Power Rangers - Courage Smashed In Waste!

The final defenders—the proud, the stubborn, the pillars of the team—are the last to crumble. Polluticorn grinds them slow, savoring every sag, every collapse. Pride turns to rot. Loyalty curdles into sludge. And when the filth finally seals over them, it isn’t even a struggle anymore. It’s surrender.

When the septic tank explodes, do the strongest get buried first?

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Power Rangers, gag, gag, and overflow!

The Juice Bar was no longer just sealed.

It began to breathe harder.

The plastic dome convulsed now with heat and intent, vibrating with laughter that came from every shadow, every wrinkle in the plastic wrap. The moans and giggles from the bags turned crueler, sharper—no longer just echoing madness, but directed humiliation. The voices took on a rhythmic, chanting malice, dripping with lust and cruelty. The horror wasn't just rising—it was teasing, taunting, drooling.

“OH RANGER SWEETHEARTS, YOU STILL TRYNA LOOK TOUGH? SO CUTE I COULD GRIND IT OUTTA YA!”

“RED’S GOT THAT SHAME BONER! YELLOW’S SQUIRMING—FUCK I COULD SIP THAT PANIC!”

“SHOOT US, SWEETIES! SPRAY YOUR LITTLE GUNS WHILE WE SPRAY YOUR BRAINS WITH FUCKIN’ ROTTED LOVE!”

“COME ON, TIGHTSUITS! WE WANNA WRAP YOU AROUND OUR TONGUES AND BITE DOWN HARD!”

Rocky and Aisha stumbled, side by side, backs to the warped counter, arms raised, blasters trembling. Every fiber of their suits clung tighter as the heat doubled, triple-layered plastic now exhaling gusts of vaporized filth onto their visors. Their eyes watered. Their skin burned beneath the synthetic layers.

“DON’T LISTEN!” Aisha shouted through grit teeth. “DON’T—JUST KEEP—”

But her voice cracked, caught on a sob. Her legs buckled slightly. Rocky kept his aim high, jaw clenched, muttering through his breath, “Stay strong—stay kind—don’t let them turn us into animals...”

Then the bags unzipped.

Not with scissors or claws—but from within. Like fruit bursting open from overripe pressure, the tied tops snapped apart and spewed thick jets of hot air. From inside, hunched forms began to rise—groaning, lean-limbed silhouettes outlined by dripping sweat and leftover sludge.

“FUCK YEAH, WE'RE OUT!”

“SLIME ME A RANGER! I'M STARVING!”

“FRESH TIGHT SUITS, HERE WE FUCKIN' COME!”

“PULL ME CLOSER, I WANNA BITE THAT KINDNESS OFF YOUR FACE!”

One.

Two.

Four.

Then ten.

Then more.

Young figures, impossibly thin and sharp-jointed, peeled themselves from the sacks like molting insects. Their skin glistened, stretched pale and translucent. Veins glowed with yellow bile. Their eyes were red—not red with anger, but red with hunger. With obsession. Every one of them had a twisted horn growing out from the center of their foreheads—small, gnarled, diseased-looking versions of Polluticorn’s mark. They oozed power and decay, draped in nothing but streaks of filth and madness.

They were bare-bodied, completely exposed except for ragged belts and dried slime stuck to their limbs. Their joints cracked when they moved, their steps too fast, too sudden. They leapt—not at the walls. At the Rangers.

“COME HERE, YOU PRETTY YELLOW BITCH! I WANNA HEAR YOU WHIMPER WHILE YOU LEAK INSIDE THAT SUIT!” one shrieked, talons raised.

“RED’S MINE—I’M GONNA BURY MY LAUGHTER IN HIS CHEST!” another howled.

They slammed into Aisha and Rocky all at once. Claws raked across morphsuit plating, slicing synthetic mesh and muscle beneath. The Rangers screamed—not just in pain, but in shock.

Each cut made their skin throb. Each scratch sent tingles through their nerves like sparks crawling over exposed wire. And the attackers laughed with every shriek, every recoil.

“THERE’S THAT TINGLE, BABY! ADMIT IT! YOU’RE STARTIN’ TO LIKE IT!”

Aisha fired point-blank, dropping one. But three more replaced it, circling her like jackals. One licked the blood from another’s claws.

