Disclaimer: Power Rangers is property of Saban. I only own plot ideas and characters you don't already know.

A/N: Big thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed. Just a reminder again that this story follows Ranger canon unless explicitly stated otherwise, just pushed forward ten years. This chapter takes place in the future! Well...for us. Cue Twilight Zone music, and enjoy!


Chapter 1

Scott Residence
Angel Grove, California
July 10, 2012
1:30 AM

"Let's just say I have a whole lot of hands-on experience."

Kimberly Scott was jarred out of a peaceful sleep by the sudden movement from the other side of the bed. She felt the sheet yanked roughly down her back, exposing her bare skin to the cool air of the room. Blinking rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness, Kim slowly pushed herself up onto her elbows and glanced around the room, her initial panic and disorientation from being awakened so suddenly beginning to be replaced by a subtler, more deep-seated anxiety.

As her senses gradually began functioning again, Kim registered what sounded like a wheezing growl, like the sound of an injured animal backed into a corner. She furrowed her brow, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness through sheer willpower, when something caught her gaze. The sight of the deep red glow in the mirror opposite the bed brought her fully awake in an instant.

Kim threw herself into a seated position, the last of the sheet landing in a crumpled pile around her legs. She twisted herself to the right and saw Jason sitting bolt upright, staring into the mirror, his eyes glowing a deep, bloody red. She realized with a chill that his breathing was the sound she had heard – a menacing grunting sound that verged on growling. She tentatively reached out her hand to find one of his, and felt it clenched in a tight fist next to his knee.

"Oh God, not again," she whispered. Kim kicked her feet free of the sheet and straddled Jason's lap, putting both hands on his cheeks and bringing her face so close to his that their noses almost touched. Feeling his hot breath on her face, she steeled herself and spoke softly to him, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could.

"Jason?" she started stroking his cheek with one hand while the other kept a firm but gentle grip on his head, maintaining their eye contact. "Jase, baby, I need you to look at me." She waited until his eyes flicked back and looked directly into hers, the glow nearly blinding her at this proximity. "Jason, listen to me," she whispered gently, continuing to stroke his face. "Whatever you saw, whatever you're feeling, it's over. You're home, you're safe, you're with me. You need to remember all the work we've done to make this world safer; all the good we did together." Jason's eyes began to search her face, and she felt the tension in his arms begin to relax against her legs. "What you saw, the things you were doing, that is not you," Kim continued, more forcefully now. "You are the most controlled, focused, loyal person I've ever met, and you have been training for years to convince yourself that none of this is your fault. Please, baby," she broke the script a little as a fresh wave of emotion came over her. "You and I both know you would never do anything to hurt anyone you cared about. I know you, and I know that there is nothing about you, good or bad, that makes you anything less than a hero. Don't lose yourself like this; don't let them win."

Jason's jaw had begun to unclench, and Kim felt goosebumps crawl up her arms as she noticed the tears that had begun to pool in his eyes. The glow had faded to a dull reddish-brown, the color of clay, and Kim could almost see the deep brown color she knew so well. Kim gripped Jason's neck with both hands and leaned closer until their foreheads were touching, struggling to control her breathing. No matter how many times it happened, it killed her to see him like this; she could only imagine the kind of battle he was waging in his own head. These episodes had been happening with fluctuating frequency since their ordeal on Muranthias. Pair that with what had happened after Zordon's death, and…how Jason had kept from going crazy the last five years she had no idea.

"Jason, please come back to me," Kim pleaded with a catch in her throat. "You are way too goddamn stubborn to let this thing beat you, please, just come back to me. Remember who you are." Kim squeezed her eyes shut and pressed herself against Jason's forehead. She couldn't think of anything else to say; this would be up to him now.

A long, terrifying moment passed, during which all Kim could do was squeeze Jason's head against her own and listen to his labored, ragged breathing echo off the walls of their dark bedroom. Finally, she felt him shudder, heard his breathing finally begin to slow down, and nearly collapsed with relief when he gently pressed his hand against the small of her back.

"Did you rehearse that?"

The sound of his voice was enough to trigger a fresh wave of tears. Kim let out a relieved chuckle and replied, "Let's just say I have a whole lot of hands on experience."

Kim felt a few short bursts of air as Jason laughed softly. After a moment, the laughter stopped, and one of Jason's hands cupped the side of her neck. "Oh God, Kim…"

"Stop," she whispered, taking his hand in hers and opening her eyes to gaze into his face. He wore a pained expression, the apology he was about to give her still perched on the tip of his tongue. She smiled at him and ran her fingers through his dark hair. "You don't have to say anything. I was just so scared; I really thought I might lose you this time…"

Now it was Jason's turn to interrupt. He threw both arms around her shoulders and squeezed her close, pressing his lips against hers. They remained in that embrace, locked together by the intensity of their relief and their love for one another, for a long moment before Jason pulled back, gazing into Kimberly's eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, gently wiping a stray tear off her cheek with his thumb. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

Kim smiled and kissed him again, pressing his head back against the wall. When she pulled back this time her tears had stopped falling. "Never," she said stroking his cheek again before rolling off of him and leaning back against the wall, the cool wood of the headboard a welcome relief to her hot skin. Staring up at the ceiling, where slivers of moonlight poked their way through the blinds over the bedroom window, she sighed and gave voice to a thought she'd been afraid to articulate. "I thought the nightmares were getting less and less frequent."

