T-Rex: From the emotionless machine, you select your weapon. There are many like it, but this one is yours.
T-Rex: The place is Earth. The year: THREE SECONDS FROM TOMORROW.
T-Rex: You feel the weight of 7.26kg of precision-engineered materials - constructed from acids, esters, and even organic compounds - as your hand settles inside it. Attached to the end of your arm is now as perfect a sphere as current technology and economics will permit to be built, all coated in a new reactive resin, invented solely to increase its - and therefore your - performance.
Utahraptor: For despite all its technology, a LIVING HOST is still required to fire this weapon.
T-Rex: PRECISELY.
T-Rex: You get as close to your targets as law permits. Though this is merely "practice", a dispassionate computer system still judges your performance and ranks you against your peers in the League. This is your moment. You focus.
Utahraptor: You aim.
T-Rex: You take a few steps forward, and...!
T-Rex: ...you huck the ball at some sticks of wood a little ways away from you!! But instead of hitting the pins it goes into the FRIGGING GUTTER.
Narrator: BOWLING AS SHE IS PLAYED
T-Rex: You decide to eat some weird nachos and drink overpriced beer instead, THE END
