The rain-slicked streets of suburban San Diego. Streetlamps flicker as a 40-foot-tall biological nightmare stalks through a gas station parking lot. The color palette is strictly "Midnight Blue" and "Grit."
Peter Ludlow is running. He isn't running with the athletic grace of an action hero; he is running with the panicked, stumbling desperation of a man who realizes his "mega-attraction" is currently looking at him like a side dish. He is clutching the Baby T-Rex, which is squeaking with a high-pitched, rhythmic frequency that is essentially a dinner bell for its mother.
"Hold on, you little gold mine!" Ludlow wheezes, his expensive loafers skidding on the wet asphalt. "You're worth billions! Billions!"
Behind him, the ground doesn't just shake—it ripples. Rexy (The Doe) rounds the corner of a 7-Eleven, her massive tail swinging through a billboard for light beer, sending sparks raining down like lethal confetti. She lets out a roar that vibrates the marrow in Ludlow's bones. It's a sound of pure, prehistoric territoriality.
In a beat-up Mercedes-Benz tailing them, Ian Malcolm is white-knuckling the steering wheel.
"See, this is the 'un-calculated' part of the tour," Malcolm shouts over the engine's roar. "The part where the parent-offspring bond overrides the 'I'm-on-a-leash' corporate mandate!"
"Ian, she's going to crush him!" Sarah Harding leans out the window, her eyes wide. "And she's going to crush that family in the sedan! She's in a predatory trance!"
Rexy lets out a guttural hiss and lunges. Her head, the size of a bathtub and filled with railroad-spike teeth, lowers toward a silver family car parked at a red light. The father inside is frozen, his hands locked on the wheel, watching the photorealistic jaws of extinction open wide enough to swallow his engine block.
Just as Rexy's teeth graze the roof of the car with a screech of metal, a sound pierces the rain. It isn't a roar. It's the sound of a slide whistle followed by a bright, cheery "TADA!"
A massive, circular shadow eclipses Rexy. A high-tech "Dino-Drop" pod—looking less like a spaceship and more like a giant, chrome egg—descends from the clouds. It doesn't crash. It doesn't obey gravity. It floats down as light as a dandelion seed, landing with a soft boing sound right between Rexy and the terrified family.
The pod doors hiss open, releasing a cloud of glitter and the faint scent of fresh-baked cookies.
Out steps Rex.
He is vibrant orange. His eyes are enormous, expressive, and currently filled with polite concern. He is wearing a tiny, perfectly fitted straw boater hat that somehow stays on his head despite the wind.
Rexy freezes. She tilts her head, her reptilian brain trying to process the creature in front of her. This thing looks like a Tyrannosaur, but it's the "wrong" color. It doesn't smell like meat. It smells like... whimsy.
Rex clears his throat. The sound is amplified, as if he has a built-in PA system.
"Excuse me! Terribly sorry to interrupt the hunt, Madam," Rex says, tipped his hat with a claw. "But I couldn't help but notice you're causing a bit of a kerfuffle. And honestly, snapping at the locals? It's simply not 'done' in this millennium."
Ludlow stops running, staring up in a daze. "What... what is that? Is that a rival company's animatronic?"
Malcolm slows the Mercedes to a crawl, his jaw dropping. "That's not an animatronic, Peter. That's... that's a total subversion of the fossil record."
Rexy doesn't care about the fossil record. She sees a brightly colored intruder in her new territory. She draws a deep breath, her chest expanding, and lets out a roar that shatters the windows of the nearby 7-Eleven.
Rex doesn't flinch. He just reaches into thin air—literally pulling his arm out of the 2D plane of reality—and produces a comically large, lace-trimmed handkerchief. He uses it to daintily pat the saliva off his snout.
"My word," Rex rumbles, a charming smile spreading across his face. "You certainly have a set of pipes on you! But let's see if we can't find a more... musical way to express our feelings, shall we?"
Rexy snaps her jaws shut. She lunges.