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Gingaman's Ginga Urinals!
🕑 Added 2025-02-15 03:35:46 +0000 UTCThe heroes became something else, something unnatural, something used. Fixed in place, unmoving, unseen, yet always there. Enduring, suffering, existing—because the curse demanded it. It fed off degradation, twisted their very survival into something unspeakable. Their pride, their will, their memories—drained away. They could still think, still feel, but courage faded into routine, heroism into dependency. They were not inspiring warriors anymore. Not even people.
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Flush it!
The arena quaked under the weight of the ancient spell. The magic sank deeper into the wall, the runes pulsing with a sinister glow. The dwarven crowd roared with excitement, their voices crashing over each other in a violent chorus of amusement and triumph. But within the shifting magic, the Gingaman’s world had collapsed into terror.
Their bodies weren’t theirs anymore.
They had always been warriors—muscled, trained, strong. Their suits had been symbols of their power, armor that had carried them through countless battles. Now, that armor was betraying them.
The first grotesque change came over Gouki the GingaBlue. His thighs locked apart, his knees bent into an unnatural squat, and his broad chest, once pulsing with strength, flattened and smoothed beneath a growing ceramic sheen.
His hands twitched, his fingers desperately curling as if trying to grab something, anything, but his palms had begun to harden. The material spilled up his arms, the blue of his suit glossing over into a sickeningly smooth, polished white.
"MY HANDS! MY ARMS—NO, NO, NO!!" His roar filled the chamber, but the dwarves only laughed, pointing at his trembling limbs.
The transformation rushed up his chest, and he felt the last strain of his muscles vanish as if the very essence of his strength was being drained from his flesh. His emblem—the proud silver crest of Ginga Blue—cracked, split apart like fragile pottery, and merged seamlessly into the ceramic.
He was losing everything.
"IT'S TAKING ME! MY BODY—IT’S NOT MINE! SOMEBODY STOP THIS!"
His legs, his powerful, towering legs, once capable of crushing enemies beneath his sheer weight, locked into place, his armor erasing all detail, leaving him featureless, inhuman.
Hikaru thrashed violently, his golden chestplate distorting, hardening against his ribcage. The emblem of the Ginga Bolt—his symbol of speed and agility—twisted unnaturally, the once-fluid lightning insignia warping into the growing ceramic sheen.
His elbows jerked violently, but they didn’t bend the way they were supposed to. His limbs were losing articulation, his joints no longer his to command.
He looked at his own legs, the fabric of his boots thickening, rising into rigid, glossy structures.
"My legs! MY LEGS!" Hikaru screamed, eyes blown wide in sheer, animalistic panic. "THEY—THEY’RE NOT MINE! THEY’RE—"
The final snap came like a breaking bone.
His once-powerful legs locked into permanence, no longer organic, no longer meant for movement. They were set in place, wide apart, like an installation meant to hold weight above it.
Saya let out a piercing shriek, her small frame quivering as the unnatural magic crawled over her thighs, her stomach, her arms.
The soft, fabric-like material of her gloves became unyielding, and the pink highlights drained away until only pale, gleaming ceramic remained.
She turned to her teammates, her face twisting in absolute horror. "NO—NO, NOT US! NOT LIKE THIS!"
Her breastplate, the symbol of her strength, cracked apart, its shape melting into the new, rigid surface, her body forced into a squatting position she couldn’t escape from.
Her fingers trembled, curling weakly, but the tips of her gloves fused together, losing all distinction of knuckles or flesh.
She tried to bend her arms, but they wouldn't move anymore.
"I—I CAN'T MOVE!" Her screams grew frantic, desperate, her voice cracking with terror.
She wanted to raise her hands, to push against the magic overtaking her, to rip off her helmet and scream at the world to let her go.
But her fingers—her hands—had been erased into smooth ceramic surfaces.
GingaGreen clenched his jaw, his body shuddering as he watched his friends become unmoving, sculpted horrors beside him.
His entire left side had frozen stiff, the muscles in his shoulder and biceps hardening into an unyielding, polished structure.
The fabric of his suit twisted, reshaping itself into something no longer meant for a warrior—no longer meant for a person at all.
His knees caved inward, locking him into an identical squatting stance, his thighs and calves losing all strength.
