Lucas Sterling had never dropped a perfect score. Not once.
But Titanfall? It was a different beast. Gus Harper's level design felt like it was beamed in from another dimension, leaving every other game in the dust.
"'Into the Void' is wild," Lucas muttered, scribbling notes. "The world moves you on that slab, building itself like a damn Broadway reveal. Then, boom—boss fight."
Gus was torching the FPS playbook, raising the bar so high it felt untouchable. Lucas couldn't see WindyPeak topping "Into the Void." It was the pinnacle of linear shooter design. Could future levels keep up? Maybe. But this was the gold standard.
"Untouchable," Lucas wrote. "Game-changer."
His pen flew. Twenty hours in the IndieVibe X2 cabin had him fried but hyped. He stepped out to draft his review, afraid to disrespect Titanfall by playing half-dead. He flicked on a stream to chill, pen still moving.
Then Ethan "Piggie" Vance's voice blasted through. "What the hell? Yo, what's going on?!"
Half an hour back, Piggie was deep in the factory's opera-like arena. IMC grunts and bots swarmed, and without BT, he had to parkour and shred two Titans solo.
It was hell. He died fourteen times.
Finally linking up with BT, he faced Ash "Viper" Quinn, the factory's puppetmaster. Her Ronin Titan's massive sword screamed Lastimosa's killer. Piggie saw red.
Cannons roared, missiles screamed, Burst Core blazing. Viper's sword unleashed electromagnetic havoc, shredding shields. Piggie died—five, ten, twenty times. Each loss sharpened him. He mastered Flame, tagging Viper for missile barrages. At last, her Titan's health cracked. BT's fist smashed through, yanking her from the cockpit.
Crunch. Hydraulic justice.
"Hell yeah!" Piggie roared, popping his cabin for a smoke. Chat exploded:
"Viper's toast!"
"Lastimosa's ghost is cheering!"
"WindyPeak's on fire!"
Calmer, Piggie dove back in, leaving the crumbling factory with BT.
"Pilot, no shortcuts," BT said, deadpan.
Piggie laughed. "Yeah, man, we're done with those."
They trekked toward Major Alex Anderson, HUD ticking down to 100 meters. A new level flashed: Cause and Effect.
Split from BT, Piggie got a ping: "Anderson's in this building. Check it out. I'll meet you on the other side."
"Got it," Piggie said, sliding through a vent. "Don't get snagged again, bro."
"No shortcuts," BT shot back.
Chat lost it:
"BT's got PTSD!"
"Good bot, learning fast."
"Piggie's dating his Titan."
Piggie grinned. "Y'all need to chill." Every few steps, he checked in. "Yo, BT, you good?"
"Right here, Pilot."
"What's the vibe?"
"Heading to the exit. We're close."
"Man, you're making this sound like a rom-com."
"Friendship's more our speed," BT said. "Love's got too many strings—admiration, attraction—"
"Yo, ease up!" Piggie laughed, blushing hard. "You're too slick, bot."
Deep in the ruined building, a weird hum hit. Space warped, a void-like buzz in his ears. Pressure shifted.
Zoom! The decayed corridor turned pristine. Staff sorted papers at a sleek reception desk. Researchers in white coats passed, tablets glowing. A cleaning bot nearly clipped him.
"What the hell?" Piggie yelped.
Zoom! Back to ruins—dust, rust, weeds.
"Holy crap!" he shouted.
Flashbacks hit harder, faster. Zoom. A bot flashed a smiley face. Zoom. Weeds choked the hall. Zoom. Staff grabbed coffee, debating formulas. Zoom. A scorched whiteboard hung, half-burned.
Chat freaked:
"What's this?!"
"Time's glitching!"
"The Ark? IMC's time-core thing?"
"Is BT okay?"
Piggie's eyes widened. "Yo, BT, you good? What's happening?"
"Space-time distortions," BT said. "This building's a rift. Stay sharp."
Piggie hit a conference room. Zoom! It was packed, a gray-haired general—Marcus Mader—on a podium:
"…Everything's for humanity's survival. The Militia blocks unity. They must be crushed…"
Mader spotted him. "Pilot, what's wrong?"
Zoom! Back to ruins. A lone teleprompter hissed:
"…Szz… humanity… szz… crush rebels… szz… Pilot, you okay?"
Piggie's jaw dropped. "No way…"
The past was bleeding into now. Every flashback could rewrite the present.
Chat went nuts:
"Time-travel FPS?!"
"Gus is insane!"
"This is next-level!"
Piggie sprinted down a corridor, time flipping like a strobe. A beast lunged—zoom—a dragon snatched it mid-air. At a shattered glass wall, he saw a pristine garden below, drones circling a double-ring structure.
Zoom. Ruins again. Glass gone, rings collapsed.
"Where are we?" Piggie asked.
"IMC research facility," BT said. "Unknown to us. The Ninth Fleet took out 29 others before Operation Broadsword."
"That's wild," Piggie said, leaping from the window. "How many of these do they have?"
BT loomed at the entrance, scanning bodies. "None match Anderson. He might be alive. Check the hall."
"On it," Piggie said, gripping his EVA-8 shotgun, sliding into a war-torn hall. Bullet holes scarred the walls, weeds sprouting from concrete.
Up the escalator, he froze. An Iron Pilot—Major Anderson—was embedded in the ceiling, half his body dangling, legs stuck in the floor above.
"What the hell?" Piggie gasped.
He yanked off Anderson's helmet, confirming it was him. "BT, I found him… he's, uh, in the ceiling."
"Objective complete. We've reunited with Major Anderson," BT said.
Piggie blinked. "Dude, that's a dark joke."
"No humor intended," BT said.
Chat erupted:
"Hahaha, hardcore reunion!"
"Halfway meetup!"
"Anderson's stuck AF!"
"How'd he even get there?!"
"Time glitch gone wrong."
Piggie snorted, laughing like a hyena. "Y'all are ruthless. This is sad, okay?"
BT finished scanning. Two weeks back, the Militia intercepted IMC chatter about a major find on Typhon—an energy blast causing time rifts. Anderson was sent with a wristband device to investigate. He didn't make it.
"We must complete Operation 217," BT said. "Finish Anderson's mission."
BT ripped a light pole from the ground, bent it, and hurled it like a javelin, the wire forming a zipline to a building gap.
"Damn, nice throw," Piggie said, eyeing the UI script: "Maybe try throwing me next time."
"Noted," BT said.
Piggie hooked the zipline, sliding toward the breach.
At Zenith Studios' HQ, Ethan "Zane" Holt, founder and game director, watched Yin's stream. His fingers tingled as time flashed in-game.
He opened his mouth, words failing. This level—Cause and Effect—was different. Time rifts, past affecting present, Anderson's bizarre death, shifting terrain… it was unreal.
A wild theory hit him. "No way," he muttered. "Gus can't be that crazy."
Into the Void's moving-slab design had already floored him, a ceiling for linear levels. As a top FPS director, he'd called Insect Tide 2100 a win. But Titanfall? It was humiliatingly better.
"Gus, you greedy bastard," Zane said. "You hit the ceiling and now you're smashing it?"
Insect Tide 2100 was toast. Titanfall's last level buried it. And this new one? It was about to obliterate everything.
Zoom. Yin's stream flashed, time warping. Zane froze, electrified.
"The ceiling's gone," he whispered. "Gus just broke the game."