The Titanfall plan was locked in.
WindyPeak Games hummed with energy.
On costs, Gus Harper had been spoiled rotten by Zoey Parker's "spend big" mantra.
They say good habits are hard to pick up, but bad ones? Easy.
At first, Gus was floored by Zoey's cash-splashing and her wild budget hikes.
Now? He was hooked, demanding funds before she even opened her mouth.
Don't just get tycoons—become one.
Gus pulled off that leap in just a year and a half.
Even Zoey, the queen of extravagance, flinched when Gus stuck out his hand.
Not that she feared bankrupting WindyPeak—her loss-reward system thrived on flops—but Gus's budget asks were starting to outpace her war chest.
No worries. Once Titanfall tanks, she'd be swimming in cash.
Then, she'd reclaim her tycoon crown, tossing eight- or nine-figure sums like confetti.
To hit that jackpot, Zoey backed Gus's every whim, squeezing WindyPeak dry.
Luckily, PUBG's nationwide hype (566,894 copies, $55.55M revenue) kept the coffers full.
Titanfall's final budget? A whopping $170 million—higher than planned—priced at $198 per copy, with a five-to-six-month dev cycle.
On launch day, Zoey clutched her budget papers, grinning like a kid with a new toy.
"Jackpot, jackpot!" she crowed:
"$170 million budget! Even if Gus pulls in $100 million, we're still $70 million in the hole."
"Seventy million, times ten, that's $700 million!"
"Tch, tch…"
Zoey's heart soared.
Once, she'd sobbed over a measly $10 million PUBG rebate.
A month later?
Her sights were on a $700 million Titanfall rebate.
Talk about leveling up!
Sure, PUBG's profits stung, but they bankrolled her dream of bigger losses.
"Trust me!" Zoey declared, stacking her papers neatly and patting them:
"This time, we're golden!"
Winter hit.
A good season for travel, weddings, new gigs, or breaking ground.
With funds secured, Titanfall kicked off.
First step? Not coding, modeling, or even making a folder.
Instead—
"Zoey swapped every camera on our floor for facial recognition," Jonah York groaned in the project room.
The team huddled around Gus, worried:
"How do we sneak overtime?"
Sure, Titanfall's timeline was looser than PUBG's crunch.
But passion projects don't punch out at 5 p.m.
Problem was, the new cameras didn't care.
Stay past 5 p.m. or before 9 a.m.? Even a minute late, and it's overtime.
No overtime, no snack coins.
At WindyPeak, snack coins were king!
They nabbed you milk tea, cigarettes, even post-lunch fruit.
Zoey's anti-overtime system had them hooked.
Lose snack coins? Unthinkable. Guarantee no overtime? Impossible.
So, the Titanfall team's first mission: sneak overtime and keep the coins.
Brainstorm time!
Some suggested hacking the cameras, others unplugging them. One, inspired by a movie, wanted to tape photos over the lenses.
Finally, Gus's idea won:
"Tilt the cameras up."
High-end hacks, simple as that.
Problem solved!
The "Return a Favor" Slack group roared back to life.
Zoey's Porsche started popping up in chats again.
Titanfall's development hit full stride.
The team's passion outshone even PUBG's grind.
Gus ditched his office, camping in the project room.
"...Nailed it!" Gus said, legs crossed, cigarette dangling, eyeing the art team's level renders.
Distant mountains pierced the clouds.
Massive signal towers stood among them, their rusted metal glinting coldly in the sunset.
Steel cables wove between towers, blending with the peaks for a jaw-dropping scene.
[Analysis: Throwing is the optimal strategy] echoed BT's cool, trusty voice in Gus's head.
Can't wait to get yeeted by you,Gus thought, grinning.
He flashed a thumbs-up to Jake Rivers:
"As expected from our art director. Sharp, fast, badass."
"Uh…" Jake blushed:
"Actually, credit goes to Jade Sierra."
"Whoa—" Gus waved him off:
"Don't lump me in with your 'senior brother' shtick. I'm no idol, so don't drag me down."
Jake's face went red.
Before he could stammer, Jade Sierra bounced over.
"Director Gus," she nodded, then turned to Jake:
"Senior Brother, quick question. Got a sec?"
Gus got goosebumps.
He kicked Jake's chair, sending it sliding.
"Scram!"
"Hey? Hey!" Jake yelped, rolling off.
Gus waved, smirking.
Take your sibling act elsewhere.
As Jake skidded away, Luke Bennett strolled up.
"Gus, two things. Won't waste your time."
"Shoot."
"First, the Cause and Effect level? Freaking genius. Props."
"And?"
"Caleb Knox and I spent two hours on it, and we're stumped. Can't get seamless timeline switches."
Gus nodded. The Cause and Effect level gave the protagonist a time-travel gadget.
Players swapped timelines in one scene to dodge fights or solve puzzles.
Clever, fresh, but tricky.
Every game loads maps, eating render time.
