Ohrangers: The Death of Ohrangers!

The end wasn’t loud. It was inevitable. By the time the Ohrangers realized they weren’t just following orders—they were enjoying them—the damage was already done. Their weapons, once symbols of hope, became tools of destruction and control. They returned to their home as heroes—only to erase it. And when the smoke cleared, they didn’t stand as protectors. They stood as servants, obedient and broken. When asked who they truly served, the Ohrangers answered without hesitation.

How do you bark?

Special thanks to my loyal and royal patron friends:

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Bark bark, Rangers!

The silence before the violence was the worst part. Juri and Shouhei stood side by side in their vibrant skintight suits, helmets hiding the tremble in their jaws, the sweat on their brows, the agony in their eyes. Across the street stood the modest precinct—three floors, fenced in, its front lot filled with cruisers and two uniformed officers walking patrol.

The plan wasn’t a plan. It was a command. And Wakku—spindly, scar-faced, constantly licking his lips like a vulture—was the one giving it.

He kicked open the side of the stolen van and leapt out like a cartoon hyena. His breath reeked of cheap beer and fried meat, and his voice cracked like it had never matured properly.

“Alright, ya armored meatbags! Time to play soldier, but MY way!” he howled, brandishing the artifact like a toy he barely understood. “Get in there, knock those bacon boys flat, rob their boom-boom closet, and paint the place like it’s your goddamn locker room!”

Juri didn’t respond. Shouhei stared straight ahead.

Wakku scowled. “Don’t gimme the silent routine. You’re not special anymore, you bright-ass action figures. You’re MY mutts now!”

He twisted the dial. The hum hit them like a pulse in their spines. Not pain. Worse. Compulsion.

Juri staggered forward first. Shouhei followed without a word. Their bodies moved in stiff compliance, their minds screaming, but their limbs weren’t theirs anymore.

“Make sure they squeal!” Wakku shouted after them. “None of that tap-and-run crap! I wanna hear bones hit concrete!”

They crossed the street.

The two officers noticed them instantly, confused but not alarmed. “Hey! Are you guys… Ohrangers?” one called out, hopeful. “What’s going on? Something happen?”

Shouhei’s gloved fist connected with the man’s throat before he finished the sentence. The cop gasped, fell to his knees, and was kicked down flat.

Juri moved faster. Her elbow slammed into the second officer’s face—bone cracked under her strength-enhanced strike. The man crumpled, dazed, then screamed as she twisted his arm and threw him across the cruiser’s hood with a sickening thud.

She could hear his whimpering. She felt nothing.

They walked through the station’s front doors without looking back. The lobby was small. A front desk, a hallway, two more cops sipping coffee, mouths open in stunned disbelief as two skintight suited heroes stormed in like silent executioners.

The takedowns were fast. Efficient. Cruel.

Juri swept the legs of one, then stomped on his knee. Shouhei slammed the other against the wall, fists pounding his vest until he slid down unconscious. No warning. No hesitation. Just violence.

The armory buzzed behind a locked door. Shouhei raised his fist and shattered the lock with one punch. Inside were racks of confiscated firearms, riot shields, stun batons, and crates of ammunition. He reached forward with trembling hands and began stuffing weapons into duffel bags that had appeared in his grip like magic.

Juri kicked over a case of tear gas, then another.

Her breath hitched.

This is wrong.

This is treason.

And still she moved. Still she obeyed.

When they exited, Wakku was waiting, crouched on top of a cruiser, arms out like a preacher. “YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!” he screamed. “My little power puppies got BITE!”

He jumped down and grabbed the bags, tossing them into the van. But he wasn’t done. “Now comes the fun part,” he cackled. “Let’s show the neighborhood what their heroes really think.”

He tossed Juri a yellow spray paint can, and handed Shouhei a red one. But that wasn’t the only order. “Bust every goddamn window in this yard,” he growled. “Cruisers, lobby, break room, I don’t give a shit. Trash it. Break their toys. Then tag it. Big. Ugly. STUPID.”

Juri didn’t want to move. But her legs turned. Her boot met glass.

The driver’s side window shattered. Then another. And another.

Shouhei pulled a baton from his belt and smashed the rear windshield of a cruiser with one heavy swing. The glass rained down like glitter.

He grunted. Then hit another. And another. Each impact numbed him further.

