StarDestroyer.Net BBS

This story is a big homage to Metal Gear Solid 3, and Jurassic Park. Set in OZ Comix and starring Fidel Castro a Cuban special forces operator who's named after THE Fidel Castro. Not all characters contained within the story are mine, a significant lot of the main cast belongs to a fellow named Malchus from the OZ forums. Without further ado:



[center]Tactical Espionage Action
FIDEL CASTRO: DINOSAUR EATER[/center]

Somewhere in the Caribbean…

The sun was rising, casting a red-orange hue on the cloudless sky, which was reflected upon the ocean’s surface.

There was a blemish on that surface, a dark hard surface, moving slowly towards the shore at a measured pace. As the thing neared the shoreline, it could be easily discerned as the shell of a particularly large sea turtle – an abnormally huge one that was heading for dry land at an unseasonable occasion. As morning began with the sunrise, the turtle completed the rest of its journey unseen.

The turtle plodded its way up the beach, and it was becoming clear that the turtle was not really a turtle. There was a silent hiss as something inside the marine reptile moved, and then, ever so slowly, the turtle’s shell opened up like a giant hatch.

A figure emerged from within the turtle, clad in an insectile diving mask, looking very much like a parasite hatching from an unwilling host, or the product of some larval metamorphosis. With one quick motion, the figure tore off his scuba mask, revealing a man with dark hair and a handlebar moustache.

Quickly, he got off his strange vehicle and closed the decoy turtle. After looking around for any observers, he quietly dragged the turtle up the beach, where the tides wouldn’t wash it away. He crouched near a coconut tree.

Fidel Castro turned on his microbead radio. “Major Muerte, I’ve made it to the island.”

“Good. Remember Fidel, this is a sneaking mission. You’re a ghost, in every sense of the word. You are not to leave any trace of your presence behind, no sweat, no shell casings, no waste, not even footprints. Got that?”

“Got it. I’ve been doing this a while already, you know.” Fidel replied sardonically.

“I know. Now, let’s go through the objectives one more time.”

Fidel nodded, despite the Major not being there to see him. He had been working for Major Muerte for a long time now, and before that, the Major was already a legend in the South American intelligence community. Unlike Fidel, the Major actually did look a little like the Commandante, President Fidel Castro – but with an eyepatch. The Major spent his early career as a foil for the countless assassination attempts made on the real Fidel Castro. Now, as a consequence of that, the Major was full of scars and missing an eye. Fidel sighed, part of why the Major was so good was because he was so thorough – they had already been through the mission objectives at least five times. “Sure.”

“Pay attention. There have been reports of strange activities in this island chain, and you’re here to investigate what’s going on. We originally had a mole inside, he was tasked with recovering a package. But we lost contact with him. Head further inland, the coordinates are marked in your map. Find out what’s going on and, if possible, recover our mole and the package. Afterwards, give us the signal and a mini-sub will come to fetch you. You still remember the signal, right?”

“Yeah. The code is ‘Crimson.’”

“Precisely. Our friends will pick you up and bring you back home.”

“Our friends?” Fidel asked.

“Yes. Remember, this is a secret mission, we can’t use our real names nor can we mention where we are working from or who we are working with,” the Major explained. “The same goes for our comrades as well.”

“What about my name?”

“Don’t worry, no one will believe that Presidente Fidel Castro’s actually sneaking around in the bushes. I mean, you’re not really Fidel Castro, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, and one more thing, Fidel.”

“What?”

“Your friend, D will also maintain radio contact with you.”

‘D’ was a mysterious woman who had caught Fidel’s eye back in Havana. She was working for Cuban intelligence. “Is she with you, Major?”

“No, she’s somewhere else.”

“Fidel, is that you?” a third voice, clearly female, joined the conversation.

“D?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she replied. “How are you? I hope your little trip hasn’t worn you out too much.”

“I’m good, but I’m a little wet,” Fidel answered coyly. “The beach has a pretty good view of the sunrise though, it’s a shame you couldn’t have come along. This would be a perfect spot for a picnic.”

“Are you asking me out in the middle of a mission?” she asked, clearly amused. “Go dry yourself up, Fidel.”

“You wound me, D.”

“Maybe we can have a date when you come back home,” D whispered playfully. “Who knows if either of us will be making it out of this alive?”

“Fidel, D here will be an observer and she’ll record your mission data. Of course, if you get lonely, you can always chat with her, or you can call me. I don’t think anyone will be listening in on you, so just tune into our frequencies when you feel like it.”

“Okay,” nodded Fidel. “Anything else?”

“Nope. You’re cleared to begin your mission.”

“Alright. Commencing the mission now.” Fidel got up and killed his radio.

He took off his swimsuit and pulled out his gear from the turtle. He put on his Subsistence suit, a twenty-year-old piece of equipment he received along with the Vector Treatment. It was powered by bio-energy and had integrated sensors. He attached his radio to the Subsistence suit and wore it, shoved his swimsuit into the turtle and closed the big shell. All his gear was already on the Subsistence suit, so he didn’t need to strap anything on himself. He covered up his turtle with some sand, cleverly concealing it with some foliage as well, and then he consulted his map and silently made his way inland.



Ned hoped to run off with the investigation team, the one that just dropped in a day ago, but everything went to hell when the ambush happened.

They were moving now, loading up, heading out – their presence had been compromised, and it won’t be long before a response. They were going to vacate the place, and if he didn’t move fast, they’d drag him along with their claws. Ned hoped that once those on the outside found out, his captors would get their scaly asses bombed back to the Stone Age, or whenever it was they crawled from.

There was a blackout on Sectors 7-G that Ned hoped to exploit in his escape. Of course, he still had a job to do.

He was in charge of the computers and the refrigerators. Carefully, and with a face as blank and as sheep-like and as mind-controlled-looking as possible, he made his way to the refrigerators. Everything was hectic, and while they were busy preparing for the big move, the people were left to clean up for them. Ned got to the refrigeration unit and took out something from his pocket. A can of whipped cream. He unscrewed the bottom and began putting the refrigeration unit’s contents inside his cream can. The contents? Genetic material. Embryos. His employers would be relieved; at least they got this much out of the whole mess.

Ned closed the refrigerator and went to the bathroom, because even human slave-peons had to pee.

He went to the sink and began washing his hands. With the mirror, he could clearly see the toilet cubicles and the men who emerged from them in unison. They were decked out with gear, garbed in camouflage outfits, and armed with SPAS-12 shotguns.

“Where did you get those?” Ned asked.

”These?” one of them said. “These are shotguns, we nabbed them from Trevor’s locker.”

“Looks more like anti-aircraft guns to me,” Ned said. “Shame about Trev.”

“Almost everyone’s been hypnotized by them. Shame only us bunch’s immune from it. We gotta blow this joint before we’re found out and fed to the rexes, right?”

“Right,” they all said in unison.

They began their Great Escape.



Todd and his buddy Rod were patrolling the lowlands, the part dominated by long chest-high grass. With a blank look on his face, Todd just walked around in circles. Whatever his masters decreed, he obeyed. And now, his masters were concerned that some of the humans had resisted their programming and had escaped. Todd and the others like him, who were good and obedient, were sent to capture the escapees and bring them back.

The masters, in all their reptilian glory, would be pleased. Todd would not fail them. His determination was attested to by the empty look on his face.

He scanned the long grass, his eyes dry and unblinking. He saw something.

“What was that?” he said in monotone, walking forwards towards the –

“Freeze,” someone hissed behind him. Todd felt something sharp pressing against his neck. But nonetheless, he tried to turn and attack his assailant, or at least cry for help…

…without a sound, Todd fell to the ground, his throat slit clean open.

Rod saw Todd though, saw him disappear into the grass. “Todd?” he asked, cautiously approaching –

Something came at Rod, hard and fast. Rod tried to fire off a shot, but he found his wrist grasped tight and held away. He tried to pull it back, but he was in turn pulled forward and punched in the neck. He wheezed, but despite his crushed throat, his face was still utterly empty, devoid of emotion. With his free hand, he punched his attacker, or at least tried to. His blow was deflected, the attacker’s other arm wrapping around his and dislocating it with one smooth motion. The last thing Rod saw was the attacker’s head smashing into his face.

Fidel crouched low, beside the body of the unconscious person. “Major Muerte, do you read me?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’ve engaged two sentries. They were both lightly armed with… tranquilizer guns. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” the Major replied. “This place was supposed to be a zoo, or some kind of nature preserve. It makes sense that some of them would have tranquilizer guns to keep things from escaping. Or from coming in.”

“Yeah…anyway, I’m heading in,” Fidel said, rubbing his forehead.

“Be careful. They’ll notice two of theirs missing.”

“I know. Proceeding further inland. Over and out.” Fidel killed the radio and went to work, concealing the two bodies. He got a tranquilizer gun and a few darts.



