Out of the Mist

Summary: Ian Malcolm's oldest child, Misty, deliberately disobeys her father's wishes and stows away on the helicopter to Jurassic Park. What's in store for her on the island may be more than she bargained for… rewrite of "Stowaway".

English Adventure/Friendship Rated: T Chapters: Words:

a/n: oh yeah hey it's me *gets pelted with tomatoes and other various wastes*

Yeah, I know I totally abandoned this archive and "Stowaway" and moved on to bigger and better things, yada yada yada, but I was rereading "Stowaway" a couple of days ago in the wake of rewatching the movie and I was like "wow this is utter and complete shit" and I decided it deserved a rewrite. A lot of new beginnings here. Less shitty characterization, cleaner writing, quicker pacing (probably). So, if you like "Stowaway", you'll probably read this and be like "oh, wow, 'Stowaway' sucked ass from here to Isla Nublar'."

Explanation behind this chapter: So, Alan and Ellie were flown to the coast of California by a private jet (they came from Choteau) to a heliport. Ian Malcolm, who lives in California, drove directly to the heliport. This is the copter that takes the Mystery Gang directly to Isla Nublar (clearing this shit up because it was hella wrong in the original story).

Things to expect: swearing, gore, violence, PG-13 conversations, animal cruelty, claustrophobia, mentions of anxiety, mentions of vomit, mentions of child abuse, Velociraptors, hurricanes, OC's, Malcolm snark, Murphy sibling coddling, bad jokes, even worse jokes.

Chapter One:


"Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist of creating out of void but out of chaos."- Mary Shelley



Ian Malcolm was his name and mathematics was his game.

While others struggled with their pocket calculators, Ian bravely figured and refigured in a field where most feared to tread. He dabbled in the butterfly effect, occasionally writing papers on the subject when the mood took him. Whenever the chaos theory was debated, his iterations were among the first to be referred to. His wardrobe and his coffee were invariably black; if and when he felt compelled to drink, his martinis were dry and his vodka was on the rocks, of course.

But it was not his arithmetical prowess nor his idiosyncrasies that had earned him a spot on John Hammond's "Team of Experts". It was because he was cheap. Dreadfully cheap, in fact. The goddamn lawyer, Gennaro, had hired him under Hammond's authority without doing any research on his career. Hammond needed a mathematician and so Gennaro got him one. Ian Malcolm was his name and mathematics was his game.

He had sold out. Malcolm had met Hammond once, while InGen's mega-aquarium was being constructed in Florida, in the midst of a mildly anarchic meeting on the subject of figure projection. Neither one of them were particularly fond of the other, but Malcolm was under dire circumstances and, unfortunately, dire circumstances called for dire solutions. So he shook Gennaro's clammy hand and took the goddamn check and went home in a terrible mood.

Damn, he had sold out. Five wives ago, he had oppressed himself to never succumb to a smug businessman like Hammond. That was before he ended up with three kids who had to be fed. He took the goddamn check and bought a birthday gift two months overdue for his middle child. The jubilant glint in her eyes entirely compensated for selling out.

Ian Malcolm was his name and selling out was his game.

The sell out himself had both hands on the wheel like a nervous teenager afraid of missing even a mark on their driving test. As he navigated the freeway that would escort him directly to the middle of nowhere, Malcolm hummed and tapped and chewed. He was feeling quite anxious and not because of Hammond- - bastard extraordinaire- - or his leech of an island. Ian had recently quit the bottle. Well, three-fourths of the bottle. Spending time with the bastard extraordinaire himself was not an effort to be soberly undertaken.

His last wife had left seven months ago. Malcolm, surprising himself, had liked her, liked her a hell lot more than his past few better halves. The cycle of bitter drinking and hard number crunching had lasted far longer than usual, and his children had noticed. Misty, his oldest daughter, had caught a woman slipping down the stairs in the early hours and confronted him quietly. It had been so damn quiet and considered. Though he was reluctant to acknowledge his drinking as an issue, Ian had surreptitiously been proud of her maturity. She had sat there with her hands folded and her lips pursed like a little adult instead of a fifteen-year-old girl who collected plastic dinosaurs.