Wakku laughed harder with every smash. “Good, GOOD! That’s it! That’s what Sentai’s all about, right? Serve the people? SERVE THIS, PIGS!”

The two injured cops were crawling on the sidewalk now, one of them moaning in pain. Wakku didn’t even flinch.

Shouhei passed them. He didn’t help. He just moved to the wall.

Spray can rattling. His hand rose. He hated that it didn’t hesitate.

FUCK THE COPS

The red dripped like blood. Juri stood beside him. Staring. Then, slowly, mechanically, she raised her own can. DOG OF THE STREETS

Her tag curved slightly, too artistic for what it meant. Too practiced. It looked natural.

And that was what hurt most.

Wakku sauntered behind them, chewing on a toothpick, grinning wide. “That’s what you are now. Huh? Say it.”

They didn’t speak.

“SAY it, ya fuckin’ mascots!”

Shouhei mumbled it first. “I’m a thug…”

“What was that?”

“I’m a thug,” he repeated, louder.

Wakku turned to Juri. “And you?”

She stared at the word she’d written.

Then lowered her head. “…I’m trash.”

The hum in their helmets purred in approval. Not a roar, not a scream. Just a soft, comforting hum that told them they had done well.

That they had obeyed. That they were his.

***

Yuji stood at the far end of the corridor, boots grinding against broken tiles and shattered glass, his body trembling under the burden of decision. The smell of burnt circuits and blood filled the precinct’s stale air, but the worst stench was the one soaking into his suit—the rot of surrender, creeping in slowly like smoke. He had trained his whole life for precision. For tactical action. For clean solutions. And now he stood staring at a wall of computer towers humming faintly behind a steel mesh cage. Evidence terminals, footage hubs, backup systems—he knew what they were. And he knew what Wakku wanted him to do.

From the stolen earpiece lodged cruelly in his helmet, Wakku’s mocking bark ripped through his thoughts. “No hackin’ today, Blue-boy. No clickity-click. Don’t need the IT department—I need a blunt instrument. Rip it all out. Smash it. Make this place a fuckin’ ghost.”

Yuji shook his head, voice low and cracking. “I can’t. That’s not me. That’s not—what I do. I solve problems. I don’t create holes.”

But his feet were already moving. His hand reached out, gripping the locked cage bars. His breath came harder, his whole body shaking like he was underwater. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded under his breath. “Don’t make me use my hands. Please—don’t make me use my hands.”

The artifact pulsed again, a soft vibration that punched into his nerves like liquid heat. His vision blurred, colors bending inside the visor. Then something snapped, and he moved all at once.

He punched through the cage.

Fist met steel. The bars groaned, then crumpled. He grabbed the nearest computer tower and hurled it into the wall. Another screen—shattered. A backup drive—ripped from its mount, crushed under boot. His arms acted like pistons, methodical, unstoppable, as he reduced the station’s digital memory to ruin.

“I’M NOT THIS—I’M NOT THIS—I DON’T—!” he shouted as sparks erupted around him, but the words were powerless against the movements he couldn’t stop. When the last monitor burst in a glass and static hail, he crouched, panting, clutching his helmet with both hands. “This isn’t who I am,” he whispered. “This isn’t how I fight…”

A soft clink echoed behind him.

A can of pink spray paint rolled across the floor, tapping gently against his boot.

“Make your mark, hero,” Wakku jeered through the comm, his voice syrup-thick with glee. “You know what to write. Make it sing. Make it hurt. From the Ohrangers.”

Yuji turned slowly, shoulders sagging. His hands resisted. His knees locked. His voice was trembling, hollow, confused. “Not me… not me. I protect people… I was made to protect people…”

And still, he picked up the can.

He turned toward the clean wall near the exit.

And in soft pink lines that dripped like blood, he sprayed: OHRANGER OWNS THIS STATION

Each letter took a piece of his soul with it. His arms lowered as if they no longer belonged to him. The can slipped from his fingers. He stared at the words, unblinking, mouth agape behind the helmet. Nothing about the phrase felt like a victory. Nothing about the color matched the man who had sprayed it. It was a tombstone for something sacred.

