was Tisiphone was built for forests, not jungles; tall grasses, humidity and heat were alien to her owl’s instincts.

That said, however, she wasn’t entirely helpless, either. She had her training, and Tisiphone’s aspect did enhance her sense of hearing, touch, and especially sight. Takara had wider peripheral vision, better vision in low-light conditions, better ability to make out details over distances—and just better sight in general, as well.

As such, she felt reasonably confident in her safety to risk rolling her eyes at Doctor Malcolm’s question.

“So, uh, why, exactly, are you here again?”

“My fiancé usually needs someone to hold his leash,” she said facetiously.

Using just a shift of his eyes, Galen shot her a look that she didn’t need Legilimency to interpret as “What the hell?!” Takara, for her part, replied with a slight narrowing of her own eyes that was equally as easy to interpret.

“Deal with it.”

“It’s nice of you to want to do that for him,” Malcolm said grimly, “but you really shouldn’t be here. You’ll end up as lunch.”

Takara took a breath, and made an effort to keep her tone formal—as an academic, the man was more likely to take her seriously that way.

“I have had the same combat training Galen did, Doctor—more of it, in fact,” she pointed out. “I’m also trained as a combat medic, which could be helpful depending on what condition we find Doctor Harding in.” She paused, and then decided not to resist adding, “Didn’t you just come along because you wanted to rescue your girlfriend?”

. . . Why no, she wasn’t annoyed at the man’s constant suspicious glares at Galen and herself over the course of the flight to the island—and she was channelling her mother in “Japanese matriarch” mode, Takara realised. Strongly.

Maybe she was leaning on her instincts a little too hard; it tended to make her emotional reactions a bit more visceral, too, and in her case, the phrase “ruffled feathers” had particular meaning—

—a twitch of movement, from the corner of her eye—

As the shape burst from the bushes to her left, Takara was already moving. Never before had she been so glad to be ambidextrous, as it made drawing Mellinoë from her sheath a simple task, despite the attack coming from the witch’s “off” side.

In the movies that comprised the Jurassic Park series, velociraptors were as tall as Takara was, double that in length and two-and-a-half times her weight. Considering that most healthy creatures could lift twice their own body weight, which put them nearly on par with a gorilla in strength. They stretched out, holding themselves parallel to the ground when running, which they did with speed beyond that of any horse; and also typically prior to making a leaping attack as their opening move. And, barring one very specific exception (not counting hybrids), they were not inherently evil, simply wild animals—which meant that they (probably) didn’t qualify to bring out the lightning that her sword contained.

Despite that, however, Mellinoë sheared through its neck like paper.

And it was a move Takara repeated as she continuing turning in the direction of her initial swing, and brought the blade down on the head of the one that had been trying to sneak up on her from behind while its pack-mate had her distracted. As the second head hit the ground in as many breaths, Takara quickly took stock of her surroundings and saw Galen putting three .50-calibre bullets through the braincase of the last raptor standing.

It was really bad luck for the carnivores that they tended to have their mouths wide open during those attack runs—it worked well as an intimidation display, sure, but it just gave Galen a way to get at their brains without going through the scales and the thicker areas of their skulls.

Doctor Malcolm, on the other hand, was STARING. He just had the sort of expression on his face that demanded the use of all-caps.

“What . . .?” he said faintly.

It really wasn’t fair to the dinosaurs, Takara knew: between their training, their supernatural advantages, and the fact that they were still being enhanced by the Elixir of Life for the next five days, either Galen or herself was probably equal to four or five raptors in terms of strength and reflexes. The raptors’ scales were tougher than human skin, certainly, and their muscles were designed to maximise the value of their strength and claws; they had better reach and weight, and they could certainly outrun either of them, but . . .

The multi-tonne dinosaurs (the Triceratops, Stegosauruses, and of course, Tyrannosauruses, etc.) were a different story, but as human-scaled dinosaurs, in a straight one-on-one fight the raptors were simply outclassed—barring surprise, of course, or throwing a dozen or so at them at once, anyway. They were dangerous, still, but not the overwhelming killing machines that the movies portrayed them as.

Now though, she flicked the blood off Mellinoë and re-sheathed the blade, watching as Galen tapped the weighted knuckles on his gloves for emphasis, “explaining” how he was able to hit so hard—and about the armour lining their dusters (added to the linings yesterday, but they didn’t need to know that).

“It also helps,” he finished, “that we have no reservations about harming the animals, or carrying actual weapons.”

Mister Carr and Mister Van Owen, for their parts, looked quite relieved; as for Doctor Malcolm . . .

“. . . OK, I want to be sure I’m making myself absolutely clear, here—JUST WHO IN THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE?!”

[GhostKing 666]

Ah Jurassic Park 2, the absolute worst Jurrasic Park movie for so many different reasons. From protagonists that were responsible for almost every death in the movie(seriously I don't know who deserved to get eaten more, that dumbass Sarah Harding or that absolute backstabbing fucker Nick Van Owen), and antagonists whose introductory scenes had to be cut* because they made their motives more sympathetic to the audience then the protagonists ham fisted environmentalist message the movie tried to cram down our throats concerning the lives of murderous genetic abominations created by humans and let loose on that island(seriously, the actual environmentalist thing to do would have been to purge all the dinosaurs and allow the islands native habitat to recover). All that is just the tip of this movie's iceburg made of fail.


*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bY4y0dOjjNQ