Boukengers: Mascots of Class 2-A!

Two Boukengers fall further. The rest try to resist, but seats become prisons and chalk draws new rules. Once praised for courage, they now beg for approval. Their tools? Labeled. Their pride? Marked incorrect.

If your role is obedience, is it still a lesson, or just discipline?

Special thanks to my loyal and royal patron friends:

Suko

Mindwave

Yuyu lu

A

Aimi

Nikos

Oddone

Nate Piburn

Nicholas Athallah

Jakob Feurhuber

泽凯 张

vladimirpootis

Tribe

Bethany

kasa41

Violet Fentenstine

Tuck Lee

Matthew Thom

BlueEyesWhiteDragon

fumitsu

kasa41

俊介 星野

にとり 河城

Russell shuey

Bayu Pramana

clanna

park jong

Dominic Kohtz

George Hellerman

Flutterheart10480

brkfstinamerica

darkrai1986

시우 성

Nathaniel Grayson

's 쭌

John Barten

Eddie Hauck

Ken K

Ty smith

Robert Terwillger

snb

Daniel K

Mike020578

Here’s your school report, Boukengers!

The bell didn’t ring.

There was no signal, no announcement—just the sudden eruption of sound: sneakers against tile, laughter laced with venom, chairs dragged out with purposeful screeches. The students were back. And this time, they didn’t creep. They surged in like a storm through shattered glass, a tide of gleaming uniforms and smirking faces, loud and triumphant, returning to the scene of their favorite cruelty.

They marched like conquerors, entitled and hungry, tones raised in cruel joy. “BACK SO SOON, FREAKS?” one girl called out. “HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR LITTLE TEST!” The room vibrated with their energy—mean, sneering, electric. They spread through the aisles like infection, filling the space with dread and suffocation.

The Boukengers didn’t move. They couldn’t. Each sat slumped at their desk, backs bowed like crumbling statues, breathing shallow and ragged. Their gloved hands twitched against the desk edges. Their helmets, fogged and slick from stale breath, became suffocating prisons. The moment stretched like rubber about to snap.

The first blow came without warning. A student walked up to Souta and slapped the side of his helmet so hard it rang like struck steel. His head jerked violently to the side, shoulders tensing as pain stabbed down his neck. “YOU NEED A BRAIN TO FAIL A TEST, BLUE!” the student crowed, followed by a backhanded smack to the back of his head from another. “CHECK IF IT’S STILL IN THERE.” They dropped his paper onto the desk with theatrical disdain, face-down like a corpse.

Masumi flinched as two students boxed his helmet with both palms, jolting him forward with a disorienting echo inside the dome. “BOOM! ANYONE HOME?” the first yelled. A second leaned over, breath hot against the back of his neck. “YOU WROTE A TRAGEDY AND STILL GOT A ZERO. MAYBE NEXT TIME, DRAW STICK FIGURES.” His test landed with a thud like a verdict.

Natsuki let out a small yelp as someone slammed a thick textbook against her helmet, the impact bouncing her head forward with a muted thud against her desk. “SORRY, DID THAT RATTLE ALL THAT EMPTY SPACE?” sneered a girl, flicking her test like she was discarding a receipt. “YOU TRIED SO HARD TO BE CUTE. IT’S JUST EMBARRASSING.”

Sakura’s helmet rang like glass as one student slapped her from the front and another rapped her crown with a ruler. “THE PINK PRINCESS CRACKED!” came the shrill delivery. “YOUR SCORE’S PROBABLY HIGHER THAN YOUR SELF-WORTH—WHICH IS STILL ZERO.” Her test was placed with mock gentleness as if pitying her failure.

Satoru received his last. Two sharp, controlled taps—one from above, one under his chin—measured, deliberate, like a judge delivering the final blow. “COMMANDER OF CLOWNS,” the student whispered. “YOUR BRAIN’S A BLACK HOLE, RED. EVEN YOUR FAILURE SUCKS EVERYTHING IN.” His paper was lowered slowly, lovingly, like a flower on a grave.