“OH—STAY BACK!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “YOU’RE KIDS—YOU’RE—”

“WE’RE BEYOND THAT, SWEET THING!” one hissed, slashing across her thigh. “WE’RE HUNGER NOW!”

Rocky roundhouse kicked a snarling attacker off his chest, but the impact barely slowed it. The corrupted victim skidded midair and spun back toward him, leaping again.

“WE USED TO BE DREAMERS—NOW WE FUCKIN' LIVE FOR THIS!” the boy laughed, horn glinting.

The sound of claws on armor, claws on flesh—mixed with the sticky squeal of synthetic suits grinding against the floor. Aisha screamed as three clawed hands dragged her down.

“NO—LET GO—DON’T TOUCH ME—”

“I’LL DO WHATEVER I WANT—AND YOU’LL BEG FOR IT BY THE END!” the girl atop her cackled. “EVERY SCREAM’S A VERSE IN OUR MASTER'S HYMN!”

Rocky roared and tackled the nearest attacker, slamming his blaster into its temple, but it didn’t fall. It moaned, shuddering with twisted pleasure.

“DO IT AGAIN, RANGER—BREAK ME OPEN WITH YOUR FEAR!” it crooned.

He faltered, chest heaving. His helmet visor flickered with damage, crack lines glowing with static. They were being dismantled—morally, mentally, molecule by molecule.

Every blow they landed only slowed the corrupted for seconds. But every scratch—every nick from those talons—made something in Aisha and Rocky twitch. Like addiction. Like euphoria wrapped in horror.

“YOU FEEL IT, DON'T YOU?!” another sang. “EVERY CUT IS AN INVITATION—AND YOU'RE SAYIN' YES!”

“RED, I WANNA BREATHE YOUR LAST NOBLE THOUGHTS WHILE YOU SINK INTO ME!”

“YELLOW, SQUIRM HARDER! YOU'RE POURIN' WARM COURAGE OUT YOUR SUIT!”

“TIGHTSUIT TRAGEDY—ALL THAT KINDNESS, SOAKED IN FEAR SWEAT—FUCKIN’ PERFECT!”

Aisha struggled to her knees, panting, blaster shaking in her hands. “We—we won’t give in—we’re better—we’re still—heroes—”

“HEROES? BABY, THIS IS YOUR REWARD!” someone shrieked, pouncing onto her back. “YOU CAME HERE TO SAVE—NOW YOU’RE STAYIN’ TO BLEED!”

Another shrieked behind her ear, “EVERY WHIMPER’S A MEAL—GIVE ME MORE—MAKE ME DRIP WITH YOU!”

The claws came again.

And the possessed children laughed.

And slashed.

And savored.

Aisha’s eyes rolled beneath her visor, a long moan breaking past her clenched lips. Her arms trembled, weapon dropping as her breath caught. “Nnghhh—no—no—don’t... don’t stop—I mean—damn it!” she cried, confused, snarling at herself, voice shaking between resistance and craving. “Get off me—get... back... fuck—back...!”

Rocky’s hands gripped the floor as he arched, his visor cracked and flickering. “*F-FUCK—IT HURTS—BUT—shit—it—it feels—NO! Not like this... not like this—”

“I don’t—don’t wanna... enjoy this!” Aisha gasped. “I’m not—supposed to—fuckin’—want this!!” Her suit heaved with each breath, soaked in filth and heat, and her words tumbled louder, more broken. “I hate this—I... oh fuck—I can’t—I...”

Rocky screamed as another slash tore across his chestplate. “*AAARRRGHH—STOP—NO—NO DON’T—MORE!” he snarled, then choked on the words. “No—I didn’t—I didn’t mean that!”

They were slipping. Their minds, once sharp with purpose, now wavered on the edge—between pain and pleasure, duty and madness. Every second dragged them closer.

“You love it,” hissed the figures circling them.

“Let go,” sang another. “Let the pain be your answer. Let the cut be your prayer. Let the rot be your gift.”

And Aisha screamed, not with fear, but with something hot and tangled, something primal. Her cry echoed long and cracked: “NNNNNHHHAAAAAARRRGHHHHH—FUUUCCCKKKINNNNG—AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Beside her, Rocky’s head snapped back, voice rising like an animal. “RRRRAAAAGHHHHHHH—NO MORE—NO MORE—YES—HURT ME, FUCK, NO—NO—YES!”

