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Chapter 3
"Hey. You beat your high score," Summer praised, grinning as she came into the training room where Scott was wiping his brow with a towel. He hadn't said it, but she had a feeling the Team Leader had been steadily trying to lessen the gap between his highest score and their new Ranger Black's. The fact that their new Ranger had mechanical implants that gave him an edge apparently didn't register with the wholly human Scott Truman.
Ranger Red stood straighter, walking over to hit a button on the control panel to end the program. "Yeah." He leaned on the panel. "You know, though, if anybody should be in here, it should probably be the new kid."
She raised an eyebrow. "We're calling him 'the new kid' now? Because, I don't think I liked seventh grade enough to make a return visit."
His smirk was teasing. "You mean you weren't the middle school queen? I would've pegged you for queen."
"It was title-only," she waved it away, refusing to think back to a time when being "queen" was all and only what was important to her. "Besides, I like to think I've mostly outgrown the tiara. And how about you? Dumb jock?"
"The dumbest."
"Aha. Well, I like to think you've outgrown that, too."
"Oh." With fake surprise. "So you mean…we're like grownups now?"
"The world seems to insist." It was said as a joke, but mostly because it wasn't one. "Scott," she sighed. "You know you're not really angry at him."
He met her eyes. She liked it when he did that. Usually meant he'd talk straight with her. "No, I'm not angry at him," he admitted easily enough, crossing his arms and leaning back. "I'm angry about him, though. He shouldn't be here. It's not his fault, I get that, but that's the bottom line that I have to deal with. Kid should not be here. Him meeting up with Dillon? A coincidence. Him coming here with us? A mistake. Him becoming a Ranger? An accident. This," he gestured to their surroundings, "what we're doing here, is way too important to put in the hands of a guy we're not even sure we can trust, who's only here by chance, whose entire time here has been one disaster after another."
"So maybe he's not what we expected. Or required. Or…wanted. That doesn't mean he won't turn out to be what we need."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a little optimistic. Even for you."
She conceded that point with a tilt of her head. "Still. What would you have us do?"
"There's nothing we can do. We're stuck. I know that. Nothing I can do to change it now."
"Yes. Ziggy's the Green Ranger. There's nothing you can do about that. But you're the team lead. There's a lot you can do to affect the way he fits into this group. If you make him think he's not a part of it, he won't be a part of it."
He raised both eyebrows. "So you're saying you want me to buddy up to him? Because hand-holding isn't really my forte. And like you said, this isn't seventh grade. This isn't about friendship or…popularity, whatever. This is about the survival of what's left of humanity. And you've met Ziggy, right?"
"This isn't about friendship? Scott. You, Flynn, and I have been a team for a year. We've done more than fight beside each other. We live together, work together, play together. Do you think we'd have been nearly as effective as a unit if we didn't care about each other? If at the end of the day we didn't know there'd be two other people who understand us better than anyone else? The three of us are good together out there because we're good together in here. So if you think our success has nothing to do with friendship…"
"Yeah. I hear you."
"You're a leader. You teach; you train. You lead. You get the best out of your people. How is this different?"
"It's…not," Scott sighed. "Look it's not that I don't like the guy. I didn't have a problem with him staying here. But he's not prepared to do what we do. He'll be walking into battle with us. Our gear protects us from a lot, but not from everything. I don't know if I can fight Venjix and watch out for him at the same time. Feels like something bad's gonna happen. You and Flynn and Dillon I can trust to keep yourselves safe. Ziggy's different. I can do my best to have his back, but I can't promise my best will always be good enough." He looked away at things she couldn't see. "Sometimes it's not."
She remembered the person she'd met a year ago. Brave and strong. And mourning. He was still mourning. But he stood straighter now at least, and there was the odd occasion when he smiled. "That's a little cynical," she said gently. "Even for you." He crossed his arms, directing a tiny, soft grin at the floor. "Part of being a team?" she said. "We all have each other's backs. That's how that works."
"He's not ready."
"Neither were we. So what if nobody ever thought Ziggy would be a Ranger. Nobody would've thought I'd be one either until you guys came along. Nobody believed you'd be one until us. Nobody believed Flynn would be one until us. Nobody believed Dillon would be one. Until us."
"Huh." He smirked. "We really are a bunch of rejects, aren't we?"
"Throw-backs. Outcasts," Summer nodded, grinning. "Mmhm. That's us. Misfits of the surviving human population, thrown together to save what's left of the world. It's sort of epic if you think about it."
"I really hate thinking about it."
"I don't think any of us ever really belonged out there. But we've all had that in common. That's probably why we fit so well in here. Apparently you have to have a little freak in you to qualify as a Ranger."
