As the first rays of morning struggled to penetrate the thick cloud cover above the military base, the stoic leader surveyed his mecha infantry, a mechanized army hardened by years of training and technological augmentation. The grim atmosphere within the command center mirrored the impending storm outside. The soldiers, encased in imposing exosuits, stood in rigid formation, their faces masked by an aura of wariness.

Outside the towering windows, the civilization of Mars was eclipsed by an unexpected meteorological anomaly. Dark clouds coiled and writhed in an unnatural dance, signaling an impending tempest. The leader, a battle-scarred figure hardened by countless conflicts, narrowed his eyes as he observed the eerie spectacle. Whispers among the soldiers hinted at an unsettling truth: the tempest was not a scheduled act of nature.

Beyond the fortified walls, a black tornado materialized, a manifestation of chaos with a malevolent purpose. It carved a path of destruction, targeting the military installation with unnerving precision. Alarms wailed, drowning the facility in a cacophony of urgency.

Meanwhile, in the heart of the storm, Sadler, the Black Ranger, moved with purpose. His silhouette blended seamlessly with the tempest, a harbinger of doom. The darkness within him mirrored the ominous clouds above, accentuating the severity of his quest to rescue Quinton. He didn’t see the guy as a friend at all. Sadler's resolve to rescue Quinton emanated from a deeply ingrained sense of duty and empathy. His aversion to knowing people were in danger stemmed from an unwavering commitment to protecting others, even those who might be considered adversaries. How much of what he was doing was himself, and how much was the Ranger?

Sadler couldn't shake the nagging question echoing in his mind – why had Quinton attacked them? Beneath the surface of his determination lay a genuine desire to bury the hatchet. He recognized that the Ranger Suits, with their transformative power, had a profound impact on the wearers, distorting their perceptions and driving them to hostility. Deep down, Sadler grappled with the unsettling realization that the same force compelling him to rescue Quinton might be the very force that had driven the Green Ranger to his aggressive acts.

Rows of elite mecha infantry broke ranks and fled as Sadler’s massive black twister rocked their base, annihilating everything that it even came close to touching. Chain link fencing and barbed wire had become pulled from its moorings only to become a very lethal weapon when wielded by a tornado. Sadler armed his living storm and set to work taking down the premises.

Deep within the bowels of the military base, Quinton found himself confined to a cold and sterile interrogation chamber. The atmosphere was thick with tension as the military sought to extract information from the enigmatic Green Ranger. The room's stark lighting cast an unforgiving glow on the metallic surfaces, accentuating the technological prowess of the facility.

Quinton, bound to a high-tech chair, faced an array of advanced monitoring equipment. Multifaceted screens displayed vital signs, neural activity, and other biometric data, creating a detailed profile of the Green Ranger's physical and mental state. Electrodes were attached to various points on his body, measuring every twitch and reaction.

A team of military interrogators, dressed in sleek tactical gear, observed from behind a two-way mirror. They manipulated control panels, adjusting the intensity of the room's lighting and activating panels on the walls that emitted a low-frequency hum, designed to disorient and weaken the subject's resistance.

The lead interrogator, a stern-faced officer with a cybernetic eye implant, stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Quinton. "We know you're connected to the anomalies occurring outside," he declared, his voice amplified through the room. "Your little storm is causing quite a disturbance. We want answers, Quinton Yazzie."

Quinton remained silent, his eyes narrowing in defiance. The interrogators activated a holographic display, projecting scenes of the destructive tornado wreaking havoc outside. The officer continued, "You can end this. Cooperate, and maybe we'll consider leniency."

Finally, Quinton spoke, “that’s not my storm. I am of the Earth. That is Thunderbird.”

The invasive nature of the interrogation intensified as the room's AI system analyzed Quinton's neural patterns, attempting to unlock the secrets buried within his mind. Questions, images, and scenarios were projected directly into his consciousness, probing for the source of his powers and the motives behind his actions.

“Uh…sir?”

“Yes?”

“He’s telling the truth as far as he knows.”

Inside the command center, analysts strained to decipher the unnatural weather phenomenon. Panic and paranoia seeped into the room as they recognized an intentional design, a threat veiled of atmospheric manipulation. The leader, unyielding in his resolve, identified a sinister 'target' within the heart of the storm and issued ruthless orders to eliminate it.