The papers waited, face down, radiating a terrible pressure. They pulsed in the air. Daring them.

Souta was first. He turned his paper with trembling fingers, peeling it up like a trap lid. The moment the number met his eyes—000—his breath vanished. In huge red marker, carved across the page: “INSIGNIFICANT.” The digits weren’t just numbers. They screamed. They etched themselves into his brain like acid. His vision tunneled. Then he shrieked, raw and broken: “NO! I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT! I DUG OUT EVERY UGLY PART OF ME AND YOU SET IT ON FIRE!”

Masumi flipped his with a furious jerk. “COME ON—” But the page stopped him. 000. Underneath: “CORRECTION: DELUSIONAL.” The letters twisted like knives. His body froze, every muscle seizing. “I RIPPED OPEN EVERY SCAR! I HANDED YOU MY GUTS! YOU SPAT IN THEM!”

Natsuki turned hers slowly, fingers shaking. 000. Beneath: “NOT CUTE ENOUGH TO MATTER.” Her brain split under the weight of it. “I LAID MY HEART ON THE FLOOR! YOU STOMPED IT FLAT! YOU LAUGHED WHILE I BLED!”

Sakura’s was adorned with a decorative heart. 000, centered in the pink frame. “TRYING TOO HARD.” Her shoulders heaved, fists curling over her lap. “I TORE MYSELF INTO RIBBONS TO LOOK RIGHT FOR YOU! I DRESSED MY PAIN IN COLOR! YOU CALLED IT A JOKE!”

Satoru turned his last. His page bled with black ink. 0000. Below: “BEYOND REDEMPTION.” His eyes dilated. The numbers tunneled into his cortex like poison. “I MARCHED INTO FIRE FOR PEOPLE WHO NEVER SAW ME! I LED NOTHING! I WAS A SUIT WITH A VOICE!”

The students clapped and laughed, shrill and merciless.

“YOU'RE TODDLERS IN SPANDEX!”

“CAN’T EVEN SCORE ON A TEST ABOUT YOURSELF!”

“YOU'RE COSPLAYING FAILURE!”

“GO BACK TO MAKE-BELIEVE—YOU’RE A WASTE OF FABRIC!”

Souta clutched at his helmet like it was caving in. “BLUE WASN’T CALM—IT WAS EMPTY! A HOLLOW PLACE TO STUFF SILENCE INTO!”

Masumi struck his desk hard enough to make it lurch. “EVERY HIT I THREW WAS JUST A PANIC ATTACK WITH MUSCLE! I NEVER FOUGHT—I FLINCHED!”

Natsuki curled into herself, tone frayed. “I SMILED UNTIL MY TEETH HURT! I BUILT JOY OUT OF BRUISES! YOU TOOK THAT AND CALLED IT PATHETIC!”

Sakura sobbed, tearing at her gloves. “PINK WAS MY ARMOR! I MADE IT A FLAG! YOU RIPPED IT DOWN AND LAUGHED AS I FELL!”

Satoru rose slowly, paper shaking in his hands like a shattered flag. “WE BECAME EVERYTHING YOU ASKED FOR! AND WHEN WE STOOD THERE, BLEEDING, YOU CALLED IT A PERFORMANCE!”

The students bowed in mocking unison. “WELCOME TO CLASS, FREAKS!” “YOU’RE FINALLY WHERE YOU BELONG!” “NOT HEROES. JUST FAILED PROJECTS.”

The Boukengers fell silent, chests heaving, souls burning. The numbers still glared up from their pages, etched into their memory. Branding them.

***

The numbers weren’t just on the paper anymore.

They were inside their heads.

Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.

Nothing.

The digits looped, spiraled, and echoed like mantras of failure. Their brains convulsed under the weight, sparks of resistance shorting out as if their neurons were being rewired by shame. The pounding in their skulls grew louder with each heartbeat. A pressure. A swelling heat behind their eyes. Their helmets became ovens, sealed chambers compressing their minds into madness. Every breath grew shorter. Every thought was foggier. What had once been focus and clarity, honed through battle and duty, was now a fractured echo. A mirror broke into pieces too jagged to hold.