He forced a breath through gritted teeth, throwing everything into resistance, but his armor no longer obeyed him.
And then it took his chest.
The once-proud emerald crest of Ginga Green, the emblem of his strength and unity, fractured and fused into his hardening torso.
He screamed, voice cracking, his head jerking violently, but it was too late.
His body was no longer his own.
Ryouma the GingaRed was the last, his fingers still curling, twitching, trying to form a fist, trying to rally them one last time.
He wanted to call out to them.
He wanted to summon their weapons, their unity, their strength.
He wanted to ignite the fire in his chest, to break free, to remind them who they were.
But the magic had already consumed too much.
His legs froze, bent into a forced, wide stance, his calves fusing to the base of the wall, his knees locking, refusing to bend.
His torso cracked, his emblem warping, stretching, becoming something unrecognizable.
And then it took his arms.
The arena trembled, not from the shifting of stone, but from the force of ancient magic gripping the warriors of the Ginga Forest. The runes behind them pulsed like living scars, golden-red etchings that burned deeper into the walls, rewriting the history of the Gingaman in jagged, unyielding script. The heroes, once renowned for their strength, were no longer warriors standing against the enemy—they were trapped, their limbs pinned by unseen forces, their backs fusing against the cold stone, their armor hardening unnaturally into something no longer meant to move.
The first to feel it fully was GingaBlue. His arms twitched violently, trying to rip free from the suffocating force that held him in place, but the harder he resisted, the more his suit stiffened. The once-flexible material of his gloves, his biceps, his shoulders—everything began to gloss over, hardening into a smooth, ceramic surface, the texture no longer that of armor, but of something artificial, something permanent. His fingers curled inward, then locked in place, as if his very will had been drained from them.
His chest heaved, every muscle in his body burning as he tried to shake loose. "No—NO! My arms, I CAN’T MOVE MY ARMS!" His voice thundered in the arena, raw with terror. His shoulders bulged, the muscles thrashing under his suit, but the magic was already carving over them, sculpting his warrior’s frame into a motionless, squatting structure. His legs spread unnaturally wide, locking as the ceramic spread across his thighs, erasing the definition of his once-powerful stance.
"Gouki—!" GingaYellow cried out, his own body convulsing as the change took hold of him next. His knees gave way, but he did not collapse—his feet had already fused to the ground, the boots of his suit melting into the stone, blending with it as if he had never been separate from the arena at all. The glossy yellow material stretched over his thighs, dulling, polishing, making his legs rigid and unfeeling, locked in a forced, humiliating squat.
"STOP! STOP IT! NOW!" Hikaru screamed, his voice cracking, his hands clawing at his own body, trying to peel away the ceramic as it crawled up his waist, but his fingers stiffened mid-motion, freezing as if time itself had captured him in his last moment of defiance before forcing him into degrading squatting support pose. "I CAN’T—I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS—!" His head snapped up, helmet tilted, his entire body unmoving now except for his rapid, panicked breaths inside the visor. He could still see his team, still hear them struggling, screaming, failing.
Saya the GingaPink let out a strangled sob, her entire body trembling as she fought against the magic, but her limbs were betraying her. Her waist, once nimble and agile, was melting into a smooth, stiff surface, her torso losing all human flexibility. She gasped as she felt the Ginga emblem on her chest fading, the sacred symbol of her team, her purpose, her life, vanishing beneath the glazed, soulless surface consuming her armor.
Her arms jerked violently, one final rebellion, but her shoulders locked mid-motion, trapped as immobile ceramic. She was posed as nothing but a fixture, a fixture that could not move, could not fight, could not be a warrior ever again.
"Ryouma—PLEASE!" she wailed, her voice a raw, desperate plea. "I DON’T WANT TO—!" She tried to scream her name, tried to claim her existence.
"GINGA PINK—!"
Nothing.
The name was gone before she could finish it. The moment she tried to say it, her throat burned with searing agony, her mind rejecting the very identity that had once belonged to her. It was as if the world itself had decided she no longer had the right to be called Saya, or Ginga Pink, or anything at all.