In the heart of the military base's command center, the commander, face etched with determination, scrutinized the screens. "Deploy the jets," he ordered. "Target the storm's center. Bomb that tornado!"

Jets roared into the turbulent skies, missiles streaking toward the tornado's heart. Explosions echoed within the vortex. Sadler, the Black Ranger, faced an onslaught, deflecting missiles in a desperate dance.

The tornado wavered, succumbing to overwhelming firepower. The jets pressed on until the once-formidable force dissipated. The aftermath settled over the landscape, a tense silence marking the military's victory. The commander's risky decision had achieved its dark objective.

Inside the sterile confines of the interrogation chamber, the cold-eyed cyborg interrogator leaned in. "We've just captured your Thunderbird," he announced with a sinister undertone. The revelation hung in the air, casting a shadow over Quinton's face. A moment of realization flickered in his eyes as the military's grip tightened around his secrets.

Andreaus was utilizing the breadth of her makeup skills to cover up the keyhole scar on her forehead, when her father knocked on the door to her bedroom. She recognized his knock, because it was a Doctor Who reference.

“Sweetie, come check out the news. There’s a tornado!”

His excitement was palpable, but within her she felt a sense of dread and thought, Sadler.

“The news is saying that Climatrol has been hacked and is producing an unscheduled atmospheric phenomenon. It's great. Reminds me of Earth weather in books.”

One one hand, having everything you were involved with that should remain clandestine concealed by the powers that be was a very good thing. On the other, moral level, it just made the ease of slipping into a life of dishonesty all that much more easy.

Andreaus’ dad, Bill, was married to a man named Zachary. They had adopted Andreaus, so she looked nothing like either of them. They both constantly told her she was perfect. There was such a thing as too much support, possibly. But that didn’t matter. Her dad loved her; Zachary, who identified as gender fluid, preferred the custodial term, ‘mom’ without a hint of irony. Bill and Zachary loved working all day in the garage together, but only the former was into Dungeons & Dragons. Zachary said they didn’t like having nightmares afterwards. Which was fair.

Andreaus watched the television, captivated by the news broadcast revealing the tornado wreaking havoc on the military base. The destructive force was unprecedented, and the havoc unfolded before her eyes. The media's attempt to explain it as a ‘climatological malfunction’ seemed feeble in the face of the supernatural reality she and the other Rangers had experienced.

She knew what she was looking at wasn’t at all what was claimed. It was Sadler. So much time had passed since this event–an hour. Did tornadoes’ last hours? She didn’t know, but she suspected that since there was basically no extant footage of the exact moment a tornado fucked off, there was no telling what the news had not shown.

She picked up the telephone in her bedroom and called Sadler. His father answered, but literally hung up on her the moment she mentioned his name. Dick. She called Busby’s mom, and she said that he had stayed the night at Misty Evers’ house last night. She phoned Misty’s house, but her mom told her that she and Busby were outside, and she’d go out and look for them.

She phoned Gemma, but got a disconnected line prompt from an automated voice. That was great. Did the old joke about tornados and trailer parks suddenly just add up in reality? She hadn’t noticed a tornado down the way.

Andreaus went outside and looked down to the far end of the park. Sure enough, Gemma’s trailer, which was just barely visible from her vantage, looked super fucked over. Not the work of a tornado she thought. That looked like somebody had just plowed the ceiling out. She didn’t have to imagine very hard about what had likely happened.

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She said, “fuck beans.” And went back inside.

Gemma had spent the night on a truck unloading dock behind a supermarket, in town, that had been closed due to the curfew over the latest events around. She’d found a fuckload of cardboard boxes back there, and decided to build them up into a little shelter very late the night before. She’d crawled inside before it had begun raining, unexpectedly. The staccato of raindrops had put her right the fuck to sleep. It was oddly soothing being inside her cardboard box camp, staying through the rain, letting her own body heat keep her warm. Her head was just so heavy. She didn’t want to stop to think about anything. Plus, nobody would look for her in a block where it was raining.

