Jurassic Caricature (a fanfiction)

(((The following is a fanfiction not meant for reproduction. It is simply made as to honor a franchise that I love very much, and for free fanboy entertainment. The story features mention of iconic characters created by Michael Crichton, Rick Jaffa, Amanda Silver, and brought to life by legendary directors Stephen Spielberg, Colin Trevorrow, and J.A. Bayona. Enjoy!)))

#fanfic

#dinosaurs

#raptor

Even the helicopter ride there felt exotic to Jared.

Since the spectral silhouette of the island began to materialize across the hazy horizon he had his face pressed eagerly against the passenger window and never dared to miss a single moment of this very special moment. The dense forest that threaded over the island came to him like the opening of clouds toward the gates of heaven. He always dreamed of having the chance to work there. As a kid, paleontology was an obsession for him. He drank up every book he could on the subject, especially the ones that focused on the Cretaceous period, but he never dreamt in sixty five million years that he might actually get paid to perform only moments away from any of those ethereal creatures. 

Jared was an artist with big dreams. Those thirsty ambitions led him to a comfortable career drawing as a caricature artist in the carnival circuit. For years he has spread his talent across the country, earning for himself quite a respectable reputation along the way. But OtherWorld caricatures... they say OtherWorld caricatures was impossible to break into. They were the leading contracting company in his profession, serving the art Shoppes at some of the most high profile locations across the planet for many years. And though they began as a small seed, pushing their roots in the same industry that Jared had come up in, they have grown prominent to enjoy such a powerful position in the industry that he just knew applying for this particular park, with his meager status was a dreamers fantasy. But apparently it was enough.

He got the return letter in the mail in surprisingly expedient timing. Seeing the celebrated logo of OtherWorld, and the ever more iconic brand of the most famous Park in the universe emblazoned on the heading of the letter, he was certain it would be a rejection. But it was not. He unfolded the letter and read. It simply asked: “Is this your work?” And then there was a photograph of an artfully exaggerated caricature drawing. He was pretty proud of that one and knew it well. Indeed it was his: a Cartoon illustration of the late and great John Hammond. So he wrote back simply, “Yes it is.”

His invitation came with an emphatic phone call from the manager of operations at the OtherWorld Art Shoppes, who asked him quite dramatically, “we like your stuff, and we are very interested in having your talent with our team. So this said, I must ask you: How soon can we welcome you to Jurassic World?”

The answer was “Immediately!” And the flight was the next day, all expenses paid. 

Jared wasn’t really sure what he was getting himself into. All he knew for certain was the acclaim OtherWorld got in his line of work, and that the park was the notorious home of living, breathing dinosaurs. That was all he needed to know. 

He never flew in a helicopter before, but it was no more dangerous of an experience than half of the things he naturally ran into in his business as a transient artist. OtherWorld was offering gracious accommodations. They provided him fancy dining and housing for free just to have his slightly famous sketch at their park, and he was quite flattered by their generosity. They did let him know that it would only be for a few weeks until he was on his feet without assistance, but it was all so much more than he could have dreamed to ask for. 

The helicopter ride was long and grueling at times, but the reward was far too big to pass. There was so much to earn and nothing to lose. He bragged about the opportunity with his peers, and knew with an ounce of over-confident certainty that none of it would ever turn around to bite him in the ass. At least he hoped for that. God forbid if any of those things stepped out from their cage to run amuck. 

He was settled in to his suite quickly. Every day between the hours of 9:am and 7:pm was prime time at Jurassic World, and they rushed him to work almost instantly. It was strange how easily Jared had slipped back into his work mode. He was in a foreign, unforgivingly oppressive climate, drawing in harsh, humid weather, on an island housing genetically reproduced extinct creatures as it’s primary attraction, yet he drew his guests as deftly, and comfortably as if he was back home in his own preferred environment. Everyone loved his work. His superiors loved having him. However, all that Jared could focus on was: just get through the day, and soon you’ll get paid, and you’ll get to see these things you’ve read in wonder about all through childhood. 

The Jurassic Park fiasco was an infamous story that began as an urban legend, which turned out to be a horrible truth. InGen had tried to cover it up, and that only made things worse for them. The mad-scientist genetics Mega Corporation would have since fell into darker works, focusing mostly on weaponry and other controversial intrigues. But as a bright shining star in the future of science, turned super evil villain deserving public scorn, they at least knew how to accept their new role with pride and success. The Ill-fated story of the fall of Jurassic Park was soon promulgated as a way to deter further advancements in the fertile field of genetics; also to keep people away from the islands. But instead, it only proved the opposite: genetic science boomed more fiercely than life had sprung from the Cambrian Explosion, and rambunctious paleontologists, and would-be explorers seeking a precipitous new high sought out the forsaken island resorts. After some time, and passionately fought legal wars, the corner stones for Jurassic World were at last set again, and the greatest enigma on earth was finally opened to the public. It has become the most profitable amusement part on the planet since those archaic days before, and now Jared has become a part of their growing legacy, even in his very small capacity. He was excited. 

His first shift went fast, but it felt like an eternity, anxiously waiting to reap the spectacular benefits. He must have drawn a hundred guests. The register read two thousand, fifty-three dollars in sales on his behalf, and his manager was quite pleased with his outstanding performance. Jared clocked out at 3:30 and saw that the market circle where his caricature station was located was still packed with giggling, querulous children wanting their cartoon image riding the backs of their favorite dinosaurs. Jared felt a pang of guilt he would leave all that potential money to his colleagues, but that was just hard-woven into his nature from years in the carnival business. Besides, he had monsters to see.

