Zoey Parker was screaming inside.
Come on, cut me a break!
She'd spent years chasing flops, praying for a big loss. Back when WindyPeak was a scrappy startup, with tiny budgets and a niche crowd, that made sense. Their first game, Cat Mario, had a measly $10,000 budget. A tenfold loss was just $100,000—chump change. Zero sales were the only way to cash in on the full rebate.
But now? WindyPeak was a mid-sized beast, with a growing fanbase and fat budgets. A hundred million or even a billion thrown into a game didn't need to tank completely to score a massive rebate.
Take Garden Warfare. It sold 718,900 units in a week, just shy of the 731,000 target, yet Zoey pocketed nearly $10 million in rebates. Sure, players joked about WindyPeak "falling from grace," but that was just banter. Globally, recovering a game's budget in a week or two put them in an elite league.
No one else had grown from a $500,000 startup to $1 billion in disposable assets in three years. If they went public, their market value would hit tens, maybe hundreds of billions.
And now, with a 1,000x rebate coupon in her system, financial freedom was right there. A $100 million game, losing just a tenth—$10 million—would net her $10 billion. Blow a few billion on a yacht, and she and Gus could coast for life.
Best part? It wouldn't even dent Gus's rep as a supernova or WindyPeak's quality cred. After cashing in, Zoey could ditch the system, let Gus make whatever he wanted, and go full hype mode with zero regrets.
It's a win-win! Tank a game, make bank, and chill forever. Come on, lose already!
She took a deep breath, hoping Gus's next project was one of her five loss-making picks: Vampire Survivor, Left 4 Dead, Apex Legends, To the Moon, or Garden Warfare. Her favorite? Garden Warfare—the biggest loss she'd ever scored.
"I'm making a first-person shooter based on Garden Warfare," Gus said.
Jackpot! Zoey's heart leapt.
Gus had been planning this for ages. Garden Warfare was a test run, with its "Push Carts" and "Capture Points" modes laying the groundwork. He'd even toyed with a bold second-gen FPS design—ditching virtual crosshairs for mechanical aiming, like the Pea Shooter's anvil hole or Captain Corn's corn-leaf sight.
It flopped. Hard. Mechanical aiming worked for rifles but tanked with grenade launchers, killing the game's flow and fun.
WindyPeak's shooters always skipped virtual crosshairs, a relic of old-school FPS games in this world. To outsiders, crosshairs were outdated, unfit for somatosensory cabins. But now?
Gus paused, then dropped a bomb. "This time, I'm scrapping our second-gen FPS iron sights and going with virtual crosshairs for smoother gameplay."
Zoey nearly lost it. If Gus were in Seattle, she'd have tackled him in joy.
My lucky star! It was like they were on the same wavelength.
Garden Warfare was her golden goose—the biggest loss in WindyPeak's history, netting $617,200 in a week. Only Left 4 Dead topped it, with a $10 million loss and 100x rebate. But a Left 4 Dead 2 would probably sell like crazy, given its cult status. Garden Warfare? It was the game that got Gus mocked as "fallen from the altar," WindyPeak's only non-"highly praised" title.
And now Gus was ditching their signature second-gen FPS for virtual crosshairs? Self-sabotage! It was like a chef burning his own kitchen. WindyPeak's shooters thrived on their unique aiming; going retro was a death sentence.
If they were public, this news alone would crash their stock. Virtual crosshairs were fading—games like Crossfire were the last holdouts, and the market had moved on since WindyPeak's second-gen FPS revolution three years ago.
Perfect. If this doesn't flop, what will?
"Love it! Brilliant!" Zoey cheered, giving a thumbs-up. "Rise where you fell!"
"Plus," she added, "bringing back virtual crosshairs shows WindyPeak's not stuck in a rut. It proves to players that fun comes from creativity and gameplay, not some rigid mode."
Gus's jaw dropped. Look at Zoey go!
Three years ago, she knew zilch about games. Now she was dropping gems like "fun comes from creativity and playability." Her growth in understanding the market and game design was unreal.
"Zoey, you're killing it!" Gus said, giving a mock salute. "So, we're greenlighting this?"
"Hell yeah!" Zoey nodded, practically vibrating. "It's a go! Get back here, and we'll kick it off!"
She couldn't wait another second. Time to lose big!
"Deal!" Gus said, pumped.
They hung up, and Gus was buzzing. Sure, giants like Kotick's Blizzard were top dogs, neck-and-neck with Komina or Vivendi. But Blizzard's old hits were gold, and in this world, somatosensory cabin games were king. With IndieVibe's sensory tech and WindyPeak's motion assist, Gus could almost feel the rush of dodging and blasting in-game.
Deep breath. "System, unlock Overwatch."
[Didi, insufficient emotion value, 168,992 points short]
Gus sighed. Close enough. He'd hit the mark once players took down Sekiro's red ghost boss.
"WindyPeak Booth Hits New Heights!"
"Hot damn! WindyPeak's cabins are still swamped after three restocks!"
"'Wolf Game' Becomes This Week's Hottest Buzzword"
"Top Reviewers Give Sekiro Near-Perfect Scores!"
"Torii's Safety Flops, Sekiro Breaks Out!"
…
Two days flew by.
After the Day 2 incident, no one dared mess with WindyPeak's booth. Even the player lines got orderly, like they'd learned their lesson.
With stats climbing, the final "heat index peak: 277%" crowned WindyPeak the festival's brightest star. Talk of "falling from the altar" flipped to hype, with media calling Sekiro "the year's most anticipated game, rivaling or topping A Way Out."
Reviewers raved about its polished action system. Players chanted "MAGA—Make ARPGs Great Again," hailing it as a somatosensory cabin revolution, like Left 4 Dead before it.
The "Wolf Game" label stuck, echoing Pew's Day 1 tweet. Sekiro wasn't just a smooth ARPG with flashy moves. Its levels, story, combat logic, and presentation were unlike anything in this era—or ever. It was the future of action games.
And that future was here.
"'Wolf Games' will be a major branch of cabin action titles," Tatsuya Moritani said, sipping oolong tea at a small teriyaki joint near Komina's HQ. "I hope Sekiro kills it, and you and WindyPeak keep climbing, Gus."
"Thanks, Tatsuya," Gus said, nodding. "But you went above and beyond. Linking us with the motion capture team, stepping in at the expo…"
"Nah, don't mention it," Tatsuya waved off. "You trusted me with your plans, so I gave it my all."
"As for the expo…" He sighed, still pissed. "It was my job. For Komina's sake, I had to stop that mess."
"Gotta thank you for not holding a grudge," he added.
Gus chuckled. "Others might be shady, but you? Never."
They finished eating, stood, and stepped outside. Tatsuya offered to drive Gus to his hotel, but Gus waved him off—it was a short walk.
They shook hands. "Take care, Gus. Hit me up next time you're in Japan," Tatsuya said.
"Count on it," Gus grinned. "Come to Seattle sometime. Swing by WindyPeak."
"Deal," Tatsuya said, intrigued. "Once things cool off, I'll pitch a 'business trip' to study your setup."
"Looking forward to it," Gus said.
They waved goodbye. Tatsuya drove off, and Gus strolled toward his hotel.
Unbeknownst to them, across the street, a man in a black trench coat slipped his phone away. Its screen, just before locking, showed Gus and Tatsuya shaking hands, laughing like old friends…