Ohrangers: The Breaking of Ohranger Dogs

What followed was not war—but degradation. The Ohrangers were no longer protectors. They were enforcers now, their actions growing darker with each command. Lines they swore never to cross blurred into nothingness. What once horrified them became routine. But when the moment came that they stopped questioning their orders, something inside them died quietly. There was no more resistance. The Ohrangers weren’t falling anymore. They were becoming something else.

Do strong fists protect—or just break?

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Crash the system!

They had said what they were told to say. They had complimented the man who’d broken them. Some whispered it. Some screamed. Some choked on every syllable. But they obeyed. Each confession hit the air like a cracked bone echoing through a silent room. Each praise made their helmets feel heavier. Their mouths dryer. Their insides colder. Yet they said them.

It didn’t matter.

Because mercy was never part of Ryoji’s game.

He let the cheers die down. Let the last echoes of their broken voices fall flat on the concrete floor. The gang sat back in their chairs, satisfied and grinning, some clapping, others already replaying voice clips they’d recorded on scratched phones. Wakku tossed an empty can at Yuji’s feet, chuckling.

“That was sweet,” he muttered. “Now let’s make it stick.”

Ryoji cracked his neck. He moved slowly now—no rush. He had them. Every step he took echoed. His boots clicked across the stained floor as he circled the five trembling Ohrangers. He didn’t have to touch them. The artifact pulsed like a living brand in the room’s center, and they responded without command, like muscle memory rewired for submission.

“I told you this wasn’t about truth,” Ryoji said, voice low, hungry, practically cooing. “It’s about control. You think answering me wins you anything? You think doing what I say earns you kindness?” He stopped behind Momo, placing a hand on her shoulder—not comforting, not cruel. Just ownership. “You still think there’s a line I won’t cross.”

The artifact pulsed.

The scream that ripped out of her was high, raw, and wretched. Her knees gave immediately, and her arms bent upward as if pulled by invisible chains. Her helmet thudded once against the floor before she lifted it again, twitching like a shocked animal. Her body convulsed—not from pain, but from something deeper, more sickening. As if her soul was trying to crawl out and abandon her.

“I—I was obedient!” she wailed. “I did everything—I said it—I said you were the one—I d-didn’t lie!”

Ryoji smiled and turned. “Yeah. You did. And I liked it. But I don’t care.”

Yuji was next. His legs were already shaking when the second pulse hit. Not a scream—just a low gurgle, like breath caught underwater. His arms folded into his chest, and he collapsed sideways, body twitching in short, violent spasms.

Wakku whistled from his perch. “Aww, brain boy’s got a bad circuit.”

Yuji didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His helmet hit the floor and stayed there, the visor flickering faintly, his fingers tapping involuntarily on the floor like they were still typing.

Shouhei tried to stay upright. He roared, back arched, fists clenched. “I DID WHAT YOU WANTED!” he screamed into the room, his voice cracking like a whip. “I SAID IT! I FUCKING SAID IT!”

But the artifact pulsed again, and his spine locked. With a drawn-out scrape, his blue helmet pressed firmly against Wakku’s boot, dragging side to side in a slow, horrifying arc. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t even obedient—it was mechanical, pitiful, robotic, as if every ounce of grace and logic he once had had been broken down into animal instinct and humiliation. He didn’t even scream anymore. He just rasped.

Across the room, Momo was already staggering. Her arms jerked away from her sides, one trembling fist rising against her will as her gloved hand twined into a weapon against herself. She pleaded, her voice cracking between sobs, no longer the voice of a hero, but of someone trying to hold onto the last thread of self-respect. “I—I praised him! I meant it! I said I wanted to serve! I said it, please—don’t—”

But the pulse cared nothing for intention.

Her hand moved anyway, fast and brutal.

The slap against her helmet cracked like a gunshot, reverberating across the concrete lair. Her head snapped sideways, her balance gone, knees buckling. Then again—another slap, harder, sharper. Her visor tilted upward for only a second before her other hand joined the assault. She fell into a rhythm of strikes, sobbing mid-motion as her own fists pummeled her dignity into pulp. Her body convulsed between the hits, her words scrambled into a half-moan, half-mantra. “I love him—I love him—I serve—please make it stop—I’ll serve—just stop—”

Wakku laughed so hard he spit beer foam across the floor, pointing with a slurred cheer. “She’s beating herself into loyalty! What a fuckin’ keeper!”

