The next day rolled in like a storm.
IndieVibe moved fast. By the time Zoey Parker strolled into WindyPeak Games that morning, her phone was buzzing with notifications about Titanfall. Social media was flooded with hype—gamers, streamers, and blogs were losing their minds over it.
The hype train was in full swing, fueled by diehard fans. Titanfall was going toe-to-toe with Nebula Games's three flagship titles, like David slinging rocks at Goliath.
One video kept popping up everywhere, racking up likes and shares across every gaming platform. In just an hour, Zoey had stumbled across it three times.
Curiosity got the better of her, so she clicked.
The video was from YouTube, titled "GameScope: Breaking Down Titanfall's Trailer Frame by Frame to Find the Fun."
Zoey tracked down the original link, liked the video, grabbed a bag of chips from her desk, went full-screen, and settled in to watch.
The channel, GameScope, was a popular gaming analysis account. They dissected trailers frame by frame, predicting gameplay mechanics and story beats with spooky accuracy. Fans called them "Game Oracle" or "Crystal Ball," and with 1.7 million subscribers, their clout was undeniable.
With Titanfall and Nebula's three big games dropping trailers, GameScope had been busy. At fans' insistence, they'd analyzed all four titles, but Titanfall's breakdown was the runaway hit—likes, shares, and comments through the roof.
"Zooming in on the tiny details to reveal the big picture. Welcome to GameScope! If you dig our stuff, hit like and subscribe. Today's star? Titanfall!"
The comment section lit up:
"Checking in!"
"Finally, Titanfall!"
"Been waiting for this!"
"Lmao, this ain't fishing."
"Hype train, let's go!"
"First time here, but I'm hooked."
The flood of comments proved GameScope's pull. With IndieVibe's behind-the-scenes push, this video was outpacing everything else.
The trailer kicked in, and the host paused it. "Hold up!"
The frame froze on a rifleman charging through smoke.
"Check this out—a rifleman busts out of the fog, and the camera sticks to him like glue."
"Here's the deal, folks: what's the camera's vibe here?"
"Exactly—highlight the star, give him personality, lock in the POV."
"Why design it like this?"
"To pull players into the protagonist's world, let them feel the war through his eyes."
"Yup, the protagonist!"
The host's voice spiked. "I've seen some memes joking that the trailer's Pilot looks badass, but in-game, you're just a grunt."
"Well, guess what? You nailed it."
"This guy—this rifleman—is the main character."
"In the whole two-minute-forty-second trailer, he's the only one who gets the front-and-back tracking shot twice. Everyone else, even the slick Pilot in the middle, just gets a quick solo moment."
"No one else is centered like this. It's not a standard follow-up shot."
"This carries through in the visuals and voiceovers."
"So, here's my bold call: Titanfall's story is simple."
"It's about this soldier's grind from grunt to Pilot. And his whole deal boils down to four words—"
The host skipped to the trailer's end. The voiceover hit:
The day I become a Pilot is still far off, but when I do, I hope I'm worthy of it.
Okay, that's kinda dope, Zoey thought, eyes gleaming. The analysis was sharp, and she was low-key impressed. She munched her chips, glued to the screen.
GameScope broke down every frame—Pilot skills (permanent plus gear-based), Titan part swaps (only from beating Titan bosses), and late-game auto-aim and lock-on mechanics. By the end, they summed up Titanfall's core:
"This is Gus Harper's big swing. He knows mecha games have been in a rut, so he's mixing Pilot and Titan gameplay to keep things fresh and stretch player engagement."
"This combo design, sparked by Gus's genius, could birth levels that blow the gaming world's mind."
"And the journey from rifleman to Pilot? It's gonna be a wild ride."
"WindyPeak's never done a story-driven game, but I'm not doubting their chops."
"Here's to an epic, twist-filled, larger-than-life hero's journey hitting shelves soon."
"That's it for now! Like, subscribe, and drop a comment. Catch you next time."
The video cut out. Zoey polished off her chips, licking her fingers.
Two words: Freaking awesome.
The first half was solid—frame-by-frame breakdown with some wild but grounded guesses. The second half? Pure hype. World-shaking levels, an epic story, Titanfall practically canonized as the next big thing.
Zoey smirked. Keep hyping, buddy. The bigger the bubble, the louder it pops.
More hype, more expectations, more backlash, more losses—and for Zoey, more rebates. Sweet.
She stood, tossed the chip bag in the trash, and muttered, "Bit salty. Time for some iced tea."
Humming a random tune, Zoey strolled out of her office, hopped in the elevator, and headed downstairs. The sun was blazing outside Tech Tower's glass doors.
She wandered toward the tea shop, mood sky-high, maybe too chill. So chill she didn't notice the guy in the coffee shop next door, tucked in a booth by the window.
Gus Harper.
He was nursing a coffee, sitting across from a sharply dressed woman—polished suit, poised, drop-dead gorgeous.
"The director gig's yours. $1.2 million a year, plus project bonuses at year-end."
The woman, all elegance and confidence, leaned toward Gus. "People climb higher, water flows lower. I'm here on behalf of Nebula Games, and I've got full authority to show our sincerity."
"We need visionaries like you—someone who gets the market and isn't afraid to shake things up."
"That's why we're offering, frankly, a killer deal. Join us, Gus."
Bam. The woman was Sophia Tate, personal secretary to Nebula Games's CEO, Ethan Caldwell.
Half an hour ago, Gus had just wanted a quick coffee. But as he reached for his wallet, Sophia intercepted him. She swapped his cappuccino for a pricier cold brew, ordered herself an iced Americano, and ushered him to a booth without a word.