Malcolm almost wished he had acquiesced to her pleas to accompany him on this weekend excursion. Hammond's park was one of the dinosaur variety and his girl had dinosaurs on the brain. While the trip had been looming over their heads for the past week, everything came to a boil last night.

Misty plunged her hands into the sudsy depths of the kitchen basin and extracted a streaky casserole dish. Her mouth was pinched. "I think I'm being pretty reasonable here, Dad. It's not like I'm a kid that's gonna get in trouble. I can take care of myself."

"I'm not doubting you, honey," Malcolm replied from the dinette table. He had the number cruncher out, but his spreadsheets had been replaced by tax receipts. An ice-encrusted beer rested on a coaster nearby. It was only his third this week. "I don't know why you'd want to come anyway. It'll just be math and blueprints and maybe a tour of the place. I'm trying to spare you the suffering."

"Oh, come on Dad." The girl unearthed her brother's rubber sippy cup from the mound of soap; scuds of foam clung to its nib. "You're exaggerating. I mean, it's a dinosaur park! You know- -"

"Of course I know. Misty, I'm ninety-percent sure your first word was 'stegosaurus'. But this isn't the same kind of thing. It's math. You hate math. You knocked on my door last week to tell me that math is a waste of time and that you were going to acquire a DeLorean so you could erase math from history. I don't want you to be disappointed, honey."

Misty stewed a minute more as she stacked dishes in the cabinets. It was one of the many responsibilities she assumed whenever the household was deprived of a Malcolm wife. Once the sink was cleared and scrubbed, she returned to the table and sat across from her father. "Dad. I'm devoting all my strength into not throwing a tantrum. Really."

Ian glanced up from the documents and oppressed himself not to smirk at the sight of her delightfully childish glowering. She had inherited his obstinacy, along with his nearsightedness and unruly mop of dark curls. They leveled their gazes, tacitly challenging the other to yield.

It was Misty who looked away. The hurt in her expression was sharp and unfeigned; Ian almost conceded in that instant. "What time do you leave tomorrow?"

"Nine in the a.m., baby." He rose to his feet and kissed her brow. The half-drained beer was tossed into the recycling bin; Misty's gimlet eyes didn't leave him until the bottle was gone. It was exceedingly difficult to part ways with an unfinished beer, but Ian cared too damn much about his kids to be led astray by booze. Kids could do that to a guy.

Misty smiled, albeit faintly. "Are we done here?"

"I'll bring you a souvenir."

Malcolm swung onto the freeway's last exit and sighed aloud. Despite maintaining confidence in his decision to venture out alone, Misty would have definitely been excellent company. Kelly, however spunky and gregarious, tended to be contentious too, and their arguments were known to escalate into downright feuds. Roger was only four, although he was already developing quite a personality. It never ceased to astonish him that his kids had gotten so damn smart. Unfortunately for him, this "blessing" had a tendency to get said kids and himself in trouble.

Still, Ian smiled. It would be great to return home on Sunday and see them again. He would have another figurine for Misty's collection and maybe some of those ponytail elastics for Kelly and a stuffed stego for Roger, and he'd do it all without a woman. He sped towards the rickety little heliport with his attitude improved and his anxiety quelled.

Ian Malcolm, preoccupied with thoughts of his daughter and his career and his flask tucked safely into the breast pocket of his black jacket, failed to notice the perfectly bland SUV that had been tailing him on the freeway had turned on the same exit and was still following him.



Ian Malcolm parked in the fallow lot outside the chintzy port's single launch pad. The SUV did the same.

The driver patiently waited for Malcolm to cross the stretch of land to the private helicopter, which had the cerulean InGen insignia stenciled on its glossy exterior. He was met by a balding man in ill-fitting khaki shorts. Once the two men boarded the dragonfly, she decided she was out of the woods and stepped out of her vehicle. She was a tall, lean girl, whose muscled arms and sharp features were offset by her bookish eyeglasses and unruly ponytail. A violet knapsack dangled from one square shoulder.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. Her heart was cantering along like a tireless racehorse and her hands were trembling violently. The girl bit her knuckles rapaciously to steady them, but her pulse continued to gallop. She chalked it up to anxiety, coerced herself to breathe, and walked towards the jet.