"Awesome. So what am I worried about? Ziggy should fit right in."
"Hey. You two want to go out for a bit?" They both looked over as Flynn's lilting voice called from the doorway. "Ice cream feels appropriate."
Scott pushed off the control panel. "Sounds good to me. Where're Ziggy and Dillon? They coming?"
Flynn shrugged. "I didn't see them. I'll check upstairs."
"They left," Summer cut in. "Kind of in a hurry, actually. Didn't say where they were going. Or when they'd be back. Neither of them seemed particularly cheery."
"I think I may know why," Dr. K surprised them. Summer did wonder how often their employer listened in on what they were saying.
"Why's that?" Scott asked.
"When the five of you returned, I noticed a fluctuation of the voice pattern of our newly named Ranger Operator Series Green that seemed more extensive than what may be considered normal even under admittedly stressful conditions. When morphed, the Ranger Suits track data of the Operators' physical condition. When I went back and reevaluated this data, I was able to locate an increased output of adrenaline at the point of morphing in Series Green. This led to further study in which I found physical trauma to one of the left proximal metacarpals, most probably the lunate, though that is partially conjecture as the suits' physical monitors are not as yet that precise."
Flynn looked from Summer to Scott. "So what you're saying is…Ziggy's hurt?"
"Yes, Ranger Operator Series Blue. That is, in the simplest terms, what I am trying to convey." If Summer didn't know any better, she'd have thought the dry, mechanical voice sounded a little bit like guilt.
"Hurt where was it now?" Flynn asked.
"The left proximal…"
"Layman's terms, Doctor."
"His wrist, Ranger Blue. I believe he has dislocated his wrist."
"And he was hurt when he morphed the first time? He did all that with a bum wrist?" Flynn made a face. "That's a bad day by anyone's terms."
"He didn't say anything," Scott argued. "If he was hurt, he would've said something."
"Why would he tell us?" Summer asked. She felt two sets of eyes on her. Two sets of eyes and probably a camera feeding to their illusive instructor's set of eyes. "Why should he trust us any more than we've trusted him?" She sighed. "No wonder Dillon was upset."
"You believe Series Black has escorted Series Green to seek medical attention?"
"That's my bet," Summer nodded.
There was a pause, and if Summer didn't know any better, she would've categorized the next sound as a huff, and then it was logic and method and still sounded like guilt. "It is proper procedure to immediately report any physical injury or illness to one's superiors in order that the correct measures be taken to insure the health and well-being of the Operator. Why he would fail to register his complaint with me…"
"Dr. K," Scott interrupted what sounded a lot like rambling. "This is probably our fault."
There was a pause. "I fail to see how."
"We've all failed to see some things lately. That's kind of my point." Scott put his hands in his pockets, and for a moment, no one said anything, not even Dr. K, who normally took issue with anyone insinuating he may have been wrong. But all of them were guilty of treating Ziggy like an outsider. A distraction. A nuisance. A compromise they'd only been willing to make to get Dillon.
"You know the first time I met him in prison, he hugged me and then lifted my wallet," Flynn said, and his tone bordered somewhere between "for the record" and fond reminiscing.
Summer grinned. "He gave it back, didn't he?"
"Aye. That he did. Said it was an accident. Then offered to teach me how." Ranger Blue smirked. "Should we call Dillon then? Meet them at the doctor's office or wherever it is they went?"
"Nah. I say we wait for them," Scott decided. "They should be back soon. When they are, though, we should probably let them know that when one of us is hurt, we all want to know."
Dr. Morgan looked like Abraham Lincoln. In fact, if Ziggy didn't know better, he'd say Dr. Morgan was Abraham Lincoln. The man was tall, thin, dark-haired with the chiseled face and the beard and the stately demeanor, and no matter how hard Ziggy tried, he couldn't stop picturing him with the sweet black top hat. And to make it worse, the man was a slow talker. Ziggy had never thought about it before, but now confronted with it, he found himself very much believing that Abraham Lincoln would've been a slow talker.
"Ah, so you're the young man with the wrist trouble." Ziggy felt confident he could've spoken that same sentence in about one third the time it took this doctor to get the words out. Still, the man seemed very nice, and concentrating on the words as they came out did make Ziggy accidentally relax a little. "Can you hop up on here for me, son?" He patted the paper-covered table on the edge of the small room.
Ziggy sent Dillon a look. Ranger Black didn't seem to notice anything presidential about the man, but then again, maybe Dillon didn't remember what Abraham Lincoln looked like. Or maybe Ziggy was just crazy. "Hm? Ah, yes sir, Mr. Pr…Um…aha. Doctor." Ziggy jerked his head in a nod and climbed up onto the table, trying not to rustle the paper too much.