There was some wild rumor going around of a potential new dinosaur attraction being conjured up in the laboratories. Signs were plastered everywhere hinting at some clandestine beast that Verizon Wireless would soon unleash upon the world. “Something Is Coming,” the advertisement read, red demon eyes smoldering in the dark womb of a gripping green forest. “Something Of Nightmares will be unleashed from Verizon Wireless...” Everyone was wowing over its mystery on the monorail into the heart of the resort. He didn’t care, he was slipping his way through the crowded car to get to the nearest window so he could catch a glimpse at the most iconic gates built by modern Man. The massive doors were painted to look like weathered, and splintered wood. They flung open with a fabricated clamor. The soundtrack clashed from the speakers inside the train, imitating farcically the crash of castle doors banging open. Than an orchestra ran their intense strings, and a tribal drum line enraptured its new guests. 

One animal was on his mind most prominently: their genetically enhanced Velociraptors! As a kid he had fallen in love with the creature’s more famous fossil, as it was forever captured ensnared in battle with the horned Protoceratops. That was before anybody really knew much about what happened at the Jurassic Park facility. Then, the Raptor was known only to be about the size of a turkey, and experts were only beginning to suspect it to have been covered with feathers. But the geneticists at InGen changed all that. Their obnoxious DNA mascot at the visitors’ center claimed that the absence of some well established characteristics was the unfortunate side effect of splicing genomes in order to thread the missing parts in their genetic code. But that would soon be revealed as an embellished lie. They did not like the feathers, and their size didn’t seem menacing enough. They were looking to attract a new audience to dinosaurs, and so, they only wanted the biggest and the baddest, but the Raptor was too well loved to ignore. Some speculation arose to argue that the animal’s fossils were incomplete, and perhaps these creatures were in fact more robust in their size. Jared read an article adding fire to this debate, using the famed paleontologist Dr. Grant’s earth shattering discovery of a velociraptor skeleton that was almost eight feet in length to support their argument. But after careful scrutiny even this would be debugged, as the species he had discovered turned out to be some new beast more closely related to the Tyrannosaur than the Raptor. With a hefty reign of near two hundred million years, the genus of Tyrannosaurids was a big family that varied in size, shape, and weight. The bottom line was, Dr. Grant did not find evidence of a freakishly large Raptor, and the Jurassic World creatures were just man-made monsters with synthetic DNA flowing in their veins. Still, Jared wanted to see them. 

His illustrated map was hard to follow, but he found a tour guide that was leading the way he wanted to go, so Jared jumped in with her group. She was pretty, tall, smart, and a loquacious docent. She didn’t just know her Park, she knew dinosaurs, and she adored her raptors. Her eyes were a deep green, and her hair was thick, brown, and turning goldenrod along the edges from the sun. She spoke perfect English, sweetened with only a touch of her native Spanish accent. Jared was in love, but he kept that to himself. As a nomad artist he has lost his touch for social engagement. Outside of his comfort zone behind his easel he was shy and taciturn, fearing saying the wrong thing and making a fool of himself. But she saw it; he could tell by the way flush colored her cheeks ever darker. She flashed him a flattered grin, but continued their tour. He had questions about the animals, but locked them up behind tight lips, waiting for her to answer them naturally as she went on with her routine presentation. Most all answers will unveil themselves to those who are patient, and paying close attention. 

The paddock was a fortress, and perhaps the most uninviting exhibit in the whole park. But these animals were dangerous, intelligent, and required the highest security money could buy to contain them.  Watchtowers guarded all corners of the walled facility, and the personnel mounting those stations were armed with high-powered tranquilizer rifles. It seemed more of a maximum-security state prison than a tourist attraction. Jared was impressed. 

In the guest lobby, Laura—the pretty tour guide—first introduced them to the brave team that helped to keep the raptors healthy and happy throughout their young lives. The top man on the acknowledgment board was a rugged, handsome gentleman named Owen Grady. In his photo he had this kind of amused Mona-Lisa-knowing grin turning at the corner of his mouth; it somehow alluded to a potent charm rather than haughty arrogance, though Jared suspected he had some of that in him too. But what grabbed his attention was the man’s job title: Chief Specialist/Raptor Trainer.

They have a raptor trainer? He couldn’t help but to wonder what that could entail. Fetch, heel, don’t claw my guts out? Seemed a bit brazen to think a human could tame a quintessential killing machine. But of course anything was possible when animals that have been dead for sixty five million years walked the earth again. 

Laura brought them next to the nursery where the infant raptors had been raised to trust their captivity. All of them have been moved to the maturing stable, and all that was left there was some scattered straws of hay, and gnawed dog toys behind very thick viewing glass. There were pictures of the baby dinosaurs. They had big heads, bright and wide snake-like yellow eyes, and tiny, agile serpent bodies. They were strangely adorable, and hauntingly terrible at the same time. 

The primal stink of rotting decay was strong, venting through the walls to pervade their senses. It made all of them in attendance to wrinkle their noses. But that was a small price to pay to see the master-class of flesh-eaters in true beautifully brutal reality. 

Jared thought it odd how many kids were surrounding him at the exhibit. There were warning signs posted everywhere about what horrible things they might witness, but somehow when it came to animals, the imminent carnage waiting on the horizon was made a surreal experience, and parents practically pushed their kids in to learn a cruel lesson about humility. But these kids were smiling, and anxious to see, with a sort of sickening bloodlust. They were like snot-nosed pro-wrestling fans, cheering, and hooting for violence. No matter how civilized we think we are, Ancient Rome was never too far from our hardwired instincts. Jared couldn’t help them though, he was just as sick with gleeful anticipation. 

