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Dekaranger Emergency: Twisting Minds and Allegiances!
🕑 Added 2025-01-31 10:38:17 +0000 UTCWith Jasmine’s powers under its control, the prison's evil entity manipulates the memories and perceptions of the other Dekarangers. Their sense of duty erodes as they begin questioning their mission, their trust in each other, and their true purpose, unaware that an unseen force is twisting their minds.
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The cold, metallic clang of the door slamming shut echoed through the narrow, oppressive chamber. Ban’s breath hitched in his chest as the lights overhead flickered on, casting harsh shadows that made the walls seem to close in around him. His wrists were bound to the chair by thick, unyielding restraints, metal blocks that pressed painfully against his forearms, forcing them into a position where he couldn’t move.
He struggled against them, his muscles straining under the pressure, but the blocks wouldn’t give. His SP License, once a symbol of his authority, now lay discarded on the floor beside him, lifeless, its once-vibrant glow extinguished. The familiar hum of the badge was gone, replaced by a disorienting silence that felt more suffocating than any interrogation he’d faced before.
“Ban… Ban… Ban…” A voice, distorted and hollow, echoed from the corners of the room, growing louder, as if the walls themselves were speaking his name.
He snapped his head up, adrenaline flooding his system as he tried to locate the source of the voice. “Who’s there?” he demanded, a growl hoarse but defiant.
“Who’s there?” The voice repeated, mocking him, stretching his words into something unrecognizable. “You’re trapped, Ban. You’ve always been trapped. And you can never escape the truth.”
Ban’s heart pounded. His thoughts spun like a broken wheel, dizzying him. This wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t. The station had to be playing tricks on him—just like it had done with the others. Yet, the restraints felt so solid, so real. They dug deeper into his wrists as he struggled once more.
The voice continued, soothing and cold, “You think you deserve to escape, don’t you? But you don’t, Ban. Not after what you’ve done.”
His breath caught in his throat. “What… are you talking about?” Ban growled, straining against the cold metal. “I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m a police officer—I protect people!”
“Protect? Protect? Is that what you call it?” The voice laughed, low and rumbling, as the lights above blinked erratically. “How many people have you left behind, Ban? How many lies have you told yourself?”
Ban's chest tightened. He knew the question was coming. He could feel it. The truth he had buried deep within his mind, the guilt that gnawed at him since his first days as a Dekaranger, came crashing forward like a wave breaking on the shore.
The room swam before his eyes, and the restraints seemed to grow tighter, heavier, until he couldn’t breathe. Memories began to flash before him. Faces—people he had fallen into despair to save. Suspects he’d locked up without ever truly listening. Those he had left behind in the name of duty, of victory. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push them away, but they wouldn’t stop. The doubts, the mistakes, they haunted him.
“I… I didn’t mean to…” Ban whispered, a growl faltering as the weight of his past crimes crushed down on him.
A dark chuckle came from all around him, echoing through the walls. “You didn’t mean to?” The voice mocked. “But you did, Ban. Every choice you made led you here. You think you’re a hero, but you’re just another prisoner in this endless cycle.”
Ban fought the growing sense of despair, but his resolve faltered. How many times had he fallen into despair others? How many times had his heroism been just a mask, a way to avoid facing the truth?
The room suddenly went silent, too silent. Ban’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, a drumbeat of panic. “What do you want from me?” He demanded, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m a hero. I’m a police officer. I’ve fought to protect people!”
The voice shifted. It softened, like a parental figure giving their child a stern but compassionate lecture. “You protect people, but who protects you, Ban? Who will save you from your own mistakes?”
Ban’s body went cold, the restraints on his wrists digging deeper into his skin. He wanted to scream, to yell at the voice, but his words were swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed.
His gaze drifted to the floor, to the discarded SP License, the one thing that had once defined him. Now, it was reduced to a useless, lifeless object.
He had fallen into despair.
Meanwhile, Hoji’s interrogation was also taking its toll across the station. He was strapped into a similar chair, his body rigid but trembling under the weight of the restraints. He was furious at the station and himself for allowing this to happen, but beneath the rage was something darker.
Soft and insidious, the voice echoed through the chamber, coaxing out his most profound doubts. “Hoji, you pride yourself on being the perfect officer, the perfect soldier. But deep down, you know you’re just as flawed as the criminals you hunt.”