The last flickers of heroism thrashed within them.

And yet their bodies moaned.

And their helmets trembled.

And the darkness sang around them.

***

The Juice Bar floor didn’t cool. It boiled with steam and stink, the plastic dome above thrumming with infernal rhythm. The possessed children moved in circles now, not in chaos but ritual—hands twitching, mouths parted in hungry anticipation. Around the haze of dripping heat and reeking fog, their shadows stretched long and twitchy, bodies jerking in dance-like spasms. At the center, Aisha and Rocky writhed, twitching in the filth, no longer certain which moans came from agony, and which from some poisoned seed of craving. Their pain was no longer simply suffered—it was drawn out, teased, stretched until it distorted into something unrecognizable.

Their bodies were scraped, torn, their suits pockmarked with clawed patterns and crusted filth. Yet every strike that landed now triggered something deeper in their nerves—an involuntary shiver, an arch of the spine, a twist of the lips. They hated the way their skin tingled. They hated the sounds they made. But they couldn’t stop them. The pain had become music. The shame, its unrelenting harmony. Their suits, symbols of power, now clung to them like guilty skins they couldn’t shed.

Aisha screamed, clawing at her helmet. “FUCK—NO—I SAID NO—DON’T—AGHHH—” Her legs twitched upward on instinct as claws danced across her thighs again and again, and again. Her voice cracked, tangled in its own confusion, louder with each syllable. “YOU FREAKS—DON’T—DON’T YOU FUCKIN’—AAHHHHH!” She gasped through tears and grime, throat raw, feeling her own betrayal every time her body reacted.

Nearby, Rocky crawled through sludge, gasping, eyes wide behind a cracked visor, weapon long lost. “Aisha—fuck—where are you—I can’t—I CAN’T—STOP IT!” His voice was ragged, less a shout than a rasp from a throat filled with filth. His arms trembled under him, claw marks trailing from his neck down to his hips. Each shiver that ran through him felt wrong, his muscles jerking without his will. His body was no longer reacting to danger—it was relishing it.

That’s when the bags came again.

Not thrown. Carried. Held like relics by the horned children now circling them with reverence. Their cracked lips split in crooked smiles, their eyes glistening with anticipation. The bags weren’t simply containers—they were breathing, twitching, glistening things, pulsing with obscene life. Half-translucent and shimmering with grease and heat, they hung like bloated skins from the arms of their pale carriers, who handled them like sacred tools of some desecrated ritual.

The children didn’t pounce. They descended. First came the pinning. Dozens of fingers, small and sharp, pressed against Rocky’s boots. It wasn’t rushed. It was patient. Like handlers preparing livestock.

He bucked, shouted, tried to pull free. “GET OFF—NO—” But a dozen more hands grabbed, twisted, ground his feet into the sticky floor. The black soles of his boots squealed against the slime as one child leaned forward, her mouth twitching with glee, and began sliding the plastic up his leg. It wasn’t fast—it was intimate. The bag rippled wetly as it crept, inch by inch, along his shin, hugging tighter with each rise.

Aisha screamed as four pale figures surrounded her, grasping her calves, her thighs, her waist. “FUCKING STOP! GET OFF ME! YOU LITTLE—AAAGH!” Her boot kicked one away—only for another to mount her foot and begin rolling the glistening plastic upward, like sealing a leg in a wet, breathing cast. One crawled up her back, dragging her waist down, pushing her into the slime.

The plastic didn’t just cover. It sucked.

It slurped upward, sealing their legs from the ankles to the hips. It wasn’t just tight—it was intrusive. Every inch conformed to their bodies, crushing into them like a vacuum. The heat inside doubled. It became hard to breathe.

Rocky thrashed as the bag climbed his thighs, screaming into the rot. “*NO—NO—FUCK—AISHA—WHERE ARE YOU—I CAN’T—I CAN’T SEE YOU!” His eyes darted through the haze. But everything blurred—his mind, the room, the sensation of being filled with filth.

Aisha saw him. Her fingers were still outstretched, her body halfway bound. The bag reached her stomach now, contouring to her hips, sucking her waist in tight. “ROCKY—ROCKY I’M HERE—I’M FUCKIN’ HERE!” she wailed. Their eyes locked—just for a second—before another set of hands slammed her arms down and pressed the bag higher.