Genetic manipulation in some small way was sort of like caricaturing. An artist had to think fast to solve big problems. He has to capture very complicated shapes in a matter of only seconds, in order to finish a face in fewer than five minutes. The Cartoon is supposed to be exaggerated, but it also has to resemble his subject in some recognizable way. Jurassic World scientists with their gene splicing, and biology mashing have worked that same concept in to creating their prized beasts. But their raptors were something of a masterpiece, outshining what God had originally made in a few bold strokes that could melt Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. The revered chaos theorist Dr. Ian Malcolm would probably designate it as the art of forcing order from entropy, and then he would go on to argue how such an approach is destined to collapse in extraordinary fashion. But that guy was a nihilist in Jared’s opinion: a rotten egg who just like to role in to spoil everyone’s fun. 

Laura’s voice was suddenly drowned out by his elevated heartbeat. He had expected the pack to tool with the guest some as they entered the main viewing chamber. But they didn’t. They weren’t hiding, or sneaking. They were right there in plain sight, waiting for them. They lined up, stalking the glass. Laura assured her group that they could not see them. But Jared could tell that they knew. The one with the blue stripes marking her hide crept in, sniffing with a wet snout, her sharp tail erect in attention. Flies buzzed over and around it’s blood stained jaws. Its serrated razor teeth curved inward, designed to hook in deep into leathery flesh so she could easily tear away at her meat. Her signature curled foot claw twitched, and she held low to the ground, like a wrestler coming in for a clinch. She slunk in, and bobbed her head. The others flanked her dutifully. The audience gasped. The palm trees and dense foliage swayed, and sang under a gentle breeze behind them. The group was mesmerizing. The way their tendons stretched and tightened in their long necks, the way their sinuous muscles moved beneath tough tubercle spotted skin, they were poetically graceful and brimming with alacrity. Their eyes shifted, inquisitively, calculating. It challenged the human spirit. Nature grew their roots, and stemmed their powerful brains, but human hands planted the seed. This intelligent monster understood more than we can possibly comprehend, and they were with a mind that was weighing its place in the world. Jared could see it thinking. It was painting a picture of her own what the creature she smelled through the glass was thinking. She could taste his fear. Slaver fell from her lips as she rolled them back to show those feral teeth again. As though entranced Jared drifted closer, staring wide-eyed. Perhaps it was their dangerous beauty that killed their prey. The Raptor suddenly lashed at the glass, snapping its teeth, smearing the transparent barrier with slaver. He jumped back. The kids erupted with laughter, and the beast’s dinosaur companions began bobbing up and down, trilling excitedly, like birds jeering at him. Jared got the impression they were toying with him after all.

Laura smiled ruefully at Jared and said, “ I think Blue likes you.” She winked at him, playfully. 

He blushed, and tried on a frantic smile even though his heart was screaming in his chest. 

Still, it was the most exhilarating thing he had ever experienced. The raptors went about their tribal animal business, hunting and coordinating. 

In private hearing with Laura, Jared remarked, “They need feathers.”

Laura fell in close beside him. She showed him an all-knowing grin and whispered, “yes, and they should be smaller... I know... you can ask me any time now.”

The group sprawled out to study some of the pieces of information hanging on the walls everywhere. 

Jared was nervous. “Ask what?”

She nudged him, that smile of hers never fading. “How about what time I get off tonight.”

He definitely wanted to ask just that, but his inquiry broke apart in his throat, “I...I”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m off at the end of this last tour. Meet me an hour after. Be dressed nice.” 

Then she went back to treat her guests. 

The tour moved on. Jared met with Laura for lunch and made a new friend. He was having the night of his life. He couldn’t wait to see the T.Rex after his shift tomorrow. 

Monsters on a Mountain (a fanfiction)

No matter how fast she could run, no matter where she tried for cover, or what wood she could get herself lost in, or ruined suburb she could thread through, those red eyes were always there behind her, smoldering in the night like burning embers. 

She was still only a child, but she knew fear better than any living man could still walk the earth. The red eyes belonged to a monster. And that monster was coming for her. Her muscles were too young to escape it. She fell at last, panting, exhausted. Sweat drenched her. She was terrified. She would have screamed if she had anymore energy in her to do so. Instead, she put the last of her strength in her arms and she crawled. The dry dirt beneath her felt like a hot desert’s sand between her fingers, even though it was the black of night, but still she heaved. There was no respite from the heat anymore. 

Twisted metal, and old charred rubble surrounded her. The skeleton that remained of the world of yesterday fascinated her youthful imagination. She always wanted to know what that world was like, before their own massive stockpile of antiquated death was launched against the world—before they took the world. 

Now it was coming for her, like it came for everything: the beasts with the red eyes. She could hear the weight of their footfalls drawing in. It was behind her, like all that wonder she had for the fallen civilizations that made them. She rolled on her back, seeing it with wide-eyes through a curtain of sodden bangs sticking to her face. It was awful. It’s eyes pierced the night, and it’s silver skeleton hand reached out to grab her. 

Natasha sprung from her bedding with a gasp in her throat. After a few gulps of rotten air she new at last it was all only a dream... but it wasn’t. It was all very real, and inexorable. Nothing can stop it... nothing. She looked. There were people around, of course, but they were sparse, and miserable. Silhouettes of the life moving about the ghetto were thrown on the broken walls by candlelight. They huddled in their corners with what scraps remained to remind them of their lost humanity. She saw a mother and her child, close in arms, whimpering. The adult wept for the life she wasted in front of the beloved box, where the child cried for that life he could never know. Natasha at least liked to think they were kin, it was a romantic idea in her head; part of her own stubborn humanity that just won’t die. They were watching a television, but it was only the frame of one. Grandfathered survivors had told her once how it used to be, when there was power, and there wasn’t a care. But it could have all been bullshit, for all she could know. That magical box—as it was said—told them endless stories about man’s triumphs, and even their humilities. She wished she could have seen it then. But she was born after the cities had gone up in flames. Now, all the mother and son, or stranger and waif could do was watch a fire eat away at debris that had been piled inside where the tube once had dwelt. It was such a very poignant image to behold. 

