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The Call Can't Read Rap Sheets (Power Rangers RPM)
I told the Ziggy muse that I would indulge it if it promised to be short and didn't spiral into a whole set of stories. (That being said, if this inspires you, please feel free to play in the universe.)
This is one of two fics for tonight, taking place in a universe where the morphers kind of took on Zecter qualities - in other words, they chose their users.
The Call Can't Read Rap Sheets
by Estirose
c 2011
Flynn sagged down on the couch. "That was a long day," he said, rubbing the bruise caused by the latest AttackBot. "The damn things are getting smarter."
Summer limped by him, having been hit in the leg during their battle. "I know," she said sympathetically. Behind her, Scott was taking out his frustration on the fridge.
"We must step up our methods to find Series Operators Black and Green," Dr. K said, his voice coming from the wall nearby. "Apparently the ones we have are inadequate."
Joining them, Scott said, "You mean, they rely on identifying people who pass by the place and hoping they try to come inside, without letting an AttackBot infiltrate the place."
"Is there any way to turn up the morphers' call?" Flynn asked. "I mean, see how much Scott here tried to ignore things. Maybe they need a little more volume." That was the problem with their morphers - somehow, they'd matched themselves with Operators, a side effect of whatever Dr. K had done to make them. At least they'd had the decency to 'call out' to the Operators in question, though it had been pure luck that Flynn had gotten curious and responded to his own call, after days of dreams of suits and the overwhelming blue. Summer, too, the same way. Scott had confessed to the same thing later, but he'd only come there to deliver something to Dr. K, and it wasn't until he'd gotten there that they'd realized what he was.
Somewhere out there, there were two people who were getting dreams of black and green and steadfastly ignoring them.
"Unfortunately," Dr. K said, "There is not. And those I have identified as frequent passers-by are either all steadily employed nearby, live nearby, or are unlikely for other reasons to be either Operator." He paused, and an image flashed up on the screen. "This, for example, is Ziggy Grover; he is a known criminal that was last known to be in the employ of the Scorpion Cartel. I sincerely doubt that a minor gangster would be chosen as an Operator."
"I see him a lot outside," Summer said thoughtfully. "Dr. K, can you be sure he's not?"
"Without testing the morphers on him, I cannot. But I sincerely doubt that he is Operator material. His passings may just be coincidence, or he may place some emotional value on this structure. Or he might keep some stash in the brickwork that we are unaware of; he seems to caress the bricks often, as he is doing now."
"You mean, he's outside right now?" Summer asked, heading towards the door.
"I sincerely hope, Ranger Yellow, that that was a rhetorical question...."
But he was gone by the time Summer went outside. "Ziggy Grover!" she yelled, hoping against hope that he'd stop and come to her. He'd looked in the security footage like she had before Flynn had invited her in - looking lost, trying to figure out what called her. "Come back here!"
There was no answer.
Summer sighed and returned to the Garage. "What were you thinking?" Flynn asked, though it was more curiosity than anything else.
"He had the look," Summer told him. She turned to face Scott. "The same look we all had. We don't know the selection criteria for the morphers, but I'm sure that they can't read rap sheets."
Scott facepalmed. "All right. I think this is a stupid idea, but if you're right, you're right. But how do we find him?"
"If he really is our Operator Series Green or Black, don't you think he'd come back?" Flynn suggested. "He's been coming here for weeks; he'll come back again. Don't think he has a choice. We never did."
"No," Summer echoed. "We never did."
She stared at Ziggy Grover's image and knew that Flynn was right. He'd come back. Eventually.
A few blocks away, Ziggy Grover peeked nervously over his shoulder. The woman's voice had sounded familiar, but he couldn't really place it. But her tone, well, he'd heard a lot of that. Even though Fresno Bob had let him go - after telling him he was too soft to be a mobster after the man had found Ziggy and the truck outside of the orphanage - some of the other groups still had grudges. He hated to imagine what they'd done if he'd managed to 'take off' with the full five million in medical supplies. As it was, he was still too bruised up from the last gang encounter to find out what he'd done to whoever was yelling at him.
As it was, he was sure the orphanage was grateful for his services, and he was just as grateful for a roof over his head, some food, and the occasional tiny bit of money 'unofficially' given to him. He liked trying to help the orphans, and he liked where he was.
Maybe he'd better avoid the place for a few weeks. Watch his steps. He wasn't sure why he kept coming back, but he was going to stop. Now.
Rubbing a bruise, he closed his eyes, mentally mapping a path back home. Maybe he'd take a nap when he got there; he was tireder than he thought. A field of dark green, the same field that haunted his dreams, crossed the back of his eyelids.
