You are in the floodplains of South America, 95 million years ago.

The air in the Patagonian basin was heavy, thick with the smell of damp ferns and the musk of the nesting grounds of Argentinosaurus. You watched from afar as ten, maybe twelve Argentinosaurus hatchlings—no bigger than a modern wild turkey, but with the potential to one day break the earth with their steps—were scattered near the sandy nesting pit. Their mother was nowhere to be seen, likely feeding miles away.

Just then, you froze as a creature appears. It was not an Argentinosaurus.

It was smaller, standing on two legs, and built low to the ground, almost comical in its posture until you realized how fast it was moving. It was a Skorpiovenator, roughly twenty feet long, its hide a mosaic of scarred, brownish-gray skin, covered in the roughest, most rugose texture you had ever seen on a living meat-eating dinosaur.

It moves with an arrogant, jerky gait, edging close to one of the nests. The abelisaur’s face looked like a pitbull made of razor blades—short, blunt skull, wide jaws, and those absolutely useless, tiny arms waving as it brought its head down. It focused only on the defenseless, newly hatched Argentinosaurus.

You watched the Skorpiovenator plunge its snout into a muddy nest, grabbing a hatchling. There is a sickening crunch as it swallows the baby sauropod whole. The predator was just getting started in its feeding frenzy, as the young Argentinosaurus scatter to flee…