DEKAENNEA — A BROKEN SPIRIT DRIETH THE BONES

Rat Capone, a short and fat and well dressed rat, stood next to his thugs: Arnold Mousenegger, a very large and well built mouse, who was holding a large bag; and Sugar Ray Lizard, a thin reptile who could punch very fast and very hard.

One metre in front of them stood four mean-looking hamsters, one of which had a bag as well.

The two gangs were standing in a badly lit parking lot, well away from any lights that would reveal their presence.

Both groups knew who each other was, since they could smell each other's stench rather well, and that caused them to stiffen their features.

They padded closer, closing the gap between them.

"You've got da stuff, yes?" asked Capone, with his gangster accent.

"It's all here," replied one hamster. "Ready for distribution. I trust our payment is in full?"

"No, it's in this sack," replied the not-too-bright mega-mus.

"Just switch bags, will ya, Al?" asked the lizard, slightly annoyed.

With a nod, Arnold and the hamster were about to exchange bags when suddenly a piercing shout rang out:

"DROP IT! YOU'RE SURROUNDED!"

"######!" growled Capone. "We've been—!"

His expletive was cut off when he suddenly saw Sugar Ray go down, with a plunger dart in his face.

"RESCUE RANGERS AWAY!" cried the good guys.

"The 'Refuse Strangers'? How did they find us?" asked the rat, whirling around in a futile effort to find them.

Arnold was about to answer him, but he suddenly found Dale standing in front of him.

With lightning speed, the sciurid clasped both of his paws together and swung them as hard as he could on the murid's jaw. A resounding crack rang through the parking lot, and Arnold fell on the pavement, hard.

Before the other hamsters could scatter, Monterey grabbed two of them by their heads and smashed them together, knocking them out.

Another carefully aimed plunger dart knocked out the third hamster.

"The last one's yours, Zipper!" cried Gadget, seeing the fourth hamster running to the street.

"Aye aye!" Zipper then grabbed the drug bag that one trafficker dropped, flew up into the air, and with expert aim, dropped it on the last hamster.

Chip, meanwhile, had planned on taking Capone himself, but the rat was busy speaking with Dale about the way he knocked out Arnold so quickly.

"Hey, see, where'dya learn to punch like that?"

Another crack rang out, and the gangster was the last to fall.

"I read it somewhere," replied Dale, coldly, while shaking his right fist.

For a moment, Chip almost felt cheated out of all the "fun". He had expected Dale to take longer with Arnold, but his awesome speed left him empty-pawed.

Still, he couldn't help but feel proud of his team. They had carried out their plan to the letter, and had done it so quickly that the enemy practically had no reaction time at all:

Blitzkrieg.

"Great work, guys!" he exclaimed, perking up his ears and moving his tail a trifle, as Monterey brought the fourth hamster back.

As they assembled the fallen crooks, and the animal police emerged and gathered them up, Chip saw that Dale was still shaking his fists in pain. In fact, Dale actually winced when he moved one paw to his shoulder.

"Dale, are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so. But I might have hit Arnold too hard; even my shoulders are startin' to hurt."

Gadget padded up to him, "Are you sure, Dale? Perhaps the angle in which you swung that punch was not correctly aligned with your centre of gravity—"

"Maybe, but…but…why is my elbow hurtin' now?"

As he wondered that, the others gradually began noticing something else.

Pain was slowly emerging in their joints as well.

"That's odd," said Chip, rubbing his left wrist. "I didn't hit anyone and I'm hurting, too! Say, Zipper, did any of the drug leak out just now?"

The small mammal police—several mice and rats—were inspecting the bag. In it were small white packages, all tightly sealed in plastic.

"I doubt that," replied Zipper. "But maybe the bag itself got some on it as the drug was being packaged?"

"Well, whate'er it is, I doubt it's 'ealthy for us," said Monterey, rubbing his neck and laying his ears back. "Maybe we could use an asp'rin or two?"

Chip was about to agree, but then he looked at his best friend—or what was left of him—again.

He seemed to be in more pain than the others, for his ears were low and he was rubbing his elbows, shoulders, and wrists, wincing all the time.

That wasn't normal, not even for traces of drug that supposedly made you feel good.

"Guys, when was the last time we had our checkups?" asked the Detective, also lowering his ears.

"Five months, two weeks, and four days ago," replied the Mechanic, mechanically, but with low ears as well.

Chip looked at her, almost amused. Yes, he loved that about her, but he knew that it would never be his now.

"Except for Dale, who had it one month and six days ago, right before his wed—"

"Thank you, Gadget, we know that," interrupted Chip. "Dale, perhaps you should see a doctor again."

"Perhaps I should," he agreed, mechanically again, still trying to rub his right wrist.

"Perhaps we all should," buzzed Zipper, alighting on Monterey's shoulder, as his wing joints began feeling a trifle sore as well.