Shouhei didn’t wait for his punishment. His body knew it was coming. He turned, trying to run, just two steps toward the shadows. But the artifact’s pulse hit like a blastwave, sending him tumbling to his side before his muscles locked in place and began moving him forward, inch by inch, toward a black puddle of spilled booze and grease near the trash barrel. He growled, spit frothing at the edges of his visor, trying to claw at the floor, to resist the downward pull.

“Not me—not like this,” he snarled, voice low and angry, before the pulse doubled.

His face slammed into the filth. His tongue slipped out from his lips as he screamed, only to be forced into the grime. One motion. Then another. Then again. Lick. Gag. Lick. Vomit. His body shuddered as his helmet fogged from breath and shame. He was crawling like a dog, licking refuse, not because he failed—but because it no longer mattered if he obeyed. The system punished by design. Not defiance—hope.

Juri had remained still, but her stillness wasn’t strength. Her hand was already shaking, knuckles cracking as it wreathed into a fist. She didn’t raise it with pride. She didn’t raise it with anger. She raised it with acceptance. Her voice barely registered.

“I’m good at following pain,” she muttered. “Good at giving myself what he wants... before he even asks...”

Her punch struck the side of her own helmet, so hard the metallic thud rang in her ears like a bell. She stumbled forward, only to reset herself and strike again—like a dancer trapped in a choreography of collapse. She dropped to one knee, fist raised in a trembling arc, and muttered again, “Better me than them... better me than them...” before she struck a third time and collapsed fully.

All eyes turned to Goro.

Ryoji didn’t give a signal.

He just stood and waited, knowing it would happen.

And it did.

Goro didn’t fall immediately. He resisted. Muscles locked. Teeth gritted. His visor aimed at the artifact like a man daring it to flinch. But then the pulse came—deep and invasive, not like a strike but a knife in the brainstem. His arms shot forward like he was reaching for a rope that didn’t exist. He dropped hard, knees slamming into the floor.

“No,” he hissed. “No—no—no—not again—”

His body kept moving.

Helpless.

Slowly, shamefully, his helmet lowered to the ground before Wakku’s other boot. It didn’t jerk. It didn’t slam. It just lowered. And pressed. And stayed there.

Goro, the OhRed they once followed, the leader of Earth's greatest force, rubbed his visor against a thug’s shoe. The scrape of steel on rubber echoed.

And Goro wept. Not loud. Not theatrical. But real. That silent, agonizing sob that came from a place he had never allowed anyone to see.

One final pulse cemented the scene, and not even Wakku laughed. He just whispered, smiling wide. “Now they know. Doesn’t matter if they bark or beg. This thing breaks everything.”

Ryoji turned toward the groaning, twitching pile of colored armor. They weren’t kneeling now—they were collapsed. Bent. Deformed by obedience. Still wearing their suits, but the people inside were shattering.

“No rewards,” Ryoji said. “No second chances. Just what I tell you to do. Forever.”

And the artifact pulsed again. Not as a punishment.

But as a promise.

For a long moment, there was no noise in the lair except the buzz of the lights and the soft, rhythmic hum of the artifact as it faded from golden radiance to an idle dullness—its job finished, for now. The gang didn’t cheer. They didn’t clap. Even Wakku, still half-drunk and jittering with adrenaline, only leaned forward with wide, blinking eyes, as if trying to burn this vision into memory.

Because this—this was no longer entertainment.

This was ownership.

The five Ohrangers remained where the pulses had left them. Yuji still on his knees, face down, shoulders trembling. His fingers twitched sporadically across the floor like broken piano keys, as if trying to finish a command that no longer made sense. He had stopped speaking minutes ago. Now he simply made soft, wet gasps behind his visor—tiny exhalations of someone who had reached the bottom of something far deeper than defeat.