Something hurt. Her legs were sticky in strange places. Natasha did not feel well. An unusual sickness turned at the pit of her stomach. She removed her threadbare sheets, and she suddenly knew it at once: It was very bad. 

“No,” she panicked. 

Quickly she scrambled out from her bedding and she was running, like in her dream. The couple in front of the relic television watched her go, their eyes curious, and sore from the wistful tears.

When Natasha was alone she ripped down her pants, and only stared at it, not knowing what to do. The hollow wind howled through the decrepit complex. Distant on the breeze, she could hear the high scream of the droning air vents on the patrolling Sky Hunters. She could not let them find her, not like this. She then hurriedly took off her top, leaving herself standing naked under the stars. All of their shelters in the ghetto were without roofs. It was so the warden could always watch them as they lived, scrutinizing—studying how they lived.

Natasha would have to be quick about the matter, and she would have to burn the evidence. Her maturity was becoming vastly difficult to conceal, but she had to, for as long as she could, so long as she lived there. She had not grown too full in the breasts, so that was at least one blessing she did not have to fret for, but now she was bleeding. It ran hot, thick-bodied and copious down her thighs. She spit on her bundled up shirt and she scrubbed, sobbing all the while she worked. 

Her blood was a rare thing. They kept a close watch on her development all the long years she had been trapped in captivity. A cult were left as her guardians, recording her every change. At first, in her naive  innocence, she was proud to have them, calling them mommy, and daddy, and uncle, joining them in ritual. But that was before she knew the truth: that they had meant to harvest her when she would come of age. 

“The Time Has Come!” 

She was too late. Standing there bare as a new born under the cloud flanked moon, Mommy had found her. 

Her vanity prompted her to fold her arms around her body, and she begged them to show mercy. She asked them to keep her secret. But it was useless. Before long they were dragging her by both arms. Her tattered jeans clung to her foot as they took her up the mountain, where They were waiting for her—the ones with the red eyes. She wailed, and the cult sang, rejoicing in her horror. The beauty in the stars high above mocked her naked and scourged body, exposed for her prey to feast on. They threw her down at their feet. The cult in unison dropped to their knees and they prayed. They thought these things were gods; they have been lost in this world far too long. They were not gods—They were demons. Several of them stepped out from the darkness, their silver bodies glistening in the night. Their Sky Hunters slicing the darkness with high-beams, like great birds of steel floating over the scene. The beasts moved hard on her, their eyes blazing red as blood, always analyzing and calculating. They were always precise, and that’s the true reason why they could not be stopped. Nobody was as strong as the brain that knew only math, logic, and balance. 

Natasha stopped crying. She sat up on her knees and glared at them. There was nothing more left for her to do—it was over. 

Her blood was too special. The cult stripped off her clothes, and that was bad, but They would strip her flesh. That was what they wanted. The machines encircled her, and they wasted no time. The whine of gears was all she could hear beyond her own screams as they tediously cut her open, and drew her apart, collecting every drop of blood that sprayed in the process. She remembered seeing shattered pieces of the massive letters that used to spell the word Hollywood there on that strange mountain, but now it was where the beasts did their malign work, and where their sycophants worshipped them as slaves. 

It was a long time before she was dead. They were called T-800’s. They were different from the ones before; they were worse. They could be more human, and that was an egregious thing anything with such a mind as Skynet could ever possibly achieve. Natasha thought that before she finally went. She was grateful for death, though, at least in death she did not have to face the impossible trials humans only had left to confront before their final descent. Only a miracle of invention could save them. And that miracle was far from their mortal reach. That would take a mind with more time to be so dangerously ambitious. Or perhaps so cunning that lack there of would dare challenge them to think in their final moments so brilliantly. Still, none of that mattered for her anymore. In death, all was forgiven, forgotten, and done.

#fanfic

#terminator

***Terminator

Inspired by characters created by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd***

Terminator (fanfiction)

Part 1

#fanfic
#Terminator
Inspired by characters created by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd

He was a soldier. He was a hero. He was a man racked with scars that told the truth of his upbringing: a child weaned on war, and a man grown before he could ever know even his first kiss; his first love. He was trembling, this man who went forth so gallantly to face an otherworldly foe to protect her. He never botched against the beast, for he was trained to know them, to destroy them. It was all he had ever known. But the gentle touch of a woman turned him once more into what he was before the world burned: a child.

 A photo was given to him long ago. The face of an angel, a prized possession of the only man he could have ever named father. A moment in time captured to forever remind him that there had been once a world before the machines; before the death. A fire stole it away. His angel purloined, cast to the flames. Despoiled, he watched as the mother of his puissant mentor, his savior, his God dissolved into oblivion as the photo retired to ashes. He lost her. He failed her. 

The sleight of a man-made demon dreamed an invention of their own design to penetrate the laws of time and rewrite history to its avail. It was a means to an end, but so too would it prove a vessel that would return Kyle to his angel. He traveled across time for her, for him... His seed, his son, his redemption. He writhed in her arms, as he sowed their fate. She raked at his back, but as her fingers found the burns that once seared his flesh her ecstasy turned to woe. She laid a kiss upon his scared lips, a tear drawing at her eye. He's only a child, she knew, but no: he was something more. He was a leal disciple to her unborn son, sent to intercede in this desperate scheme to dismantle the resistance at its source. He was given this mission, this duty long before he even knew. John knew, but he never told him this truth, for it was for him alone to discover. Having everything torn away from him at such a young age, he wanted only for the boy to find his destiny on his own. It was all a man has left once all is lost, their destiny, and john would not rob him of it. He isn't to know the truth until the time is right; the truth that he is His father. The boy grew up to love his own son as the father he never had, now the time had come for him to meet his bride. True star crossed lovers, they were: An orphan child, and a frightened woman, with the heart to bring down empires. She did not yet know her potential, perhaps it was only rousted in her after the warrior Kyle Reese shared himself with her. Perhaps his love ignited the fire in her soul. But there, staring into his forlorn eyes, she knew, she saw, a storm was coming, and only this love would be strong enough to weather it. 