"All right. Now, let's take off this jacket, shall we?" That seemed reasonable and not unexpected. Ziggy slid the jacket off his shoulders and brought his arms out. Offered his wrist for inspection. The doctor whistled. "Well, now. Looks a whole lot different on the outside than on the inside, doesn't it."
"That seems like it would be considered a good thing." Had to be, right? When the outside started looking like the inside, that would have to lead to serious problems.
He chuckled. "Sure does. Now, you've dislocated what they call the lunate bone here, and it looks bad, and it sounds bad, and I'm sure it feels bad as all get out, but as far as wrist dislocations go, that's about the most common."
"Does 'most common' mean 'easiest to fix'?" That actually came from Dillon, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and he'd looked imposing and disinterested right up until then.
The doctor gave him a soft look like he understood something and answered, "Pretty easy." He turned to Ziggy. "Now they didn't list any pain medications in your chart here, so I'd like to know what you've taken."
"Nothing," he said quickly, and at first it was because that was always the response when someone accused him of taking something. Then it sunk in that the doctor wanted to know what medications he was on, and it was nice that his original answer still applied. Not that he wouldn't have popped some pain pills at the garage, but he hadn't really had the chance.
The man's eyes widened fractionally, but only for a moment, and Ziggy heard Dillon shift on the wall. "Well, now. Tough guy." Sounded sympathetic and only the slightest bit unhappy. "Well, I suppose that does make my job a bit easier. Don't have to worry about anything mixing the wrong way." He went to a drawer and pulled out a syringe, and there was a vial of liquid that had been set out on the counter, and it didn't matter at all then that it was Honest Abe trying to pump him full of something, there was no way that stuff was getting near him.
"I don't need that," he said quickly, and he was somehow standing on the exam table's step, and there was a lot of run away going through his head. "Don't want it. Just do whatever you were going to." His breath was getting faster, and his eyes were on that needle. "Don't stick that in me."
"Now, hold on…"
"No." Ziggy had no way of knowing what was in that syringe, and letting someone inject him with an unknown and unverifiable substance in a hospital went against all he knew. Would've been plain stupid.
"The setting will hurt worse than the needle, son. This will take that pain away."
"I don't want that." Ziggy wasn't afraid of some puny needle. Drugs were a lot scarier than needles. Every time.
"Zig." Dillon had stood up away from the wall and at some point gotten close, and he was frowning so that his forehead creased. "Just get the shot."
"No. I don't need it."
"Ziggy, take the shot now or I swear I will knock you out myself."
"Dillon, don't." Dillon pulled up short. And with Ziggy standing on the step, he was actually a couple inches taller than the other boy, looking down at him, and it was weird. "No shots. No."
Dillon looked fed up. Angry even. "You're in pain, you moron!"
"I don't even know what that stuff is!" Ziggy wasn't the best fighter. He knew that. But he could fight a solid person coming at him a whole lot better than he could fight something flowing through his bloodstream. Common sense. And if that Lincoln impersonator gave him something that knocked him out, made him helpless, then there was nothing he could do if someone tried to take him, and nothing he could do to help Dillon, and it made sense. Even if maybe it didn't.
"Ziggy, what do you think I'm gonna let happen?" Dillon nearly shouted, and it was frustration, and it was a real question, and it made Ziggy stop. Dillon standing right there, and he had his morpher, and he had Ziggy's morpher, and he was Dillon, and Ziggy had never seen Dillon lose, not once.
"Nothing," he said quietly with the realization, and meant it. Dillon wouldn't let anything happen to him. Never had. He sat down heavily on the table, too spent to even be too embarrassed.
He was vaguely aware of former President Lincoln approaching him, the movements slow and cautious. "This is only a local anesthetic," came the low, rumbled words. There was coldness on his arm, and then a sharp prick, and Ziggy kept his eyes on Dillon, and why were his eyelids so heavy?
"Nothing," Ziggy repeated.
Dillon nodded. "Should've been a no brainer." The words could've been harsh, but they weren't.
The doctor was saying something, and Ziggy didn't know what. He should've paid attention. Really he should've. There was a stranger in the room, and he was in a hospital, and he should be alert and wary and surviving. He shouldn't depend on Dillon to keep both of them safe. It wasn't fair. It was dangerous even, and it went against instinct. Do not trust. Ever. And maybe Ziggy just wasn't thinking straight. Distinct possibility. His headache still hadn't let up, and he felt heavy and a little sick. But Dillon said he wouldn't let anything happen. And Ziggy believed him.