Momo hadn’t moved since the slapping. Her arms were curled inward like a fetal shield, her entire frame shivering in a rhythm that resembled sobbing but came without sound. She wasn’t fighting anymore—not the artifact, not herself. Her body shook like a loose puppet, tension gone, sobs too exhausted to escape. Her helmet visor was fogged completely from within, and through the haze, her voice cracked—hoarse, high, and soft. “I’ll be good... I swear I’ll be good now... just tell me what to carry... I’ll hold it... I’ll wear it... I’ll be good…”

Shouhei lay facedown beside a dark puddle that wasn’t just grime anymore—his own blood had joined it, from where he’d bitten his cheek or tongue mid-seizure. He groaned, fingers clawing at the floor without purpose. His muscles still twitched from the artifact’s control, even though the pulse had ended. “Make me carry the weight,” he muttered, voice dazed and spinning. “I’m strong. I can carry it. I’ll break them if you want. Just don’t leave me behind. Please... don’t leave me…”

Juri sat with her back against the concrete wall, head slumped, her helmet tilted so far to one side it seemed ready to fall off entirely. One hand rested limply across her leg, the other still twitching as if it hadn’t received the signal to stop punching herself. Her voice was deeper than before, scratchier, raw. “I get it now. We’re not protectors. We’re tools. He uses us better than anyone ever did. Maybe that’s... all we were meant for. Better to be owned than to rot.”

And in the center of them all—Goro broke.

There was no quiet, no dignity, no last reserve of strength. The commander of the Ohrangers, the man who once stood at the front of every roll call, voice sharp and unwavering—he was now folded forward on all fours, helmet tilted downward, his arms shaking violently as loud, ragged sobs tore from his throat.

Not muted crying.

Not noble weeping, but loud, ugly, broken crying. “Why couldn’t I stop it—why couldn’t I hold on—why did I—why did I say it—why did I say he’s better—fuck—FUCK—I was supposed to lead them—I was supposed to—”

His voice cracked into a howl, his armored fists slamming the floor, again and again, with less power each time. “They’re mine—they were mine—my team—my—my—my—” The word lost meaning as he choked on it, repeating it like a dying mantra. “Mine—mine—mine—mine—mine—”

Until even that dissolved into gasping sobs.

The lair had been cleared. Crates pushed aside. Lights flickered above, casting harsh beams over the open floor like stage lights on a circus act. Wakku had even brought out a plastic megaphone he found during a robbery last week—cheap, cracked, and still sticky with someone’s old blood—but perfect for a ceremony like this. He leaned against a scaffold bar like a ringleader awaiting the show.

“Alright, time for the main event,” he barked, voice echoing through the warehouse. “Let’s show the world what color-coded obedience looks like!”

The five Ohrangers stood shoulder to shoulder at the center of the room, still suited, but visibly different. Their stances were low, twitching. Their helmets drooped. They didn’t look like warriors anymore. They looked like statues built to surrender.

And at the front of them paced Ryoji, hands behind his back, his coat swinging lazily. His voice, when he spoke, had the same playful cruelty as a schoolteacher with a ruler.

“You all know your roll call. You’ve done it a hundred times. Thousands. Posing for cameras, yelling out your proud little lines, fists in the air, all that hero shit.” He turned sharply on his heel, standing directly in front of Goro. “Well guess what?”

His tone dropped to a growl.

“This ain’t your show anymore.”

He walked back down the line and nodded once. The artifact pulsed—not with pain, but with readiness.

Their bodies straightened—not by will, but by command. Each hero lifted their head slowly, arms raised in twitching preparation for the poses they’d performed since day one. But the words in their mouths weren’t their own.

Wakku raised the megaphone with a crackling laugh. “READY? ROLL CALL, LOSERS! LET’S GO FROM THE TOP!”

Yuji’s helmet jerked sideways, and then his voice boomed—distorted and wrong. “OhBlue! THE BOOTLICKING BRAIN!”

His body twisted into a distorted salute before immediately hunching over to mimic licking the air, his tongue gagging audibly inside the helmet. The gang howled in laughter, some pounding on crates in rhythm.

Wakku pumped a fist. “YEAH, GET THAT FLOOR POLISHED, NERD!”

Momo went next. Her arms raised, then dropped limply to her sides as her voice cracked out through the visor’s comms, shaking. “OhPink… THE SLUT WHO SERVES…”

She crumpled mid-pose, forced to bend at the knees and extend her arms as if offering herself, hands trembling, head bowed. Her body didn’t resist anymore. Her sobs were nearly silent now, like distant echoes of a child left in the dark.

Next came Shouhei, voice still hoarse from the earlier punishment. He barked his line louder than the others, his own shame twisted into bitter defiance. “OhGreen! THE FIST THAT BETRAYS!”

He struck his gauntlet into his other palm—then jerked into a bow so sudden it made his spine creak. One hand clenched into a fist, but it trembled like a dog trying not to snap at its leash.

