Gear Memory 72 Hours Deathmatch

The rusty air filled my lungs, like swallowing a rusty key. Qi Mo was pressed on the cast iron chair of the Memory Exchange, his wrists were locked with copper rings, and the cold metal beat against his pulse. The room was hexagonal, with huge brass gears mounted on each wall. They made a clicking sound when they rotated slowly, like the heartbeat of some ancient creature. The steam pipes hanging from the dome are like the tentacles of an octopus, and the water droplets dripping from the ends create small copper-green puddles on the cast iron floor.