“Shut up!” Hoji growled, his jaw clenched as he fought against the restraints. “I’ve sacrificed everything for this job. For justice. Don’t you dare—”
“You sacrificed your humanity,” the voice interrupted, sharp and cutting. “What’s left of you, Hoji? The badge, the uniform—those are just masks you wear. You’ve lost your identity in the name of perfection.”
Hoji’s heart skipped a beat, the realization sinking in slowly, like a stone dropping into still water. His entire life had been about perfection—about upholding the law, about being better than the criminals he pursued. He had made so many sacrifices, never asking if it was worth it. He never questioned if he was even allowed to have a life outside his uniform.
The restraints around his arms tightened painfully, and the voice laughed softly, almost pityingly.
“You wanted to be a hero,” it whispered, “but you’re just as trapped as the criminals you’ve sworn to hunt.”
Sen’s interrogation chamber was no different, but the pressure was more insidious. The cold, metallic walls seemed to shift and move, closing in on him as the voice pressed in on his mind.
“You think you’re innocent, don’t you, Sen?” the voice crooned. “You’ve been so dutiful, so perfect. But how many times have you lied to yourself? How many times have you bent the truth to fit your ideals?”
Sen’s breath quickened, his chest rising and falling with each strained inhale. He could feel the weight of his failures, of all the times he had let personal feelings cloud his judgment. The voice twisted everything. His victories, his proud moments—all turned into doubts, unrecognizable.
“No,” Sen muttered, shaking his head and resisting the thoughts. “I’m not like them. I’m better than that. I… I’ve done the right thing.”
“But how many innocent people have you hurt along the way?” The voice chuckled darkly. “How many choices have you made to justify your actions?”
The interrogation continued for hours, maybe days. Time no longer had meaning.
Umeko’s chamber was a mirror of her team’s, but more personal. The walls warped into her past, showing the faces of every teammate she had ever worked with—every mistake she had made. Each image flickered in and out of focus, distorting until she could no longer tell what was real and a lie.
“Umeko, why did you join the Dekarangers?” The voice hissed, slithering like a snake in her ear. “You wanted to be a hero, but you knew from the start you’d never measure up. You were always the weakest link.”
Her heart tightened. The restraints held her wrists tightly, preventing any movement, but it didn’t matter—she was already trapped in a web of self-doubt. The voice was right. She wasn’t as strong as the others. She couldn’t stand up to the constant pressure, the expectations.
Ultimately, they all came to the same horrifying realization: this wasn’t just an interrogation. This was the final verdict. They were being stripped of their identities—exposed, vulnerable—and left to crumble under the weight of their own guilt.
The station had done its job: they were no longer heroes. They were prisoners, shackled by the darkness of their own memories. The station didn’t need to ask any more questions—they were already defeated.
Their final fate was sealed.
The oppressive silence of the interrogation chamber pressed in on Hoji and Sen, their once-proud identities as Dekarangers now reduced to consumed as the cold, impersonal numbers branded into their stomachs. The harsh, artificial light seemed to burn away the last remnants of their identity, and the restraints on their wrists were a constant reminder of how tightly the system had ensnared them. Every moment felt like an eternity, stretching into a dark, hopeless future.
Hoji—now 4732, the once-feared DekaBlue, a perfectionist who had always been in control—sat motionless in his chair, unable to escape the relentless questions that tore at the fabric of his being. The voice in the room was more than just an interrogator—it was an insidious force, eroding everything he had built.
“Hoji,” the voice echoed, cold and calculating. “A strategist. The sharpshooter. The one who always followed orders, always stayed calm. But tell me, Hoji, what were you really fighting for?”
“I fought for justice,” Hoji said firmly, but a growl cracked slightly, the words hollow in his mouth.
The voice mocked him. “Justice? Or was it just a way to hide your fear of failure? You were never truly in control, were you? You were too afraid to admit that you were just a tool of the syndicate, fulfilling someone else’s orders.”
“No, that’s not true!” Hoji snapped, but doubt began to creep into his thoughts even as he said it. The voice had a way of twisting everything he had believed in, turning his strength into something weak, his precision into something manipulative.
The voice continued, “You thought you were part of something greater, didn’t you? That you were fighting for good. But all along, you were just their puppet. And now, what are you? A number. 4732. Just another cog in the system.”
