(A/N: Behold, the altar of GIFs! Lay forth thine memes as humble offerings, for without such noble sacrifices, this poor scribe's quill shall falter mid-verse.)
---
"So she's a half-dino?" Lucas squinted, cocking his head at the tail flicking behind Mavareth.
"Exactly my question before, yes." Felix nodded as if they'd just solved a cryptid mystery.
Lucas leaned closer. "You think some... 'other'features of hers are also the result of being a half-dino?"
Felix coughed. "Well, dinosaurs are... big but..."
"Don't say that too loud." Yuni shot him a flat look, arms crossed. She was clearly unimpressed.
These two, of all times, finally decided to bond—over that?
Unbeknownst to them, Mavareth heard everything.
Not with her ears, no—but through the tingling twitch of her skin, her tail's subconscious radar, and that cursed gift known as Dragon Sense.
Every syllable hit her brain like sonar pings bouncing off her dignity.
Dinoid? Dino-sapien? Reptiloid? Whatever she was, she wasn't deaf.
And if another whisper about her "Dino-sized chest" came up, she'd introduce them to the toothy end of natural selection.
Mavareth exhaled slowly, grounding herself as she sat on a jagged boulder.
The sun kissed her horns.
Her scales shimmered faintly beneath torn fabric.
She'd followed Felix and Yuni without saying a word, carrying the supply bag they had planned to haul back.
Neither protested. Maybe they thought she was just helping. Which was cute.
Behind her, a nearby tree swayed lightly.
From one of its branches hung a limp Dilophosaurus, upside-down and very much beheaded.
Its severed neck oozed sluggish blood into a dented bucket placed just below.
The cause of death? A snapped neck and a tail noose—courtesy of her.
The humans didn't ask. Smart of them.
Their attention shifted to the bloodletting dino, thankfully redirecting the boob-whispers, while Mavareth's gaze landed on the old man sitting in the shade—Jonathan Smith.
"MAYDAY. MAYDAY. MAYDAY." Jonathan's voice rasped out like a dying cassette.
The short-range handheld radio crackled in his hand, but no reply ever came.
He kept repeating it, more from habit than hope.
What he had hoped for was a real EPIRB—an Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon.
Or at least a long-range mounted VHF radio. But what did the kids bring?
A glorified walkie-talkie. Perfect.
After several more fruitless calls, he lowered the device with a sigh. His eyes fell on Mavareth again.
He stared. Not with fear. Not even surprise. But with an expression that slowly twisted into troubled recognition.
His gaze drifted from her face... to her tail... to the blood-soaked claws... and finally landed on a small, rectangular object fastened to her chest strap.
Faded, cracked under the sun and bloodstained—but legible.
A name tag.
Dr. Morgan Park
Executive Research Lead, DynaBio
Jonathan's brows drew together. He sat up straighter. "Um... Dr. Park?"
Mavareth blinked at him, confused.
"How long have you been trapped here?"
Yuni's head snapped toward him. "Wait—Dr. Park? Like, Dr. Morgan Park?"
Felix looked between them.
And then noticed the name tag, too late for that, but he had definitely saw the name somewhere.
Mavareth looked blankly at all of them, trying to process. Dr. Park? Why did that sound—
Oh.
Right.
That name.
She glanced down at the dirtied tag, sighed inwardly, then looked back up.
Well, there's no way of fixing that misunderstanding now with their expression like that.
Her Dragon Tongue and all that...
So, she slowly raised her hand, answering the old man's question.
Five fingers. Five Months.
Jonathan nodded solemnly.
He leaned back, a chill running through his bones. "Five years. That... That makes sense."
"??????????" Mavareth blinked once.
"If it's been that long, then it's from... that incident." (Jonathan)
"??????????" then twice.
"When DynaBio sealed this island off. The media claimed it was a methane leak. But internally—people whispered it was worse." (Jonathan)
"??????????" then thrice.
He stopped himself, glancing at the tail coiled beside her feet. "Genetic malpractice. Human experimentation. A vanishing research team. And now you're here, looking like—"
'Excusez-moi?' Then an internal French.
---
Eating dinosaur meat was not on anyone's bucket list.
At least, not for most people.
But then again—boys were a different species altogether.
Lucas and Felix had been making those jokes for years.
Not just at Dino Kingdom, but at every zoo, aquarium, and petting farm they'd ever set foot in.
"Let's skewer that one."