If she'd been a dude, Gus might've thrown hands and called it self-defense. But shaking off a lady? Not his style. So he sat, and Sophia got straight to business.
Nebula Games was a titan—home to three elite studios: StarWolf Interactive, Radiant Studios, and Zenith Studios. Nebula Tech, their parent company, ran platforms and game ops, technically overseeing the studios but flexing more muscle than any of them.
After their escort titles flopped, Nebula Tech got the green light to build a new studio for Polar Bear 3's next-gen motion-sensing cabin.
Officially, it was "expanding the portfolio." Unofficially? Ethan Caldwell was done with the studios' failures and wanted a crack team directly under Nebula Tech.
And their top pick to lead it? Gus Harper.
The offer was juicy: director role, $1.2 million salary, year-end bonuses. If Gus jumped ship, he'd be a trailblazer at Nebula, with a shot at running the show long-term.
Gus's heart skipped a beat. He was human, after all. That kind of deal? Hard not to drool.
And Ethan Caldwell? Gus had heard of him. Unlike Nebula's cutthroat studio heads, Ethan was a wildcard. He embraced new ideas, wasn't afraid to experiment, and played dirty when needed.
Rumor had it, back when IndieVibe X1 and Polar Bear 2 launched, Ethan stirred up a storm. During a heated negotiation with IndieVibe's old CEO (pre-Victor Lang), he dumped hot coffee into the guy's prized bonsai, wished him "prosperity," and strutted out. IndieVibe almost started a brawl, but Ethan pulled a Taser, and the cops had to break it up. Gaming blogs ate it up for weeks.
Now, that guy wanted Gus as his right-hand man. Tough to say no.
But Nebula was still Nebula. Ethan's maverick vibe couldn't change the corporate machine. At WindyPeak, Gus called the shots on projects, with Zoey signing the checks no questions asked. At Nebula? Ethan would be his boss, then Nebula Games, then Nebula's head office—a suffocating chain of command.
"Alright, Sophia, let's cut to it," Gus said, leaning back. "If I was at Nebula Tech right now, not WindyPeak, would a project like Titanfall—one that's burned through most of our budget—have even gotten off the ground?"
Unconditional trust. Only Zoey gave him that. Could Ethan?
Sophia smiled, sharp as a blade. "If you were at Nebula Tech, that wouldn't have happened. I mean, even with most of our budget, we'd still have more than your $200 million."
Ouch. Money talks, and Nebula had piles of it.
Gus gave a wry smile. "Okay, new angle. Say I pitch a game tomorrow with a billion-dollar budget. The whole thing's about players staring at a spinning mountain, watching seasons change, grass grow, sun rise and set. Pure vibes, no gameplay. Would Ethan greenlight it?"
Gus was talking about Mountain, a cult indie game from his past life—a "life simulator" so abstract it barely qualified as a game. It was on his dream list for WindyPeak, but only once their budget wasn't razor-tight.
Sophia hesitated. "Well… if you could sell the concept, Ethan might bite."
"Sell it?" Gus chuckled. "The pitch is it spreads by word-of-mouth—players trolling each other or bored folks buying it to kill time. That's it."
"That's it?" Sophia's eyebrows shot up.
"Yup," Gus nodded. "That's the whole deal."
Abstract supernova, indeed.
Sophia groaned internally. No way Ethan—or Nebula's board—would fund that. They'd have to be out of their minds.
"What about Zoey?" Sophia countered. "Would she sign off on that?"
"Nine times out of ten," Gus said, dead certain. "Zoey's all about bold bets. She's got a soft spot for weird genres—bullet hell, horror, mecha. That's why we've got hits like Vampire's Survivors, Phasmopobia, second-gen FPS, and Titanfall."
"That's why I'm sticking with WindyPeak. I can make what I love, no leash."
Sophia sucked in a breath. "So… you're really passing on our offer?"
Gus sipped his coffee, grimacing. "Cold brew's pricey, but it's not for everyone."
"Like you?" Sophia teased.
"Like me," Gus shrugged.
Sophia sighed, stood, and offered a handshake with a smile. "You're a tough one, Gus. No deal today, but chatting with you was a pleasure."
"Likewise," Gus said, standing and shaking her hand. "Thanks for the offer, but—"
He didn't finish. Sophia lunged, hands on his waist, pulling herself close. For a split second, their faces were inches apart.
What the hell?! Gus stumbled back, but Sophia was already stepping away, winking playfully. "That vanilla cologne's working for you, Gus."
It was mid-morning, and the café was quiet—barely any customers. But Gus caught a glimpse of the table nearby. A couple of "guests" were holding cameras and phones.
Oh, come on.
Sophia's crew. They'd set him up.
"Sorry, Gus," Sophia said, grinning. "Special times call for special moves. No hard feelings."
Gus shook his head, exasperated. "I'd heard Ethan plays dirty, but this? Staking out my spot, trying to poach me, and if that fails, snapping pics to stir up drama with the press? Nice playbook."
"But we're fifty feet from WindyPeak's office. Who's faster—you leaking those photos or me running upstairs to tell Zoey I got played?"
Beating a setup was easy. Gus could race to Zoey, spill the beans about Nebula's trap, and kill any rumors before they started.
But Sophia was ready. She grabbed a phone from her crew and waved it at Gus. The screen showed a photo—her and Gus, mid-"hug," angled to look like a kiss.
She smirked, pleased with the shot. "So, who's faster—your legs or my thumbs texting Zoey?"
Gus's face froze. "You've gotta be kidding me…"