Gemma heard gunfire. And not just like, a couple shots in the night. That was fairly regular. This was heavy machine gun fire. It sounded like a warzone was nearby. Though she didn’t know it, everyone in town could. It was to the east, towards bigger cities than the one she lived in. On the way was a Federal Prison, operated by the military. It sounded like they were at war.

She recalled having been a passenger in a vehicle traveling on the highway parallel to the prison fencing. On the way to Six Flags, usually. They’d stop at White Castle and eat a fuckload of tiny hamburgers. Then they’d go to the theme park and screw around more than ride shit. When she’d gone with other kids.

Being a ‘kid’ really did seem like it was just over for Gemma. Now that she could turn into a red-armored demonic catastrophe, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She’d saved the city. Now what?

Busby, now sober, regretted everything he’d said the night before. He’d spent the evening getting comfortable on Misty's family’s very uncomfortable couch, that he’d not slept on in two years. As a kid, he was on the thing every weekend. His growth spurt had freaked the family out. It wasn’t his fault he had Marfan’s Syndrome. He didn’t want to be so tall, but in his mind, he was just person-sized.

Misty woke him up and asked him if he wanted to go outside with her. He reminded her about the curfew, but she didn’t seem worried, even if it did start at noon for all non-adults.

“What are they gonna do, arrest me?”

Busby shrugged and asked her to throw him his jeans. He put them on under the blankets and hopped out of bed, grateful he didn’t have morning wood anymore.

Misty went out wearing a salmon pink overcoat and dressed in a hot pink slip dress, with a tiny Hello Kitty purse that had a long strap. Instead of being ‘ladylike,’ she just sort of flailed her purse around like a spaz. She swung the thing around her a lot, like a fidget. Her wavy yellow hair was tinted pink at the ends, coordinating with her ensemble. She had blue eyes that stood out from a mile away, and freckles everywhere.

Busby thought she was beautiful, more in a more ‘cool’ way than a ‘sexy’ one. She was just the best thing ever. She was indeed probably sexy, but when he saw her he just didn’t think about sex, per say. He thought about how exciting she was, like just a badass or something.

They walked down the back patio steps of her home, and Busby asked what she wanted to do. She told him that she wanted to meet his friends, although she kind of already knew some of them.

“You want to join our D&D game?”

“No, dude. I want to see proof of what you were talking about last night.”

“I was really high, Misty.”

“So you were lying?”

He didn’t want to take any route of conversation at that point. She already knew, from years and years of building worlds around the toys they played with, that he wasn’t that creative.

He had already told her the entire description of what had happened. Gemma and the man. Sadler and the truck. Quinton’s transformation. Everything.

“So where do you want to walk to, then? Sadler lives way out of town. I don’t know where Gemma and Andreaus live.”

“Do you have like, a headquarters? The comic shop?”

“We’re not the Avengers, Misty. We’ve only done one thing.”

“So you weren’t lying.”

Busby just said, “Shit.”

Misty still had the Pink Key Busby had given her. She took it out of her tiny cat purse. She said, “let’s go out to the old barn. I want you to show me what you said.”

Together they stood in the old barn, its interior rotting away from decades of abandonment. Busby tentatively reached for the blue metal key in his pocket. Misty sat on an old crate and watched with anticipation as her old friend withdrew the object.

“Where do you stick it in?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. Last time I put it in my chest. I don’t know if it has to be the same place.”

“Well, we can find out. Put it in. I want to see.”

Busby held the key with both hands and tried to position it on the keyhole scar already on his body. He did not have to lift up his shirt to show off his wispy pelt of chest hair, because the hole in his shirt was still there from before.

He looked at Misty before he stabbed himself, the curiosity and intrigue in her eyes compelled him. He yearned just to satisfy her wants. He thrust the metal object into his body, and a not-uncomfortable sense of feeling “full” replaced the sensation of pain. Once inserted, it was kind of numb. But also satisfying to have the key so jammed within his body.

Misty said, “Is it in yet?”

“Yeah. You have to turn the key.”

She told him to turn it.

He said, “I’m shy.”

She stood up and walked up to him, and placed her hand on the end of the key. She whispered, “it’s okay, show me.”

Together they turned the key in his chest, and Misty was blown away by what she saw afterwards.

After a moment of pause, all she could reply with was, “I want it.”

