For a moment, nothing happened. Then, it felt like a sun went supernova behind my eyes.
It wasn't painful like the stat upgrade. It was… immense. A tidal wave of information, of history, of imagery, of sound. The entire Horus Heresy played out in a flash of epic betrayal and loyalty. The feel of ceramite armor, the smell of promethium, the guttural roar of an Ork WAAAGH! the chilling whispers of the Chaos Gods.
I even saw the Emperor on his Golden Throne, the silent, rotting core of a dying empire. I heard the hymns of the Sisterhood, the chants of the Tech-Priests. I saw the art—the Gothic cathedrals that were spaceships, the grimdark landscapes, the iconic look of an Ultramarine, an Imperial Guardsman, a Tyrranids Hive Fleet.
It was over in a second. I blinked, my head swimming. I knew everything. I was a living, breathing repository of the 41st Millennium.
"[Integration complete,]" Sunday confirmed, her voice sounding distant for a moment. "[The data mass is… significant.]"
"Y-yeah," I managed, taking a deep breath. "You could say that."
The disorientation faded, replaced by crystal-clear purpose. I had the clay. Now, I had to sculpt the perfect introduction.
"Sunday, we're starting with Space Marine. The core gameplay loop is solid. We keep it." I closed my eyes, accessing the perfect memory of the game.
"Captain Titus of the Ultramarines. …Drop pod assault on Forge World Graia… Ork invasion, we keep all that. The core combat, the brutality, the feel of the bolter… it's perfect."
I began pacing again, the ideas flowing out of me like I was a conduit.
"But we need to make it bigger. We need to hint at the universe. We can't just have it be a mission." I snapped my fingers.
"The opening cinematic. We don't just show the drop pod. We show a glimpse of the Battle Barge Armageddon in orbit. We hear a voiceover—not some generic officer, but a grizzled, fanatical Chaplain…. He doesn't just give orders; he preaches. He talks about the emperor's divine wrath, about purging the xenos filth."
I was getting excited, gesturing with my hands. "Throughout the game, we add codex entries. Not just about weapons, but about the Imperium's history. About the God-Emperor. We have Inquisitor Drogan hint at the darker threats—not just Orks, but the whispers of Chaos that he's been fighting. We see a corrupted symbol scrawled on a wall. We find a dead Space Marine from a different, more mysterious Chapter. We don't explain it all. We just show them that this rabbit hole goes so, so much deeper."
The challenge was exhilarating. "It's a tightrope walk…. We have to make a satisfying, kick-ass game on its own, but we also have to plant seeds. We have to make them finish the game and immediately go online to ask 'What the hell is the Horus Heresy?' and 'Who are the Blood Ravens?' We're not just making a game; we're building a gateway drug….".
I planned to make the follower of this game turned into a cult like following. I know many men and women would be crazy about this. This world lacks this deep works, lack the kind of story and works that, were so brutal and basically everyone was playing villains and loving every second of it. and to me, I also know that this title would enable to me release any products related to it, slapped the authentic label, and it would fly off the shelves.
****************
The following days dissolved into a blur of concentrated creation. My room became a cave, a sanctum lit only by the glow of holographic displays and the faint light from my window cycling from day to night and back again. Thankfully, Mom, Aunt Vera and Nadia always come to check up on me, bringing me food and make sure I would eat on time. Very nice of them.
The first agenda that I've done and completed were the music for the collab, it was the easiest part. It felt less like composition and more like recollection, everything. Sitting at the small digital keyboard, in my Virtual space, I let my fingers drift over the keys. The haunting melody of Glimpse of Us flowed out perfectly on the first try.
My voice, when I sang along softly, was a rich, resonant baritone that carried the song's heartbreaking weight with an effortless, soulful ache that would have taken a lifetime to cultivate in my old world.
The "Superstar Singer" skill wasn't a cheat; it was a fundamental rewrite of my biology. I was a world-class artist, and the proof was in the chillingly perfect recording we made in under 30 minutes. Furthermore, I made the song even more emotional and much more heart lurching, that would just make anyone cried when the listened to it.
But that was just the warm-up.
The real work was Warhammer. For eighteen hours a day, I was submerged in the 41st Millennium. My hands flew across the keyboard, coding, manipulating assets Sunday pulled from the data packet. The air was filled with the sounds of my new world: the digital roar of a chainsword, the explosive report of a bolter, the guttural war cries of Orks, and the majestic, chilling chords of the Gothic-inspired soundtrack. I wanted to amped up the end result and altered a few small things so that, this world can enjoy it even more. Added a few spices of my own twist.