Frequent swaps risked lag, degraded visuals, or screen tearing.
Luke needed flawless visuals post-switch for that wow factor.
"IndieVibe X2's rig isn't frame-breaking fast," Luke said:
"Rapid map swaps delay rendering. Best we've got is no tearing."
"Got ideas?"
Gus puffed his cigarette:
"Map swaps cause lag, so… don't swap maps."
"Huh?" Luke blinked:
"You serious?"
The level's core was jumping between two maps. No swaps? What, actual time travel?
With that tech, why make games?
Seeing Luke's confusion, Gus lit a cigarette for him:
"Think cameras."
Luke frowned. To dodge overtime detection, they'd tilted the cameras up, bypassing facial recognition.
But maps?
Wait—
"Holy crap!" Luke lit up:
"Z-axis?!"
Gus shrugged: "High-end fixes, simple as that."
"Genius! Freaking genius!" Luke shouted, getting it.
Instead of two maps, stack them.
"Past" and "present" scenes layer like a two-story building on one map.
Shift the Z-axis for the camera's perspective to mimic time travel.
Both floors load together, so players hit the watch—bam—second floor. Hit it again—bam—first floor.
No lag, no tearing, just seamless jumps.
"Badass, badass…" Luke muttered, rolling off in his chair.
Before he was gone thirty seconds, Jonah York slid up:
"Director Gus, small tweak here…"
"Brother Sam…"
Roll—
"Boss…"
Roll—
"Look at this…"
The project room turned into a curling rink, chairs sliding everywhere.
Titanfall's progress soared.
Meanwhile, media buzzed about WindyPeak's Titanfall (TTF).
Gus didn't lock it down, just had the team sign NDAs.
He needed hype to stretch the $170M budget, with zero for marketing.
The "mecha game" label sparked chatter.
It worked.
Tate's Gaming Scoop: WindyPeak's Escort Game a Mecha Play? Bold or Bust?
GameHub: New Path or Self-Sabotage?
Global Esports: Mecha Pick: Biggest Flop in History?
MiniPlay: Silent Protest Against IndieVibe?
Gamers' Hearth: Fall or Shine? WindyPeak's Risky Bet.
Reports piled up, mostly grim.
Mecha games were a dead genre, never big to begin with.
A few outlets gave WindyPeak and Gus the benefit of the doubt, but barely.
"No mecha game's ever popped off…" Zoey muttered, scrolling Tate's Gaming Scoop in her Tech Tower office.
Her grin widened at the comments:
"Mecha? Has Sam Harper lost it?"
"This ain't a game, it's performance art."
"Facing three FPS giants? I'd tank too."
"Always pulling new tricks 🙄 [smirking emoji]."
"Don't count them out. Horror games were dead till Phasmophobia blew up."
"Mecha vs. horror? Don't diss horror like that."
"Hahaha…"
"Horror had hits like Midnight Run, Sinners' Wake, Haunted Manor before fading. Mecha? Nada."
"No good mecha games, period."
'Pie in the sky.'
"Balance sucks. Fun fizzles fast."
"Either WindyPeak's trolling or doing R&D."
'Yup…'
Genius, I found a treasure!Zoey's eyes sparkled like dollar signs.
Gus didn't lie—this genre's a total loser!
A flop among flops.
Her $700M rebate was in sight!
"Chill, I got this!" Zoey laughed.
Meanwhile, in Boston, Nebula Games HQ, Deputy GM's office.
Dean Keller sat across from Chris Garrett, GM of Nebula Games, clapping and cackling, passing his phone.
"Mecha game, huh? Tsk, tsk," Dean sneered:
"WindyPeak's desperate, clutching at straws."
"They got cocky after PUBG and thought they could tackle this?"
"Overconfident or just panicked?"
Chris smirked, less smug but just as sure.
They'd been in games forever.
Mecha? A dead-end genre, never even hot.
Making waves? Harder than climbing Everest.
Plus, WindyPeak's $170M—$200M tops—was peanuts against Nebula's Polar Bear 3 ($3B–5B).
Three studios (Zenith, Radiant, StarWolf) against one? WindyPeak was stacking the deck against itself.
"IndieVibe and WindyPeak are playing a losing hand," Chris chuckled.
"Such a shame," Dean sighed:
"I wanted to crush WindyPeak to avenge PUBG's spanking. They outdid my $100M game with their $10M rebate."
"Now? They're handing us the win."
"Tea, tea," Chris cut in, sliding a cup:
"No regrets. Focus up."
Enough bragging,Chris thought. Your $100M flop got smoked by their $10M PUBG. And you're talking smack?
Nebula's edge was WindyPeak's small scale and Polar Bear 3's three-to-one advantage.
Lose this? Dean, Travis Wolfe, and Zachary Trent could hit the road.
Chris would poach Gus himself.
Go sip your tea.
Chris took a slow sip, the winter chill fading.
He flipped the calendar.
Post-New Year, the real fight begins.