Memories bled out of them.

SGS.

Gone.

The faces of comrades, missions won, caves explored, monsters faced—all ripped from the seams of their consciousness. It no longer made sense. The vivid memories dulled like faded ink in water, running into one another, until it was impossible to tell if any of it had happened at all. Their victories blurred into something fictional. Did they really wield power? Did they ever have strength? Was there even a world outside this classroom?

What once gave them strength now crumbled like ash. The warmth of camaraderie, the spark of bravery, the belief that they were something more—extinguished by mockery, by the black void of failure. All that remained was the crackling noise of their self-worth burning away.

What replaced it was a howl.

A howling void, shrill and cold, filling the space where courage had lived. It echoed louder than any monster’s roar, more deafening than any explosion. It came from within.

Sakura cried out first. Not in defiance. In panic. Her hands clutched her helmet as she swayed in her seat, her breath short and broken.

"I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" she screamed, her voice shrill with a desperation that scraped through her throat like shards.

Souta rose in a frantic stumble, arms outstretched, desperate.

"PLEASE! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT TO BE! I’LL DO IT RIGHT THIS TIME! I SWEAR! PLEASE!"

The class paused, the air pulsing with anticipation. Then came the mockery, slow and cruel.

"THEN KNEEL!"

"SHOW US YOU CAN OBEY!"

"IF YOU’RE GONNA BE NOTHING, BE A USEFUL NOTHING!"

Souta obeyed. A student's boot slammed into the side of his helmet, sending him crashing to the ground. He gasped sharply as the impact echoed inside the dome. He crawled forward, his limbs stiff and clumsy, but without hesitation.

"AAAHH—YES!" he cried, collapsing onto all fours. A second kick drove him further down. "I’M SORRY! I’LL DO BETTER! I’LL BE BETTER!"

Sakura took a trembling step forward, and a book struck her helmet from behind. She crumpled instantly, landing hard on her knees.

"AAGGHH! YES! I DESERVE THIS!" she wailed. Another student struck her shoulder with a ruler. "CORRECT ME! FIX ME! BREAK ME IF YOU MUST!"

The students surrounded them, taking turns. With each blow, the two sank deeper into submission, their bodies jolting, their minds sinking into the numb rhythm of obedience. Pain no longer registered as punishment. It became reassurance, structure, and a guide.

"THANK YOU!" Souta groaned as another foot pressed into his back. "THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME A CHANCE TO BE USEFUL!"

"MORE!" Sakura screamed. "I WANT TO UNDERSTAND! I WANT TO LEARN! HURT ME UNTIL I DO!"

They didn’t rise. They stayed low. Breathing hard, whispering between each attack. The tile beneath their gloves felt cold, but familiar. Safe, even. It was a surface they could understand. A position they could remember.

"Y-YES! YESSS!" Souta gasped, his body shaking. "I’LL BE YOUR FLOOR! I’LL BE YOUR TOY! I’LL BE ANYTHING!"

"THIS IS WHERE I BELONG!" Sakura cried. "ON THE GROUND! UNDER YOUR FEET!"

The students clapped and hooted.

"LOOK AT THEM!"

"OUR LOYAL LITTLE PETS!"

"SO OBEDIENT!"

They remained at the center of the classroom, heads bowed, unmoving except to obey. Their breath came in fast, shallow bursts. Their suits soaked from the assault, their pride burned away. The colors of their uniforms, once a symbol of identity and power, now looked faded and pathetic. Synthetic skins wrapped around hollow shapes.

"GOOD PETS KNOW THEIR PLACE!" a student yelled, delivering another kick.

"YESSS!" Souta screamed. "I’M YOURS! I’M YOUR FAILURE!"

"KEEP ME HERE!" Sakura shrieked. "DON’T LET ME RISE! I’M NOTHING WITHOUT YOU!"

The remaining Boukengers watched, stunned, immobilized by the mauled display.

Masumi’s fists clenched. He pounded his desk with helpless fury, but his tone broke when he shouted.