Gemma finished breaking back out of the grocery store, carrying a box of Pop-Tarts and an orange cream Snapple. Her red backpack was full of other stolen foods. Getting in trouble was the last thing she was worried about. There was literally nothing Officer Fuckface could do about her now. She’d tear his mustache off if he so much as read her one Right.

She wondered if she could get more weed from Kimberlee, so she decided to walk back to the comic shop. The town was practically abandoned otherwise. She looked up into the sky, striving to spot the Powers of Punishment angel again, but it was nowhere to be seen. She liked the older lady. Maybe she’d let her move into the basement? She probably would. There was a bathroom down there. Andreaus had practically talked Kimberlee into leaving her husband last night. Maybe they could turn the basement into their secret headquarters?

The situation was going to continue to escalate, she figured. There was no more time for her old personal life anymore. It was time to try something new. All she’d done about her life was complain about it. That was madness. It was time to change the situation or give up. She was going to use what she had been given to things.

Busby and Misty walked together out of the old barn, sharing a mischievous grin. Misty swung her tiny purse around in circles as they walked back to the house holding hands and occasionally giggling. They’d been up to mischief, alright. But probably of a far worse kind that Misty’s mother suspected when she spotted them walking back. The woman wasn’t particularly bountiful of words, and had anxiety, so instead of inquiring about what they’d been up to alone together, she informed them that Andreaus Cranston had called looking for Busby. She didn’t notice the tiny hole that had been torn through Misty’s slip dress right above her navel.

The news excited Misty, who looked to Busby, took his hand with both of hers, and tugged him along towards her driveway.

“Let’s go join the others. Come on, dude!”

Busby felt super guilty about what had just happened secretly between himself and his old bestie. It made him feel weird, like something had happened that changed their relationship forever. Still, he just did as he was asked, because Misty was ‘boss.’ He loved her, but not like normal.

Andreaus called the comic shop, and let it ring for a really long time, anticipating that it might take Kimberlee a while to answer. The gamble paid off, and the lady owner finally picked up the damn phone.

“Silver Age Comics.”

“This is Andreaus, from last night. Are any of the guys there?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Buzz and his girlfriend have been here for two hours. Gemma just got here…hey old on, she wants to speak to you.”

There was the sound of rustling whatever, and Gemma’s boyish voice spoke, “Hey, bitch. Git over.”

Andreaus thought, Buzz has a girlfriend?

Buzz did not have a girlfriend. Misty was his girl friend. Just like they had been for a decade before highschool. It seemed like a good thing to see them back together again. The flibberty-gibbet Misty, and her stoic comrade, Busby, had been a fixture together on the playground in Elementary and Middle School. Something had liberated them from whatever had separated them two years ago.

Misty could not stop fidgeting with stuff. She sat on the sofa in the basement of the comic shop with a She-Ra action figure/doll (it was BOTH) and more or less equally involved herself with doing stuff with it as much as talking. However that did not mean she was only half-paying attention. If anything, she led the conversation.

“Andreaus, you think the tornado that struck the military base down the highway from here was Sadler, right?

“Yeah. There are no tornadoes on Mars, except for him. I saw him make one. It had to be him. I am almost positive he did it to save that crazy kid who attacked us.”

“Quinton,” said Gemma, the only one among them presently smoking weed. Kimberlee had like fifty different things to use for that purpose, and Gemma had chosen a little pipe bearing the depiction of a red demon.

“So let’s, like, just go get them both out. It will be fun. Come on.”

Andreaus said, “it’s not that easy. What can you even do?”

Misty took the Pink Key out of her tiny purse and twirled it around her finger.

“Where did that come from?” Asked Gemma.

Busby cringed.

“You are always stealing shit, man,” said Andreaus.

“Are there any more keys?”

Busby shook his head. “That’s it. Quinton had three on him. I stole the third one that didn’t get used.”

“And you gave it to Misty, and she used it?”

“Oh yeah I did,” said Misty.

Gemma took a long hit off her pipe and before blowing out the smoke, said, “Six of us, huh? One captured, and an asshole. And another MIA?”

Misty was super excited. This was the best summer ever.

Gemma shrugged and said, “Fuck it, let’s go get Sadler back. Its just the military.”