Jason winced. "They are. But at the same time they're getting more and more intense. I've never had one so powerful before, it was like…" he paused, the silence that filled the room only punctuated by his ragged breathing. His throat was still sore, his head pounding; he could feel his heartbeat in his stomach. Jason licked his lips and continued. "For the first time, it really felt like I was back there, back in that cave, hearing you scream, feeling when we… and then when we came back, I felt it inside me again. It was there, Kim," he turned and looked at her, and she saw out of the corner of her eye that his face had begun to lose color. "That thing, Maligore or whatever the fuck it was, it was there, it was inside me, and all those feelings it made me have, every sick desire it gave me, they all came flying back. Not just in the dream, but here, when I was awake. For a second there, I think – I think it was more than just a dream. Kim… this wasn't like it's been before. I couldn't come out of it by telling myself it wasn't real. This time, something really made me feel those things, and I actually had to fight it off, push it back down and smother it; I don't think I could've done it without you."

His voice trailed off, and Kim reached out and squeezed his hand, interlocking her fingers with his own. She could tell there was something else he wanted to tell her, something that apparently horrified him. "Tell me," she said, steeling her voice with as much cold resolve as she could muster.

Jason squeezed her hand back and turned to look at her, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He took a moment; it seemed to Kim like he was trying to find the right words. Finally he looked straight into her eyes and said, "This time, just for a second… that thing was actually here."


Angel Grove Park
July 10, 2012
3:30 AM

They were coming to kill him.

The idea pounded against the inside of his skull like a hammer, the reality of it turning his blood cold as he staggered across the moonlit grass, desperately searching for somewhere to hide. The moon was bright that night, unhindered by clouds, and it cast the trees before him into an eerie silhouette that stood out against the deep blue of the sky. Slowing to a stop, he leaned forward, hands on his knees, and gasped for breath, wincing slightly at the pain that had begun to burn at his left side.

Casting several frightened glances around him, he took a moment to listen through the silence for any sign of his pursuers. They'd tracked him all the way here from LA, where he'd just finished…no. He shook his head frantically, as though the motion would physically eject the memory from his brain. Reaching up to his forehead, he fingered the small wound running from his left temple toward his ear, the small stream of blood trickling down his cheek, as if to remind himself again that he was finally out, finally his own man again – he refused to allow them to control him anymore. He'd lost track of how long he'd been trying to avoid them, to keep his whereabouts a secret, which essentially meant he couldn't stay in one place for longer than a few tense, anxious hours. And all that time on the run had certainly taken its toll: he hadn't slept in almost four days, hadn't had anything to eat or drink besides bathroom tap water and the occasional shoplifted gas station granola bar for the better part of a week.

He straightened and dared a look behind him. For now, only darkness greeted him, but something in the pit of his stomach told him it was only a matter of time. He'd been an idiot, falling asleep at the wheel and leaving his car wrapped around a light pole three blocks away; what was worse, he'd forgotten to arm himself with anything. His car was a damn armory, and he had left everything, right down to his (very recently used) pocketknife, behind. He hadn't waited around to be sure, but he figured someone would have called the cops by now, which meant the people after him knew exactly where to start looking. He knew they had a man in the police department; fuckers had a man everywhere. He was just about to turn forward again and keep running when he saw them – three pairs of headlights, in a single file line, moving with military precision toward his location.

"Shit," he hissed, pressing a hand to his side as he pushed onward, seeking sanctuary in the shadows of the trees. He could hear them behind him now, tires squealing, doors being slammed shut. In his mind he saw them – their faces blank, expressionless, their hands working with almost mechanical efficiency as they readied, loaded and cocked their weapons and gathered into formation. Prepping for the pursuit; it was something he'd grown intimately familiar with over the last decade, and he knew from experience that it never ended well for the pursued.

Gritting his teeth, he focused on continuing forward, placing one foot in front of the other as though just learning to walk.

I must've cracked a rib or something when I wrecked the car, he thought, bile rising in his throat at his apparent return to normal human strength. His freedom, if you could call it that at the moment, had come with a steep price: his enhanced abilities were slowly leaving him, starting with his increased bone strength. Soon, his rapid healing, increased adrenalin production, and heightened reflexes would be lost as well.