Hoji’s body tensed, the restraints biting into his wrists as he tried to push back. “I’m not just a number!” he shouted, a growl desperate. “I am DekaBlue. I fought for justice. I wasn’t a pawn.”
The voice was unwavering. “You’re 4732. And that’s all you’ll ever be now. A number. A failure.”
Hoji sank back in the chair, his chest tight. His breath came in shallow gasps as the crushing weight of the truth began to settle in. His once-proud identity, name, and role as DekaBlue all felt like a distant memory now. The number on his stomach was all that was left.
Sen, the former DekaGreen, now 2021, sat in the same oppressive silence. He had always been the calm one, the cool-headed thinker, but now the voice seemed to crawl inside his mind, probing, twisting, and unmaking everything he had once believed.
The voice was relentless. “Sen. A strategist, a thinker. But for whom did you really fight? Who were you fighting for? Your comrades? Or was it always just about pleasing someone else? Who are you, Sen?”
“I am Sen,” he said, a growl shaking. “I’m a Dekaranger. I fight for justice.”
The voice sneered. “Justice? That’s what you told yourself, wasn’t it? But did you ever really stop to think? You were never your own person, Sen. You were just another tool of the syndicate, following orders, fulfilling someone else’s purpose. You were a tool, just like the rest of them.”
“No,” Sen whispered, shaking his head. “I fought for justice. I didn’t—”
“Didn’t you?” The voice cut in, cold and cutting. “You were 2021, weren’t you? You thought you were helping people, but you were just part of their plan. You were never fighting for anyone but them. You’re just a number now.”
Sen’s breath caught in his throat. “I… I’m 2021. No, I’m Sen!” he shouted, desperation creeping into a growl. “I’m Sen! I fought for what was right.”
The voice softened, but its cruelty was still unmistakable. “No, you didn’t. You fought because you didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t fighting for anything real. You were fighting to belong, to be part of something that wasn’t real.”
Sen felt the weight of the restraints tightening, and his chest felt like it was being crushed under the sheer reality of the words. He struggled to remember who he was before the suit, before the title of DekaGreen. But the harder he tried to grasp onto his past, the more it slipped away from him, as if it had never been real to begin with. “I’m Sen,” he whispered, the name barely a sound now, an echo of a person he couldn’t quite reach.
The voice echoed back, as if mocking him. “You’re 2021. That’s who you are now. That’s who you’ll always be.”
The air was thick with despair as Hoji and Sen, once proud warriors, were forced to confront the truth buried deep inside them. Their identities as Dekarangers had been reduced to consumed as a shell, a mask they wore for the syndicate. Their memories, their beliefs, their names had been twisted and erased, leaving only empty shells.
They no longer fought for justice. They fought for the syndicate, just as they had been trained to. But now, as they sat there—broken, trembling—they were no longer heroes. They were just numbers: 4732 and 2021, stripped of everything that made them who they were.
And in the suffocating darkness of the interrogation chamber, there was no escaping it. No fighting it. Their names were gone, replaced by the cold, impersonal numbers that would define them forever. The last remnants of their once-heroic identities were fading away, swallowed by the unrelenting force of the system they had served.
They were no longer Dekarangers. They were prisoners—empty and lost, with nothing left but the cold truth.
***
The interrogators’ footsteps echoed louder as they walked around the Dekarangers, now prisoners of the hellish station. Their bodies were stiff and unresponsive, shackled by thick restraints that locked their arms and wrists to the chair, preventing even the slightest movement. They had long since lost their identities, the metal blocks on their arms and the oppressive atmosphere of the interrogation chamber suffocating any remaining trace of their once-heroic selves.
With a heavy clang, the door to the chamber slid open. The voices in the room fell silent, replaced by the distant, unyielding hum of something far more sinister. The interrogators—dark figures in shadow—looked toward the helpless, nameless prisoners.
One of the figures reached down and slammed a heavy report book onto the table, its echo reverberating through the room. Inside that book were the remnants of their memories, now forever locked away. The pages were filled with the history of the Dekarangers—names, battles, missions, friendships—each entry now meaningless.
The voice of the interrogator rumbled through the stillness, cold and mechanical. “Your names are now irrelevant. You were once heroes, but now... you are reduced to subjects in my collection.”
The Dekarangers’ eyes flitted toward the interrogators, but none of them spoke. Their mouths were dry, their minds blank, lost in the fog of identity erasure. Their bodies were no longer their own, their senses dulled, their spirits crushed.