"Bet it'd be tasty smoked."
"Reptiles, right? Probably like alligator jerky. Or turtle stew."
No matter what animal or how endangered the species is, those jokes always exist. At least when boys visited together.
Yuni used to roll her eyes so hard she saw stars.
Well, now they had their answer.
Sizzle.
The meat cooked over a fire built from broken crate slats and Mavareth's uncanny ability to start a blaze with a spark and a glare.
Long strips of seared Dilophosaurus flesh hung on hand-whittled skewers.
Mavareth had gutted, skinned, and seasoned them in eerie silence.
Her fingers moved with surgical precision—like a chef who used to be a butcher. Or a bioweapon.
Lucas took a cautious bite, chewed twice, and grimaced.
"...Not as great as I expected."
Felix coughed, gnawing on a tougher bit. "Yeah. It's kinda... rubbery."
They said it like disappointed Yelp reviewers, but froze when they looked up.
Mavareth was staring at them.
Expressionless. Hollow-eyed.
But the message in her gaze? Clear as a knife point.
Don't. Waste. Food.
That Felix guy was supposed to be Chinese or something right? Why is he complaining about foo- ah, wait, actually... that was a bit racist—
Mavareth stated thus, inside her own mind.
Felix swallowed hastily. "No, yeah, totally edible. Just... prehistoric texture, y'know?"
Lucas took another bite, wincing. "Yeah. Could use... sauce. Or fire from this century."
Yuni didn't say a word.
She was too busy trying to warm her legs beneath a thin emergency blanket, watching the flames reflect in Mavareth's eyes.
The firelight played over them all—faces bruised, clothes damp, hearts still rattled from their wreck.
The sun had set completely.
A sheet of stars stretched overhead, and the island's night chorus crept in—chirps, hoots, and far too many deep-throated growls for anyone's liking.
Every now and then, when some curious predator crept too close to the firelight, Mavareth would rise, take one step forward, and—THOOM—a precise blast of power would tear through the trees.
One creature, a sleek, stalking theropod, dropped where it stood.
Jonathan had flinched the first time. Lucas nearly screamed.
But Yuni and Felix? They barely reacted.
"I know that feeling," Yuni murmured dryly, meeting Felix's glance.
They both turned toward the shocked faces of Jonathan and Lucas with identical looks that said: Welcome to the club.
Mavareth had even carved a shelter of sorts—using only her claws.
A huge, clean tree branch stripped of bark was leaned into a crude A-frame.
Emergency blankets from the yacht were draped over the top.
It wasn't much, but it blocked the wind and kept the firelight in.
They took turns staying awake, forming a rough watch schedule... but it didn't matter.
Mavareth never slept.
No matter how they insisted, she only sat there. Still. Watching. Awake.
Felix whispered once, "Pretty sure she blinks less than the dinosaurs."
The next morning...
It was Mavareth who stirred them.
She crouched by the shore, dragging her claw through the sand.
Felix yawned. Lucas wiped his eyes.
Yuni crouched beside her. Jonathan leaned in closer.
In the sand, she had etched something: a cube inside a cube, linked to a stick with a round shape—an antenna? A microphone?
"A radio?" Jonathan asked.
"You're trying to tell us you have a long-range transmitter?"
Mavareth nodded once.
"Where?" he asked eagerly.
She pointed into the jungle, then stood.
Jonathan's eyes lit up.
And they began walking.
The boys lagged behind, still shaking off sleep and yawning.
Up front, Jonathan walked beside Mavareth, doing what scientists did best:
Talking.
"You know, I always hated how they made the T. rex roar," he said, brushing a branch out of his path.
"No fossil evidence supports that. In fact, the larynx we found from a tyrannosaurid—just fragments, mind you—suggested low-frequency resonance. Not roaring. Not like in those damn movies."
Mavareth said nothing.
Jonathan didn't seem to mind.
"And the raptors," he continued.
"Do you know what Velociraptor means? It's Latin. 'Swift thief.' But the name itself came from their structure. They were birds. Feathers. Talons. Lightweight frames."
He trailed off, eyes distant.
"In Dino Kingdom, they slapped the name onto some scaly, overgrown monitor lizard, who's transplanted with a wolf brain. That's not a raptor. It's a theme park mascot."
Yuni slowed her steps behind them, watching her father's back with an unreadable expression.
She remembered the day he brought home the park tickets, face glowing like a child's.
