"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 (Today 6:13 am)