"Well, isn't this the damndest thing? I see by the pretty-colored afterimages on the back of my eyeballs that we have been zapped through space by agents of the Constable. And you know what that means... you got picked. Chosen."
She snaps her fingers, and the music starts: quaint and sleazy, with lots of swing, and a few unpredictable stops and changes thrown in for defense, to discourage anyone else from joining in. Miss Kestrel is cranky, and damned if she'll be upstaged.
When the ground starts to shake and the sky starts to bake
And Pushstation Zebra's in flames
When Anathema slimes its way into your mind
So you can't even remember your name
Yeah, when trouble befalls, the Constable calls
Looking for some expendable help
To toss into the fray, see if they save the day
And if not, we'll just find someone else!
She struts through the middle of the group, hips asway. "Luckily, this has absolutely nothing to do with yours truly, since I'm here purely by accident. Today's lesson: duck as soon as you smell the ozone. But let's see who's on the menu today, shall we?"
Gosh, if it ain't the Magnificent Seven —
Or maybe it's six and a half —
Chosen to set this reality straight?
Well, this should be good for a laugh.
We got Zen Master Oxbutt to serve us the tea,
A couple of cuddle slut ravers on E,
A color who can't tell what species to be,
Plus a backing band — hey, makes as much sense to me!
And off into peril they ride.
But hey, don't let me scare you. I'm sure you'll do fine —
I mean, people survive this stuff all the time!
And if not... well, better your asses than mine.
Sayonara, and hope you don't die!
With that, she gives a sweeping bow before turning and sprinting off through the trees, taking an elegant swan-dive off the edge of the platform, with an accompanying musical flourish.
[Previously a comment, now brought to you in full-entry-o-vision at circuit_four's suggestion.]