A deafening blast sent her tumbling down a flight of steel stairs. She slammed hard into the grating, the wind left from her lungs upon impact. In a drunken daze stars danced before her, taunting her with her own frailty. She saw Kyle, his still eyes staring blankly at nothing. He was gone. The only man she had ever loved taken from her by a monster of inevitability. She would never forget that cold stare: blood streaming from his nostrils, jaw hanging lose, his lips parted ever so slightly, wanting only the taste of life, and love; a taste he would never have again. He sacrificed himself for her, but only to buy her the time to flee, for there was nothing in her world that could stop it. The silver creature crawled after her, cords hanging, metal spine dragging, hydraulic fluid spilling like blood. It would never stop. She crushed it in a press, it's sinister red eye faded to darkness, a sea of electricity poured from its wounds as it perished. but it would never stop. One of its fingers had punched a hole into her leg, forever leaving its mark on her. The scar would always remind her, it will never stop until she, and everything she loved was dead. 

Sarah Connor awoke the way she often had, in a cold sweat, and a shutter.  Sometimes it was a phantom gun that would jar her senses to consciousness; her trigger finger squeezing until her nail dug deep into her palm. Other times she was stirred by nightmares, recollecting the plight of a foreign liquid metal that drove it's way through flesh and bone at her shoulder when the t-1000 cornered her some years ago. She sat up in bed panting. She flexed her shoulders and the webbed scar on her back where the bite of his blades had caught her tightened. They still hurt her, those wounds, but none like the memory of Kyle to max her anguish. She often wondered if it was somehow all a dream. Dr. Silberman seemed to believe so, that was until one of those dreamed delusions came to liberate her from her prison, and take her to undue Skynet's fowl work once and for all. It will never stop, she reminded herself again. 

The motel was decrepit, lost somewhere on the edge of civilization and long forgotten by even the small population that inhabited this middle-of-nowhere Texas town. A ruin to squat in, as she saw it. Sarah sought to keep a mindful distance from all major cities. She was a fugitive on the run, and the dreadful day had at last arrived that would prove all of her fears a palpable reality. But she woke to silence. Looking over to the bed across from hers, she found her son, now eighteen, fallen face-down into a listless sleep. His snoring churned so peacefully. She grimaced. Sleep was their only true escape short of death. Walking to the bathroom she found her weary reflection in the mirror. Her hair was sere straw, tousled and defiant, stained with hoary strands at her temples. Sharp lines drew her visage with age and stress, and her green eyes were heavy with dark bags clinging to the rims of her lashes. She glowered, thinking of uncle Bob, an artificial father who had protected them merely because a program told him to do so. Love had never been apart of his knowing, but nevertheless they both shared their remorse at his fall. These days the average American loved their computers, and cars, and video games just the same. But uncle Bob was different; cold by nature, but cordial in spirit. No, wait... He had no spirit... He would never stop, he can never die. 

It was only a mirror's reflection. He was different because that was how the human in them chose to see him. They saw what they wanted. For he was a machine, a killing machine, reprogrammed to do all that was in his power so to accomplish his mission: to save John Connor. Everything else was a lie. In her heart she saw strength and determination, in her reflection however, she saw only a ruined machine, beaten and battered from years of straining to save humanity. Her son... Her beautiful son... He was the answer, he was all that mattered, and he was alive. And so was Man. She put her fist into the glass, shattering it, the shards slicing open her knuckles. Her tears came. She lost herself and collapsed to her knees, her blood pooling at the bend of her knee and drawing to the floor. She covered her mouth and smothered her cries so not to wake her son. It was August 29th 1997. Judgment Day was but a dream, and they were living in a parallel universe: trapped in a mirror where monsters were Fairytales, and scientists were gods. She was just a deranged psychopath that believed machines were coming to silence the race of Man. But she knew well the truth that no one would ever dare believe, not even her... Not anymore.

The Red Hood: Chapter 6

Author’s note

     This is a work of fiction inspired by characters created by Bob Kane, Bill Finger, Paul Dini, Bruce Timm, Robert Kanigher, Sheldon Moldoff, and various other renowned writers published by DC Comics. It is a retelling of the origins of the Batman Universe, which is copyrighted and should not be considered a true part of the mythology. I have created this project purely for the joy of dictating the actions of characters that I have grown to love over the years, and to suggest scenarios that I have often wondered myself would happen if those said actions were to have occurred in the mythos. Basically, its me being a kid and playing with my favorite toys again. That said, this story will never be published, nor distributed as an original idea, for it is not. It began as a writing exercise that at some point, transformed into an exciting unofficial chapter in the Batman series, that which is just far too awesome to keep to myself. Therefore, here it is. Hope you enjoy my interpretation of the origin of one of the most iconic villains in comic book history. 

Chapter 6

“Good morning class!” The exuberant and comely Dr. Jason Woodrue said as he stepped into his classroom. Marching directly for the massive blackboard at the front of the class, all commotion amongst his young audience instantly ceased; concluding with the flip of notebooks opening, and the occasional clearing of one’s throat that echoed across the quiet room.

     Lillian Rose had long earned her seat in the front row, joining four other exceptionally beautiful young ladies, all whom had begun their semester in the back row, yet by some unknown means made their way nearest to the professor’s desk. As he passed them, he took a moment to look her way. She met him with her bright green emerald eyes, gleaming with blissful euphoria. The other girls matched her gaze with a touch of lust hidden in the exchange.

