Ah, greetings!

I had a LOT of fun writing this one and setting the video up. I scoured the game for information and lore to make sure it was all canon and suited the style. I also wanted it to slot into the game somehow and am quite happy with how it turned out. I do wish I had the entire game to work with, however... but I guess that will have to wait!

Absolutely no AI was used during the creation of this video.

More writing prompts please, I love these! For anyone that wants to see it I'll include the full story below. The video is way better though. Enjoy and good luck everyone that enters! <3

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The repulsors hummed, then thrummed, then shuddered like a scrapper being shaken down and cleaned out by a rival crew. They’ll hold, I told myself, they’ll hold. My old ride may not be top of the line, but I know what it can do, I know what I can make it do.

Now, I don’t consider myself a lucky man, and in fact I’m getting the distinct impression that the fates are out to get me specifically tonight, as my situation gets more and more dire by the moment. I should have listened to her. I should have never come to this city.

The pre-dawn skyline of the Grand Promenade shifts into view ahead as I push my foot down that last little bit, the aether-powered engine now shedding white-hot sparks that drift off lazily like dying fireflies. I take the span of a single breath to admire them as I glance over my shoulder, thinking that perhaps getting rid of those old combustion engines wasn’t all that bad.

The wind whips at my cap, then pulls it off entirely, flinging it out the now shattered rear window of my ride. The fireflies fade, and I find myself staring directly at three cruisers on my tail, filled with hard bastards with hard faces and hard steel to hand. Another bullet whizzes by. They’re still on me.

Thirteen city blocks, half a world up here in the sky, and they still won’t quit. I guess it makes sense, considering the rides they’re sporting. Two are sleek black metal with top-of-the-line thrusters… and is that a turbo-charged intake? The third one, nowhere near as flashy, catches my eye the most. I know that car.

Just perfect. And just my pulsing luck.

I throw a few choice words their way.

“Floatin’ hell, scrap off!”

They don’t hear me. They never do. I always thought there was no talent like not being there when things turn sour, and now here I am, well past expiration with no clear way out.

I turn my attention back to the early morning hustle and bustle filling the Promenade. The sky is beginning to show signs of life, a light that’ll soon consume the dark that’s been aiding my escape. The streets are busy, too busy for this time of day. They must be preparing for some parade or other for some baron nobody wants or needs, but is forced to worship regardless because the alternative means something far worse.

Taxis, construction vehicles, and a flood of people far exceeding the capacity of the street are dimly lit by the last flickers of neon from brothels, bars, and early morning bakeries.

One last juke, then? No other choice.

I slam the reverse thrusters and swing down a side alley between two stacks of white-and-gold banners. Shouts from the work crews and the scraping of metal on unforgiving stone echo off the walls a moment later as my would-be pursuers take the corner with far less finesse than I manage.

Ahead I spot my chance: a crane and delivery truck filled with benches and stands, about to meet in the middle of an intersection, an unsuspecting foreman guiding them toward their destinations.

I see it too late in the dim light, a line of bright red tape, the first and last sign that I’ve made the wrong choice.

Directly to my left, a flash of metal and motion draws my attention. I find myself staring down the barrels of an aether-cycled, twin-breech compact sawed-off shotgun. I should know, I installed that very gun just last night.

Above it, a snarling face like a chopping block, nose like a boiled potato, scars covering a good portion of it.

The trigger is never pulled, the side-mounted terror never unleashed, as shock and surprise replace the grim determination to end a life.

I have the presence of mind to hit the brakes once more. Then comes the drop.

I hold my breath and down I go, an enemy of the very streets themselves on this day. The ground vanishes, and I get an all-too-quick look at the insides of the floating island that few ever see. Cables twist around pipes, pipes curl around cables, all set against a backdrop of metal and concrete.

The other guy isn’t quite as quick as I am, I realize, as he soars by and I jolt in my seat, an explosion sounding directly above me as I drop into the darkness.

Now, I don’t consider myself a lucky man, but as I crouch in my seat and the top of my ride, my pride and joy, the only thing of value I own, is torn clean off by the tunnel ceiling as it screams past, I figure things could’ve been worse.

I could’ve been in Potato Nose’s car.

I awake to the distant wail of sirens and the smell of smoke. My vision snaps into focus. Dark shapes dart about as my eyes adjust to the dim glow provided by fires above.

“Hey!” I shout as I see that the Athoneer scrap rats of the tunnels are already stripping bits and pieces from my ride, uncaring that I’m still alive, their milky white eyes glowing faintly in the darkness, their efficiency spurred on by desperation.

This is their domain.

I turn in my seat as I unbuckle, thinking that making an exit right about now would be prudent. I look up to see an arm dangling above my head, wearing a watch worth more than everything I own. The arm is connected to a torso that just so happens to be sporting a head with the now all-too-familiar potato-shaped nose.

He must have been thrown clear of his cruiser, now dangling from a pipe and some wires. How did he even…?
It doesn’t matter.

A moment later I’m startled by the weight of a black leather briefcase falling into my lap, and the sound of small voices cursing above me. Smoke fills the tunnel and the sirens above are getting louder. I gotta move. Fast.

I grab and unclasp the watch, he won’t be needing it anymore, and clutch the briefcase tight. I slide from what’s now no more than an unrecognizable hunk of metal and start stumbling down the dark tunnel.

So that’s how my morning surges from folly to fantasy in what feels like the blink of an eye.

Now I’m in a ritzy Uppers bar drinking to mourn, or celebrate, or both. No one knows who I am, and they don’t really care, all because of the clothes on my back and the glint of precious metals on my arm. Really playing the part now. Maybe I’ll get up. Maybe.

First I’ll see how many more bottles this briefcase of cash can get me. Here’s hoping it’s enough to forget the fact that my ride is gone and I’m probably wanted by half the city.

Now, I don’t consider myself a-

“Lucky? Lucky, is that you?”

I groan and down the rest of my drink.