Too niche, that's why! So niche no one's dumb enough to sponsor a suicidal project like extreme sports.
The Silicon Valley conference room at ThunderBull Energy HQ went dead quiet, vibes all awkward.
Matt Lager, the Austrian chairman, opened his mouth to backtrack. He wasn't the "my way or the highway" type. A former marketing hotshot at Medler, he knew autocrats tanked companies unless they were some god-tier visionary with a flawless market nose. Matt wasn't that guy. He leaned on his team's input at ThunderBull.
One look at the execs' faces—grimaces and side-eyes—told him his extreme sports pitch was a miss. Niche projects had no sponsors for a reason: no clout, no crowd. Sponsoring them was like backing a neighborhood dodgeball team. Pointless.
But before he could retract, Zach Xu, the Chinese-American CEO, piped up: "I think it's a solid idea."
What?! Eyes snapped from Matt to Zach. Oh no, both bosses lost it at once?
The execs paled. If the chairman fumbled, the CEO could steer straight. If the CEO slipped, the chairman had the wheel. But both? The room was so silent you could hear a mouse fart.
Zach continued: "I grew up in Fresno, California, before moving to Silicon Valley with my mom. Back in middle school, there was this baller entrepreneur in town. Loaded—mansions, supercars, over a billion in assets. Guess his hustle?"
The execs threw out guesses:
"Tech startup?"
"Real estate?"
"California wine? That's big, right?"
"Crypto?"
"Bet it's finance. Early players banked hard."
Zach shook his head. "Nope. Craft beer brewer. Biggest supplier in our city and county. Ninety percent of the brews in local bars—$5 pints—came from his tanks."
The room buzzed. Craft beer? Then it clicked, and Zach drove it home: "Any industry can print money if you lock it down. Beer, energy drinks, whatever. Monopolize the channel, you're the king."
"Extreme sports are niche, sure," he said. "Low buzz, low participation. But there's 195 countries, 8 billion people. Say 100 extreme athletes per country—that's 19,500 worldwide. If just 10,000 per country watch live streams, that's 1.95 million viewers globally. These athletes need a stage, a spotlight. Their fanbase is small but fierce. Unite them, and it's a force. Let's give it a shot."
He paused, then added: "Plus, I've got Seattle contacts who could link us with a studio down for extreme sports collabs. They're a game dev, not exactly sports, but their new extreme sports title's blowing up, starting to break mainstream. I think…"
"…we should hit up ThunderBull."
Tetsuya Moritan slid a gold-can energy drink across the conference table to Gus Harper.
Pop. Gus grabbed it, eyeing the can. He chuckled. No wonder "Red Bull Challenge" turned up nada online. The familiar BULL logo, two charging bulls—yup, it's ThunderBull, this world's Red Bull.
Same ThunderBull Energy, same Austrian-Chinese-American duo running it. But here, they'd just locked down California's energy drink scene and were creeping into the West Coast. Miles from sponsoring F1 or dominating extreme sports like Red Bull.
This timeline shift was a butterfly's wing in Silicon Valley, sparking a Pacific tsunami. Zach Xu and Tetsuya Moritan? Old pals. Wild.
As WindyPeak's deputy director, Tetsuya was steering Peak Nation. A ThunderBull collab? Gus's grin turned sly.
ThunderBull? Nah. WindyBull. WindyBull Extreme Challenge. WindyBull Soapbox Derby. WindyBull Skydiving Showdown. The breakout moment was calling.
Zoey Parker raised an eyebrow. Not bad. She'd just juiced Peak Nation's rebate to 100x, and now a derivative project lands? ThunderBull wants to co-sponsor a no-audience extreme sports event? That's a straight-up money sink.
Unlike tossing cash out a window—that at least makes a sound—this was a silent cash burn. Zoey was hyped, ready to insure every daredevil signing up for the $5 "Peak Eight" challenge.
She mused, "I say we make contact. Thoughts, Gus?"