He shook his head, and banished the color. Straightened up. And walked away.
This is one of two fics for tonight, taking place in a universe where the morphers kind of took on Zecter qualities - in other words, they chose their users.
The Call Can't Read Rap Sheets
by Estirose
c 2011
Flynn sagged down on the couch. "That was a long day," he said, rubbing the bruise caused by the latest AttackBot. "The damn things are getting smarter."
Summer limped by him, having been hit in the leg during their battle. "I know," she said sympathetically. Behind her, Scott was taking out his frustration on the fridge.
"We must step up our methods to find Series Operators Black and Green," Dr. K said, his voice coming from the wall nearby. "Apparently the ones we have are inadequate."
Joining them, Scott said, "You mean, they rely on identifying people who pass by the place and hoping they try to come inside, without letting an AttackBot infiltrate the place."
"Is there any way to turn up the morphers' call?" Flynn asked. "I mean, see how much Scott here tried to ignore things. Maybe they need a little more volume." That was the problem with their morphers - somehow, they'd matched themselves with Operators, a side effect of whatever Dr. K had done to make them. At least they'd had the decency to 'call out' to the Operators in question, though it had been pure luck that Flynn had gotten curious and responded to his own call, after days of dreams of suits and the overwhelming blue. Summer, too, the same way. Scott had confessed to the same thing later, but he'd only come there to deliver something to Dr. K, and it wasn't until he'd gotten there that they'd realized what he was.
Somewhere out there, there were two people who were getting dreams of black and green and steadfastly ignoring them.
"Unfortunately," Dr. K said, "There is not. And those I have identified as frequent passers-by are either all steadily employed nearby, live nearby, or are unlikely for other reasons to be either Operator." He paused, and an image flashed up on the screen. "This, for example, is Ziggy Grover; he is a known criminal that was last known to be in the employ of the Scorpion Cartel. I sincerely doubt that a minor gangster would be chosen as an Operator."
"I see him a lot outside," Summer said thoughtfully. "Dr. K, can you be sure he's not?"
"Without testing the morphers on him, I cannot. But I sincerely doubt that he is Operator material. His passings may just be coincidence, or he may place some emotional value on this structure. Or he might keep some stash in the brickwork that we are unaware of; he seems to caress the bricks often, as he is doing now."
"You mean, he's outside right now?" Summer asked, heading towards the door.
"I sincerely hope, Ranger Yellow, that that was a rhetorical question...."
But he was gone by the time Summer went outside. "Ziggy Grover!" she yelled, hoping against hope that he'd stop and come to her. He'd looked in the security footage like she had before Flynn had invited her in - looking lost, trying to figure out what called her. "Come back here!"
There was no answer.
Summer sighed and returned to the Garage. "What were you thinking?" Flynn asked, though it was more curiosity than anything else.
"He had the look," Summer told him. She turned to face Scott. "The same look we all had. We don't know the selection criteria for the morphers, but I'm sure that they can't read rap sheets."
Scott facepalmed. "All right. I think this is a stupid idea, but if you're right, you're right. But how do we find him?"
"If he really is our Operator Series Green or Black, don't you think he'd come back?" Flynn suggested. "He's been coming here for weeks; he'll come back again. Don't think he has a choice. We never did."
"No," Summer echoed. "We never did."
She stared at Ziggy Grover's image and knew that Flynn was right. He'd come back. Eventually.
A few blocks away, Ziggy Grover peeked nervously over his shoulder. The woman's voice had sounded familiar, but he couldn't really place it. But her tone, well, he'd heard a lot of that. Even though Fresno Bob had let him go - after telling him he was too soft to be a mobster after the man had found Ziggy and the truck outside of the orphanage - some of the other groups still had grudges. He hated to imagine what they'd done if he'd managed to 'take off' with the full five million in medical supplies. As it was, he was still too bruised up from the last gang encounter to find out what he'd done to whoever was yelling at him.
As it was, he was sure the orphanage was grateful for his services, and he was just as grateful for a roof over his head, some food, and the occasional tiny bit of money 'unofficially' given to him. He liked trying to help the orphans, and he liked where he was.
Maybe he'd better avoid the place for a few weeks. Watch his steps. He wasn't sure why he kept coming back, but he was going to stop. Now.
Rubbing a bruise, he closed his eyes, mentally mapping a path back home. Maybe he'd take a nap when he got there; he was tireder than he thought. A field of dark green, the same field that haunted his dreams, crossed the back of his eyelids.
He shook his head, and banished the color. Straightened up. And walked away.