Juri’s voice followed, low and calm, but her legs wobbled. She struck her stance with muscle memory—but her heart was gone. “OhYellow… THE LOYAL LAPDOG.”

Without hesitation, she dropped to all fours. Her helmet tilted up, and she wagged her hips side to side, arms stretched straight, panting through her teeth like an obedient pet awaiting scraps. Her fingers even curled into claws.

And then—

Goro’s voice exploded from his helmet, unbidden, broken, pathetic. “OhRed… THE GANG’S LITTLE PUPPET!!”

He didn’t pose nor raise his arms.

He dropped, hard.

On all fours. He didn’t crawl.

He barked. Once. Twice. A third time.

Each one louder than the last, his voice snarling and cracking, reverberating in the warehouse like a lost soul screaming for a master. His gloved hands clawed the ground. His knees scraped forward. He arched his back and howled again. “ARF! ARF—!! AH—ARF—!! I’M A GOOD DOG—!!”

The gang lost control. Wakku fell off his perch, kicking his feet in the air. One thug threw beer into the air like confetti. Another dropped his phone from laughing too hard. Even Ryoji grinned—not with laughter, but with pure, cold satisfaction.

Goro barked again—his voice tearing from the inside. “I’M NOT YOUR LEADER—I’M YOUR DOG—I’LL LICK—WHATEVER YOU WANT—JUST TELL ME—PLEASE—!!”

And behind him, as if chained to his humiliation, the other four followed suit. Yuji dropped to his hands and knees, twitching with every breath. Momo fell forward, head bowed so low her helmet touched the ground. Shouhei snarled like a guard dog, chest rising and falling with desperation. Juri whimpered, crawling in slow circles, tailbone tucked in as if trained.

All five of them barking now, panting, whimpering, begging to be told what to do, where to go, how to serve.

And at the center of it all stood Ryoji. He simply leaned down to Goro and whispered the words that sealed their fate forever: “These ain’t rangers. These are strays. Mine now. Thugs in color-coded collars. Bark again—ALL OF YOU.”

And they did.

“Now you understand.”

His voice was calm. “You belong to me, because the world stopped needing heroes.”

He looked around the lair—at the broken warriors. At his cheering men. At the artifact pulsing like a heartbeat. “And now,” he whispered, “the world gets thugs instead.”

The gang began to clap—not wildly, not with cheers, but slow, rhythmic applause. The sound of something ceremonial. Their leader had won something far greater than a fight.

He had won identities.

***

The gymnasium shimmered with innocent hope. Streamers stretched from wall to wall like colorful spiderwebs spun by tiny hands. Children buzzed in rows, all dressed in tidy white-and-blue uniforms, their cheeks flushed with excitement. Crayon banners covered the walls, each one baring messages like "THANK YOU OHRANGERS!" or "HEROES PROTECT US!" A stage had been erected just for the event, adorned with painted cardboard cutouts of the five warriors, awkward but heartfelt, with misspelled names and star stickers.

And then—they arrived.

A double flash—red and pink this time—lit the wooden floors. The two figures stood tall at first: Yuji (OhBlue) and Momo (OhPink), suited, gleaming under the gym lights. The children screamed in delight, many leaping to their feet, clapping wildly. Several ran toward the stage stairs, arms full of gifts, letters, drawings. Teachers smiled, overwhelmed but grateful.

The heroes, however, didn’t move. Not right away.

Yuji’s arm twitched, the blue gauntlet spasming mid-wave. Momo’s head jerked slightly as if she’d heard a sound no one else could. Beneath their visors, their jaws clenched. Their chests rose and fell too fast. The artifact wasn’t in the room, but its control still pulsed through the circuits of their suits—like poison in the bloodstream.

“Please, everyone, give them space,” said a teacher cheerfully. “Form a line—remember, we want to say thank you one at a time!”

A little boy stepped forward, maybe seven, clutching a box wrapped in old wrapping paper with marker-written hearts. “For the Ohrangers,” he said proudly, handing it to Momo.

She took it. Her arms trembled violently the moment her fingers touched the box. Inside her helmet, she whimpered—just once—but it was loud in her own ears. The box was light. Full of folded paper letters. Ribbons. Drawings.

Yuji was already being handed a stack of fan art. “You’re my favorite,” said a girl with pigtails, offering a picture of the team standing victorious over a cartoon monster.

Yuji opened his mouth.

And then the shockwave hit.

