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Chapter 267: A Heavy Hitter Joins! Zoey Parker’s Rival Drama!
🕑 Added 2025-09-07 07:19:23 +0000 UTCSeattle’s too damn cold! Zoey Parker thought, her face all business but her heart doing backflips.
She’d zoned out during Gus Harper and Victor Lang’s sports game pitch. But when the room went quiet—like, awkward quiet—she snapped back.
What? Gus wants to make an extreme sports game?
Zoey nearly cackled. Oh, hell yeah.
No wonder Gus was so hyped. He’d been cooking this wild idea all along. Peak Nation? Niche as hell, dark as a FromSoft boss. Perfect for tanking.
This is it. My money-losing masterpiece.
Even Victor and Gus looked worried about sales. Extreme sports in a somatosensory cabin sounded dope—adrenaline-pumping, heart-racing dope. But in this world? Barely anyone cared about extreme sports. No Red Bull stunts, no X Games, nada.
Take Gus’s old-world games: Steep vs. NBA2K17 in 2016. NBA crushed it. Why? Basketball’s got MJ, LeBron, a global fanbase. Extreme sports? No stars, no buzz, just a few daredevils posting on blogs. Same quality, smaller audience, lower sales.
Here, extreme sports were even less popular. Peak Nation’s sales? Doomed.
Zoey’s eyes sparkled. Jackpot.
Gus and Victor went silent, stumped. Zoey clapped her hands. “What’s up, boys? Any issues?”
Gus hesitating? A once-in-a-lifetime shot to flop! We’re greenlighting this NOW.
Years of corporate games had sharpened Zoey’s tongue. One line—“Any issues?”—and the deal was sealed. No room for debate.
Victor’s jaw dropped. Gus blinked, speechless.
What? It’s done?
Victor stammered. He’d come to WindyPeak begging, no cash or effort on his end. Zoey’s call left him no room to argue. What more do I need?
Gus swallowed his words. Zoey’s all-in support—her unconditional hype for his wildest ideas—was a ton of weight. How could he say no?
And just like that, in a weirdly tense vibe, Peak Nation, the IndieVibe X2 exclusive, was locked in at lightning speed.
“…So, I’ll head back and wait for your update?” Victor said, dazed, like he’d sleepwalked into Seattle.
“Leave it to me, Victor,” Gus mumbled, still reeling. He shook Victor’s hand. “I’ll ping you for testing when we’re ready.”
“Cool… I’ll bounce then…”
“No need to see me out.”
“No need to see me out,” Ted Moriarty said, packing his last pen into a small storage box.
Outside his Komina office, the game division crowded around. Leading them was Tadanori Kaminori, the last of Komina’s “old guard” directors from Takasugi Studio.
“Ted, any chance to fix this?” Tadanori asked, sighing.
Fix it? Ted gave a bitter smile.
Technically, yeah, there was room. A phone call and some photos? Kenji Ueyama couldn’t pin “trade secrets” on him. Ted hadn’t leaked squat.
Sure, he kept WindyPeak’s Sekiro hush-hush out of respect, but he didn’t betray Komina or funnel secrets to Gus Harper. Helping with motion capture? That was just a favor, no harm to Komina.
If Ted pushed back, Ueyama and the board couldn’t touch his director seat. But why bother?
The gloves were off. Staying meant being sidelined by eight shareholders playing power games. Ueyama, desperate to cling to his presidency, was making dumb moves. A hollow title wasn’t worth it.
“No fixing this,” Ted said, exhausted, shaking his head at Tadanori. “It’s pointless.”
Tadanori opened his mouth but settled for a firm handshake. “I believe you, Ted. Gus Harper’s a charmer, but I know you’ve got principles.”
“Thanks,” Ted said, relief washing over him.
Declining help, he grabbed his box, bowed to his colleagues, and spoke: “Thanks for everything over the years. It’s been an honor. Wishing you all the best.”
“No need to see me out.”
Ted nodded and strode out of Komina’s doors.
At a busy Seattle intersection, he glanced back at Komina’s red-and-white logo. Then at his tiny box. Twenty years, and this was all he had.