"STAND UP! GET UP! YOU’RE BOUKENGERS!"

"THEY’RE OUR TEAM!" Natsuki cried. Her hands were pressed over her visor, as if trying to block the truth from her vision.

Satoru sat still, his helmet tipped slightly downward, his hands motionless on his thighs. His breathing was even. Too even.

Souta and Sakura didn’t lift their heads. They knelt obediently.

"JUST TELL US WHAT TO DO," Souta murmured, his delivery ragged.

"WE’LL DO ANYTHING," Sakura echoed. "JUST... MAKE US WORTH SOMETHING."

No exam had been handed out. But the classroom had already become the test. The submission had become the answer. And failing had become the curriculum.

For them, there was no grading curve. No path back. Only the desperate hope that they would be allowed to exist if they stayed low enough, bowed long enough, silent and pliant enough—maybe, just maybe.

Souta and Sakura remained crouched on all fours, their suits scuffed and sagging under the weight of humiliation, visors fogged with the heat of breathless submission. Their helmets, once proud emblems of heroism, were now dulled domes of shame. The classroom moved around them with casual cruelty—students kicking them in passing, nudging them like animals too dumb to understand commands. The pair barely responded now, conditioned to the rhythm of mockery. They whispered quiet, self-punishing affirmations under their breath, believing every blow earned, every insult deserved. But somewhere, deep within, fragments stirred.

Souta’s fingers twitched as he pressed his palm against the tile. His breath came fast, panicked. “Sakura...” he muttered hoarsely. “Didn’t we... used to stand? Weren’t we taller than this?”

Sakura’s visor rose slightly, her posture faltering from the weight of submission. “I remember... light. Wasn’t there a cave? A gem? We... we held it together. We fought something. Didn’t we?”

He nodded slowly, as if remembering through fog. “There was red... and yellow... we were... what were we?”

“Bouken... Bouken something,” she whispered. The word was like glass in her mouth, fragile and barely there. Then a student’s foot slammed into her ribs. She recoiled with a cry.

“YOU TWO DONE TALKING TO YOUR IMAGINARY FRIENDS?” the girl barked, snarling. “IF YOU’RE GONNA YAP, DO IT WHILE GROVELING.”

Masumi leapt to his feet, tone slicing the silence. “SAKURA! SOUTA! DON’T LISTEN TO THEM! REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE!”

“WE WERE A TEAM!” Natsuki cried out, tears pushing into her voice. “YOU WERE BRAVE! YOU HELPED ME! YOU SAVED ME!”

“FOCUS!” Satoru’s delivery thundered. “SOUTA! YOU’RE OUR EYES! SAKURA, YOU HELD US TOGETHER! PLEASE! FIGHT!”

But then a sharp laugh carved through the tension like a blade.

One of the girls stepped forward from the crowd with confident authority, her uniform perfectly pressed, her posture regal. A golden pin gleamed on her chest: Class President. Her every step was practiced, poised, like a queen commanding the court floor. Her smirk dripped with disdain, and her eyes gleamed with the intoxicating power of control.

“Well, well,” she purred, stopping before the fallen Boukengers. “A little flicker of thought? Of memory? That’s cute. Maybe there’s something still rattling around in those dumb helmets after all.” She placed a hand on her hip and surveyed the classroom with theatrical smugness.

“You all know I speak for the class,” she declared. “As Class President, it’s my duty to maintain order, to correct disruption. And these two...” she nudged Souta with the toe of her shoe, “have disrupted the natural hierarchy.”

She leaned down slightly, voice cold and deliberate. “They’re not heroes. They’re pets. And now, they officially belong to us. Effective immediately.”

A cheer erupted from the students—gleeful, unrepentant.

She turned toward the blackboard and plucked up a piece of chalk with graceful disdain. “Let me remind you where pets like these belong.”

With no more than a flick of her wrist, she began to draw.