Inside the van, Momo knelt on the bench seat, surrounded by duffel bags filled with looted weapons and gear. Each pistol she’d packed came from someone else’s hand—confiscated, beaten, stolen. Her hands had touched them all. Her job wasn’t violence. Her job was transport, containment, compliance. She hadn’t raised a fist, but she had carried the spoils of every blow.

She watched through the cracked windshield as Shouhei and Juri dragged more crates toward her, their boots slick with blood and grime. And she watched Yuji—twitching, shaking—as he staggered outside the main door, the word “Ohranger” still dripping behind him in traitorous pink.

Her breath hitched, stuttering as the weight in her chest crushed her from the inside out. “This isn’t what I joined for,” she said to no one, eyes burning. “I was supposed to lift people up. I was supposed to… be light…”

The duffel bag zipper screamed as she pulled it closed.

Wakku’s voice sang from the parking lot like a poisoned hymn. “That’s right, loot bunny! Stack that gear! You’re the pink pack mule of the year! Lookin’ good back there!”

She didn’t answer. Her visor fogged. Her lips trembled. Her arms felt like stone, too numb to move.

And yet—she moved.

She stacked. She sorted. She sealed.

With each completed task, the artifact in the glove compartment throbbed in pleased approval, like a pet being rewarded for tricks.

“All packed…” she said softly, then louder, “All packed… Boss…”

And for the first time since donning the suit, she didn’t feel like a ranger.

She felt like an accessory.

Goro stood stiff as steel in front of the wall-mounted radio, his back to the rest of the warehouse, facing the single link between himself and the team he once led. The artifact behind him pulsed like a second heart—hot, alive, and tyrannical—its rhythm synced not to his breathing, but to his obedience. He wasn't allowed to speak. He wasn't allowed to move. His helmet was fixed forward, visor fogging from the steady exhale of panic behind it.

Every time he twitched—every time a muscle dared to remember leadership, courage, identity—a fresh pulse of molten heat blasted through his chest, ripping down his ribs like lightning against bone. His body jerked with a stagger he barely recovered from, catching himself on the metal strut beside him. His gloves squeaked against rusted steel. His entire body shook.

"Just listen," Wakku had said earlier, almost sweetly, his filthy fingers tapping the side of Goro’s helmet as if patting a house pet. "You’re not part of the job today, boss-man. You’re the listener. You’re the fucking mascot."

And so Goro listened.

The radio spat violence. Not static—suffering. It carried the full horror of what was happening out there. His team. His comrades.

He heard the window shatter as Yuji kicked in the precinct side door. The gasping breath as Momo dropped another evidence bag into the van. The desperate, near-feral hiss of Juri’s spray can as she defaced a cruiser. The clatter of Shouhei’s boot against a fleeing officer’s face. The shouts. The crying. The barking laughter that followed.

Ryoji’s voice bled through it all, giving commands with casual glee.

"Pink, stack it tighter! Green, break that lock. Blue, you’re in logistics now. Yellow, tag the side! Big and bold—let ‘em know who runs this town!"

Goro flinched as each voice answered—not just in words, but in tone. Hollow. Shaky. Submissive. Worse, some now eager. He knew their voices better than anyone alive. And these weren’t cries of loyalty or pain. These were the warped echoes of teammates forgetting what they’d been.

He grunted through gritted teeth, head twitching to the side. His entire body strained to break form, to move, to do something, but the artifact’s throb seized his lungs like a vise. He gasped, armor clanging as his torso jerked forward with the pressure.

"Stop…" His voice cracked. "Please… stop doing this to them…"

Another wave tore through him. He slammed his fist against his chestplate, trying to knock the pain loose, but it only made the artifact behind him glow hotter.

"They're still fighting," he gasped, spitting the words between choking breaths. "You don’t see it. They’re still—still in there. Momo hesitated. Yuji’s voice cracked. Shouhei—he grunted like he was holding back… they’re still… themselves..."

The next pulse drove him to one knee. A scream slipped from behind his visor—sharp, high-pitched, involuntary. His body jerked, then froze. One knee down, his gloved hand braced on the ground. A position too familiar. Too practiced. His breath hitched.

The longer he stayed like that, the more wrong it felt.

Or… the more right it felt.

"You’re wrong," Wakku said through the radio. His voice wasn’t laughing now—it was unavoidable. Calm. Triumphant. "They’re not fighting. They’re thriving. You think your orders held them together? Nah. That was fear. But now?"

