Watching a cog-shaped airship from the drone, a red-haired girl—Style— leaning against the wall of the lone cargo unit, hung in the air supported by creaking steel and frayed cables. Her heart pounded in her chest. Stealing from an airship was risky, but the thrill was all she knew since her memories vanished five years ago.
She was holding a brass-bound, steam-hissing controller with a glowing glass screen and toggles that click like typewriter keys beneath flickering drone visuals.
'Kassay Drone is really helpful'
Perched silently on the rusted roof of the container, the Eyelet Cartridge Drone looked more like a decorative artefact than a tool of surveillance. Its central core—a dark, polished orb—gently pulsed with a faint cerulean glow, the iris-like lens at its centre fixated in the direction of the airship. Three thin, angular rotor arms extended outward in a triangular formation, each tipped with translucent plasma.
The visual was clear;
A cog-shaped airship spun slowly as it descended toward a floating port; with a sharp hiss, it released omnidirectional steam, sending out a heavy wind wave that swept in the surroundings as it docked down on a water port surrounded by different coloured cargo containers, steam still venting from its joint like a slumbering tyrant
The port was not far from the City-F1, just 100 metres away from the port, connected by a sleek glass bridge that shimmered beneath the afternoon. For a moment, Earth held its breath—no voices, no movement; only the rhythmic sound of the crashing waves and the murmuring from the crowds of the city.
All of a sudden, a bunch of figures cloaked in blue—priests— with a black HUD mask—having a long minute hand and an hour hand— stepped out of the airship; in the middle, the priests with a golden cartridge holding a glowing cog—holy to them—, shimmering faintly, were surrounded by distinct priests wearing black cloaks and similar marks.
In a moment, Style put the remote on the side, picked up two cartridges, and put her hands in the special gauntlet—a hole—connected to the cartridge. Suddenly the cartridge started producing the steam from another end with a continuous hiss, in equal intervals of time. Steam hissed as cables wove a black suit, snapping onto her limbs.
***
The priests continued moving in the area of the crowded container, followed closely by others. Then, as if sensing something, the priests halted—tense, scanning the surroundings with quiet caution.
Suddenly, a steam-based cable zipped through the air, piercing one of the priests in the head. In that same instant, a fully black figure rocketed in at blinding speed, knee bent mid-air, slamming into the target's skull. With a smooth front flip, she snatched the golden cartridge box from the priest.
Its white HUD eyes flickered—then morphed into an inventory icon. The golden cartridge in her hands glitched and vanished, reappearing seamlessly within the suit's inventory.
It landed gracefully on the far side of the priests.
Its armour hugged close—matte black, etched with copper and brass, tracing her joints. Sleek plates met mechanical tubing, built for speed and silence. Steam hissed from vents along its chest and calves. Thread pistons lined its legs, pulsing faintly with energy. Chest core unit glowing faintly. With every subtle motion, it radiated tension—an elegant weapon, not a machine. She was Style.
"Shk...Shk...Shk...Shk...Shk," the priest's figures murmured in rising alarm.
The priest didn't flinch. As the murmurs grew, the HUD lenses of the blue priests clicked—transforming into scanning lenses, capturing every detail of her now-visible appearance.
To the surprise of onlookers, she extended her arms, and from both her wrists, a cable zipped toward the containers and with a hiss, steam produced from her limbs, back and hips; out of nowhere, a red priest grabbed her wrist and threw her.
With a loud thud, she hit the container, feeling sharp pain. She was terrified.
Steam burned Style's nose, sharp and metallic, as her gauntlets hummed. Her pulse raced—freedom was one theft away.
The red figure with a suit that was familiar to her but had extended cartridge arms and a HUD Screen with mark , flashes of images of him came near her.
He kneeled down and seized her wrist. "You stole our sacred cog, now a 30-day thief", he snarled in a distorted voice.
Suddenly, he murmured something under his breath. The, his gauntlet hissed, a cartridge snapping open with a metallic clank. Its glowing core spat steam, and a jagged brand flared red-hot, gears grinding like a beast's teeth. He clamped her wrist, the searing metal scorching her skin. A ticking tattoo burned into her flesh—
"Damn it… my wrist—why is it vibrating?" she whispered, a hint of panic in her voice.
Pain stabbed her chest, and the tattoos ticked like a death knell.
"Give the—" he continued, but Style's foot slammed into his head with blinding speed, a sharp hiss of steam bursting from her chest core.
She pulled back for a punch—fast, brutal—but he caught it mid-air.
And in a second he drove 10 punches in her chest, with a knee kick in the stomach.
Her core flared brighter.
The HUD over her eyes glowed blood-red—rage ignited.
He stepped back instinctively.
And just like that, she vanished—leaving only swirling dust in her wake.
***
Far away, in the F1 zone, buried beneath an abandoned wasteland, a hidden basement held a moment of silence.
"The tattoo's tick buzzed in her wrist, a cruel clock stealing her breath. The basement's damp air cleared her skin as she sobbed.
Style sat on the cold; her hands covered her mouth as tears fell freely, pooling on the stone below.
"Please stop crying, Style. We'll find a way," Kassay said gently, though his voice trembled.
Kassay—brilliant, methodical—was the scientist who unlocked the secrets of her Cartridge. He wasn't just a genius; he was part of their CHG group too. And though his cartridge was second strongest, it was Style's that stood at the top.
But now, her voice broke.
"Can't you see, Kas? This is life or death!" she cried, her eyes blazing with fear. "I'm marked! Thirty days... that's all I have left! How are we supposed to solve this in time?"
She raised her wrist. There, glowing faintly beneath her skin, was a ticking mark, with a clock—like a tattoo. A countdown. 30 days.