Hayate the GingaGreen refused to give in silently. He twisted, his back arching against the stone, but the ceramic had already reached his spine, fusing him against the arena wall like a sculpture being finalized by an unseen artist. His breathing turned ragged, his jaw locking as the last of his armor dulled, polished into an empty, unfeeling shell. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, a trick, a strategy, anything.
He opened his mouth, forcing himself to shout their call, to say his name.
"GINGA—!"
The word refused to form. His lungs seized, his tongue felt heavy, his own voice no longer obeyed him. He gasped, sucking in panicked, helpless breaths, trying again, harder this time, with every ounce of strength left in him.
"WE ARE GINGA—!"
Silence. The words were there, but they would not leave his throat. He could feel them, trapped inside him, stuck in his mouth like a cruel joke.
His name. His team’s name. The identity they had fought to protect their whole lives.
Gone.
And now, only Ryouma remained.
The red of his armor had faded, losing its vibrancy, warping into the cold, unfeeling surface of the rest of them. His legs refused to move, his arms locked in rigid stillness, his once-powerful leader’s stance now reduced to a forced squat. His breath was ragged, his body screaming for movement, for action, for freedom, but nothing obeyed.
He could still see his team, frozen, deformed, erased, and he knew that this was it.
But he still had his voice.
And if he still had his voice, he could still save them.
He forced a final breath into his burning throat, clenched his teeth, and shouted with everything left in him.
"WE ARE—GINGAMAN!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the final rune pulsed, sealing the transformation.
A wave of agony tore through his body, snapping his jaw shut, locking his helmet in place, his last words swallowed by the magic that no longer allowed them to exist.
The world went silent.
There were no more screams. No more names. No more warriors.
The heroes of the Ginga Forest had been erased.
The Dwarven King smirked, rising from his throne as the crowd erupted into victorious cheers, celebrating their newest trophies.
Where five warriors once stood, there were now only fixtures.
Silent. Motionless.
Helmets tilted forever upward, trapped in the mockery of their last rebellion.
They were no longer the Gingaman.
They were just part of the stone now.
***
The arena burned with magic, the final stage of the ritual reaching its peak as the engraved runes behind each hero pulsed with an unnatural, radiant glow. The symbols, once ancient dwarven script, had fully transformed—each mark now bore the insignia of the Gingaman it had claimed, their own heroic emblems now forever seared into the stone behind them. Their existence as warriors had not been erased—it had been trapped, frozen, a cruel monument to what they once were.
The dwarves roared in celebration, but the heroes could still think and feel, their minds raging and screaming, fighting against the fate forced upon them. They remembered everything: the battles they had won, the people they had saved, the unity of their team, their unbreakable courage—it was all still there, burning within them, defiant.
But their voices were not.
Gouki was the first to try again. His breath heaved, his throat strained as he pushed with everything he had, forcing his mouth to shape the word that had defined him for so long. He felt the syllables form—they were right there, they existed, he knew them—yet his body refused to let them leave his lips.
“I—I am—” His own name lodged in his throat, the sound twisting into a shallow, suffocating gasp. His lungs ached, his chest swelled with pressure, but no sound emerged. He gritted his teeth, his entire body still screaming for movement, even as his limbs remained rigid, ceramic and cold. He could feel the blue insignia burning above him, pulsing, as if it were mocking him, claiming him.
He turned his helmet toward the others, his visors reflecting nothing but the light of the glowing runes, and tried again.
“Say—Saya! Hikaru—Ryouma! Haya—”
The names stuck in his throat, unspoken. The syllables tangled like invisible chains tightening around his voice, forcing them back down, suffocating the words before they could take form. His mind screamed, shoving the names forward with everything he had, but each time, they simply disintegrated, vanishing into nothing.
Hikaru gasped, his entire body trembling inside the glossy ceramic that had consumed him. He had never known fear like this, never known what it felt like to have words stolen while the mind remained awake, aware, fighting against the silence.
He tried, harder than ever before. His helmet twitched, the only part of him still free, still able to move just slightly—and he turned toward the others, desperation mounting in his muffled, jagged breaths.
“Gouki! Saya! We—We are—”
Nothing.
The magic pulsed brighter, the yellow emblem of his armor flaring above him, and his voice collapsed before the words could form. He gasped, his body instinctively trying to push air, to fight the silence, but it was like his own throat was betraying him. His voice had not been lost. It had been claimed.