I'd stop only to scarf down whatever food was left outside my door by a worried but understanding Vera, or to collapse into a few hours of dreamless, exhausted sleep before diving back in. This wasn't just work; it was a pilgrimage. I was a missionary bringing the word of the God-Emperor to a universe that didn't know it needed saving.
The game itself was a massive undertaking, but the crown jewel, the piece de resistance, was the trailer. This wasn't going to be a simple sizzle reel of gameplay clips. This was a statement. A declaration of war on mediocre marketing. And the work of the cinematic presentation, the stuff that would hook anyone that sees it.
"Sunday, initiate 'Crusade' protocol. Render sequence Alpha through Omega…. Apply the final color grading pass and integrate the Dolby Atmos sound mix.".
"[Rendering now. Estimated time to completion: twelve minutes.]"
I leaned back, my eyes gritty from strain, and watched the final product materialize on the main holographic display. We'd used the most advanced VR-based rendering tools this world had to offer, tools that were probably meant for military simulations or high-end architectural visualization. We'd turned them to a higher purpose.
The trailer began not with action, but with silence. The camera drifted through the cold void of space, focusing on a massive, Gothic cathedral, its spires stretching into the blackness, stained-glass windows glowing with internal light. It was a spaceship. The Armageddon.
A voice, deep and raspy, filled with zealous certainty, began to speak. I'd had Sunday synthesize it from the vocal patterns of a dozen fanatical preachers. "[In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war…]"
Then, the music swelled—a choir chanting in High Gothic, drums pounding a martial rhythm. Drop pods streaked like meteors towards a rust-red planet. The impact. The doors blew off. And there he was. Captain Titus. Eight feet of ceramite-clad fury, his helmeted head turning slowly to survey the battlefield, his boltgun rising with deliberate, terrifying purpose.
The next ninety seconds were a sensory assault of perfection. Bolter shells ripping through Orks in sprays of green mist. A chainsword revving and carving through a Nob. A glimpse of a Dreadnought stomping through fire. The visuals were photorealistic, the sound design was earth-shaking, the scale was epic beyond anything this world's gaming industry had ever produced. It ended with Titus standing atop a mountain of Ork bodies, his armor scorched and dented, the twin-tailed comet of the Ultramarines on his shoulder pauldron, as the release date and the Meteor Studio logo flashed on screen.
It was unbelievable. It was a billion-dollar movie trailer level. And it was for a video game, for me, that is how I do my thing.
A break was necessary. I stumbled out of my room, blinking like a mole in the late afternoon light of the living room. Bella was sprawled on the couch, watching the wall-mounted TV while scrolling on her phone.
"{...and while Silent Hill: First Fear continues to sell, analysts note the initial tidal wave of interest has certainly begun to wane}," a perfectly coiffed news anchor was saying, a graph showing a (still incredibly high) plateauing line next to her head.
"{Many players, it seems, relied on walkthroughs from popular streamers like GasFunk to even complete the experience, calling into question the game's accessibility and long-term appeal…}"
Bella made a sound of pure disgust. "¡Qué estupidez!" she muttered, not taking her eyes off the screen.
"They're trying to make it sound like a failure because people are using guides? Everyone uses guides! They're just mad they couldn't bury it!".
I smiled, sinking onto the couch beside her. Her Latina possessiveness was in full effect, and it was adorable. She was personally offended on my behalf.
"It's okay, Bella," I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. "They need something to talk about."
"But they're making it sound small!" she huffed, finally looking at me. "Your game is a masterpiece! It's not withering away!"
Her protectiveness was so fierce and genuine it warmed the cold, focused part of me that had been locked in my room for days. She needed this. I needed to give it to her.
"You're right," I said softly. I pulled out my phone. "Let's give them something else to talk about."
I opened Chirper and navigated to the Meteor Studio account. My fingers flew across the screen, crafting a message with deliberate, mischievous care.
@Meteor_Studio: We've been watching the incredible passion players have for uncovering the secrets of Silent Hill. We especially appreciate the… determined efforts of @GasFunk_Official to 'complete' the experience. His resilience is truly commendable. But it does leave us with one question… why does his playthrough end with a 'Game Over' screen?
I showed the phone to Bella. Her eyes scanned the tweet, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. It was the perfect tweet. It was polite, it was corporate, but it was a nuclear-level troll. It pointed out, to his entire audience, that he'd never actually found the true ending.
"Sí, así es! That's it!" she said, her annoyance vanishing into gleeful satisfaction. She handed the phone back, then immediately laid her head back down in my lap, her body relaxing completely. The crisis had been averted. Her man had handled it.
I posted the tweet and tossed my phone onto the coffee table. And leaned my head back and closed my eyes, one hand idly stroking Bella's hair as the news droned on. The storm was coming. But for this moment, in our cramped living room, everything was perfectly, peacefully under control.