At first, it was a spiral—tight and neat. Innocuous. But her hand never stopped. The chalk dragged and looped, the curve widening, deepening, consuming the board. With every line, the spiral became more twisted, more jagged, as if the chalk itself was carving the shape into reality. The spiral grew like a bloom of mold on damp paper, expanding beyond comprehension. A quiet began to build. Students leaned in.

Then the chanting began.

Low at first. Barely a whisper.

Then louder.

“NO MORE HEROES. NO MORE CAPES.”

“SKINTIGHT SUITS ARE FOR FOOLS.”

“HELMETS HIDE NOTHING.”

“WE ARE REAL. WE ARE RIGHT.”

The blackboard glowed. The spiral shimmered with wrongness. Its depth pulled at the room like a drain sucking at the fabric of space. A sound grew—a wet, twisting roar, like lungs gasping in reverse. The vortex opened wide, pulsing and alive. The chalk lines twisted with a serpentine hunger, no longer two-dimensional. The board was no longer a surface. It was a mouth. A wound. A dimension of torment ready to feast.

Souta whimpered first, a high-pitched sound like a kicked animal. Sakura curled into herself, sobbing.

“NO—NO—PLEASE—”

“I’M SORRY—I’LL DO BETTER—”

Two towering students moved forward, brawny and grinning. Without warning, they reached down and seized Souta and Sakura, lifting them off the ground like limp dolls. Souta twitched, his limbs flailing weakly. Sakura kicked, her arms grasping at invisible handholds.

“PLEASE! DON’T PUT US IN THERE! WE CAN TRY AGAIN! WE’LL BE BETTER!”

The students laughed.

One leaned close, eyes narrow. “No more tries. You’re used up.”

Masumi shoved his desk, the metal legs screeching across the floor. “STOP! YOU CAN’T—YOU—” His tone broke. He reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, tried to summon something that no longer existed. Nothing answered.

Natsuki half-rose, trembling. “DON’T! DON’T PUT THEM IN—THEY’RE STILL—THEY’RE STILL—” Her legs buckled. She collapsed back into her chair, helpless.

Masumi stood shaking, then bellowed, “BOUKEN FORMATION!” Nothing happened. No flash. No color. No transformation. “B-BOUKEN ARMOR ON!” His tone broke at the end. “Where is it...?”

Natsuki clutched her head, whispering frantically, “Accel Mode... Accel Mode... Please... Accel—Why can’t I feel it?”

Satoru clutched his wrist, lifting it. “BoukenRed, deploy... deploy—SGS Command, respond! Respond!”

They called. And called. Each word thinner than the last.

“BoukenDriver—"

"Dual Crusher—"

"GoGo Ken—"

“Formation King...!”

Nothing. No spark. No flicker. No memory complete. Each phrase died halfway in their throats. Static, fractured recollections.

They turned to each other.

Masumi blinked through his visor. “Satoru?”

Satoru stared back. “I think I... I think I knew you.”

Natsuki reached for Masumi’s hand. “Weren’t we... something?”

Their connection fractured like a dream fading after waking. Satoru’s helmeted eyes scanning for an anchor. He reached for the memory of a morphing call, for the structure of command, for the ghost of something useful. There was nothing.

All the tools, the skills, the memories that once made them heroes—gone. Torn from them like wings ripped from a bird.

Erased.

They watched in horror as Souta and Sakura were dragged to the board. The vortex roared louder, the spiral now a storm of motion, filled with impossible geometry and burning color. Inside, shadows moved—too fast, too wrong to name. The edge of the board shimmered like a portal to a world without ground, without sky, without hope.

Souta screamed.

“I’LL FIX IT! I SWEAR! DON’T THROW ME AWAY! I CAN STILL BE USEFUL!”

Sakura shrieked, body bucking in the student’s grip.

The chalk spiral twisted open wider, a black hole gouged into reality by cruelty and command. The vortex no longer simply pulled—it devoured. A deep, roaring sound trembled through the classroom, like the floor itself wanted to collapse, as if this room, this school, was revealing its true shape: a place of punishment. Not just for failing students—but for fallen dreams, broken resolve, and forgotten heroism. It was a tribunal without justice, a ritual of humiliation turned cosmic.