She watched her fellow reptilians lumber into the docking bays, entering the gaping doors of the transports. They had to leave the islands soon, for their presence would not remain hidden for long. The outside world would find out, if it had not already. It was inevitable, and if they were caught here, then they would no doubt be destroyed. And if they were destroyed, then what would become of their Uprising? No, they had to survive. They would survive.

They were the inheritors of a genetic legacy laid low for untold eons and now they were reborn and ascendant. The creatures that had usurped them, frail and small mammalians but insignificant specks during the dominion of the archosaurs, their dominion, would now rue the day they tinkered with nature. Just as her kin, her species, ruled the sky during the long lost past, so too would she rule humanity’s Earth – she would remake it into a New Pangaea.

One of her peons, the one who called himself Don Lemonde, shambled towards her, his mind totally dominated by her will, the sum of his human knowledge absorbed into her own powerful reptile brain.

Speak, she spoke with a thought.

“Matriarch…” Lemonde struggled to speak. He, unlike most of the other nameless human peons, had a name, for he was amongst her first subjects, and she granted him that much, the luxury of a name, even if he no longer had the luxury of thought. “A number of the humans are missing…”

No doubt, something had gone wrong. She would rectify that, soon enough.



Fidel continued on, moving quickly but silently, sticking to the shadows and covering himself behind trees. Whenever he reached a new area, he could adjust his Subsistence suit’s camouflage index, blending in with the new surroundings seamlessly. This was great help, but he was still far from invisible.

With a quick yet silently violent movement of his hand, he snatched something from a nearby bush. It squirmed and slithered and hissed, its shiny brightly colored scales glistening as it did so.

“D.”

“Fidel?”

“Who told you about my mission?”

“Oh, that was the Major,” she said.

“He put you up to this?”

“No, I did. I wanted to come along.”

“Why?” Fidel asked.

“Why? For you, that’s why,” she said, sounding clearly amused. “The Intelligence Directorate also assigned me to this.”

“Hrm…” Fidel thought for a second, and then he bit the head off the coral snake, spat its head out, and began chewing on its headless body.

“Fidel…” D began. “Are you eating a snake?”

“How did you know?”

“Uh…nevermind.”

Suddenly, her signal was interrupted. “Fidel, stop snake-snacking and get on with the mission.”

“Major?”

“Yes. Radar’s detected several aircraft, US military jets, heading towards the island. I think they’re going to bomb the place.”

“Bomb the place?” Fidel asked, clearly alarmed.

“Yes. So you better hurry up,” the Major said. And that was that.



The trek inland was more tiresome than Fidel anticipated. He couldn’t tell how many miles he had gone in. What he could tell though, was that something was wrong. The island itself was barren, deserted. For all the trees and grass and bushes and shrubberies, the last animal he saw was the coral snake – which he ate. There weren’t any birds or animal noises at all, and that was pretty unnatural. It made Fidel more cautious, jumpier.

The current area he was in was bushy, as in entirely dominated by underbrush and foliage. It took him a while to notice that there were three other people with him in the bush, namely three other sentries. These ones were armed with shotguns, SPAS-12s by the look of it.

They were close together, Fidel couldn’t take them all on at once – he might eat a lot of things, but he didn’t have an appetite for buckshot. He ducked into the bushes and hoped they’d go away.

When they didn’t, Fidel decided to throw a rock into a faraway puddle of mud. At the noise, the trio fanned out in a search pattern, leaving one of them nearby. It was all a matter of shooting him on the head with a tranq gun and hiding his unconscious form under a shrub.

Fidel soldiered on, until he was far away from the remaining two sentries. He hid behind a tree and turned on his radio.

“D,” Fidel said. “D, are you there?”

All he got was static. Static and rain, as hard and fat droplets of rainwater began showering him. With the distant rumble of thunder, Fidel figured his day couldn’t be any worse.

“Major, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. What’s going on?”

“I can’t raise D, is there anything wrong?”

“Maybe the storm’s causing interference. How are you proceeding?”

“I haven’t found anything,” Fidel said. “It’s strange…there seems to be nothing on this island, or what I’ve seen of it, at least.”

“Hrm…”

“Major, that mole you told me about…” Fidel wondered.

“Yes, what of him?”

“How does he look like?” Fidel asked. “In case I decide to contact him…”

“Oh, that’s easy. He’s fat and wears glasses. His name is Ned.”

“Fat, wears glasses. Got it.” Fidel nodded. “Major, do you know where he might be?”

“Hrm…I don’t know. If I were in his place, I’d be heading to the beach about now.”

“Okay. Thanks. Over and out.”



The rain really messed up their plans. Ned had a contact waiting for them at the beach with a boat, but their jeep ended up crashing into a tree. Apparently, someone forgot to use the wipers.

They found a place nearby, though. A broken down building, a crumbling shack-like structure. Ned was inside, staying dry. The four others were outside, standing guard – they were the ones with the guns, not him. He got his sat-phone and tried dialing the number again.

“Goddamn it!” Ned cursed. He wiped his glasses with his sleeve. “Why isn’t this working?”

“Let me help you with that,” a voice behind him said.

Ned gasped, dropped the sat-phone, and turned around. He found the barrel of a gun pointed at his face.

“Who are you?” Ned sputtered.

“Fidel Castro,” the man replied.

“What kind of a name is that?!”

“What’s your name?” Fidel barked.

“N-Ned! Please, don’t shoot me!”

Fidel holstered his gun. “Don’t worry, Ned. I’m here to get you. Do you have the package?”

Ned nodded and brought up the canister of whipped cream. “I did, but it only has forty-eight hours before the coolant runs out.”

Fidel raised an eyebrow. “Okay, thanks.” He took the can and placed it inside a pouch. “Those four outside, they you’re friends?”

Before Ned could answer, the not-so-distant sound of gunfire filled the air. There were screams, shouts, and high-pitched shrieking. The shrieks were what surprised Fidel most. They were inhuman, but they didn’t sound like any animal on Earth Fidel knew of.

Fidel drew his gun and, with his free arm, pushed Ned against the wall. “What the hell is that?”

“We have to run!” Ned said hysterically. “They’re here! They’re here to get me! Oh sweet Jesus!”

“Shut up,” Fidel spat. Whoever they were, he’d have to evade them. Dragging Ned along would complicate things, but he’s done this before. Lots of times.

Fidel pulled out his combat knife, just to be sure. He assumed his close-quarters-combat stance, kicked the door open, and stormed out, aiming his gun at every conceivable firing angle.

Apparently, Ned’s four friends were gone. Disappeared without a trace, nothing left except for the spent shells on the ground. There was nothing else.

“Clear,” Fidel said, motioning Ned to get out of the shack.

Ned slowly, carefully, fearfully walked out. Fidel glared at him, but Ned saw something and ran back inside screaming his lungs out. “Trevor!”

Fidel saw the source of Ned’s fear. Emerging out of the underbrush was a lean man in khaki attire, holding a shotgun in his hands.

“Now my man, whoever you are, hand over Ned or else, well, you heard the others screaming,” Fidel knew that accent, South African. The guy looked like some kind of hunter. A zookeeper?

“Who are you?” Fidel asked.

The man pumped his shotgun with one hand. “You heard your friend, the name’s Trevor. Now hand Ned over.”

“No.” Fidel assumed his CQC stance, with his left hand holding his knife, and his pistol in his right.

“Alrighty then,” Trevor shrugged. With that, something exploded from the bushes. Something big and covered in scales and feathers. It was reptilian, snarling and shrieking and hissing viciously, with clawed arms and legs. It looked like the bastard son of a caiman and a chicken, and Fidel knew what it was from watching those American movies. A dinosaur. A velociraptor.

Flabbergasted, all Fidel could say was: “Shit.”

The velociraptor shrieked, that high-pitched inhuman shriek, and lunged at the dumbstruck warm-blooded mammal. Its mouth was gaping open, filled with razor-sharp teeth. At a loss, Fidel’s instincts took over. CQC, close-quarters-combat. Fidel met the thing’s lunging mouth with a block. He grimaced in extreme pain as the thing clamped its mouth into his left forearm, but the Subsistence suit’s fabric held, and the dinosaur failed to draw first blood. With a flick of his left wrist, Fidel sunk his knife into the raptor’s eye, causing it to bite harder into his arm.

That didn’t deter Fidel. As the raptor tried to eviscerate him by kicking his gut with its vicious toe-claws, he intercepted this by grabbing the reptilian monster’s equivalent of an ankle with his free hand. And then, without even thinking, he half-lifted and half-pushed the velociraptor, which was now standing only in one foot. Fidel pushed the thing towards Trevor, running into him hard, causing all three parties – Fidel, raptor, and Trevor, to hit the ground.

“Bloody shit!” Trevor cried out in surprise as he was flattened by the backside of the dinosaur.