Damn.
Shaking his head, Ted sighed. “I could use a drink.”
“Drink? Hell no!” Gus snapped at Zoey’s dinner-table request.
Zoey was a lightweight—greedy for cash, blackout-level chaotic when drunk. Gus still cringed remembering her 2 a.m. meltdown, demanding a cucumber with a “funny face.”
Let her drink? He’d need a full night to handle the chaos. Not today.
“I’ve gotta draft Peak Nation’s plan tonight,” Gus said, frowning. “It’s a tough one.”
Peak Nation. Steep Republic.
Gus was pulling from Steep and Riders Republic for this extreme sports game, cherry-picking their best bits for the IndieVibe X2 cabin. But with extreme sports this niche, he’d need wild marketing tricks to boost buzz. Heavy workload, solo grind—no one else had his “system” (read: genius).
“Oh, sweet!” Zoey chirped, hiding a grin. “No pressure, Gus. It’s new territory. We can afford the L.”
Afford it? I’m banking on it! She bit her tongue to keep from laughing.
Zoey sent Gus back to the studio, “sensibly” giving him space. She kicked back with a movie, feeling smug knowing Gus was slaving away on her flop-in-the-making.
Movie done, Zoey stretched like a cat on the couch. “11:30 p.m. already?”
She shut off the projector, washed up, poked her head into Gus’s studio, said goodnight, and crashed in her room.
Five minutes later—voices from the studio.
Zoey froze. Midnight, and Gus is chatting with someone?
Heart racing, she crept to the door. Click. Gus’s voice, soft, on a video call: “Hold up, grabbing some beers.”
Thump, thump, thump. Bare feet. Fridge door. Clinking bottles. Thump, thump, thump. Studio door shut. Muffled voices.
Zoey’s blood boiled. Gus, you dog! Won’t drink with me but sneaking beers with someone else? “Evening projects”? BS!
Her eyes welled up. What are we, Gus? I’m waiting up, and you’re flirting on a call?
She wanted to storm in but lacked a good excuse. Click. She cracked her door, tiptoeing to the studio, ear pressed against it.
Gus’s voice: “…I’m sorry, I messed up… Should’ve seen it coming… Didn’t expect someone to snap photos that night…”
Zoey’s scalp tingled. What?! Her heart sank, imagining some late-night scandal.
No way I’m playing the heartbroken sidekick. She wanted to know who this “rival” was stealing her spotlight.
“Gus Harper!” Bang! Zoey, in floral bear pajamas, stormed in, hands on hips. “Working on a project, huh? Chatting with your sweetheart at midnight? Keep it down, some of us have roommates!”
The studio went dead silent.
Gus stared, frozen for five seconds. He glanced at his phone, then Zoey, then back, shrugging awkwardly. “Uh… not a sweetheart. It’s…”
He fumbled, pulling off his Bluetooth headset, switching to speaker, and turning the screen to Zoey. “…my boss, Zoey Parker. We’re roommates.”
Two seconds of silence.
A man’s voice, flustered: “Uh… President Parker! It’s Ted Moriarty! Sorry for the late call, I’m just down in the dumps. My apologies if I woke you!”
Silence.
Seattle’s 307th Street, Apartment 1901, is a graveyard tonight.
Zoey wanted to yeet herself into the void. How do I end this without pain? Online, urgent.
Two dudes chatting at midnight? Who does that?!
“Heh… good evening, Ted…” Zoey forced a smile, mortified. “Didn’t know you two were… catching up.”
Her hands flailed, landing on Gus’s beer bottle. She snatched it, chugged the last third, and bowed. “My apologies! Keep talking, I’m fine. My room’s soundproof, swear…”
Click. Zoey tiptoed out like a thief, shutting the door.
Gus and Ted exchanged looks. “Zoey can… hold her liquor, huh?” Ted said.
“Yeah, probably parched,” Gus replied, waving it off. “Back to you.”
Yesterday, Komina’s board dropped the axe: Ted Moriarty, game division director, was out. They followed protocol—notice, severance, benefits—but paid a fat check to boot him.