She also remembered the day he quietly tossed his research paper into the bin, no explanation.
Now she understood.
He had believed in the dream.
And watched it get eaten alive.
Lucas and Felix looked at Jonathan, then back at Mavareth.
They noticed the faint sorrow in his voice—something heavy beneath the facts and names.
They also noticed how still Mavareth had gone, how she was watching him now with quiet intensity.
She looked—Lucas realized—like someone who understood.
Despite the claws. Despite the tail.
Despite her body, more monster than human.
Despite all that... she looked like she was listening.
But in truth, inside Mavareth's head, a different dialogue raged.
"What the hell is this old man talking about?"
She blinked slowly, nodded once, because it seemed appropriate.
But most of his words were flying past her like wind through the trees.
Jonathan, however, took her silence differently.
He noticed the hesitation in her stride.
And he remembered a name.
Dr. Morgan Park.
He had never spoken to her directly during his first year at DynaBio.
She had been the shining star, the geneticist who refused to compromise on scientific integrity—until she disappeared.
Jonathan suspected what really happened.
"You hated it too," he murmured. "Didn't you?"
Mavareth turned slightly.
"You were the first to protest the synthetic hybrid program. Before everything got... dirty. Before they turned you into this. No, I might be wrong, but at least around that time you should probably hold some grudges."
She stopped.
Jonathan slowed beside her, shoulders slumped slightly. His voice, now, was low. Warm.
"I don't blame you," he said.
"No one could've resisted forever. I just wanted to get Yuni into college. And You... probably just wanted to protect your research."
She stared at him.
More question marks than understanding hovered in her mind.
"What project? What paper? Who the hell is Morgan?"
Still, his voice had softened.
She liked that.
It reminded her—vaguely—of something human.
And though she didn't understand most of what he was saying, she understood this much:
They were moving toward something.
Maybe rescue.
Maybe a disaster.
But at least it wasn't isolation.
So she turned without a word and walked back toward their makeshift camp, the others trailing behind her in silence.
Yet the old man's voice clung to her thoughts like a blur.
That sounds suspiciously like the dino movies I knew of...
Yeah, that line. It echoed too familiarly like the rage comments she always read in every Reddit community discussing about that Dino movie.
Inaccurate dinosaurs—that was always her love-hate relationship with those films.
Some creatures changed their entire appearance with every sequel, like they were going through identity crises in high definition.
One day they were scaly beasts roaring and strong like T-rex, the next, they swam in water and suddenly became a semi-aquatic dino.
It had gotten so ridiculous that someone online had once distilled it all into a meme.
Inside you, there are two velociraptors:
A. Wants accurate scientific representation in dino media.
B. Misses the awe and nostalgia of the first dino movie, accuracy be damned.
By that logic, old man Jonathan? Definitely Team A.
Sorry old man, I'm Team B.
---
It was a small white-and-blue dinghy, bobbing quietly toward the shore.
One man sat at the back, hand steady on the motor.
He had long abandoned the yacht—slipping away under the cover of darkness, paddling first to avoid detection, only turning on the engine once he was far enough.
He didn't glance back.
Didn't check the supplies he'd hastily taken—a flare beacon, rations, and most of the communication devices belonging to the kids and the old man.
They were stuffed under the dinghy's bench, forgotten.
As soon as he reached the beach, he stepped out, leaving the dinghy behind like it was diseased.
A group was already waiting for him at the shore.
At the front stood a man he recognized instantly—Gregory.
"What a surprise," Gregory said, voice smooth, smile calm. Too calm.
"You're on time. I had thought you'd be more... uncooperative."
The man—broad-shouldered and rough around the edges—didn't return the smile. His expression twisted in disgust.
"Just make sure you fulfill the contract."
Gregory chuckled, low and quiet. "Of course. I always do." He took a slow step forward, hands behind his back.
"I'll make sure she's happy and well. In fact, I think she's having a wonderful time right now... at the private school I enrolled her in."
A dangerous glint flashed in the man's eyes.
His jaw clenched.
He could still picture the photograph Gregory had sent—a shot of his daughter, smiling in a way she hadn't in years.
That photo was a lie. A leash. A threat dressed as kindness.
But he didn't speak. Didn't fight.
He couldn't.
"Tch... Let's get this over with," he muttered through gritted teeth.
Gregory's smile widened, just enough to unnerve.
