Ranger Danger: The Sentai Stupidity of Kevin Cwan

Chapter 7: The Interview from Hell

The dust from the "Public Works Bot" had barely settled, coating the pristine, vacuumed street in a fresh layer of grey irony, when Kevin Cwan realized he was in deep trouble.

He had managed to demorph behind a stack of recycled tires, frantically pulling his moth-eaten trench coat over his emerald spandex. His helmet was shoved uncomfortably down the back of his pants, making him walk like a man who had recently survived a tragic encounter with a stapler. He just wanted to find a subway station, go home, and stare at a spreadsheet until his brain stopped screaming.

"You! Trench coat guy! Hold it right there!"

Kevin froze. He turned slowly to see Hellen, the city’s most relentless news reporter, sprinting toward him. She wasn't just carrying a microphone; she was wielding it like a bayonet. Behind her, a hovering drone camera buzzed with the predatory energy of a hornet.

"Oh, hey," Kevin squeaked, adjusting his zero-prescription glasses until they sat crookedly on his nose. "I was just... looking for my bus. The forty-two is notoriously late. Very inefficient transit system we have here."

"Forget the bus!" Hellen shoved the microphone into Kevin’s personal space, nearly chipping his front tooth. "You were at the coffee shop during the Bellamy attack. You were on the bus with the Rangers. And now, you’re here, at the epicenter of the Pothole-Monster Massacre. Who are you? Are you their manager? Their mascot? Their accountant?"

Kevin’s heart did a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. "Accountant? No! I mean, yes, I know what a spreadsheet is, but I’m just a guy. A very frequent commuter. I have a pass! A monthly pass!"

Hellen’s eyes narrowed, her gaze raking over him with the intensity of a laser-guided missile. She leaned in, sniffing the air around his collar. "What is that smell? It’s familiar. Burnt rubber, ozone, and... industrial-strength lemon floor-wax?"

"It’s a new cologne," Kevin blurted out, sweating profusely. "It’s called 'Desperation by Spandex.' It’s very popular in the suburban fitness community. It’s supposed to smell like a high-intensity workout in a clean hallway."

"It smells like the Green Ranger," Hellen countered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The one who bounces. The one who looks like he’s constantly having a mid-life crisis at age twenty-seven."

"That’s a very specific description for a superhero," Kevin muttered, trying to edge away. "Listen, I really need to go. I have a... cat. A very hungry cat who only eats at precisely five-fifteen or he starts filing for legal separation."

"Wait! I’m live!" Hellen grabbed his sleeve, turning toward the drone. "Citizens of the city, I am here with a key witness—or perhaps a secret accomplice—to the Aegis-Riders’ latest controversial move! Sir, what do you have to say about the Rangers attacking a robot that was clearly just trying to fix the infrastructure?"

Kevin stared into the camera lens, his brain flatlining. "Well, you see... the thing is... the infrastructure was too good? It was... suspiciously smooth. It was a trap! A velvet-coated trap of civil engineering!"

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the scene. A man stepped into the frame, moving with the slow-motion grace of someone who believed the sun rose specifically to light his face. It was Hudson. He wasn't in his Ranger suit, but he was wearing a silk black shirt unbuttoned to his navel and enough gold jewelry to sink a small merchant vessel. Most notably, he was wearing his signature "Aegis-Grip" finger accessories—golden, jagged rings that looked exactly like the knuckles of the Black Ranger’s gauntlets.

"Hellen, darling," Hudson drawled, flashing a smile that was ninety percent teeth and ten percent ego. "Why are you bothering this poor, disheveled civilian when you could be interviewing someone with actual bone structure?"

Kevin’s eyes bugged out. "Hudson! Get out of here! You’re... you’re supposed to be at the... jewelry cleaning place!"

Hellen’s camera drone immediately pivoted to Hudson. "Wait, I recognize you! You’re Hudson Vane! The billionaire playboy who lost his inheritance in that 'Extreme Yachting' scandal!"

"Scandal is such a harsh word," Hudson said, admiring his own reflection in the drone’s lens. "I prefer to call it a 'spontaneous wealth redistribution event.' Also, these rings? Total coincidence. They’re part of my new line: 'Urban Combat Chic.' Use the promo code 'EGOMANIAC' for fifteen percent off."

"Hudson, shut up!" Kevin hissed, grabbing his arm. "She’s going to put two and two together and get 'Superheroes'!"

"Actually, Kevin, if she puts two and two together with me, she gets 'Ten,'" Hudson whispered back, winked at the camera, and then struck a pose that definitely required a permit.

Hellen looked from Kevin’s singed trench coat to Hudson’s golden knuckles. Her investigative instincts were screaming. "You two are connected. I saw you on the bus! The Green one and the Black one! You’re them, aren't you?"

Kevin knew he had to do something drastic. He had to pivot so hard the narrative would break. He took a deep breath, grabbed the microphone, and looked Hellen dead in the eye.

