The Grand Prix of Fiction was not just a race; it was a collision of aesthetics.
The Paddock—a floating city-sized garage in the center of the multiverse—was a chaotic mess of genres. To the left, a team of Steampunk Dwarves was hammering rivets into a steam-powered locomotive. To the right, a sleek Cyberpunk crew was uploading consciousness into a neon motorcycle. Above, High Fantasy elves were polishing a Pegasus that had wheels bolted to its hooves.
And then, there was The Underwood.
The massive, flying vintage typewriter sputtered into the docking bay, trailing a cloud of black ink smoke.
"Clear the lane!" Elara Vance shouted, wrestling with the Carriage Return lever. "The brakes are sticky! The 'Shift' key is jammed!"
"We are coming in hot!" The Author yelled from the passenger seat (the 'A' key). "This narrative momentum is unsafe!"