     Smiling, the handsome professor continued his way to the chalkboard, erasing the genetic code there from the previous night: his work for Vincent Falcone well underway.

     “Today, I wish to talk about…” He said writing a word on the board. “Immortality.” He turned to his class. “When you see this word, what do you think?”

     “Invincible!” One student shouted.

     “God!” Another had said.

     “Me!” The jock in the center row exclaimed proudly. The students chuckled.

     Dr. Jason Woodrue however intrigued, pointed his way and asked, “And what are you.”

     Bewildered, the baby-faced brute answered, “Ummm… Human?”

     “Quite! Now, the question is, can a human be Immortal?”

     “No!” A few class members said in unison.

     “Right?” The professor tested them. “Wrong!” He returned to the board and wrote another word, “Telomerase.”

     Slamming the chalk down, he spun on his heel, turning like a mad man to again face his students. With fierce eyes on them now, he pointed to the word and asked, “Do you know what this is?” His students shrugged, their interest piqued. “This my young friends, is the enzyme that has grounded the race of Man from achieving the one thing we have sought after since the dawn of our existence; the holy grail of discovery; the ultimate treasure: the fountain of youth.” Again he smiled toward Lillian Rose in the front row, leaving her to blush. The other girls scowled at her, unveiling their jealousy.  

     Silence.

     He stepped in front of his desk, and rested his back upon it as he went on, “Like a knot at the end of a rope, Telomerase completes our DNA. It keeps us from unraveling, from falling apart. However, as our cells divide, our Telomerase slowly begins to diminish, therefore as we grow, as we heal, we slowly but surely kill ourselves. However, If we could reverse the effects of this deterioration, perhaps we Humans could finally be as the Gods we have so idolized for so many thousands of years. You may be asking yourself, how? And why are we talking about this in our Botany class? Will my friends, what if I told you the answer to these questions are hidden within the trees?”

     Again he was making way to the chalkboard as he said, “In 2008 it was discovered that a Picea Abies in Sweden had reached a bold age of ten thousand years, making it virtually the oldest living organism on planet Earth.” He wrote that information down. “It is said that its ability to regenerate a new trunk as the old dies is the source of its longevity. The Pinus Longaeva, a great Basin Bristlecone Pine found in the high mountains in the Southwest region of the United States has a reported lifespan of some five thousand years.” He wrote that as well, the chalk squealing and tapping against the board as he did so. Again the chalk was down, his eyes on his captivated audience. “How is this so? They are indeed living organisms, yet they outlive every other creature on Earth. The secret lies in their regenerating cells, and their ever-rejuvenating Telomerase enzymes. A genetic ability that if we could harness ourselves, may transform us into the ultimate beings the ancients have dreamt us to become throughout the history of our very being.”

     When his lesson had ended, he assigned some chapters to read in their textbooks, an essay to write on long living organisms, and asked Lillian to a private counsel after the students were gone. Met with sore eyes by all of the girls that so loved the beautiful Dr. Jason Woodrue, she did as she was told, and was soon left sitting all alone at her desk, her heart racing in her chest. As if to tease her, the professor took his time cleaning off the blackboard, jotting down a few notes in his journal, and sorting the papers at his desk before he looked toward her with his big dark brown eyes that had often clouded her mind with fantasies.

     The professor was tall, lean, and always impeccably dressed. His glasses only added to his allure, as did the power he exuded in his classroom. His jaw flanked with stubble made him appear as a man of knowledge, but with a dark side. He was as Lillian’s peers had put it, like rich creamy chocolate to the eyes, and a thousand orgasms to the mind. It took all of her will power to contain herself as he made his way toward her, though beneath her desk her knees touched, as to hide her exhilaration that which she feared would be clearly visible if she hadn’t.

     Standing before her, he placed his hand upon her desktop and leaned in. He breathed a single word; it was her name, “Lillian…” But to her, it felt as though he had just caressed a most tender area of her most private parts. She closed her eyes and shuttered.

     He reached a finger under her chin, lifting her head, demanding her attention. She gave it to him, her green eyes flashing a lustful hunger she has had for the man since the very first time she had lay eyes upon him.

     “I wish to share something with you.” He said.

     “W…what?” She stammered nervously.

     With a devilish grin, he answered, “The gift of immortality.”

     Soon he would take her hand and guide her to his private study. There he would withdraw from a hidden compartment in his desk a bottle of aged wine. He told her lovely stories of the ancients and their desire for fermented drinks. He poured himself a glass and spoke of how wine was his “favorite of poisons.” As he filled her glass, Lillian, so lost in the ecstasy of his lure, never took notice to the greenish liquid that he had added to hers from a vial that was hidden beyond the sleeve of his serving hand.  

     Offering Lillian the glass, he shot her an unctuous smile and said, “Though occasionally I have been known to fall victim for another lovely poison; that is, the lust of a woman.”

     Again she blushed, accepting the drink.

Moving in closer, his considerable height drawing her eyes upward, he raised his glass in a toast and said, “A libation to the flowering beauty of the toxicodendron Radicans that which I see when I look into your eyes; three leaves of power, love, and lust.” He winked at her.

She giggled, they tapped their glasses, and in the next moment the wine was gone. Dr. Jason Woodrue had stumbled upon a solution to Thomas Wayne’s Genome formula through the DNA of a number of exotic trees, and now he had found his first test subject. The next instant he sealed her fate with a long passionate kiss. Lillian’s blood was on fire, as the taste of him filled her mouth; little did she know, it was the foreign element entering into her veins that burned her so: it was his poison.

