"Everybody up!" Yin's chat roared.
"Dude, I'm numb!"
"This is the Ninth Art!"
"Not a game—a freakin' movie!"
"Gus Harper's off the altar!"
"God's fallen, and I'm here for it!"
Yin's stream was chaos. Titanfall's "Into the Void" and "Cause and Effect" had obliterated expectations. The time-travel gauntlet, the frozen Ark moment—players were losing it.
"That frozen scene?" one chat read. "Slap it on the IndieVibe X2's home screen."
"Pro tip: X2's got a seven-day refund. Buy, play Titanfall, return it. $198 plus $100 shipping—same as Special Operations. No scam here."
"Bug or genius?"
"Gus's brain isn't human."
The levels' design—slabs moving you, time flipping between past and present—had rewritten the FPS rulebook. The gaming world was on fire.
Boom! In-game, the Holy Ark's explosion kicked back in. Yin flew, tumbling as BT steadied.
"Nice work, Pilot," BT said. "Scan complete. The IMC's got the Ark, aiming to wipe out Harmony."
"We're not done," BT added. "This data's gotta reach the fleet."
The screen faded. WindyPeak's logo glowed beside IndieVibe's.
"Pilot Cooper, Anderson's gone," BT's voice echoed. "But we can still link with the fleet…"
A symphony swelled—mountains under dawn, a signal tower piercing the sky.
Then, a trailer hit. Cooper soared through a tower's steel frame, clouds whipping by. "Northeast, 428 meters… throwing's our shot…"
Plains erupted in chaos—hundreds of Titans, flames swallowing the sky. "Break through! The Ark's on the move!"
A fleet screamed through valleys, energy blasts like meteors. "The Ark's on the Draco! Board now!"
Epic vistas, heart-pounding battles, aerial assaults. The trailer was a Molotov cocktail to players' hearts.
Then, darkness. Sam Harper's voice sneered: "Alright, hero, squads win or die together, yeah?"
Boom! Timpani hit. The trailer cut. Two messages flashed:
Titan's Fall (Part 1)
Titanfall (Part 2) – Unlock in: 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds…
Gus Harper knew Titanfall's short runtime was its Achilles' heel. Six hours for $198? Tough sell. Multiplayer was coming, with a surprise he'd oversee himself. But for now, he doubled down.
Why not lean into it? Make Titanfall an interactive movie. Split it into two parts, like a cinematic saga. Not just a game—an experience.
Two movie tickets cost $150, maybe $160. For $198, you got six hours of sci-fi epic you could play. Top-tier tech, unmatched camera work, era-defying gameplay. No rival came close.
Gus pitched it, and Zoey Parker greenlit it. "Bold as hell," she'd said, grinning. "You're either a genius or roadkill."
She loved the gamble. Gus was her guy—fearless, ruthless, the kind of designer who'd get strung up by purists but worshipped by fans.
Except Zoey needed Titanfall to flop. Her $170 million bet was meant to tank, securing a $90 million loss and a $990 million rebate. A split release? Suicide. It'd halve sales, scare off buyers till Part 2 dropped.
Ethan Caldwell from IndieVibe had called, worried. "Gus, this could crash your rep. Ninety percent chance it backfires."
Gus didn't blink. "I hear you, Ethan. No changes."
Zoey nearly cackled. "Can't talk sense to a guy begging to crash."
In her apartment, Zoey sprawled on her couch, scrolling Yin's stream. The trailer played, countdown ticking. She smirked, shaking her foot.
"Gus, you genius idiot," she muttered. "You think you're slick, but I'm winning this."
Her plan was airtight. Titanfall's hype would fade, sales would stall, and her loss was locked in. She gave herself a mental high-five.
"Even if you're a ghost, you're sipping my victory latte," she said, grinning.
She flicked on the chat, ready to watch fans rage at the split release.
Then it hit.
"Holy crap! A movie-game hybrid?!"
"This is it!"
"Trailer's fire! Part 2 looks nuts!"
"$198 for this? Steal!"
Zoey's potato chips hit the floor.
"No way," she whispered.
Chat kept rolling:
"It's like a three-hour movie for $198. Beats Insect Tide 2100's slog."
"Gus nailed it. No fluff, pure story."
"BT's lines? Perfect. That Lastimosa grave scene? I'm wrecked."
"Three hours now, more in a week. Cheaper than two movie tickets."
"I'm buying. Mecha vibes are unreal with X2's sensory tech."
Zoey's jaw dropped. Fans were hyping the split? Calling it a bargain?
She panic-typed a premium chat message:
"Game's dope, but splitting it? Less content, cliffhanger city. Thoughts?"
The reply swarm hit like a tidal wave:
"Less content? This is art! $198 for this quality's a steal!"
"Cliffhanger's the point! It's a movie-game!"
"Compare this to Special Operations's grind? No contest."
"Bet you're a Nebula Games shill."
Zoey's face paled. "Me? A shill? I'm the damn president!"
She pointed at the screen, then herself, reeling. Cyberbullied by her own game's fans? At 22, she felt the internet's wrath.
It got worse.
"Splitting it saves spoilers!" one chat read. "I'm waiting on my X2—Gus is a saint for this."
"Courier's slow here. No spoiler stress now."
"Buying before Part 2 drops. Don't get backstabbed!"
Zoey collapsed on her 1.5-meter bed, staring at the moon. Her limbs went limp, eyes glassy. A dead fish.
"No hope," she mumbled. "This gaming world's cooked."
Gus had brainwashed them. His mobile altar rolled through, fans tossing roses and chanting his name. Titanfall was unstoppable.
Zoey's last hope was the film industry. If some big-shot director called Titanfall a wannabe movie, it might snap fans out of it.
She stared at the sky, whispering, "C'mon, Hollywood. Save me…"
Next morning, Gus Harper hit the WindyPeak office, skimming Titanfall buzz. X was ablaze—#Titanfall at #3.
His inbox pinged. An email, forwarded by Ethan Caldwell.
"Dear Mr. Harper," it read. "I'm Hannah Toole, Chief of Business Development at Legendary Pictures. We're working on a motion picture project and were struck by your groundbreaking interactive movie game. I'd love to discuss a potential collaboration…"
Gus blinked.
Hollywood was calling.