He reached. She reached. Fingers stretched, twitching, twitching—

Then the children shoved them apart. The bags surged up, faster, now gulping their torsos, rolling over their arms, sucking in the curves of their chests and shoulders. Blasters and fists alike were crushed beneath the climbing membrane.

“ROCKY—ROCKY!” she screamed, voice warping inside the bag.

“*AISHA—NO—STAY WITH ME—FUCK!” he howled.

They could see each other. They could feel each other. But their hands never touched.

Then came the seal. The plastic hissed over their helmets. It wasn’t a wrap. It was a closure. It bit. The hiss became a roar in their ears as light vanished. Sight vanished. Even their screams became blurred echoes inside a slick prison that squeezed tighter with every heartbeat.

They convulsed. Arched. Moaned. Their limbs were bent inward. Their spines curved. The bags refused stillness—they pressed, reshaping them like figures stuffed into condoms of heat and shame. Their bodies twitched, helpless against the pressure.

The pressure and awareness hit them. Aisha shrieked, voice high and shaking. “*IT’S A FUCKING CONDOM—I’M SEALED IN A FUCKING USED—AAAGGHHHH—FUCK—I CAN’T—I CAN’T MOVE—!”

Rocky’s face buckled under the strain, every muscle seizing. “I’M—I’M NOT A RANGER—I’M FUCKIN’ WRAPPED LIKE TRASH—LIKE SLIME—I CAN’T—I CAN’T EVEN—AAAAHHHHHHHH!”

The bags deflated further, crushing their chests, their thighs, their groins, bending their knees into inward curves. The seals grew tighter. Their legs folded like broken branches. Their arms pushed toward their bellies. Their moans grew deeper, more strained.

The filth inside soaked them. Inside their helmets, they screamed louder, mouths stretching, spit clinging to their lips. Every squirm was betrayal. Every twitch a humiliation.

There was no room for dignity. Only trembling. Only heat. Only shame. Their suits now second skins beneath a third—a layer of clear suffocation. The two shapes twitched and the two shells vibrated.

The rubber thickened. It wasn’t the smooth stretch of synthetic wrap anymore—it crawled. Veins formed. Blisters rippled. Aisha and Rocky, sealed deep inside their bags, could feel the change before it was even visible. The material no longer felt manmade. It grew warm. Then hot. Then it pulsed. It breathed. It knew them.

Rocky screamed first. “AISHA! IT’S MOVING—IT’S—AAARRRGGHHH—” His voice cracked into a rasp as the pressure started folding his shoulders inward, contorting him unnaturally, bending his arms into his chest like a corpse prepared for burial. The sheath pulled tighter with every breath. His vision danced behind his visor as his limbs began to compress from every angle.

“I FEEL IT TOO—FUCK—ROCKY—MY LEGS—THEY’RE—OH GOD—HELP ME—” Aisha shrieked, her voice echoing inside her sealed helmet. Her knees slammed up against her chest. The bag around her hips clenched like a vice, locking her pelvis into place. Her suit no longer moved with her. It moved on its own, like a living thing eager to consume.

The texture turned from synthetic to greasy. From greasy to vile. Each fiber grew heavier, wetter. Then the smell hit—a rancid stink of rubber, sweat, and industrial slime. The air inside the bags grew thinner, hotter. The outside laughed. A rising chorus of foul-mouthed giggles and shrieks began to circle them.

The slamming began. The pale children—those shrieking, spit-slicked monsters—rushed in as a unit, giggling and roaring with animalistic joy. “CRUSH ‘EM FLAT—CRUSH THE RANGER JUICE OUTTA ‘EM!” one screamed, bounding onto Rocky’s sealed form and driving both feet straight into his torso.

THWUMP.

Rocky’s body spasmed. His legs were forced flat from the impact, knees cracking, thighs mashed together like wet paper. “GAHHHHHH—IT’S BENDING ME—MY FUCKIN’ BONES—MY BONES—” he choked, jerking wildly. The sheath coiled tighter.

Aisha’s bag pulsed tighter. The sheath writhed up her ribs and into her armpits. Her fingers twitched—then clenched involuntarily as the suit sealed them into curled fists. “MY HANDS—OH GOD—I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS—ROCKY—HELP—HELP ME—” she howled, her voice higher than ever, raw with agony.

Another child leaped onto her. Another. Then another.

