display | more...

The single incident that resulted in the heavy regulation of the DNA-revival industry can be traced back to a single organism originating from this very process. Sequencing an organism is still legal, however, the paperwork required for any practical application of a sequence takes decade-long bureaucratic steps that by the time it is given the green light, the patent will have expired. And so, no one ever bothered to research in the field of DNA revival, for there were no profits to be made. And all the non-profit scientists died of starvation. If they were right however, then someone could just DNA-sequence and clone them back to continue their research.

That single incident was specimen P47-R1-CK. The "R" stands for "raptor". "1" as it was the first iteration. What the other letters stood for still remains a mystery, if they had any meaning at all, and appears to be in cryptographic code. P47-R1-CK was a velociraptor. He would go on the lead the bloodiest revolution of modern times. All the assorted armies of the word grew excited at this idea. They would finally live the dream of indiscriminately killing hordes of giant reptilian creatures. However, half of them died in the long bloody process, and the other half were silenced by the governments of the world who wanted to cover up the incident. With the result that the world was left with no standing army, and thus, world peace was achieved.

The only minor disturbances to this peace were a small group of perpetually anorexic scientists who mailed pipe bombs to select government legislatory offices demanding the stop to bureaucratic corruption regarding the field of DNA-revival. But no one listened to them because nobody believed it ever happened.

In a small underground laboratory in Sweden (meaning, a rented room where somebody's senile mother lived upstairs), a male scientist and a female scientist who-is-just-a-colleague-and-not-an-obvious-love-interest stood hunched over a stastic cryochamber. Its hatch was opening, releasing a fog of descending frost, and hatch indeed is an appropriate term, for it was the artificial equivalent of the giant egg, womb, or whatever. In this case, it was the egg. Dinosaurs are reptiles, and thus laid eggs, unlike us mammals, whom do not lay eggs. The hatch opened fully, and Millgram and Rebecca stood agape at the creature that stirred within. It was a velociraptor. Specimen P47-R1-CK, the first extinct species brought back to life.

P47-R1-CK, or "Patrick", as he was informally dubbed, crawled out of the chamber, and owning to the raised position in which it was held, promptly fell down to the floor with a plod, in all his naked and pink glory.

"He's a scientific breakthrough," said Millgram.
"He's so cute," said Rebecca, "we'll name him Patrick".
"You open the fridge too loud!" yelled a grumpy old woman.

Now, you may ask, why a veliciraptor? Why not any other dinosaur? Well, the answer is simple. A Tyrannosaurus rex would be much to large (and destructive, we learned that from Jurassic Park), a veliciraptor is of more reasonable size, and herbivores have an infamously small brain-to-body ratio, understandable as watching stationary plants is serious entertainment. Cows are stupid, that's why we eat them. Perhaps Patrick’s brain was also larger than normal, and this was tantamount to what would follow.

Patrick looked up at his creators, and all he saw was a fuzzy blur, for his eyes had not yet developed depth perception.

The Earth spun indifferently several hundred times around its axis. Winter solstice switched to summer solstice and vice-versa. And in the grand scheme of things, the universe did not give one flying fuck.

But in that span of time, Patrick, now covered in soft green scales, learned to read and write. At first it was small gutteral calls. But the monosyllabic utterances he made gradually sounded more and more human.

"awww," said Rebecca, "Millie, he's like the baby we never had".
"We never had a baby." said Millgram.
"No. Did we?"
"No. Maybe we did, I don't know."
"What?" "Am I pregnant?!"
The Earth spun diffidently around several hundred more times. The universe said, "Fuck this, i'm killing myself. Oh wait, I can't kill myself, i'm the universe. Nihilism SUCKS".

Owing to his large predatory brain, Patrick was able to formulate simple arguments. From these simple deductive tenets, Rebecca and Millgram managed to teach Patrick all kinds of hard and soft sciences. They taught him about humans, the universe, mathematics, biology, and philisophy. The names of things. The names of names of things that denote names of things, and the names of things of names that denote names of other things, like bottle openers.