"Glad we're in agreement, Mr. Callen."
They pushed deeper into the jungle.
Gregory remained at the rear of the group, a rifleman at his side—alert, disciplined, and clearly loyal.
They hadn't brought land vehicles. They didn't need to.
They knew the island's layout by heart.
So far, no threats. No sign of movement.
Only the whisper of leaves and the distant hum of the cooling towers rising like silent monoliths beyond the thinning treeline.
Finally, they arrived.
A massive facility emerged ahead—concrete and steel blanketed in moss, its upper vents hissing faint plumes into the sky.
Just past it, looming like ghosts, were the unmistakable towers of a nuclear power plant.
Then something broke the monotony.
Mr. Callen halted. His eyes locked on a fallen tree near the edge of the path.
At first, it looked ordinary—maybe knocked down by a wandering creature.
But the way it had been burned... not just scorched on the bark, but blackened through the core, right down to the roots.
Lightning wouldn't do that. Not like this.
Someone had been here.
They're alive, Callen thought.
Roughly an hour ago, the other yacht had gone down.
It could've killed them. Maybe it should have.
But if they moved fast... they had a chance. A slim one, but still.
He had taken the emergency beacon like Gregory ordered.
Stashed some supplies. But not all—he had left just enough for a week.
That was the only kindness he could allow himself. The only rebellion.
He'd also left behind a handheld radio—short range, but it might help them coordinate... if they were still breathing.
"You stop for the scenery?" Gregory's voice cut through his thoughts, too casual.
Callen straightened quickly. "Nothing."
He caught up with the others, swallowing the guilt.
They stepped inside the facility.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Gregory finally spoke again, his voice airy as if continuing a polite conversation.
"You know... you've been looking at me like that for a while now."
Callen didn't answer.
Gregory's tone shifted ever so slightly—still calm, but heavier.
"Curious, are you? Wondering why I'd try to kill my own brother... and those kids?"
Callen flinched. Just a twitch. But Gregory saw it.
Callen forced himself to keep walking. "I don't fucking care."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His footsteps echoed as Gregory's stopped behind him.
"Haha... really? Then tell me—why did you give them a radio?"
Callen froze.
The air changed. Hair prickled on his skin.
He didn't need to look—he could feel it: rifles shifting, subtle clicks as safeties were thumbed.
The others had him in their sights now.
Gregory's men didn't need orders—they knew the drill.
"...What did you say?" Callen asked slowly.
Gregory's voice was still soft. Still deadly.
"Don't play dumb. About thirty minutes ago, dear Jonathan sent out a signal. Guess who answered? Me. Guess what I did? Ignored it."
"...?!"
"Ah? That face again... So I was right."
Callen said nothing. His fingers twitched once—then stopped.
Gregory walked past him slowly. One step at a time. Everyone stood frozen, watching.
"You see," Gregory said, hands behind his back, voice almost wistful, "there was someone I came here to meet."
He passed Callen, then stopped to gaze ahead.
"Well... even if it's just her corpse, I'd still like to say hello."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His steps resumed. Measured. Reverent. As if approaching a holy place.
"She made something extraordinary," Gregory said. "Something valuable..."
Thud.
"...And precious."
The deepest level of the facility opened before them.
Cold gas filled the corridor, streaming out from vents hissing with liquid nitrogen.
The group descended into what resembled a cryo-laboratory—every surface silver and frostbitten, long-forgotten terminals blinking erratically in the dim light.
Corpses were strewn around—dinosaur and human alike.
Though they decompose already.
But at the heart of it all was a rectangular pit, still venting the gas.
It was clearly meant to hold something... and it was empty.
Gregory stopped.
For the first time, his smile twisted—not amused, not calm, but simmering with frustration.
"I wonder where it is."
Even his men looked uncertain now. Tension coiled in the air.
A brave subordinate finally spoke. "Sir... we just received another mayday. The group—your son, your brother—they've been calling again through the radio."
Gregory closed his eyes.
"Jonathan," he sighed. "Why am I not surprised. As I thought, waiting a day was too long. But I doubt you'd do it if I tell you to kill them directly, Mr. Callen."
Then he turned. The smile returned—back to its usual unnerving ease.
On his right hand was an open binder book, a sketch was there, a dragon? no, it was weird chimera of dinosaurs, designed to look like a dragon.
He pointed.
"Half of you—go. Kill them."
---
(A/N: 3036 Words)