The air above New Pittsburgh tasted of coal-smoke and ozone. Below, in the colossal iron bowl of the *Prometheus Arena*, one hundred thousand voices roared as one, a sound that shook rivets loose from the grandstands. This was Super Bowl LXVIII, but not as any 21st-century soul would remember it. This was the Gilded Bowl.
The New London Imperials, clad in brass-plated armor with crimson silk accents, faced the Philadelphia Furnace-Stokers, their gear forged from blackened steel and glowing with heat from their internal boiler-packs. The ball was not pigskin, but a hand-stitched leather sphere containing a volatile, lighter-than-air gas core. It didn’t spiral; it *hovered*.
“Thirty seconds on the Chrono-Gyro!” boomed the announcer’s voice through copper horns. “Imperials, down by four, at the Furnace-Stokers’ twenty-yard line!”
The Imperials’ quarterback, Captain Alistair Vance, adjusted his bronze-rimmed goggles. His throwing arm wasn’t just strong; it was a pneumatically-assisted masterpiece of polished brass and whirring gears. His target, the swift receiver known as “The Sparrow,” had clockwork-enhanced calves that could unleash a burst of dizzying speed.
Across the line, the Stokers’ defense was a wall of hissing steam and formidable machinery. Their star, a mountain of a man called “Iron” Mike O’Malley, vented a jet of superheated steam from the exhaust ports on his massive shoulder-plates. “He won’t fly past us this time, Vance!” he bellowed.
“Hut! Hut! *HISS!*”
The snap was clean. Vance backpedaled, gears in his leg braces whining. The Stokers’ rush was terrifying—a coordinated eruption of piston-driven leaps and steam-powered lunges. Vance dodged a copper-clad tackle, spun, and saw his primary target swarmed. The Sparrow was double-teamed, ensnared in a net of telescoping brass arms deployed by a Stoker’s defensive harness.
Time slowed. Vance’s augmented eyes scanned the field, lenses clicking and focusing. He saw his tight end, a brute of a man called “The Anvil,” chugging toward the end zone, but a Stoker safety was closing in, the copper coils on his boots sparking with electrical potential for a final leap.
Then Vance saw her. Moira, the team’s *aetherial spotter*, leaning out from her suspended brass crow’s-nest high above the end zone. She wasn’t just watching; she was calculating. With a swift movement, she pulled a lever. A series of polished mirrors along the arena’s rim angled, catching the giant, floating “Glo-Gas” lights and focusing a beam of intense light directly onto the safety’s goggles.
The Stoker cursed, blinded momentarily, and stumbled.
It was the window. A tiny, fleeting chance. But the pocket was collapsing. Iron Mike was upon him, his furnace-red faceplate grinning behind a cloud of steam. Vance had no room, no angle. The conventional throw was impossible.
So he didn’t make one.
As Mike O’Malley lunged, Vance slammed a fist against a release valve on his throwing arm. With a sharp *CLANK-PSSHHH*, the entire forearm assembly, from elbow to fingers, detached at a reinforced joint. Propelled by a controlled burst of compressed air from the severed piston, the disembodied mechanical arm, still cradling the aero-ball, shot forward like a bizarre, guided missile.
The crowd gasped. The arm flew in a low, humming arc, gears spinning freely. The Anvil, seeing the brass limb streaking toward him, turned and braced. He wasn’t catching a ball; he was catching a quarterback’s arm. He snatched it from the air, the ball nestled securely in its metallic fingers, and with a grunt of effort, he planted the entire assembly—hand, ball, and all—onto the polished copper plating of the end zone.
**THUD.**
Silence. Then, the shrill blast of the head referee’s steam-whistle.
**TOUCHDOWN.**
The arena erupted. Confetti—not paper, but thousands of spinning, glittering brass gears—fluttered from the ceiling. The Imperials mobbed The Anvil, who held the disembodied arm aloft like a trophy. On the sideline, Vance was already having a fresh forearm attached by frantic engineers with wrench-spanners.
In the luxury box, the League Commissioner, Lord Reginald Thorne, puffed on his cigar, its smoke mingling with the arena’s haze. He nodded to the industrial baron beside him. “See, Phineas? Innovation. That’s what sells tickets and stokes boilers. A quarterback who literally gives his right arm to win.”
On the field, as the extra-point—a tricky kick requiring a precise adjustment of the ball’s internal gas valve to sail through the uprights—was good, Captain Vance flexed his new, still-stiff fingers. He looked at the celebrating Sparrow, at the beaming Moira descending from her perch, and at the gleaming scoreboard that now read: IMPERIALS 24, FURNACE-STOKERS 23.
He smiled, the taste of victory as sharp and metallic as the air itself. It wasn’t just a game. It was the future, won one audacious, mechanical piece at a time. The Gilded Bowl was theirs.
