The digital dust from Millie's announcement began to settle, but the air remained thick with speculation. With the corporate vultures momentarily rebuffed, the internet's collective id took over. Forums, social media feeds, and video commentary channels became a sprawling, chaotic laboratory for the world's newest favorite pastime: theorizing about Meteor Studio.
The prevailing theory, the one that gained the most traction across Facepage groups and Chirper threads, was a thing of beauty. It was a perfect blend of wish-fulfillment and cynical truth. The narrative solidified like cooling magma: Meteor Studio was a phoenix risen from the ashes of corporate exploitation.
They were a small cabal of the industry's best and brightest—artists, programmers, writers—who had been ground down by the soul-crushing machinery of the major corps. They'd watched their passion projects be gutted and stuffed with gambling mechanics, their creative visions focus-tested into bland, monetizable paste. They'd suffered under the thumbs of suits like Thundra's Robert Eisner and A.E. Games' Kenneth Jacksom.
Finally, they'd had enough. They'd walked out. Not just from one company, but from the entire broken system. They'd pooled their severance pay, their rage, and their unparalleled talent and gone dark. They'd vanished into the digital underground, communicating only through encrypted channels, their identities hidden behind a shared, righteous anger.
Their masterpiece, Silent Hill: First Fear, wasn't just a game. It was a manifesto. A middle finger carved from code and rendered in breathtaking, terrifying detail. It was proof that games could be art without being a vehicle for microtransactions, that stories could be profound without being market-researched, that gameplay could be innovative without being a skinner box.
This theory explained everything. Their anonymity wasn't a gimmick; it was a necessity. It was a protection against the very corporations they'd spurned, who would surely try to sue them, buy them, or break them. Their silence wasn't arrogance; it was a statement. Their work spoke for itself. And their choice of collaborator? A relatively unknown, indie musician? That was part of the statement, too. It was about pure talent, not market reach. It was about building up the little guy, just as they had done for themselves.
The internet crowned them not just developers, but revolutionaries. Geniuses with a cause. And everyone loves a rebel with a cause.
*******************
The light in New Los Angeles was different. It was cleaner, somehow, filtered through the polarized glass of a penthouse high above the smog and noise. The air smelled of expensive perfume, fine whiskey, and the subtle, ozone scent of cutting-edge holographic projectors.
Director Martin Berg's viewing party was in full, sophisticated swing. It was less a party and more a gathering of cultural titans. The room was a low hum of curated conversation and the soft clink of crystal. On a vast, floor-to-ceiling screen, a muted news channel showed various pundits debating the Meteor Studio phenomenon.
Martin himself, a man whose name was synonymous with cinematic blockbusters, stood near the bar, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He was holding his phone, a sleek, minimalist slab of black glass. A few of his guests glanced his way, sensing a shift in his energy.
"Aww, I was refused," he announced, his tone a mixture of genuine amusement and profound respect. He held up the phone, showing the bland, automated reply from Millie Kyleish. "The little streamer sent me a form letter… Can you believe it?"
A ripple of laughter went through the group closest to him. Henry Cavilrine, his physique looking like it was carved from marble even in a simple linen shirt, chuckled. "Stonewalled by a bard, Marty. There's a first time for everything…"
"It's not her," Martin said, his eyes twinkling. He tapped the screen of his phone. "This is them… This is the studio… This is a perfectly executed strategy. They're building a wall of mystery, and they're using her as the charming, seemingly vulnerable gatekeeper. It's brilliant."
He turned to a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a severe, elegant haircut—Professor Maddison McKenna from Oxford. "You see, Maddison? This is what I was telling you about. Control. They are masterfully controlling the narrative. We are not patrons requesting a private audience; we are the audience. We will watch when they tell us to watch. We are being directed."
Maddison offered a thin, appreciative smile. "It is certainly a power play. Whether it stems from artistic integrity or mere arrogance remains to be seen. I am most interested in this 'Sael VT.' A voice capable of that piano piece is not common. To then be connected to a visual and interactive horror experience… the cognitive dissonance is fascinating."
"It's not dissonance, it's range!" boomed a voice from the sofa. Robert Upney Senior, looking healthier and more clear-eyed than he had in years, raised his glass of sparkling water. "The kid's a multitalented phantom. I like him already. Anyone who can make Thundra Corp. sweat gets my vote."
Mehgan Fox and Scarlet Johnson, curled up on a large ottoman, were already deep in a side conversation. "I just want to know if the voice matches the face," Mehgan said, a sly smile on her lips. "That kind of raw, emotional talent usually comes in a very… interesting package."
"Down, girl," Scarlet laughed, nudging her with a foot. "He's probably some pale, nervous genius who hasn't seen the sun in a decade."
"Even better," Mehgan purred.
Martin checked his antique wristwatch. "Patience, everyone. It's 4 pm now. …The stream is in a few hours, …let's all be good little audience members and wait for the curtain to rise." He gestured to the main screen, which now displayed the countdown timer on Millie's MeTuber page. The room's attention, once diffuse, now focused on those glowing numbers, a collective anticipation hanging in the perfumed air.
The atmosphere in the penthouse had shifted from casual mingling to a focused, almost scholarly vigilance. The easy laughter had softened into a low, expectant murmur. The countdown timer on the large screen was a digital heartbeat, each decreasing second pulling the room's focus tighter.
Martin Berg had taken a central seat in a large, leather armchair, his phone silent on the armrest. He was a conductor waiting for the orchestra to begin. Professor Maddison McKenna sat ramrod straight in a chair beside him, a tablet on her lap, her fingers poised for note-taking. This wasn't just entertainment for her; it was a cultural case study.
Henry Cavilrine had pulled up a chair directly in front of the screen, his expression one of intense, professional curiosity. This was a new form of storytelling, and he was here to learn. On the plush sofa, Mehgan Fox and Scarlet Johnson had fallen into a comfortable silence, watching the timer with the focused anticipation of fans waiting for a concert to start. Robert Upney Senior nursed his water, a quiet, knowing smile on his face, as if he was privy to a joke no one else was.
The only sounds were the gentle clink of ice in a glass and the low, almost sub-audible hum of the holographic projector.
"This is it," Martin said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried through the quiet room. "The moment the phantoms choose to step into the light. Or, at the very least, let one of their own speak."
He didn't need to tell everyone to be quiet. The gravity of the moment was self-evident. This was more than a collaboration announcement. It was a potential unveiling. A glimpse behind the most impenetrable curtain the entertainment world had ever seen.
In the dim, reflected light of the screen, their faces were a study in concentration. The titans of the old guard, the kings and queens of a settled empire, were all watching the horizon, waiting to see if the rumored rebels were real. The clock ticked down.
Five minutes.
The vigil had begun.