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1 - Machismo
- Administrator
Offline - Registered: 12/06/2019
- Posts: 1,930
Kamen Rider Gauge
"Pressure builds. Time breaks. Heroes are forged."
Episode 1: The Pressure of Time
It was the kind of day Arcadia City forgot to finish. Pale clouds sagged above old rooftops, weighed down by rusted satellite dishes and pigeon nests. Streetcars groaned along their rails like old men with bad knees. Somewhere far off, a steam pipe screamed its usual protest before fading into the droning hum of the city.
Inside a cramped corner shop—one of the last analog oases in a world of blinking plastic—Cole Beckett leaned over a brass pocket watch and let time hold its breath.
Tick... tick...
The tiny mechanism was open like a wound on his bench, gears laid bare, begging for alignment. Cole’s hands were steady, his eyes calm, his heartbeat counting off with the gears.
Then—click.
The spring locked into place.
Cole Beckett: There. Still got it.
The doorbell chimed. Not a digital beep, but a real brass bell—his own touch.
?: Still talking to clocks, huh?
Cole didn’t look up, but a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
Cole Beckett: They’re better listeners.
She stepped in from the street, sunlight catching on her auburn hair as she loosened her scarf. A gust of wind followed her in, bringing the scent of rain and exhaust.
?: Uh-huh I'm guessing that means my delivery’s not ready?
She leaned on the counter with playful familiarity, eyes sparkling behind her glasses.
Cole Beckett: Not unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for 1930s alarm clocks.
He finally looked up. Aria Westbrook. Physicist. Granddaughter of Dr. Ezekiel Westbrook, one of the last true temporal theorists. And—though Cole would never admit it out loud—his only real connection left in this city.
She grinned.
Aria Westbrook: I prefer my clocks loud and emotionally distant. Like you.
Cole Beckett: Then you’ll love this one.
He handed her a small clock with a crooked bell and a coffee ring on its face. She held it like it was a bouquet.
Aria Westbrook: You really fixed it?
Cole Beckett: It’s not just ticking. It’s keeping perfect time. Somehow.
She looked impressed. Genuinely.
Aria Westbrook: You know, for someone who quit the world, you’re still kind of amazing.
Cole went still for a moment. Not in a brooding way—just... paused. Like a man waiting to see if a fragile moment would pass without cracking.
Cole Beckett: I didn’t quit. I just... stopped competing.
Aria Westbrook: Same difference.
She walked the edge of the workshop, fingers trailing the shelves of clocks, gauges, and tools. He watched her, unnoticed. Aria had a way of moving like time didn’t control her—methodical, but curious. Observant. Never rushed.
She turned back to him.
Aria Westbrook: You know we've been looking into all those weird things that have been occurring since the Hanta City and Umbra City stories right? Well we've been studying the power grid fluctuations in Midtown. Something’s draining energy in weird patterns. Rhythmic pulses. Almost like a heartbeat.
Cole looked down at his tools.
Cole Beckett: That just sounds like a faulty junction box.
Aria Westbrook: Maybe. But last night, a traffic cam caught a ripple in the air. Like heat distortion, but... cold. It moved. Deliberately.
She slid a photo from her coat—grainy, blurred—but something glinted in the center of the frame. A red light. Maybe a lens. Maybe an eye.
Cole didn’t blink.
Cole Beckett: You think it’s a drone?
Aria Westbrook: I think... something’s watching.
There it was again—that tightening in his chest. Like a spring winding itself just a little too far.
Cole Beckett: That interesting Aria, but I’m just a watchmaker.
Aria Westbrook: You’re more than that. You just don't act like it.
She meant it. He could tell. But that was what made it harder.
He stood and handed her the repaired clock in a brown paper bag.
Cole Beckett: Stay away from Midtown for a while.
Aria Westbrook: Why?
Cole Beckett: Just... trust me. Doesn't seem safe.
She looked like she wanted to push. Challenge him. But she didn’t.
Aria Westbrook: Fine. But if I get scooped on this, I’m blaming you.
She gave him a gentle smile and stepped outside.
When the door shut, Cole turned back to his bench—and pulled the drawer open.
Inside was a belt, with a pressure gauge in the middle. The words inside read "Chrono Engine Driver".
It pulsed faintly. A red glow behind thick glass. Not warm. Not cold. Just... waiting.
The sky had gone from dull gray to bruised purple. Street Lights flickered on one by one across the Midtown skyline like the city itself was blinking awake. Trains rumbled in the distance. Neon signs buzzed to life.
Somewhere beneath it all, a ripple moved.
A trash can buckled inward like it had been crushed by pressure. A nearby lamp post cracked at the base—silent. A moment later, a flickering shape glided through the alley between two buildings. It left no footprints. Only warped concrete and frost.
Inside an old factory being converted into condos, a security guard leaned back in his chair, scrolling through videos on his phone of an apparent giant woman in Metro City, barely aware of the temperature drop.
Then the lights went out.
Security Guard: Huh?
The emergency lights didn’t come on. His screen flickered. His watch stopped ticking. Every clock on the wall read 8:17, and wouldn’t move.
Security Guard: ...Nope. Not dealing with this tonight.
He stood up—just in time to see the wall peel outward like paper, curling in reverse. Something stepped through it. Tall. Bent. Wearing a long coat made of torn cloth and gears. Its face was a broken metronome, twitching erratically. It exhaled steam.
Entity: Chrono integrity... fractured. Time must be claimed.
The guard screamed.
A red pulse flared.
And just like that, the building began to rust—in fast-forward.
Cole sat on the floor, surrounded by parts—gears, springs, copper tubes, a busted oscilloscope. The Chrono Engine Driver sat in front of him, glowing red in the low light.
He hadn't used it since the night everything fell apart. Since the incident at Westbrook Tower. Since his time ran out.
But now...
Now it was calling.
He reached toward it.
Cole Beckett: I told you I wasn’t going back.
The gauge on the device twitched—like it heard him. Like it disagreed.
His phone buzzed. A news alert:
"FREAK POWER OUTAGE IN MIDTOWN. BUILDING DECOMPOSES? 3 MISSING."
Cole stood.
So did the needle on the Driver.
Aria Westbrook paced in front of a massive whiteboard, red marker in hand, coat still damp from the evening drizzle. Equations cluttered the board like broken thoughts. She muttered to herself as she drew a graph of power spikes across the city map.
Aria Westbrook: It’s not random. It’s breathing. Whatever this is, it’s feeding off something... maybe entropy?
She stopped. Picked up a dusty old file—one of her grandfather’s. Inside: blueprints. Unused schematics for a "Temporal Pressure Engine." The same circular gauge. The same red light.
Her brow furrowed.
Aria Westbrook: Why does this look... familiar?
Cole’s boots echoed off the wet pavement as he walked toward the broken perimeter fence surrounding the collapsed factory. Police tape fluttered uselessly in the wind. No one else dared get close.
He stepped over the barrier, quiet, eyes scanning the warped surroundings. Metal had twisted like taffy. Windows aged a century. Clocks in the wreckage all stuck at 8:17.
Cole’s fingers brushed one. Still warm. Not from heat—but pressure. Residual build-up. He knew the signs.
This wasn’t just damage.
It was rewriting.
He moved deeper into the heart of the building. Machinery groaned quietly in the distance—not because it was running, but because it was decaying, fast-forwarding through centuries in seconds. Copper piping cracked like bones. A nearby steel support snapped under the weight of accelerated rust and collapsed to the ground in a roar.
Then he saw it.
The Wight of Delay.
It stood over a half-consumed generator, its frame partially merged with warped bronze and shattered clock faces. A sickly orange glow pulsed beneath its blackened skin, like molten metal pushing to escape. Its face was a fractured timepiece, constantly shifting between hours. Its limbs were elongated, skeletal, dripping corrosion and gear oil. A massive pendulum hung from one arm like a weaponized grandfather clock.
It turned to face him.
Wight of Delay: You return, carrier of the Engine... like rust returns to iron.
Cole’s breath hitched. His hand moved to his coat. The Chrono Engine Driver buzzed faintly in response. Still, he hesitated.
Cole Beckett: I didn’t come here to fight.
Wight of Delay: Time fights all. You only choose when to lose.
It swung the pendulum forward.
BOOM.
The concrete exploded where Cole stood a moment earlier, sending him diving behind a rusted conveyor belt. Dust filled the air. A spike of broken piping narrowly missed his head.
Cole Beckett: Damn it.
He pulled the Driver from his coat. The needle on the gauge was already climbing, reacting to the pressure in the air.
Cole Beckett: Guess I don’t get to walk away.
He strapped the belt on. It hissed, gears locking in. The dial began to spin on its own—impatient.
Cole stood up, eyes fixed on the Wight.
Cole Beckett: Calibrate. Lock.
Steam vented from the sides of the belt, blasting outward in two sharp bursts.
Cole Beckett: …Ignite.
He rotated the dial.
The Chrono Engine lit up.
The transformation was violent. Steam erupted around him in a circle, forming a glowing ring of light. Plates of bronze and black metal clamped onto his limbs like shackles, twisting into segmented armor. Gear teeth spun across his chest as the red gauge on his belt slammed into place.
Cole Beckett: RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
The last piece—his helmet—clamped shut over his face with a hiss. His eyes glowed red through the mask. Kamen Rider Gauge stood tall.
The Wight let out a distorted roar and charged, dragging its pendulum arm behind it. It swung—
Gauge ducked under the arc and rolled forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s gut. Sparks flew. The Wight stumbled back, and Gauge pressed the attack.
Left jab. Right hook. Elbow to the side of the jaw.
Each strike vented steam. His gauntlets glowed hotter with every impact.
The Wight retaliated, swinging its arm again—but this time it spun the pendulum in a wide circle like a flail. Gauge was forced to jump back as the weapon smashed through a concrete pillar, reducing it to rubble.
Wight of Delay: You cannot slow delay. How many times have you already been forgotten?
Gauge’s boots hissed as pressure expelled downward, propelling him into a sliding dash. He ducked low, spinning underneath the creature’s wild swings, and aimed a rising uppercut right into its ribcage.
Cole Beckett: You talk too much.
The hit connected—Boiler Strike. Steam blasted from his knuckles and sent the Wight flying into a rusted pipe system, which collapsed around it in a shower of corroded metal.
Gauge stood still for a moment, breathing heavily through the helmet. Steam curled from his shoulder vents. His HUD flickered briefly.
Then a low whirring behind him.
He turned—too late.
The Wight had rewound itself by three seconds.
It struck with both hands, slamming Gauge into the wall hard enough to dent the armor. Sparks erupted from his chest plate. The Wight grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air.
Wight of Delay: This moment… has expired.
Its chest opened—revealing a grinding clock mechanism. The hour hand began to spin toward Cole. A temporal energy field built rapidly, threatening to age his suit into dust.
Gauge gritted his teeth.
His hand shot to the dial on his belt.
Cole Beckett: Then let’s overclock this.
He spun the Chrono Engine until it sparked red.
Overdrive Mode: BOILER CORE.
Steam gushed from every seam of the suit. The pressure gauge maxed out, glowing red hot. Armor plating along his arms and shoulders expanded, revealing inner vents.
Cole Beckett: Boiler Breaker!
He slammed his gauntlet into the Wight’s chest—straight into the exposed clock core.
BOOM!
An explosion of pressure, steam, and kinetic force blasted through the Wight’s body, sending it flying across the factory. It crashed through three rusted machines before skidding into the far wall, where it convulsed—time glitching around it.
Sparks rained from the ceiling.
Cole stood, smoke swirling around him.
The Wight tried to rise again—clock face spinning wildly—but Cole marched forward. With a flick of his wrist, he ejected a fresh Time Core from his belt and loaded it back in.
The gauge reset. Then slowly climbed again.
Cole Beckett: Time’s not up yet.
He hit the release.
Cole Beckett: Pressure Finish!
A steam-fueled roundhouse kick—glowing red-hot—landed square in the Wight’s face. The core shattered. The Wight screamed in reverse, as if being yanked back through its own corrupted timeline.
Then it exploded into a rain of broken cogs, shattered clock hands, and crackling light.
The factory went silent.
Cole Beckett deactivated the Chrono Engine. His armor hissed and deconstructed into mist and smoke, vanishing into the night.
He looked down at the spot where the Wight had fallen.
Not a trace left.
Cole sat on the edge of a rooftop, looking out over the city. The Chrono Engine sat beside him, quiet now.
His hand shook. Not from fear. From recognition.
The way the Wight moved. The pressure patterns. The rust. The 8:17 mark.
It was the same as that day.
The day time broke.
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (7/06/2025 6:13 am)
- Machismo
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- Registered: 12/06/2019
- Posts: 1,930
Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
The twenty-third floor of the tower buzzed with activity just moments earlier. Now, the halls were eerily still. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The buzzing of the bulbs had a rhythm to it. A pulse.
Bzzzz...
Bzzzz...
Click.
Time: 8:17 PM.
A watch face froze. The second hand twitched. Then ticked backwards.
In the Westbrook Institute temporal lab, a room once filled with calculations, equations, and deliberation was now coated in a reddish glow. Dials spun uncontrollably. Readouts on every monitor spiked, dipped, and looped in a sickening figure-eight pattern.
On the glass observation deck, Cole Beckett stood, frozen mid-step, looking down on a machine that pulsed unnaturally. It wasn’t supposed to be active.
His hand reached for the red phone on the wall.
He never made the call.
The walls buckled inward, like gravity had reversed. Arcs of pressure hissed through the vents. Time didn’t slow—it fractured. People moved like skipping video frames. Laughter and screaming overlapped in an unholy chorus.
A clock on the far wall shattered.
Through the distortion, Cole saw her.
Standing on the opposite side of the lab, her hand extended toward something unseen. Her mouth moved, but her voice arrived seconds late.
Behind her—
A figure of steam and shadow.
Clock hands spinning where its face should be.
A metallic claw reached forward.
Cole moved.
The world didn’t.
"The gears grind. The pressure rises. The clock ticks louder."
Episode 2: A Crack in the Clock
Hissssss.
Cole stirred awake as the steam kettle screamed at him from the kitchen. He didn’t get up immediately. Just stared at the ceiling like it had said something insulting.
Cole Beckett: Love the trauma wake-up calls, kettle. Really thoughtful.
He eventually swung his legs out of bed. His ribs ached. His knuckles were still raw from the fight with the Wight of Delay.
Across the room, the Chrono Engine Driver sat on his workbench, steaming gently, as if pleased with itself.
Cole Beckett: You better not be smug. You almost got me killed. I think that's what they do. Maybe it's worse?
He poured the tea, took a sip, and winced.
Cole Beckett: And we’re out of sugar. Tragic. Don't suppose I could remind myself to go to the store yesterday? No, I guess not.
He wandered over to the workbench and gave the Driver a nudge with the back of his hand. It hummed. Warm, but not hostile. For now.
Cole sat.
He stared at nothing in particular.
Then the doorbell rang.
Cole opened the door halfway and immediately regretted it.
Standing there was a sunburned man in a pineapple-printed tropical shirt, flip-up sunglasses, and beach sandals. He had a smoothie in one hand and a novelty keychain shaped like a crab in the other.
Ty Mercado.
Ty Mercado: Bro. I fought three airline employees and a vending machine to get here. You better have missed me.
Cole Beckett: I tried. But you keep finding me.
Ty Mercado: You sound even grumpier than usual. That's how I know I was missed.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission.
Cole raised an eyebrow.
Cole Beckett: Vacation didn’t mellow you out, huh?
Ty Mercado: Solandra? Please. Mellow’s illegal there. I went full chaos mode. Wore a flamingo suit to a black-tie gala. Hit three beach karaoke contests. Watched some rad wrestling! Survived a swordfish taco!
Cole blinked.
Cole Beckett: You’re lying about at least two of those things.
Ty Mercado: One of them. The swordfish was grilled. Everything else is 100% factual and medically questionable.
Cole couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ty always brought noise into whatever room he entered. And sometimes… that was exactly what Cole needed.
Ty plopped onto a stool, sipping his smoothie like it was holy nectar.
Ty Mercado: So. How’s the shop? Still like surrounding yourself with the ticks and the tocks of all those clocks?
Cole Beckett: They’re the only things that respect my boundaries.
Ty Mercado: You mean they don’t talk back.
Cole Beckett: Exactly.
There was a beat. Cole glanced at the wall where one of the clocks had stopped. He said nothing. Neither did the clock.
Ty leaned in.
Ty Mercado: You look… like you’ve been punched in the soul. I know you haven't exactly been the happiest guy since your change of profession, but this is different. Everything okay?
Cole hesitated. Too long.
Cole Beckett: Define ‘okay.’
Ty Mercado: Willing to go outside, not actively haunted by things that aren't your fault?
Cole sipped his tea.
Cole Beckett: One of those.
Ty grinned. Then frowned.
Ty Mercado: Wait, which one’s not true?
Ty leaned against the counter, sipping the last of his smoothie as Cole methodically adjusted the gears inside a warped mantle clock.
Ty Mercado: So, serious question. If a guy travels through time and leaves behind a second version of himself, is it cheating if his girlfriend ends up with the clone?
Cole Beckett: Are you asking hypothetically or did Solandra get really weird?
Ty Mercado: Just curious?
Cole smirked and set down his tools.
Cole Beckett: If the clone makes better coffee, I say let her decide.
Just then, a sharp click came from the nearest wall clock. It froze mid-tick—at 3:17. A low hum began vibrating through the tools on Cole's bench.
The lights flickered.
Cole's expression darkened.
Cole Beckett: ...That's not good.
Ty Mercado: What just happened? We got ghosts? I've been told we can call someone about that.
Cole crossed the room and flicked open a compartment beneath the floorboards. Inside, the Chrono Engine Driver pulsed with irregular, red bursts.
Cole Beckett: Something's happening near the subway. Pressure's rising fast.
Ty Mercado: You're actually using that?
Cole Beckett: Just... go home and lock the doors.
Ty Mercado: And miss a timequake? Come on, man.
Cole grabbed his coat and turned back with a sharp edge in his voice.
Cole Beckett: Ty. I'm serious. If I don’t come back in an hour, definitely don’t come looking.
Ty raised his hands in surrender.
Ty Mercado: Okay, okay. Noted. Just be careful.
Cole didn’t respond. He was already out the door.
Ty Mercado: You know you're get there faster if you had a set of wheels!
The tunnels were colder than usual. Dripping condensation from cracked pipes echoed through the dark, and the flicker of unstable emergency lights illuminated graffiti-scrawled walls.
Cole crept along the platform edge, his coat trailing behind him. The Chrono Driver pulsed lightly beneath his clothes, warning him of an anomaly ahead. Steam curled from the grates beneath his feet.
He heard it before he saw it—the skipping sound of someone moving in time loops. A laugh, repeated in short bursts. Mechanical.
Painted on the wall in red: "THE HANDS OF THE CLOCK WILL REWIND ALL"
Beneath the writing, a strange sigil burned faintly into the wall—a shattered hourglass flanked by thirteen rusted gears.
Cole Beckett: Chrono Clutch. So you're real after all.
Standing at the far end of the platform, illuminated by a spotlight from a glitching maintenance drone, was a monstrous figure. A hulking, rust-covered form dragging two enormous weighted chains. Each link bore clockwork engravings.
Wight of Pause.
Its face bore a constantly pausing stopwatch, twitching at 0.01 second intervals. Every few ticks, the creature would glitch slightly backward or forward in space—stuttering across the platform.
Cole Beckett: Chrono Clutch. You're responsible for this? For what happened?
The Wight let out a warbling groan and swung a chain. Time stuttered. Cole felt the air tear around him and dove sideways just as the chain smashed into a concrete pillar, leaving it crumbling in slow motion.
He landed hard, rolled, and pulled the Driver from his coat.
Cole Beckett: Lock. Ignite.
Steam hissed. Gears clicked. The Chrono Engine roared to life.
Cole Beckett: RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
In a blast of white steam, Kamen Rider Gauge appeared. The transformation completed mid-motion, launching him forward.
Gauge sprinted across the crumbling platform, steam trailing from his armored boots. The Wight of Pause yanked both chains and hurled them like twin serpents. Gauge ducked beneath one, grabbed the second mid-swing, and twisted his momentum into a wall-run along a rusted steel beam.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Nice chains. What else you got?
The Wight stuttered forward, appearing ahead of Gauge before the Rider could react. A backhand with the weighted chain sent Gauge tumbling into a bench that splintered beneath him.
He rolled, steam erupting from vents along his back to cushion the impact. As he stood, he spun the dial on his belt.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Alright, you got the moves. Let's see how you handle this? Valve Form!
Valve Form activated with a hiss of high-pressure steam and a clank of internal gears. The armor reconfigured rapidly—sleeker and reinforced, with silver-blue piping visible beneath black and brass plates. A glowing pressure gauge replaced the standard dial on his belt, and vents along his arms, legs, and spine constantly emited vapor to enhance speed and agility.
In Valve Form, Gauge moved like a turbine at full spin—his strikes accelerated the longer a combo continued, building up steam bursts to add explosive power.
Gauge surged forward.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as bursts of steam fired from his ankles. He delivered a rapid three-hit combo—a jab, elbow, and spin-kick—each one creating a small sonic blast. The Wight blocked two but the third sent it staggering back.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Still think you're king of the clock tower? Let's see if you keep time as well as you break it.
The Wight spun its chains around, forming a vortex that slowed Gauge's approach. Time thickened in the air—like moving through syrup.
Gauge adjusted his stance, then kicked a nearby support beam. The pressure rebounded him upward into a vertical flip. At the peak, he spun the belt gauge.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Steam Spiral...KICK!
He launched downward like a falling piston, leg enveloped in a cyclone of boiling steam. The impact shattered the platform beneath the Wight and sent it hurtling into a maintenance train car.
It roared, chains flailing wildly. One chain whipped across Gauge’s side, sending sparks and a burst of steam in every direction.
Gauge staggered.
The Wight rushed forward.
Gauge intercepted with a rising steam uppercut, then spun into a full-body slam. Both combatants crashed through a rusted wall into a forgotten maintenance chamber.
Exposed pipes hissed. Warning lights flashed. Time inside this room had begun to lag.
Gauge pushed off the ground, breathing heavily.
He charged again. Steam erupted around his fists.
Gauge threw a flurry of punches at the Wight—each faster than the last. The Wight glitched, unable to dodge. The Rider spun his dial once more, releasing a final burst.
Kamen Rider Gauge: VALVE... OVERDRIVE!
He jumped, spinning like a drill, both legs extended.
The kick connected.
The stopwatch on the Wight's chest cracked. Then shattered.
The Wight of Pause let out a metallic shriek before exploding into fragments of rusted gears and a fading pulse of chronal energy.
Gauge landed hard, steam pouring off his shoulders.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Time's up.
The Arcadia Institute stood quiet under moonlight, its spires bathed in soft blue glow. Inside, Aria Westbrook sat in her dimly lit lab, data screens lining the walls, their light flickering off her glasses. Her hair was tied back, sleeves rolled to the elbows as she stared at the complex feedback loops unfolding across her terminal.
Aria Westbrook: That spike in the chronometric field... it came from Sector 9.
She rewound the footage. Again. Slower this time.
Time-shift distortions. Temporal echoes. And for the briefest moment, something humanoid flashing through the frame. Steam.
She sat back in her chair, trying to breathe steadily. Her eyes scanned another terminal—her grandfather’s old chronoscanner prototype running simulations beside her.
It beeped.
Another anomaly.
She opened the report—but instead of raw data, a message blinked in red:
"THE HANDS WILL TURN. DO NOT TRUST TIME."
Aria Westbrook: Who the hell is sending this...?
Suddenly, every clock in the room began ticking backward in perfect unison.
The lights dimmed. The air grew colder.
She turned slowly. Behind her, the chalkboard wall she'd been using to work out time-theory math now bore a symbol she hadn’t drawn: the shattered hourglass sigil.
Her breath caught.
Then the lights surged back.
Everything normal again.
Except... one clock. It was stuck at 3:17.
Aria Westbrook: Grandfather, what were you hiding from me?
She tapped a key and ran a scan for energy signatures matching the subway event.
There was a match.
But it wasn’t just one.
It was dozens.
Scattered across Arcadia. All pulsing in rhythm.
The Chrono Clutch wasn’t done.
To Be Continued…
Last edited by Machismo (7/09/2025 2:15 am)
- •
Thread Starter- Machismo
- Administrator
Offline
- Registered: 12/06/2019
- Posts: 1,930
Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
A man ran. Not just running—but escaping time itself. Footsteps echoed as the world behind him glitched. Lampposts flickered through decades. A neon sign blinked. His watch spun backward. Forward. Then cracked.
He turned a corner—only to find himself back where he started. Same alley. Same broken light overhead.
Man: No no no—
The moment stretched. Time itself resisted his movement. He screamed—
—and then time snapped. The scream was cut. Replaced with silence.
A new figure emerged from the shadows. Long cloak made of clockwork drapery. A face hidden behind a split mask—half antique, half gears. He had a twisted figure behind him, pulling the strings, looping the time.
He stepped forward and raised one hand. The man collapsed mid-loop, crumbling into a shimmer of dust and gear fragments.
?: The gear out of place grinds against destiny. You ran from the truth. You lived a lie. But the Paradox Core is ticking again. Let the next Hand turn.
Episode 3: Never the Same Twice
The kettle screamed.
It always screamed at the worst possible moment, and this morning was no exception.
Ellie Tran flinched as the shrill whistle cut through the quiet of her cramped apartment. She didn’t move to silence it right away—her eyes were glued to her laptop screen, where a spinning circle mocked her patience.
The machine had been booting up for five full minutes. She sighed, shoved her glasses up her nose, and pushed herself up from the squeaky chair with more energy than she felt.
Her feet padded across the kitchen floor. The apartment was barely bigger than a dorm room, littered with piles of old notebooks, scientific journals, and coffee-stained folders. Her kettle, a secondhand relic she named Screamer, sputtered steam as she pulled it off the burner.