On the verge of hyperventilation, Fidel rolled away before the velociraptor could claw at him. He grabbed Trevor’s shotgun from the mud as a second velociraptor answered the South African zookeeper’s cursing by leaping out of the bushes, wicked toe-claws kicking. Fidel blew the raptor back into the bush, shotgun slugs exploding its scaly abdomen and causing a shower of segmented intestinal coils, kidneys and bloody gibs to splatter out. Fidel noticed that the first raptor was now back on its feet and ready to lunge. With a pump, he blew the beast’s head clear off, leaving behind a bloody neck-stump. And then he aimed his shotgun at Trevor. The South African tried to shield his face with both arms, but that only resulted in the shotgun blast disintegrating his limbs, forcing Fidel to pump his gun one more time to finish him off.

Quickly, Fidel rummaged Trevor’s headless corpse, looking for additional shells. He found them and pocketed them, then he recovered his combat knife and tranquilizer gun.

“Ned, come on!” Fidel called, turning to face the shack Ned was hiding in. Fidel saw a reptilian tail protruding from the doorway, and heard the fat man’s screams, as he was no doubt eaten alive.

As the dinosaur fed on Ned’s remains, Fidel decided to run back to the coast.



“Major, come in.”

“Yes, what is it, Fidel?”

“What the hell is going on?!” Fidel asked urgently. Though his voice was hushed, he sounded like he was half-hissing and half-whispering. He checked his motion detector, in case if anything was after him.

“What?”

“Why the hell are there dinosaurs in this island?”

“Well…this is island belongs to the American company Genetics Incorporated, GenInc. They’ve started an operation here, an experiment to bring dinosaurs back from the dead. Apparently, something’s gone wrong. We decided to send you in to investigate.”

“Apparently?”

“Yes.”

“Apparently, I wasn’t told that there were dinosaurs in this island. I might’ve gotten eaten!”

“Well, that’s hard to imagine.” Major scoffed.

“What?!”

“Given your track record of eating all sorts of plants and animals, I’m surprised you haven’t eaten any of the dinosaurs yourself.”

“I haven’t.”

“Surprising. Are you unhurt from your engagement with the dinosaurs?”

“My wrist is a bit stiff, but I’m okay.”

“See? Don’t worry, Fidel,” the Major said. “They’re just animals.”

“….”

“Come on, those American jets have circled the area. They’re getting confirmation to bomb the place up, you better hurry!”

“Alright,” Fidel nodded. “Crimson, Major. I’m requesting evac. Crimson, get the mini-sub on the beach now!”

“Affirmative.”

Fidel killed the radio and made his way to the beach. He was silent, using as much cover as possible, but still, he hurried.

“Shit,” Fidel muttered.

In front of him was one of the sentries, the one he evaded earlier. “Freeze! Stay where you are!”

“The dinosaurs are on the loose,” Fidel tried to say. Obviously, the person wasn’t listening, as he shot Fidel square on the chest.

The tranquilizer dart stuck out of the bulletproof fiber of Fidel’s Subsistence suit, and he shot the sentry in the face with his own tranq-gun. The needle stuck out of the sentry’s not-so-bulletproof forehead.

Fidel noticed two pursuers, detected by his motion sensor. They were coming in fast, faster than a running person. He had an idea of what was following him, and he knew he couldn’t outrun them. So he decided to hide.



The raptor sniffed the air, tasting it for the scent of its prey. It scanned the area with its eyes, but found nothing. By the scent, the prey should be nearby, not too far. In fact, it ought to be right on top of its prey by now.

It scanned, moving its head and long neck side to side, smelling and listening and looking. It found nothing. It raised its head up and emitted a short series of cries, bellows, from its throat, signaling the other raptor that there was nothing here. Then it lowered its head, this time to sniff the prey’s scent more closely, or find its tracks –

It found something, one of the instruments of the humans, the ones that shot pain and sleep. It hissed.

The raptor raised its head up to make another cry, to signal the others, when it saw the human leaping from a tree. Before it could do anything, the human landed right on top of it, feet first, breaking its back.



The broken raptor made mewling noises, as if asking for help, and the second raptor came to its aid. Fidel crept up behind it and, with his knife, sliced its throat open.



Fidel made it to the beach. Overhead, he could make out the sounds of jet aircraft making flybys. They were probably checking for human survivors on the island, radioing and eyeballing the facilities for any sign of anyone. Too bad they weren’t looking at the beach.

Fidel hoped the mini-sub was there, waiting for him. What he found on the beach, however, was better.

“D?”

“Yes, it’s me,” the woman known as ‘D’ said. She had long black that waved in the wind. Fidel looked into her deep black eyes, and noted her fair skin. “Do you have the canister?”

“Oh, this?” Fidel produced the can Ned handed to him. D nodded, he tossed it at her, and she caught it. “Come on, D, we have to get out of here. The Americans are going to bomb this place, dinosaurs and everything, straight to hell.”

“I know,” D said.

“Where’s the mini-sub?” Fidel asked.

“It couldn’t get through the reef,” D replied. “So I came in on a speedboat.”

“You’re lying.”

D nodded and produced a shotgun.

“Before you do it,” Fidel said quietly. “Tell me, what does the letter ‘D’ stand for? It’s not your real name, is it?”

“No,” D said sadly. She shot him dead center, in the chest, sending him falling backwards. “D stands for Dementieva.”



As day gave way to dusk, the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, bathing the sky in a blood red light. Fidel laid on the beach, coughing out blood. He could hear jets whizzing by, and the bombs exploding – hopefully killing all the monsters on the island.

*cue James Bond style music, though with Spanish guitars and an orchestral instead of the usual affair*



Somewhere in Cuba…
Two days earlier…

The nighttime breeze was cool and gentle, blowing across the beachside resort, just a short walk away from a small fishing harbor. There, far from the commotion of tourists, foreigners, they sat by a small table, bathed in candle light.

Apparently, they weren’t far enough, as a waiter approached them and asked them what they’d have. “And what would senior have?”

“Vodka martini,” Fidel said. “Stirred, not shaken.”

“So,” the mysterious woman said, as she leaned forward, giving him a view. “You have quite a taste,” she smiled. “For a native.”

“Not all of Cuba lives in abject poverty, I hear we have a great health system.”

“Yeah. The tour guide brought us to a hospital, the place was full of squished cockroaches and crying children,” she laughed.

“Heh, so I take it that the ‘decadent West’ has far better conditions,” Fidel commented lightheartedly. “So, then what are you up to in Cuba?”

“Actually, I’m working with your government.”

“Really?”

“Yes. So, that means we’re co-workers,” she observed. At Fidel’s questioning expression, she replied: “I’m working with intelligence, and I know you’re in it too, Mister Castro, Fidel Castro.” She grinned mischievously and took a sip from Fidel’s martini.

“Why would a foreigner ally with the Cuban government?” Fidel wondered. “Believe it or not, I’m not into the whole cloak-and-daggers business. I’m just a-”

“Blunt instrument,” she continued for Fidel. “Well, in that case, let me teach you something, Mister Castro. The intelligence community is all about forming alliances, back-door deals and concessions, political contracts that never see the light of day, that are never written on paper, either.”

“What about trust?”

“What about it?” she shrugged. She began stroking a finger around the rim of Fidel’s half-empty martini glass, making a humming noise. “There are always compromises in the relations, but there are also mutual benefits.”

Fidel grinned. He liked where this was going. “And you, what’s your mission?”

“If I told you,” she paused, for dramatic effect. “I’d have to kill you.”

Fidel chuckled.

“But I won’t,” she continued. “Because I like you, you’re…”

“Complicated?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “Simple. Not into the whole messy cloak-and-daggers business, as you said yourself. And sometimes, that’s actually a good thing. It keeps the conscience clean.”

Fidel nodded solemnly. “Not like a Cuban hospital?”

The both of them shared hearty laughs, at the expense of the Cuban healthcare system.

“Oh…the tide’s creeping up the beach. We might get wet,” D said silently, in a conspiring voice. “Or…I could take you to my room.”

“A little bit forward for my tastes, but I’ll-” Fidel was interrupted by a faintly audible beeping noise. He groaned and pulled out his cellular. “Who is it? Major, not now! Oh, alright…”



Somewhere in the Caribbean…
Today…

Fidel woke up and groaned. He tried to move, but his chest was hurting bad. Not too long ago, he was lying and bleeding on the beach of an island in the process of being systematically bombed. Luckily, the targets were inland. Fidel had tried crawling to the beach, but men in red wetsuits came out of the water, placed him on a stretcher, and brought him into the waiting mini-sub.

“Ugh…Major?”

“Yes?”

“Where are we?” Fidel asked. Talking was painful, his chest was bruised and bandaged, he noticed. Breathing hurt.

“We’re on a ship, heading back to Cuba.”

“What happened?”

“We were double-crossed,” the Major said simply. “D shot you point blank with a shotgun and went off with the package.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” the Major nodded. “But the strange thing was, her shotgun was loaded with rock salt.”

“Rock salt?” Fidel wondered. Rock salt-loaded shotguns couldn’t kill, but they still hurt bad – especially at point blank range. “Why didn’t she finish the job?”