A brief pause.

"They get to let go. And you? You’re not their captain."

Another beat. "You’re the prize. The pet they left behind. You’re the trophy. That’s all you are now."

Goro staggered back to his feet, wheezing, shaking his head violently as if the words could be knocked loose. His arms twitched, fists clenched. He didn’t speak at first—he just stood, wobbling like a ruined statue.

But he was still up. "I’m still here," he growled, though the words scraped like sandpaper from his throat. "Still standing. I’m not… I’m not a fucking—"

Then it came. Not from the artifact. Not from pain.

But from within. A twitch in his throat. A rumble in his chest.

A bark. Short. Dry. Choked.

His helmet shook as he froze. Then, another bark slipped free. Louder. His shoulders hunched forward. His fists trembled. His body vibrated with shame and confusion.

"No," he stammered. "That—wasn’t me—I didn’t—"

Another bark. This one wet. Ragged.

Then the radio clicked, and Ryoji’s voice poured in from OhRed’s side. Smooth. Amused. Authoritative.

"Goro."

The helmet turned, slowly, like it had its own weight.

"You ready to own it?"

The pulse didn’t come from the artifact this time. It came from the voice. From the title, and Goro’s legs moved without resistance. He dropped to all fours again.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He barked. “OHRED—THE GANG’S LOYAL PUP! ARF! A-AARF!! WOOF! I—SERVE THE MASTER—!!”

The words spilled out like oil from a broken pipe, thick and fast and unfiltered. His hands patted the floor rhythmically as he began crawling toward the artifact, barking louder now, chest heaving. “I’M YOUR DOG—I SERVE—I SERVE—I SERVE—”

Ryoji chuckled. "Good boy."

And somewhere far away in the radio background, the others barked back. The roll call had been completed again.

***

The rooftops of the western district were quiet except for the occasional gust of wind pulling at the laundry lines strung between chipped cement walls. There was no siren, no villain to fight. Just air warm with sunlight and the scent of detergent and idle routine. And then—he landed.

A shimmer of residual teleport static flickered into nothing as Goro, still clad in the iconic crimson of OhRed, touched down without grace. There was no mission brief, no rallying cry, no team formation. Only orders. Only silence. And inside that silence—compulsion.

The artifact wasn’t present.

It didn’t need to be.

The thing had dug itself into him, threading through his nervous system like a parasite fed on memory and honor. And now, without even a signal from Wakku, Goro’s gloved fingers stretched forward, trembling not from hesitation, but from muscle memory that no longer belonged to him.

Cloth fluttered gently ahead of him. Lace. Cotton. Trimmed pastels. He didn’t blink. He didn’t think. His hand reached out and stripped a white bra from the line with the efficiency of a machine.

His own voice, muffled inside the helmet, burst out between clenched teeth. “I lead soldiers. I’m the face of a defense force. And now I’m—”

He stopped himself. Not out of realization. But because he was already grabbing another one.

A matching thong. He crushed it once in his fist, then stuffed it into the coarse burlap sack slung over his shoulder. The fabric felt warm. Familiar. And his body twitched with a silent shiver that had nothing to do with wind.

From the rooftop beside him, voices drifted through open windows. A family was having lunch. He moved away from the edge, not because he feared discovery, but because his body prioritized more unattended prey. The next clothesline held a variety of bras, light and thin—easier to steal quickly. He took them all. His fingers unpinned clips, tore fabric when resistance came. He was fast. Efficient.

He didn’t know who taught him to move this way. But clearly, someone had.

A door creaked open behind a nearby sliding window, and a woman stepped out to retrieve her drying garments. She paused, mid-step, at the sight of the red figure standing beside her half-full line, sifting through panties like a scavenger picking through gold.

“What… the hell?” she whispered. Her eyes widened. “Wait… are you—are you OhRed?!”

Goro froze.

The name rang like a church bell made of filth. Her voice carried confusion. Recognition. Betrayal.

He turned his helmet slightly but said nothing. And still, his hands moved. He pulled a salmon-colored bra from the line and dropped it into the sack. The woman gasped.

“You’re a Power Ranger,” she said, stepping back slowly. “You’re—what are you doing?! You’re supposed to be—”

Another piece of fabric tore in his hands.

“I don’t owe you answers,” Goro growled low, surprised by his own voice—bitter, degraded, mean.