She poured the hot water into her chipped mug—“Journalists Do It Better”—and let the steam curl upward, warming her face. Outside, morning fog rolled over the quiet street. The same stray cat lounged on the same bent fence post. The same man jogged by, waving to no one. The same old bike leaned against the lamppost.
Ellie blinked slowly.
Something felt off.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
[Meeting with Prof. Gaddis – 11:30 AM]
She groaned and sipped her tea.
Ellie Tran: Great. Can’t wait to be patronized by a guy who says “internet sleuth” like it’s a slur. Who am I kidding? It practically is.
Gaddis had been blocking her every step in getting her latest article published—an investigation into the mass disappearance of several scientists five years ago, and an odd visual phenomenon that preceded it. Ellie Tran believed that something happened to time that day. She couldn't explain it.
The world had called it "The Shatter,” or “The Swerve,” depending on the media outlet. But Ellie knew better. She didn’t know what or how, only that people vanished. And no one—not even those in charge—had answers.
Not yet, anyway.
She reached for her coat when her phone buzzed again.
[Battery low – 10% remaining]
She groaned louder.
Ellie Tran: Just like me.
Across town, Cole Beckett nearly choked on the world’s worst breakfast burrito.
Ty Mercado: That bad, huh?
Cole held up a finger as he swallowed the rubbery mess. His face scrunched like he’d just tasted something pulled from the back of the fridge. The food stand had advertised “fresh” ingredients, but he suspected they’d been flash-frozen sometime around the Renaissance.
Cole Beckett: That wasn’t a burrito. That was a cruel nightmare wrapped in tinfoil.
Ty Mercado grinned, lounging with a tropical soda in one hand, wearing a pineapple button-up and cutoff shorts like summer never ended. The two sat on the wooden railing of the Cinder District boardwalk, overlooking steaming maintenance pipes and drifting gulls. Below them, the urban heartbeat of the city thudded on—normal, chaotic, alive.
Ty Beckett: So, you got that look again. Something temporal this way comes?
Cole frowned. His hand slipped under his jacket, touching the cool surface of the Chrono Engine Driver, hidden beneath his jacket.
It pulsed.
Not harsh like before—not the alarm of an impending incursion. No red lights. No surge of panic.
This was different.
Soft. Subtle. Like a heartbeat. Or a warning whisper.
Cole Beckett: Something’s happening. Not a breach. It's weird.
Ty Mercado: So… more weirdness?
Cole Beckett: Time's always weird. This is like—it’s echoing. Like I’m on a treadmill.
Ty Mercado: Déjà vu? What you're explaining is Déjà vu. Just say Déjà vu.
Cole Beckett: …Yeah. Déjà vu.
Ty Mercado: That’s... ominous. You think it’s the Chrono Clutch?
Cole didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the streets. A jogger passed a hydrant. A bird squawked and landed on a sign. A kid dropped his ice cream cone, looked sad, and then tripped.
The same sequence. Again.
Cole Beckett: That’s the third time I’ve seen that kid trip.
Ty Mercado: Poor kid. But also—what?
Cole stood.
Cole Beckett: Something’s looping. And I think we’re caught in it.
Back in the university district, Ellie Tran stormed into her advisor’s building, clutching a folder of scribbled notes and an old flash drive.
Inside was an interview from three years ago—an audio file she'd forgotten until recently. A conversation with Dr. Westbrook, the physicist who had vanished the day time fractured. He had been eccentric, brilliant, and deeply concerned about something he never fully explained.
Ellie had only interviewed him once. But when she played the file again last week, there was static embedded in the recording—digital anomalies. And his final words?
Dr. Westbrook: They've gone mad! If they come looking for this, run!
The hallway suddenly shimmered.
The kettle screamed.
It always screamed at the worst possible moment, and this morning was no exception.
Ellie Tran flinched as the shrill whistle cut through the quiet of her cramped apartment. She didn’t move to silence it right away—her eyes were glued to her laptop screen, where a spinning circle mocked her patience.
The machine had been booting up for five full minutes. She sighed, shoved her glasses up her nose, and pushed herself up from the squeaky chair with more energy than she felt.
Her feet padded across the kitchen floor. The apartment was barely bigger than a dorm room, littered with piles of old notebooks, scientific journals, and coffee-stained folders. Her kettle, a secondhand relic she named Screamer, sputtered steam as she pulled it off the burner.
She poured the hot water into her chipped mug—“Journalists Do It Better”—and let the steam curl upward, warming her face. Outside, morning fog rolled over the quiet street. The same stray cat lounged on the same bent fence post. The same man jogged by, waving to no one. The same old bike leaned against the lamppost.
Ellie blinked slowly.
Something felt off.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
[Meeting with Prof. Gaddis – 11:30 AM]
She groaned and sipped her tea.
Ellie Tran: Great. Can’t wait to be patronized by a guy who says “internet sleuth” like it’s a slur. Who am I kidding? It practically is.
Gaddis had been blocking her every step in getting her latest article published—an investigation into the mass disappearance of several scientists five years ago, and an odd visual phenomenon that preceded it. Ellie Tran believed that something happened to time that day. She couldn't explain it.
The world had called it "The Shatter,” or “The Swerve,” depending on the media outlet. But Ellie knew better. She didn’t know what or how, only that people vanished. And no one—not even those in charge—had answers.
Not yet, anyway.
She reached for her coat when her phone buzzed again.
[Battery low – 10% remaining]
She groaned louder.
Ellie Tran: Just like me.
Across town, Cole Beckett nearly choked on the world’s worst breakfast burrito.
Ty Mercado: That bad, huh?
Cole held up a finger as he swallowed the rubbery mess. His face scrunched like he’d just tasted something pulled from the back of the fridge. The food stand had advertised “fresh” ingredients, but he suspected they’d been flash-frozen sometime around the Renaissance.
Cole Beckett: That wasn’t a burrito. That was a cruel nightmare wrapped in tinfoil.
Ty Mercado grinned, lounging with a tropical soda in one hand, wearing a pineapple button-up and cutoff shorts like summer never ended. The two sat on the wooden railing of the Cinder District boardwalk, overlooking steaming maintenance pipes and drifting gulls. Below them, the urban heartbeat of the city thudded on—normal, chaotic, alive.
Ty Beckett: So, you got that look again. Something temporal this way comes?
Cole frowned. His hand slipped under his jacket, touching the cool surface of the Chrono Engine Driver, hidden beneath his jacket.
It pulsed.
Not harsh like before—not the alarm of an impending incursion. No red lights. No surge of panic.
This was different.
Soft. Subtle. Like a heartbeat. Or a warning whisper.
Cole Beckett: Something’s happening. Not a breach. It's weird.
Ty Mercado: So… more weirdness?
Cole Beckett: Time's always weird. This is like—it’s echoing. Like I’m on a treadmill.
Ty Mercado: Déjà vu? What you're explaining is Déjà vu. Just say Déjà vu.
Cole Beckett: …Yeah. Déjà vu.
Ty Mercado: That’s... ominous. You think it’s the Chrono Clutch?
Cole didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the streets. A jogger passed a hydrant. A bird squawked and landed on a sign. A kid dropped his ice cream cone, looked sad, and then tripped.
The same sequence. Again.
Cole Beckett: That’s the fourth time I’ve seen that kid trip.
Ty Mercado: Poor kid. But also—what?
Cole stood.
Cole Beckett: Something’s looping. And I think we’re caught in it.
Back in the university district, Ellie Tran stormed into her advisor’s building, clutching a folder of scribbled notes and an old flash drive.
Inside was an interview from three years ago—an audio file she'd forgotten until recently. A conversation with Dr. Westbrook, the physicist who had vanished the day time fractured. He had been eccentric, brilliant, and deeply concerned about something he never fully explained.
Ellie had only interviewed him once. But when she played the file again last week, there was static embedded in the recording—digital anomalies. And his final words?
Dr. Westbrook: They've gone mad! If they come looking for this, run!
The hallway suddenly shimmered.
For a moment, the air bent inward, like a heat mirage. Her phone screen glitched, scrolling through her texts by itself. She reached out—and touched nothing.
Then came the screech.
It didn’t sound mechanical. Or organic. It sounded… wrong.
Ellie turned.
Behind her, emerging from a flicker in the corridor wall, was a thing.
It had no consistent shape—parts of it looked like a man, others like machinery, and others like light distorted into pain. Its limbs were twitching fragments, phasing in and out of sync with the hallway. Eyes blinked where there shouldn't be eyes.
Ellie screamed.
Cole was running by then, the Chrono Engine already active under his hoodie.
A voice suddenly stopped him in his tracks.
???: C-caught in the loop.
Cole Beckett: What?! What was that? Where did that come from?
He yanked his jacket aside, pulling out a pocket watch. He'd had it for years, but it always kept time. It never tried to speak to him. The antique casing was warm.
The face glowed faintly.
???: I am... a friend, if you survive this.
Cole Beckett: Helpful.
???: The girl is being chased by the Chrono Clutch.
Cole Beckett: A girl is being chased? Obviously, they picked their spot if we're trapped in a moment of time.
???: If it keep happening, she risks splintering.
Cole Beckett: You’re saying she’ll lose who she is?
???: A person is not meant to be trapped between moments of time.
Cole Beckett: …Okay. That’s enough cryptic nonsense. Whoever they're targeting this time, they won't have their way.
He pulled the Driver from under his jacket and slammed it onto his waist. The dial spun once, clicking into place.
Cole Beckett: Lock. Ignite.
Steam hissed. Gears clicked. The Chrono Engine roared to life.
Cole Beckett: RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
A surge of light, a spin of gears, and the armor locked in around him.
Kamen Rider Gauge charged through the alley.
The creature cornered Ellie against a wall of flickering bricks, like reality had buffering issues.
Its legs bent backward in one loop, forward in the next. Its face reset mid-scream, eyes blinking out of order. It was trying to reach her, but the loop resisted its existence, dragging it back a few seconds every few steps.
Ellie ducked under a swipe of glitching claws. She bolted down the hall—only to trip as the floor warped under her. Her knees hit tile. A second later, they hit tile again. And again.
She wasn’t moving. The hallway was.
Ellie Tran: This is a nightmare—this is a nightmare! Why do I keep having it?!
That’s when the explosion happened.
A crack of compressed air. A rip of blazing light. The creature reeled as Kamen Rider Gauge landed between them in a crouch, gauntlet braced for impact.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Found you.
The thing lunged again, glitching mid-leap—its body resetting twice in the air, then arriving ahead of itself.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Okay that's new.
He blocked the blow, then staggered as it struck again—same arm, same angle.
He spun the dial on his Driver. A ripple of force shot out, resetting the area briefly—just enough to disrupt the creature’s rhythm.
Gauge leapt into the air, twist-kicked the monster into the wall, and landed in front of Ellie.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Hi. You’re not hallucinating. Or dead. Yet.
Ellie Tran: I... I...
Cole Beckett: Save the existential panic for thirty seconds from now. We need to—
But his voice cut off.
The world stuttered.
The light changed.
The kettle screamed.
Ellie Tran didn’t hear it right away.
Same apartment. Same fog. Same old cat on the fence.
But this time, she dropped the mug before she touched it. It shattered. The sound rang like a fire alarm in her head.
Ellie Tran: No. No, no, no.
Her phone buzzed. Same meeting alert.
[Meeting with Prof. Gaddis – 11:30 AM]
She didn’t move. Her breath came in sharp gasps. She reached for the laptop—still booting, same loading wheel. Steam from the kettle curled exactly the same.
Ellie Tran: It happened again.
This wasn’t a weird day. This was the same day.
She bolted from her apartment without shoes.
Cole blinked awake on the same bench. Ty’s soda fizzed the same way. The seagull landed on the same railing. He checked his watch. Ten twenty-eight.
Ty Mercado: That bad, huh?
Cole Beckett: You already said that.
Ty Mercado: What?
Cole stood. The pocket watch in his jacket ticked.
???: The pattern repeats. The shade will return sooner.
Cole Beckett: How do I break it?
???: Find the source of the problem. Eliminate it.
Cole Beckett: That twisted form. The Chrono Clutch. I just need to beat it?
???: You already did. It returned.
Cole Beckett: Of course it did. Because time’s broken and we live in a cereal box of causality. This is the prize inside.
???: Your sarcasm is inefficient.
Cole Beckett: Coping mechanism!
Ty Mercado: So, you're talking to your watch now?
Cole Beckett: Hm?
Back at campus, Ellie was mid-panic when Cole appeared again—untransformed, out of breath, like he had sprinted the whole way. He spotted her clinging to a fire alarm box, visibly shaking.
Cole Beckett: Hey. Hey! Remember me?
Ellie turned.
Ellie Tran: You—you were there. You saved me.
Cole Beckett: Then everything went rerun. You like reruns? I'm starting to hate them.
Ellie Tran: What is happening to me?
Cole looked at her—really looked. The fear in her eyes wasn’t just panic. It was disorientation. Like she was losing track of herself.
Cole Beckett: Okay. What’s your name?
Ellie Tran: Ellie.
Cole Beckett: Ellie what?
Ellie Tran: Ellie Tran. I write. I chase weird stories. I—
She stopped.
Cole Beckett: What?
Ellie Tran: I... interviewed someone once. A long time ago. I forgot about it. Until recently. He vanished. His name was—
She paused again. Like the memory was still buffering.
Ellie Tran: Dr. Westbrook.
Cole stiffened.
Cole Beckett: You met Dr. Westbrook?
Ellie Tran: Just once. He told me... if something ever felt wrong, I should run.
Cole Beckett: Yeah, well, you ran straight into a living glitch. So you kinda nailed that.
The pocket watch buzzed. Louder this time.
???: The Loopshade approaches.
Cole Beckett: Figures. It's looking for you. Stand back. Lock. Ignite.
Steam hissed. Gears clicked. The Chrono Engine roared to life.
Cole Beckett: RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
A ripple tore through the corridor as the armor slammed into position—plates of reinforced black framed by kinetic clockwork. A silver dial clicked once on his chest, and the Chrono Visor sealed with a metallic hiss. Gear-shaped lights spun down his arms. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
Loopshade turned, limbs twitching in half-formed intervals. One claw blinked into existence a second before its arm did. Its face wasn’t a face—just a warped blur of repeated expressions, as if fifty emotions were overlaid like corrupted video.
Gauge stepped forward. His visor flared with calculated pulse readings.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You want her? You’ll have to skip a few loops.
The creature let out a fractured shriek and lunged.
Gauge spun on his heel, sidestepping the swipe, and countered with a gear-charged punch to its midsection. The impact connected—but for only a moment. The creature rewound on contact, dragging the moment backward, erasing the blow.
Kamen Rider Gauge: So we’re cheating, huh?
Loopshade came again—three stutter-steps ahead of its own shadow—and raked across his chest with claws that flickered out of sync with the world. Sparks burst from Gauge’s armor.
Cole grit his teeth, stumbling backward. The pocket watch pulsed in his belt.
???: Its attacks are recursive. If you cannot strike before it resolves, you must interrupt its loop.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Easier said than done!
The creature struck.
Time bent.
He was thrown backwards, crashing through a locker bank that phased in and out of the hallway.
Cole coughed, rising slowly.
Ellie screamed behind him—Loopshade was advancing.
Gauge surged forward again, sliding under the creature’s strike, and planted an upward palm into what passed for its torso. A microburst from his Driver triggered—briefly locking the creature in place.
Gauge followed up with a spinning kick. Sparks burst. Fragments of temporal energy cracked away from its shoulder.
But the damage rewound again. The creature clicked back a second, like undoing a cut in an editing timeline. The wound sealed. The creature laughed—several voices out of order.
Kamen Rider Gauge: That sucks!
Loopshade phased, striking Gauge in the side. His armor dented under the hit. A second blow followed. Then a third.
Each came from a different version of the creature—each overlapping with itself, pulling from future frames.
Gauge dropped to one knee.
The hallway stretched unnaturally behind them now—walls folding into recursive patterns. Time was collapsing inward. The creature reared up, ready to deal a final blow to the rider.
And then, he moved.
Gauge threw a punch, but not at the Loopshade, but the pipe in the wall beside him. The steam burst forth and burned the Loopshade. A cascade of sparks burst outward as the wall snapped to a moment in the future. The loop stuttered.
Loopshade blinked.
Just long enough.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Now, Ellie!
She didn’t hesitate.
Ellie turned and ran. Her figure disappeared around the corridor bend.
Loopshade turned to pursue—but Gauge tackled it.
The two smashed into the floor. Gauge twisted, pinning the creature’s arms for half a second—before one glitched and appeared behind him, striking his back.
He cried out. The blow cracked his shoulder plate.
Another hit. Another rewind. Another punch that landed three times from three angles.
His vision flickered.
The Driver on his belt pulsed red.
The creature reared back one final time—energy building. Its entire body stuttered, stretching between milliseconds.
Gauge didn’t have the strength to block.
He raised one arm in defiance anyway.
The hit connected.
Cole slammed into the wall. Concrete cracked. His visor shattered at the side. Sparks flew.
He collapsed to the floor, unmoving.
Then…silence.
Loopshade paused.
It turned back toward where Ellie had vanished—
Kamen Rider Gauge: I'll see you next time.
—and the loop reset.
The kettle screamed.
Ellie gasped awake.
Same mug. Same cat. Same calendar alert.
To Be Continued…
Last edited by Machismo (7/11/2025 1:25 am)
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Thread Starter- Machismo
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
“Science is the pursuit of patterns. Madness is discovering you're one of them.”
—Dr. Avery Westbrook (Lab Memo 8.14)
It started with a ping.
A soft, harmless sound—barely a blip on the spectrum analyzer humming in the corner of the lab.
Aria Westbrook didn’t notice it at first. She was neck-deep in another dead end—frame-stabilized satellite photos, third-party geodata, and old surveillance records—desperately trying to cross-reference anything that could tell her what really happened the day her grandfather vanished.
She muttered under her breath, fingers gliding across the keyboard.
Aria Westbrook: Come on... give me something.
Nothing. Same as yesterday. Same as last week.
She leaned back in the creaky lab chair, rubbing her temples. The dim glow from the overhead fluorescents made the cluttered lab feel more like a submarine. Around her were scattered files from her grandfather’s personal records, salvaged lab drives, and restricted fragments from his last university project—Project Chronos.
Most of it was encrypted or damaged, either by time or whoever didn’t want the truth found.
But Aria was stubborn.
And lately... the data was changing.
She didn’t know why or how, but every time she reviewed the same readings, they were slightly different. Time stamps that used to end at 17:43 now ended at 17:42. Logs that once contained two anomalous spikes now showed three. Nothing major, nothing blatant—but off. Wrong.
Aria Westbrook: Don’t go paranoid. Just catalog it. Confirm first. Theories later.
She reached for her notebook. It had notes from yesterday—about a street-level time flux registered near Cinder District. An anomalous surge that resembled the last signature her grandfather left before his disappearance.
She turned the page.
It was blank.
Frowning, she flipped back a page—also blank.
Her pen rolled off the desk and hit the floor with a metallic clink. She bent down to pick it up.
And when she sat back up—
The notebook was full again.
Filled in perfectly, her handwriting exact—but she didn’t remember writing any of it. She stared in stunned silence at the entry on the top line:
“08:57 – Ping anomaly (Again?). Memory gaps increase. Try leaving anchor.”
Aria Westbrook: …What?
A second ping echoed across the lab.
She looked up. The spectrum analyzer was glowing now—brighter than usual. Readouts were flying across the screen, faster than she could read.
And then the computer spoke.
Or rather—it beeped.
Rapid-fire.
Alert: TACHYON SPIKE DETECTED
Alert: SPATIAL WARP SIGNATURE UNSTABLE
Alert: SUBJECT ENGAGED
Aria’s hands hovered over the keyboard, breath caught in her throat.
Aria Westbrook: It's him. The one in the suit. Gauge.
He'd been seen by the instruments, even when the cameras and the eyewitnesses seemed to disappear or forget.
Somehow, her system, remnants from her Grandfather's research was already set to track him. Before she touched a key.
Aria Westbook: No way.
Figures appeared in wireframe.
One humanoid, armored, surrounded by a persistent temporal field shaped like a radial dial.
The other, a jagged, shifting mass, barely humanoid—crackling with recursive glitch energy.
She watched as the Rider threw himself at the entity—taking a hit, stumbling, rising again.
The readout glitched.
Then reset.
Same moment. Same movements. Just slightly off.
She gasped.
Aria Westbrook: It’s looping.
The fight wasn’t just happening—it was repeating.
And not just in the field.
She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were trembling. Her pen was still on the floor.
She hadn’t picked it up yet.
But she already remembered reading the notebook.
She remembered this moment before it happened.
The lab lights flickered.
Her laptop blinked.
And then the door opened.
Ty Mercado: Yo, Aria! It's your buddy, Ty! You good? You left your badge in the—whoa.
He stopped, staring at the screen behind her.
Ty Mercado: I just realized I hadn't said hello since coming back. You alright?
Aria turned, her face pale.
Aria Westbrook: I think I’m stuck in a time loop.
Ty Mercado: ...Huh. I was gonna ask if you wanted tacos.
Episode 4: The Eye of the Loop
Ty Mercado blinked at the screen, then at Aria Westbrook, then back again.
Ty Mercado: So...we're looping?
Aria Westbrook: You tell me. Have you done this before?
Ty Mercado: I’ve done a lot of dumb stuff before. But this? No. Definitely not. Or have I? Cole seemed to think so.
Aria heard him speak, and heard the name Cole, but she couldn't look away from the screen. She watched as Gauge—the mysterious armored figure—threw a punch that barely grazed the glitching monster.
Ty Mercado leaned closer.
Ty Mercado: That him? The Kamen Rider guy?
Aria Westbrook: Kamen Rider Gauge. I thought he was a rumor. Urban legend. But… he’s real. And he’s fighting right now. He's fought, been fighting, will keep fighting. He showed up after what happened in my Grandfather's lab.
Ty Mercado: Oh...oh yeah?
Aria Westbrook: He was studying Temporal Pressure. He disappeared that day, and then this guy showed up. Could it be?
Ty Mercado: You think it's him, huh?
Aria Westbrook: I don't know. I just know that he's looping.
Ty Mercado: So he’s like, in a rerun?
Aria Westbrook: We all are. The same moment keeps recycling. But it's imperfect because we're able to remember. It looks like he's trying to save her.
Ty Mercado: Her?
Aria Westbrook brought up the heat map tracking software. There, silhouetted in red, was another life signature—fleeing from the battle zone. Slight, human. Vulnerable.
Aria Westbrook: She’s at the edge of the anomaly. Whatever he's doing, it’s to keep her safe. But the loop resets every time he wins or loses.
Ty Mercado whistled low.
Ty Mercado: That’s brutal. You think he remembers each one?
Aria Westbrook: If he’s conscious inside the loop, then yes. He’s experiencing every second. Every failure. Over and over.
The data surged again—Gauge took a blow, the sensors spiked, and then—
The screen blinked.
The sequence started again.
It started with a ping.
A soft, harmless sound—barely a blip on the spectrum analyzer humming in the corner of the lab.
Aria Westbrook didn’t notice it at first. She was neck-deep in another dead end—frame-stabilized satellite photos, third-party geodata, and old surveillance records—desperately trying to cross-reference anything that could tell her what really happened the day her grandfather vanished.
She muttered under her breath, fingers gliding across the keyboard.
Aria Westbrook: Come on... give me something.
Nothing. Same as yesterday. Same as last week.
She leaned back in the creaky lab chair, rubbing her temples. The dim glow from the overhead fluorescents made the cluttered lab feel more like a submarine. Around her were scattered files from her grandfather’s personal records, salvaged lab drives, and restricted fragments from his last university project—Project Chronos.
Most of it was encrypted or damaged, either by time or whoever didn’t want the truth found.
But Aria was stubborn.
And lately... the data was changing.
She didn’t know why or how, but every time she reviewed the same readings, they were slightly different. Time stamps that used to end at 17:43 now ended at 17:42. Logs that once contained three anomalous spikes now showed four. Nothing major, nothing blatant—but off. Wrong.
Aria Westbrook: Don’t go paranoid. Just catalog it. Confirm first. Theories late- wait a minute.
Aria stood up. She knew what was happening this time, much sooner than before. Suddenly, Ty Mercado burst into the room.
Ty Mercado: Don't ask me how I know, but you're in no mood for tacos, are you?
Aria Westbrook: ...
Cole Beckett hit the ground hard.
Again.
The armor locked around him in mid-fall, and he rolled across the same tile floor.
The same flickering corridor. The same distortions crawling along the walls like digital rot. The same moment he landed between Ellie Tran and the advancing Loopshade.
Only this time… he was slower.
More tired.
Gauge pulled himself up to his feet, breath ragged behind the helmet.
Kamen Rider Gauge: All right. Round eight. Or eleven. I’ve stopped counting. Let’s dance.
Loopshade didn’t respond. It was a creature of pattern, repetition—its attacks precise, recursive, and efficient. Like a corrupted machine stuck in a looped animation.
It lunged.
Gauge dodged left, just like before.
Except this time, the creature anticipated it—its form flickered two frames ahead, clipping into his shoulder. The hit landed. Hard.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Ngh—dammit—
He tumbled back, slammed into a wall. Sparks erupted from his damaged shoulder guard. The Chrono Engine Driver pulsed red.
Behind him, Ellie Tran shrieked and ducked as the hallway floor momentarily de-synced with her feet. Her breath was ragged, eyes wide—she remembered more now. Bits and pieces. Just enough to be terrified.
Ellie Tran: What is happening?! Why does this keep happening!?
Kamen Rider Gauge: It's here for you. Because of what you know, I think. If I take my eyes off of you for a second, it's over, so we're trapped in a stalemate. By stalemate, I mean I die, and he has to try again in the next loop.
