An intersection in downtown San Diego. The grit of The Lost World—shattered glass, leaking fire hydrants, and screaming citizens—is being systematically dismantled by the presence of a five-ton orange dinosaur who refuses to acknowledge the concept of friction.
Rexy lunges. Her neck muscles, thick as oak trees, bunch and release as her jaws—designed by nature to crush bone into powder—snap shut directly on Rex's head.
SQUEAK.
The sound isn't the crunch of a skull; it's the sound of a dog's chew toy being stepped on. Rex's head doesn't break; it simply flattens like a pancake, his big, expressive eyes popping out of the sides of Rexy's mouth like two frantic tennis balls.
"Oh, dear," Rex's voice muffledly vibrates from inside her throat. "I believe we've skipped the formal introductions and gone straight to the dental exam. A bit forward, don't you think?"
Rexy's eyes widen. She shakes her head violently, trying to dislodge the intruder. Rex doesn't fall; he stretches. His body remains planted on the pavement while his neck elongates ten, twenty, thirty feet, looping around a streetlamp like a piece of orange taffy.
With a sharp BOING, Rex snaps back into his original shape, landing gracefully on his feet. He reaches into his straw hat and pulls out a full-sized, ornate brass mirror to check his teeth.
"Still all there. Splendid," Rex purrs.
Nearby, Ian Malcolm has climbed out of the Mercedes, leaning against the door with a look of profound, existential defeat.
"Sarah," Malcolm mutters, not taking his eyes off the orange dinosaur currently pulling a comically large mallet from behind his back. "The chaos... it's not just branching. It's... it's doing jazz hands. The laws of thermodynamics just packed their bags and left the state."
Sarah Harding doesn't answer. She sees her opening. While Rexy is distracted by trying to bite a dinosaur that currently has the consistency of a marshmallow, she sprints toward Peter Ludlow.
"Ludlow! Drop the infant!" Sarah screams.
Ludlow, terrified and confused by the technicolor battle before him, trips over a fire hydrant. The Baby T-Rex tumbles from his arms. Before he can reach for it, Sarah tackles him with the force of a woman who spent years wrestling hyenas in the Serengeti.
"You're finished, Peter!" Sarah snarls, pinning him to the wet asphalt.
Malcolm lopes over, scoops up the squeaking baby Rex, and looks at it. "Don't worry, kid. We're going to get you away from the corporate shark and the... uh... the Saturday morning caricature."
Rexy roars again, a visceral, terrifying sound of primeval rage. She charges Rex, intending to use her massive weight to trample him.
Rex sighs. "Madam, I see you are a fan of the 'full-contact' approach."
As Rexy's foot comes down, Rex doesn't move. He simply reaches down and grabs the edge of the street. With a flick of his wrist, he lifts the asphalt like a rug. Rexy's foot slides under the 'fabric' of the road, and she stumbles, her massive chin hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Rex walks over and daintily places a "WET FLOOR" sign next to her head.
"Safety first! One can't be too careful in the city," Rex notes.
Rexy is panting now. Her biological muscles are burning; her lungs are heaving. She is a creature of energy conservation and calculated strikes. But Rex isn't tired. He is currently juggling three bowling pins he found in a nearby dumpster to amuse a crying toddler hiding behind a mailbox.
The absurdity is reaching a breaking point. The dark, rainy atmosphere of San Diego is being invaded by invisible spotlights and the faint, ghostly sound of a slide-trombone.
The whimsy is suddenly cut short by the blinding glare of searchlights from above. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of rotors fills the air.
InGen has arrived.
Three helicopters bearing the corporate logo crest the skyscrapers, snipers leaning out of the side doors with tranquilizer rifles—and real ones. Down the street, a convoy of black SUVs and cage-trucks roars toward the intersection, their tires splashing through the puddles.
Rex looks up, his cartoon brow furrowing in genuine, sophisticated annoyance.
"Oh, bother," Rex huffs, tucking his bowling pins away. "The 'Hardware Enthusiasts' have arrived. And they look like they have a very poor grasp of hospitality."
Rexy staggers to her feet, her predatory instincts flaring at the sight of the helicopters. She is hurt, confused, and cornered. She lets out a weak, raspy roar—a plea for her territory.
Rex looks at her, then at the approaching soldiers. "Well, Madam. It seems we have a common nuisance. Shall we show them that the prehistoric and the... surreal... make for a very dangerous combination?"