WindyPeak's project department was a breakfast frenzy.
"Yo, Jonah, got two extra bagels. Want one?"
"Hell yeah, pass it. This coffee's kicking my ass…"
"Man, I over-ordered tacos. Split 'em?"
"Deal, we're sharing, not scrapping!"
"Sharing, scrapping—same vibe!"
"Nope, keep 'em, you glutton!"
"Hey, what?"
Luke Bennett burst in, waving a report like a championship trophy. "Team! Apex Entertainment dropped Titanfall's first-week numbers!"
The room went wild.
Titanfall had owned the gaming scene since launch, fueled by perfect reviews and Gus Harper's Legendary Pictures collab. It steamrolled Nebula Games' escort titles like a Titan crushing grunts.
Everyone leaned in. What'd their BT-7274 pull off?
"Spit it out, Luke!"
"C'mon!"
"Over 300,000?"
"You crazy? That's $60 million! Next-gen VR ain't cheap!"
"True, IndieVibe X1 would've sold more."
"Luke, let's bet," Jake Rivers yelled. "Art, planning, programming—guess X2's sales. Losers buy breakfast tomorrow!"
"No shot!"
"Programming's taking this!"
"Hold up, Luke's neutral now, not our boss!"
"Gus! You in?"
Eyes hit Gus Harper, wiping taco sauce, lighting a cigarette.
Click. Smoke curled. "I'm game," Gus said. "Haven't seen X2 sales. Blind guess."
He scribbled on printer paper, folded it, and slid it under his coffee mug. "Your move."
The team roared. Classic Gus—bold as hell.
"C'mon, Luke!" they pressed.
He grinned, raising a hand. "As of 11:59 PM yesterday, IndieVibe X2 sold 358,920 units!"
Gasps rocked the room.
358,000+? Day one was 46,000. Titanfall didn't just hold—it surged, defying VR sales logic.
"Guess time!" Luke said.
Art team, via Jake Rivers: "300,000, 83% buy rate."
Planning, via Jonah York: "250,000, 73%."
Programming: "280,000, 78%."
Luke's grin turned sly. "Y'all sleeping on Gus and yourselves. Not one guess topped 85%. Weak sauce."
He unfolded the report, voice booming. "Titanfall's week-one sales: 355,430 units, $70.37 million, 99% buy rate!"
The room detonated.
"What the hell?"
"355,000?!"
"Ninety-nine percent? One X2 buyer skipped Titanfall?"
"Insane!"
"Never been done!"
"What'd Gus guess?"
Eyes swung to Gus. He crushed his cigarette, pulling the paper from under his mug.
Unfolded: 350,000, 97%+. Crossed out. Below: 1 unit.
"Should've stuck with it," Gus said, faking a scowl. "Breakfast's on me tomorrow. Whaddaya want?"
A half-second pause, then laughter erupted.
"Wagyu sliders, Gus!"
"Lobster rolls, boss!"
"Caviar tacos!"
"I'm chill—just a truffle omelet…"
"Yo, you're killing me!"
Laughter filled WindyPeak's office. No one noticed it seeping through the president's door, hitting Zoey Parker like a hail of bullets.
Zoey slumped, head buzzing. $70.37 million in a week. Two weeks? $140 million. Her $90 million loss for a $990 million rebate was now $19.63 million. Her billion-dollar dream, gutted to $300 million.
She sighed, blowing a kiss to the air, mourning her lost millions. "Three hundred's fine," she muttered. "Covers two Titanfalls."
She glanced at the clock. "Part two's unlocking soon. Maybe it'll act like a normal game and tank…"
Dusk hit. Twitch, YouTube Live, Kick—their game sections were plastered with BT-7274 and Jack Cooper banners.
Viewership spiked. Big streamers' black screens buzzed with chat before Titanfall Part 2 even unlocked.
"Day seven without Titanfall. I'm dying."
"Counting down like a junkie…"
"No more week-long waits, please!"
"BT withdrawal's real."
"Worst BT craving hit me in bed, chanting prayers. Felt ants crawling. Thought I was a pro Pilot, but everyone's outrunning me. Smacked myself till I cried. Miss BT so bad I'm losing it."
"Chill, dude!"
"Gus infected us all."
"WindyPeak fans are unhinged."
Chat was chaos, from memes to meltdowns.