“Step forward,” the voice demanded, its tone unyielding.
One by one, the Dekarangers stumbled to their feet, their limbs heavy and unwilling, as if their bodies no longer belonged to them. The restraints that had bound them in the interrogation room faded away, but the weight of the erasure pressed on their minds, chaining them to the station. Each of them walked forward, feeling like they were dragged through a thick, invisible fog.
As they stepped into the dark corridor beyond the interrogation room, the floor wobbled beneath them, as if the very ground itself was unstable, hovering above a vast, eldritch void. Their every step echoed, but the only sound that reached their ears was the faint, distorted whispers of their names—now long forgotten.
Sen glanced down at his chest, his stomach burning with a searing, red-hot mark. It was a brand, a symbol seared into his skin—numbers, his identity lost. 3037. The mark pulsed, as if alive, feeding off his very being. The heat from the burn spread across his stomach, crawling up his ribs, branding him as consumed as a prisoner of this place.
He tried to speak, tried to cry out, but a growl caught in his throat. What was his name again? What was he? He opened his mouth, but the words never came. All that remained was the brand, glowing on his skin, a constant reminder of his fate.
“I—" Hoji’s voice cracked. "I can’t… remember…”
He too stared down at his stomach, where the brand had seared his skin. 2021. The number was all he had left. A cold shiver ran down his spine, wondering how long it had been there. He could feel the burning weight of it, the sharp sting of the brand as though it were still being pressed into his flesh.
“Shut up,” Sen mumbled, a growl distant. “I... don’t even know what’s real anymore.”
The others stood in silence, each one staring at their brands, each one facing the horror of their identity lost—reduced to mere numbers.
“I don’t… remember who I am,” Jasmine whispered, a whisper trembling. “I don’t remember… anything.”
“They took our names,” Ban said, a growl thick with disgust and disbelief. He glanced at his stomach, seeing the fresh brand etched into his skin: 4732. His stomach churned with nausea as he touched the brand, as though trying to grasp something he had once held dear, something that was now beyond his reach.
The Dekarangers shuffled forward, moving in silence through the endless corridor. The walls around them flickered, their surfaces undulating like liquid, and strange, impossible symbols appeared and vanished within the depths. The station itself seemed to pulse with a life of its own, alive and aware of its captives.
And then, as if answering their every doubt, the doors ahead of them opened, revealing their final destination.
Before them stretched rows upon rows of dark, featureless cages, each one hovering above an abyss that stretched into infinity. The bars of the cages were made of some alien material, blackened and twisted, as though they had been forged from the void itself. They were empty, cold, and endless.
The interrogators stood in the shadows, watching silently as the Dekarangers were pushed into their cages, one by one. The restraints on their arms melted away, but the cages themselves became their new prison.
The doors slammed shut behind them with a deafening clang, locking them inside. The cages shuddered, hovering above the void, suspended in some hellish limbo. The temperature dropped, and the smell of decay filled the air. The floor beneath them felt unstable, like the cages were about to fall into the infinite abyss below.
Ban slumped against the bars of his cage, staring into the abyss. “Is this it? Are we just... numbers now?” he whispered. “Is this our punishment?”
Sen’s hollow eyes shifted toward him. “We don’t even have names anymore. Just prisoners.”
The police station triumphed, feeding on the essence of what made them who they were. The cages swayed slowly, hovering on the edge of the abyss, waiting to drop them into the endless black. And so, they waited, lost, forgotten, nameless. The heroes were gone.
***
They had no names. Their costumes, designed for heroism, were now just restraints that marked them as prisoners, their tight, skintight suits glistening faintly in the dim, flickering light. The once-strong, vibrant colors were muted, as though the very essence of their powers had drained from them, replaced by the cold emptiness of the void they had been cast into.
The soft metallic clank of their movements echoed in the suffocating silence of the chamber. One of them, the one who had once been the leader, tugged at the metal shackle holding his wrists, his actions slow and sluggish. “What are we doing here?” His voice was hoarse, and there was an edge of desperation beneath his words, but no answers came. He couldn’t even remember his own name anymore, let alone the names of his team.
The nameless prisoners sat motionless in their cages, their once vibrant suits now dull and suffocating. The helmets they wore, once symbols of their pride and heroism, now sat heavy on their heads, obscuring their faces and their identities. They were no longer the Dekarangers, the gallant space police. Now, they were only numbers, lost and trapped in the unyielding cold of the eldritch prison.
