Author’s note: I do not own Dr. Ian Malcolm, John Hammond, Peter Ludlow or any part of the Jurassic Park franchise, any Universal theme park or any part thereof. They belong to Michael Crichton, David Koepp and Universal Entertainment. I am not profiting financially from creating or distributing Pangaea, nor do I intend to. This story is of my own creation, and it is not purported or believed to be part of Michael Crichton’s or David Koepp’s story canon. This story is for entertainment purposes only; any similarity to reality is purely coincidental. I do own my original characters, Anna Malcolm and Emma Ludlow, as well as this story and all parts thereof. All rights reserved to all authors and creators. I hope you enjoyed this disclaimer enough not to sue me. Trust me, I don’t have anything you’d want.
As always, the air in Santa Fe is dry and thick with dust; the heat beats down on everyone outside, even those inside cars. It’s late afternoon, making the weather all the worse. A huge cluster of cars, some in the parking lot, some already on the narrow road, honk at one another, everyone wanting to leave the sweltering heat. The sea of vehicles is mostly unmoving, until a red Cadillac at the start of the road begins to inch forward. It moves toward the road, slowly gaining speed, until a blue Ford truck swerves to the side and cuts in front of it. The dark figure in the red car, Ian Malcolm, slams on the brakes and curses. His car jolts forward and then halts, and his sunglasses almost fly off.
The one day he actually needs to get home by a certain time, the one damn day, is the day that there’s actually traffic out of the Santa Fe Institute. It’s the football game, he thinks, fuming. The UT Longhorns are playing the FSU Seminoles that night or something; he can’t be bothered with the details, the whole thing is so trivial. But almost every student on campus has been talking about it all day, so they all rushed as quickly as possible to get down the road and back to their houses, so everyone’s cutting everyone off, including the bastard in the car in front of him.
He looks out at the long line of cars on the narrow road that spirals down a hill and runs over the details in his head once again. Get to his apartment at six. Carmen and Anna will be there at six-fifteen. He looks over at his dashboard clock; it’s five-thirty, he’s ten minutes late already.
Malcolm rubs his left leg; the sudden jolt of pain that ran through it when he slammed on the brakes takes a moment to dull. As usual, he can distinctly feel several deep, tooth-mark-shaped scars there, but he barely even notices them anymore. They’ve become another part of his mostly unchanging appearance; he still has the same curly black hair, now with a small streak of grey, that he had years ago, the same dark brown eyes, basically the same black clothes and leather jacket. The same scars on his leg, arms and left hand. Even after he boarded a helicopter at the Dallas Airport ten years ago, in the summer of 1989, and his life took a huge and completely unexpected turn, he’s remained mostly unchanged, except for the scars. Externally, that is.
After a moment, the line of cars starts moving, and as he makes his way down the constantly curving road, a phrase pops into his head. Grown men swatting little balls while the rest of the world pays to applaud. It comes out of nowhere and he doesn’t recognize it at first, but then he recognizes it- the way he used to describe sports whenever anyone mentioned them, back when he thought everyone needed to hear his opinions—and then it’s accompanied by an image, and a sound: a blonde woman in a pink shirt in a seat in front of him, and the whir of helicopter blades. He identifies the image quickly and shifts his thoughts to more pleasant things; there are certain memories that he’s gotten very adept at banishing from his mind.
Instead, he just concentrates on the road.