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Disclaimer: All characters belong to Saban. Author's Notes: This vignette is meant to address an issue that is one of my biggest gripes about Power Rangers. It is set in late third season.
Amazing how three small words can change your whole perspective on life. Granted, death is no stranger to me. I have caused it for millennia, and have come close to it several times myself. No, the Grim Reaper, as the humans call it, or the Hortuk, as my people name it, holds no fear for me.
It's the how that gets me.
I, the mighty Goldar, bane of goodness everywhere, a strong and fierce warrior, am dying. Not from a wound sustained in battle. Not from the machinations of Zordon or some other champion of good. Not even from the treacherous plottings of a fellow villain. No. I am dying from a disease.
It's called Malarg's Syndrome, and affects one out of every million of my people, the Titans. It is characterized by the gradual deterioration of strength and reflexes. Eventually, I will become so weak that my heart will no longer function, and I will die.
That will take years, though. And it is the dying, not the actual death, that scares me. I have become a laughingstock. My reputation is in tatters. Zedd and Rita despair over the decline of my fighting abilities. The Rangers have lost their respect for me, and who can blame them? These days they can even beat me unmorphed, like Adam did. Even Billy, he who in the beginning of this war was nothing more than a fly to me, can now take me single-handedly.
That is not the worst, however. What is worst is the look in the eyes of the one I hate the most. He used to hate me as well. That was fine. I wanted his hatred, demanded it, yearned for it. But now he does not look upon me with hatred, or with the grudging respect he once had. I would accept even the scorn he had for me when we both served the same side, but I do not receive even that.
What I see in his eyes now is pity.
Pity!
I long to make him pay for that, but that dream slips farther away every day.
I can tell no one. It is against the customs of my species to reveal health problems. And even if I did, what good would it do? I have already done the necessary research, and know that neither magic nor science can cure me.
And so I die, not with a bang, but with a whimper.