Misty Ava Malcolm was her name and sneaking out was her game.

As of today, at least, it was her game. She had always been a docile child who allowed herself to be conditioned with consequences and incentives. Whatever was asked of her was done immediately. To her younger siblings, she was a mother; to her single father, she was a partner. Misty had submitted herself to fifteen years of unrelenting responsibility and duty, and had never asked for anything in return.

Until today. Misty had been reasonable. There was no absurdity to be found in her request: Misty was a self-sufficient girl that could have contributed her own analysis of Hammond's prehistoric enterprise. To accompany her father on this little sojourn would not harm nor inconvenience a single soul. Yet he said no, pulling the plug on her dreams, and left her in that kitchen to sulk- - and plan.

She wasn't necessarily proud of herself for rebelling. Ian had as much right as anyone to say "no" (even if he was being unfair) and she despised disappointing him. No lecture or punishment would be as terrible as the goddamn disappointment in his expression once he realized what she had done.

Misty suddenly halted in her tracks and stared down the copter, which glinted like a tarnished dime under the hot slashes of mid-morning sunlight. Her heart was trip hammering frantically against the wall of her throat. There was time to abandon her scheme, to scramble back into her SUV and speed home and care for her siblings in the place of the sitter she had hired.

There was also time to get on the damn helicopter and follow her dreams.

Misty came within a few feet of the dragonfly and crouched down so she was no longer visible through the copter's side windows. She circled around the cockpit, moving clumsily on her hands and knees, until she reached the passenger door. To her immense relief, an opaque partition divided the pit from the interior: she wouldn't be caught until they landed.

A middle-aged man sporting a pair of smoked amber sunglasses was seated behind the controllers. Misty rapped on the window. The man reached across the cramped cockpit to unlatch the door for her; after a brief struggle with the gummy lock, she wrenched it open. He artfully extracted his lit cigarette and exhaled a spiral of smoke scant inches from her face. "The hell're you looking for, sweetie?"

Misty drew herself up to her full height and glared at the pilot with her steely grey eyes. According to her father, her gaze could curl an iron nail. "I'm Misty, Ian Malcolm's daughter. There's not enough room in the copter for me, so Hammond told me to ride up here. Said you wouldn't have a problem with it."

Her reference to Hammond sapped the man of his hostility. He pushed his sunglasses onto the prominent ledge of his forehead and smiled like a child that had just been caught playing with Mommy's makeup. "I-I'm so sorry, Miss Malcolm! Mr. Hammond didn't tell me… I-I hope you understand."

"Of course I do." She slid into the passenger seat, which was about as comfortable as the bleachers in a high school gymnasium. The knapsack went between her knees. "So, we're going straight to the island?"

"That's right, kid. Mr. Hammond didn't wanna keep you guys waiting He's all about this park thing, says you're in for the time of your lives." He tucked his cigarette back into one corner of his mouth, flipped a switch on the gargantuan dashboard that occupied at least one half of the tiny cockpit, and extended his callused hand to his new traveling companion. "Name's Jason, by the way. Jason Newhart."

"Nice to meet you, Jason," Misty replied pleasantly, shaking the offered hand. After nearly frightening the man to death, she believed a little courtesy was in order. "How long have you been working for InGen?"

"InGen? Oh, a couple years. Mostly just flying helicopters. I usually don't even cart around big wigs like Hammond, but Ronnie- - he's the usual guy- - busted his foot and can't come into work. So it's yours truly today."

Misty nodded as if interested by his tale, but she didn't share much sympathy for Ronnie or his busted foot. She was intrigued by Jason's acute fear of Hammond. Anyone who was even remotely involved in paleontology was aware of John Hammond's financial monopoly on the field. He funded only a handful of digs each year and was reputed to withdraw his support when things didn't go his way. Her father had christened him "bastard extraordinaire", which had once seemed rather cruel- - now, Misty suspected there was a grain of truth in Ian's bitterness.