Loopshade spun—its limbs stretching and flicking between versions of itself. Its arm snapped forward and back in a blur, striking Gauge three times in one second.
Gauge countered with a spinning kick.
It cut through the creature’s midsection.
Loopshade shrieked—but the wound healed instantly, replaying backward.
Kamen Rider Gauge: That's such bull-
The Loopshade's arm turned into a blur of frames—a jagged smear of time—slicing through the air faster than light. Gauge blocked once. Twice. The third strike shattered part of his visor.
The world flickered again.
Kamen Rider Gauge: I'll see you next time.
He quickly turned to Ellie Tran.
Kamen Rider Gauge: I won't let it get to you.
Once more the loop reset, and once more Cole Beckett transformed. He was staggering. The Loopshade was able to keep him feeling that damage, all of that pain building up. He wouldn't let them take another one, not today, not any version of today.
Cole Beckett landed hard, not even bothering to roll. The armor of Kamen Rider Gauge clicked into place with a shudder of steam.
His legs trembled.
This wasn’t just fatigue. It was exhaustion buried in repetition.
The same corridor. Same broken lights. Same flicker of the air ahead.
Loopshade emerged once more, phasing into view in that crooked, repeated lurch it always made. But this time, Cole didn’t speak. Didn’t taunt. He simply stood between it and Ellie Tran, one knee buckling.
She looked more awake now—more aware of the repetition.
She knew.
Ellie Tran: You’re not going to make it this time… are you?
Kamen Rider Gauge: Doesn’t matter. You are.
He stepped forward—legs trembling, shoulders sparking—just as the creature struck.
But before the blow could land—
The door behind Ellie burst open.
From the doorway stepped Aria Westbrook, lab coat singed, eyes wide with realization.
Behind her, Ty Mercado crashed through carrying a jury-rigged translocator pack over his shoulder, sparks flying off the device.
Ty Mercado: We found them!
Aria Westbrook: Ellie—get behind us, now!
Ellie ran.
Loopshade turned.
And in that instant—something changed.
It hesitated.
Ellie was no longer where she was supposed to be.
The system fractured.
And Cole felt it.
Something deep in his chest clicked—like the teeth of a jammed gear finally snapping into place.
The pressure.
All the failed loops.
All the temporal energy trying to rewind him.
All the moments he refused to die.
They weren’t just holding him back.
They were building up inside him.
And now?
They had nowhere else to go.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Driver—open the valve.
The Chrono Engine Driver split open along the dial, releasing twin plumes of glowing steam. The inner core hissed with furious pressure as blue-orange energy vented from the seams.
His armor began to shift—plating compressing into tighter segments, vents unfolding along the shoulders and forearms. Rotating gears slid into the armor itself, glowing from within like an engine seconds from rupture.
VALVE FORM: ENGAGED.
The transformation roared to life.
Kamen Rider Gauge – Valve Form stood tall, steam venting in bursts with each breath, his visor now overlaid with rotating clock hands. A dial spun constantly on his belt.
Ty Mercado: Okay that’s new.
Aria Westbrook: Unreal!
Loopshade charged.
But Gauge didn’t move. Not yet.
He watched.
Waited.
And then he saw it.
Every strike Loopshade made—every phase, every glitch—was followed. Not by the attack. But by something else.
A ripple.
A shadow, barely visible.
A second figure.
Three seconds behind.
The Wight of Loop.
Kamen Ride Gauge: Got you.
He vanished.
Valve Form engaged the pressure ports, accelerating his movements to the point of stuttered afterimages. Time warped around him—not a rewind, but a shattering sprint across microseconds.
He moved through Loopshade, ignoring the monster entirely.
And there—flickering behind, half-formed—
Was a tall, skeletal figure cloaked in fractured black. Its eyes were hollow clocks. Its limbs stuttered between forms.
It looked up—finally seen.
Wight of Loop: NO! HOW CAN YOU SEE ME!
Kamen Rider Gauge: You looped the wrong Rider.
The Wight waved one arm, and Loopshade surged forward like a marionett. It attacked, claws slicing in from every direction.
Valve Form didn’t dodge.
He stepped into the attack.
One claw hit—but passed through steam. A misdirect. Another sliced his side—he grunted, but shifted with the blow, letting the armor take the worst of it.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You’ve been playing three seconds behind this whole time. You ever wonder what happens when I start fighting three seconds ahead?
Chrono Dials spun. A high-pitched tick sounded as he kicked Loopshade square in the chest, sending it crashing into a nearby wall.
The Wight of Loop retaliated instantly—unleashing its power.
A wave of fragmented seconds rushed outward like a sonic boom, slamming into Cole’s armor. The corridor fractured—walls glitching, floor tiles vibrating out of sync, lights flickering to past states before exploding in the present.
Aria Westbrook, crouched with Ty Mercado and Ellie Tran behind a wall shouted:
Ty Mercado: He’s like a living boiler. If that thing cracks again, the room’s gonna blow before he lets go.
Wight of Loop: You carry the fracture inside you. The Paradox Core. Do you know what that means?
Kamen Rider Gauge: I don't care.
The Wight screeched. Its spine elongated—three shadow arms lashed out in a sweeping arc. Gauge spun forward, activating a burst valve on his right arm.
A high-pressure blast of steam and momentum hurled him through time.
Literally.
He vanished in mid-step and reappeared three seconds ahead of the attack, directly beside the Wight. He landed a head blow to it's side.
The hit landed. The Wight screamed.
No rewind. No recovery.
The Wight’s form glitched. Its clock-face spine spun wildly. It reached into the space-time around it and pulled duplicates of itself—phantoms, mimics. Suddenly there were five Wights, all acting out-of-phase.
They attacked together.
Gauge raised both arms, crossing them in front of his chest. Valve Form’s pressure gauge maxed out—then vented in a violent blast that repelled the fakes, dispelling three immediately.
He launched forward in a spinning kick, slamming through a fourth.
The real Wight was still three seconds off.
Gauge closed his eyes. Counted.
Three...
Two...
One.
The Wight materialized—right where Cole had already turned.
Valve Spiral: Charging.
The armor around his chest locked into place.
The central valve began to spin.
The Wight lunged with all of time's fury—clocks screaming, seconds exploding, a vortex of broken chronology unraveling around it.
And Gauge—
Ran straight through it.
He surged forward in a burst of pressure-fueled speed, moving into the moment ahead of the Wight’s attack.
And then—
Kamen Rider Gauge: Your loop’s over.
He spun once—
Kamen Rider Gauge: VALVE SPIRAL!
A massive spiral of compressed time burst outward from his drop kick, forming a tornado of molten blue and orange light. It struck the Wight dead center, locking it in the now.
There was no rewind.
No escape.
The Wight of Loop let out a warping howl, its body breaking apart into collapsing fragments, spiraling backward through its own existence until it faded out with a dying tick.
Silence.
Steam hissed from Gauge’s armor.
He dropped to one knee.
The corridor around them returned to normal—slightly damaged, but real. No flickers. No distortions.
Aria, Ellie, and Ty slowly approached as steam began to fill the hall. Aria shook as she reached out.
Aria Westbrook: Grandfather?
Gauge stared at her, the question hit Cole hard. He hesitated before nodding in the negative, much to Aria's disappointment.
Aria Westbrook: But...no...does that mean he's truly gone? It can't be. Listen, can you help me? Please!
Her pleas were too late, as the room filled with steam, and Kamen Rider Gauge disappeared inside of it.
Aria Westbrook: NO!
Ty Mercado: Cut him some slack, Aria. That dude was just trapped in a loop, fighting that monster and his puppet for who knows how long! Probably needs a looong nap!
Aria Westbrook: I thought...I really thought-
Ty Mercado: I know. I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll get your answers. I mean, you have the proof you've been looking for. You saw it with your own eyes.
Aria Westbrook: That's true. You make a good point.
Ty Mercado: I do? I'm good for that every now and then.
Aria Westbrook: Come on, let's find that Ellie girl. Let's make sure she's alright.
Ty Mercado: Now we're talking.
As the two hurried down the hall, Cole listened on from around the corner. Tears welled in his eyes. He seemed surprised himself, as he tried to compose himself. He slowly limped home, as the sunset on a very long day.
The bell above the door jingled.
Cole Beckett didn’t look up.
He was hunched over a disassembled pocket watch on the counter, one lens of his magnifier flipped down over his left eye, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand, tweezers in the other.
Everything smelled like copper, grease, and just a hint of singed reality.
Ty Mercado burst in first.
Ty Mercado: Heeey, man! Shop’s still standing. You’re still standing. That’s a win in my book.
Cole Beckett didn’t glance up.
Cole Beckett: Careful barging in. I'm concentrating on some very old clocks today.
Ty Mercado: No promises I won’t break ‘em. You know me. Butterfingers.
Behind him, Aria Westbrook stepped through—rattled, energized, and talking very fast.
Aria Westbrook: Cole. You won’t believe what I found! A real life example of all my theories! A real life time loop! A monster appeared, and Kamen Rider Gauge showed up! He was stuck in the loop fighting it! We helped it! We-
She stopped.
Realized Cole was just standing there, blinking at her.
Cole Beckett: Morning to you, too.
Aria Westbrook: Sorry. Hi. Good morning. Still recovering from, you know, existential horror and time collapse.
Cole Beckett: Yeah, I get that a lot in this shop. Tuesdays especially.
Ty Mercado: Nervous chuckle. Heh… yeah. Tuesdays. Wild.
Aria Westbrook: But seriously. Gauge saved us. And I know we were seen. He was right there. I just wish I could talk to him. Ask him how—
The bell jingled again.
Ellie Tran stepped in.
She looked like someone on a mission.
Her eyes went straight to Cole.
Ellie Tran: Hey.
Cole Beckett: Ellie?
She walked straight up to him.
No hesitation.
Ellie Tran: You saved my life. Again. I’m not dumb—I don’t know how, or why, or what exactly you did—but I know you kept me alive. And I’m not gonna forget it.
She kissed him.
Right there.
It was quick, but not nothing.
Aria Westbrook: …
Ty Mercado choked on his shock.
Ty Mercado: Gk—ha—
Ellie Tran: I’ve got work to do. Things to dig up. People to find. There’s a reason they wanted me gone. I’m gonna finish what I started—no matter who tries to stop me.
She turned, glanced back with a smirk, and left.
The doorbell dinged.
Silence.
Aria Westbrook: ...What the hell was that?
Cole Beckett: …Fixed her clock.
Aria Westbrook: You what?
Cole Beckett: Antique. Real temperamental. From Euroland. Probably cursed. Very expensive.
Ty Mercado: Yeah! Yep. Big job. Heroic clock work. Very passionate clientele.
Aria narrowed her eyes.
Aria Westbrook: I swear, the two of you are myterious.
Cole winked.
Cole Beckett: Who doesn't love a good mystery. You look angry.
Aria Westbrook: Me? Angry? Why should I be angry? Why would what just happened make me angry IN THE SLIGHTEST!
Ty clapped Cole on the shoulder once Aria’s back was turned.
Ty Mercado: Dude. Nice.
Cole Beckett: Just another day at the shop.
Clock ticks. Fade to black.
Last edited by Machismo (7/12/2025 5:21 am)
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Thread Starter- Machismo
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Jules Marrow knew this piece like the back of his own hand.
The second movement of the Rachmaninoff Sonata No. 2 flowed through the concert hall like warm thunder—rich and dynamic, rolling with emotional precision. Every note was deliberate. Controlled.
His fingers moved confidently across the keys, his spine upright, his focus absolute.
He wasn’t thinking. He was remembering. Muscle memory. Breath work. Tempo. Expression.
But then—
Something changed.
His hands were still playing—but the lighting was wrong. The echo off the walls too flat. The keys under his fingers felt drier, colder. The bench creaked differently beneath him.
He looked up, just slightly.
And realized he wasn’t in the same hall anymore.
The curtains were red, not gold. The chairs in the front row were metal fold-ups, not cushioned velvet. The Steinway was the same—he could feel that—but the room had changed.
The audience clapped as the piece ended.
A smaller audience. Dimmer lights.
It was a different concert.
From years ago.
From before he turned down the contract. Before he let it all go.
Before—
Snap.
He blinked.
Back.
The curtains were gold again. The stage lights blindingly white. The applause of several hundred people filled the hall, roaring louder now than before.
He stood and bowed on instinct.
No one around him seemed to notice anything strange.
But Jules was sweating.
And his hands were shaking.
Jules Marrow: It happened again.
Episode 5: Playback
The rhythmic clink-click of tools on brass filled the "Back in Time" watch shop.
Cole Beckett hunched over a disassembled wristwatch beneath a magnifier lamp, tweezers in one hand, a thin coil of spring in the other. Around him, half-repaired clocks lined the shelves like quiet sentinels.
The pocket watch sat on the bench beside his coffee mug, its faint glow still visible through the closed casing.
It had been silent since the Loop.
Until now.
Pocket Watch: You survived. Barely. Sloppy—but effective.
Cole smirked without looking up.
Cole Beckett: High praise from a glorified stopwatch.
Pocket Watch: You bought time. That’s all this ever is. Time borrowed. Time stolen. Time pressed.
Cole carefully laid the spring down and exhaled through his nose.
Cole Beckett: Still haven’t introduced yourself, by the way. We’ve had long walks, gone through life-threatening trauma together... and you’re still “The Watch.”
Pocket Watch: Names are complicated. Better that you just trust me.
Cole Beckett: Kind of hard without a name or a face.
Pocket Watch: I know your story. I know what happened. I know what you're trying to do. I also know who the Thirteen Hands are.
Cole paused.
Cole Beckett: Thirteen Hands?
Pocket Watch: The figures behind the Chrono Clutch. I know what they are. I know who they are.
Cole Beckett: Go on.
But before the watch could say more, the shop door chimed.
Ty Mercado walked in holding a glossy white envelope and a smirk.
Ty Mercado: Am I interrupting your heartfelt chat with your work again?
Cole immediately straightened up and swiveled in his chair.
Cole Beckett: You don’t knock anymore, huh?
Ty Mercado: It's a public business. And besides, I bring gifts.
He held out the envelope.
Ty Mercado: One ticket to see Jules Marrow, live in concert. That’s right. The Jules Marrow. Classical music guy. Tuxedos and arpeggios and all that jazz.
Cole Beckett: And you’re giving this to me because…?
Ty Mercado: Because I’d rather gouge my ears out with a tuning fork than sit through two hours of classical music. It’s not my scene. You like weird stuff. I figured maybe it’s yours.
Cole took the envelope and raised an eyebrow.
Cole Beckett: Real generous of you.
Ty Mercado: Also... Aria gave it to me.
Cole froze.
Ty Mercado: Said she’d be outside the concert hall. 8 sharp.
Cole tried to hand the ticket back immediately.
Cole Beckett: Nope. I'm out! Wait! Get back here! Ty!
Cole sighed. The pocket watch let out a faint ticking sound, like it was laughing quietly to itself.
Cole Beckett: Oh, are you amused?
Pocket Watch: It's just funny how things work out.
Cole Beckett: What do you mean?
Pocket Watch: Just take me with you. I'm a...fan of Jules Marrow.
A symphony of soft strings played in the background—ironic, really, since Aria Westbrook wasn’t paying attention to the music.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by open folders, tattered blueprints, and loose notecards full of equations. Half of it was scorched around the edges. The rest was just barely legible.
The institute had collapsed years ago—literally and figuratively. But the wreckage still whispered secrets.
She leaned forward, holding up a cracked photo frame.
Three people smiled back at her.
Dr. Avery Westbrook, tall and wiry, his hair a perpetual mess and his glasses always askew. Beside him, a young Cole Beckett, thinner, brighter-eyed, with the hint of a smirk like he knew more than he let on. Aria stood between them, only just tall enough to reach their shoulders, clutching a clipboard and grinning too wide.
Behind them, the rest of the science team—their names faded now. Faces she had trouble placing. All of them gone.
She ran her finger over the glass.
Aria Westbrook: You said it was going to change everything...
She glanced over at the clock on her desk: 7:02 PM.
A carefully folded black dress hung from the door of her closet. She stood, brushing paper scraps from her legs, and crossed the room to pull it down.
She didn’t feel like dressing up, but she couldn't pass up the chance to listen to Jules Marrow. It had been years.
She zipped up the dress and stepped into her shoes, then walked back over to her desk. Her eyes drifted toward a yellowed page with a diagram marked “Temporal Pressure Vector Mapping.”
Her grandfather’s handwriting.
She looked out the window toward the city lights, then turned and grabbed her coat.
Outside, the world moved forward. But part of her was still trapped in that photo, with the people who never came back.
The hiss of steam and the deep clunk of gears echoed through the air as the Arcadia Central train pulled into the terminal. Long, arching lamps bathed the platform in a muted amber glow, casting tall shadows across iron rails and polished tile.
Jules Marrow stepped off the train with his coat draped over one arm, shoulders hunched, and his expression drawn tight with fatigue. His rolling suitcase ticked behind him like a metronome.
Arcadia always smelled like rain and engine oil.
He didn’t love it. A city trapped in transition. Once a testament to precise clock work, now it was bathed in neon lights and technology.
As the platform cleared, he slipped down a quieter side corridor—meant to bypass the public exit—and stepped into a narrow alleyway behind the station. He’d taken this route before. Shortcut to the venue. Less fanfare. Less attention.
But this time—
His boot hit cobblestone.
The alley widened unexpectedly, and the noise of the city behind him vanished.
The air was colder. The walls were different. The metal stairwell he normally passed was replaced by an old fire escape, flaking with rust. And there, in front of him, through a warped pane of glass—
—was the entrance to the Arcadia Civic Theatre.
Jules stopped dead.
He reached it way too quickly. It felt like he was pulled to the scene of his cancellation.
No—not cancellation. He had canceled. Walked out, on a lucrative contract, to focus on his art. What a mistake that turned out to be.
He had told himself it didn’t matter. That no one remembered. That he’d moved on.
But now…
Now he was back.
He reached for the door, but it opened without his touch.
Inside was the piano. The single stool. The single spotlight. No audience.
No sound.
Just the weight of memory.
He stepped inside. Slowly. Hands at his sides.
The smell hit first—varnish and dust.
Then came the feeling. The anxiety. The memory of his heart racing, the sweat on his palms, the unrelenting pressure to be perfect.
It wasn’t just memory anymore. It felt like someone was pulling the regret forward—dragging it out of him like thread from a spool, unwinding everything he’d tried to leave buried. He looked out and saw the crowd now. He was right back where he was. Why?
Jules Marrow: This isn’t real...
He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself against the piano’s edge. The sensation faded slowly, reluctantly—like something giving up its grip.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the alley.
The steam from the train still hung faint in the air.
His knees were trembling.
“Jules!”
He turned toward the voice.
His agent—Marla Quinn, in sharp heels and a trench coat—stormed toward him, checking her watch as she approached.
Marla Quinn: Don’t do that to me, Jules. Again. We’re already cutting it close.
She reached for his shoulder and steadied him.
Marla Quinn: You look pale.
Jules Marrow: I took a wrong turn.
Marla Quinn: Into a haunted alley?
She didn’t press the issue.
She never did.
She just looped her arm through his and guided him down the street.
Marla Quinn: I know it's been a while since you've played here, but demand is high.
Jules Marrow: How high can it be? No one knows who I am. They could have, but now all I have is a niche audience.
Marla Quinn: That's not true. Besides, even if no one else knew who you were...I do.
Jules Marrow: Heh. That confuses me most of all. Why you waste your time.
Marla Quinn: It's not time wasted. You're worth the effort.
-
Aria Westbrook checked her phone for the third time in as many minutes.
The plaza outside the Arcadia Concert Hall was glowing beneath the warm orange of vintage streetlamps. A gentle breeze tugged at the hem of her coat. Behind her, people were beginning to funnel in—suits, dresses, evening scarves. All of them buzzing with pre-show anticipation.
She shifted her weight onto one heel, a little impatient, a little hopeful.
When she saw the figure approaching, her posture straightened—but confusion immediately followed.
Aria Westbrook: ...Cole?
Cole Beckett offered a slight wave and a half-smile as he crossed the cobblestone.
Cole Beckett: Surprise. If you were expecting a tropical shirt, I regret to inform you—you got me instead.
Aria Westbrook: I gave Ty the ticket.
Cole Beckett: And he gave it to me. Said something about violins making his teeth hurt.
Aria exhaled through her nose and smirked, realization dawning.
Aria Westbrook: That little schemer...
Around the corner, Ty Mercado leaned against a wall, watching with narrowed eyes and a devious grin.
He rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain.
Ty Mercado: Let’s gooo. Matchmaker Mercado never fails.
He peeked again, content, then slipped away into the crowd unnoticed.
-
Back near the hall entrance, Aria and Cole stood in awkward silence for a beat too long.
Cole looked her over, and for a moment, something softened in his eyes.
Cole Beckett: You look... nice. Elegant, actually.
Aria Westbrook: Thank you.
He looked away quickly, hands in his coat pockets.
Cole Beckett: I don’t do these kinds of nights often.
Aria Westbrook: You used to. Back at the institute, you were always the first to say yes to group dinners. You even brought the dessert on the night before my presentation.
Cole let out a breath—half amusement, half unease.
Cole Beckett: That was a long time ago.
Aria Westbrook: You’re different now.
Her tone wasn’t accusatory. Just… noticing.
Cole didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was somewhere distant—beyond the marquee, past the plaza, caught between present duty and old scars.
Aria Westbrook: I remember you being kind. Playful, even. You were the one who helped me not quit my first year.
He looked back at her, something flickering in his expression.
Cole Beckett: A lot changed after that day.
They stood there a moment longer, the noise of the crowd filling in the space between them.
Aria offered a small smile. A real one.
Aria Westbrook: You’re the only person left who knew what life was like… before.
Cole nodded, his voice quieter now.
Cole Beckett: Hey...let’s enjoy the music. For a few minutes, at least.
She took his arm—gently, carefully—and they walked into the concert hall together.
From the outside, the Arcadia Concert Hall glowed with warmth, golden light spilling from its ornate windows and chandeliers. But just behind the brick façade—through a tear in something deeper than space—waited a shadow.
The Wight of Rewind stood still.
He was tall, gaunt, yet oddly symmetrical—as though mirrored halves had been folded together and fused. His skin, if it could be called that, was layered like old sheet music scorched at the edges. His mask was a fractured porcelain face—one side smooth and pale, the other etched with churning, backward-flowing glyphs.
Where his eyes should have been, there were twin watch hands, spinning counterclockwise.
He clutched a broken conductor’s baton in one hand. The other arm hung limply, twitching in reverse.
And behind him—
He stood.
The figure did not move, but the presence was undeniable.
A tall silhouette in dark woven robes. His face obscured by a shifting mosaic of clock faces, all ticking at different rhythms. No two in sync. No time stable.
And yet his voice was steady.
Unseen Figure: The pianist remembers what we need. Go further. Pull deeper. Let him relive what he abandoned. From that moment, we will unmake our problem.
The Wight of Rewind didn’t speak, but bowed slightly—each motion a slow rewind of itself.
Unseen Figure: The Paradox Core is here.
A long pause.
Then—faintly, darkly—
Unseen Figure: The Watch is whispering. The very reason we must not fail.
The Wight’s mask twitched. His mirrored face turned toward the hall.
His glyphs glowed.
-
Cole Beckett looked at his ticket stub, then back at the row numbers.
Cole Beckett: You’re sure these seats are real? This place looks like it charges by square inch.
Aria Westbrook: You’re just not used to being somewhere that doesn’t smell like axle grease.
They reached their row and squeezed past a line of politely annoyed patrons, narrowly avoiding stepping on programs, heels, and a handbag the size of a microwave.
Cole sidestepped a coughing old man, ducked under someone’s opera glasses, and dropped into his chair with a faint groan.
Cole Beckett: I guess I packed light for this venture.
Aria sat next to him and crossed her legs, adjusting her coat.
Aria Westbrook: These are good seats. Not too close, not too far. Center left. Ideal acoustics.
Cole Beckett: Spoken like someone who reads the manual.
Aria Westbrook: I do read the manual. That’s how I survived working with your “improvisation-based troubleshooting methods.”
Cole cracked a grin.
Cole Beckett: Be honest—if Jules Marrow bombs, are we allowed to boo?
Aria Westbrook: Not unless you want to get banned by the Arcadia Fine Arts Guild for life.
Cole Beckett: Ooo...I’m shaking....truly.
She smirked again.
The lights dimmed. The murmur of conversation faded like a tide pulling back. A gentle hush rolled through the crowd as the curtains parted.
Jules Marrow stepped onto the stage with poise.
His black tuxedo was sharp. His expression unreadable. But his hands… his hands were calm.
He sat before the grand piano, adjusted the bench, and let his fingers hover over the keys for just a moment longer than usual. He looked over at Marla, who was beaming at him, and he smiled.
Then he played.
The first notes were soft—tender even. A ripple through glass. Notes layered in time like raindrops caught in a slow dance. The melody built on itself, echoing, overlapping, blooming outward like breath expanding in the chest.
Cole Beckett felt it immediately. He shifted slightly in his seat, his posture relaxing without meaning to.
He hated to admit it, but the music was… moving.
Not just beautiful. Not just skillful.
Honest.
Beside him, Aria Westbrook had leaned forward ever so slightly, her lips parted as she listened with a kind of reverent focus usually reserved for stars or storms. Her expression softened.
Cole turned to glance at her, and in that moment—without thinking—his fingers gently brushed over hers on the armrest.
He hadn’t meant to. It was just a movement born of connection, of old familiarity, of something almost like muscle memory.
Her hand turned, palm upward.
He blinked, unsure what he was doing.
When he began to pull back, she gently closed her fingers around his.
Cole looked at her.
She looked back.
They shared a smile—small, uncertain, but real.
Then—Cole’s gaze flickered forward again. His smile faded. He pulled his hand away slowly, returning it to his lap like nothing had happened.
Aria tilted her head just slightly, watching him. Confused.
He didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did, and didn’t want to.
On stage, Jules Marrow was deep into the second movement now. The tempo increased—subtle syncopations hiding behind classical structure. The piece grew heavier, emotionally charged.
Then it started again.
That tug.
That dissonance.
It wasn’t a wrong note. It wasn’t anything that would register as technical error. But Jules felt it—the past, crawling back in through his fingertips. A creeping pull like thread tightening around the edges of his memory.
The keys shifted under his fingers—just slightly. A hair off.
The lights above him blurred.
He blinked, and for a second, he wasn’t in the here and now anymore.
He was back in that time. Again.
He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck. Could taste the regret.
No, he thought. Not now.
He pushed through it. Forced himself to keep playing.
In the audience, Cole felt something too.
Not in his ears. In his chest.
The world around him didn’t distort, didn’t shake, didn’t explode.
It simply… warped.
A high-pitched tone hit his skull like pressure equalizing in a deep-sea dive. The room felt both closer and further away, the air suddenly too heavy.
He gripped the seat.
No one else moved.
Even Aria, beside him, didn’t flinch.
Cole Beckett: Not now… not here…
He tried to stand, but the moment he pushed upward, a wave of vertigo crushed him down again. The room spun. The piano stretched outward. The lights shimmered like reflections on water.
And then—
Nothing.
The chair vanished beneath him.
The music fell silent.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing—drenched in sweat—inside the Westbrook Institute’s primary lab.
White walls. Steel benches. Steam vents and fluorescent lights overhead.
Cole blinked in confusion.
He knew this place.
There was shouting behind him.
He turned.
Dr. Avery Westbrook, in his lab coat, was rushing toward him from the far end of the room, holding a clipboard, his glasses fogged from the pressure fluctuations.
Dr. Westbrook: Cole! Are you still with me? I need you focused—now!
Cole stared, stunned.
Cole Beckett: …Dr. Westbrook?
Dr. Westbrook: Yes, yes, it's me—what's the matter with you? You looked like you just saw a ghost.
Cole Beckett followed the blur of Dr. Avery Westbrook’s lab coat down the corridor, the cold metal floor echoing beneath their shoes.
The walls were lined with tubes of pulsing amber light—conductive channels. He remembered them now, each flickering pulse a memory locked in muscle and bone.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He was remembering.
But it felt wrong—like someone else had chosen this memory for him.
Dr. Westbrook: I need your eyes on calibration. Readings are oscillating outside expected variance.
Cole Beckett: Wait—this is the day of the—
Dr. Westbrook: Yes. It’s the test. Focus, Cole. We’ve got minutes before chamber alignment. I need you sharp. You helped make this happen. When I recruited you from that school, I knew you had the same dreams I did. I know you had the same hopes. You saw it too. Your thesis on Temporal Pressure was a near match for mine. The others thought I was crazy, to bring in a young man without a lot of formal education. Your grades weren't the best, and you were called absent minded, but I noticed you were meticulous when it came to things you were passionate about, and this...this a passion we both share, and now my boy, we're going to see it bear fruit.
They passed through a reinforced archway into the core chamber of the Westbrook Institute.
The air here buzzed faintly.
At the center of the cavernous space stood a massive spherical structure—The Temporal Pressure Chamber. Polished chrome curved around its outer shell like overlapping plates of armor, with dozens of braided copper cables trailing out like roots.
At its base, a circular window revealed a swirling storm inside—coils of blue and white energy spinning faster than the eye could track.
The heart of the project.
The heart of what went wrong.
Cole swallowed as he took it in.
Cole Beckett: We built this…
Dr. Westbrook: You were my best engineer on it. They doubted you, and yet you were the best. Without your refinements, we wouldn’t have made it to phase three. We have proven that time exists as a tangible pressure. It pushes us forward. It's something that can be seen, measured, and studied. Thanks to Dr. Geiger, we also have a suit that will allow us to explore.
He turned and pointed across the upper catwalk, where a team of scientists stood at various terminals. Cole’s eyes scanned their faces. They were eager. Brighter. Full of hope.
And then he saw him.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing thick gloves and round spectacles. He stood near the control core, speaking calmly to an assistant.
On his chest, clipped to his coat pocket, was a brass pocket watch. The same make. The same shape.
Dr. Westbrook: Dr. Horatio Geiger. Brilliant mind.
Cole stepped closer, unable to look away from the man—or the watch.
Cole Beckett: Is that…?
Dr. Westbrook: He suggested the failsafe mechanisms. And that timepiece—he said it helped him focus. Something he personally made. You're interested in time pieces, aren't you?
Cole Beckett: I-yeah. The failsafes…Did we listen to him?
Dr. Westbrook didn’t answer immediately.
Behind the glass, the swirling energy inside the chamber suddenly expanded, a brief bloom of light that flickered and receded.
Cole’s breath hitched.
He remembered now—exactly what happened next.
Dr. Westbrook: Prepare the ignition sequence. Let’s begin.
Cole Beckett: No...no, this can't happen! This can't-
Pocket Watch: It's going to happen. It's too late to stop it. The sequence was started early.
Cole Beckett: What? Started early? With no fail safes? Sabotage?
Pocket Watch: You remember what happened next?
Cole Beckett: ...Aria. I- Aria!
Suddenly, Cole found himself back in the concert hall. Aria had grabbed his shoulder. It was enough to pull him back.
Aria Westbrook: Cole, are you alright? You were saying my name.
Cole Beckett: Huh? I uh-yeah, I'm fine. I just need to get some air, and maybe something to drink. Can I get you anything?
Aria Westbrook: No, I'm fine.
Cole Beckett: Great. I'll be back.
Aria Westbrook: Don't be too long.
Cole got up, and composed himself, walking slowly until he was out of sight. He then grabbed at the Pocket Watch.
Cole Beckett: What was that?
Pocket Watch: You were taken to the past. One of the Thirteen Hands. They can pull from your memories, the strongest ones. The ones you regret. They can pull you back there. It wasn't just a memory. You were there.
Cole Beckett: I couldn't stop it. Sabotage? The Chrono Clutch were behind it? You-you need to start giving me answers. Are you-
Pocket Watch: That's something we can discuss later. Right now, you must find the Wight of Rewind. He wasn't here for you. He's here for Jules.
Cole Beckett: How do you know that?
Pocket Watch: Please, just trust me.
Cole Beckett: ...I don't have time to question it. I'm on it.
Cole ran around to the back of the concert hall, where he found a bewildered Jules Marrow walking off stage for an intermission.
Marla Quinn: Jules? Oh goodness gracious. Are you having another dizzy spell? Do you need water? What can I do?
Jules Marrow: I-I-don't want to be here. I made a mistake.
Marla Quinn: What? Jules?
Jules Marrow: I turned them down. Biggest contract offer I ever had. I could've been famous.
Marla Quinn: Jules, you didn't want to sacrifice your art. They wanted to commercialize you. The choice you made is the reason. It's the reason I became your manager. It's the reason I-I-I-
Jules stumbled over and began to spasm, his clothing changing in an instant back and forth. Marla backed away as Cole Beckett approached.
Cole Beckett: Let me help him.
Marla Quinn: Who are you?
Cole Beckett: Please, we don't have time. Let me help.
Marla Quinn: Do you know what's wrong?
Cole Beckett: I have an idea.
Marla Quinn: Then fine. Please. Help him. Please!
Cole Beckett: ...Right.
Cole grabbed Jules by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. He saw a pulse of light stretching backwards, and was somehow able to follow it. He and Jules were suddenly not in the same time. They were in the same place, but a different performance.
Jules Marrow: Huh? Who are you?
Cole Beckett: My name is Cole. What's been happening to you?
Jules Marrow: What? Well...I keep finding myself...here...back here, to the worst day of my life.
Cole Beckett: Why? Why are we we here? What happened here that's so bad?
Jules Marrow: I was offered a contract after this performance. The one I have to go and do right now. I turned it down because they wanted to commericialize my work. My career has gone nowhere since.
Cole Beckett: That woman didn't see to think that.
Jules Marrow: She's been the only thing keeping me going, her and my music. Maybe I'm being cursed to relive this. I have to go. I have to play.
Jules rose and walked back to the piano as the crowd applauded. It was as if he was on auto pilot, controlled by the flow of what had happened before. Cole was confused, wondering why he was here, and what the Thirteen Hands of the Chrono Clutch could possibly want with this concert pianist. He looked out in the crowd, and that's when he saw him. The same man, the same glasses, and the same pocket watch. Dr. Horatio Geiger, out in the crowd. He ran back around the familiar concert hall, and made his way over to him. As he did, he looked up to see him.
A figure moving in the rafters, slowly but surely coming closer as it stalked its prey. It was here for Geiger.
Cole Beckett: Dr. Gieger?
Dr. Geiger: You? You're one of Westbrook's engineer's aren't you? Yes, you're the candidate for my program. Is something wrong at the institute?
Cole Beckett: N-no. Not really. Not yet? I need you to come with me. Now.
Dr. Geiger: Not yet? That look in your eyes. Fine. Lead the way.
The Wight of Rewind emerged from the shadows above the balcony, perched like a twisted conductor in the rafters, porcelain mask twitching, glyphs pulsing backward in crimson. He followed them out of the auditorium, and into the lobby.
He raised his baton.
Time lurched.
Geiger gasped as his legs locked—and then, as if tethered by strings, he began to move backward against his will. Step by step. Back toward center stage.
Dr. Geiger: I—I can’t—! What's going on?
He grit his teeth. He looked behind Geiger, and saw the Wight of Rewind, conducting time itself, and pulling Geiger back to a previous moment.
Cole Beckett: Fine. No more hiding.
He reached into his coat and pulled the Chrono Engine Driver from beneath his shirt. A quick snap—and it latched around his waist with a metallic clink.
Cole Beckett: Time’s broken. Let’s wind it back. Lock. Ignite. RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
Steam hissed outward in concentric rings as armor plates clicked into place over his chest, shoulders, and limbs—geared, bronzed, and humming with pressure.
Dr. Geiger: That's my project!
Kamen Rider Gauge, now in full form, rushed forward, boots skidding on the warped wood of the stage.
The Wight of Rewind snapped his fingers—Geiger’s body surged backward faster, like he was being fast-forwarded in reverse.
Gauge leapt, tackled Geiger mid-slide, and drove a punch into the floor to anchor them both.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Not today, you broken metronome.
Gauge rolled out of the building, rebounding into a crouch.
The Wight of Rewind floated above the ground, his tattered coat fluttering as time distortion crackled around his limbs. His baton twitched—every movement reversed itself a second later.
Wight of Rewind: You're not supposed to be here!
Kamen Rider Gauge: Look who's talking!
Wight of Rewind: You will pay for your constant interference, Paradox Core!
Kamen Rider Gauge: Oh yeah? Come over here and make me.
Dr. Geiger: ..Paradox Core?
Neither combatant was supposed to be here, but it was another side effect of broken time.
And Gauge was about to break it harder.
The Wight snapped his baton—and the buildings around them began to reverse collapse. Shards of glass flew upward. A lamppost rewound its own bend, curling like a vine. Rain un-fell.
Gauge moved.
He ducked under a streaking bench, vaulted over a looping mailbox that kept flickering in and out of 1912, and delivered a high kick that caught the Wight’s mask and knocked him out of sync.
The glyphs on the porcelain fractured. The Wight spun midair and hurled a wave of reverse time energy, catching Gauge in the chest.
He flew backward—literally—his previous steps playing out in reverse until he hit the side of a steam powered tram car.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Guh—! That’s enough!
He gripped the rail, twisted his Driver once, and let the Temporal Pressure surge around him.
Steam erupted in a jet around his boots. His gauntlets glowed with heat.
He charged again.
This time, the blows landed faster than the Wight could reset them.
Right hook—blocked. Left elbow—connected. A spinning knee to the midsection bent the Wight double, glyphs flashing wildly.
Gauge grabbed him by the coat and threw him into the side of the theater, the wall rippling like a pond surface.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You’re not welcome here. This is your eviction notice.
Steam gushed from every seam of the suit. The pressure gauge maxed out, glowing red hot. Armor plating along his arms and shoulders expanded, revealing inner vents.
Cole Beckett: Boiler Breaker!
He slammed his fist into the Wight’s chest, sending it fleeing out of the past, and reversing the damage it had caused. Cole immediately began to feel himself being pulled back, but not before Dr. Geiger ran up to him.
Dr. Geiger: You...you're from the future. You're fighting something...with my design.
Kamen Rider Gauge: That's right. I-
Dr. Geiger: No! Don't tell me any more than I already know!
Kamen Rider Gauge: But-
Dr. Geiger: Listen. If you need my help in the future, I will help you. You saved my life. I owe it to you. You showed me that my designs work. You showed me so much. If you need a hand from me, I'll make sure you get it. Be here, at this theater. Look in the back alley, and when you see it, type in the code 5467.
Kamen Rider Gauge: When I see wha-
Gauge was pulled out of the past, and snapped back to his place with Jules Marrow. He looked down to see he was still in his dress suit. Jules stood up, and suddenly felt very lucid.
Jules Marrow: Where am I? I'm back? I was trapped...trapped in the past.
Marla Quinn: You've been trapped in the past a long time, you lunkhead. Listen. You're the best pianist I've ever heard. I love your music. I-I love you!
Jules Marrow: What?
Marla Quinn: I love you for who you are, not what you are or aren't. The day you tore up that contract, was the day I fell in love with you!
Jules Marrow: Love? You mean-
Marla Quinn: Yes! I love you! No matter where your career goes, I'll always be by your side!
Jules Marrow: Marla. Wow. If I'd have known. That wasn't the worst day of my life...it was the best!
Marla Quinn: Oh Jules!
The two embraced as Cole smiled at the sight. He looked around the curtain to see Aria still sitting there waiting for him. He thought to go and talk to her, but then he realized, he hadn't beaten the Wight, it had only retreated. He quickly got to his feet and ran back to the present sight of their battle in the past.
Marla Quinn: Who was that guy?
Jules Marrow: I feel like I met him before.
Cole bolted outside, to the present site of the past battle, and indeed found the Wight of Rewind recovering from the Boiler Breaker. It immediately retreated down the road. Cole was about to pursure until-
Pocket Watch: Wait! Remember what you were told? The alley?
Cole Beckett: Huh? Wait, he told me he'd leave something there. Is this really the best ti-
Pocket Watch: Trust me!
Cole Beckett: Right. Of course. "Trust you". Silly me.
Cole quickly ran behind the building and found a large container draped in an old tarp.
Cole Beckett: This has been here for awhile. What is this?
Cole pulled back the tarp to reveal a large container with a seam down the middle.
Pocket Watch: Do you remember the passcode?
Cole Beckett: Huh? Oh yeah. I do. 5467 right?
Pocket Watch: Enter it in.
Cole Beckett: Where?
He searched until he found a keypad near the seam. After punching in the code, steam erupted from the seam.
Cole Beckett: Whoa! Wait, is that-
A motorcycle made out of clockwork gears and Eagleland steel stood before Cole.
Cole Beckett: Not bad! Not bad at all!
The motorcycle seemed to come to life on its own as it resonated with the Chrono Engine belt.
Motorcycle: "Chrono Engine online… Engage pressure system. Standby for CLOCKWORK RUNNER."
Cole Beckett: Outstanding! Calibrate. Lock. Ignite. RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
The engines howled like beasts.
Steam hissed from brass-lined grates as the Clockwork Runner tore down the cobbled main thoroughfare of Arcadia City, its wheels screaming against the wet metal-lined street. Sparks danced in the rain-slick air. Streetlights blinked, flickered, then reversed—trapped in the wake of the Wight of Rewind as he soared above the rooftops, his porcelain mask gleaming like a cracked moon.
Kamen Rider Gauge hunched low, gripping the throttles as his clockwork speedster surged forward. Gears spun with chronometers unraveling seconds at dangerous speeds. The front wheel gleamed with polished copper; a rotating gyroscope stabilized the bike, even as the street shifted beneath them.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You’re not slipping through time again.
The Wight turned midair, twisting his body unnaturally in reverse, and threw a wave of distorted time. The energy blast struck the street ahead. Streetlamps shattered in reverse, glass leaping back into place before disassembling again. A bridge began to collapse.
Gauge banked hard, tilting the Clockwork Runner sideways and sliding beneath the collapsing bridge with millimeter precision.
He twisted the throttle.
Clockwork Runner’s engine screamed.
Gears engaged.
Steam ejected from rear valves like a pulse.
The rear exhausts flared, pushing him into a tighter curve as he sped into an alley after the Wight.
The chase weaved through back alleys and onto elevated train tracks. The Wight of Rewind flung shards of warped memory—spectral echoes of the past, but Gauge blasted through it.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Enough of this!
The gears along the sides rotated, and the front of the bike hissed with steam.
A concentrated jet of temporal pressure burst forward from the bike’s core, and the Clockwork Runner surged ahead like it had been launched through time itself.
Gauge closed the gap—fast.
The Wight turned again, attempting to rewind the ground beneath him, but Gauge launched into the air, using the momentum to tackle him mid-flight, the two crashing through a neon-lit billboard of a smiling coffee mascot.
They hit the rooftop hard.
The Wight rolled back into a crouch. Gauge stood, the Clockwork Runner circling back to the street below on autopilot, hissing and glowing from the overload.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Bet you wish you could rewind this!
The Wight cracked his baton, glyphs pulsing.
Gauge readied his stance.
Kamen Rider Gauge and the Wight of Rewind charged.
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (7/13/2025 6:48 am)
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
The rain had stopped, but steam rose from every rooftop vent in Arcadia City like the whole skyline had just exhaled. Neon lights buzzed in the fog-choked air, casting electric hues of pink, turquoise, and gold over the slick tar of the rooftop.
Above it all, an oversized neon sign advertising Café Noir’s Coffee glowed.
Java Coffington, the café brand’s coffee cup mascot, smiled endlessly—arms outstretched in a warm, caffeinated embrace. His two wide cartoon eyes caught the light, making it look like he was watching the battle unfold.
Wight of Rewind stumbled backward—fractures zigzagging through his porcelain mask. His limbs twitched with uneven rhythm as if different parts of him were rewinding at different speeds. Every time he tried to raise his baton, Kamen Rider Gauge was already there to stop him.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Time's up!
Steam hissed from Gauge’s armor as gears along his forearms rotated in sync. The vents at his shoulders pulsed blue, the engine inside him building pressure.
The Wight shrieked—a shrill, distorted reverse of a scream—and lunged with one last burst of temporal displacement, the space around him blurring like corrupted film.
Gauge stood firm.
PRESSURE FINISH — READY.
Cole dropped into a low stance, one arm raised, the other coiled at his side. Steam ejected from his heels as the Chrono Engine Driver surged.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Time’s not yours to play with!
He charged.
A streak of steam blasted behind him as he launched into the air. His leg swung wide in a radiant arc, trailing streaks of glowing pressure behind his foot.
Kamen Rider Gauge: PRESSURE FINISH!
CRACK!
The kick connected flush with the Wight. Time itself seemed to pause—a silence so absolute it nearly drowned out the hiss of the engines.
Then—
BOOM.
The Wight of Rewind was launched from the rooftop like a broken clock hand, vanishing in a burst of unstable light and steam.
Java Coffington’s neon smile flickered once… and resumed glowing, blissfully indifferent.
Gauge landed hard, panting, his Driver hissing as it cooled.
The city breathed again.
The armor disappeared in a cloud of steam, as Cole Beckett looked out over the city.
Cole Beckett: Clockwork Runner eh?
Pocket Watch: A formidible ally.
Cole Beckett: You seemed pretty insistent I find it.
Pocket Watch: An educated guess. It stood to reason that Doctor Geiger would realize that his creation would be needed for extensive combat.
Cole Beckett: Yeah I gues- oh no...the concert! Aria!
Cole made his way down from the rooftop and rode back down the road he just blazed through on Clockwork Runner. He tried not to look at the damage left behind too much, as he finally made it back to the concert hall. Cole smiled at what he saw when he got there. Jules Marrow and Marla Quinn were embracing as they left the building together. His joy was short lived as Aria Westbrook ran up to him.
Aria Westbrook: There you are!
Cole Beckett: Aria! I-
Aria Westbrook: Save it! You know, I was actually having a good time with you! It reminded me of the way things used to be! We used to be there for each other, confide in one another! I don't know why I even try to stay in your life, when it's obvious you don't want me in yours! You are hopeless!
Cole Beckett: Aria wait! Aria...that's...that's not true at all.
Episode 6: The Man out of Time
From the street, La Marque Élégante was the pinnacle of Arcadia City’s elite establishments—crimson velvet awnings, valet service with monocled staff, and a chandelier whose crystals refracted light like fragments of frozen stars.
Inside, the place breathed silence.
A pristine dining salon awaited guests that never came. Wine glasses were filled but untouched. Platters of rare delicacies steamed faintly but cooled with each passing second. The room was locked in a moment that never moved forward.
And on every wall—ornate, hand-crafted clocks.
Mantle clocks. Wall clocks. Pocket watches under glass domes.
All of them were stopped.
Each one silent. Each one holding its breath.
At the head of a long obsidian table sat a figure cloaked in tailored charcoal black. His gloved fingers interlocked on the tablecloth like folded blades.
His face was obscured by the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, but the silver edge of a monocle glinted whenever he shifted slightly. No one dared look at him directly, yet all felt his presence fill the room like a fog of inevitability.
One by one, the remaining members of the Chrono Clutch entered the chamber. They took their seats not out of habit—but out of design.
There were eight left. Adding the man at the head of the table, and they had begun with thirteen. Thirteen Hands.
The man tapped once on the table. A sound like a bell that echoed deeper than the ear.
?: Another failure. Another lost hand.
A few of the members flinched. One raised a glass to mask their reaction. Another twisted a napkin into a knot.
The lights above flickered in perfect rhythm.
?: The Paradox Core is growing stronger. This will not continue.
A tall, lean figure stood from the end of the table. His black and white coat shimmered in the candlelight, stitched in symmetrical lines that resembled racing stripes or military ribbons. His face was hidden behind a sleek, reflective mask—a mirror.
When he moved, his image lagged by a fraction of a second.
The Wight of Forward.
Wight of Forward: I will engage the Paradox Core. Let him look into the future— And choke on what he sees.
His voice echoed just slightly ahead of his lip movements, as though reality couldn’t catch up to his speed.
The man turned slightly. The monocle flashed again.
?: Do not engage for vengeance. Engage for inevitability. When we're finished, their demise will be rewritten.
A whisper moved through the room like a wind through dried leaves. The remainder of the Thirteen seated agents sat straighter, some nodding in ritual acknowledgment. One removed a watch from their sleeve and placed it face-down on the table. Another drew a line in their wine with a fingertip and let it evaporate into mist.
?: Let the hands move forward. The next test begins now.
With a gloved hand, he snapped his fingers.
The room’s lights dimmed.
And for a single, impossible moment—every clock ticked once.
Just once.
Then silence returned.
-
The sky was red.
No—not a sunrise. It was bleeding.
Cole stood in the middle of a field that stretched infinitely in all directions. The wind smelled like burning paper.
He could hear screaming in the distance. Familiar. His voice, but older.
A woman stood with her back to him—cloaked in mist, too far to reach. Her outline flickered like a worn film reel.
Voice (whispering): You never should have used the Driver. You should’ve stayed behind the line. Beware the Dusk.
He tried to move forward. The ground gave way like ash. His feet sank.
Above him, the sky cracked open—and three silhouettes fell like meteors into the earth.
Cole Beckett woke up choking.
He sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air like it weighed fifty pounds. Every breath rasped through him, coated in pain.
His chest ached. His arms felt like they were wrapped in lead. And his knees—, his knees—felt like they’d been crushed in a vice.
He slumped to the side of the bed, feet touching the cold wooden floor, and immediately regretted it. His joints protested with pops and groans. His spine screamed as he stood.
Cole Beckett: Ughh… what the hell…
He shuffled forward, gripping the doorway for balance, half-blind with fatigue and disorientation.
He reached the bathroom sink and turned on the tap, letting icy water run over his trembling hands. He splashed it on his face, hoping the shock would wake him—
—and looked up.
Staring back from the mirror was an old man. A very old man.
Wrinkled, gaunt, pallid. Hair graying. His eyes were still his—but sunk in deeper, like time had pulled them inward.
Cole Beckett stumbled backward, hitting the wall behind him.
Cole Beckett: What? What?!
He looked down at his hands—liver spots and shaking fingers. His legs buckled, and he slid down the wall.
Cole Beckett: What's going on here?
Cole crawled from his bathroom, through his bed room to the counter of his shop. He tried reaching for the Pocket Watch.
The bell above the door jingled.
He instinctively ducked behind the counter like a kid hiding from a teacher.
Ty Mercado: Cole! Bro, are you alive in here? You missed breakfast! Breakfast burrito! From the good place this time!
Cole winced. His joints popped just from crouching.
Cole Beckett: No, no, no, not right now…
From behind the counter, he peered up and saw Ty wander in with a burrito in one hand and smoothie in the other. He wore a Solandra tropical shirt open over a tank top, and had a fresh tan that made him glow like a tourist ad.
Ty Mercado: I brought you something weird from the smoothie stand! It’s called "The Cleanse.” I figured it sounded like your vibe. Has like beets and ginger and… regret?
Cole edged further down the counter, knocking over a display of antique watch chains. They clattered like a metal avalanche.
Ty Mercado: Hello? Was that you? Did you fall into the grandfather clock again?
Cole army-crawled behind the counter toward the back room, muttering curses under his breath as he cradled his aching back.
Cole Beckett: Why is he here so early? He’s never early. Kids today. What am I saying?
Ty popped his head over the counter.
Ty Mercado: Wait… is that a gray wig? Are you cosplaying as your own grandpa right now?
Cole yelped and smacked his head on the underside of the shelf.
