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1 of 1- Machismo
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Offline - Registered: 12/06/2019
- Posts: 1,857
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: 1,857
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 (Today 2:15 am)
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