The sun is beginning to peek over the San Diego horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the city. The gritty "Midnight Blue" of the night has been replaced by the soft, saturated pastels of a Sunday morning cartoon.
High back up on the pier piling, the birds are still huddled together. Buster and Shorty are sitting perfectly still, their beaks hanging open in disbelief. Even Buster, the self-proclaimed tough guy who wanted to join the circus, has forgotten to act rebellious.
Buster's Mother is currently tucked into the nest, fussily preening Buster's head feathers despite his half-hearted squawks of protest. "Oh, my sweet, brave baby," she coos. "Imagine! A lavender dinosaur! It's almost as beautiful as you are."
"Mom! Stop! I'm a circus-bound renegade!" Buster squeaks, though he doesn't pull away. He looks at his father. "So... that's it? They didn't eat anyone? No blood? No 'survival of the fittest'?"
George lets out a dry, birdy chuckle. He nods his head toward the city park just beyond the harbor. "Survival of the fittest is for creatures who have to follow the rules of gravity, son. Those two? They made their own rules. Look for yourself."
In the center of a whimsical, newly-renovated minigolf course on 5th Street, the scene is nothing short of a biological impossibility.
Rex, his orange scales gleaming in the morning light, is hunched over a tiny, custom-made putter. He is holding the grip daintily between two claws, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in deep concentration. He is still wearing his straw boater hat.
"Now remember, Rex Jr.," Rex says, glancing at the Baby T-Rex, who is now a cheerful, vibrant shade of lime green. "The secret to the windmill isn't power; it's timing. It's all about the rhythm of the heart!"
Rex Jr. squeaks excitedly, wagging his tail like a puppy. He isn't hunting Ludlow anymore; he's currently trying to decide if the golf ball is something he should hit or something he should cuddle.
Rexy, looking radiant in her lavender scales, stands by the "Giant T-Rex" obstacle (which now looks remarkably like a caricature of her former self). She leans on her own club with the grace of a debutante, watching her family with soulful, white eyes.
"Oh, darling," Rexy purrs, her voice dripping with Broadway charm. "Let the boy have his fun. Though, I must say, Rex, this 'civilization' thing is quite taxing on the lower back. I never realized how much standing up straight would affect my posture."
"A small price to pay for a hole-in-one, my dear!" Rex beams.
He taps the ball. It doesn't roll—it skitters with a playful chime sound, defying the slope of the green, zipping through the rotating blades of the windmill, and dropping into the cup with a celebratory TRUMPET FANFARE that seems to come from the air itself.
In the background, far off in the distance, the SS Venture is still lodged in the pier, and the InGen helicopters are still physically stuck to the side of the skyscraper like oversized magnets. A few disgruntled soldiers are trying to pry a jeep off a lamppost.
But here, on the green, there is only peace.
"Well," George chirps from the nest, ruffling his wings. "That's the story. Logic went out the window, and friendship walked in the front door. What do you think, boys?"
Shorty hops twice. "I want to play minigolf! Can we play minigolf, Daddy?"
Buster looks at the giant orange dinosaur high-fiving the lavender one, then looks at his mom. He sighs, leaning into her wing. "I guess... I guess the circus can wait until Monday. This was a better show anyway."
The camera pulls back, higher and higher, until the entire city of San Diego looks like a colorful play-set. The "Lost World" isn't lost anymore—it just found a much better hobby.
THE END.