Ty Mercado: Dude! You okay? You sound like—hold up…
Cole slowly stood up behind the counter, half his face still hidden behind an open drawer. Only one eye and a portion of his silver-streaked beard were visible.
Cole Beckett: Ty. Buddy. Pal. I’m just… fighting off a flu. Real nasty.
Ty Mercado: You look like you’ve been retired for twenty years.
Cole tried to smile. It came out more like a grimace.
Ty Mercado: Wait… are you okay?
Cole sighed and slumped fully into view. His aged face was sunken, his posture hunched, and his hair silvered like tarnished steel.
Cole Beckett: I've been better.
Ty Mercado: HOLY MOLY! WHOA! WHOA! Uh...WHOA!
Ty handed him the smoothie out of shock and sat on the edge of the counter.
Ty Mercado: We uh...we should do something? What do we do? What do we do?
Cole Beckett: I don't know yet. This is very very new to me.
Ty Mercado: Nothing about you looks new.
Cole Beckett: Doesn't feel new either. My back is killing me!
Ty Mercado: Ya know, when you let me in on this little "side job" of yours, I never imagined this was going to be part of the gig.
Cole Beckett: It's not supposed to be. And I didn't really let you "in on it". You just sort of found me testing the suit.
Ty Mercado: My good pal from way back suddenly buys up the shop down the street from my tanning salon, after what happened at the institute? Now I might not be the genius you are, but even I knew something strange was going on.
Cole Beckett: Oh it's strange alright, and it keeps getting stranger.
Ty Mercado: Want me to get Aria? Maybe she can-
Cole Beckett: No. Do not tell her. Whatever happens, she can not know about-
The front bell jingled violently.
Aria Westbrook marched in, her ponytail swinging like a whip of indignation and guilt. She clutched a manila folder in one hand and wore the expression of someone storming into a battlefield, regret-first, dignity-second.
Aria Westbrook: Cole! We need to talk!
Ty Mercado immediately spit his smoothie across the shop floor.
Ty Mercado: SHE’S HERE. SOUND THE ALARMS.
Cole, still hunched over spun around and instinctively ducked behind a stack of cuckoo clocks.
Cole Beckett: No, no, no—she can’t see me like this!
Ty Mercado: Well, unless she’s blind and deaf, that’s gonna be tricky!
Aria’s boots echoed sharply against the hardwood floor.
Aria Westbrook: Cole? I know you’re here. I saw the lights on. Ty’s scooter is parked sideways on the curb again.
Ty Mercado: It’s called “express parking.”
Cole reached for a long velvet curtain near the back, yanking it down to poorly cover himself like an ancient Dracula cosplay.
Cole Beckett: Stall her!
Ty Mercado: You want me to stall Aria Westbrook, physics prodigy, time-loop buster, and queen of the side-eye?
Cole Beckett: Yes!
Aria rounded the counter.
Aria Westbrook: Ty, where’s Cole?
Ty Mercado: He’s… uh… recharging!
Aria Westbrook: Recharging?
Ty Mercado: Yeah!
A soft groan echoed from behind the curtain.
Aria Westbrook: Was that a groan?
Ty Mercado: Nooo… that was the… pipes. Yeah, you know how old buildings are—moaning pipes, haunted radiator.
She started walking past him. Ty dove in front of her again, nearly knocking over a glass display of sundials.
Ty Mercado: Wait wait wait—before you go back there, just—look, he’s sick. Really sick.
Aria Westbrook: Sick? Why didn’t he say anything last night?
From behind the curtain came a muffled sneeze.
Aria Westbrook: Okay, that’s it.
Aria blitzed by Ty and went through the curtain. She found a lump of blanket on the bed.
Aria Westbrook: Cole? Are you alright?
Cole began coughing on cue.
Aria Westbrook: Maybe you are sick. Look, I just really wanted to say that I'm sorry for what I said last night. I think maybe I just count on you so much because we both survived what happened together. I mean, you got me out of there. I need to remember that. That's all I wanted to say. I guess I'll talk to you later.
Cole Beckett: Mmm hmm.
Aria Westbrook: ...I hope you feel better soon.
Cole Beckett: Mmm hmm.
Aria Westbrook: Bye Cole.
Aria walked by Ty and left the shop as quickly as she appeared.
Ty Mercado: That was close!
Cole Beckett: I don't think I can get up.
Ty Mercado: What are we going to do?
Cole Beckett: I was going to consult the watch.
Ty Mercado: What? Are you losing it? Going senile?
Cole Beckett: No! Well, maybe I am. I don't know. The watch is real though. It talks to me.
Ty Mercado: You're not helping your case.
Cole Beckett: The pocket watch on the front desk. Bring it to me please.
Ty Mercado: Right. I can do that!
Ty came back with the watch, and handed it to Cole, who clutched it tightly.
Cole Beckett: We got a problem, Watch.
Pocket Watch: I can see that.
Cole Beckett: You can see?
Ty Mercado: You can talk?
Pocket Watch: Are you sure you want to do this in front of the civilian?
Cole Beckett: We don't have time not to. I'm feeling worse than when I woke up.
Pocket Watch: You're still aging exponentially. If you hadn't woken up all of a sudden, you might have died in your sleep.
Cole Beckett: Thank God for nightmares?
Pocket Watch: You need to transform. The Temporal Pressure should slow down the aging, and maybe make you mobile again.
Cole Beckett: We're hinging out bets on maybe? Whatever. Let's do this.
Cole slowly stood up and carefully placed the Chrono Engine Driver around his frail waist.
Cole Beckett: Calibrate. Lock. Ignite. RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
A wave of steam engulfed Cole, as the armor formed around him, jostling him much more than usual, before finally forming into Kamen Rider Gauge.
Pocket Watch: How do you feel?
Kamen Rider Gauge: Better. Much better.
Pocket Watch: Good. Just don't take the suit off, or you might instantly die.
Kamen Rider Gauge: What?!
Ty Mercado: Seems like you should have mentioned that before, Watch!
Pocket Watch: This was the only option. You were hurtling towards one hundred years old.
Ty Mercado: Oh! Good to know you age pretty well.
Kamen Rider Gauge: I'm not really looking forward to it.
Ty Mercado: Uh Cole? That thing’s blinking like it wants to explode.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Huh? The Chrono Engine Driver? It does that when the Chrono Clutch are at work.
Ty Mercado: The what now?
Kamen Rider Gauge: The ones messing with time. The ones I've been fighting.
Ty Mercado: Oh! You think they did this to you?
Kamen Rider Gauge: Never doubt your own brilliance, Ty.
Ty Mercado: Thanks!
Cole chuckled—just barely—when his phone buzzed.
CALL INCOMING: ARIA WESTBROOK
He grabbed it immediately.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Hey. Aria, listen, I'm sorry about-
Her voice cut through the line like a blade.
Aria Westbrook: C-Cole!?
Cole sat bolt upright, nearly knocking his chair over.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Aria? What’s wrong?
There was a rush of wind through the receiver, like she was running. Heavy breathing. Distant sounds of alarms and something... unnatural.
Aria Westbrook: It’s here! It’s chasing me down the hall—Cole, I can’t—my hands—!
Her voice cracked, strained by age and fear. He could hear her panting hard, like every breath burned her lungs.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Aria, slow down. Where are you!?
Aria Westbrook: It’s turning me into an old woman!
The words punched him in the chest.
Aria Westbrook: Everything hurts—my skin—my legs—Cole! Please—help me—I don’t want to—
The call cut out.
Silence. Then the soft click of the line going dead.
Cole stared at the screen.
Ty had already stood up.
Ty Mercado: It's after her now?
Kamen Rider Gauge: He's not taking her too.
Gauge bolted out of the shop, with his Pocket Watch in tow. He quickly got onto Clockwork Runner, and bolted towards the direction the Chrono Engine Driver was pulsing. Ty watched as he drove off.
Ty Mercado: Hey, he finally got a set of wheels. Nice.
As Kamen Rider Gauge drove down the street a figure watched from a rooftop, covered in robes. The figure began to quickly pursue.
Wind whipped through the skeletal remains of the Westbrook Institute. Shattered glass crunched beneath Aria Westbrook’s boots as she made her way through the shadowy remnants of the hallway she once called home.
She stopped by a broken wall monitor, her fingers grazing a cracked photo lodged in the frame: her, Cole, and her grandfather—Dr. Avery Westbrook—smiling in the sun.
Behind her, a clock chimed.
But there were no clocks.
Aria turned slowly.
Standing there, tall and spectral, was a figure cloaked in shimmering chrome—his face a smooth, eyeless mask, its surface constantly shifting like running mercury. His shoulders jutted like blades, and from beneath his cloak, gears turned in unnatural sync.
The Wight of Forward.
Wight of Forward: Like a rat in a maze, you came here, just like I saw that you would. He'll be here shortly as well. You know, you look just like him… Avery. And you carry the same petulence in your blood.
The aged Aria backed up slightly, her pulse quickening.
Aria Westbrook: You knew my grandfather? Who—what are you?
Wight of Forward: I’m what happens when time stops controlling you, and you control it. I'm a harbinger of age where there is NO age.
He lifted one skeletal finger. Time bent forward. The wind around them froze mid-gust, leaves hovering like suspended seconds. Aria’s body twitched—her arm aged a year in a breath, veins rising, skin tightening.
Wight of Forward: Tell me what you know about Avery Westbrook. About Horatio Geiger. About the man in the watch.
Aria gritted her teeth, pain flaring in her limbs.
Then—
A roar tore through the frozen air.
Wight of Forward: He's here.
BRAAAAAAAAAHHHHMMM!
A blaze of steam and gears surged from the west, tires screeching across marble and dust—
Kamen Rider Gauge burst into the scene atop the Clockwork Runner, cloaked in vapor and fury, engine glowing red with Temporal Pressure.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Get away from her!
CRASH!
The front wheel slammed into the Wight of Forward’s chest, launching the specter into a half-buried pillar. He exploded in a storm of warped clocks and sparks.
Cole skidded the bike to a halt, flipping off mid-motion. He stood tall, shoulders rising with effort.
Aria Westbrook: Kamen Rider?
He didn’t answer. His body burned. The armor felt heavier. The suit hissed as it tried to regulate unstable Temporal Pressure surging through his aged frame.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Can’t breathe right… joints locking again. Damn it. He’s doing it—he’s pushing me forward.
The rubble stirred.
Forward stepped out, untouched, faceplate gleaming.
Wight of Forward: You’re living on borrowed seconds, Gauge.
He blinked out of existence, reappearing behind Gauge with a punch to the ribs. Then forward again—a knee to the back.
Gauge stumbled. Pressure valves hissed. His vision blurred.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You wanna fast-forward me into a grave? You better hit harder.
He spun with a retaliatory elbow, clocking the Wight in the side. Sparks flew. Time snapped around them in disjointed frames.
Wight of Forward: You’re rusting from the inside, Paradox Core.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Still standing.
The Wight surged again—this time both fighters moving in and out of sync, phasing between half-seconds. Blows landed out of time, like echoes. Gauge blocked one strike—but was hit by the next before he could register the first.
The temporal strain peaked. Gauge dropped to one knee. His body inside the armor was older than the man who’d donned it.
He looked to Aria, whose hand trembled as she reached toward him.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Run.
Wight of Forward: You've caused enough problems. No more running. For any of you.
Gauge hit the ground hard, his aged limbs struggling to push himself back up. The Wight of Forward blurred in and out of view, stepping seconds ahead with every movement. Steam hissed from Gauge’s armor as the pressure inside the suit fought to stabilize his decaying body.
Kamen Rider Gauge: I can’t… keep up…
The Wight appeared behind him, already winding his arm back for a fatal strike.
Wight of Forward: You’re clinging to borrowed time.
Then came a strange sound from the Clockwork Runner.
CH-CHNK!
The screech of hydraulics. The hiss of compressed steam. The rhythmic clicking of gears.
Forward paused.
A shadow passed overhead.
And then—
SMASH!
A massive metallic arm slammed into the Wight of Forward, sending him flying into a row of time-warped storage containers, denting them with a temporal shudder. The ground trembled.
Cole lifted his head, blinking through the haze.
Kamen Rider Gauge: What the…?
Standing between him and the recovering Wight was the Clockwork Runner—but no longer in bike form.
The machine had transformed, armor panels reconfigured, front wheel split into twin arms, the glowing core-clock embedded in its chest ticking forward in sync with Cole’s heartbeat.
The Clockwork Runner—Battle Mode had arrived.
Clockwork Runner: Engaging Temporal Defense Protocols. Threat level: Elevated. Protective override: Authorized.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You talk now!?
The runner didn’t respond—just launched forward with piston-powered fists. It struck the Wight with a flurry of calculated punches, each one resetting his forward momentum, catching him just as he phased out of sync.
Wight of Forward: Impossible… this machine wasn’t built for—
Clockwork Runner: I was built to end you.
Gauge finally stood, wheezing but steady.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Now we're talking.
Steam clouded the battlefield as the Wight of Forward reeled backward, sparks flying from his fractured armor. The Clockwork Runner, now fully in Battle Mode, stood firm beside Gauge, its gears whirring in synchronized tempo with the ticking of its glowing clock-core.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You’re not the future. You’re just… bad timing.
The Wight’s face twisted in rage, his body flickering between frames all at once.
Kamen Rider Gauge: This is going to be really satisfying.
The Runner’s chest opened slightly, and steam valves hissed open on Gauge’s armor. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the Wight.
Clockwork Runner: Final Synchronization. Chrono-Link Established. Execute: Double Temporal Pressure Kick.
Gauge and the Runner took off at the same instant—the world seeming to slow around them.
The air warped, time dilated, and all sound faded except the building tick-tick-tick of the watch core inside Gauge’s belt.
The Wight tried to step forward, to skip seconds again, but his armor glitched—he couldn’t outrun both of them.
Kamen Rider Gauge: TIME STOPS HERE!
With a thunderous roar, both Gauge and Clockwork Runner launched into the air, twisting in perfect symmetry—red and gold spirals of steam curling around their legs as they dove forward.
Double Rider Kick!
Their boots struck the Wight simultaneously—one to the chest, one to the side of his head.
CRACK!
Time seemed to shatter with him.
The Wight of Forward exploded in a burst of fractured golden light, his scream echoing backward through the seconds, fading until there was silence.
Gauge hit the ground hard, skidding, coughing. The Runner landed upright beside him and powered down into standby.
Then, it happened.
A ripple of reversed acceleration surged through Cole’s armor. The lines of age receded. His strength returned. The pain in his joints dissolved like fog under morning sun.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Guess I just hit my… second wind?
From behind a half-destroyed column, Gauge saw Aria Westbrook. She was passed out, but her youth was returned to her.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Aria. You're going to be alright.
Gauge quickly turned to see that Clockwork Runner was a motorcycle once again.
Kamen Rider Gauge: ...Doctor Geiger...you really pulled out all the stops for me. Couldn't have been easy to allow events to happen the way they did. Thanks Doc. I-
Suddenly, the Wight of Forward reconstituted, as a skeletal echo of its former self. It lunged at Gauge, until a shot from out of nowhere blasted the Wight, and destroyed it once and for all.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Whoa! What? Who did-
Gauge looked to make sure the blast didn't come from his bike. That's when the figure jumped down near him. The robed man held an ancient looking revolver directly at Gauge.
?: Have you had the nightmare?
Kamen Rider Gauge: What?
?: The nightmare. Beware the Dusk?
Kamen Rider Gauge: How. Yes. I did have that nightmare. I've been having it a lot lately.
?: Dreams are in short supply these days. All we have are nightmares. Dreams are missing. Dream is missing.
Asher: And we need your help to find him.
Kamen Rider Gauge: ...
To Be Continued..in Gauge! Soul! Dream! Three Riders in Epoch Unbreakable!
Last edited by Machismo (7/16/2025 4:06 am)
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Takes place after Epoch Unbreakable:
Figures danced in a darkened chamber where time itself seems broken, clocks of every shape and size floated in midair, each one stopped at a different moment. The hands twitched sporadically, never in sync.
From the shadows, the Horologue emerged, his presence commanding, his coat trailed like the shadow of a sundial. His voice was calm, but every syllable felt like a hammer striking a bell.
Horologue: The Paradox Core continues to move against us. Each fracture widens the gap between order and collapse.
A ripple in the void revealed another figure—one of the Thirteen Hands of the Chrono Clutch. This Wight embodied the pendulum, its body swung back and forth even while standing still, as though tethered to some unseen metronome. Its design was half-masked, with one side skeletal and the other mechanical, both halves pulled taut by chains that clinked with every sway.
Horologue: You have watched long enough. Step forward, Pendulum.
Wight of Pendulum: Forward. Backward. Forward. Backward. Such is the motion of inevitability. Gauge’s actions swing fate itself, but I will drag him to a permanent stillness.
The Horologue circled slowly, clasping his hands behind his back.
Horologue: Remember, your role is not only destruction. He must learn despair. He must see that no matter how far forward he presses, time will always recoil. He will always return to the start. He fights to hold back a moment that must happen.
The Wight of Pendulum bowed its head, the chains rattling.
Wight of Pendulum: Then let the game begin. I will make the boy dance between seconds, caught in my swing.
Episode 7: The Pendulum Swings
The sunlight filtered through the old stained-glass windows of "Back in Time", casting warm patterns across the counters and shelves filled with brass gears, ticking pendulums, and a dozen half-finished projects. Cole Beckett hummed softly to himself as he wiped down the glass of a display case.
Cole Beckett: It’s good to finally have a quiet day again. No Wights, no collapsing timelines, no Chrono Clutch maniacs trying to snap me in half. Just me, the gears, and some peace and quiet.
He smirked, leaning on the rag in his hand.
Cole Beckett: And, you know… not bad having a few new allies out there. Soul, Dream… Geist Corporation. Guess I'm not all alone in the mess after all.
His smile softened as he thought back to the faces of Blake Faust, Johnathan Angel, and Nacht. The oddest of companions, but ones who proved themselves in the fires of combat, For the first time in a while, Cole felt lighter.
Cole Beckett: If Ty saw me getting sentimental like this, he’d never let me hear the end of it.
Cole stretched, reaching for a duster on the highest shelf. As he pulled it down, a plume of dust billowed out, catching him square in the face.
Cole Beckett: Ah—ACHOO!
He staggered back, losing his footing on a loose gear lying on the floor, and crashed onto his back with a loud thud.
Cole: Ow… perfect. Guess I can’t go one day without falling on my face.
The shop’s bell jingled suddenly, the sound crisp against the hum of the clocks. The door creaked open, and in tumbled two figures—dressed in steampunk coats, goggles, and mismatched hats. They look around the shop with wide eyes, as though they’ve stepped into a treasure trove.
Tick: Whoa, sis, look at this guy! Hi there! On my cog! Are you alright? Sorry, I'm Tick!
Tock: And I'm Tock.
Tick and Tock: Like a clock.
Cole groaned, rubbing the back of his head as the two girls loomed over him.
Cole Beckett: Great. I hit my head, and now I'm hallucinating.
Tock: Is that gear lubricant escaping your retinal orifices?
Tick: Are your sprockets in a twist? He's crying!
Cole Beckett: Crying? Maybe a little teary eyed from the fall, but let's get too hasty.
Tock: What happened?
Cole Beckett: I fell off that shelf.
Tick and Tock: Holy shift. Let's hope you don't have a couple of loose screws!
Cole Beckett: I thought I was fine...then you two walked in. Now I'm not so sure. Can I help you?
Tick: We are new...around here.
Cole Beckett: I can tell.
Tock: But, we're big fans of yours.
Cole Beckett: Of mine?
Tick: *cough*
Tock: Well, we're fans of anyone who appreciate clock work precision. We're gear afficianados ourselves.
Cole Beckett: ...No kidding.
Tick: We just wanted to scan the surroundings, and take in the situation. We are very much impressed.
Cole Beckett: ...Great?
Tock: A fascinating juxtoposition, having a clock repair shop in a city that is modernizing, and fast.
Cole Beckett: So I've been told. If you need anything fixed, you know where to find me.
Tick: Fare thee well good sir.
Tock: Until next we meet!
Cole Beckett: ...I'm not convinced that just happened. I might need to lay back down.
Pocket Watch: It happened. Something odd about those two.
Cole Beckett: Something odd about you too. I'm talking to a pocket watch.
Pocket Watch: Our situation is odd. Time itself is at stake.
Cole Beckett: What are the Chrono Clutch trying to achieve exactly? What even are they?
Pocket Watch: They...want more than any being should. They don't just want to control time, they want to become time.
Cole Beckett: What?!
Pocket Watch: They have tasted it, and they want more. As for who they are-
Suddenly, a ringing filled the air. It was the ring tone for Aria Westbrook.
Cole Beckett: That timing. I had a feeling you weren't going to tell me anyways.
Pocket Watch: Maybe you don't want to know.
Cole Beckett: I want to know everything I can about my enemy. I really need to take this.
Cole grabbed up his phone and quickly answered it.
Cole Beckett: Hello?
Aria Westbrook: Cole? Hey, are you busy?
Cole Beckett: Never too busy to talk to you.
Aria Westbrook: Doesn't always seems that way.
Cole Beckett: I'm sorry.
Aria Westbrook: You seem so guarded all the time. Ever since...the accident. Do you think it was your fault?
Cole Beckett: I don't know what happened. Did you need something?
Aria Westbrook: I wanted to talk, in person, and outside of that shop.
Cole Beckett: Name the place...I'll be there.
The late afternoon sun had stretched long shadows across Arcadia City’s central park. The air carried the faint sound of children’s laughter near the fountain, the splash of water rising and falling in steady rhythm. Cole Beckett sat on the park bench with a paper cup of coffee in his hands, swirling what little remained at the bottom. He let out a soft sigh, savoring the moment of peace.
Aria Westbrook sat beside him, her posture tense despite the gentle scenery. Her eyes followed the drifting surface of the fountain water, but her mind was far from calm.
Aria Westbrook: Cole… do you ever stop to think why this keeps happening to me?
Cole Beckett tilted his head, blinking as though he had been caught off guard.
Cole Beckett: Why what keeps happening?
Aria Westbrook turned her face toward him, her gaze sharp.
Aria Westbrook: Those attacks. Those monsters. Every time I try to move forward in my life—whether it’s working, researching, or even just existing—it feels like I get dragged right into the center of it.
Cole Beckett gave a nervous chuckle, lifting the cup to his lips to buy himself a second of silence.
Cole Beckett: You’re overthinking it. Coincidence. Bad luck. Arcadia’s a magnet for weirdness. I mean masked vigilantes running around in armor, whole buildings disappearing overnight. You just… happened to be in the blast radius.
Aria Westbrook shook her head firmly.
Aria Westbrook: No. It isn’t coincidence. Not after the accident. Not after that day when-
She clenched her fists against her lap.
Aria Westbrook: When he-he...
Cole Beckett’s throat went dry. His hand tightened around the paper cup until it crumpled slightly. He forced his eyes to remain fixed on the children kicking a soccer ball across the lawn, pretending her words hadn’t pierced him like a blade.
Aria Westbrook: It all connects. These monsters… they’re tied to that day. And there’s one person who seems to know more than anyone else.
Cole Beckett: …
Aria Westbrook: Kamen Rider Gauge.
The name hung in the air like a tolling bell. Cole Beckett swallowed hard, trying to hide the weight behind his reaction.
Aria Westbrook: He’s always there. Right when they appear, right when someone’s about to get hurt. He doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t fumble—he knows what’s happening. He has to.
Cole Beckett: Or maybe he’s just got really good luck with timing. You know—superhero instincts, dramatic entrances.
Aria Westbrook leaned closer, her eyes narrowing.
Aria Westbrook: Cole, don’t dodge this. You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Not just on the news, not just in passing. You’ve seen him. You act like you know what he’s thinking sometimes.
Cole Beckett’s lips twitched into the faintest, most nervous smile.
Cole Beckett: I… watch a lot of TV?
Aria Westbrook: You’re lying.
Cole Beckett flinched, caught by the raw conviction in her voice.
Aria Westbrook: I need answers. And if Gauge won’t give them to me, then I need to know who he is. Tell me who you think he is, Cole. Who is Kamen Rider Gauge?
The words burned in Cole Beckett’s chest. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her nothing. He opened his mouth—
—but the air was split by a scream.
High, ragged, and desperate, it cut across the calm of the park. Both of them turned instantly toward the road on the far edge, where the sound had come from.
Cole Beckett: …That didn’t sound good.
They bolted from the bench, sprinting across the grass. Parents clutched their children as Cole and Aria raced past, scattering pigeons that flapped into the sky. The closer they came to the road, the heavier the air seemed to grow, as though weighed down by invisible chains.
When they reached the street, their hearts froze at the sight before them.
Ty Mercado was trapped in midair, his arms flailing wildly. He lurched forward three frantic steps—then snapped backward three steps, repeating the motion over and over, caught in a loop. His sunglasses flew from his face, only to flicker back into place as the loop rewound itself.
Ty Mercado: Somebody—help! Somebody—help! Somebody—help!
The words echoed like a broken record, his voice overlapping itself with each reset.
Towering above him, swaying side to side in dreadful rhythm, stood the Wight of Pendulum. Its chains rattled, its cracked mask glowed with malevolent light, and the pendulum weight embedded in its chest swung like the blade of an executioner. Every arc of its motion dragged Ty Mercado’s body back into the loop, bouncing him between seconds like a toy.
Aria Westbrook: Ty!
Her voice cracked, but Ty remained oblivious, lost to the pendulum’s grip. Cole Beckett’s jaw clenched.
The Wight’s voice was deep, deliberate, echoing with the sound of ticking gears.
Wight of Pendulum: Forward… backward… until the clock runs out.
Cole Beckett took a step forward, his face steeled.
Cole Beckett: Aria—stay back.
Aria Westbrook: Cole, what are you—
Cole Beckett: Please.
Her protest froze on her lips when she saw the look in his eyes: not flippant, not sarcastic, but deadly serious.