A low, invisible thrum tore through their spines, their limbs jolting as if struck by electricity. Their suits shimmered faintly with a gold flicker. Both heroes staggered in place. Momo nearly dropped the box. Yuji’s free hand clenched into a fist.

Children gasped. Teachers tilted their heads, concerned but still smiling. Then Yuji walked forward toward the microphone set up at the edge of the stage. His gait was rigid and off, and his shoulders hunched unnaturally.

He reached the mic, breathing hard. He spoke. “Kids... listen up…”

His voice cracked. Something inside him tried to stall, to reroute. The artifact pulsed again—and his tone changed. Cold. Twisted. Strained. “Heroes are fake. We lied to all of you. We don’t care about your smiles. Your songs. Your pictures. This world isn’t for the kind. It’s for those who take.”

Silence.

Dozens of tiny faces blinked up in confusion. A girl in the front row slowly lowered her hand. Another clutched a paper medallion shaped like OhPink’s emblem.

From the side of the stage, a teacher stammered, “W-wait, maybe… it’s a joke? Part of a performance?”

Yuji turned his head slowly, mechanically, toward her. “You think this is a skit? No. This is real. This is what you raised them to believe. That symbols matter. That good wins. But it doesn’t.”

Momo had backed toward the trash bin beside the stage. Her hands shook as she stared at the gift box in her grip. Her knees locked. Her helmet tilted toward the children, still watching her, still hoping for some correction, some sign it was all pretend.

But the aura pulsed again. She screamed through clenched teeth. The box fell open. Letters spilled across the floor.

Then, slowly, her hands reached down, scooped them back up—and dumped the entire box into the trash.

Gasps erupted. A boy burst into tears. A girl shouted, “No!” and tried to run forward, but a teacher stopped her.

Yuji turned and kicked the bin. Papers crumpled deeper inside.

Then he leaned down to the edge of the stage, speaking directly to the row of children closest to him. “No one’s coming to save you. Not us. Not anyone. The sooner you learn that, the better. Be smart. Be ruthless. Or be dead.”

Momo was shaking violently now. Her hands twined into fists at her sides. A child near her reached out with a trembling hand and said, “Miss Ranger... don’t cry... we still believe in you...”

The artifact surged—not subtle, not distant. A visible glow lit Momo’s chest. Her arms jerked upward. And she screamed. “BACK OFF! I’M NOT YOUR SISTER! I’M NOT YOUR DAMNED ROLE MODEL!”

The child recoiled as if slapped, falling onto their knees.

A teacher raced up the stage steps, arms raised. “Please—this is too far! You’re frightening them—what are you—?”

Yuji spun on her. “They need to be frightened. Better now than when they’re lying in the dirt. Wake them up.”

Momo turned her back to the crowd, trembling, sobbing beneath her helmet. “I can’t—I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—”

The artifact throbbed once more, harder, and she straightened.

Yuji struck a match. He lit the bin.

The paper wreathed inward, blackening, crackling with the sound of a thousand dreams turning to ash. The flames rose higher.

Children began screaming now. Teachers gathered them in herds, shielding their eyes, shuffling them out. One girl stood frozen near the door, staring at the burning letters. “They don’t love us,” she said flatly.

“They never did.”

And Yuji—watching her—almost broke. Almost.

But he turned, grabbed Momo by the arm, and they both walked offstage, the sound of weeping and smoke filling the gym behind them.

The cafeteria, once a beacon of innocence and effort, was already unraveling by the time Juri and Shouhei arrived. They stepped into a space that buzzed not with excitement, but with cracking tension, as if the walls themselves were bracing for collapse. Teachers stood in tense huddles, faces pale, eyes darting toward exits. Children remained seated only because their fear had locked them in place. Several had already begun to cry softly, still reeling from what they had seen in the gym—the heroes’ betrayal, the fire, the words no child should ever hear.

One teacher, clearly the head of the event, stepped forward with her arms raised like a negotiator approaching hostiles. “P-please,” she stammered, her voice brittle with forced calm. “You don’t have to do anything here. The gym was enough. The children—they’ll forget. We’ll forget. We can still fix this.”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence. Juri’s visor tilted slightly, and for a moment, it seemed like she might speak back with reason. But her arm jerked suddenly, her body wracked with a visible shudder. Her gauntlet struck a lunch tray off the closest table, the metal clattering to the floor in an explosive punctuation of authority.

The children screamed.