His eyes were closed. Didn't remember doing that, and it felt like the room was spinning, but it didn't scare him. He thought maybe he was falling, and he thought maybe that was bad, and there was a shout that sounded like anger-soaked fear, and it didn't come from him. And somebody caught him, and he wasn't falling, and that seemed good, and he couldn't remember any reasons why he shouldn't be asleep.
Dillon watched Ziggy as the younger boy calmed down. Watched him as the doctor injected the anesthetic. Dr. Morgan was explaining about the procedure, about how it would be very quick once the drug kicked in, and Ziggy would be sore for awhile but not nearly as sore as he had been up to that point with his wrist all out of place. Dillon was still watching Ziggy when his eyes glazed over and slipped shut, and thank goodness he was still watching Ziggy when he pitched forward and nearly smacked into the ground. Compared to snagging a cup of water out of the air to prove a point to a bunch of arrogant military snobs, catching a suddenly boneless heap of Ranger Green on a slow arc toward the floor was almost simple. Except for the immediate anxiety and adrenaline-pumping fear.
"Hey!" He wasn't even sure who he was shouting hey to, but it was the kind of hey meant to make the world stop until he could figure out what the heck was going on. Ziggy was goo, not so much as a groan or a flutter of eyelids as Dillon pulled him up away from the floor.
"Oh, no. Get him back up on the table." Beneath the command, there was confusion in the doctor's voice, and that made Dillon a lot more nervous.
"What the heck just happened? You said it was just a local anesthetic. Pretty sure they're not supposed to do that!"
"And you'd be right. On the table. Please. Let me examine him." Urgent and sincere.
Dillon shifted Ziggy's weight, maneuvered him up onto the table, and good grief, that kid didn't weigh anything, and that would've had to have been true before Ziggy passed out, but somehow it still doubled Dillon's worry. He bunched the jacket under Ziggy's head and watched, helpless, while the doctor flitted about, checking the green ranger's pulse and shining lights in his eyes and saying "Hm."
"What's the matter with him?" Dillon demanded. Patience wasn't possible. There wasn't enough color in Ziggy's face, not at all, and he just lay there, not moving, and Dillon could only look at his chest because it at least kept rising and falling in rhythm, and that had to be enough to keep the nightmares at bay.
The doctor didn't answer. What if the doctor didn't know?
"How'd he hurt his wrist?" the man asked after what felt like an eternity.
"He…" Dillon wasn't even sure precisely when it happened. Why hadn't he thought to ask? "He got in a fight." Fortunately no one seemed to know him or Ziggy as Rangers yet, and Dillon would keep it that way as long as he could.
The man raised an eyebrow but stayed on topic. "Any other injuries?"
"I…I don't know." It was agonizing a little to admit that. Sure he'd asked Ziggy, and sure Ziggy had said no, but that was before Dillon realized that with Ziggy he had to make sure because Ziggy hid things that hurt. "He was down for awhile. Could've hit his head. I was gonna have you check for a concussion." Why hadn't he done that before? Why?
"Mm." Long fingers were probing through the mess of brown hair. "Mmhm. I'll say. He's got a bit of a knot here, back of his head. This happened today, didn't it?"
"Yeah. Little while before I brought him in. He didn't…say anything about it." It made Dillon so mad. Anger was a lot easier than guilt, and still there was a voice behind his ears with You should've made sure, and the ever-more-helpful You never should've let this happen in the first place. Neither of which was fair and neither of which was wrong.
"His vitals are all fine, normal. I'd say he does have a concussion, but it's a very mild one, and I think it was that on top of all the excitement just wore him out. He's unconscious, but you know, he's all right. I'll give him five minutes to wake up. In the meantime, I want to go ahead and set this wrist. Better that he's asleep for that, I think. He's a bit of a jumpy one, isn't he? Ziggy, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. Ziggy."
Somehow the guilt must've seeped into his voice. "Wasn't your fault, son," Dr. Morgan said lowly. "Wasn't anybody's fault." That was too generic to be comforting besides the fact that it wasn't true. It was somebody's fault. Dillon was going to kill that robot girl. First chance. "Did he win?" The doctor's voice cut through his revenge plotting.
"What?"
"This fight of your brother's. Did he win?"
Dillon looked at Ziggy. Head pillowed on Dillon's jacket, eyes closed. Pale and still and broken. Looked very young and very fragile and very human. And he thought of the kid's opponent. Tenaya 7. Calculating and lethal, cold and close as could be to indestructible. But there was a green morpher in Dillon's pocket, the only one in existence. "Yeah," he said, and he wasn't entitled to the sudden surge of pride he felt at all. "Yeah, he did."