At 8:00 PM, the countdown hit zero. Titanfall Part 2 unlocked, and the internet exploded.
Daisy "Dizzy" Lane's stream went nuts. "Yo, y'all, it's time!"
She'd waited out the countdown in-game. The screen faded. WindyPeak's logo glowed, then IndieVibe's, then—Legendary Pictures, with a "Special Thanks" nod.
Director: Gus Harper faded in. A grand symphony swelled. Wind whistled, like Daisy stood on a mountaintop.
Goosebumps hit. "It's here! You hear that wind, chat?"
Chat erupted:
"Hell yeah!"
"Scalp's tingling!"
"Mic off, Dizzy! Couch ready, popcorn popped!"
"Movie mode activated."
"Turn off your mic, girl, don't ruin it!"
"Where's my dragon prop?"
"Light's on—wait, it's starting!"
"Soundtrack's fire."
"Lights off, I'm locked in."
"Popcorn, soda, let's go!"
"Wrong set, bro, this ain't a road trip!"
Daisy's VR cabin kicked in—mountain breeze, gunpowder tang, the hard jolt of sitting on metal. She was on BT's shoulder, climbing a cliff.
The screen brightened. Jagged stone walls rose. Below, a bottomless ravine.
Whoosh! BT's jets fired. Daisy screamed, clutching tight. Her fear of heights spiked, legs jelly in the immersive rig.
"Slow down, BT! This is too damn high!"
"Who puts a cliff climb mid-game? Gus, you monster!"
"No, no—argh!"
Boom! BT landed on a mountain path. His calm, synthetic voice cut through: "Pilot Cooper, Anderson's gone, but we can finish his mission. The signal tower ahead will do it."
In-game, the Militia's advance team was wrecked on Typhon. Pilots Lastimosa and Anderson were dead, troops scattered. The IMC, led by General Mader, prepped the Holy Ark to nuke Harmony.
Jack Cooper, acting Pilot, carried the weight. Daisy, as Cooper, had to relay intel to the fleet.
Her legs wobbled. "Next time, I'm in the cockpit," she muttered, sliding off BT.
They trekked the path, sunrise painting cliffs gold. BT pinged: "Pilot, signal tower's close."
Daisy reached the peak. Coned mountains pierced clouds, the sun flickering. A massive steel signal tower loomed, its dish like a sunflower chasing dawn.
Chat lost it:
"Gus's art is unreal."
"Light, shadow—chef's kiss."
"WindyPeak's art team is god-tier."
"From frozen Ark to this? They're flexing."
"Signal tower mission? Bet it's not that simple."
"Dizzy's gonna faint climbing that thing."
"Is the X2 waterproof?"
Daisy grinned nervously. "Y'all better not jinx me."
She and BT neared the control room. A crackling radio hit her helmet:
"Pilot! It's Cole… under siege… control room… too many Lurkers…"
Gunfire echoed. "Need backup… can't hold…"
Daisy froze. Cole—her old rifleman captain, the guy who tossed her a gun for sim training.
"Pilot, copy!" she shouted.
BT charged down the path. Around a bend, the control room was swarmed—stalker robots like a zombie horde, blasting a battered alloy door.
The Militia inside was toast without help.
Boom! BT's cannons roared, missiles raining. Stalkers crumpled like toys under Titan fire, some squashed flat underfoot.
"Enemy cleared," BT said. "Solid work, Pilot. Our combat efficiency is top-notch."
"Damn right!" Daisy laughed. "Been training with Pilots all week. I'm sharp!"
She hit the comms: "Acting Pilot Jack Cooper, calling Captain Cole. Enemies down. Open the door."
Hiss—rumble. The door slid open. Cole's voice crackled: "Thanks, Pilot! Those stalkers were endless. We were done for."
Cole froze, eyeing Daisy. He hadn't expected her driving BT-7274. Still, he saluted. "Commander."
Daisy's grin split her face. From rifleman to Commander?
"Wuhu!" she crowed, patting Cole's shoulder. "No sweat, Cole. Y'all held tough. Gimme the signal tower's status."
Chat exploded:
"Lmao, Dizzy's drunk on power!"
"Cole's like, 'I should've died back there.'"
"Villain arc activated."
"Lastimosa's ghost is facepalming."
"Dragon King vibes, Daisy!"
"Someone smack her through the screen!"
Daisy cackled, basking in her glow-up.