Wash flipped switches feverishly in the cockpit of InGen's cargo hauler, skipping half the startup protocols in his haste to get her in the air. He'd been her pilot for more than five years, long enough to know which shortcuts were safe to take and which weren't, but even if he hadn't, he'd have taken the risk anyway. He'd seen the alternative, and on a scale from juggling goslings to "oh God, oh God, we're all going to die", things would get pretty interesting if he couldn't pull it off.
A bellowing roar shook the air, and a pair of screams echoed up from the passenger quarters. Wash winced at the sound, but didn't stop to check it out; he knew Dr. Grant and Dr. Sattler would take care of it.
He didn't blame the kids for being upset. In fact, if the situation had been any less urgent, he'd have been screaming right along with them. He'd had enough excitement that weekend to last him an entire lifetime, and he probably wasn't even going to get compensated for it; if InGen had enough money left after the inevitable lawsuits to rub two credits together, he'd be surprised. That is, if the Alliance didn't make the company disappear lock, stock and barrel first. Hammond had called in a lot of government favors to get his theme world off the ground in the first place, and the last thing they'd want with the war going on was another disaster linked to them in the public eye.
He could probably forget about getting any kind of recommendation to give future employers, too. In fact, the first thing he probably ought to do after getting off this rock was to 'wave his old flight school buddy, Mr. Universe, and sign over his savings to fund a complete identity change. Something with Wash in the last name, maybe Washburne, so he wouldn't have to relearn what to answer to, and a first name he could justify not wanting to use; Hoban, maybe, after his least favorite uncle. So maybe he'd have to build up his reputation all over again, and there'd be a lot of awkward stammering if anyone ever asked him why such a skilled pilot hadn't fought for either the Alliance or the Browncoats, but it would be better that than the alternative. The Alliance could hardly arrest Wash Warren if he didn't exist anymore, right?
Another roar sounded, and another-- two of them, and closer this time. Impact tremors vibrated up through the metal framework of the Nublar, scattering the figurines Wash had 'borrowed' from the last load of pre-ordered merchandise: plastic dinosaurs bowing to the wrath of the real thing. He stole a glance up through the cockpit windows to gauge how much time he had left, then froze; an eye the size of a pie plate stared back at him above an enormous, gaping, razor-toothed mouth.
"Aiya, tian a," he breathed, not sure what to do next. The final indicator light hadn't blinked on yet, and his hindbrain seemed convinced that if he moved an inch he'd be the thing's next appetizer. He had no desire to be turned into Wash sushi, but if a miracle didn't happen quick...
Fortunately, he didn't have to complete that thought. The light came on; he thumbed the ignition controls, then gripped the throttle. Then he opened it up as far as it would go, murmuring prayers under his breath in Chinese.
Reptilian screams followed as scaly flesh charred under the atmo engines' fire. Wash smiled grimly as he reached for the sky.