“They didn’t hesitate,” Ted said, shaking his head. “I wanted to grab a chair and go full WWE on Ueyama and his office-politics clowns.”
“But you walked out, calm and classy,” Gus said.
Ted sipped sake, grimacing. “Not my style, right? Looks weak, like I did sell out to you.”
Gus cracked another beer. “Nah, smartest move. You know the real reason, don’t you?”
Silence. Ted sighed, nodding bitterly.
He hadn’t betrayed anyone. Gus knew it, the board probably did too, even Ueyama. They just needed a fall guy for Torii: Phantom’s $245M flop. Ueyama, a shareholder, wouldn’t take the hit. Kazu Okura was too small-fry. Ted was the perfect scapegoat, with flimsy “evidence” to seal it.
“I knew it,” Ted said, sipping. “But what’s the point? Tomorrow, the gaming world—global, not just Tokyo—will brand me a traitor.”
He was right. Komina’s PR machine would torch his rep in 24 hours. Proving innocence? A trap. The louder you protest, the guiltier you look.
Gus grinned. “Heard this one, Ted? When the U.S. says you’ve got WMDs, you’d better have ‘em.”
Ted laughed, caught off guard. Gus got serious. “There’s an old saying: ‘If they want to frame you, they’ll find a way.’ Proving innocence is a losing game. Instead, hit back. Make Komina show their cards.”
Ted shook his head. “I’m just a fired employee. Komina’s PR will crush me.”
“What if WindyPeak backs you up?” Gus said.
Ted froze. “What?”
“If they come for you, we come for them,” Gus said. “Komina’s got Torii’s failure, a stock price nosedive, and three directors plus you gone. If Ueyama’s not senile, he knows now’s not the time for a PR war.”
“If you’re in, WindyPeak’s got your back.”
Bold. Wild. Insane.
Gus’s calm words hit like a nuke. Ted’s jaw dropped.
Gus doubled down: “I’m saying I’ll take you on, Ted. Komina wants to play dirty? Let’s see who blinks first.”
WindyPeak had the muscle. Sekiro’s $350M sales projection by mid-next month. Zoey Parker, princess of Parker Capital, who spent money like water. IndieVibe and Nebula Games—two giants—had backed WindyPeak before, crushing Komina in PR wars (Outlast vs. Silent Hill, Sekiro vs. Torii).
IndieVibe ran clean hype; Nebula stirred the pot with fake news and leaks. Komina, even at its peak, couldn’t handle that heat. Now, with internal chaos and Ueyama scrambling, they’d fold.
Gus was offering Ted a lifeline—a job, a fight, a chance.
“I’m just a washed-up exec,” Ted said, eyes red. “I’ve got enough cash from Komina to coast forever…”
“Twenty years in games, Ted,” Gus said, picking up a Mickey Mouse watch. “You gonna walk away with ‘coasting’?”
“It’s 1:20 a.m. Seattle time, 2:20 a.m. Tokyo. Six hours ‘til Komina’s announcement.”
Silence. Long, heavy silence.
They drank, sip after sip, time ticking.
Half an hour later, Ted drained his sake, eyes sharp. “Gus.”
“Yeah?”
“Peak Nation’s solid—great concept, killer gameplay. Only issue? Too niche.”
Gus’s eyes lit up. “Go on.”
“Niche games need big PR,” Ted said. “I know Zoey’s ‘lose money’ vibe, so I’ll skip the pleasantries. Batch promotions—buy song copyrights, drop hype trailers, tie music to the vibe. Then host global extreme sports events to fill the gap.”
Gus burst out laughing. Hell yeah, Ted!
He’d been waiting for this. Ted Moriarty, Komina’s discarded ace, was his new MVP.
Thanks, Ueyama, you clown. You had a legend and framed him. Watch his comeback.
“You’ve got two years ‘til retirement, Kenji?” Gus muttered. “Good luck retiring in peace.”
3 a.m. Seattle time.
A bombshell hit the gaming world, brewing for two years, exploding like a thunderclap.
A single X post ignited the night:
@WindyPeakGames: Big welcome to former Komina Managing Director @TedMoriarty to WindyPeak! Let’s make waves!