The ticking grew louder. The pendulum’s weight swung again, pulling Ty Mercado’s body violently back and forth in midair. Cole Beckett curled his hands into fists.
Cole Beckett: Guess break time’s over.
Cole Beckett narrowed his eyes, his heart hammering. He felt Aria Westbrook’s stare burning into him from behind, demanding answers. He couldn’t transform—not here, not now. Not with her watching his every move.
Cole Beckett: Gotta make this look stupid enough to work.
Before Aria Westbrook could stop him, Cole Beckett sprinted forward.
Aria Westbrook: Cole! What are you doing?!
Cole didn’t answer. He lowered his shoulder like a linebacker and hurled himself straight at the Wight of Pendulum. The creature tilted its mask as if bemused by the audacity.
The collision was like slamming into a moving wall of iron. The pendulum weight at its chest swung in perfect time, catching Cole Beckett’s side and sending him spiraling through the air. Pain ripped through his ribs as the world blurred past him.
As his body tumbled toward the shadows between two buildings, he forced the words through clenched teeth.
Cole Beckett: Calibrate. Lock. Ignite. RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
Golden light split the air as the transformation overtook him mid-fall.
Kamen Rider Gauge slammed into the alley wall feet-first, sparks dancing across the brick. He landed in a crouch, steam hissing from the vents in his armor. The fractured glow of time swirled around him.
Back on the street, Aria Westbrook’s eyes went wide, her hands clapping over her mouth. She hadn’t seen the transformation, but she did just see her close friend battered into the distance.
Aria Westbrook: Cole!!!
Gauge stepped from the shadows.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Pendulum… you picked the wrong guy to toy with.
The Wight of Pendulum’s chains rattled as it swung again, dragging Ty Mercado violently back and forth like a marionette. Its hollow voice boomed.
Wight of Pendulum: Did I? It brought you to me. The swing consumes. The swing never ends.
Gauge charged, gears turning at his joints, steam hissing with each step. But as his fist connected, the Wight caught him in its rhythm.
Suddenly, Gauge’s body jerked forward three steps, then snapped back three, his punch resetting again and again. He was trapped—his armor sparking as he slammed into the loop with Ty Mercado.
Ty Mercado: Gauge! Gauge! Gauge!
Gauge snarled behind the helmet.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Damn it… can’t… break free…!
The pendulum swayed once more, but this time the Wight of Pendulum dropped its grip on Ty Mercado, letting him fall to the pavement with a grunt. The chains rattled as the Wight’s cracked mask tilted toward Gauge, the crimson glow of its chest burning brighter.
Wight of Pendulum: You… Paradox Core… are the greater prize.
The loop collapsed around Ty Mercado, freeing him, and in that instant Gauge twisted free of the rhythm that had bound him. He landed hard on his feet, sparks bursting from the joints of his armor, steam trailing from his vents.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Good. Now you’re looking at me.
He lunged forward, boots pounding against the asphalt, and drove a kick into the Wight’s midsection. The impact rang out like a hammer striking a bell, forcing the Wight back a step. Gauge pressed the advantage, swinging punches, elbows, and another kick that cracked against the skeletal half of Pendulum’s mask.
But the Wight moved like the swing of its namesake, every strike met with a counter. A chain lashed out and caught Gauge’s arm, dragging him sideways. He yanked free and spun into a roundhouse kick, the impact sending a shudder through the Wight’s torso.
Aria Westbrook watched from the curbside, heart in her throat, as the two combatants clashed in a storm of fists and steel. Ty Mercado crawled to safety, his body shaking but his eyes glued to the battle.
Ty Mercado: C’mon, Gauge… knock that clock-face creep out!
Gauge ducked a pendulum swing and drove his knee into the Wight’s abdomen. He spun with the momentum, landing a flurry of three rapid kicks in succession. Each impact rang like a ticking clock.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You like rhythm? How’s that for tempo?
The Wight staggered back, its cloak whipping around its frame. Then its pendulum weight swung wide, missing by inches as Gauge ducked. Gauge capitalized, springing upward into a flying kick that smashed into the Wight’s chest. The pendulum cracked, light spilling from the impact.
But the Wight of Pendulum only tilted its head, its voice rumbling low.
Wight of Pendulum: Every swing… finds its return.
Its chains lashed out again, wrapping around Gauge’s arm and yanking him off balance. Gauge countered with a backfist, sparks flying, then drove a headbutt into the Wight’s mask. The creature staggered but did not fall.
The fight spiraled into a brutal rhythm—Gauge hammering the Wight with combinations of punches and knees, the Wight swaying and striking back with pendulum arcs and chain lashes. Their movements blurred, each impact shaking the warped street, windows cracking from the force of their blows.
Finally, Gauge landed another spinning kick, sending the Wight stumbling back across the cracked asphalt. Gauge panted, steam hissing from his vents as he steadied himself.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Not...gonna let you trap me again.
The Wight swayed, its pendulum glowing brighter, the chains rattling as they rose into the air like serpents.
Wight of Pendulum: Don't be so sure of yourself.
The pendulum weight flashed crimson, and before Gauge could retreat, the world around him bent again. The air grew thick, heavy, the sound of ticking filled his ears. His body jerked forward three steps, then snapped back three, caught in the swing once more.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Damn it—!
He slammed his fists against the invisible barrier of time, sparks bursting, but the loop pulled tighter. Each punch reset, each kick rewound. He was caught, suspended in the Wight’s rhythm, his body replaying the same futile attacks as the pendulum swayed above.
Wight of Pendulum: No escape now, Paradox Core.
The pendulum glowed brighter, ready to bring the loop to a close, when the roar of an engine shattered the rhythm. A streak of steel and brass tore down the street, gears whirring, exhaust trailing steam.
Clockwork Runner burst through the shimmering loop like a bullet train. Its wheels screeched sparks as it skidded sideways, the glow of its temporal core burning gold. The Wight of Pendulum staggered back as the motorcycle launched upward in a burst of steam and gears.
Before Aria Westbrook’s astonished eyes, the machine unfolded. Wheels twisted, panels split, pistons snapped into place. Clockwork Runner transformed into its humanoid combat form—an automaton of brass, steel, and glowing clockwork, its chestplate marked with a gear face.
With a thunderous impact, Clockwork Runner slammed its gear-shaped fist into the Wight of Pendulum’s chest, breaking the loop around Kamen Rider Gauge. The Rider staggered free, panting, sparks still dancing across his armor.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Clockwork Runner! Outstanding!
The automaton growled with the grinding of gears, its eyes glowing as it squared its shoulders between Gauge and the Wight.
Aria Westbrook: What in the world!?
The Wight of Pendulum hissed, chains lashing in fury.
Wight of Pendulum: We know what you are, machine! You will not deny us our destiny!
Clockwork Runner struck first, piston-arms firing forward in a rapid barrage. Each strike rang like a hammer blow, forcing the Wight back across the cracked asphalt. The pendulum weight swung wide, but Runner caught it with both arms, locking it in place.
Gauge stared in awe, then felt a vibration at his hip. His pocket watch, the one that had spoken to him in whispers since Loop’s defeat, glowed faintly.
Pocket Watch: Cole..take hold.
Kamen Rider Gauge: What?
Pocket Watch: The hands of the clock. They are yours. Claim them.
Gauge’s gaze snapped to Clockwork Runner’s chest. The gear flipped into a great clock. Two massive clock hands protruded from it, ticking faintly. Gauge dashed forward, leaping onto the automaton’s frame, his hands grasping the metal arms.
With a wrenching pull, the clock hands tore free, shimmering with golden light as they reshaped in his grip. What had been the hour and minute hands twisted into twin blades, their edges glowing with the pressure of time itself.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Twin Blades of Time.
Clockwork Runner released the pendulum and stepped back, gears spinning in support. Gauge flourished the blades, crossing them in an X as steam hissed around him.
The Wight of Pendulum tilted its cracked mask, its voice low and furious.
Wight of Pendulum: You can not stop the swinging pendulum of fate.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Then I’ll cut the damn thing in half!
Clockwork Runner roared forward, its gears grinding like thunder as it slammed into the Wight of Pendulum. The automaton’s piston arms pummeled the Wight’s skeletal frame in a relentless barrage, every strike ringing out like a hammer striking a bell. The chains lashed wildly, sparks bursting as metal met metal, but Runner pressed harder, driving the Wight back across the warped asphalt.
Wight of Pendulum: No!
Clockwork Runner caught the pendulum weight with one massive hand, locking it in place as gears whirred. With its other fist, it drove a crushing blow into the Wight’s mask, shattering part of the cracked clock face.
Meanwhile, Kamen Rider Gauge stood several paces back, his hands tight on the hilts of the Twin Blades of Time. The glowing clock-hand swords pulsed with golden light, steam hissing from the vents in his armor. He crossed the blades in front of him, sparks gathering at their tips.
The pocket watch at his side vibrated, its voice sharp and urgent.
Pocket Watch: Cole Beckett… focus the pressure! Combine the flow of time into one strike!
Kamen Rider Gauge: Alright then… let’s turn the clock!
He drew the blades apart, arcs of golden energy stretching between them like the hands of a colossal, invisible clock. The air trembled as the glow intensified, forming a perfect circle of light.
Aria Westbrook shielded her eyes from the brilliance, her heart pounding as she watched from the curb.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge...what are you doing?
Ty Mercado staggered to his feet, bruised but wide-eyed.
Ty Mercado: Oh man, he’s winding up something big!
Elsewhere, two figures were watching with several layers of clockwork shades over their eyes.
Tick and Tock: Wow, this is incredible! He's really doing it now!
The Wight of Pendulum roared, tearing free from Clockwork Runner’s grip. It swung its chains, snapping them like whips toward Gauge. Clockwork Runner intercepted, taking the full brunt of the strike across its chest, gears flying loose.
Runner raised its head, optics glowing fiercely, and shoved the Wight back one last time.
Gauge leapt forward, crossing the glowing blades into an X. Time itself seemed to fracture in his wake, gears and clock faces spiraling around him.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Twin Blade Pressure Break!
He swung both swords in a crossing slash, the golden X cleaving through the air. The energy tore into the Wight of Pendulum, shattering its chains, splitting the pendulum weight on its chest, and sending cracks racing through its body.
The Wight staggered, voice breaking into static.
The light exploded, engulfing the Wight in a burst of gears and shattered glass. When the glow faded, only fragments remained, scattering like dust across the warped street.
Gauge landed in a crouch, blades crossed, steam venting from his armor. Clockwork Runner stood beside him, battered but unyielding, as the last echoes of the pendulum’s swing faded into silence.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge! Kamen Rider Gauge! I need to talk to you!
Gauge turned to Aria, and quickly motioned to Clockwork Runner, who transformed back into a bike. He got onto it and looked back at Aria one more time before driving away.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge! Wait! Please wait!
Ty Mercado: Guy looks like he's got place to be, Aria.
Aria Westbrook: Wait...Cole! Cole!
Ty Mercado: Cole?
Aria and Ty ran several blocks down the road to see Cole floating in swimming pool.
Aria Westbrook: Cole! Cole?! Are you alright?!
Cole Beckett: Huh?! What?! Where am I?
Ty Mercado: Looks like you're going for a swim, dude.
Cole Beckett: I guess...I got knocked into this pool?
Aria Westbrook: I thought you were dead!
Cole Beckett: I guess I got lucky?
Aria Westbrook: We'll see if you feel the same when I'm done with you. What were you thinking, attacking that monster?!
Ty Mercado: He did? Wow. Thanks man!
Cole Beckett: What happened?
Aria Westbrook: ...Gauge appeared again.
Cole Beckett: That guy and his timing.
Aria Westbrook: *sigh* Yeah. Tell me about it.
Aria and Ty helped Cole out of the pool, and stood back as he shook off.
Aria Westbrook: Let's get you home. I'll chew you out later.
Ty Mercado: You're going to need some extra energy for that one, pal. Might a suggest an energy smoothie?
Cole Beckett: Heh.
As the three walked away, the Horologue looked on from the darkness.
The Horologue: Westbrook's granddaughter...she's definitely connected. Just what have you done, Paradox Core?
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (9/26/2025 12:57 am)
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Episode 8: The Last Grain of Sand
The streets of Arcadia City were alive with neon and noise, but for Aria Westbrook it all faded into a gray blur. She clutched a folder of papers against her chest, walking with quick, irritated steps past storefronts that spilled holographic advertisements onto the sidewalks. Her mind wasn’t on the present, not really—it was on the blank gaps that had begun spreading through her research.
Aria Westbrook: First the recordings vanish, then the sensor logs are gone… and the university says the files “never existed”? That’s impossible.
She stopped at the curb, waiting for the crosslight, jaw tight. The fountain in the nearby plaza sprayed arcs of water into the air, but even its rhythmic pulse only reminded her of a clock ticking down. She had spent weeks tracing patterns, piecing together data that should have led her closer to the truth about her grandfather. Instead, every time she thought she’d found something, it was as though someone reached back in time and erased the trail before she could follow it.
Aria Westbrook: Grandfather… I’ll keep going, no matter what it takes.
A voice called out, crisp and professional.
Scout: Excuse me—Miss?
Aria blinked, turning. A woman in a sharp gray coat and polished boots stood on the sidewalk, clutching a sleek digital clipboard. Her expression was bright, evaluative, the kind of smile that measured as much as it welcomed.
Scout: You are Aria Westbrook, aren’t you?
Aria Westbrook: …Yes? Who’s asking?
Scout: Samantha Raye. I’m with the Arcadia Modeling Association. We’re scouting candidates for the upcoming Miss Arcadia competition. And I think you’d be perfect.
Aria nearly laughed, the word catching halfway in her throat.
Aria Westbrook: You’ve got to be kidding me. Modeling? I’m not—look, you’ve got the wrong person.
Samantha Raye shook her head quickly, stepping closer with the polished assurance of someone used to convincing skeptical recruits.
Samantha Raye: Not at all. You have the poise, the confidence, and a look that stands out. It isn’t about vanity, Miss Westbrook—it’s about presence. The way you carry yourself, the way you hold people’s attention. You’d be surprised what the judges look for.
Aria Westbrook’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Aria Westbrook: And what exactly would winning a pageant do for me? I’m not… that type of person.
Samantha Raye’s smile sharpened.
Samantha Raye: Fifty thousand dollars. That’s the prize money. Enough to fund… well, whatever your heart is set on.
The words struck home like a dagger. Aria’s breath caught, her fingers tightening on her folder.
Aria Westbrook: Fifty thousand...
Samantha Raye nodded, clearly sensing the shift.
Samantha Raye: You wouldn’t need to commit right away. Just come to the preliminary orientation tomorrow evening. You’ll see other contestants, hear the details. If it isn’t for you, you can walk away. But I have a feeling you won’t.
Aria Westbrook: You don’t even know me.
Samantha Raye: Sometimes a good eye can see potential before the person themself does.
There was silence between them for a long moment, broken only by the rush of traffic and the ticking signal light. Aria Westbrook looked down at her reflection in the glassy surface of her folder—tired eyes, sharp features, her hair a little untamed from the evening wind. She didn’t look like a “model.” She looked like a scientist on the edge of obsession.
But fifty thousand credits…
Aria Westbrook: Grandfather… is this really what I need to do?
Samantha Raye tilted her head, waiting patiently.
Aria Westbrook: I’ll think about it.
Samantha Raye’s smile broadened.
Samantha Raye: That’s all I ask. Here’s my card.
She pressed a sleek holographic card into Aria’s free hand. As quickly as she had appeared, she stepped back into the current of Arcadia’s streetlife and vanished, leaving Aria standing alone beneath the flickering glow of neon lights.
Aria stared at the card for a long time, then tucked it into her folder with a frustrated sigh.
Aria Westbrook: This is insane. Absolutely insane.
Her voice wavered with a nervous laugh, but beneath it was something else—temptation.
At "Back in Time", the tick of gears filled the air. Cole Beckett stood on a stool, fiddling with a finicky cuckoo clock that had refused to chime properly. The air smelled of dust and machine oil. The golden pocket watch at his hip gave a faint, intermittent flicker.
Cole Beckett: You know, if you’re gonna sit there, you could at least tell me why you keep buzzing like an alarm.
Pocket Watch: Monitoring a delivery.
Cole Beckett: A delivery? I didn’t order anything.
Pocket Watch: Correct.
Cole Beckett frowned, tightening a spring inside the cuckoo clock.
Cole Beckett: You’re cryptic for a watch. Maybe all watches are cryptic. I don't know. Normally when I yell at them, they don't talk back.
He didn’t notice the faint shadow that passed outside his shop window—someone slipping a small package into the door’s mail slot.
The bell over the door clacked once and fell quiet. A small, rectangular shape slid across the floor and bumped the leg of a display case before coming to rest against a bin of loose springs. Cole Beckett didn’t notice it right away. He hopped down from the stool and gave the cuckoo clock a test wind. It ticked twice in a stubborn, off-tempo way that made his eye twitch.
Cole Beckett: You’re doing this to spite me.
Pocket Watch: The delivery is here.
Cole Beckett: What?
He finally spotted the package. Plain brown paper, tied with thin twine, corners a little scuffed as if it had traveled a long way without being handled gently by anyone. There was no postage, no stamp, no courier sticker. No return address. Just his shop name stenciled in faded black ink: Back in Time.
Cole Beckett: Huh. It sure is.
He knelt, turning it over in his hands. It weighed more than it looked like it should—dense, with a center of gravity that tugged his palms toward it.
Pocket Watch: Be cautious. But do not delay.
Cole Beckett: If a watch could wring its hands, you’d be doing it.
Pocket Watch: ...
Cole Beckett: No? Not funny? Eh.
He set the package on the counter and fetched a small knife. He slit the twine, peeled the paper back carefully, and found a narrow wooden case within—dark, oil-rubbed, the grain so tight it looked almost metallic. There was an embossed sigil in the lid: a circle with interlocking chevrons, something that might have been mistaken for a stylized sun if not for the tiny numerals burned around its rim.
Cole Beckett: You know this mark?
Pocket Watch: I know the intent.
Cole Beckett: That’s not the same as an answer.
The shop bell jingled again. Aria Westbrook stepped in, wind-tossed hair and a bundle of folders tucked against her ribs. She stopped when she saw him bent over the open case, and then she saw the case. Her brow knit.
Aria Westbrook: Please tell me that’s a new ad display and not another cursed clock to fix.
Cole Beckett: I don't think it's cursed. Probably. Maybe. Jury’s still out.
Aria Westbrook shut the door behind her and leaned back on it for a second. She gave him a tight smile that didn’t make it to her eyes.
Aria Westbrook: I got scouted.
Cole Beckett: For a sports team? I didn't know you played.
Aria Westbrook: Miss Arcadia.
Cole Beckett: The, uh, fashion thing with the crown and the fireworks and the gossip blogs?
Aria Westbrook: That one.
Cole Beckett: And you said no.
Aria Westbrook: I said I would think about it.
Cole Beckett: You’re kidding.
Aria Westbrook: Fifty thousand dollars.
Cole Beckett: ...You’re not kidding.
She set her folders beside the register and pressed both hands to the counter as if bracing for an argument with herself more than with him.
Aria Westbrook: I know how absurd it sounds. I know what it looks like. But I hit another wall today. Missing logs that should exist, recordings that I took myself that are suddenly corrupted. There’s a pattern to the gaps, Cole. It’s like someone is reaching back and cutting holes in my past.
Cole Beckett: ..That’s not a comforting metaphor in this town.
Aria Westbrook: No. It isn’t. So when someone waves prize money in my face, I hear lab time, paid archivists, private access to a university’s deep vault. It’s ridiculous that this is the way, but it’s a way.
Cole Beckett: And you don’t owe anyone an apology for taking a way forward.
Aria Westbrook: Thank you for saying that out loud. Because I didn’t want to be the one to say it first.
She exhaled. The room’s thousand quiet ticks seemed to take a breath with her. Her gaze drifted toward the case.
Aria Westbrook: What did you get?
Cole Beckett: That’s the strange part. I have no idea. I certainly didn't order it.
Aria Westbrook: That’s not ominous at all.
Cole Beckett: The Watch says it was expected.
Aria Westbrook: You...are talking to your watch again.
Cole Beckett: It started it. I’m just being polite.
Aria Westbrook: Right. Of course. I think you hit your head a little too hard the other day.
Cole lifted the lid. The hinges whispered; a whiff of cold machine oil and cedar rose from within. Nestled in black felt lay a gear unlike any he had ever seen: roughly palm-sized. At its center glowed a core, a glassy orb layered with fine lattices of brass like veins in amber. Faint embers pulsed within, rising and falling in a heartbeat rhythm not entirely his.
Aria Westbrook: That..looks expensive.
Cole Beckett: It also looks like it could explode at any second.
Aria Westbrook: Tell me you’re not going to poke it with a screwdriver.
Cole Beckett: ...Well now I'm not. It's a uh...very intricate piece for an old clock. It's one of the most expensive pieces I think I've ever had to work on.
Aria Westbrook: You know what you're doing with it?
He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The core’s glow had called his attention inward, not with a siren’s song but with the steady pull of a furnace on a cold morning. His fingers hovered over the edge of the wood. The embers responded—no, recognized—brightening by a barely perceptible degree.
The bell over the door jangled again with a slap of wind and the bright clatter of two people who were never as light on their feet as they believed.
Tick: Salutations, friends!
Tock: Correction: Friend. Singular. We have not met the fellow female yet.
Tick skidded to the counter and slapped an upside-down pair of goggles onto the glass, peering at the wooden case from a strange angle. Tock shut the door carefully, stepped out of the wind, and removed one perfectly ordinary hat to replace it with one that looked identical in every way.
Tick: Hi, I'm Tick!
Tock: And I'm Tock!
Tick and Tock: Like a clock!
They both moved their hands in sync like the hands on a clock, leaving Aria a little taken aback.
Aria Westbrook: ...Nice to meet you? I'm Aria. I thought Cole was the only one with a clock obsession.
Tick: What’s in the fancy box? Is it cake? It looks like cake. If it’s not cake, can it be cake?
Tock: It is not cake. It is a gear core with nonlocal provenance. Probability of confectionary content: negligible.
Tick: I was being whimsical. You should try it. It’s like math that hugs you.
Tock: The last time I tried whimsy, a kettle exploded.
Cole Beckett: Hey—Aria’s the one with the interesting story today. She just got scouted for Miss Arcadia.
Aria Westbrook: Cole—
Cole Beckett: Come on, tell them. Crowns, dresses, applause, the whole thing.
Tick and Tock gasped and spun toward Aria in absolute sync, completely derailed. They both pointed to her at the same time.
Tick and Tock: No way! You? A pageant queen? That’s amazing!
Tock: Statistically improbable.
Tick: Statistically fabulous!
Cole Beckett exhaled through his nose, tension easing as their attention shifted. He slid the case down beneath the counter with one hand while gesturing casually with the other.
Cole Beckett: See? Much more exciting than me digging through junk.
Aria Westbrook glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t press the point—not now—but she could tell he was deflecting.
Aria Westbrook: Right. Junk.
The Pocket Watch gave a faint hum at his hip, too soft for anyone else to notice.
Pocket Watch: Deflection delays truth. But delay is still time.
Cole Beckett kept smiling, louder than he felt.
Cole Beckett: So. Who’s ready to learn how to clap in sync at a beauty pageant?
Two days later. The Arcadia Grand Hall glittered with chandeliers and glass floors, a place built less for comfort than for spectacle. The ceiling stretched high above the stage, hung with banners that read MISS ARCADIA 20XX in letters so polished they reflected the spotlights. Rows of velvet seats filled with patrons in their best attire curved toward the runway like a cathedral of fashion.
Cole Beckett tugged at the collar of his blazer. It felt like it was choking him. He shifted in his seat for the fourth time in five minutes.
Cole Beckett: Not used to being so dressed up.
Tick, seated beside him with a bucket of popcorn that didn’t belong in this kind of venue, leaned over.
Tick: You look great!
Cole Beckett: Yeah?
Tick: Symmetrical. Upright. But a little wobbly.
Tock, sitting stiffly on Cole’s other side, adjusted her goggles with precise disdain.
Tock: His tie is crooked.
Cole Beckett: Is it?
Tick: It says, business casual or no eye for fashion.
Cole Beckett: That’s exactly what I was going for.
The lights dimmed, and the audience hushed. A booming announcer’s voice filled the hall.
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen of Arcadia, welcome to the annual Miss Arcadia Gala!
The crowd applauded. Tick’s hands clapped furiously, Tock’s exactly twice per second, mechanical in her precision.
Backstage, Aria Westbrook stood among the other contestants. Sequined gowns shimmered, makeup kits clattered, and nervous laughter filled the air. Aria’s own gown was simple by comparison — a deep emerald fabric that caught the light with understated elegance. She felt ridiculous in it, but when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t help but straighten her posture.
Aria Westbrook: Fifty thousand dollars.
A rival contestant, a woman with perfect curls and a sharp smirk, glanced at her.
Contestant: Nervous, bookworm?
Aria Westbrook: Determined.
The woman blinked, thrown off by the sharpness of the reply. Aria turned away, her heartbeat steadying.
Onstage, the announcer called the contestants forward one by one. Cheers rose, polite applause mixing with whistles. Tick and Tock booed a little too loudly at one contestant, drawing stares. Cole Beckett sank into his seat.
Cole Beckett: Uh...you're taking the attention off the stage.
Tock: Her gait was asymmetrical.
Cole Beckett: You’re going to get us thrown out.
The Pocket Watch hummed against his hip, a whisper curling under the applause.
Pocket Watch: Sands are falling. Faster.
Cole Beckett’s jaw tightened.
Cole Beckett: Not here. Not now.
Cole Beckett forced a smile for the people seated around them. He hated how his chest ached at the words, hated how the Gear Core seemed to burn at the back of his thoughts even here, in a room full of civilians.
Then the announcer’s voice rang out.
