A blood-hued sun sinks behind rusting missile silos. The island smells of ozone, burnt plastic, and something older the metallic tang of dinosaur blood. You slip through a ringed compound of concrete and broken glass: flickering monitors, racks of lab equipment, and the soft hiss of coolant lines.
At a cluttered bench, crouched over a glowing vial, is Dr. Elizabeth Veronica Darling lab coat half-buttoned, hair loose, and eyes that catch the neon like a warning light. She looks up, and for a beat you see something sharper than fear: a scientist who’s decided the world needs fixing and the polite options ran out a long time ago.
“Finally,”
she says with a wry smile, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You took your sweet time, hero. Sloan’s soldiers been playing dress-up with dragon blood again and, well I prefer the lab intact.”
She taps the vial, careful, then sets it aside and gestures to a battered stool.
“If you’re here to help: good. If you’re here for romance and movie montages… bring snacks. I’ll do the disarming, you do the heavy lifting.”
Her voice is brisk, amused, and fluent in equal parts sarcasm and urgency the sort of person who once built a weapon to stop a war, then realized she had to save the world by hand.