#

     Elizabeth Arkham Asylum resided just off Trigate Bridge, South Burnley, and North of Coventry. It was a desolate place that housed not only the most dangerous of the criminally insane, but maintained a most dreadful history of its own. As the legend goes, it was some time during the 1900’s when a doctor by the name of Amadeus Arkham had traveled from Metropolis to reclaim the old family hospital as a center to treat the clinically insane. His mother having fallen victim of a severe mental condition was said to have committed suicide, thus inspiring him to pursue the project in her name. It would later be discovered that it was by his own hand she had met her end, a course set as a euthanized action to free her from her anguish. Soon after he had begun remodeling, a patient he had treated long ago in Metropolis escaped from prison, and after learning of his whereabouts, he tracked his family down, and murdered them all. Despite the tragic loss of his loved ones, he carried on the plans to complete the new facility, and shortly after it’s grand opening he found the man responsible and killed him via electric shock therapy. He then went about the hospital on a brutal killing spree with an axe. So the legend claims.

     It was a dark gothic structure with a population in the several hundreds: all patients of an equally dark nature. Jim Gordon scarcely enjoyed his visits to this malign madhouse, and as he waited in the lobby along with his partner, Detective Bullock, he found a familiar chill at his spine that often tormented him when in the presence of evil.

     “This is bullshit!” Bullock whined, his pacing doing little to ease his partner’s stress. “We should be out tracking down this Jack Quinzel, not here in this squalid checking up on some crazy amnesic girl with personality issues.”

     Jim gave him a look of warning and said, “You will mind your tongue, detective,” his words stopping Harvey Bullock in his tracks. “She is a witness in our custody, and she may still be of use to out investigation. The doctors have reported she to possess some recollections of the shooting.”

     “She is a nutcase that thinks she is some sort of damn court jester.” He challenged.

     “Be that as it may, I still need her. She is all I have left to pin this guy down.”

     A well-dressed man then exited through the doors that lead into the hospital and approached them with a grim look upon his face. When he met with the detectives he offered his hand and greeted, “Detectives. I am Mrs. Quinzel’s lawyer, Geoffrey Hans.”

     They each shook his hand, as Jim Gordon introduced, “Detective Jim Gordon, and this is my partner Harvey Bullock.”

     “Pleasure.” Bullock lied.

     “How is she?” Jim asked.

     The man let out a grieving sigh and said, “She is a puzzle. She can recall only mere glimpses of the past, and often when she does, she falls into a state of paranoid shock that sometimes leads into convulsions. The doctors have her working with other patients now; it seems to keep her mind at ease… It gives her purpose. However, every time I make an attempt to talk to her about the events that lead her here, she has another episode.”

     “What drove her to attack the nurse at Gotham General, and how did she find her way home if she cant remember anything?” Jim asked, his frustration beginning to show.

     The lawyer simply shook his head, and said, “She has no recollection of any of it. When questioned on the matter, all she says in response is, The joker’s joke will make you laugh and choke until you croak.”

     Both Jim and Harvey exchanged puzzled glances. Then Jim returned his attention to Geoffrey and asked, “When can we talk to her?”

     “I’m sorry, sir, but I fear she may be too far gone.” He answered with a disconcerted grin. “The doctors are going to need some time with her before she is ready to speak with anyone. After her last outburst, they wont even permit me any further access until they can get her emotions under control.”

     “That could take forever!” Bullock snapped. “We need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

     “My sincerest apologies…” He said dolefully. “I wish there was more I could do to help, but unfortunately I cant. Now if you excuse me gentlemen, I am late for a meeting with another client.”

     That said he made his way for the exit when Detective Jim Gordon turned to him and said, “Mr. Hans, during your sessions with her, did she by chance make any mention of a red hood, or jacket?”

     The lawyer looked back at him and answered, “There is but one thing she cares to say on the matter, and I’m afraid it is just as bemusing as is that question.”

     Then he was gone, leaving the detectives alone in the dark lobby, without a lead: without hope.

     Frustrated, Jim charged toward the exit. Hurrying to catch up with the long strides of his tall partner, Harvey Bullock asked, “Where are you going?”

     “To find Mr. Quinzel.”

     “Jim, you can’t!” He argued. “You have no evidence, and no warrant.”

     Jim stopped and spun his way, intensity burning in his eyes. “I have my gut, and my gut tells me to stop him before another victim falls in the alleys by his doing.”

     Bullock studied him curiously for a moment, and then asked, “Why is this so important to you?”

     He thought a moment, remembering all the pain he saw in young Bruce Wayne’s eyes and said, “That boy… The Wayne child; I saw something inside him… I saw an illness growing; a hate unlike any foul soul I have ever encountered in all of my years as a police officer. Who ever did this to him, they took something away; they robbed him of his parents, and they implanted something dark inside his heart. Something far darker than any foe we have ever faced before. In this business, you get to know evil; you learn how to see it on people. I saw it in him. I seek the one responsible for planting such a vial seed.”

     “So what? Your plan is to put the law into your own hands, and risk everything on a hunch, just to give this a kid a piece of mind?” Bullock challenged. “Jim, the damage is done. There is nothing you can do to reverse that. You can kill every bad guy in this city, that boy will still grow to be whatever he is destined to become; you cannot undo his hurt by throwing your career away.”

     “That boy has just inherited the key to the city, after having his first taste of blood at an age far too young to understand the concept of forgive-and-let-live.” Jim snapped. “I may one day be powerless to stop whatever Bruce Wayne might become, but I can however stop this man from destroying anymore futures.”

     “By destroying yours.”

     His words were like an icy dagger to Jim’s heart, never-the-less, he went on about his business, leaving Bullock with his final plea echoing in the vacant lobby, “Jim, think of your family…, Think of your kids!”