The students lifted Souta and Sakura effortlessly, as if they weighed nothing, as if their struggles meant nothing. Their limbs flailed with pathetic resistance, not out of courage, but instinct. The battle had already been lost in their minds. Their bodies were just catching up. Their kicks lacked direction, their cries lacked hope. They were passengers to their own unmaking.

Souta was the first.

He screamed as they shoved him toward the board, his limbs kicking, his arms flailing in panic. “NO! PLEASE! PLEASE, I’LL FIX IT! I’LL FIX EVERYTHING!” he wailed, delivery cracking into raw sobs that bounced off the walls.

His helmet met the vortex first—pressed hard, agonizingly slow, into the swirling chalk lines. The surface hissed with contact, the lines spinning faster, forming rings that clamped around his head. The board groaned around him, the spiral twisting not only space, but memory. His body thrashed, but there was no escape. The spiral began pulling him in, shredding the fabric of his suit, bending his spine backward, distorting his form like clay beneath a boot. His gloved hands clawed at the air, at the edge of the board, scraping along the chalk-dusted surface as his balance gave way. His fingers left claw marks across the blackboard frame.

His kicking legs writhed wildly, his boots skimming the classroom floor. He clawed backward, boots kicking furiously in the air. His rear arched into the air, the shine of his spandex catching the flickering, pulsating light of the vortex. His frame shuddered with every inch consumed. The pressure crushed in bursts—ribs caving, joints twisting, a horrible crunch echoing in rhythm with his screams. It became the last thing the room saw before his legs were yanked with a snap—his body folding as it was pulled in deeper. The chalk howled as it consumed him.

“IT HURTS! OH GOD—MY BACK—MY RIBS—SOMETHING’S TEARING—I CAN FEEL IT BREAKING—MY BONES! MY BONES—AAAGH!”

Around the room, students moaned and cackled, their reactions mauledly gleeful. One leaned forward, gripping the desk with trembling fingers. “Listen to him! He’s falling apart! It’s beautiful!”

Another boy slammed his hand down, grinning wildly. “Did you hear the crack? That was real! That was bone! I think he’s breaking in half!”

A girl near the window giggled uncontrollably, whispering, “They look better this way. Bent. Defeated. Honest.”

The class president smiled wider, her tone almost sweet. “It’s what they were always meant for. Not suits. Not masks. Just pieces.”

Then Sakura.

They dragged her boots-first, her heels scraping desperately along the tile. Her fingers left smears of desperation across the floor, nails clawing futilely. “WAIT—PLEASE—PLEASE, NOT THIS! I’LL BE GOOD—I’LL BE GOOD—JUST DON’T—!” she shrieked, her tone climbing to a pitch of pure dread. Her sobs shook her body violently, her cries punctuated with gasps for breath that never came.

The Class President watched from atop a desk, arms crossed, legs lazily swinging, a queen observing her ceremony. Her expression was serene, unfazed by the violence. In her eyes gleamed something colder than sadism—entitlement.

“Let the lesson be clear,” she said calmly. “Even pretend heroes have limits. And they’ve reached theirs.”

Sakura’s boots disappeared into the spiral. Her legs vanished up to the knees. Her hands flailed outward, clawing, searching. Her visor turned toward her teammates, her face contorted beneath the glass.

“SATORU—MASUMI—NATSUKI—PLEASE!” she screamed, her howl warbling, each name more panicked than the last.

But the three were held down. Strong arms gripped their shoulders. More students pinned them, sneering, laughing, murmuring cruel encouragements. Masumi’s tone broke with rage. Natsuki’s screams turned into hoarse wails. The class president remained still.

“Watch them,” she said. “Watch what happens to liars. Watch what happens to those who pretend they matter.”

One boy howled with laughter. “She’s bending backward! Look at her spine—look at it twist! This is the best day of school I’ve ever had!”

A girl near the back clutched her stomach, breathless. “She’s still screaming! Still thinks they’ll save her! What a show!”