She backed away and slammed the door.

He turned, and reached for more. His gloves now moved almost eagerly, brushing against sheer black panties that clung to the line. He hesitated—not because of morality, but because they looked more fragile. More intimate. Something cracked beneath his skin when he plucked them from the string and held them up to the sunlight.

He didn’t drop them. He tucked them into his belt.

“Nice taste, Captain,” Wakku sneered through the comm, his voice sticky with mockery. “Starting to appreciate the haul, huh? Bet you already know fabric weights just by feel. What's that—tulle? Maybe silk-spandex blend?”

Goro didn’t respond. He leapt to the next building without thinking. His legs acted with a practiced grace he didn’t consciously authorize. His hands shot out before landing, snatching a lacy violet pair as he tucked into a roll. He was hunting now, and it felt natural.

Another rooftop. Another scream.

Two college girls caught him mid-rip as he peeled a fabric stretch from a line near their balcony. One gasped, holding a hand to her mouth. The other stepped back, phone in hand, frozen.

“Is that him? That’s—he’s one of them, isn’t he? The red one?”

“He’s stealing underwear! He’s wearing a suit! That’s OhRed!”

Goro locked eyes with the camera lens for one brief second—before his hand pulled another pair from the line behind him, now moving automatically. The girls shrieked and vanished into the apartment.

The artifact’s phantom pulse crawled through his chest again, this time wrapping around his ribs like a hug. His breath grew heavier. His balance swayed.

“Can’t stop now,” Wakku said through the laughter. “You’re not finished. Bag’s half-full, Red. And I want my grand finale.”

Goro leaped the last alley gap and landed on a rooftop with a single laundry rack—one set of clothing. One line.

Folded neatly, placed gently on sun-warmed wood.

A young woman stepped out just as he reached it, her hand still brushing her hair behind her ear. She froze at the sight of him—of OhRed—now standing above her garments like a demon summoned through shame. Her lips moved, but no words came. Just a whisper of denial.

Goro’s hand extended. He didn’t give her time to run.

He snatched the topmost article—a translucent thong, warm from the sun—and shoved it into the sack. Then he ripped the towel beneath it and flung it to the side.

Wakku’s final command struck like lightning. “Time to show the district who you are now, Red. Let’s parade that trophy right.”

Goro stood there, barely breathing, sweat soaking inside the skintight suit. Then his fingers reached into the sack.

They didn’t hesitate.

They pulled out one of the thinnest, most humiliating pieces.

He tied it around his waist like a crude loincloth, the soft pink fabric drooping against the red skintight suit plating. It wasn’t even large enough to cover anything. It wasn’t supposed to.

He began walking—wide steps, hips swaying awkwardly from the imbalance of the cloth, like a cartoon pervert on display. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look back. He marched across rooftops in broad daylight, in his nation's armor, adorned in stolen shame, like he had earned it.

And in his earpiece, Wakku screamed with laughter. “Look at you! The people’s hero! The symbol of peace—now our sick mascot, walking around with lace between his legs! Oh, I wish the whole damn world could see this!”

As Goro stepped onto the final rooftop and dropped the sack by the teleport beacon, something deep inside him sagged—something that wasn’t spine or breath or will. Something final.

***

The warehouse reeked of heat, sweat, and the kind of victory that tasted like rusted nails. Goro rematerialized near the teleport circle, his boots unsteady, his breath labored inside the helmet. The delicate cloth still swayed around his armored waist like a filthy flag, the stolen pink undergarment snugged into a crude knot. His posture was straight, but it wasn’t proud. He looked like a man walking while drowning.

Wakku didn’t greet him with applause this time. He barely even looked up from where he leaned against a broken generator, chugging from a can and grinning like a satisfied hound.

“Well, well, well…” he muttered, voice coated in mockery. “Look who’s back from his panty pilgrimage. The prince of panties himself. Hope you enjoyed your little tour of humiliation.”

Goro didn’t reply. He stood frozen, still clutching the half-full sack, knuckles pale beneath his gloves.

Wakku stepped closer, smirk curling wide as he gave the sack a lazy kick—just enough to knock it from Goro’s hand and spill the contents out like a splatter of soft, shameful trophies.

“Here,” Wakku sneered. “Your prize, Red. Ain’t worth jack. Just your dignity. Keep it. All of it.”