Gus sipped the drink, checked the ingredients. Yup, that's the stuff. He nodded. "Worth a shot."
Zoey's plan was simple: this dumb side project was a loss magnet. She'd check the system's rebate rules for sponsorships, then max the red ink. Gus? He was dreaming of soapbox derbies and stratospheric jumps, globe-trotting to watch nutcases push limits, all bankrolled by ThunderBull.
But neither knew: as they schemed, they'd stepped beyond games into derivative industries. The gears of fate were turning. A gaming empire, with WindyPeak at its core, was taking shape.
Click. Zoey chugged the drink Gus passed her, poked the empty can, and smirked. Tastes solid. Gotta stock the office claw machine with these.
"Alright," she clapped. "ThunderBull sponsorship's a go. Tetsuya, Gus, hammer out the deets later. Anything else to report?"
Zoey, the "slacker" CEO, rarely hit meetings. Per Gus and her dad, Wes Parker, execs prepped reports when she showed. Wes's words: "You don't gotta be Gus-level sharp, but don't be clueless. Don't embarrass us."
Zoey wasn't thrilled but saw the upside: project updates fueled her loss-making schemes. So, she rolled with it.
Reports done, it was time for her real focus: the Garden Warfare spin-off. In her system, a Loss-Making Multiplier Coupon waited—10,000x on a $10.03M loss deposit. With Garden Warfare's 15x rebate, that's 1018x total. Open a diner with that cash and eat free forever.
Zoey cleared her throat. "Nothing else? Cool, let's talk Garden Warfare spin-off."
Swish. The room lit up. Golden Experience Studio's execs, led by Jace Yun, grabbed pens, ready to scribble.
Last Friday, Apex Legends's new patch wrapped testing, closing a chapter for Golden Experience's multiplayer shooters. Now, the Garden Warfare spin-off was up.
Jace's face was stone-cold serious. Garden Warfare was a sore spot—the only WindyPeak game with a "Mostly Positive" 76% rating on IndieVibe. Platform metrics: 95%+ is "Overwhelmingly Positive," 80%+ is "Very Positive," 70%+ is "Mostly Positive." For most studios, 70% was decent—a C grade. But WindyPeak? Different league.
Their catalog? Blockbusters like Titanfall and Sekiro (9.9 score, crushed Komina). Genre-definers like Vampire Survivor and Left 4 Dead. Even early mini-games Cat Rio and Who's the Daddy hit 85%, "Very Positive." Garden Warfare? A measly 76%.
Sure, Komina's early smear campaign tanked its launch. But even after Komina shifted to Sekiro beef, Garden Warfare never recovered. It stung.
Jace felt it. Fans roasted Gus, saying the "old thief" fell off. But it was a jab at Golden Experience, too. WindyPeak built its name on shooters, yet stumbled on one, leaving a scar.
Meanwhile, Steel Chain Fingers Studio was killing it. Plants vs. Zombies sold 7M copies in 7 days, an industry miracle. Sekiro became a deity in Japan. Jace and Sienna Tate's crew were tight, but watching Steel Chain shine while Golden Experience ate dust? Painful.
Same company, same top-tier pay—highest salaries, full benefits, strict weekends, no crunch, triple overtime if needed. Yet Steel Chain racked up wins, while Golden Experience… what, just vibing?
Only one slacker existed at WindyPeak: Mr. Parker. Everyone else joined with big dreams. Even ignoring ambition, did Garden Warfare's flop honor Mr. Parker's trust? The pay, the perks, the undefeated director Gus? That lineup deserved better than a "passing" grade.
Golden Experience execs exchanged glances, quietly fuming. Time to flip the script, erase the shame. Profit was the goal—this was their FPS creed, forged in Left 4 Dead, PUBG, and Apex Legends.
This spin-off? A myth to top myths. Profit or bust.
Gus spoke: "The spin-off's plan isn't locked, but I've got a name—Overwatch."
Overwatch.