Suddenly the night air seemed to press in on him, the sounds and smells of the darkened landscape standing out in sharp relief to his gasping breath and pounding heart. The soft breeze whispered through leaves and grass, crickets quietly chirped to each other in the shadows; somewhere not far off an owl hooted, making its presence known to the prey it would soon devour. He could smell the recent rain on the air, the aroma tangling with the coppery scent of his own blood. As he hurried forward, he crossed an asphalt bike path; the slapping of his shoes on the pavement echoed off the trees ahead, returning to his ears as loud as gunshots thanks to his newly heightened awareness. Glancing up from his feet, he realized that the trees before him formed a peninsula of sorts, jutting out from the rest of the forest and creating a rough wall that he could hide behind.

Moving to the far side of the path and staying on the grass to quiet his footsteps, he took a sudden left turn and moved toward the peninsula's corner, trying his hardest to keep himself hidden in the shadows of the trees. Rounding the corner, he noticed a hill ahead of him, its smooth, gradual slope rising to the base of a massive oak tree that stood alone in the middle of the grass, stretching up toward the sky like an obelisk from an Egyptian tomb. He froze for a moment, torn by indecision – should he round the corner of the treeline and keep stumbling through the undergrowth like a hobbled horse, or take a gamble and seek refuge in the shadow of the massive tree, the location of which might just be unguarded enough to throw his pursuers off the scent?

That choice was made for him when he heard the unmistakable sound of boots squishing in the wet grass, headed toward the treeline. Making up his mind, he let out a long breath through his teeth and darted out of his refuge of shadow, carrying his injured body as quickly as he could across the exposed expanse of grass, throwing himself toward the tree.

When he finally reached it, he reached out a hand and fell against the trunk, fighting with everything he had to keep from collapsing on the spot. His shoulders rose and fell sporadically from the force of his panting, his lungs sucking air so desperately he was close to hyperventilating. Managing a small smile for his minor victory, he turned his back to the tree and leaned against it, closing his eyes and trying to figure out a way to consciously will his heartbeat to slow down.

"Gotcha."

His eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice. He whipped his head back and forth, searching frantically for the source as though it still mattered at this point. It wasn't difficult to locate; the shine from the flashlight before him was blinding, overloading his eyes with the sudden intensity of the beam. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and tried to make out the man holding the flashlight, but his attempts proved futile – the light was so bright, the surrounding night so dark, that all he saw of his enemy was a fuzzy silhouette that stood out a bit darker than everything else. Then the figure spoke again, and he noticed the way it shifted from one foot to the other, as though brimming with anxiety or excitement.

"Hell of a chase you've lead us on, Bravo 7," the figure said.

Ok, let's go with excitement, he thought, suddenly feeling like he wanted to puke.

"That's not…my name anymore," he said between gasps of air. The figure chuckled a little.

"Holy shit, it grew free will," the figure said, and he could hear the sneer in the voice. "Seriously, though, Bravo, I gotta admit: this one's a little hard for me. That was some fantastic work you did in LA. You could've made a great serial killer in another life."

"Fuck you. I don't work for you anymore." He hoped his voice sounded stronger than what reached his own ears.

The figure suddenly grew serious; the man once known as Bravo 7 heard him pull something from his belt and realized what it meant: this was it. He was going to die.

Well, if he was going out, he was damn well going out swingin'. It didn't matter who his executioner was – what he had to say was universally applicable.

"That's just it, though, isn't it?" he asked, and he watched with a deep sigh of relief as the other man cocked his head, the object in his hand still held at chest level. "I never worked for you. I worked for them. For him. You still do, and it must just fucking kill you inside that your master's whole brilliant scheme got shot to shit by an insignificant asshole like me."

"You really think you accomplished something?" the figure shot back with a sneer in his voice. "You never got away. Not really. We've known where you were this entire time; it was just a matter of tracking you down. No one will know who you were or what you did – our tech is untraceable. As far as anyone else will know, there's nothing special about you. You'll just be another nameless corpse; another John Doe left to rot on a metal slab until they give up and throw you in the trash where you belong." The object in his hands was rising now, its slow arc ending at what appeared to be shoulder height, extended toward him. The shadowy figure spoke again, and this time the only emotion in his voice was one of cold, animalistic rage.

"Enjoy hell."

His victim slowly reached into his pocket, curling his fingers around the tiny object that lay hidden there and pulling it out, cupping it protectively at his side.

"Funny," he said with a bitter chuckle. "I was about to say the same thing to you."

The object in the figure's hands flashed twice, silently illuminating the tree and the surrounding park in harsh blue light for a couple of fleeting moments before allowing the darkness to flood back in. The man leaning against the tree slumped to a sitting position, the pair of holes in his chest still smoking. As the world around him began to blur, he brought his right hand to his lap and held the small object there, hiding it in his weakening grip as best he could.

As the shadowy figure turned to walk calmly away, the man once known as Bravo 7 took his final, shuddering breaths. A final chill went through him as he realized that the nauseating smell that filled them was that of his own burning flesh.