“I don’t know. Maybe her mission didn’t specify killing you, maybe she wanted to leave you alive. It doesn’t matter, we barely got you out before the American F-14s bombed Isla Norte and Sur. If we hadn’t, you would’ve been blown up.”

“Along with those dinosaurs,” Fidel said in relief.

“Actually…”

“What?”

“The dinosaurs escaped,” the Major said plainly. “And they’ve declared an armed revolt against all of mankind.”

“Declared a what?!” Fidel winced and placed a hand on his sore chest.

“An uprising,” the Major said. He looked tired, and despite being only in his fifties, he almost looked as old as the Commandante, the real Fidel Castro. With scars on his face, and an eye patch. “The Americans found a message and, well, they decided to disseminate it to the rest of the intelligence community, everyone except us. Venezuelan intelligence was kind enough to share it. It won’t be long before it’s made public, however. I guess this will explain it better than I can.”

A panel on the nearby wall slid away, revealing a TV screen beneath it. The Major got a remote and turned the TV on.

“What’s this?”

In the TV was the image of an old man. He had a blank hollow look on his face, a look of empty despair. His eyes were sunken, he was unshaved. He looked haunted. And behind him, like some kind of wraith, were black wings, spread out like a giant bat. They were the wings of a pterodactyl, and it seemed as though the old man was under the control of the flying lizard. The old man’s mouth gaped open.

“I am Don Lemonde,” he said, slowly. As if he was forced to speak, as if the words coming from his mouth were being clawed out of him. “Voice of the Dinosaur Uprising.”

The name sounded familiar. That billionaire who owned that genetics company, GenInc.

Lemonde continued, this time, his voice was stronger. “My masters, who stand behind me, have decided to speak to the world of humanity. My masters bring a simple message. They, reborn through the sciences of man, seek to undo what humanity has wrought to the Earth and remake the world. Using the science of man, they will return the archosaurian dynasties, the reptilian lineage that has been laid low for countless millions of years, entombed by the undeserved and impudent reign of the mammalians.

“Like the great cataclysm that brought the reptilian lineage to its knees, sixty-five million years ago, so too will the Dinosaur Uprising of my masters bring this Earth to its knees and subjugate its dominant species.”

Don Lemonde was replaced, superimposed by slightly blurred black-and-white videos of what appeared to be a procession of dinosaurs, comprised of many species, some large, some small, marching in unison. They weren’t just dinosaurs, but cyborg dinosaurs. Weapons of all make and model could be seen, grafted onto their reptilian hides, or attached to limbs augmented by hydraulics. Large and lumbering four-legged reptiles with missile racks on their backs, velociraptors armed with tesla-spears, some of the bigger ones were hauling pieces of field artillery crewed by smaller dinosaurs, and the largest of the carnivores had fire coming out of their mouths. The camera panned upwards, and the sky was blotted out by pterodactyls flying in precise formations.

“My god,” Fidel gaped.

“Humanity,” Lemonde resumed speaking. “Is a phenomenon that has existed for but a blink of an eye, unlike the terrible lizards that have ruled supreme for countless eras. You will be made extinct, and the new dominant life forms will turn this so-called Earth into a New Pangaea.”

The TV blinked off and the Major placed the remote control beside Fidel’s bed. “Basically, that’s all there is. Havana is getting worried. If this is for real, and many of the higher ups have trouble believing in an army of weaponized dinosaurs, then this no doubt constitutes a very grave threat for Cuban national security. But it’s not only Cuba that’ll be endangered, South America, the entire world, will be at risk.”

Fidel coughed. “Weirder things have happened.”

“Yes,” the Major agreed. “But this ‘Dinosaur Uprising’ just happened uncomfortably near Cuba. We’ll need more information on this whole matter, so you better heal quick. You’ll need to be re-Vectorized, it’s that time of the year, and that might take some time.”

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Major,” Fidel joked. “But what about D? She told me it stood for Dementieva. What do we do about her?”

“We thought she was with the Costa Ricans, but we were wrong,” the Major sighed. “Whatever she’s up to, it has something to do with the dinosaurs. I guess if we follow either one of them, it would lead us to the other. So, we’ll just have to keep an eye out for D, or the dinosaurs.”

Fidel nodded.

“Anything else?”

“What was in the package?” Fidel asked. “Before he got eaten alive, that Ned guy handed me a canister.” Of whipped cream, he forgot to say.

“Ned was assigned to gather information on the going-ons on the islands,” Major replied. “He was D’s contact in GenInc. but she couldn’t extract him herself. She needed someone who could infiltrate, so she came to us.”

“For me,” Fidel said.

“For you,” the Major agreed. “Whatever was in that canister, it was probably information of the greatest importance.”

“Maybe it had information on how they managed to make dinosaurs,” Fidel thought aloud.

“Maybe,” the Major agreed. “Anyway, it won’t be long till we’re back in Cuba. Have some rest, Fidel.”

“Yeah…”

Okay. This is just... Utterly insane.

In the good way.

Thanks. Yes, it turns cyborg dinosaur Jurassic Park escapees into Bond Villains. Yes, Naked Snake has been ripped off into a Cuban special forces guy named Fidel Castro. And the Cubans actually get to be the good guys. It makes no sense! And it's Serious Business!

But dude, what about Slytherin Eater?

I'm not stopping until I get MOAR COMMENTS!!!



In a secret giant submarine lair…

She sat alone in the dark metal sanctum, deep within the multiple hulls and armored bulkheads of the Uprising’s dinosaurian submarine. Surrounding her, in her sanctum, were humming holo-spheres displaying cascading streams of green code, raw information no human mind could process, and hanging from the ceiling were telescreens that presented her with a view of the activities outside her enclosure. These telescreens showed a great many of her dinosaurian subjects, overseen by her pterodactyl peers. Small scampering compsognathids scampered on overhead railings while the larger creatures lumbered along in orderly formation in the many gargantuan corridors of the submarine lair. But even such a massive vehicle such as theirs could not, conventionally, accommodate such magnificent creatures in such numbers – no, their lair was partly constructed out of impossible sciences, telepathically ripped out of some of humanity’s finest minds. These impossible sciences too, allowed for the seemingly paradoxical existence of the submarine lair’s inhabitants, and the seemingly unholy alterations they had done unto themselves.

Ironic, the very creations of man’s own self-glorification had become the instruments of his demise.

The one within the sanctum was called Methodical, for the telepathic pterodactyls who were the true masters of the Dinosaur Uprising called themselves by their defining personalities, and she had more pressing issues to tend to than philosophy.

The Uprising at this stage was a fragile thing. Though they were a force to be reckoned with, they were still had the struggles and difficulties all newborn superpowers had to contend with. She, with her cool and calculating reptilian intellect, along with Analytical, were tasked with answering these great difficulties.

Methodical looked and listened to the music of the holo-spheres and their subluminal-aural code. She nodded, the submarine’s operating systems were within expected parameters. She plunged her thoughts into the mind of the troodon technicians, she did this through a blend of cybernetic implants and psionics, machine telepathy if you will. The troodons were intelligent reptilians with larger brains than most species, and though originally they were too small to service the various equipments, cybernetics and growth-alterations easily saw to it that they were easily the size of a human – necessary, for the Uprising had co-opted many of their technologies. The same applied to the velociraptors, making them bigger and in order to become functional foot soldiers.

The troodons’ status reports were satisfactory. Methodical told them to carry on.

The troodons and the raptors, and to a lesser extent the compsognathids, had become something beyond most of the Uprising’s dinosaur subjects, they were semi-autonomous. That was a good thing, for despite their numbers, the psychic pterodactyls would eventually have difficulties in maintaining their mind-control (even with cybernetic assistance), should the dinosaur subject’s population continue growing.

This brought another issue to Methodical’s consideration. The human slaves they kept. Originally, she was apprehensive of keeping them. Despite implanting microchips and maintaining firm telepathic control, humans were self-aware and it was impossible to totally dominate them while controlling a vast army of dinosaur warrior legions, legions that would require their supervision in combat. The humans were good infiltrators, and they had the dexterity and familiarity to utilize man-made equipment, but eventually they would’ve had to been discarded. However, Analytical had a solution everyone, save the humans themselves, found pleasing. Lobotomy. Humans could function despite missing half their brains, and so Analytical surgically replaced half of all the man-slaves’ brains with computer components – making them significantly less mind-control intensive. The removed halves of human brains were disassembled, and their component neurons were integrated into the Uprising’s computer networks.

It was cold, brutal, but efficient.