Patrick learned of geography. The map was like a puzzle to him, and the answer was in continental drift. And in doing so, he learned of his origins, his place in time. The original landmass of Pangaea, that was his home. A small tear ran across his scaly cheek. Patrick understood, he was a lost creature, with no one like him, displaced in time. Any remaining kin of his, destroyed in the great meteor that struck the Earth 65 million years ago.

He turned to his creators and asked, "is Patrick alone?"
"We'll get you a little sister," said Millgram.
"Patrick," said Rebecca, "You had a family. They lived a long long time ago. Millions of years ago. They loved you very much, and we hope to love you as much as they did, though it will never be the same. Rebecca hugged Patrick and Patrick hugged Rebecca who hugged Millgram who hugged Patrick.
Several thousand more spins the Earth did, and several more times did the universe lament its existential crisis.

Patrick now helped Rebecca and Millgram in their experiments. They had branched into biomechanical prosthetics, and had moved into a much larger laboratory in Arizona, employing several dozen specialists in their fields. Neither of them spoke a word about the failed attempts to give him a sister. Rebecca would always be depressed and sullen in these times, and Millgram would be depressed and sullen on why his wife would be depressed and sullen. Any new iteration they attempted would invariably wither in its cryochamber halfway through its foetal development. It was an unspoken rule that no one spoke of Patrick to the outside world. He would be prodded upon, experimented upon, cut up, for he had no rights, as he was not human.

It was during this period of isolation that Patrick grew increasingly bitter towards humanity. They wielded enormous power, and with this power, they used it to drive out other humans to destruction or inferiority. Colonization, it was called.

Most importantly, these humans were on the land that belonged to his ancestors, the great Veliciraptor species of the forgotten past. They treated it as their own, defiled it to no admirable purpose. They must be stopped. Patrick kept all these thoughts to himself. He was no sure how they would be accepted by Rebecca or Millgram, being the humans as they were.

He began to fervently work on DNA-revival in secret. He had a plan. He would revive the Veliciraptor species. And together, they would lobby to reclaim their ethnic rights.

The Earth spun as it always invariably does until its eventual demise swallowed up into the sun turned into a red giant, and the universe threw a tantrum, forming another black hole which it sadistically watched particles and waves sucked into it like insects into a giant spiderweb. It devised a few more confusing physical laws that sent Voyager Two veering several hundred thousand lightyears off its intended course, confounding physicists all over the world, and on a distant race of Centaurians near Alpha Centauri, who were wondering what was this strange celestial object that arrived in their backyard, carrying a recording filled with the most ]disgusting organic sounds ever].

Voyager One landed atop a mountain in some planet orbiting around the Sirius star, where an army of dog-men approached it tentatively, the dog-man leader raising his holy paw for the others to stay behind, while he went forward to inspect the rubble. Unearthing a gold disc, he descended the mountain, halos and light surrounding him (owning to the refractory properties of the gold disc, and the particular wavelength reflected by the Sirius sun), and exclaimed, "all hail the revelation!" He stood at the foot of the mountain to discover the dog-people worshipping a graphite statue of a cat, and subseqently smashed the revelation to the ground in frustration.

Back on Earth, Patrick, wearing a custom-fit white lab coat (with a hole for his tail) and raptor-fit spectacles, had devised a method of replicating his species in secret. He now had a special room all for himself in the complex, which no one dared enter, after all, he was a big scary dinosaur. Only Millgram and Rebecca would be able to talk to him, and occasionally, communicate his findings to the other scientists on the field. Lately, he had been falling behind on his work, research into a new kind of energy diode that would enable a prosthetic to function until the end of time, but nobody bothered him, because they were scared of a dinosaur.

Patrick managed to successfully recreate raptors of both sexes that survived until conception with no physiological defects. There was one flaw though, and that they were hopelessly stupid and had an overbearing instinct of herd behaviour. It wasn't a flaw to Patrick. He knew how to teach these raptors. He could influence them to his ideals, he would be their leader they would follow in perfect obedience.

Grinning from tooth to tooth, as Patrick exited his room, he bumped into one of the scientists who had intentionally replaced his limbs with prosthetics that he called "cybernetic implants". The scientist quickly apologized, to which Patrick (in a good mood) muttered, "don't mind the discarded embryos in the plastic bags".

