Interlude 1
It's such a small thing that grabs his attention, the slam of a taxi door in the midst of the crowded, bustling street that he's navigating with Dustin on their way to Storm Chargers. It should be unremarkable; it shouldn't even register on his consciousness, but it's as loud and as close to Shane's ears as a whipcrack.
Or a gunshot.
And then his vision, his world, is dissolving, reforming, somehow flicking, like the flickering of an old movie projector; scenes he knows — familiar, comforting; familiar, sickening — spliced into the same reel.
He's in the city, in downtown Blue Bay Harbor — flick — He's in a foreign street, the ground, the plants, the trees all covered with that thin white layer of dust; dust thrown up by the bombs dropped only hours ago. The concrete is firm and unyielding beneath his feet — flick — And the sand is soft and sliding under his boots.
He knows both are true; both are real.
And he knows they're being watched.
"We have to go." He grabs Dustin's arm, heart thudding in his chest but he reminds himself he's a marine; he's a Power Ranger; he's been here before. "They're here."
"Who's they? What's going on?"
"Quickly."
He pulls Dustin into a side alley; dirty, stinking dumpsters and smog-stained brick wall — flick — smell of dry sand and heat, a road in front, heat wavering across its surface — flick — rusty fire escapes and, further up, soaring skyscrapers of the main business district — flick — pale white walls, paint crumbling and old.
They're not safe. He knows the enemy is everywhere, around corners and ducked out of sight behind windows — steel and blinding reflections and empty holes with only darkness beyond.
"Shane, what's happening?"
Balaclava-clad figures flit through the empty spaces — flick — with smooth red and black inhuman faces. And the sounds, the ones that send adrenaline jolting through him; the metallic click of rifles — flick — and heart-stopping robotic whirs.
"Shane-"
And Dustin is still beside him, still Dustin — all wild hair and wide brown eyes — but he changes too. He's the guys in Shane's unit; worn and weary in camos shaded in browns and beige. He's the yellow ranger; uniform bright and clean, visor down and ready for battle.
"Shh, they'll have snipers up high. We've got to be careful."
"Shane-"
His heart is in his throat, blood pulsing through his body as his hand reaches for his rifle, for his sword, but clutches only empty air. They're here. They're here and he's unarmed and… Flick, flick, fli-
"Shane!"
The projector stops, the reel running out, and he's crouched behind a garbage can, kneeling in something and Dustin's pulling away, moving into the centre of the alley, rubbing his wrist where Shane had been gripping him.
The brunette stares at him, confusion and something else, something darker in his eyes as his words get through to Shane at last. "What the hell, dude?"