"Susannah, what've you found?" Nigel says, directing the camera to the new head vet of Jurassic Park. Behind her a group of rather chastened white-coated scientists are shuffling, trying to keep their faces off camera. Another lady in a green t-shirt is glaring at them, rather unimpressed.

"Well, Nigel, I can see why we were brought in." The dark-haired woman in her green scrubs shakes her head. "There are some appalling cases of animal cruelty here, and they haven't paid any genuine attention to the animals' diets or long-term health." A red-haired woman huffs, folding her arms as the camera turns to her.

"I object! Jurassic Park, as part of Jurassic Industries Inc. provides the best factory-made supplements, raw meat for the carnivores, and a succulent range of grasses for the herbivores."

"Grasses hadn't evolved at the time these creatures existed," Susannah says, frowning. "Ferns are better for them. We encountered similar problems early on, and had significant problems with some of our Titanosaurs-"

"Titanosaurs are a copyrighted trademark of Jurassic Industries Inc." the red-head erupts, glaring. "If you are claiming to have some our legal department will..."

"Calm down," Nigel laughs, looking into the camera, "Now for our viewers at home, Titanosaurs are a group of dinosaurs that existed in the Creataceous period. Our herd of them at Prehistoric Park caused some trouble a few years back, before we developed the use of natural landscaping to contain them."

"You have a herd of Titanosaurs?" the red-head snapped, outraged. "The DNA is copyrighted to us. That is theft!"

"Ah, we didn't use DNA, we captured them in the wild," Nigel says, and she blinks, shocked silent. "Susannah, do you know anything about this DNA malarky?"

"Yes Nigel," the vet sighs, putting her hands on her hips. "The animals here aren't natural dinosaurs, they are genetic hybrids of a mix of dinosaur and modern DNA. Its how they have survived on the, rather inadequate diet, they've been provided. However my main concern is the conditions in which the poor creatures are being kept. It's a disgrace."

"Yes, well Bob is investigating that now," Nigel beckons to the camera to follow him. "Now, I don't know about you," he says in confidence as he walks, "but I don't understand why anyone would manufacture dinosaurs when they can go back in time and see them in their natural enviroment."

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"And nearly get yourself eaten by a T-rex." A bluff scottish accent cuts in as Nigel enters a large control room. Monitor Screens are everywhere, and an older man, white haired, in the same green t-shirt that most of the new staff are wearing comes up to the camera. "Hullo, Nigel."

"Hi Bob. Now Bob's been our head keeper at Prehistoric Park for nearly ten years, and after we were asked to intervene here, he is taking over as head keeper," Nigel informs the camera, "and he's found so really distressing things. I mean, they're just, just dreadful."

"You can say that again." Bob shakes his head. "These enclosures, they're far too small for the size of creatures that they are holding. And if you look at these fences, chicken wire and metal?" He shakes his head. "One good storm and they're blowing down. We need a valley or two carved, and some containment ha ha's to stop the Titanosaurs. Not sure what they think they're doing with the Pterodactyls. And there's this poor little girl in here." He flicked up a screen showing an empty enclosure.

"There's nothing in there?" Nigel says.

"Oh aye, you can't see her." Bob rests his hand on the monitor sadly. "Only one of her kind. They only made the one and they've nay given her a thing to do it there. She'll come back into view in a bit. Here's what she looks like." He holds up a still photo for the camera to view.

"Oh, oh no?" Nigel shakes his head, turning to the camera. "Therapods are generally social animals. As we discovered, most Tyrannosaur variants hunt in packs when the prey is plentiful. For this poor girl to be the only one and alone."

"We canna make another?"

"No, that would be completely unethical." Nigel sighs, over the sound of heels clicking on tiles. "We'll just have to give her the best life we can, a large private enclosure...could we acclimate her to one of our Tyrannosaurs?"

"She'll eat a Tyrannosaur," the red-head says, her heels clicking to a stop. "We made her to be the perfect attraction."

"Well that's just peachy, isn't it?" Bob says. "And now we've got to clear up the mess."

"Well without her you're not going to have the funds to keep us operational," the woman says, utterly unphased. "Unless you can think of another attraction?"

"Well they have great whites-"

"No cage-free diving with the sharks, Marvin!" Bob chides. A blonde man in the background looks up, suddenly interested. "Ah'm not fishing ye out!"

"Come on, Bob," Nigel wheedles, and the zoo-keeper shakes his head and looks down.

"Its your funeral. Come on you lot, we've got a lot of work to see to." He moves off, and a gaggle of zookeepers follow. Nigel shakes his head.

"No sense of adventure, Bob!" Nigel calls after him, laughing, and looks to the camera. "You should have heard him when I took the microlite up to fly with the pterodactyls." The blond man coughs slightly, and Nigel looks across, holding a hand out. "I don't think we've met? His, I'm Nigel, and the new owner, I think."

"Owen Grady, I work with the velocirapters." The man shakes Nigel's hand, looking a bit uncertain.

"So what can I do for you, Owen?"

"Just checking I still have permission to ride my motorbike in with the velociraptors."

Nigel's grin is blinding.

"Think you can fit a sidecar?"