One teacher let out a sob. Another grabbed a nearby student and pulled them into their arms. “Please,” the teacher whispered, “they’re still just kids.”

Shouhei stood frozen in place for half a second, lips trembling beneath the mask, fingers twitching like his body was begging for permission not to move. But the familiar shockwave pulse rippled through his legs, up his spine, and settled behind his eyes like a migraine made of static. His hand clenched into a fist—and in that instant, all restraint died. With a low snarl of effort, he slammed his palm down onto a lovingly prepared tray of “OhGreen” themed curry, splattering it across the floor and walls. It was no longer a meal—it was debris.

A wail erupted from the far corner. A little girl screamed, “He ruined my food!” and buried her face into the side of her friend. Another began to cry so hard they fell backward from their bench, clutching their knees.

Juri stepped forward, her breath shaky, but her voice sharp.

“You think we came here to eat your cute little rice balls? You think some stickers and thank-you notes undo the truth?” Her arm lashed out, knocking over a full row of trays with mechanical precision. “The world doesn’t run on kindness. It runs on domination.”

A teacher ran forward, waving her arms. “You don’t have to do this! We’ll take the blame! Please—just leave them alone!”

But Shouhei had already turned to the center aisle and was flipping tables now, his boots slamming into the tiled floor like drums of war. The careful arrangements meant to delight them were reduced to sticky, broken messes. Colorful cups burst. Sandwiches tore open like soft entrails. Every crash made another child sob, another teacher shout for help, another young heart twist with confusion and betrayal.

It was then that Yuji and Momo re-entered the room.

Their approach was silent—but it made the entire room shudder.

Momo’s posture was wilted, her arms swaying slightly as if guided by wind rather than will. Yuji walked straight and slow, his every step deliberate, calculated, and cruel. Though they wore no expressions behind their visors, their body language spoke volumes. They were no longer twitching. They were transitioning.

A teacher backed away as Yuji approached, knocking over a milk carton in panic. She held up a tray as an offering. “Here! Please—this one was made special. For you! We’ll take it home if you want it. Just don’t… don’t do anything else…”

Yuji stared down at it. The tray was decorated in blue-themed foods. Fishcakes cut into his helmet’s silhouette. A juice box labeled “For OhBlue 💙.” A cookie shaped like his insignia.

He reached for it.

And smashed it across the table's edge, sending a spray of rice and seaweed against the wall like a detonation.

“Is this what you think matters? This garbage? You should’ve taught them fear, not fandom.”

Momo, with glassy motion, reached toward a group of children still seated, paralyzed by fear. A young girl offered her a pink-wrapped sandwich with shaking fingers. “This… this is yours,” she whispered, voice quaking with hope.

Momo took it.

Then, in one sweeping, unnatural motion, she crushed it in her palm, let the pulp fall to the floor, and traced her gloved finger through it on the tile—leaving a red smear in the shape of a broken heart.

“We don’t eat tributes,” she said coldly. “We eat what we steal.”

A chorus of sobs broke through the air like thunder. Teachers began shouting. One ran to the intercom. Another pulled the fire alarm. The blaring noise only escalated the chaos.

Yuji spun around and let loose a blast of energy from his gauntlet. Not at a person—but at the decorations. The entire left wall mural—depicting smiling cartoon versions of the Ohrangers with the words “HOPE PROTECTORS”—burst into flames.

Juri and Shouhei moved to the center of the room, each grabbing trays and tossing them into the spreading fire like kindling. Their movements were quick now. Confident.

“Let it burn,” Juri muttered. “Let them learn what real power looks like.”

“No more banners,” Shouhei growled. “No more crayons. Just ashes.”

Children were being dragged out, one by one. A boy sobbed into his teacher’s leg, screaming “Why are they doing this? They’re supposed to be good!” His voice cracked so hard it echoed against the burning mural.

And then, as if on cue, all four stood together.

The artifact pulsed once more—not to command, but to reward.

They turned toward the cafeteria entrance, smoke rising behind them, screams still echoing in their ears.

Yuji grunted through his helmet. “Time to go. The fans got fed.”

Juri chuckled, low and bitter. “Feed 'em lies. Smash their dreams. Same thing.”

The teleport flare ignited beneath their feet—crimson, gold, blue, and pink shimmering together in a grotesque mockery of unity. As they vanished, their final sound was laughter—not joyous, but hollow, broken, and terrifying.

The cafeteria was left in ruin.

And the children of that school would never draw a smiling ranger again.