Downtown San Diego. The intersection is a war zone. InGen helicopters hover like angry dragonflies, their searchlights cutting through the rain. The grounded convoy of SUVs forms a semicircle of black steel and tinted glass, aiming everything they have at the two giants in the center.
The lead InGen operative, a man with a jawline made of granite and a heart made of contract clauses, speaks into his headset. "Target Alpha is the brown one. Target... whatever that orange thing is... is secondary. Fire tranquilizers on my mark."
Rexy is at the end of her rope. She's a biological marvel, but she's been drugged, transported, crashed, and now she's being hounded by the very "small-meat" she was supposed to rule. She lets out a defiant roar, but her knees buckle. She's exhausted. She's ready to go down in a hail of darts and shame.
"Oh, now really," Rex says, stepping in front of her. He looks at the helicopters with the disappointment of a teacher catching students throwing spitballs. "There's no need for such a theatrical display of force. We were just having a lovely conversation about urban planning!"
"FIRE!"
A volley of high-potency tranquilizer darts streaks through the air. Rexy braces for the sting.
Instead, Rex simply opens his mouth. His jaw unhinges—not like a snake, but like a hinged trash can lid—and he catches every single dart in his mouth. He chews for a second, a muffled crunch-crunch-crunch echoing through the street, and then spits out a handful of colorful, harmless confetti.
"A bit bland," Rex notes, wiping his lip. "Needs more salt."
Rexy blinks her huge, prehistoric eyes. She doesn't understand. She looks at Rex, then at the helicopters, and for the first time in 65 million years, a Tyrannosaur decides to follow someone else's lead.
Rex turns to the helicopters. "If you won't be civil, then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to... move along!"
Rex reaches into his straw hat and pulls out a massive, industrial-strength bellows. With a deep breath that causes his chest to expand to the size of a house, he pumps the bellows once.
WHOOOOOOOSH!
A localized hurricane of cartoon wind blasts the helicopters. The pilots scream as their multi-million dollar machines are blown backward like paper planes, tumbling through the air until they gently—and physically impossibly—stick to the side of a nearby skyscraper like suction-cup toys.
The InGen convoy is in a panic. Soldiers are scrambling. Sarah Harding and Ian Malcolm use the chaos to slip toward the shadows, clutching the Baby T-Rex.
Rexy collapses onto her side, let out a heavy, rattling breath. She looks at Rex, her eyes glazed with the realization of defeat. She is a predator in a world that has grown too weird for her to hunt.
"There, there, Madam," Rex says softly, his voice dropping the showmanship for genuine empathy. He kneels beside her massive, scaly head. "You've fought a brave fight. But the 'Lost World' is a lonely place to live, isn't it? No friends, no hobbies... just the endless pursuit of lawyers. It's exhausting."
Rex reaches into his secret pocket and pulls out a small, glowing sack of Brain Grain.
"I brought a little something from the Far Future. It's an acquired taste, but the benefits are... well, they're quite literally life-changing."
Rexy, too tired to resist, opens her mouth. Rex gently pours the glowing cereal onto her tongue.
The effect is instantaneous.
A golden light erupts from Rexy's skin. The gritty, desaturated "Lost World" textures began to melt. Her rough, pebbled hide becomes smooth and vibrant. Her terrifying, slitted yellow eyes grow large, white, and soulful. Her sharp, jagged teeth round out into a friendly, approachable smile.
Within seconds, the 40-foot biological engine of destruction is gone. In her place stands a Cool Lady T-Rex. She is a soft, lavender-tinted brown, with a gentle expression and a much more aerodynamic snout.
She blinks, looking at her claws, then at Rex.
"Oh, my," she says. Her voice is melodic, sophisticated, and sounds remarkably like a Broadway star. "I feel... lighter. As if the weight of the entire Cretaceous period just fell off my shoulders."
Rex beams, offering a clawed hand to help her up. "Welcome to the world of the woke, my dear! I'm Rex. And you are...?"
"I think... I think I'd like to be called Rexy," she says, smoothing out her now-cartoonish scales. She looks at the Baby T-Rex in Malcolm's arms. "And is that my little one?"
Ian Malcolm and Sarah Harding stand paralyzed. Malcolm is clutching the baby dino, who has also begun to turn a soft shade of green, its eyes widening into cartoon proportions.
Rexy walks over, her movements fluid and bouncy. She looks at Sarah. "Do you like children?"
Sarah looks at the lavender dinosaur, then at the orange one, then at the helicopters stuck to the building. "I... I... yes?"
"Of course she does!" Rexy chirps, taking the baby dinosaur and giving it a big, sloppy, cartoon lick that covers Malcolm in glittery blue saliva. "They're simply the best, aren't they?"
Sarah turns to Malcolm, her voice a terrified whisper. "Ian... what the fuck is going on?"
Malcolm doesn't look at her. He just stares at the empty space where the laws of physics used to be. A slow, hysterical grin spreads across his face.
"Life, uh... life finds a way," Malcolm says, his voice cracking. "But apparently, life also finds... a scriptwriter with a very high fever. Let's... let's get out of here. Like, quickly. Before they start a musical number."
Malcolm hands off the baby dino to the new, civilized Rexy, and he and Sarah back away into the night, disappearing before the InGen cleanup crews can find them.
Rex tips his hat to the fleeing humans. "Safe travels! Do try the mini-golf on 5th Street! I hear the windmills are quite challenging!"