SLAP—SLAM—STOMP.

“FUCKIN’ FLATTER! TIGHTER! SQUEEEEZE THE RANGER SNOT OUTTA THEM—YEEAAAH!” they howled in unison. The chamber echoed with their gleeful obscenities. Stomping became a game. Torture became a rhythm.

Ten. Twelve. Fifteen of them. Jumping, stomping, fists and feet raining down like hammers. A ritual of degradation. Flesh, bone, dignity—all being pressed under layers of synthetic hell. The Rangers thrashed, screamed, struggled—but the sheath responded to their motion with cruel intelligence, squeezing tighter, matching every resistance with brutal containment.

Aisha’s neck bent hard left. Her head cracked into her shoulder. Her helmet clanged dully inside the tightening seal. Her voice was warped by panic. “ROCKY—THEY’RE—FUCKING—KILLING US—WE’RE BEING—AAAHHH—MAKE IT STOP—PLEASE—”

“I’M TWISTING—I CAN’T—I CAN’T—FUCK—I’M GOING UNDER—AAAGGGHHH—” Rocky cried back, his spine arching until his lower back popped. His feet curled in on themselves as the sheath pressed them into one another like laminated rubber, crushing bones against bones, muscles trembling from the pressure.

A boy screamed from above, “MAKE ‘EM FLAT LIKE STICKERS! PEEL 'EM OFF THE FLOOR! HEH HEH—NO MORE BONES!”

BAM—WHUMP—SLAM.

Joints popped. Shoulders groaned. Elbows cracked into inverted bends. The rubber hissed and stretched. Their legs collapsed under pressure, flattened inward, pulped and sealed into the rubber like folds of synthetic origami. Every inch crushed tighter. Their backs bent. Their torsos split in pressure lines. They were being folded, restructured, destroyed.

The Rangers didn’t stop screaming. “MY CHEST—ROCKY—MY CHEST IS—IT’S NOT HOLDING—FUUUUUCK—NO MORE—I CAN’T—” Aisha screeched, a ragged sob bursting beneath her words.

Rocky tried to raise his head—but his chin hit his own sternum. The sheath convulsed, flattening his ribs, crushing the air from his lungs. “AISHA—CAN’T BREATHE—THEY’RE CRUSHING ME—TELL ME YOU’RE STILL—AAARRGHH—PLEASE—PLEASE—”

“WE’RE STILL RANGERS—WE—WE—AAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHH—AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Then her torso caved. The suit compressed inward, letting out a long, wet crunch. Her scream was silenced mid-breath. Her spine gave way. Her limbs stopped moving. The sheath shivered once, then went still.

Rocky’s body followed. His chest crumpled like a milk carton. His helmet hit the floor one last time with a crack, the impact leaving a spiderweb fracture on his visor. The remaining air hissed out around him, and his mouth locked open in a silent, final gasp.

Still, the children didn’t stop. “FLATTEN ‘EM ‘TIL THEY’RE PAPER! SHUT THEM UP FOREVER! RANGER PANCAKES!” they cackled.

They dogpiled. Limbs pumping, knees slamming, shrieks turning to screeches. A crescendo of physical humiliation. The Rangers didn’t move. Their forms had been reduced to layers—pressed, folded, squeezed until nothing remained but shape.

SLAP—CRACK—FWWUMP.

The bodies twitched once more.

The suits went still. Silent. Bent. Folded. Only the helmets remained—slightly bulging from the vacuum-sealed pressure. Aisha’s visor fogged, a small fracture along one corner. Rocky’s helmet was indented, still resisting the horn trapped beneath it.

Below the helmets, there were no longer bodies. Only rubber.

Rubber shaped like suits. Like uniforms. Like costumes. Curling around itself. Seamless. Grotesque.

Living skin.

Veined. Slick. Twisting occasionally with residual pulses. Twitching as if some part of them still remembered how to move.

Inside them—somewhere—Aisha and Rocky’s minds still screamed. The feeling was indescribable—not pain as they knew it, but something deeper, something inescapable and permanent. There were no words, no breath, only the white-hot burn of trapped thought, the echo of what had once been identity.

They couldn’t see, but they felt. Every twitch in the rubberized skin they had become. Every pulse of synthetic flesh remembered what it had once protected. Their minds clung to those memories like drowning hands to rope—only for the rope to burn away.