So, when the animal police took away the drug dealers and gangsters, the Rescue Rangers padded back to the Ranger Wing, and all of them were getting worried about Dale, since he appeared to have trouble padding now, and his fists were now opening and closing with pain as well.

Dale was the last one to get the tests done.

Chip wondered why Doctor Qandlier had ordered more tests for him; after all, they all had the same symptoms: sore joints now and then.

Finally, the examination room door opened, and two rodents exited.

The other Rangers stood in the waiting room and looked at the middle-aged chipmunk, waiting for his verdict.

The doctor looked at the Rangers and declared, "It appears that all of you have developed a mild form of arthritis. It's quite rare, seeing how young you all are. I was expecting it to appear on your large murid friend here, but not until some ten years from now. Still, it's nothing serious. A few mild medications should correct the problem."

"Was it caused by any type of chemical poisonin'?" asked Dale.

"No. It actually appears to be a simple chemical imbalance. I suggest you all check your diets and see if they're balanced. Dale, could you please take these prescriptions to the pharmacy? They'll give you all the medication you and your friends will need."

Dale mechanically took the paper from the doctor's paw and padded away to another area of the medical centre.

As soon as he rounded a corner, Doctor Qandlier turned to the other Rangers and stated coldly:

"Your friend is dying."

The suddenness of it caused the others to simply look at him.

Slowly, their brains caught grasp of what the doctor said.

Dale, their friend, teammate, detective, Rescue Ranger, was…was…

…dying?

"Wait, how can that be?" buzzed Zipper, incredulous. "He seems quite healthy, he does exercise, he has a great performance record on all our recent cases—"

Chip interrupted, "Wait a minute, what about the medical tests he took before the wedding? Doctor, did you find out he had some terminal disease, and did he swear you to secrecy?"

A sudden stream of logical reasoning burst forth from the Detective, "Of course! With him being so reckless, it's what he must have done! Even with a terminal disease, he decided to go through with the wedding anyway, and then he planned to eventually tell Foxglove and the rest of us much later on! And it was during the kidnapping when he finally realised the insanity of it all! That's why he called it off! That's—!"

"I'm afraid your winged friend is correct, Chip. Dale is quite healthy."

Chip did a double take on the physician, with his deductive reasoning suddenly truncated. Confusion crept in again, as they tried to sort out the two conflicting diagnosis's.

"But if he's quite healthy, how can he be dying?" asked Gadget.

The doctor sighed, "I'm afraid that Dale's problem is more psychological than physical."

"Huh?" asked all the Rangers.

"Have you heard of how a wild rabbit, if captured and kept in captivity, can will itself to die if it's not released?"

Monterey quietly gasped at that question.

He turned sombre as he painfully remembered a certain incident, and there would be no exaggerating nor stretching of the truth this time.

His ears and tail sagged, "Y-yes. I 'ave. In fact, I've seen it 'appen. Once I tried to free a bunny that was caged in a farm. 'E was goin' moighty quick, and I tried to free 'im, but I couldn't get the blasted cage open. I told the bloke to 'ang on, and I left to look for somethin' to open the cage with. When I came back…I was too late."

The doctor continued, "I believe Dale's problem is similar: For some reason, he is willing himself to die, subconsciously, at least. The initial tests gave different results than the rest of you, and that's why I ordered the additional tests. All of them point to the same thing: his body is slowly deteriorating. Arthritis is just the first symptom. If this continues, his hearing and eyesight will follow, then his voice and sense of smell."

Finally, they were fully hit with understanding.

Some ears and tails sagged, and some others stiffened:

"NO!" chattered Chip.

"Not me pally!"

"Dale!"

"This is illogical!"

Doctor Qandlier just sighed. In his profession, detaching oneself emotionally from the patients was vital for his own survival.

This was not the first time he had diagnosed such an outcome, nor would it be the last.

He ignored their outbursts and calmly asked, "Has Dale been through any traumatic psychological experiences lately?"

The Rangers suddenly hushed, as they knew all too well the answer to that question.

And Chip had to answer it.

His ears and tail sagged, "Y-yes. Last month, he called off his wedding, after his fiancée was kidnapped. She left shortly after that—"

"I was wondering why Foxglove wasn't with you. The papers didn't say much of what happened, so I thought that all of you had overcome that incident. I'm afraid, then, that the problem is beyond my reach. Unfortunately, I only deal with cuts and bruises and headaches and broken bones and such. I urge you to take him to a psycholo—"

"What we need is a second opinion, 'doctor'!" growled the Aussie, with stiff ears and tail. "Dale doesn't need a shrink roight now!"

This was also not the first time a diagnosis of his was questioned, so the doctor remained calm.

"Whatever it is you wish to do, do it quickly. He is deteriorating even as we speak."

"Wait, shouldn't we tell him about this?" asked Gadget.

"He'll most likely deny the problem. Whatever is hurting him, he must get someone to help him deal with it, immediately…"