Saya was crying, but not from pain. From rage, from defiance, from refusal to accept this silence. She knew they were still together, she could feel them beside her, but the silence made it unbearable. The bond that had once been forged in fire and battle, that had let them call each other’s names in battle without hesitation, had now been silenced by the weight of magic that refused to let them speak.
She forced a breath, feeling her chest tighten beneath the glossy ceramic, and tried again.
“Hika—”
It stopped. Her throat tightened, her breath clawed to escape, but no sound came.
“Ryou—”
Nothing.
She forced her mouth open, lips shaping the words, but the moment they should have left her, they were gone—not stolen, not erased, just utterly unable to exist in the air around her.
Hayate could hear them struggling. He could feel the effort, see their helmets jerking in slight, desperate motions, trying to call one another—trying to break free in the only way they had left. But as the runes burned brighter, their words decayed further, their voices becoming hollow, unfinished echoes, fragmented before they could even leave their throats.
And then it was his turn.
His voice had always been firm, steady, certain, but when he tried to call to them, it locked in place, the words thick and suffocating in his throat. He shoved against the silence, trying to force it out—We are the Gingaman! We are warriors! We are a team!—but every attempt broke apart in his mouth, turning to empty, useless gasps.
This was not forgetting.
This was being bound into an existence where the words no longer mattered, where they still existed, but had no power, no weight, no sound.
And then, there was only Ryouma left.
The leader. The warrior who had always stood defiant, always found a way forward, always carried them even in the worst of battles.
His legs were locked, his chest frozen in ceramic, his arms posed in their final stiffened motion, his helmet tilted upward, forced into its last, cruel mockery of awareness. He could see them, feel them, and knew they were still holding onto their courage just as he was.
And so, he forced one last breath.
One final declaration.
“WE ARE—GINGA—”
The runic sigils exploded in radiant brilliance, and the moment his voice hit the air, it collapsed in on itself, the sound shattering into silence before it could even take form.
The magic ripped the words apart, leaving nothing but an empty breath, a muffled choke, a dying, unfinished thought that never came to be.
His throat moved, but no words followed.
His lungs burned, but no declaration formed.
The last call of their team had been destroyed.
The runes above them sealed themselves, their logos forever emblazoned into the wall, the last reminder that these warriors had ever existed at all.
The Dwarven King stood, stepping forward as the crowd cheered in brutal triumph. He gazed upon his newest decorations, warriors who had once walked with pride, now nothing but fixtures, frozen in their last moments of silent resistance.
The Gingaman were still there. Their minds still burned with memories, with heroism, with everything they had once fought for.
But their voices were no longer theirs.
Their words were gone.
Their calls would never be spoken again.
They would never say each other’s names.
They would never shout their roll calls.
They would never declare their unity, their power, their courage.
They would only exist.
Trapped.
Forever.
And as the Dwarven King raised his goblet, grinning in satisfaction, the glowing runes pulsed one final time—not to mock them, not to silence them again, but to confirm what had already happened.
That the Gingaman’s voices were gone.
That their heroism was locked in stone.
And that their bodies, their courage, their names—had become nothing more than part of the wall.
A monument to a team that could never be remembered, only seen.
And never heard again.
***
The arena’s torches burned lower, their embers casting grotesque, flickering shadows across the vast, stone chamber. The dwarven crowd had settled, their jeers now replaced by a quieter, cruel satisfaction, the kind that came from knowing that true victory had been achieved. There was no further resistance to overcome, no warriors left to break, no enemy force still clinging to foolish hope.
Because hope had already been stolen from the Gingaman.
Their bodies were motionless, their suits hardened into polished ceramic, their forms sculpted into frozen positions that they could never escape from. The insignias of their heroism—once the very symbol of their purpose, their belief, their power—now burned mockingly above them, each rune pulsing softly, an eternal reminder that their legacy had been claimed by the stone, not by them.
And then, the runes spoke again.
The words began slowly, like whispers of ghosts, creeping through the empty silence of the chamber, but soon, they gained strength, their confidence ringing through the halls, bouncing from the walls, echoing with clarity and force.
"We will never stop fighting! No matter how strong the enemy, no matter how dark the night, courage will always shine through!"
