The handcuffs were removed not long after she boarded. A pair of Costa Rican shiphands escorted her on to the ship and she was careful to abide by the old sailing maxim to step onboard with her right foot first for good luck. They seemed to appreciate the consideration and kindly tossed her bags in the back of the veterinarian’s Jeep and set on about their business with hardly a word. Meryl rubbed her wrists from the grazing of metal cuffs. Now that she was free to look around she began to take stock of the others from behind her sunglasses the Marshall was kind enough to hand back over with a less-than-comforting smile and a wave.  
 
She immediately did not care for their apparent overseer. With the death of Simon Masrani, it had apparently only taken a few days for this whole operation to turn into another InGen fiasco. She found it amusing how they thought not just a liason or guide was needed, but an actual [i]supervisor[/i] of sorts who had already threatened them all with consequences for going, “off-script”. [i]What a tool[/i]. She thought and shook her head with a tiny grimace. It occurred to her that his true purpose was most likely to keep [i]her[/i] in line and perhaps the vet as well. However, she had noticed Ms. Loring was packing her own sizeable sidearm and did not seem the type to take orders very well from corporate stooges. Same for the other man, O’Malley. 

Unlike the others, Meryl had been given scant little information about the mission. When Tuvya outlined the apparent “plan” she tried hard not to laugh out loud, but only managed a faintly controlled guffaw. It was classic InGen: Full of threats and not really in control of anything. She had spied on their inter-workings for years. They were a truly typical corporate operation in that respect, but unlike other businesses, when things went south, people didn’t just lose their employment or pensions, they instead tended to die quickly and in fantastical ways. She paid little attention to his grandstanding and anticipated that his existence would last about as long as it would take for him to realize he was the fall-guy when the whole thing went to pot. The redhead seemed to be a willing order-taker for him. [i]Shame[/i]. She thought. Redheads were bad for sailing as well.  

As the island approached, she sat down Indian-style in front of the Jeep’s great bumper. With the eastern sunrise behind them and the Jeep loaded at the very stern of the ferry she had the rising sun to her back and comfortable shade allowing her to watch everyone else as she took a quick glance over her equipment pack provided by Masrani deciding what she would carry and what would have to ride. She furrowed her brow a little. The offerings were not the worst setup, but not the best either. It did seem at least as though they actually might have [i]wanted[/i] her to succeed which she would have appreciated if she trusted them in the least.