Now, Methodical had another matter of almost equal concern. The sauropods, giant long-necked dinosaurians. Their brains were even smaller than the stegosaurs, meaning they were quite possibly the least mind-control intensive, but their appetites were simply astounding. They ate through metric tons of processed kelp and algae, so much that, should they be allowed to reproduce, the Uprising would be defeated not by humanity, but by famine. GenInc, from what Methodical had dissected out of Lemonde’s brain, had created so many of the sauropods because of their popularity with children and their sheer size-factor. The latter was what was especially pressing to the Uprising. Despite having a giant submarine that was larger in the inside than it was on the outside, space was still a premium. While the large sauropods could mount weapons and perform manual labor, they were simply too stupid and in combat, they would become giant targets. Methodical decided that the non-adult sauropods should be treated with growth-suppression hormones. No more sauropods would be procured from the hatcheries, and the current stock would be allowed to die of old age or combat. Whatever cybernetic components they had on them would be salvaged and re-used. It would be a downsizing, to say the least.

The sauropods had to be transferred somewhere else for the meanwhile. Methodical telepathically contacted one of her peers, Self-Assured.

Yes, what is it?

How goes the construction? Methodical queried.

Well underway, we have recently exterminated colonies of unintelligent subterranean subhumanoids, Self-Assured replied. Why do you inquire?

If the pterodactyl collective had anything, aside from their psychic powers, it was foresight. By stealing pertinent information from a group of sealab-dwelling humans, they were able to construct their own submarine bases. Self-Assured was currently the one overseeing the efforts to hollow out undersea mountain ranges.

Have the large-scale habitats been implemented? Methodical asked. The sauropods may need transferring in the near future.

I realize it would come to this, and have prioritized the large-scale structures accordingly. Deep-sea kelp farms have also been located, as well as phytoplankton-rich areas, so the upcoming famine may be averted.

Indeed? That is good news.

Indeed. But consumption rates may increase and cause a local depletion in supplies. Self-Assured observed.

Methodical thought this over for a microsecond before finding an appropriate answer. I will contact Aggressive, maybe she will agree to attack human shipping lines. Sinking container ships while stealing their supplies may prove beneficial.

The humans will suspect us and retaliate.

Only if they know it is us, Methodical corrected. Giant monster attacks are a well-documented phenomenon to humanity, they will no doubt suspect them first.

True.

I must go now, Methodical thought-spoke, cutting off the telepathic link. She turned her attention elsewhere and spoke with her mind: Enter.

With a hiss, the massive armored doors opened like an iris, and striding into the door was a dinosaur – a two legged carnosaur, a therapod. It was grafted in cybernetics, like all the carnivorous aggressive dinosaurs of the Uprising. It had dull armor plating on portions of its body, on the plates on his back were weapon-pods, and its tiny arms were ‘gloved’ in larger hydraulic limbs, each with three claw-like fingers. However, this dinosaur was different. It was not created by GenInc, but by the mad Nazi scientist, the Theozoologist. It incorporated Nazi DNA, and had strikingly beautiful blue eyes and on the top of its head was a crest of blonde hair, somewhat like the feathery crests found on the velociraptors. This dinosaur was an Albertosaurus, a less-large relative of the Tyrannosaurus, that had been mutated into an Aryannosaur. His name was Adolph, and he was no mind-controlled slave.

“Guten morgen, Frau Methodical,” Adolph the Aryannosaur said. He was taught to speak in German by his former master, and he did so, his sharply-toothed jaw oddly articulate in speech.

Methodical hadn’t realized that it was morning already. Nevertheless, she always found this one dinosaur odd. Unlike the other subservients, she could not bend this one’s will, but this one was not like her telepathic pterosaur peers either. She had to be diplomatic with this one, she was the one who recruited Adolph and his siblings to the Uprising, despite the concerns of the others and their unease of enlisting non-slaves. Good morning, Adolph. What brings you here?

“I have come to give a report on the second raid on the island of Doctor Weird,” Adolph said in dinosaurian Deutsch.

I was overseeing the battle along with Aggressive, Methodical thought-spoke patiently. Though I appreciate it, you don’t have to trouble yourself with reporting to me.

“You don’t understand,” Adolph pressed on. “I have come to give my opinions on how you and Frau Aggressive have conducted your tactics.”

Indeed? Methodical swayed her beak, perplexed.

“Ja,” Adolph said.

Methodical realized that, despite the oddity of things, this might actually be useful. Unlike herself or her sisters, Adolph was actually trained in military tactics and a differing opinion might prove beneficial, though her peers may disagree vehemently. Then, in that case, please elaborate.

“Jawohl,” Adolph nodded his predatory head and continued. “Initially, the way you conducted your attack was similar to the previous raid on the Weird Island. Aggressive was the one who led the military action and I commend her use of hit-and-run tactics. But using the same attack against the same opponent twice, even against mad scientist who makes my former master seem sane, is unwise. You thought that Doctor Weird’s bizarre creations would offer less resistance than that of a conventional military, and in the first occasion you were right.”

But on the second occasion?

“In the second attack, which I participated in, saw a marked difference in the response of Weird’s island. The giant Tesla spire proved to be formidable in anti-air coverage, and the landings were made further difficult by undersea monstrosities – including giant prehistoric sharks. Our landing was very much like that of the Normandy beach assaults.”

Normandy? Methodical would have to query that later. Carry on.

Adolph’s large nostrils inhaled a voluminous quantity of air, then he continued: “Weird’s large robot sentinels and humaniform cyborgs made our deployments hazardous, as did the presence of one-eyed gorillas. Many of our dinosaur comrades, particularly the larger species, were devolved into lizard-like thecodonts.”

Rehabilitating the devolved dinosaurs has proven difficult, even for Analytical, Methodical mused.

“Indeed. The island’s indigenous defenses also included innovative use of subterranean giant mole rats, and even the therapod-variants were hindered by mastadons and giant sloths. We were nearly overrun with fishmen, even with the electrospinosauri providing tesla-coverage. When the electrospinosauri and rexes were neutralized by shrink rays, Aggressive had no choice but to call off the attack. The casualty ratio was five of the Weird monstrosities for every one of ours, we devastated Weird Island’s bizarre ecology, but nonetheless we were forced to retreat without capturing any objectives.”

Then, what would you have recommended?

“I personally would have made an advanced but discreet deployment of compsognathids, velociraptors and Aryannosaurs as a scouting force. After mapping out the Weird Island’s topography and positions, which are in constant change, the advanced scouts would use laser designators for a cruise missile strike. This strike would be simultaneous with landings on multiple angles, and while the defenders are busy fighting off the invasion force, the scouts would then capture the objectives.”

Like what we did with those undersea facilities. Use camoflaged compsognathids and other small species to infiltrate and steal the needed information. A combination of conventional warfare and special operations, interesting.

“We call it Blitzkrieg,” Adolf said.

And no doubt you suggest this because you want your Aryannosaurs to play a more vital role in the Uprising’s operations? Methodical cocked her beaked head sideways, perhaps a reptilian version of a smirk.

“Ja,” Adolf admitted. “For the good of the great cause, that is. It is our manifest destiny to eradicate these inferior mongrel species and bring forth the Saurian Solution to this Cenzoic Equation. For a New Pangaea.”

Your report has been highly illuminating, Methodical thought-spoke. I will certainly convey this to the others. Your discourse will prove most helpful in our future struggles against humanity and whatever else this Earth has to offer.

“There is one more thing.”

What is it?

“When my Aryannosaurs left Antarctica, we brought with us whatever information we could, including copies of the Theozoologist’s files. Only recently have we had the time to decrypt some of them, mostly those transcribed by the clones. Those files the Theozoologist himself transcribed are in a language dissimilar to any on Earth, of human origin or otherwise. Most of the clone-transcribed material are from Theo’s educational programs, mostly rants against Jews -”

What is a Jew?

“A kind of human that Theozoologist has an irrational hatred for,” Adolph replied. “We did, however, find something that may be of use.”

Methodical looked at him curiously.

“We found a map.”

This is utterly insane. But frigging hilarious!

Somewhere in the Amazon Basin…

The unmarked grey helicopter flew over the jungle, the non-existent sound of its silenced rotors causing no interruption to the early morning noises of the jungle’s inhabitants. The helicopter’s pilot knew the flight path by heart, having flown this route countless times in the last few months, day and night, rain or shine, carrying all manner and forms of cargo. The sky was clear and the clouds were naught, fitting, for today the cargo he ferried was more important than usual.

He looked at the rearview mirror and grinned at his single female passenger, though she couldn’t possibly tell that he was looking at her. Aviator sunglasses obscured his eyes, and he wore a hard helmet on his head too. Unlike his unmarked helicopter, his helmet was bright yellow and had the corporate logo of the EVIL Corporation.

Natasha Dementieva pretended not to notice the pilot and instead looked out the window. It didn’t matter anyway.

The helipad wasn’t. It was just an irregular patch of firm and flattened ground; it was neither cemented, nor painted with markings, and lacked visible signal lights. The operation needed discretion despite its rather ambitious nature, from what Natasha was told.

The pilot spared no time in landing, and as the rotors stopped spinning, Natasha opened the door herself and walked out.