It was Ryouma’s speech.
His voice was strong, determined, unbroken—yet he had not spoken it.
It had come from the red insignia glowing above him, the burning mark of Ginga Red etched into the wall, speaking his words in his stead, repeating them with a victorious, unwavering tone.
Below it, Ryouma struggled inside his frozen shell, his helmet trembling just slightly, the only motion he had left. His throat tensed, his breath shuddering in the confined, suffocating space of his visor, his lungs screaming to reclaim what had once been his.
"Nnnhhhkkh—hrrhhggkk!"
His mouth parted, the words inside him clear, alive, burning with his defiance—but his tongue refused to move, his jaw locked, his voice did not obey him. The magic still held him down, rendering his greatest declarations of hope into a jumbled, suffocating mess of gasps, chokes, and twisted syllables that refused to shape into real words.
And yet, above him, the walls spoke for him, flawlessly.
"Hope is never lost! So long as we stand together, we will never fall!"
The words that had once inspired his team, that had carried them through battle, that had given them strength in their darkest moments, now belonged to the stone, to the runes, to the magic that had taken everything from him.
The words would live on.
But he would not.
Gouki’s emblem pulsed next, and his own heroic speech followed, word for word, without hesitation, without struggle, without the effort he had always put behind his voice.
"Strength is not just about power! Strength is about protecting those who need us! A true warrior does not fight for themselves, but for the people behind them!"
His own words, his own belief, echoed back at him, loud and proud, while he choked on his own silence.
"Hhhggk—hhhkkhkkh—nnhhhkkhh!"
His lungs convulsed, his body trying to push the words out, to reclaim them, to speak his truth—but his tongue betrayed him, his throat clamped down, and the words rotted into meaningless noise before they could leave his mouth.
Hikaru’s turn came next, his yellow insignia glowing fiercely as the words that had once belonged to him flowed freely through the air.
"Even when we’re outnumbered! Even when things look bad! As long as we have each other, we’ll always find a way to win!"
His helmet twitched violently, his body trembling inside the ceramic prison, his jaw visibly trying to force itself open, to move, to spit the words back out, to take them back from the cold, merciless stone that had stolen them.
"Hhhggkkk—hhhaaaghhkkk—nnnhhh—!"
His voice cracked, but it was not a voice anymore—it was just noise, struggling against a curse that had already declared its victory.
Saya’s visors fogged from her erratic, panicked breath, her pink insignia glowing bright above her as her own words were spoken for her.
"We fight so that no one else has to suffer! We fight because we believe in a world worth protecting!"
Tears streamed inside her helmet, but she could not wipe them away, could not sob freely, could not even scream out the injustice of what was happening to her. She tried, forcing herself to shout through the silence, to make the words hers again, to call her teammates, to let them know that they were still together, still a team.
"Hhhkkhh—hhgghhaa—haaaggkk—!"
But the words would not come.
Above her, the walls shouted them back perfectly, gleefully, as if it had always owned them from the start.
Hayate’s insignia burned the brightest, and with it, the words he had always spoken with the quiet wisdom of a strategist, a protector, a warrior who always saw beyond the fight itself.
"A warrior does not fight for battle. A warrior fights for tomorrow, so that others can live free."
But he was not free.
None of them were.
He clenched his teeth, his entire body rigid inside the prison that had become his form, his helmet tilting ever so slightly toward Ryouma, toward the others, toward the voices that still surrounded him, but did not belong to them anymore.
He knew Ryouma was trying.
He knew they were all trying.
He knew that somewhere inside their own prisons, their minds were screaming their own words, trying to drown out the false echoes, trying to remember themselves, to hold onto who they were.
But the words would never be theirs again.
The Dwarven King chuckled, watching his new fixtures tremble ever so slightly, their bodies frozen, yet the small, helpless struggles inside them betraying their eternal torment. He turned to his men, raising his goblet in mock celebration.
"Look at them. Even in their silence, they still wish to speak. Still wish to fight. Still wish to inspire. But what do they inspire now?"
The dwarves roared with laughter, watching as the runic symbols above the Gingaman continued to speak their messages of hope, courage, and resistance, while the heroes themselves could do nothing but gurgle and choke on empty breath, unable to reclaim even a single syllable.
