You are in the plains of Mongolia, Asia, 70 million years ago.

You are navigating a bright, open grassy plain. The meadow seemed deceptively serene until the air began to hum. It started as a low vibration in the ground, shaking the leaves of the nearby trees, before erupting into a frantic rhythmic thundering.

They appeared suddenly—a flock of twenty or more bipedal, ostrich-like dinosaurs, their brown and beige feathers blending perfectly with the arid landscape. They moved not as individuals, but as a single, fluid unit, shifting direction instantly. Their thin, bird-like heads bobbed in unison, and their powerful legs covered the ground at alarming speeds. You could hear the clack-clack-clack of hundreds of three-toed feet beating the dirt, a thunderous noise that echoed in your ears.

Then, the flock shifted. The smaller ones moved toward the center, shielded by the larger ones. Their heads were bobbing, snapping up and down—bird-like, fast, impossibly smooth, letting out high-pitched squeals of terror. The herd swerved, and for a terrifying second, you realized you are right in the middle of them. They’re flocking this way… right towards you…