The soft, rhythmic hum of the station surrounded them, a constant reminder that they were in a place that was not meant for heroes. The prison seemed to stretch out infinitely, a dark void filled with cold metal, eerie lights, and the ever-looming feeling that there was no way out.
“I was… I was the leader,” one of them said, their voice shaking with panic, eyes wide as they stared at the number branded on their stomach. “3037... that’s what they call me now. But I—I was a Dekaranger. I remember that. I led us to fight for justice. I led us to protect. We weren’t criminals.”
But even as the words left their mouth, the doubt gnawed at them. The numbers burned into their flesh, searing into their memories. Who were they now?
Anota whisper broke the silence, but it was softer, filled with confusion and dread. “I… I was part of the team too,” they muttered. “I had a weapon. I remember the fights… I remember protecting people.” Their voice faltered as they looked down at their stomach, their branded mark glowing faintly. “But now… I’m 4732. Is that what we are now? Just numbers?”
“I had… a sword! A sword, right? Was it a sword?” Anota whisper asked, their voice frantic. “I remember holding it… It was part of me. It had power! I used it!”
The word hung in the air like a death sentence, a constant reminder of their lost identities. They couldn’t remember the weapons they used, the battles they fought, or the victories they had celebrated. All they knew was the mark that burned in their flesh, the numbers that replaced their names.
“I had… I had a gun!” another prisoner said frantically, their voice rising in panic. “I remember using it, fighting with it. But I can’t remember anything else.” They gripped the bars of the cage tightly, their knuckles white. “What was it? What was I expected to do with it? I was expected to be a hero! Not this!”
But even as they screamed in frustration, the number on their stomach, 2021, pulsed hotter. The glow was no longer just a reminder of their prisoner status, but something deeper, something more dangerous. Was this the punishment they deserved?
“I remember…” a different voice began slowly, a tremble of panic beneath the calm. “We fought for justice. We fought for the good of the galaxy, the people we protected. I remember that—but now, we’re just numbers. Criminals.”
The word criminals echoed through their minds, bouncing off the walls of their cages. Each of them felt the sting of that word, even as it left their lips, even as they accepted it. Criminals. Were they criminals? Was this what they had become? Was this justice?
The brands on their stomachs burned, marking them as criminals, not protectors. Their numbers were seared into their skin, a reminder that they had fallen into despair. The system that they had once fought for—the law, justice—had swallowed them whole, and now they were lost to it, perhaps forever.
"How long has it been?" one of them asked, their voice hollow, cracked with a desperation they could no longer hide. Their hands gripped the cage's bars, but there was no way out, no hope left.
The leader, the one who had once commanded their team, slumped against the back of his cage, his head bowed. “I don’t know anymore,” he muttered. “It’s all… a blur. I don’t even remember what we fought for. I just remember…” He trailed off, the weight of the thought pressing down on him. “The numbers. They’re all we are now.”
A few of them tried to speak, their voices trembling, but it was clear to them all that the words had lost meaning. “What were we?” one whispered, the acceptance creeping into their voice. “We were expected to protect people. We fought for justice. But now… what are we? Who are we?”
At one time, they had been space police, sworn to protect the galaxy from crime and chaos. But the longer they sat in their cages, the more their memories warped. The very essence of who they were began to twist, like the station itself was feeding on their pasts, turning their identities into something alien, something dark.
"Remember when we were the Dekarangers?" one whispered, voice trembling as if searching for something that no longer made sense. “We fought… for justice. To protect the people.”
A low, almost mocking laugh came from another prisoner, their voice hoarse. “Protect the people? We weren’t police.” Their voice grew quiet, but their words hit harder than before. “We were a syndicate. A crime syndicate, running the streets. We stole from the system. We hurt people. We were criminals.”
“No,” another prisoner snapped, shaking their head, though their voice was weaker than they had hoped. “We were… we were space police. We were heroes. We fought against evil, against monsters. That’s what we did.”
But as the words left their mouth, the doubt crept in. The brand on their stomach burned with heat, and they instinctively pressed their palm to it, trying to soothe the searing mark, but it only deepened the confusion.
