The Boss grinned, cracking their knuckles. "So we’re going from alien overlords to black-and-white reruns? Sounds like a Tuesday. Shaundi, get the dubstep gun. We’re going on a logic-defying field trip."
Stepping out into the digital streets, the world flickered. High-rise buildings shuddered, momentarily replaced by picket fences and milkmen who looked suspiciously like Zin soldiers in aprons. The Boss didn't wait for the reality check. With a literal leap of faith, they soared into the air, purple cape trailing behind as they cleared a three-story house in a single bound.
The President of the United States leaned back in the Oval Office chair, feet propped up on a desk that had seen more alien blood than ink lately. Zinyak’s empire was crumbling, and the Saints were doing what they did best: making a cosmic mess.
"Kinzie, if I’m stuck in a sitcom, I better have a catchphrase," the Boss yelled, dodging a laser beam that turned a nearby mailbox into a bouquet of flowers. "How about 'Get off my planet'?" Kinzie suggested.
"I feel a musical number coming on!" Pierce shouted, already hip-firing at a floating robot that was trying to hand him a tray of cookies.