No voice, no movement. Just panic, infinite and loud, trapped in absolute stillness.

Conscious. Frozen in time, not asleep, not awake—just locked. Destroyed in form but not extinguished.

Suits no longer protected them. That comforting line—the sacred barrier between hero and harm—was long gone. The suits hadn’t betrayed them. The suits had absorbed them. They had been swallowed by their own armor, crushed until nothing remained but shape.

They were the suits now. Every stretch, every curve of the slick, veined rubber was them. They didn’t wear helmets—they had helmets, the last intact piece of who they were, fogged and trembling. Beneath, their bodies were rubber cocoons—grotesque sheaths waiting to be worn, aware, alive, afraid.

Rangers no more. Just sealed, groaning echoes of what used to be. Only sealed reminders of failure. Tools. Exhibits. Punchlines to a cruel joke shouted by the enemy, echoed by children now laughing in the corners of their minds.

Their heroism, their legacy, their humanity—it all existed now as a curve in their helmets. The only detail left unmarred, gazing up from the oily floor as if begging the sky to remember. But there was no sky. No daylight. Just the fog—hot, rubber-scented, and full of decay.

Everything else… was rubber. Wrinkled, warping, and twitching in response to nothing but memory.

Everything else… was condom.

And through the fog of deathless containment, their muffled howls echoed in tandem, longer now, more broken, stretched into jagged fragments of despair. They didn’t just scream—they sang in agony.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

“AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

“ROOOOOOOOOOOOCKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY—ROCKY—ROCKY—AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

Again.

And again.

***

Polluticorn loomed above the steaming floor, the hot mist swirling at his hooves. Around him lay the crumpled remnants of valor—two Ranger suits once worn with pride, now reduced to limp, twitching slabs of rubber and breathless helmets. The rubber skin still pulsed with fading sparks of morphing energy, flickering dimly like dying neurons. The helmets remained eerily intact—silent witnesses to the horror.

He crouched beside them with the elegance of a beast savoring its kill. “Such faithful suits,” he murmured, caressing Aisha’s yellow helmet with a finger. “Flattened. Softened. Stored.” He leaned closer, breath steaming her fogged visor. “Perfect for the next user. Slippery. Broken in. Smelling just right.”

He chuckled and turned to Rocky’s collapsed, flattened body, prodding the twisted edge of the rubber with a toe. “They’ll slide in easy. You cling like stretched latex to sweat. You reek of it. Waste. Drip. Nothing like fresh. You’re the after. The bottom layer. The stink that won’t wash out.”

From deep within the suffocating rubber—folded, crushed, helpless—Aisha’s mind howled. “ROOOOOOOOOOCKY—ROCKY—I CAN STILL HEAR YOU—PLEASE—PLEASE ANSWER—PLEASE—”

Her voice didn’t travel. It bounced around inside her, screaming against the walls of her rubberized prison.

Rocky’s thought-voice burst out in frantic echoes. “AISHA—I’M—I’M IN PIECES—I CAN’T—I CAN’T FIND MY ARMS—MY FUCKING ARMS—”

“WE NEED TO MORPH—CALL—CALL ZORDON—CALL THE TEAM—RANGERS—TOGETHER—WE’RE STRONGER—ROCKY—RANGERS TOGETHER—” she cried.

Rocky screamed harder. “WHITE RANGER—TOMMY—HELP US—KIM—ADAM—FUCKING—ANYBODY—WHERE IS EVERYBODY—WE’RE STILL HERE—WE’RE—STILL—”

“RANGERS—UNITE! CALL THE GRID! CALL—ZORDON—ZORDON—ZORDON—ZORDONNNNNNNNN!!” Aisha’s inner scream became a roar of static agony, stretching her sense of self to the limit, until words no longer meant anything.

“YELLOW RANGER—AISHA—REPORTING FOR DUTY—FOR—DUUUUUUTYYYYYYYYYY—AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Rocky tried to respond, but what came out wasn’t words anymore—it was a blaring, animalistic wail of identity lost, echoing in waves through the rubber fibers of what remained of him. “REEEEEED RANGER—ROCKY—ROCKY—RANGER RED—CAN’T—BREATHE—CALL THE ZORDS—CALL THE POWER—AAAAAAARRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

They screamed together. Not in unison. Not as a team. Just overlapping desperation, shrieking, howling, breaking themselves down trying to rally as Rangers—even when there were no bodies left to rally. “ZORDON—PLEASE—ZORDON—WE’RE STILL ALIVE—WE’RE STILL INSIDE—WE’RE STILL—WE’RE STILL RANGERS—WE’RE STILL RANGEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRSSSSSS!!” Aisha shrieked so long her thoughts fragmented.

