“Ah. Tyrannosaurus Rex, my ancient nemesis…” slowly growled the debonair Triceratops. It was perched atop the steering console of a spaceship… to be exact, a midbulk transport, standard radion-accelerator core, classcode 03-K64, designation: Firefly. The creature differed from the average dinosaur in three other important ways; It was made of a common polymer, was only three inches high, and was being controlled by one Hoban “Wash” Washburn, the pilot of said spaceship.

“RAWRR!” observed another toy dinosaur in the pilot’s other hand, with all manner of terrifying menacingness. “You will succumb to my superior menacing... ness... AS DID the Stegosaurus before you!! Bwah hah hah!”

“Ahh!” The vegetarian countered. “Despite my agonizing terror I will defend myself with my not-undangerous horns! Take that, and *that*”

“I laugh my evil laugh at your puny defenses!”

Slowly, from behind the console, up snaked a delicate and lithe hand, mysterious, lovely, and holding a small wind-up mouse. “Hah!” squeaked the mouse, waggling slightly. “Your positions are inelegant and disprovable on both counts. The future will demonstrate that Saurian evolution will never reach its pinnacle of development, instead succumbing to the ravages of climate change possibly resulting from an asteroidal crash to the planet’s surface, if one is to believe the most common extant theory. The mammalian order will gain primacy. You’ll turn into chickens!” One dark almond-shaped eye, and the tiniest sliver of pale face and black hair, slid up to peek slyly over the console’s edge.

Wash turned his head, craning to look behind him, where his slinky warrior-woman wife Zoe stood leaning against the bulkhead by the hatch, arms crossed. She was grinning and slowly shaking her head. “Honey, I … I think she’s improving!” he told her cheerily. Zoe raised her eyebrows in amused query. “At least she’s got a toy this time.”

His head whipped back around as several small cold pellets hit the back of his head. “See? Told you so.” remarked the teen