#

     Geoffrey Hans drove his Mercedes to a quiet lot along Aparo Park, where a lone black limo was waiting. He parked, stepped out, adjusted his tie, and made way for the passenger side. The glimmer of the sun’s light beamed off the calm waters of Gotham River, it’s brilliants reflecting on the tinted glass of the window as he opened the door to enter. Inside sat Carmine Falcone; he was puffing on a Cuban as the lawyer took his seat across from him. His loyal thugs still joined him at either side; ever still, ever quiet, ever deadly.

     Geoffrey took note of the shattered glass of the rear window, still stained with human plasma from the dearly departed Joe Chill. He gave a stolid nod toward the back spatter and asked, “Trouble?”

     Carmine glanced at the damage and said with a sly grin, “No trouble, just thought to redecorate.”

     “As adorning as brain matter may be, it could draw some unwanted attention, and ought be removed as soon as possible.” The lawyer stressed.

     “Dully noted.” Carmine spat curtly. “What of our little bird? Has she a song to sing?”

     “She sings merely in riddles.” The lawyer answered, hardly amused. “Though I am pleased to report that her wit is gone from her. Mrs. Quinzel remembers nothing, and therefore should pose little threat to you and your father’s schemes… However, there is a detective on the case; he is clever, he is stubborn. He may be a problem.”

     “What’s his name?”

     “Gordon.”

     Carmine smiled knowingly. “Ahh, the shining knight of Gotham.” He mocked. “I know him well, as I know of nearly half of the officers in his department that currently sit on my payroll. We shall deal with him soon enough…” He then looked to his driver, who was watching him from his rearview mirror. The driver nodded, eyes grim. Carmine let out an exhausted sigh and said, “For now, I have other matters to attend to. You must be on your way, Mr. Hans. My sentry has reported an enemy on our tail, and so, I fear, we may have to complete our redecorating with his guts.” One of his men then opened the door to allow him leave. “If you will.”

     The lawyer nodded and was soon gone from the vehicle. The limo departed, followed closely by an old sedan. Jack Quinzel drove with a gun by his side, and his red hood drawn over his brow; his fierce eyes locked on the limo before him.

#

     Lillian Rose awoke, haunted by a dream of suffocating shrubs, of coiling, twisting vines with biting thorns. A vast field of Poison Ivy surrounded her, their stems growing rapidly. Claiming her from feet to crown they wrapped around her with greenery. Red roses bloomed at her scalp, punching through bone, tearing through flesh. Dr. Jason Woodrue stood before her laughing. Her love; he has betrayed her. He offered not a finger to her aid as the weeds consumed her whole. An outstretched hand was the last of her limbs to see the light before that too was claimed. After all was lost, she threw back open her eyes to find herself back in her empty apartment, alone in her bed. There was pain all over, but no weeds. She didn’t recall how she had returned home, and so little could she remember what had taken place between her and the professor after they had kissed.

     Her head swimming, she sluggishly rolled out of bed and stumbled to her bathroom across the way from her bed. She was cold, but was sweating immensely. When she reached the sink she turned on the faucet and drank. After quenching her thirst she looked at her haggard reflection in the mirror and shrieked. Her eyes were sunken and black, dark veins stretching from her sockets. Her hair, all of her flowing curly red hair, was near gone, so too were her eyebrows and lashes. She recoiled, holding a frail tremulous hand to her mouth. Staggering out of the bathroom she saw fragments of her hair everywhere, scattered across her tossed blankets, and coating the carpet like an animal’s lost fur.

     Never before had she screamed as she did in that dreadful moment.

     Still she collected her things, and made for class. At Gotham University, all of her fellow classmates looked to her with ridicule. They laughed, and teased, pointing at her bald scalp. The professor she so loved even scowled when he first saw her. She sat in the front row at the head of the class, all eyes on her, as he carried on with his lesson, though flustered he was by her presence.

     Suddenly Lillian’s glossy eyes began transforming; the irises were glowing green. The professor saw this and gaped. Before he could utter a word of warning, she collapsed out of her seat and fell silent on the floor. The class was suddenly ensued by panic, as Dr. Woodrue directed everyone out of the classroom as quickly as he could.

     When he was alone with her, he felt for a pulse, but she was cold, and there was nothing. He gasped in shock, and retreated to his study. There he found a green blanket, which he used to collect her remains. Dragging her body from the class, he made sure to gather all of his research on the Falcone Genome project before he was gone: never to be seen by his students again.

     That night he had dumped her body in a forest somewhere on the outskirts of town, leaving her for dead. That night her body would lay so quiet, so still. That night she’d awaken yet again, her nightmares realized.

     Her nails dug into the hard dirt, her hands balling into fistfuls of grass. A stabbing agony sent her arching at the back, her chest rising skyward as she gasped. She exhaled a blood-curdling scream that almost seemed to stir the quiet branches above her. At her scalp knots were forming, rippling through her flesh. The points of earthen green buds pushed and penetrated, spitting blood. Leaves seemed to grow at her brow, and her eyes were luminous in the night, glowing a yellow green.

By blind love she had fallen victim, and by her love’s poison she had been reborn once again: an irony that would drive her passions and fuel her rage for many years to come.   

#

     In her cell, Harley Quinzel pressed against the wall and gazed out the barred window that overlooked the neighboring D’Angelo Sewage Treatment facility, flanked by trees that aligned the squalid shores of Gotham River. The staff at Arkham Asylum thought it best to shave her head completely, alleviating her of the crippling memories that were attached to the hack-job she had done to her hair after her episode at the hospital. Now she lay there, a tear trailing down her cheek, quiescent, defeated, lost.

     “The joker’s joke…,” she chanted in a whisper. “will make you laugh and choke until you croak…”

     Suddenly a bubbling laughter poured from her throat as she dropped to her knees, her head still resting against the wall. “The Joker’s Joke!” She said with a thick city accent. “Oh, J… You’re so funny… It kills.”