Gus Shepard's picks for the team were his two dorm buddies from Seattle Tech University: Luke Bennett and Jake Rivers.
Back in their freshman year, the university dorms were set up for four, but for some reason—maybe a glitch in the housing system—their room ended up with just the three of them. When Gus arrived in this parallel world, Luke and Jake were his first friends, bonding over late-night coding sessions and shared dreams of shaking up the gaming world.
The trio clicked instantly, their personalities meshing like a perfect co-op squad. Over time, they became a tight-knit crew, the kind that could finish each other's sentences—or pranks.
Luke, the second in command, had a name that made Gus chuckle the first time he heard it—sounded like a health supplement ad. True to form, Luke was a charmer, swapping girlfriends faster than he debugged code. Not much to look at, but the guy had game, and it baffled everyone.
His real talent, though, was programming. Luke devoured game engine development and coding languages like they were takeout menus. He could pick up new tech faster than he picked up dates and even apply it in wild ways. A coding genius—balding at 21, but a genius.
Jake Rivers, the third wheel, was a towering guy from rural Oregon, 6'1" with shoulders like a linebacker. Honest, straightforward, and easily roped into Gus and Luke's schemes. If the trio were a heist crew, Gus and Luke were the schemers, and Jake was the muscle, hauling their crazy ideas to life.
But don't let Jake's rugged vibe fool you. He'd been sketching since he was ten, with a knack for color and composition that left most artists in the dust. When he got into game art, his work popped—models so good they practically begged to be in a game, even if he downplayed it as "just messing around."
Gus, with his past-life gaming know-how, saw their potential from day one. They were green, sure, but their raw talent was top-tier. Plus, three years of dorm life meant they worked together like a well-oiled machine. No "industry pro" could match that vibe.
…
"So… your two friends are college kids?" Chloe Quinn asked, her face screaming please, spare us.
WindyPeak was already a stretch with Gus, a student, as game director. Cat Leo's 24-hour breakeven and profits were a fluke—a miracle, even. But a whole team of undergrads? That was pushing it.
Director's a student. Artist's a student. Programmer's a student. Even the CEO, Zoey Parker, was barely out of college. Was this a startup or a frat house?
But Zoey's eyes sparkled.
Perfect. She'd been scheming to jack up salaries, but hadn't considered the hires' quality. If Chloe brought in seasoned pros, sure, the budget would balloon, but they might polish Gus's dumb idea into a hit. Disaster.
Gus's plan was better: grab a couple of untested college kids to form a gloriously bad dev team. Low skill, high cost, guaranteed flop. Zoey was all in.
"Love it!" she said, nodding like her head was on a spring. "Gus, that's a great call. Build our own crew, keep things tight, and make sure our ideas stay safe."
Chloe stared, dumbfounded. She wanted to scream, Safe? What ideas? That smirking cat from Cat Leo? Or this new game that sounded like a father-son deathmatch at the edge of sanity? What "secrets" would rivals even want—laugh-induced heart attacks?
Watching Zoey and Gus grin at each other, Chloe slumped back in her chair, eyes closed. This company's done for.
…
And just like that, Gus and Zoey sealed the deal.
As game director, Gus would bring in Luke and Jake to join WindyPeak. Zoey, playing the big-spender CEO, set their salaries at the top end for industry newbies: $300,000 a year for Luke, the lead programmer, and $260,000 for Jake, the lead artist.
Add Gus's $500,000 salary, and the trio's pay hit a cool million annually.
Chloe had seen big money before, working for Zoey's dad at his venture capital firm. Brokers there pulled million-dollar salaries, some even hitting five or six with bonuses. But this? Dropping a million on three college kids for a startup's insane game idea? That was next-level nuts.
She didn't know Zoey's secret: thanks to the Investment Rebate System, a $100,000 loss could net her a million overnight. Salaries didn't count for Gus, the executor, but every dime spent on Luke and Jake did. The bigger the budget, the bigger the potential flop—and the fatter her payout.
If they burned $5 million on this project, Zoey wouldn't blink. She'd be swimming in rebates.
"Alright, Gus, it's a plan," Zoey said, her smile practically glowing. Three rookies and a batshit game idea? Losing money was practically guaranteed.
Even if Gus got lucky again and a streamer hyped it, quality would tank it. Cat Leo was a freak hit, but with two untested buddies dragging it down, this new game was doomed.
Three duds, one terrible idea. Zoey was ready to cash in.
Meeting over. Time to lose big.