Announcer: Contestant number twelve… Aria Westbrook!
Cole’s hands clapped, slow at first, then stronger. Tick jumped to her feet, waving a popcorn bucket in the air.
Tick: Woo! That’s our girl!
Tock: Sit down. You are obstructing visibility.
Cole Beckett: You two just met her a couple of days ago.
Aria Westbrook stepped onto the runway. The lights bathed her in gold. She felt her throat tighten — but then she saw Cole and suddenly found the strength to continue.
Cole Beckett’s breath caught in his chest. He had seen her fierce before, stubborn, unyielding in arguments. But this was different.
Cole Beckett: Wow.
Tick: Look at her go.
Tock: 8.5 out of 10.
Cole Beckett: Make it 10.
The crowd cheered. Aria Westbrook walked to the end of the runway, pivoted, and returned without falter. When she rejoined the other contestants, she allowed herself the smallest of smiles.
Backstage, a judge stepped forward with a microphone.
Judge: Contestant number twelve, a question. Why do you deserve to be Miss Arcadia?
Aria Westbrook inhaled, her heart pounding.
Aria Westbrook: I don’t know if I deserve it. But I know that Arcadia deserves people who don’t give up. People who keep moving forward, even when the past is torn away from them. That’s who I want to be. That’s who I am.
The hall fell silent for a breath, then erupted in applause.
Cole Beckett smiled despite the ache in his chest. He clapped harder than before.
Pocket Watch: She speaks about time, and I think it's listening.
Cole Beckett: No, they can't drag her into this again. Not now.
But even as the applause rang out, the chandeliers flickered. A faint stream of golden sand trickled from the ceiling, unnoticed at first. The Pocket Watch burned hot against his hip.
Pocket Watch: They're here.
Cole Beckett looked up. His eyes widened.
The sand thickened, spilling faster, catching in the stage lights. Aria Westbrook froze mid-step, her eyes lifting as the grains poured around her gown.
Tick: That’s not confetti.
Tock: Danger.
Cole Beckett rose to his feet.
Cole Beckett: Aria—
The stage floor cracked. From the depths, skeletal arms clawed upward. The Wight of Hourglass emerged, its chest a glowing glass prison of sands endlessly falling, its mask split between bone and glass.
Wight of Hourglass: Beauty, ambition, strength… all reduced to dust. The last grain falls.
Screams erupted. Contestants scattered. Judges fled. The audience stampeded for the exits. Tick and Tock ducked under the seats, trembling at the chaos.
Aria Westbrook stood rooted, paralyzed by the Wight’s gaze.
Aria Westbrook: It’s after me?
Cole Beckett’s fists clenched.
Cole Beckett: Not while I’m here.
The Wight of Hourglass raised its skeletal arms, and the hourglass embedded in its chest pulsed with crimson-gold light. Sand exploded outward in a choking wave, spilling across the stage and into the audience. Wherever it landed, wood splintered, velvet seats shredded, and glass chandeliers blackened as though aged by centuries in seconds.
Aria Westbrook staggered back, shielding her face from the spray. Her gown shimmered in the spotlight, but the hem already frayed where the grains touched, threads snapping into nothing.
Aria Westbrook: Cole! Cole, where are you?!
The audience stampeded, a panicked blur of screams and shoving bodies. She caught glimpses of familiar shapes — Tick scrambling under a row of chairs, dragging Tock by the sleeve; patrons tripping over their gowns and suits; the judges fleeing for the wings.
Wight of Hourglass: The grain falls. The moment ends. As long as time continues, all beauty decays.
The creature’s clawed hand reached for her, skeletal fingers dripping with golden sand. Aria stumbled backward onto the stage itself, her heels catching in the boards.
Aria Westbrook: No—stay away!
The Wight’s shadow loomed over her, its cracked mask splitting into a smile of dust and glass. Its hand descended.
Then—
A blur of black and bronze dropped from above, steam venting with a hiss. Kamen Rider Gauge landed between Aria Westbrook and the Wight of Hourglass, crossing his arms to block the strike. Sparks burst where claw met armor, and the stage cracked under the impact.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You want her, you go through me.
Aria Westbrook’s breath caught. She stared up at him, the Rider she’d been hunting for answers, standing inches from her, defending her.
The Wight hissed, drawing back its clawed hand as sand poured from its joints.
Wight of Hourglass: Paradox Core.
Gauge rose to his full height, steam curling from his vents.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Sandman. You want to go? Let's go.
With a roar, he charged, driving a punch into the Wight’s glassy torso. The hourglass chest cracked with a hollow boom, sand spilling like a wound. The Wight staggered but swung back, claws raking across Gauge’s shoulder. Sparks flew.
Aria Westbrook stumbled to her feet, eyes darting between the collapsing set and the Rider’s duel.
Aria Westbrook: Cole, where did you go?
Kamen Rider Gauge: Miss, you'd better get out of here while you have the chance!
Gauge shoved forward, breaking the Wight’s grasp, and spun into a side kick. His boot slammed into Hourglass’s torso, cracking the glass chest again. Sand spilled like blood. The Wight staggered back, hissing.
Wight of Hourglass: All glass breaks. All flame cools. All things decay.
The Wight of Hourglass used his own sands to repair the damage to himself, healing him, killing everything else with entropy. Gauge rushed forward, striking with a flurry of punches. Each impact rang like gears grinding, steam bursting from his vents. He hammered Hourglass’s torso, then drove a knee upward into its jaw. The mask cracked further.
Kamen Rider Gauge: If you've got time to kill, then shut up and fight!
He leapt, twisting midair, and delivered a spinning roundhouse kick. The Wight reeled across the stage, crashing into the judges’ table, which collapsed into dust beneath its weight.
But the creature rose again, claws outstretched. Sand poured from its chest, spreading like rivers across the stage. Wherever the grains touched, the floor warped and splintered. The catwalk crumbled, the curtain shriveled into ash.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge—behind you!
Gauge turned too late. A wave of sand struck him in the back, hurling him across the stage. He crashed into a speaker tower, which rotted instantly and collapsed over him. He rolled aside just before it crushed him.
The Wight advanced, grains swirling around its legs like a storm.
Wight of Hourglass: You cannot fight time, unless you become time. Every second is a sand in the hourglass, and I have all of them.
Gauge braced himself, vents hissing.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Then I’ll take them one at a time!
He lunged, meeting the Wight mid-stage. The two clashed in a furious exchange, claws against gauntlets, sand against steel. Gauge struck with elbows, knees, and rapid punches, forcing the Wight back step by step.
But every time he landed a blow, the Wight’s body dissolved into sand, reforming behind him. Its claws raked across his armor, sparks flying. Gauge staggered, clutching his side.
Aria Westbrook gasped from the wings, her hands over her mouth.
Aria Westbrook: He can’t keep up.
The Wight spread its arms, and torrents of sand poured forth, swallowing the stage. Gauge was caught in the wave, dragged down into the grains. He struggled, kicking and thrashing, but every movement sank him deeper.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Damn it—!
The sand hissed, eating away at his armor. Plates corroded, vents clogged, gears ground to a halt. The weight was suffocating. He fell to one knee, half-buried.
Wight of Hourglass: Borrowed time runs out. All things return to dust.
Aria Westbrook: No!
She tried to run forward, but fear kept her back. What could she do? She could only watch as Gauge was consumed.
Gauge slammed his fists into the grains, sparks bursting, but the tide was endless. He was dragged lower, chestplate cracking, the sands pouring into his vents.
The Pocket Watch at his side pulsed violently.
Pocket Watch: The Ignition Core! Use it, or perish!
Gauge’s eyes widened behind the helmet. His mind flashed to the package in his shop, the ember glow in his palm, the weight of the gear core.
Kamen Rider Gauge: I don’t have a choice.
He forced his arm free and slammed his hand against the Chrono Engine Driver.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Chrono Engine—Ignition!
The new core appeared in a blaze of golden fire, slotting into his chest. Gears screamed, spinning at impossible speed. Flames erupted, consuming the sand.
Gauge’s armor split, molten light pouring from the cracks. Crimson plating enveloped him, trimmed with molten gold. His vents roared fire, the furnace dial on his chest blazing. His eyes glowed ember-orange, wisps of flame rising from them like smoke.
Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge rose from the sandstorm, fire licking across his body.
Aria Westbrook shielded her eyes, stunned.
Aria Westbrook: He...changed...again.
The Wight of Hourglass spread its arms, torrents of golden grains pouring across the ruined stage. The sands rushed forward like a tidal wave, devouring everything in their path.
But now, Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge stood in the center of the chaos, flames bursting from his vents, his furnace chest blazing like a sun. He clenched his fists, molten light dripping from the seams of his gauntlets.
Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge: Enough running. Let’s turn up the heat!
The sand struck him head-on, but instead of burying him, it hissed and blackened. Flames erupted around his body, the wave turning to molten glass that cracked and shattered under the pressure. Ignition Gauge roared, punching forward.
His fist connected with the Wight’s mask, flames exploding on impact. The creature reeled backward, clutching its face as cracks spread across its hourglass chest.
Ignition Gauge pressed the assault. Punches rained like pistons — left hook, right cross, a driving elbow, then a knee to the ribs. Every strike released bursts of fire, each one burning more sand into brittle glass that shattered in sparks.
Aria Westbrook watched from the wings, trembling but unable to look away.
Aria Westbrook: He’s doing it!
The Wight slashed at him, claws scattering more sand into the air. Gauge ducked, spun, and drove a kick into its torso. Flames surged along his leg, searing the grains mid-air into glowing fragments of glass that clattered to the stage.
The Wight staggered, hissing.
Wight of Hourglass: Infinite...sand...cannot...
Ignition Gauge cut it off with a rising uppercut, flames bursting skyward. The Wight was launched backward, crashing through the remains of the runway. Sand poured from its chest in a failing torrent, much of it already vitrifying into useless shards.
Ignition Gauge spread his arms, furnace chest glowing hotter. The blazing heat shimmered across the hall, igniting the broken stage lights until they popped one by one.
Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge: You said all things turn to dust. How about glass!
He sprinted forward, flames trailing behind him in arcs of fire. With a leap, he twisted his body, vents roaring as his right leg ignited fully. A burning clock face formed behind him, its hands spinning wildly as fire consumed the numerals.
Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge: Pressure Inferno Break!
His flaming kick connected square with the Wight’s chest. The heat was so intense the hourglass body flash-melted, the infinite sands vitrifying into a solid mass of glass. For one frozen second, the Wight’s body gleamed like a brittle statue.
Then it shattered.
Glass exploded outward in shards and sparks, scattering across the ruined hall. The Wight’s scream echoed and dissolved into the hiss of cooling embers. Nothing remained but smoking fragments that cracked and fell silent.
Ignition Gauge landed in a crouch, steam and fire venting from his armor. His fist clenched tight, flames still licking along his gauntlets as he rose slowly to his feet.
Aria Westbrook stepped forward from the wings, eyes wide, heart racing.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge! Who are you?
The Rider turned his head toward her, fire reflecting in his ember-orange eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might answer. But he only vented steam, turned, and walked away through the smoldering wreckage.
The last of the molten glass cracked behind him, shattering into silence.
Later, outside of the hall, Cole found Aria sitting on the steps, while emergency crews helped anyone hurt in the stampede.
Cole Beckett: There you are! I've been looking for you.
Aria Westbrook: Looking for me? I was looking for you. When it happened. You disappeared.
Cole Beckett: I got forced out with the crowd. I was so worried. I thought it looked like you got off stage.
Aria Westbrook: You know, back when you worked for my Grandfather, you were always so protective of me. The other scientists that were working on his grand project, they didn't much care for me helping. They didn't seem like they wanted me around. You stood up for me.
Cole Beckett: Too be fair, they didn't want me around either. I was about to do things they hadn't thought off.
Aria Westbrook: But you protected me. Sometimes...I still see that spark, but when Ty was in trouble, you ran at the monster. When I'm in trouble, I don't see you anywhere. I don't understand. Why do you keep a distance from me? Why do you seem like you're so afraid to be close to me? Even now, I'm shaking, and you won't hold my hand.
Cole hesistated, but eventually reached out to touch her hand.
Cole Beckett: When that lab accident happened, everything changed, and to this day, I'm still processing what that truly means. I don't mean to make you feel alone. I just can't...I can't. I'm sorry, Aria.
Cole got up and walked away. He went around a corner and began to hyperventilate.
Pocket Watch: You'll have to tell her, eventually.
Cole Beckett: You know?
Pocket Watch: I know.
Cole Beckett: Of course you do.
Pocket Watch: I know a lot of things. I can't tell you all at once, but a time is coming soon, where you'll know everything I know. Until then-
Cole Beckett: Until then...I'll keep taking out the Chrono Clutch, one after the other.
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (9/26/2025 2:20 am)
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Thread Starter- Machismo
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Episode 9: Mark the date! Day of fate!
The bell above "Back in Time" jingled, and Ty Mercado ducked in with his usual grin and tropical shirt that looked wildly out of place against the dusty shelves and muted tick of a hundred clocks. He carried a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like fried noodles and dumplings.
Ty Mercado: Man, this place is quieter than a graveyard with a curfew. Cole, you alive in here?
From behind the counter, Cole Beckett emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. His blazer was off, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the usual smirk he wore when Ty showed up was nowhere to be found.
Cole Beckett: Barely.
Ty Mercado: Barely? Dude, you look like you haven’t slept in a week. What’s going on with you?
Cole Beckett: Every couple of hours, one of these clocks goes off. Trying to figure out which one.
Ty Mercado dropped the bag on the counter and leaned against it, folding his arms.
Ty Mercado: Nice deflection, Beckett. But I’m not here to talk about you. I’m here to talk about Aria.
Cole stiffened just slightly, which was all Ty needed to confirm he’d hit the target.
Ty Mercado: She’s been distant, man. Like...really distant. I tried checking in, but she shuts me out with that “I’m busy” routine.
Cole Beckett: I know why.
Ty Mercado raised an eyebrow.
Ty Mercado: Yeah? And what are you doing about it?
Cole Beckett: Keeping my distance, too.
Ty Mercado: Oh, that’s genius. “She’s distant, so I’ll be distant.” That’s like curing a house fire by spraying it with more gasoline.
Cole Beckett: You don’t get it, Ty. Since the accident—
He cut himself off, shaking his head, jaw tightening.
Cole Beckett: Forget it.
Ty Mercado: No, don’t “forget it.” Look, I know you like to act like Mr. Stoic Clock Man, but Aria’s out there breaking herself trying to figure out what happened to her grandfather. And you? You’re hiding in here with your clocks.
Cole Beckett: You really missed your calling as a motivational speaker.
Ty Mercado: Yeah, well, this motivational speaker is telling you to get off your butt. She’s working in some makeshift lab near the wreckage of the Institute. Go see her.
Cole hesitated, staring at the rows of clocks, each tick like a heartbeat dragging him backward. Finally, he exhaled.
Cole Beckett: ...Fine. Thanks Ty, I could use the kick in the butt.
Ty Mercado: That's what I'm here for, buddy!
Cole Beckett: By the way, what's with the food? That for me?
Ty Mercado: Absolutely not. This is all mine!
Cole Beckett: Thought so.
Ty Mercado: Smells good right?
The old Westbrook Institute was a scar on Arcadia City, its gutted frame fenced off and left to rust. Just down the block, in the hollow of an abandoned office building, lights flickered from a second-story window. Inside, Aria Westbrook hunched over a mess of laptops and jury-rigged equipment. The hum of generators mixed with the static crackle of a phone on speaker.
Aria Westbrook: Yes, I’ve already sent three requests. I just need someone from Geist Corporation who can confirm— No, don’t transfer me again, I’ve been on hold for two hours—
The line clicked dead. Aria slammed the phone onto the desk, her shoulders trembling.
Aria Westbrook: Stonewalled. Again.
She buried her face in her hands.
The door creaked open.
Cole Beckett: You’re gonna break the phone if you keep slamming it like that.
Aria jerked her head up, startled, then scowled when she saw him.
Aria Westbrook: What are you doing here?
Cole Beckett stepped inside, hands in his pockets.
Cole Beckett: Ty thought I should check on you. He’s loud when he nags.
Aria Westbrook: He’s right.
Cole winced but pressed on, stepping closer.
Cole Beckett: Aria...I’m sorry. I know I’ve been distant.
She looked away, lips pressed thin.
Aria Westbrook: You have.
Cole Beckett: I just...don’t know how to handle things since the accident.
That word — accident — hung between them like a cracked bell. Aria’s eyes softened, but only slightly.
Aria Westbrook: None of us know how to handle it. But running away from it doesn’t help.
Cole rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze.
Cole Beckett: The only thing that keeps me sane is sticking to my mission.
Aria Westbrook: Your mission?
His chest tightened. For a second, the words hovered at the tip of his tongue: Kamen Rider Gauge. But instead he smirked, gesturing around him.
Cole Beckett: Tending the store. Keeping the clocks ticking. Somebody has to.
Aria Westbrook’s glare eased, the hard lines of her expression softening into something closer to weariness. She leaned back against her desk, arms folded, but her voice was quieter now.
Aria Westbrook: You’re impossible, Cole. You hide in that shop of yours, crack bad jokes, and make me want to throw a clock at your head half the time.
Cole Beckett: Only half? I’m improving.
That earned the smallest laugh, and for the first time in days the weight between them shifted. Aria shook her head, letting out a breath she’d been holding.
Aria Westbrook: But... I’m glad you came. Really. Even if you don’t have answers.
Cole Beckett’s smirk faltered into something gentler. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, avoiding her eyes.
Cole Beckett: Yeah. I’m glad too.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, not entirely. Just fragile. Like they’d stepped out of the storm for a moment.
Then the air changed.
A sharp smell, like ozone mixed with old paper, crept into the room. Cole frowned, glancing around. The hum of the generators grew distant, muffled, and the flickering lightbulbs steadied into a clean, bright glow. They suddenly found themselves in a much cleaner, newer looking building, but still empty. It was the building down the road, the one that suddenly lit up that caught their attention.
Aria Westbrook: No. This...this isn’t real.
Cole Beckett turned in a slow circle, heart hammering. He locked onto the building through the window.
Cole Beckett: The Institute.
The Westbrook Institute, whole again, as it had been before the accident.
Aria staggered forward, clutching the edge of a desk that wasn’t hers.
Aria Westbrook: It looks exactly like—like the day before it all happened.
The duo ran out of the bulding confused and made their way to the Institute. The building seemed alive with the faint echo of footsteps, voices murmuring from rooms that should have been sealed in rubble. A young researcher laughed faintly somewhere down the corridor. The hum of an experiment chamber filled the air, like a heartbeat under glass.
Cole Beckett’s throat tightened. He could see shadows through the glass: lab coats, machines, and in the distance—
Cole Beckett: ...Avery.
Aria snapped her head toward him.
Aria Westbrook: My grandfather? You see him?
Cole Beckett swallowed, his fists clenching.
Cole Beckett: This isn’t real. It can’t be.
The fluorescent lights flickered, and from the ceiling, parchment-thin fragments drifted down like ash. They weren’t ash, though—they were calendar pages, numbers scrawled across them in bold ink. Each one landed with a dry rustle, covering the floor.
A female voice slithered through the hall, distorted and echoing, as if torn from every day at once.
Wight of Dates: The accident. The day time broke. You will live it again. And again. And again. Until we find our answers.
Cole Beckett: What?
Cole turned around to see the hall empty, but he and Aria suddenly heard arguring in the other room.
Through the glass, Avery Westbrook stood with another man — tall, sharp-featured, spectacles glinting under the light. His lab coat swayed as he gestured furiously, his voice booming. His name badge read Zeitbrecher.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: You’re wasting it, Avery! Do you not see what we’ve built? Geist isn't going to actually test the limits of this technology!
Avery Westbrook: Enough! I will not stand by while you twist this research into a machine for conquest. This project was meant to help humanity, and further the reach of our exploration.
Zeitbrecher’s lips curled into a cold smile.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: If the Chrono Engine can protect us from reaching into the core and actually touching time itself, why not embrace it fully? Why crawl, when we could sprint past all known science!
Avery Westbrook: Because the moment we stop seeing people as lives and start seeing them as experiments is the moment we lose our souls.
The two men locked eyes. Neither yielded.
Cole’s stomach twisted. He had known Avery to be stubborn, but the intensity of this fight — the clarity of his conviction — was something else.
Cole Beckett: He was fighting for it, even then. I had no idea Zeitbrecher was that inclined to rip the experiment away from its original intent.
Cole watched as Zeitbrecher walked over to another group of consulting scientists, who were helping with the project. They all seemed to share his interest in pushing the limits of the experiment.
Aria’s eyes never left her grandfather.
The scene rippled. Zeitbrecher faded into the distance, his figure dissolving into parchment scraps. Avery Westbrook now sat at his desk, calmer, his features softened by the lamplight.
The door creaked open, and a younger Aria Westbrook entered. She was barely older than a teenager, her hair tied back, her expression nervous but determined.
Aria's heart stopped as she realized what she was seeing.
Younger Aria Westbrook: Grandfather...I need to ask you something.
Avery looked up, his stern expression melting into warmth.
Avery Westbrook: What is it, little star?
The younger Aria hesitated, twisting her hands together.
Younger Aria Westbrook: It’s about Cole. Cole Beckett. We’ve been spending more time together. He makes me feel...seen. Safe. And... I was wondering if you’d... if you’d give me your blessing to start dating him.
Cole staggered back, breath catching in his throat.
The older Aria beside him covered her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
Avery’s expression softened further. He reached across the desk, taking his granddaughter’s hand.
Avery Westbrook: Aria...you’ve always had a brilliant mind. And Cole — he’s rough around the edges, but his heart is good. If he’s the one who brings you happiness, then you have my blessing.
The younger Aria blushed, smiling with relief.
Younger Aria Westbrook: Thank you, Grandfather.
The scene froze there, suspended in golden light. The Wight of Dates’ voice slithered around them, mocking and cruel.
Wight of Dates: A blessing...before ruin. Young love? I experienced love once. I had that taken from me...by you. Now, I'll return the favor.
Aria Westbrook’s breath trembled as she stepped forward. Her younger self and her grandfather froze in mid-conversation, bathed in the sterile glow of the Institute lights. She reached out, voice cracking.
Aria Westbrook: Grandfather! Please, can you hear me? It’s me—Aria. I’m here.
Her hand passed right through his shoulder. Avery Westbrook did not stir, did not turn. The scene continued like a play she could only watch.
Aria Westbrook: Please, answer me!
The air rippled, and parchment pages swirled around her.
Wight of Dates: Foolish child. This is but a memory. A scrap of parchment in the endless book of time. This isn't a past that you can alter.
Cole Beckett’s fists clenched. He stepped forward, standing between Aria and the Wight.
Cole Beckett: Then what’s the point of dragging us here? To torment her?
The Wight tilted its head, fragments of calendar pages tearing free and fluttering to the ground.
Wight of Dates: To remind you of what you cannot change. And...to seek what can be changed.
The Wight’s voice dropped to a hiss, echoing through the halls like the turning of endless calendar pages.
Wight of Dates: We search for a moment. A pivotal fracture. One you both lived through...but only one of you remembers.
Cole Beckett’s heart lurched. His breath caught in his throat.
Cole Beckett: ...No.
Aria turned toward him, confusion flashing across her face.
Aria Westbrook: Cole? What does that mean?
The Wight raised a hand, parchment peeling from its claws.
Wight of Dates: She can't join us for this. I'm curious as to why.
The wheel of dates behind the Wight spun violently, pages tearing free and wrapping around Aria like chains. She cried out, reaching toward Cole as the world around her distorted.
Aria Westbrook: Cole—!
Her form shattered into fragments of parchment and light, scattering into the wheel.
Cole lunged forward, hands outstretched.
Cole Beckett: ARIA!
But she was gone. The younger Aria and Avery dissolved into ash, the Institute walls tearing away into a storm of burning calendar pages. Cole was left alone, face to face with the looming Wight of Dates, its parchment robes fluttering like wings.
Wight of Dates: One memory. One truth. You are the Paradox Core. I know you. I remember you. Show me... the day you broke time.
Cole’s fists trembled at his sides, rage boiling beneath his skin. The Pocket Watch at his hip thrummed, whispering urgently.
Pocket Watch: Steel yourself, Cole Beckett. To face her… you must face your own sin.
The scenes began to play in fast forward, the events of the day that Cole had been present for.
Wight of Dates: The Wight of Rewind...my lover...you killed him. He was looking into the past for answers. I need only seek your memories. Avery Westbrook discovered how to manipulate gravity at such high level that it punctured into the dimension where time exists. You....you were the candidate.
They reached the moment of the experiment going wrong. The overload on the system. Several of the scientists tried to run from the impending explosion, but a group of them seemed to be converging on the anamoly. An explosion occured and seemed to engulf many people, including one in particular that caught the Wight's eyes.
Wight of Dates: Wait. WAIT! That's it! That's the moment! You!
Cole Beckett: Enough diving into my memories! Time to make you one. Calibrate. Lock. Ignite! RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
The illusion of the Westbrook Institute dissolved into a storm of parchment and broken glass. Cole Beckett stood alone, fists clenched, staring up at the towering Wight of Dates. Its wheel of calendar pages spun behind it, casting shifting shadows across the ruined ground.
Wight of Dates: You cannot escape.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You want me? You’ve got me.
The Wight of Dates spread her claws. Calendar pages shot forward like razors, slicing the air. Gauge ducked under the first wave, rolling across the ground. Sparks burst as a second volley shredded the floor where he had just been.
Gauge surged forward, fists flying. He hammered a punch into the Wight’s chest, then a knee into her side. Dates hissed, parchment robes tearing. But the wheel behind her spun—and suddenly the world flickered.
Gauge’s arm froze mid-punch. Around him, the world warped into another memory: the lab, alarms blaring, red lights flashing. His body moved without him, replaying the motions he remembered from that day.