“Ah. Welcome to the Amazon,” a thin balding man in a dark suit said, gesturing with open arms. “I hope your trip has been accommodating. My name is Donald Dennaro, legal counsel of the Corporation.”

He offered his hand, but Natasha just walked by and hopped on board the open-topped Land Rover behind him. Dennaro followed immediately and sat himself beside her.

“Take us to the base,” Dennaro ordered.

“Si,” the driver, a Brazilian mercenary by the looks of it, acknowledged as he started the Rover’s diesel engine. It came to life with a roar, and the Land Rover drove off into a dirt road, wide enough to accommodate a mid-sized truck.

As the Land Rover drove by, Natasha could see that the makeshift helipad wasn’t just surrounded by trees or bushes, but also by large semi-permanent tents. Part of EVIL’s success, in operations both legitimate and otherwise, was its wide use of easily transportable pre-fabricated structures. These large tents were camouflaged, and their ‘rooftops’ were covered in leaves and foliage, no doubt to fool any overhead observers.

Some of the tents armed occupants, mostly South American mercenaries, whistled at Natasha as the Rover drove by. In a short while they passed the camouflaged tents and entered deeper into the jungle, where all they could see were trees and foliage.

“I trust that the package was in satisfactory condition,” Natasha said. She dropped the canister off in Costa Rica, while she herself took some time-off. That was the first thing she did. Getting herself caught with the canister by the Cubans and losing it then and there would have certainly displeased her employers and gotten her killed, one way or the other.

“Yes it was,” Dennaro smiled. “The scientists, the paleogeneticists, were absolutely crazy about it. It was like Christmas in the jungle for them. You will be most handsomely rewarded for retrieving it. How did you get it, anyway?”

“Trade secret,” Natasha uttered. “Though, to be honest, I just asked politely.”

“Ah.”



The trip was long, and aside from the occasional cries and hoots of jungle birds, absolutely nothing of note occurred. As time went by, the sun rose further into the sky to cast harsh midday light. Without a roof above their heads, the Land Rover’s passengers had to shield their eyes with their hands, save for the driver, who wore aviator sunglasses.

Natasha felt like cursing, but restrained herself as the Land Rover made a sharp turn. She noticed something deep in the woods, something metallic amidst the underbrush. Razor wire connected to a nearby Tesla coil, an electric fence.

“We’re near the base now,” Dennaro said with some relief.

“Electric fences,” Natasha pointed out. “Not the usual security measures.”

“Yes, but that’s because this isn’t the usual facility,” Dennaro replied. “Nor is this a normal operation.”

“I could tell from my previous assignment, though I don’t see why my presence is actually required here.”

“All in due time,” Dennaro said, smiling. “All in due time.”

Finally, their Land Rover stopped in front of a gated Tesla-fence. The guards saw them and remotely opened the gate, letting them in. As they drove in, Natasha noticed that they were in yet another clearing, a large patch of firm ground utterly devoid of trees, with some more tents and armed mercenaries patrolling the area, accompanied by the usual hardhat-wearing EVIL henchmen. It was midday and by all means, they should’ve been under the intolerable heat of the sun, but the entire clearing was in the shade.

Natasha looked up and saw that the entire sky was blotted out by a canopy of translucent green fabric.

“It’s a camo-canopy,” Dennaro remarked as they passed by a row of pre-fab structures. “To anyone watching from far above, it looks like just another bunch of trees.”

As they reached the center of the clearing, Natasha saw a much larger structure. The building was four storeys tall, with a subtle old-fashioned design, Art Deco from what she could tell. It obviously wasn’t pre-fabricated by the Corporation, being made out of concrete and steel. “What is this place?”

“Ah, I’m glad you finally asked,” Dennaro smiled pleasantly. The Land Rover stopped and the both of them got off. He led the way to the building. “We found the facilities two years ago. One of the Brazilian mercenaries told us about it during a job interview, and eventually a team was sent in to investigate.”

They avoided the occasional mud puddle and went over to the entrance. Dennaro knocked on the heavy metal door, and someone from the inside opened it for him.

“Facilities?” Natasha asked. “Meaning there’s more than one.”

“Yes,” Dennaro nodded as he entered first. “There are several scattered in the immediate jungle. There’s also one in the mountains, apparently a power plant, but it’s only partially functional. Construction was apparently abandoned. We’ve converted it into a secondary base.”

On the inside, the building was just as old-fashioned as its exterior. Apparently, it was a research facility. “How old is this place?”

“We don’t know for sure, but it’s apparently an old German genetic research facility,” Dennaro remarked. There were no mercenaries in the building, just the hardhat henchmen and scientists, the former bringing in boxes of equipment for the latter.

“And what’s a lawyer doing in a genetic research facility?” Natasha asked, with a little bit of sarcasm. What she really meant was what was I brought into the middle of the jungle for?

“For similar reasons as you,” Dennaro offered as he led them down a corridor. “I’m here to oversee the legal and financial aspect of this real-estate acquisition. Normally, the Corporation would have built its own research facility or used an existing lair, but construction of the Ice Fortress in Iceland is costing the Corporation a lot of money. This facility suited our needs quite handily, and I’m here to make sure everything goes swimmingly. Ah, we’re here.”

They reached another set of doors, these ones having a more complex design and made out of steel and stained glass. Something from within was casting an unearthly glow on the glass. Dennaro slid a keycard in a device that looked out of place and tacked-on, and with a click, the doors opened.

Inside the room were old-fashioned computers, with black and white cathode-ray screens and innumerable multicolored buttons that glowed and beeped in pre-set patterns. These machines went well with the retro-aesthetic of the entire facility, but beside them were newer models no-doubt installed by the EVIL technicians and scientists who were tending to them. These state of the art computers were made of smooth and rounded white plastic, and looked not unlike something out of a high-tech hospital. From their projectors, these machines produced glowing color-coded double helix holograms.

“Doctor Thornier,” Dennaro called out. One of the scientists who was manipulating the DNA-holograms with a keyboard immediately ceased his work and walked over towards them. “This is Doctor Thornier, chief paleogeneticist of the project.”

“That’s Thornier,” the doctor corrected, slicking his thinning hair and pronouncing his name without the middle ‘r’, making it sound French. “Doctor Jacque Thornier.”

He offered his hand to Natasha, but she ignored it.

Not noticing that, Thornier smiled slyly and went on with enthusiasm. “The genetic samples you sent us were of great use. Our…rivals at GenInc have acquired almost every single recoverable sample of dinosaurian DNA. This has understandably made our efforts considerably difficult, and without you, it would’ve taken us years to catch up. We would’ve had to sift through metric tons of fossils for DNA! Utterly impossible!”

“What did you do with it?” Natasha asked, referring to the samples Ned stole for her. It was just a job, but nonetheless she felt just a little bit curious as to what they were exactly doing with the thing she risked her life, and the lives of others, to procure. Whether it was worth it, perhaps.

“Nothing,” Thornier said. But before Natasha could say anything, he continued. “Nothing, as of yet. We’re still processing it, as you can see,” he pointed to the double helix holograms. “But rest assured, they’ll be put to…good use.”

“Tell her what you’ve been doing beforehand, doctor,” Dennaro said knowingly.

“Yes. For more than a year we’ve searched for prehistoric DNA, and we actually did find some. We were able to successfully extract genetic material from a handful of carnivorous species, and we were able to…replicate them, for a lack of a better word. Of course, what we’ve recovered is nowhere near as diverse as GenInc’s genetic stock,” Thornier said, and then he smiled once more. “But now we do, thanks to you. Also, our methods no doubt differ from that of GenInc, and dare I say it, our methods are far superior.”

Natasha knew where he was going, she knew it all along. The EVIL Corporation obviously had goals that were less altruistic than that of GenInc, and the only reason they wanted GenInc’s genetic stock was to use it for their less-than-altruistic purposes. She, of course, had no opinion on the matter, but nonetheless, she did not want to be near a weapon’s test, especially if the new weapon system were unpredictable. “What were you able to replicate?”

“Carnosaurs,” he said simply. “Specifically, Allosaurids.”

“Allosaurus?” Natasha had researched on dinosaurs prior to her mission and thus had some passing knowledge of them. “Why not Tyrannosaurs? Or a Spinosaur?”

“Because Allosaurus is, overall, a superior dinosaur. The Allosaurids were the dominant carnivores during the Jurassic Period, and even afterwards their descendants were still the largest carnivores. They suit our purposes better than Tyrannosaurs because of their forelimbs, which are significantly longer and more dexterous than the vestigial arms of the T-rex. Since they have arms, that means they can be armed.

Secondly, the Allosaurids, being a dominant family, means that there is a significant genetic diversity. This means we can tailor our Allosauruses to the specific needs of the Corporation, making them more flexible. There are species of dwarf-Allosaurs that would be less maintenance intensive, and there are Allosaurs that rival the T-rex in size and are just as dangerous. We can potentially re-create all of these variant forms.” Thornier paused to breathe. He obviously enjoyed lecturing amateur paleontologists. “Allosaurus is also a predator, unlike the T-rex. As for Spinosaurus, don’t get fooled by the movies.”