"Okay, you caught us," Kevin said, his voice dropping into a dramatic, gravelly tone. "We aren't the Rangers. We’re their... biological containment specialists."

Hellen blinked. "Their what?"

"The Rangers," Kevin leaned in, his voice trembling with fake intensity. "They aren't human, Hellen. They’re aliens. From the Cheddar Nebula. They’re made of highly compressed, sentient cheese."

There was a long, ringing silence. Even the drone seemed to hover with a hint of skepticism.

"Cheese?" Hellen asked flatly.

"Yes! Specifically, aged Gouda for the Yellow one, a very sharp Blue Stilton for the math guy, and the Green one? He’s a semi-soft Brie. That’s why he bounces! He has a high moisture content!" Kevin was babbling now, his accountant brain spinning numbers into nonsense. "They can’t be in public for too long or they start to melt and smell like a charcuterie board in a sauna. We’re just here to make sure they don't get eaten by giant crackers!"

Hudson stared at Kevin, his jaw hanging open. "Brie? You made me a Gouda? I’m at least a Truffle-infused Pecorino, you peasant!"

"See!" Kevin yelled, pointing at Hudson. "He’s obsessed with dairy quality! It’s a side effect of the cheese-exposure! We have to go! The Red Ranger—who is a spicy Habanero Cheddar—is currently undergoing a pasteurization crisis!"

Hellen stared at the camera, then back at Kevin. For a split second, she looked like she might actually believe it, simply because Kevin looked so genuinely terrified. "Alien cheese... that would explain the smell..."

"Look!" Kevin suddenly shouted, pointing toward a side alley. "Over there! A suspicious, vibrating trash can! It’s leaking dark energy! Or maybe it’s the secret headquarters of the Evil Toaster Empire!"

In reality, the trash can was vibrating. It was a standard-issue city bin with a "Keep Our City Clean" sticker, but it was currently shaking like it had a cold. From inside the bin, a very familiar, muffled voice could be heard.

"Damn it... where’s the... the signal booster... Kevin? Is that you? The Wi-Fi in this bin is terrible! I should have stayed in the bunker!"

"Vandolf?" Kevin whispered, horrified.

"Is that trash can talking?" Hellen asked, her camera drone zooming in on the vibrating bin.

"It’s a... it’s a smart bin!" Kevin scrambled, grabbing Hudson by the collar and dragging him backward. "Government initiative! It gives you compliments when you recycle! Go check it out! It loves interviews!"

As Hellen and her drone raced toward the vibrating trash can, Kevin and Hudson didn't wait. They bolted. They ran three blocks, ducked behind a billboard for a discount law firm, and collapsed against a brick wall, panting.

"Cheese?" Hudson wheezed, adjusting his hair. "Really, Kevin? You couldn't have gone with 'Shadow Ninjas' or 'Interdimensional Models'?"

"I was under pressure!" Kevin yelled, clutching his chest. "My brain went to the last thing I ate! Which was a very sad string-cheese stick I found in my desk!"

"Well, now the internet thinks I’m an aged Gouda," Hudson grumbled. "My brand is ruined. I’m going to have to launch a line of crackers just to lean into the bit."

Before Kevin could respond, every smartphone in their pockets began to vibrate with a violent, rhythmic pulse. It wasn't a text message. It wasn't a call.

Across the street, the massive digital billboard for 'The Roasted Bean' coffee shop flickered. The image of a steaming latte was replaced by static, then by a cold, violet-tinted screen. All the screens in the vicinity—ATM displays, shop window TVs, even the digital bus-arrival signs—synced up.

A face appeared. It was the woman from the coffee shop, Tsania, but she wasn't in her turtleneck anymore. She was clad in heavy, obsidian-plated armor, her violet eyes glowing with a terrifying, calculated light. Behind her stood Bellamy and a line of shadow-like soldiers that made the toaster-monster look like a child's toy.

"People of the sector," Tsania’s voice echoed through the streets, amplified by every speaker in the city. "Your trial period for 'Peace' has expired. The Aegis-Riders have shown their incompetence. They fight for PR. They fight for scraps. We fight for the Final Acquisition."

Kevin stared up at the screen, the humor of the "cheese lie" vanishing instantly.

"Bellamy was a test," Tsania continued, her gaze seeming to pierce right through the digital screens. "The Pothole-Bot was a joke. Now, we begin the actual merger. We are the Obsidian Syndicate. And we don't do 'Friendship Blasts.' We do results."

The screen flickered one last time, showing a countdown timer: 00:59:59.

"Kevin," Hudson said, his voice finally losing its narcissistic edge. "I don't think she’s talking about a cheese board."

Kevin reached into the back of his pants and pulled out his green helmet. He looked at the singed, dented plastic. "Vandolf, come in. Stop pretending to be a trash can. We have a problem."

"I'm aware!" Vandolf’s voice crackled through the comms, no longer muffled. "And Kevin? For the record? I'm not a Habanero Cheddar. I'm more of a Sharp Provolone. Now get to the rendezvous point! The real war just started!"