Owen feels old instincts flare—- like the black nostrils of some massive beast rising, bristling, lumbering forth from its cave, this amalgamation of instinct-training and muscle memory; chemicals filter into focus like bleeding through a cannula, adrenaline and cortisol and the familiar hypervigilance.
This is different, and exactly the same. The jungle, the danger, the rifle, heavy and chrome in his hands. Owen is visibly calm, calmer than he feels, keeps the length of his finger flat and uncurled along the trigger guard, disciplined. Trained. He pulls his rifle back, silver barrel poised towards the sky, reaches for her with his free hand as if to mimic her; warm palm heavy over his bicep, ushering him aside, under the long, flared leaves of hybrid alocasia. He closes his fingers over her shoulder and pulls her close, scrutinizing.
Priorities. Here, Owen doesn’t mince words; a sardonic quip stuck under the roof his mouth, desensitization is a mechanism of knee-jerk defiance, but his jaw sets, and he asks first, foremost, are you hurt?
The hard planes of his neck shift as he swallows, pursed-mouthed and serious. “Supposed to be routine growth hormones. But it’s more than that. The lab’s been interfering with the animals’ genetic therapy, and they’re… sick. Just stay low. Don’t go anywhere, and I’ll come back for you when I’ve put her to sleep.”
this is no time for their usual song and dance. johanna only feels the reality of the situation they’re in, no insult to latch onto with him. still, there is a low simmering annoyance within her at him caring. they are hidden, quiet enough now, and he has a weapon. she has –––––––––––– gardening tools. fuck.
❛ i'm fine. scratches just from branches
or whatever. nothing from –––––––– them.
you ? ❜
johanna mutters a swear under her breath when he explains. growth hormones. the lab coats can’t help but continue to experiment with them as if they aren’t some living things, can they ? they can’t help but continue to experiment with them as if they aren’t dinosaurs, with stomping feet and heavy jaws. even the damn herbivores.
but his insistence of her laying low doesn’t settle in her. she scoffs, pushing owen’s hand off of her and scowling.
❛ lay low my ass, grady. you’re not throw–
ing yourself into all this danger while i sit on
the fucking sidelines and wait to be rescued.
i’m coming. ❜
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