The nameless prisoners sat in their cages, their bodies stiff and uncomfortable in the tight, form-fitting suits that once represented their status as Dekarangers—heroes of the galaxy, space police dedicated to upholding justice. Now, the suits felt like prison garb, suffocating them, a cruel reminder of who they had once been and who they were now: criminals.
Their helmets concealed their faces, but it did nothing to hide the panic and confusion in their voices. The brands on their stomachs—3037, 2021, 4732—burned with an unsettling warmth. They were no longer the Dekarangers they once thought themselves to be. No. They were criminals. Members of the Dekaranger crime syndicate. Their pasts had been erased, rewritten by the prison itself, or perhaps by the twisted truth that had now become their reality.
One of them, the one who had once been the leader, muttered softly, a growl barely audible. “Dekarangers… We were… the Dekarangers, right?” His hand instinctively moved to his stomach, where the brand burned hot. “We were expected to be heroes… we fought for justice.”
A weak, trembling voice came from another cage. “Heroes? We weren’t heroes.” The words were bitter, hollow. “We were the syndicate. We fought for power. We were the ones breaking the law.”
The leader’s head dropped, his helmeted face hidden from the others. “No. We fought for justice. We fought to protect people. That’s what we were. That’s what we did.”
Anota whisper spoke up, this one filled with resigned bitterness. “We were the Dekarangers. But not the way we thought. We were part of a criminal syndicate. We were part of the system that controlled everything, made the law bend to our will. We were the criminals.”
“No…” the leader whispered, shaking his head slowly. “We were the police. The space police. The Dekarangers. We protected people.”
“But we didn’t protect anyone,” another prisoner said, their voice rising in panic. “We were the criminals! We broke the law. We hurt people. We fought for control, for power! We weren’t stopping crime—we were the crime!”
The leader’s hands gripped the bars of the cage, his knuckles turning white. “No. That’s not what we were. We… we fought together. We fought for good. We protected people.”
“But the Dekarangers were just a name, weren’t they?” The words came slow, like a creeping realization. “A name that made us think we were fighting for something good, something honorable. But the truth is, we were just criminals. We were part of a syndicate.”
A long silence followed as the truth settled in. The brand on their stomachs seemed to pulse with a sickening heat, a mark that they could no longer escape. The memories that had once defined them—their battles, their victories, the pride of calling themselves Dekarangers—were now shattered. They weren’t the space police. They weren’t the heroes they had once thought they were.
“I remember…” one of them said, their voice trembling with the effort to hold on to what they had believed. “I remember my weapon. I remember my team… we fought for what was right. We were the good guys. We were Dekarangers.”
Anota whisper interrupted, this one quieter, but edged with resignation. “Dekarangers? No. We were the ones breaking the law. We were the criminals. The syndicate.”
“But… we couldn’t have been criminals,” the leader stammered, a growl cracking. “We protected people. We—”
“We were the syndicate, and we didn’t even know it,” one prisoner said bitterly. “We were part of a group that manipulated the law, bent it to our will. The Dekarangers were never about justice. They were just a name—a name that covered up what we really were.”
The leader’s voice trembled with disbelief. “No… no, that can’t be true. We fought for something better. We weren’t criminals.”
“Maybe we didn’t know it,” another prisoner whispered, their voice quiet but certain. “Maybe we didn’t see it, but we were always part of the syndicate. We were never the heroes we thought we were.”
The brand burned hotter, and it was as though the truth of who they were had become inescapable, etched into their very souls. The Dekarangers had never been space police. They had never been the defenders of justice. They had been criminals, playing a role in a world that had used them, twisted them, until they became just another name in a long history of syndicates.
“Maybe this is what we deserve,” one of them murmured, a cold acceptance in their voice. “Maybe we were always criminals.”
“No!” the leader shouted, a growl breaking with frustration. “No, we weren’t criminals! We were expected to protect people! We were the Dekarangers! The space police! We were good.”
The words were weak now, lost in the growing realization. Dekarangers. The name felt foreign now, a lie that had been sold to them. They were the criminals they had once sworn to stop. The syndicate they had been part of had caught them, and now they were trapped in the prison they had fought to protect people from.
"We weren't the good guys, were we?" one whispered, their voice hollow. "We were the Dekarangers, but we were always just part of a syndicate. A criminal syndicate."
The words echoed through the cages, sinking in more profound than the brands ever could. The prisoners were Dekarangers no longer. They were criminals, trapped in a place they could never escape.