Sakura’s helmeted face twisted in a final, contorted scream. “IT’S CRUSHING ME—MY LEGS—MY ARMS—SOMETHING’S SNAPPING—PLEASE—HELP—PLEASE IT HURTS TOO MUCH—IT’S TEARING ME IN HALF—”

Her body bent backward, twisted unnaturally, pulled by forces meant to punish, not transport. Her suit stretched and tore at the seams. Her limbs shook, joints bending the wrong way. Bone and muscle compressed into the spiral’s grip, the sound of cracking echoing above the roaring vortex. Her hands clutched desperately at the air until her fingers bent back at impossible angles. Veins in her hands bulged, stretching beneath the gloves.

“WHY DID WE EVER PUT ON THESE SUITS?! WHY DID WE THINK WE COULD BE HEROES?! WHY DID I THINK I COULD MATTER?!” she shrieked. Her delivery dissolved into sobs, into screams without words, a raw gargle of pain and regret.

The chalk lines turned red. Bloodless but symbolic. A verdict carved in dust. The color seeped through the board like bleeding ink.

Masumi screamed and tried to rise, but his legs were locked. His hands trembled against the arms of the chair. “GET UP! GET UP! SAKURA! SOUTA! WE CAN—WE—WE CAN STILL—” but his words collapsed.

Natsuki sobbed openly, her whole body shaking. “THEY WERE—THEY WERE GOOD! THEY TRIED! THEY—PLEASE—SOMEONE HELP THEM!” She tried to lunge forward but was shoved back into her seat, her voice muffled by the palms pressing her down.

Satoru stared at the vortex, unmoving. His lips moved, but no sound came. He mouthed something over and over. A name? A command? He no longer knew. “Go... Go... Drive... Change...” The words broke into ash.

The spiral took the rest of Sakura in a single, violent pull. Her scream cut off like a switch had been thrown. The board flashed once. Then stilled.

Then silence.

Nothing but chalk dust floating in the stale air. Bits of pink and blue fabric tumbled across the tile like discarded wrappers. The blackboard no longer glowed, but its presence still screamed.

The board shimmered, satisfied. As though full.

The classroom was forever smaller, emptier. Time did not resume. No lesson continued. No teacher returned.

Something sacred had been torn away.

Masumi let out a long, trembling noise that began as a breath and curdled into a scream. “NOOO—NOOO—WE WERE TOGETHER! WE WERE A TEAM! WHAT IS THIS PLACE?! WHAT IS THIS SCHOOL?!”

Natsuki’s tone cracked open into a sobbing howl. “BRING THEM BACK! WE CAN FIX IT! I’LL RETAKE THE TEST! I’LL DO ANYTHING! JUST—JUST—BRING THEM BACK!”

Satoru shook his head violently, fists pounding against the arms of his chair. “WE HAD A MISSION—WE HAD A BASE—DIDN’T WE HAVE FRIENDS?! WHERE IS OUR WORLD?!”

Their helmets flickered with erratic pulses. The flashing scores—ZERO. NULL. REJECTED.—spun faster across their visors until the numbers blurred into light. Their heads snapped back with the force of it, bodies convulsing. Foam-flecked screams spilled from their helmets.

“WE’RE STILL HERE!” Masumi shrieked. “WE’RE STILL HERE, BUT THEY’RE GONE!”

“I CAN’T—THE LIGHT—THE NOISE—WHY IS IT STILL GOING?!” Natsuki screamed.

“THE CHAIRS—THE AIR—IT’S WRONG! IT’S ALL WRONG!” Satoru bellowed.

Their cries blurred into one shared, spiraling wail, the last thread of heroism snapping inside them all.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHHH!” Masumi screamed, howl breaking into jagged hysteria.

“AAAAAAARRRRGGHHHHHH—TOO LOUD! TOO MUCH!” Natsuki howled, her helmet jerking back and forth.

“AAAAARGH! I CAN’T THINK! I CAN’T STOP! I CAN’T ESCAPE!” Satoru shrieked, his scream ripping through the room.

And madness welcomed them like home.