Jason reached down and unhooked his handheld radio from the console; its coil of cord swayed. "We ready to go, Mr. Hammond?"

The only response Misty perceived was a harsh staccato of static, but Jason started the dragonfly up anyway. She watched as he manipulated the dizzying system of levers and buttons, awed by his effortless dexterity. With a deep rumble, the helicopter rose a few feet and then lurched forward as if yanked by an invisible rope. Great mushroom clouds of dust blotted out their view of the heliport.

"G'bye California, hello Isla Nublar!" Jason shouted in an unexpected fit of zeal. The copter rocked uncertainly in the air a moment before ascending into the sky like an unfettered balloon. All at once, Misty's car was reduced to a glimmering speck of steel, the heliport a doll house plunked deep in a child's sandbox. She felt both nauseated and exhilarated, and hollered her own farewell in the heat of the moment.

"Here I come, Isla Nublar!"



Misty Ava Malcolm was her name and riding in helicopters was definitely not her game.

She had been appropriately nervous upon take-off, even apprehensive, and refused to even glimpse out her window at the doll-like landscapes below. Jason had assured her this was an ordinary reaction to her first flight and told her to relax. As good-intentioned as his advice had been, Misty was having quite some difficulty relaxing.

They had left the safety of land a few minutes ago and were now traversing the vast, undulating ocean. It frightened her to know that if they were suddenly afflicted with engine trouble, they would plummet directly into the water. The mere notion of the rickety little copter attempting to brave the harsh swells drew a sour sweat to the surface of her skin. She pushed her glasses back up on the freckled bridge of her nose and swallowed the bile slithering up her throat. Isla Nublar had never seemed so far.

The dragonfly encountered a pocket of wind and rocked threateningly. Misty pressed herself against the seat, eyes wide with fear. I guess I can add heights and helicopters to the ol' list of fears, she thought grimly. She attempted to laugh at herself, but the sound that escaped her was squawky and strange.

Jason tapped her shoulder and gestured to the noise-cancelling headphones he had given her once the blades started their cacophonous song; she slid them onto her neck. "We'll be landing in about five minutes!" he shouted over the stentorian roar. "Make sure your seatbelt's nice and tight!"

Misty nodded and replaced the phones before any irrevocable damage could be inflicted on her aching ear drums. He didn't need to worry: her seatbelt had already been fascinated as securely as possible. Still, she yanked on the adjustment strip until her pelvis went numb. One could really never be too cautious.

True to Jason's word, a blip soon appeared on the mundane horizon. It was as if someone had stuck a lustrous emerald deep in the sea; Misty had never beheld such vibrant greens in her life. As the helicopter drew nearer, she could perceive the defined shapes of tree canopies and moss draperies. The sight of land sedated her, even reawakened her initial enthusiasm. Her heart skipped a beat and she bit her knuckle rapaciously to prevent herself from grinning like a child.

The dragonfly finally soared overtop the jewel-like island, stirring the furthermost layers of vegetation. Misty watched the flora surround them in awe. It was as if they were descending into a lush canyon. She briefly contemplated why a fun park would require such fantastic and verdant scenery when there were rides and prize booths to catch the eye.

With a thick growl, the copter paused in mid-air and then dropped like a malfunctioned elevator. She shrieked in spite of herself. Jason chuckled out of the tail of her eye. Misty might have played the John Hammond card again had they not touched down on the concrete landing pad and finally droned to a halt.

She gazed uncomprehendingly at the sprawling road ahead, her pulse frantic against the bony cuff of her wrist. There had not been a single hiccup in her plan. Everything had worked and now she was about to spend a weekend with the one subject she loved so dearly.

Misty was in Jurassic Park.

a/n: Slow exposition chapter. Like I said, the writing is cut down to be much cleaner and simpler- - more like a Crichton novel, really, with King influence. Anyway, I'm keeping "Stowaway" up for reference, or at least until I become overcome with disgust for it. Hope you guys enjoy and are ready to go back on the adventure with me.