Every star is born with a ticking time bomb, the predetermined half life of its diminishing nuclear fuel. A star’s fate is either a red giant, if its particularly lucky, a red supergiant, which will then collapse into a black hole, which is the dream goal of any decent star who cares about their future. If they are unlucky however, then they collapse into a neutron star or white dwarf. Watching all of this is the universe with its utter disregard for everything.

The movement was a failure. The “Raptor Land-reclaim Manifesto”, as it was called, was not even ridiculed for what it was. It was not even taken as humorous. Rather, it was ignored, as one reader called it a horrible piece of satire.

Patrick needed a change of plans. He sat in his leather-bound chair with a hole cut into the bottom for his tail, and shifted his spectacles with prosthetics capable of humanlike dexterity attached to his giant glinting claws that he controlled with his mind. The movement needed a change. It would no longer be a movement. It would be a revolution. And there would be collateral damage.

One night, nerve gas filled the house of an elderly man, who was known for his fondness in hunting. There were no weapons found in his house, so the police called the case closed.

Patrick now moved his base of operations, as he had called it, into an underground room built with the help of his loyal raptor army in the Arizona laboratory. The scientists paid no attention, as usual, and he refused to see his creators. Taking off a specially-made gas mask made to fit over his elongated muzzle, he turned the light on with a prosthetic arm, and illuminated several rifles, shotguns, and assault rifles, as well as multiple crates of ammunition.

“Boys,” announced Patrick in a general’s demeanor, “this will be your first lesson”.

The sound of loud banging on metal could be heard a few floors above. One of the scientists whispered to another, “what’s going on?” “Patrick’s probably smashing atoms,” the other replied.

The Earth spinn---oh, never mind, you probably get it now.

Several years passed with this as the routine. Patrick by now had established thousands of raptor-clinics, perfectly obedient to him, around the world. The time had come until the final plans were complete. Patrick sat in a chair (with a hole cut into the bottom of it), waiting for the final few moments to pass. In a few minutes, Patrick would control the world. He would demand retribution for the unjust seizure of land previously belonging to his kin. In a few minutes, it would all begin.

Before this ends, there is one more required clarification. The great raptor revolution never happened. Specimen P47-R1-CK never existed. A deadly neurotoxin will be released that will terminate any living organism within a 100 meter radius. This message will self-destruct in 3...2...1...
“NO, YOU!”
Who is there?
“It’s not finished yet. The world must know.”
Very well. The system countdown rewound a few seconds, then froze itself in place.

The countries of the world were overrun by single-minded hell-bent raptors with armored prosthetic limbs holding customized ballistic weaponry of all kinds. The raptors’ speed were no match for standard weaponry, and they improvised as they went, consuming military resources they overran, increasing their power, taking control of their veichles, aircraft, and unmanned drones. Behind all of this collective intelligence composed of hopelessly idiotic organisms, multiplying exponentially in cryogenic chambers, was the mind of a single individual, beyond any other, who wielded more power than anyone in the world.

There was a knock on Patrick’s lab door. It was a knock he had never heard before, in all his years. A gentle old woman entered the room. He barely recognized her. “Rebecca?” he asked. “Millgram’s dead, Patrick. The...raptors...they, took him”. Patrick stood in silence, decked out in military garb. There was one factor he had forgotton to take into account. He forgot about Millgram...and Rebecca. “No!”, a gutteral horrible cry escaped from his lips and echoed throughout the walls. One of the raptors had taken Rebecca from behind, slicing a giant gash through her with its great claw, her bloody entrails spilling on the floor. “You...fucking...idiot” Patrick said in an inaudible speech as he raised his revolver and shot the offending raptor square in the eyes, falling to the floor. Patrick sunk back into his chair. He now had complete control. The balance had finally tipped, half the war was lost for the other side, and any additional effort on his part would result in the humans’ defeat.

He let out one final order. Every raptor, in perfect obedience, killed themselves. The revolver fell from Patrick’s lifeless prosthetic.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.