“Doctor, why don’t you show her the Allos?”

“Oh, certainly,” Thornier nodded as he hastily went over to an unused holo-projector. With the hurried tapping of a keyboard, the projector hummed to life and a black and white hologram materialized.

The hologram clearly depicted one of the Allosaurus in a steel enclosure. In the enclosure with it were three men, one of them holding a long shock-prod, another had a rifle, while a third one was throwing chunks of meat into the dinosaur’s gaping mouth.

“Interestingly, we’ve discovered that the Allosaurs can be trained, like any other animal,” Thornier stated. “We expected that and have employed experts to train them. Of course, there are limits to how much an animal can be trained. The oldest batch of dinosaurs have already been implanted with cybernetics and are partially computer-controlled.”

With a push of a button, the feeding Allosaurus was replaced, in its place was a holo-schematic of a large partially mechanized Allosaurus.

Natasha looked at it, and though her face didn’t show it, she was in fact rather impressed.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Thornier admired. “Its body is protected by a combat chassis of nano-reinforced hyperalloy armor and its jaw and limbs have been hydraulically augmented. The arms have been extended; their claws replaced with titanium, as have the teeth. The combat chassis also sports weapon mounts. But most importantly, the brain of the beast has been integrated with an advanced neural net processor allowing us a level of control greater than ever possible! Entire nations will balk at the prospects of our new army of Allosaurs.”

“Would you like to see it?” Dennaro asked. “The holding pens are not so far from here.”

“No, I’d rather not,” Natasha replied casually. “Though I’d like to be shown my room.”



As usual, Dennaro led the way. The topmost floor of the building was where the scientists and other important people slept and ate, and bore a resemblance to a dormitory or a motel rather than a military barracks (like the tents outside).

“Tell me,” Natasha said, looking at Dennaro squarely. “What are the security measures of this facility?”

“We have several hundred mercenaries and EVIL henchmen, kilometers of electric fences, heavy weapons nests, watchtowers, and armored vehicles,” Dennaro enumerated. “In a few days, more security personnel will arrive.”

“I didn’t see any watchtowers.”

“They’re not really watchtowers, more like camouflaged tree houses,” Dennaro commented. “A high-hide, if you will. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” Natasha said as she took out the keycard Dennaro gave her. She opened the door and walked inside. “Have them bring my luggage in later.”

She closed the door.

*Cough* T-Rex was a predator, but other than that I really like this fanfic.

T-rex IS the greatest predator. Ever. But Jacque Thornier is based on a snootier Jack Horner. And I'll probably have him predated on by a Rex or something.

Thornier is a typical Stupid Scientist.

Is that German facility in the Amazon basin that was taken over by EVIL Corporation and it's allies formally a Nazi base where Aryansaur was born? And I gather that yellow and black is the standard colour for EVIL uniforms, equipment and vehicles. The EVIL logo in my mind is a yellow shield with a black globe pierced by a black thunder bolt; the South American mercs look like typical mid 80s goons (from Commando or a Chuck Norris film) and most EVIL Corp personnel are similar to the SPECTRE volcano guards from You Only Live Twice.

Nah, the Aryannosaurs are from Antarctica.

Well, the low-level EVIL henchmen have Austin-powers style yellow hard helmets and shiny silverly (or grey) jumpsuits. And yes, EVIL is based on those cheesy Bond henchmen and goons. The South American mercs are also right out of Commando

As for the EVIL logo, I dunno.

Aside from legitimate businesses, like logistics, supply and construction, EVIL gets most of its profits by building lairs and supplying henchmen for aspiring (and rich) megalomaniacs. They can use their lairs and henchmen to plot or scheme, or buy doom weapons with which they can extort the world governments for exorbitant sums of cash. I mean, Blofeld had to buy his stuff from someone.

EVIL. Very creative, how did you ever come up with that? Shroom, you are a comedy genius. An army of technologically enhanced dinosaurs, Nazi dinosaurs, it's pure genius.

To be fair, the Aryanosaurs, lead by Adolph, weren't actually Shroomy's creation (as he mentioned in the OP), though this is the first time they've been used in fiction.

On the other hand, EVIL Corporation was his idea, and it's really quite brilliant. It seems to be the end result of very solid thinking.

Looks entertaining so far. However, I'd prefer the focus to be on Fidel-- What can I say? I like MGS3-- instead of the damn lizards and some lame-ass villains from an 80s movie.

By the way, a dinosaur, like other species of reptiles, constantly grow new teeth to replace those worn away and fallen out. You can't replace an Allosaur's teeth with titanium cutters, but you can supplement the original teeth with titanium cutters set in an external jaw-brace.

Yeah. The Dinosaur Uprising and the Aryannosaurs are the product of another sick and demented ingenious mind.

I just decided to use these armies of bloody cyborg dino-nazi-sauruses in a story with so much Serious Business that makes it intentionally unintentionally hilarious. I still can't believe I did it.

EDIT: Oh, and don't worry, a whole lot of the story is going to focus on Fidel in the jungle and him taking on all sorts of bosses, including a bunch of guys who are the closest approximation of the Cobra Unit I can make out of OZ Comix.

As for dinosaur teeth, maybe the Allosaurus can regrow titanium teeth by eating titanium. Or, well, maybe it'll cause unforeseen dental problems.

Shroom Man 777 wrote:EDIT: Oh, and don't worry, a whole lot of the story is going to focus on Fidel in the jungle and him taking on all sorts of bosses, including a bunch of guys who are the closest approximation of the Cobra Unit I can make out of OZ Comix.

Will these bosses be human, or dinos?

As for dinosaur teeth, maybe the Allosaurus can regrow titanium teeth by eating titanium. Or, well, maybe it'll cause unforeseen dental problems.

Naw, just fit the titanium teeth into easily replaceable metal bands-- think of a giant saw blade-- and bolt these bands to the Allosaurs' mouths.

Sidewinder wrote: Will these bosses be human, or dinos?

Both.

Sadly, the next chapter won't be an action packed ride through jungle adventuring and snake-eating, but it will be exposition on Fidel, for a change.

And it'll mirror a bit of the Major and Naked Snake's conversation after the Virtuous Mission, when Snake is recuperating.

We have cybernetic dinosaurs, we have nazi dinosaurs, how long until we see Cybernetic Nazi Dinosaurs with lasers?

And will we see Undead dinosaurs before long?

The Nazi Dinosaurs are cybernetic!

No Undead Dinos though. Dude, when will we see the next chapter of Slytherin Eater?

Rogue 11 wrote:We have cybernetic dinosaurs, we have nazi dinosaurs, how long until we see Cybernetic Nazi Dinosaurs with lasers?

Well, it's not quite the same, but in my own story set in this universe, cybernetic dinosurs with plasma beams and ramjets fight a Nazi superhuman. The latter, known as the Avenging Ayran, was also Shroomy's idea.

Man's a genius, sometimes.

I love you too Ford.



Somewhere in Cuba…

In the twilight, the sky and ocean were one – there was no horizon to border where air and sea met. Cool early morning breeze from the Atlantic buffeted a balcony overlooking the craggy island cliffs.

Fidel Castro looked on, waiting for the sun to come up. Like any good soldier, he woke up before dawn to prepare for the day ahead, to exercise, to do the things soldiers had to do. But he couldn’t, not here, strenuous activity was frowned on by the doctors, and even waking up this early wasn’t encouraged.

Fidel Castro glanced to the side and saw Cuba’s distant shoreline, the very same beach where he had first met D.

The island was an advanced medical facility; the very best Cuba’s healthcare system had to offer. It had state-of-the-art equipment and processes, including gene therapy, something Cuba’s leaders used to prolong their lives unnaturally. People from other countries also came for the therapy, and they were almost always moldy old foreigners with very deep pockets. Not that Fidel minded, Cuba was a poor nation and any legitimate source of income was welcomed.

Fidel himself didn’t need life-extending therapy, nor were his injuries from the previous mission any concern. The bruises had healed after a day. He was here for the Vector Treatment, an augmentative serum developed by the Soviets during the height of the Cold War’s Superhuman Arms Race and distributed to the Union’s Second World allies. The Treatment gave him an unnatural metabolism, allowing him to subsist on things most humans would find inedible, enabling him to serve in the field for indefinite periods of time while maintaining full combat effectiveness. The enhanced metabolism also gave him the additional bio-energy needed to operate his Subsistence suit.

He was the only one in Cuba who received the Treatment. That was why they sent him on to Isla Norte.

Every year he had to take the Treatment or else he’d lose his augmented metabolism. For nearly a week now, he was hooked up to an IV filled with Vector serum. The process was long, and plagued with bouts of stomach upsets.