Goro stared down at the heap.

A dozen colors. A dozen textures. Folded, rumpled, stretched, sweat-warmed. None of them his. All of them his fault.

His hand twitched.

And then moved.

He reached down, picked one—a white lace bra, still fragrant from the sun—and brought it slowly, reluctantly, toward his helmet.

His voice came out as a garbled mess of breath, tremor, and shame. “Nnn—nhh—I… I didn’t… no, I’m still… it’s not—it’s not me—but it’s—warm, it’s… I can still… smell the—”

He stopped.

Because he sniffed it.

Something inside him twitched like a spark hitting dry cloth. He dropped the piece instantly, letting it fall like it burned him, but his breath came faster, uneven, and his shoulders rose.

Wakku roared with laughter, tossing the can across the floor.

“Goddamn, you’re almost perfect. Still squirming, still twitching, but you sniffed it anyway. That’s the new you, Red. You don’t need the artifact anymore. You want it now.”

He clapped once, sharply.

The door to the back room creaked open with a groan. “Go. Your team’s waitin’. Let ‘em see what’s left of their brave-ass captain.”

Goro didn’t look up. He just gathered the sack again, slung it over his shoulder like a dead thing, and walked forward. The pink cloth still fluttered around his waist as he disappeared into the dark.

The door shut behind him with a heavy clang.

Inside the backroom, the air was thick with silence and unease. Momo sat nestled on a crate in the far corner, face buried in her hands. Shouhei paced in tight circles, fists clenching and unclenching. Juri leaned against a beam with arms crossed, eyes scanning every shadow. Yuji sat nearest the far wall, legs outstretched, helmet by his side, staring at nothing.

They looked up when the door opened, and they saw him.

Goro, the Ohranger warrior, stood there, still in skintight spandex-like armor, the cloth still around his waist like a trophy or a curse. The sack dropped beside his feet with a soft, crumpling thud, and the contents tumbled out in a pastel pile of humiliation.

No one spoke. Until Yuji, voice hollow, whispered, “Captain… what did they make you do…”

Goro didn’t answer right away. His breath came fast. The room swam. Every part of him felt blistered from the inside out. His hands hovered just above the pile.

“I walked,” he said finally, voice raspy. “I walked across rooftops like a collector. I didn’t even need to be told. My body just… knew. It wanted… to gather. It wanted to wear.”

Juri took a step back. “Don’t say that. Don’t make that sound… normal.”

“I’m not saying anything,” he muttered. “I just… came back.”

Momo whimpered, “That’s not who you are. That’s not who we are…”

Shouhei stared at the heap, then at Goro. “Why’d you bring it here?”

Goro’s eyes didn’t meet his.

“I didn’t want to carry it.”

“But you did.”

A long silence.

Then Goro knelt beside the sack. Not out of reverence. Not even control. It was just gravity. He reached into the heap again and pulled a pair—light blue, boyshorts, soft. He looked at them the way a man might look at a mirror after a collapse.

Yuji stood, fists tight. “We could still fight. We could break the lock, break the door, break the artifact—”

“There was no artifact this time,” Goro rasped. “I was alone.”

That crushed whatever hope Yuji had left. He dropped back to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Shouhei swallowed. “So what now? We wait? Until we’re next?”

Juri didn’t move. “Or do we just pick something and get it over with.”

The sentence hung in the air like a death toll.

Then Momo walked forward. Her legs shook, her eyes streamed, but her hands reached into the pile and pulled out a pair of pink-striped cotton underwear. She stared at it, her lip trembling. “I hate this. I hate all of this,” she said through clenched teeth. “But it feels worse pretending we’re still heroes.”

Yuji followed next. He grabbed a single silk pair and sat with it, fingers tracing the curve like it was evidence. Shouhei laughed bitterly, no joy in it. “Guess I’ll grab one before the good ones are gone, huh?” He took two. Folded them. Pocketed them. Sat back down.

Juri waited the longest. Then stepped forward. She grabbed a simple black bra and stared into Goro’s visor. “I hope you rot for bringing this to us,” she said. “But I’ll wear it before I ever pretend I’m still one of them.”

Goro didn’t argue. He just sat, the soft pile between them all, as the warehouse lights buzzed overhead and silence devoured what was left of the Ohrangers.