“CALL—ZORD—TIGERZORD—DRAGONZORD—SOMETHING—TELL THEM WE’RE NOT GONE—WE’RE—FUCKING—HERE—AAAAAGGHHHHH—” Rocky tried to summon something, anything, through willpower alone. Nothing came.

Only Polluticorn’s laughter answered. He stood over their forms, stepping on the floor between them. The slight tremor from his hoof sent vibrations rippling through their rubber skins. The suits twitched at the contact. They still felt. “Look at you,” he cooed, dragging his claws along the yellow chest of Aisha’s deflated shell. “You still think you matter.”

He tapped Rocky’s helmet again. “You still think screaming will do anything. Oh, little hero-pets—don’t you get it yet?” He raised his voice to the rafters. “YOU’RE USED CONDOM SHITS!”

Inside, they didn’t stop. “RANGER POWER—ACTIVATE—WE HAVE TO—HOLD—ON—ROCKY—PLEASE—CALL IT—CALL OUR NAME—ROCKYYYYYY—”

“YELLOW—YOU’RE—STILL—AISHA—I HEAR YOU—DON’T STOP—SAY IT—SCREAM IT—RANGER YELLOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!”

“ROCKY—RANGER RED—RANGER RED—DEFEND—THE TEAM—DEFEND ANGEL GROVE—AAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH—”

“DEFEND THE POWER—DEFEND THE MORPHIN GRID—ZORDON—ALPHAAAAAA—AAAAAARRGGHHHHH!!”

Their screams became distorted, layered. Not just pain anymore—but a desperate attempt to hold on to identity, to burn their names back into the universe through sheer volume. Through madness. A digital screech. A glitching code of agony.

“AISHA—ROCKY—AISHA—ROCKY—AISHA—ROCKY—”

“RANGERS UNITE! RANGERS UNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE—”

Their thoughts blistered beneath the surface. Rubber nerves twitched like exposed wires. The helmets stayed still, but the twisted suits began to pulse again—not from life, but from reminder. From feeling. From memory. Aisha’s voice, locked in the folds of the yellow sheath, erupted in dragged, broken screams. “AAAAAIIIIIISSSHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—HELP ME—HELP ME—MAKE IT STOOOOOPPPPPP—ROCKY—ROCKY—CALL ZORDON—CALL ANYONE—PLEASE—FUUUUUUCK—”

Rocky’s helmet trembled slightly, fog surging against the inside of the visor. His scream followed hers, warped and repetitive like a dying alarm. “ROCKY—RANGER—RANGER RED—ROCKY—I’M STILL HERE—SOMEONE—FIND ME—FIND MEEEEEEEEE—AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!”

Their voices overlapped. They pleaded. They shrieked. They howled into the void. “ZORDON—ZORDON—ALPHAAAAAAA—WE’RE—WE’RE NOT GONE—WE’RE STILL HERE—RANGERS—TOGETHERRRRRRRRRR!!”

Polluticorn threw his head back and cackled with maniacal glee, voice cracking into hoarse barks of mockery. “Still calling for your shiny mentor?! Still think your little space ghost's gonna beam down and rescue you from your cum-soaked fate?!”

He stomped down between their twitching helmets, slime squelching beneath his hooves. “Newsflash, my little stain-rags—Zordon doesn’t save used rubber! He doesn’t fix what’s been filled, stretched, flushed out and hung to dry!”

He leaned close to Aisha’s helmet, tongue dragging along the curve of the visor. “Mmm. Still got that panic-glaze. So fresh. So fuckin’ fragrant.”

Rocky’s helmet buzzed with another wave of muffled, endless noise. “ROCKY—ROCKY—ROCKY—RANGERS UNITE—RANGERS—ROCKYYYYYYYYYYYYYY—AAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!”

“AISHA—CALL—CALL—CALL—MORPHIN—MORPHIN—GRIIIIIIIDDDDDD!!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”

“ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY—”