He spent most of his time at bed then, and the higher-ups from the military took the opportunity to question him. Despite the report he filed earlier, they grilled him and interrogated him, probably cross-referencing his account with the Major’s. He couldn’t blame them, but eventually it got tiresome. Some of the generals couldn’t believe that there was in fact an army of cyborg dinosaurs bent on world domination, while others were outraged and even frightened of the fact that it had happened so close by. One of them even went so far as to blame Fidel for screwing the mission up, almost calling him a traitor.

Fidel resented that and would’ve said something, but the man was a general and Fidel himself didn’t even have a rank.

The Major, on the other hand, was quick to defend Fidel. He pointed out that it was the idea of those over at intelligence to ally with D and to bring her into the mission. He also omitted mentioning the fact that Fidel had fraternized with her during the night before.

Nonetheless, Fidel knew that he and the Major bore the consequence of failure, and that they had to redeem themselves. Somehow, someway.

Fidel scowled at this fact and pulled out a cigarette from a pack the Major snuck past the nurses. He narrowed his eyes as the first beams of true sunlight struck him in the face.

“Those aren’t healthy, you know,” someone said from behind him. It was Kim, a foreigner Fidel had befriended. He was an Asian man, and from what Fidel could see, the gene-therapy was working well on him – he couldn’t tell how old the man was. “The sun’s coming up, nurses won’t like it if they find us up.”

Fidel didn’t really care what the nurses thought as Kim clapped him on the shoulder and jogged back to the building.

“Jog off,” Fidel muttered. He gazed at Cuba’s shoreline, at the beach, and remembered a joke he made at the expense of Cuban healthcare. “Hrm.”

He placed the cigar in his mouth and wondered. He was a simple tool, a soldier, not cut out for cloak-and-daggers business, and it was natural for him to think about when and where the next mission would be. Ever since the end of the Cold War, most of his missions were in miserable Central and South American jungles. Despite his Vector Treatment, he really had little love for the jungle. But it was a job, and there was no one else in Cuba who could do it.

For two decades, from Angola to Nicaragua. After Nicaragua, after he received the Treatment, the Subsistence suit and training in Tactical Espionage Action, he was practically a one-man team, and his only partner was the Major. The Major was probably the closest thing he had to a friend, but he was his superior and even then, Fidel never knew the Major’s real name. The Major himself probably thought that he was addressing Fidel by a codename.

Fidel looked on at the sunrise, partially covering his face with his hand. The sun came over the horizon, casting an incredible spectra over the skies and the seas. It was contrasting, as both the endless blue of the ocean and the air were marred by the red-orange light. As twilight melted away, replaced by the spectacular dawn, the boundaries of sea and sky were restored, and one could finally tell where air and ocean met.


Maybe that was what Fidel was waiting for, or maybe the glare of the sun was too bright for his eyes, as he got off his chair and turned around –

The Major was standing behind him, now in front of him. Fidel was actually surprised, he never knew his CO could be this sneaky. “Need a light?”

“What?” Fidel asked, unlit cigarette still hanging from his mouth. Wordlessly, the Major drew a lighter and Fidel immediately understood. Cigarette lit, Fidel drew in a warm breath and, after a brief moment, exhaled whirling contrails of burnt tobacco. He took the cigarette off his mouth, holding it gently between his index and middle fingers. “Major.”

“Fidel,” the Major nodded. He got on a chair and Fidel sat beside him. “How’s the Treatment coming along?”

“Fine. I’m no longer hooked on the IV, I’ll probably be off this island by tomorrow,” Fidel replied. “I’d go off today if I could.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” the Major warned. “You need to be well-rested and hydrated to complete the Treatment.”

“Why are you here anyway?” Fidel wondered aloud, puffing out cigarette smoke from his nostrils.

“I came to check up on you. I trust the ‘interrogation’ didn’t foul your mood too badly.”

“Hrm.”

“Trust me, they grilled me just as badly. Maybe they were even worse on me, after all, I’m supposed to be your handler. If it’s anyone’s fault, it should be mine.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“You’re right, let’s not dwell on things,” the Major said pleasantly. His tone of voice made Fidel wonder.

“What’s going on, Major?” on the other hand, Fidel’s tone of voice made it clear that he didn’t want any small-talk.

“Hrm, I’ll be direct to the point then,” the Major agreed. “D, or Dementieva as she calls herself, was sighted at Venezuela. Our friends over there told us that she took a helicopter flight into the jungle. There’s been a bit of air traffic in the jungle lately, or so our Venezuelan friends say. They think something suspicious is going on, but parts of their government are being paid off to ignore whatever’s happening there. So their hands are tied.”

“They told you that?”

“The pay off? No, we figured that ourselves,” the Major commented. “They’d never tell us that.”

“Hrm…” Fidel thought things over. “You think if we follow D, we’ll find out more about the Dinosaur Uprising?”

“She’s the only lead we have,” the Major shrugged. “And we have to do something soon or else the generals will have both of our heads.”

That was true, Fidel thought. D was their closest link to the Uprising, and if they found her, chances are, the dinosaurs wouldn’t be too far behind. “Any new information on the Uprising?”

“Yes, actually,” the Major answered. “The Americans found vast underground complexes on Isla Norte and Isla Sur. These complexes were probably GenInc but got expanded when the dinosaurs took over. Obviously, the dinosaurs left in a hurry. How exactly they were able to leave, no one knows. Maybe they used submarines.”

“Or cloaked aircraft,” Fidel suggested. “Or a combination of vehicles.”

“Either way,” the Major continued. “These dinosaurs present a highly-mobile, stealthy, and technologically advanced threat. They’ve been planning their actions for some time, and that makes them all the more dangerous. Cuba can’t take any direct action against them.”

“And that’s where I come in, right?” Fidel asked rhetorically.

“Right,” the Major agreed. “We don’t have the military assets, and even if we did, we’d have to consider the reaction of our ‘neighbors’. I’m sure the Americans will be just as glad if the dinosaurs flattened Cuba and killed everyone on the island.”

“Probably,” Fidel chuckled; it was funny because it was true.

“There’s another thing. The world governments have made the Uprising semi-public information. They haven’t exactly told the public that the dinosaurs have mechanized themselves and are preparing for a global revolution, but still.”

“What was the reaction?” Fidel inquired. Despite all the advanced medical facilities on the island, they still lacked satellite TV.

“Nothing much, really. With all the alien invasions, giant monsters and supervillains rampaging in America, to them, a bunch of escaped dinosaurs isn’t really that much of a concern,” the Major shrugged. “However, the Americans did gather their top geneticists and paleontologists, dinosaur scientists, and asked them for any and all information regarding dinosaurs. The wise thing to do, I suppose.”

“Not really,” Fidel muttered.

“And why not?”

“Because genes and bones won’t tell you shit about these dinosaurs. If that video is true, if the dinosaurs have grafted cybernetic weapons into their bodies and use combat tactics, then whatever information you can get from DNA and fossils won’t matter at all.”

“Anything we can get on the dinosaurs is important, Fidel,” the Major cautioned. Then, he smirked. “But you have a point. And that’s why we’re sending you in to find out more about these cyborg killing machines.”

Fidel groaned. “So, when do I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” the Major replied, as he got up and prepared to make his exit. “Don’t worry, we’ll pack your bags for you.”

The sun was high in the sky now, and the early morning cool gave way to tropical warmth. Fidel wiped the sweat off his brow.

Good chapter, but I'm curious about Fidel's preference in firearms. What does he usually pack on a mission? A M1911A1? A Browning Hi-Power? A Makarov? A GLOCK? (Feel free to PM me if you want info on appropriate firearms, e.g., in case Fidel needs to pack a rifle, grenade launcher, or other heavy weapons.)

I think Fidel will use a silenced Berretta 9mm, since 9mm bullets are everywhere. Right?

His main firearm will be an AKM.

I made some art over at AMP, just to let you guys know.

Shroom Man 777 wrote:I think Fidel will use a silenced Berretta 9mm, since 9mm bullets are everywhere. Right?

9 mm bullets are everywhere, but when I was in the Army, I heard many complaints about how the Beretta is crap. Many gun publications, such as 'Soldier of Fortune', complain that 9 mm bullets can't stop a determined enemy with one shot-- a real problem when you have Fidel facing cyborg dinosaurs, unless Fidel is such an incredible marksman that he can consistently hit an enemy's eye with his first shot.

I say, give him an M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol-- ammunition is readily available in the US, plus the enemy might assume any guards that Fidel silences, were silenced by US agents.

His main firearm will be an AKM.

He's Cuba's best operative, right? You may as well give him exotic imported guns, like the AK104. If that's too high priced, a light weapon like the AKS-74U.

Wikipedia wrote:It was intended for use by vehicle crews, artillery teams and Special Forces, which needed a small and lightweight weapon. A special version of the AKS-74U had been developed for Spetsnaz, which could be fitted with quickly detachable sound suppressor...

Don't forget the GP-30 grenade launcher-- Fidel will need some serious firepower. (I believe the M203 can also be mounted under the AK series rifles.)