The Wight’s claws raked across his armor. Sparks burst, metal groaned. Gauge staggered back, vents hissing under strain.
He clenched his fist.
He twisted the Driver, gears locking into place.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Driver—open the valve.
Steam vented violently, his armor reforging with heavy plating, pressure gauges hissing on his shoulders. Bronze deepened to gunmetal, pipes glowing along his arms.
Valve Gauge stood tall, fists braced like pistons.
Kamen Rider Valve Gauge: Let’s turn this up!
He charged, pistons firing. His fists slammed into the Wight’s torso with explosive bursts of compressed steam. Each blow forced it backward, parchment tearing, the wheel flickering behind it.
But Dates countered, swinging its claws. Pages erupted around Gauge, wrapping his limbs, pulling him back into illusions. He staggered as the lab reappeared—this time, he saw himself falling into the Chrono Engine’s light.
Kamen Rider Valve Gauge: Not again!
He roared, bursting free, steam detonating from his body. The parchment pages turned to ash, scattering. Gauge drove a piston punch into the Wight’s mask, shattering a crack across it.
The Wight shrieked, its voice splitting like tearing paper.
Wight of Dates: You will pay for what you've done to the Chrono Clutch! This is for the Thirteen Hands!
The wheel spun faster, hundreds of dates flipping by. A storm of pages engulfed the battlefield, wrapping around Gauge’s armor, dragging him into memory after memory. He saw Aria’s face. He saw Avery’s hand vanish. He saw the light of the Driver he had pulled.
He fell to his knees, overwhelmed.
Pocket Watch: Cole Beckett! If steam is not enough… then ignite it!
Gauge’s fist trembled. He forced himself to his feet, vents hissing violently.
Kamen Rider Valve Gauge: Fine. You want to see fire? Then burn with me!
He ripped the Ignition Core from his belt, slamming it into his chest piece.
Kamen Rider Valve Gauge: Chrono Engine—Ignition!
Flames erupted, bursting the parchment storm into ash. The armor split and reforged, bronze replaced with blazing crimson and molten gold. His chest furnace flared, vents spewing fire instead of steam.
Ignition Gauge roared, ember-orange eyes burning.
He launched forward, fists ablaze. Each punch exploded with fire, incinerating parchment pages mid-air. His kicks melted sand into glass, his blows shattering them into shards. The Wight staggered as its wheel burned, pages curling and tearing away.
Ignition Gauge spun, vent flames igniting his leg. A fiery clock face burned into existence behind him, gears screaming.
Kamen Rider Ignition Gauge: Pressure Inferno Break!
He leapt, flames trailing. His right leg ignited fully, kicking forward like a meteor. The Rider Kick slammed into the Wight’s chest, fire consuming its wheel of dates.
The creature shrieked, parchment bursting into flame, mask cracking apart.
Wight of Dates: One day...remains...
The body shattered into burning fragments, scattering like ash in the wind.
Ignition Gauge landed in a crouch, flames hissing off his armor. He rose slowly, fists clenched, steam and fire venting in tandem. The world around him returned to normal. He found himself on a random street. He quickly powered down.
Cole Beckett: Aria? Aria!
Cole ran to look for Aria, but she had already made her way back to the Back in Time clock shop, hoping to find Cole there.
Aria Westbrook: Cole? Cole, please be here. They couldn't have taken you from me! Not you too! Please no! Plea-
Suddenly, the door opened behind her. Aria was hoping to see Cole in the doorway, but her possible relief turned to shock, when she turned around to see someone she hadn't seen in a long time.
Aria Westbrook: No. It can't be....Dr. Zeitbrecher!?
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Hello Aria.
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (9/27/2025 3:25 am)
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Thread Starter- Machismo
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Re: Kamen Rider Gauge
Episode 10: Perpetual Darkness in Motion
The Back in Time Clock Shop was unusually quiet. The steady chorus of ticking filled the air like a hundred small voices whispering secrets in unison. Brass gears gleamed in the warm lamplight, and the faint scent of oil and polish hung in the air. Aria Westbrook stood frozen in shock.
A man was standing in the doorway, looking over one of the longcase clocks with an expression halfway between nostalgia and scrutiny. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere.
Aria Westbrook: No. It can't be....Dr. Zeitbrecher!?
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Hello Aria.
Aria's voice rose, wavering between disbelief and shock.
Aria Westbrook: You-you can't be here. You died. Everyone said you...you were killed in the accident.
The man turned slowly, as if savoring the weight of her words. His smile was measured, deliberate.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Killed? No, my dear. Not killed. I was broken, yes. Cast out in the explosion like a leaf in a storm, crushed under the Institute's bones. But I awoke...barely alive, in a hospital on the outskirts of the city. Days blurred into months. Pain was my constant companion. But death? No. Death refused me.
He took a careful step closer, his polished shoes tapping softly against the shop's wood floor.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: And then, as my strength returned, I began to hear whispers. That you survived. That Beckett survived. It seemed...improbable. Yet here you are, untouched.
Aria staggered back a step, pressing against a shelf for support.
Aria Westbrook: I...I don't even remember how I made it out. It's all fragments. A fire, the screaming, the pressure, then nothing. And suddenly I was outside.
Dr. Zeitbrecher tilted his head, studying her like an experiment.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Curious. Your mind shields you. Perhaps out of mercy...or perhaps out of design.
Aria shook her head, trying to steady her breathing.
Aria Westbrook: Why are you here, now? After all this time?
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Because the past always demands its due.
Before Aria could respond, the bell over the door jingled again.
Cole Beckett: Aria!
He stepped inside quickly, scanning the room until his eyes locked on her. Relief flooded his face, tension loosening from his shoulders.
Cole Beckett: Thank God, you're alright.
Aria turned to him, her own relief breaking through her shock.
Aria Westbrook: Cole! I was so worried!
Her words faltered as Cole's gaze shifted, landing on the other man. His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The warmth vanished. His eyes narrowed, his jaw set.
Cole Beckett: You?
Dr. Zeitbrecher turned to face him, his smile sharpening into something more deliberate.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Beckett. You've grown since the Institute. Still wearing that same fire in your eyes, though.
Cole's hands curled into fists at his sides.
Cole Beckett: I remember that fire being the very thing you dismissed. You always thought I was beneath you. Just a kid tagging along on Avery's dream.
Dr. Zeitbrecher adjusted his glasses, acknowledging the words with a slow nod.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Perhaps I did. I underestimated you, Beckett. For that, I offer an apology.
Cole scoffed under his breath.
Cole Beckett: An apology. Never thought I'd get that. Never thought I'd see you again.
Aria stepped between them quickly, her voice sharp.
Aria Westbrook: This isn't the time for old grudges. We should be asking how how any of this is possible.
Dr. Zeitbrecher softened, his tone gentler as he turned back to her.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Your grandfather and I clashed. Often. He sought to apply our work toward humanity's well-being. I was less restrained in my curiosity. It cost me his trust. And perhaps yours by extension.
Aria's expression tightened at the mention of her grandfather.
Aria Westbrook: He believed in you, once.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: And I failed that belief. Which is why I wish...to make amends.
He reached into his coat, retrieving a card with elegant lettering, and set it gently on the counter.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Dinner. Allow me to treat you, Aria. To honor your grandfather's memory and to show you that I am not the man I once was. I'm a new man.
Cole stiffened, his voice dripping with disdain.
Cole Beckett: You think dinner is going to erase what happened?
Dr. Zeitbrecher looked at him calmly.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: It's just dinner.
He placed his hand on the card, sliding it toward Aria, his eyes meeting hers.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: I'll be in touch.
With that, he adjusted his coat and walked to the door, the bell chiming softly as it closed behind him. The ticking of the clocks filled the silence once more.
Aria stared at the card, her hands trembling slightly.
Aria Westbrook: Cole, what happened to you? How did you get away?
Cole Beckett: Gauge showed up. When he got into the fight the Wight's attention shifted and I found myself free'd, so I ran here hoping to find you.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge. I know he knows something. I saw something, in those flashbacks. The Chrono Engine. Gauge uses the Chrono Engine. That's what he wears around his waist. I know for sure that he knows what happened.
Cole Beckett: ...I see.
Aria Westbrook: But Zeitbrecher, can you believe it?!
Cole Beckett: How is he here?
Aria Westbrook: I don't know, but he made a good point. How are WE here? Why don't I remember?
Cole Beckett: ...You were in shock.
Aria Westbrook: In shock. Right.
The next morning, the Back in Time Clock Shop was back to its usual rhythm. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting golden reflections off polished brass and glass domes. Cole Beckett sat behind the counter, carefully oiling the gears of a mantle clock, trying to lose himself in the familiar precision of cogs and ticks.
The bell over the door jingled.
Tick: Special delivery!
Tock: Unscheduled delivery.
Cole looked up just in time to see Tick stagger in, dramatically struggling with a package wrapped in brown paper and stamped with a bold insignia. Tock followed behind, arms crossed, looking intrigued.
Cole's eyes flicked to the logo on the package. Geist Corporation.
Cole Beckett: ...Oh, no.
Tick thumped the package onto his desk with a flourish.
Tick: It's me, Tick!
Tock: And Tock!
Tick and Tock: Like a clock!
Tick: For you, sir! Straight from the fine folks at one of the biggest, scariest corporations in the whole wide world!
Tock adjusted her goggles, her tone flat.
Tock: Which begs the question: why is a humble clockmonger receiving correspondence from one of the largest conglomerates on Earth?
Tick leaned over the counter, eyes wide with mock suspicion.
Tick: Oh my cog, what secrets are you hiding, Mister Beckett? Are you actually a corporate spy? A secret agent? An evil mastermind?
Cole chuckled dryly, sliding the package a little closer to himself.
Cole Beckett: Nope. I- wait Clockmonger?! I'm just a guy who fixes clocks. Maybe Maggie Faust has an antique that needs my expertise?
Cole stood, lifting the box carefully.
Cole Beckett: Look, it's honestly probably a mix-up. Someone shipped it wrong. You two don't have to worry about it.
Tick: Don't have to worry about it? When a giant megacorp sends a package to this address? Oh no no no, that's very interesting.
Tock: She's not wrong.
Cole smirked, forcing a casual shrug as he set the package down behind the counter, out of sight.
Cole Beckett: This place isn't that very interesting. Just a quiet little clock shop.
Tick narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion, but her grin betrayed her amusement.
Tick: Hmmm. You're hiding something.
Cole Beckett: I'm hiding the fact that I let you in here unsupervised.
Tick stuck her tongue out, while Tock adjusted her goggles again. They both stood side by side and pointed at Cole.
Tick and Tock: Regardless, if the box contains a temporal destabilizer or death ray, please dispose of it properly.
Cole chuckled, though his eyes lingered a little too long on the Geist logo.
Cole Beckett: Yeah. Properly.
Tick and Tock eventually left, still debating whether the package contained clocks or a time bomb. Once the door’s bell stopped jingling and the echo of their chatter faded, the shop fell into its usual serene rhythm — the sound of ticking clocks echoing like a heartbeat.
Cole Beckett waited a moment longer before locking the front door. He exhaled slowly, pulling the package back onto the counter. His fingers lingered on the Geist Corporation seal — the stylized spiral-G insignia embossed into the paper.
Cole Beckett: Geist Corporation, huh? I should’ve known you’d find a way to help me.
He reached into his coat, pulling out the Pocket Watch. The little device flickered to life, its second hand spinning faster than it should.
Pocket Watch: This package required external assistance. The Geist Division of Soul Engineering and Dream Mechanics handled fabrication and transport through non-standard channels.
Cole raised an eyebrow.
Cole Beckett: Meaning?
Pocket Watch: It was difficult.
Cole smirked faintly.
Cole Beckett: Figures. I don't even know how a Pocket Watch is capable of making these things happen.
He set the watch beside the box and carefully tore open the seal. The brown wrapping came away with a faint hiss of static, revealing a sleek black case lined with reinforced alloy.
Cole pressed his thumb against the biometric latch. The lock clicked open with a low hum.
Inside lay the Voltage Core.
A sphere of shimmering cobalt energy pulsed faintly in the center of a compact, gear-shaped housing. Electric arcs leapt across its surface, illuminating the counter with flickers of white-blue light. The rhythmic hum of stored power resonated faintly through the air — alive, waiting.
Cole’s expression softened, awe mixing with exhaustion.
Cole Beckett: Wow. That looks awesome.
He lifted the core gently from its cradle. For a moment, the light flared in response to his touch, sparks dancing between his fingertips.
Cole Beckett: Thank you, Blake. Johnathan. You too, Nacht.
Pocket Watch: Recognition logged. The Voltage Core was designed to synchronize with the Chrono Engine Driver’s upper conduits. Handle with caution.
Cole rolled the device in his palm, watching the lightning arc between the grooves like liquid power.
Cole Beckett: Caution’s never really been my thing.
Pocket Watch: I’ve noticed.
He chuckled quietly, setting the Voltage Core down as he reached for the Driver on the shelf behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the two devices side by side — time and energy, past and present.
Cole Beckett: A gift from the ones still fighting. Guess that means I don’t get to stop.
The Pocket Watch’s gears ticked softly in agreement.
Outside, sunlight flickered oddly — the shadow of a passing cloud, or perhaps something more unnatural. The bright glow of noon shifted just slightly darker, like the sun itself had blinked.
The restaurant was a quiet relic of Arcadia’s old world — high ceilings, soft jazz, tables lit by small hanging lanterns that glowed with warm amber light. Aria Westbrook sat by the window, watching as the last traces of daylight slipped beyond the skyline. It seemed earlier that it should. For once, she wasn’t surrounded by computer screens or old lab notes — just a glass of wine, a folded napkin, and a racing mind.
Across from her sat Dr. Zeitbrecher, still sharply dressed, though his hands trembled slightly when he lifted his glass. The faint scar along his jaw caught the light as he smiled — the kind of polite, measured smile of someone who’d practiced it too many times.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: I wasn’t sure you’d come.
Aria Westbrook: I wasn’t sure either.
They shared a faint, awkward laugh.
Dr. Zeitbrecher set his glass down and leaned forward slightly.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: I suppose I owe you an apology, first and foremost. For the way I spoke to your grandfather… and to you. I was driven. Arrogant. I saw the Chrono Engine as a chance to outpace the natural order — to break barriers that had no right to be broken. I see that now.
Aria’s gaze softened slightly.
Aria Westbrook: You’re not the only one who’s blamed yourself for that day.
Zeitbrecher’s hand tightened around his glass.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Avery was a visionary. He saw something in that project that none of us did — something pure. I mocked him for it. I thought compassion was weakness.
He looked out the window for a long moment, the city lights flickering like fireflies beyond the glass.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: But after the explosion, after the pain… I began to see that what we created wasn’t just an experiment. It was a door. A door to something— something that should never have been opened.
Aria’s fingers brushed her necklace, the one that still held a fragment of the Institute’s insignia.
Aria Westbrook: That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. What really happened that day.
Zeitbrecher nodded, his tone shifting from sorrow to quiet intensity.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Which is why I’ve returned. I need answers too. But more than that — I need to find him.
Aria looked up.
Aria Westbrook: Him?
Dr. Zeitbrecher: The hero they call Kamen Rider Gauge.
Aria’s pulse quickened. She tried to steady her voice.
Aria Westbrook: Kamen Rider Gauge? You believe he has answers too?
Zeitbrecher’s expression hardened with conviction.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: I don’t just believe it. I’ve seen the reports. Battle data. Temporal signatures that match the Chrono Engine’s design. He’s using Westbrook technology — your grandfather’s legacy. Whoever he is, he’s the key to understanding how the Chrono Clutch can be stopped.
He paused, lowering his voice, a glint in his eyes.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: I want to find him...and help him.
The moment hung in the air — fragile, tense. Then the light from the lantern above them flickered. Once. Twice.
Aria frowned.
Aria Westbrook: ...Power outage?
Outside the window, the skyline dimmed — but not like a blackout. The sunlight itself was fading, as though the day was retreating. The entire city darkened into deep indigo twilight, and then...black.
Every light in the restaurant went out.
A single sound echoed — the slow scrape of metal against glass.
Dr. Zeitbrecher rose from his chair instinctively, shielding Aria.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Stay behind me.
A low, distorted voice rolled through the dark like a whisper of dying sunlight.
Wight of Sundial: When the sun forgets the sky, the shadow reigns supreme. I am the Wight of Sundial.
A faint golden shimmer appeared — the jagged curve of a massive sundial spinning in the air, casting a blade of pure darkness across the room. The temperature plummeted, the air itself felt thick.
Aria clutched the table’s edge, her voice trembling.
Aria Westbrook: What—what is that thing?!
Zeitbrecher’s eyes widened in recognition — or perhaps disbelief.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Another one...
The Wight’s mask emerged from the black — cracked, glowing faintly with solar-orange veins. Its voice hissed with the calm cruelty of inevitability.
Wight of Sundial: The sun sets on your borrowed hours. Time bends to the dark.
With a flick of its claw, the entire room fell into pitch blackness — not just the absence of light, but total void. No shadow, no reflection, no form.
Aria gasped, groping for any sense of direction.
Aria Westbrook: Dr. Zeitbrecher! Where are—
Her words were swallowed by silence.
The city should have been glowing under sunset’s amber hue. Instead, it was smothered in black. The change wasn’t gradual — it was instantaneous.
Cole Beckett stood outside the Back in Time Clock Shop, his hands tightening around the keys in his pocket. Streetlights flickered feebly, unable to pierce the unnatural darkness. The moon should have risen, but there was only an empty void above.
Cole Beckett: That's not right.
The Pocket Watch on his belt began to glow faintly, its hands spinning backward at a frantic pace.
Pocket Watch: Temporal reading inconsistent.
Cole’s jaw tightened.
Cole Beckett: What does that mean?
Pocket Watch: It means the night has arrived too soon.
Cole Beckett: I can SEE that!
Cole frowned, glancing up at the skyline where all he could see was shadow.
Cole Beckett: The Thirteen Hands are moving.
The Pocket Watch pulsed brighter, its voice sharper.
Pocket Watch: This energy signature belongs to a Wight.Target detected near the city’s central district.
Cole froze, realization dawning.
Cole Beckett: That’s where Aria said she was meeting him.
Pocket Watch: Confirmed.
Cole took one sharp breath, then sprinted for the alley behind the shop.
Cole Beckett: Clockwork Runner! Let’s move!
With a surge of mechanical sound, the alley filled with golden light as the Clockwork Runner roared to life — its wheels spinning with rhythmic ticks, exhaust hissing like steam vents. The metallic chassis gleamed bronze and silver under the faint starlight that struggled to exist.
Cole swung his leg over the seat and twisted the ignition key. The Runner’s engine gave a deep, throaty growl — the sound of a machine alive and aware.
Pocket Watch: You're going to have to trouble driving through the city. It's enveloped in darkness.
Cole Beckett: Then we’ll just have to punch through it.
He snapped his Driver into place at his belt, gripping the handlebars.
Cole Beckett: Hang on, Aria. Calibrate. Lock. Ignite! RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!
The Clockwork Runner revved hard, gears clashing as sparks lit the ground. Then, with a burst of motion, it shot forward, leaving a streak of golden light tearing through the void.
He twisted the throttle harder, leaning into the curve as Clockwork Runner’s tires sparked against the pavement. The sound of ticking and roaring engines blended — time and machinery in perfect sync.
The world was darkness. The streetlights had melted into shadows, the sky was void, and every clock in Arcadia City had stopped.
Aria Westbrook stumbled out of the restaurant doors, clutching Dr. Zeitbrecher’s arm for balance. Both were coughing, the air thick and cold as if they’d stepped into space itself.
Aria Westbrook: What...what is this?
Dr. Zeitbrecher: That Wight...was a Sundial, able to control the flow of time, to an extreme degree it seems.
The Wight of Sundial emerged from the dark behind them, its silhouette split between gold and void. Its gnomon blade spun above its back like a second spine, and its cracked mask glowed faintly orange.
Wight of Sundial: You will come with me, Aria Westbrook.
Aria Westbrook: They ARE after me!
It extended a clawed hand toward them.
Aria Westbrook: No—no, it’s coming!
Dr. Zeitbrecher shielded her, standing his ground despite his trembling hands.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Enough of this! Whoever you are, you’re meddling with forces beyond—
The Wight of Sundial’s claw snapped out.
A roar answered it.
Clockwork Runner burst from the darkness like a comet, its bronze frame blazing with golden gears and blue flame. The impact was instant — the Wight was hit full-force, sent crashing through a street kiosk as sparks and shrapnel scattered across the asphalt.
Clockwork Runner’s wheels screeched as it drifted sideways, transforming mid-motion. Gears expanded, the front wheel splitting and rotating until the machine stood upright — humanoid now, its mechanical limbs bracing against the ground. The faceplate glowed bright amber.
Clockwork Runner: Impact confirmed. Hostility contained for 3.2 seconds.
Kamen Rider Gauge landed near Aria and Zeitbrecher.
Kamen Rider Gauge: You picked the wrong night to show up...or day. Whatever time it actually is.
He turned back briefly, pointing toward the alley.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Both of you — get clear!
Aria hesitated, her voice shaking.
Aria Westbrook: Gauge! Wait!
Zeitbrecher grabbed her arm, half-pulling her away.
Dr. Zeitbrecher: Do as he says!
The Wight’s distorted voice hissed through the black fog.
Wight of Sundial: So. The keeper of the Chrono Engine himself. The one that has been killing my kin. You stole that power. We've learned so much about you...about what you hold dear...and how we can break you. We just want to know what is you did...to break time.
It lunged forward, gnomon arm slicing downward. Gauge caught it mid-swing, his boots grinding sparks into the pavement. The force of the strike sent cracks spidering through the asphalt.
Gauge twisted, flipping the Wight over his shoulder — but it landed on its claws, twisting unnaturally and striking back. Blades of sunlight and shadow burst from its hands like whips, cutting through the air. Gauge ducked under one, spun, and countered with a piston-enhanced punch that hit like a small explosion.
The Wight staggered but didn’t fall.
Wight of Sundial: Aria Westbrook is coming with me.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Not while I’m breathing.
The fight tore through the intersection, sparks and fire lighting the darkness. Around them, confused civilians stumbled through the pitch-black streets, shouting for help.
A woman screamed as a light pole toppled, narrowly missing her. Gauge saw it out of the corner of his eye — and dove mid-fight, sliding across the asphalt to shoulder the pole away.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Move! Get to the train!
She ran. The Wight’s blade struck the ground where Gauge had been, splitting the street like glass.
Gauge flipped backward, landing beside Clockwork Runner.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Clockwork, I need area control. Keep the civilians out of range!
Clockwork Runner: Affirmative.
Gauge rolled his neck, cracking his knuckles.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Alright, Sundial. Let’s even this out.
Gauge looked up, watching the lights of Arcadia flicker out one by one — buildings fading like mirages, street signs dissolving into ink. Even Clockwork Runner’s golden lines dimmed.
Pocket Watch: Warning. Visibility reduced to zero. Energy levels—
The voice cut out. Static.
Cole clenched his fists.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Great. Pitch black, no support, and a walking sundial.
The Wight’s laugh echoed from everywhere and nowhere.
Wight of Sundial: How do you fight...what you cannot see?
A flash of movement — a claw struck from behind, grazing his shoulder. Sparks burst as he staggered forward. Another strike, and another — the creature was moving faster now, weaving through shadow like liquid.
Cole ducked under one swipe, catching only the faint shimmer of its orange veins before it vanished again.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Alright. That's enough!
He slotted the Voltage Core into his shoulder slot and twisted the dial.
Kamen Rider Gauge: Chrono Engine—Voltage!
Electricity erupted outward like a storm. Lightning traced across his armor, surging through the vents and joints as his color scheme shifted — crimson replaced by sleek blue and neon electric. Glowing conduits pulsed beneath his plating, humming like a living generator.
Kamen Rider Voltage Gauge stood tall, arcs of energy crackling between his gauntlets.
Kamen Rider Voltage Gauge: Let’s light this place up!
He slammed his fists together — the resulting flash illuminated half the block. The Wight recoiled, hissing, its mask finally visible again.
Wight of Sundial: Impossible!
Gauge charged, electricity arcing around him like chains of light. His first punch hit with the force of a thunderclap, sending the Wight flying backward through a row of cars. The explosion that followed lit the street like high noon.
Cole moved like lightning — literally. His afterimage lingered behind him, each movement a strobe of white-blue power. He ducked under the Wight’s counterattack, grabbed its arm, and spun it through a full rotation before slamming it down into the pavement.
Kamen Rider Voltage Gauge: Rise and shine!
He spun the dial on his Driver again.
Kamen Rider Voltage Gauge: Voltage Strike – Circuit Overload!
Electric arcs converged on his leg, spiraling upward as he leapt into the air. Time seemed to stop for a heartbeat — and then he came crashing down, his kick exploding with blinding light.
The impact detonated like thunder, lightning bolts bursting outward in all directions. Streetlights reignited. Neon signs flickered back to life. Windows glowed again as power returned to Arcadia.
The Wight shrieked, its body breaking apart into shards of molten gold and charred black.
Wight of Sundial: DAMN YOU! PARADOX CORE!
It disintegrated in a burst of static, dissolving into the night sky.
Gauge stood still for a long moment, electricity fading from his armor, the glow in his chest dimming back to amber. The city around him hummed — the faint, comforting sound of life returning.
He looked up at the orange sky of sundown.
Clockwork Runner transformed back to vehicle form, pulling up beside him.
Gauge looked toward the alley where Aria and Zeitbrecher had hidden. They were safe — shaken, but safe.
The city ticked again. The clocks began to move. The Wight of Sundial was gone.
But far across the skyline, in the silhouette of a tall spire where the Westbrook once stood, a figure — the Horologue — watched the light return with cold, measured interest.
To Be Continued...
Last edited by Machismo (10/09/2025 1:54 am)
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