REP

season pass... collectibles spread throughout the location... discounts if you buy in bulk... costco is a live service game

costco ARG where at the end you get to blame a CEO of your choice for raising the price of the hotdogs (they get killed for raising the price of the fucking hotdogs)

Starship pilot who only smokes mids

Somewhere out past Sector 9, near the weird ass Pulsar that various roving bands of pirates call home whilst nestled in the bones of old military bases, there's a Trade Union pilot who prowls around like a bird of prey.

Callsign Gatekeeper, they're easily the best pilot in the unsectored regions where the Trade Union hasn't managed to set up shop. Pirates know better than to fuck with him on their own, he'll fly right past you so long as you're not attacking unarmed civilians. Every now and then, one of the Pirates will rise up the ranks and start getting damn good compared to his peers. Amongst the Pirates here, they call Ace pilots "Skullheads", owed to the rarely minted medallion that the Pirate Lords will give their favorite pilots.

Increasingly for these pirates, it is a mark of death. It started last year when Gatekeeper came into the unsectored regions, blasting apart the most well fortified bases and killing scores of seasoned pilots who'd fought the Trade Union back during the last big War over the sector. But once all of the best of the best were ruined? He started hovering like a fucking ghost. It's like he's toying with those poor bastards.

There's a lot of ideas as-to why he does this, but few hold any water. The best of the best when it comes to Pirates are at best mid-tier when it comes to the skill arc of pilots in the rest of the Territories... it's like he's waiting for something. It's enough of an anomaly that some hotshot reporter went out and interviewed him, but the guy came back all fucked up in the head.

What the reporter told me over drinks has a weird resonance with me, I don't dare find out why it sounds true but the reporter's reaction adds a certain credibility. "He just sees us all as numbers", rambled the man, "He's doing some kind of long game to accumulate rare components only found on Skullhead ships", which is stupid. Those "rare parts" can be bought cheaply if you know who to ask. But apparently, the guy doesn't talk very much. But, the reporter added this detail...

"His gear score is too low to take on the Trade Union ships, so he's grinding pirates for Exp and set bonuses"

If there's a god in this universe, they've made a shit-tier clone of Diablo.

Shears, for endings: time's relentless snip snip snip at your raiments, thread by thread, until you face death naked.

"The Great Tree shows many things. Pasts, presents, and futures. We learn from it, but we also shape it by our own actions."

I nodded - I knew this, although at the moment I pretended that I didn't. The pruning shears I'd snuck inside shifted in my pocket. "So, you can see how I die?"

My tour guide shook their head. "It's not that simple. Each branch of the tree, each sprout, each leaf, represents another possible future. You might die in dozens of different ways, at a myriad of different times-"

"But you do prune the tree," I interrupted, pointing at the upper branches where a crew worked on a sickly-looking branch. I shouldn't have, it drew more attention to me, but to act like the future was some kind of inevitable destiny instead of something they controlled made my blood boil. I had to stay calm or I'd never get my chance.

My guide looked annoyed, a break in their serene mask. They folded their arms within their robes and gave me a stern look. "We only prune the tree if a branch could harm the tree itself. A sickness, as you see above us, or a weakness which could cause a branch to topple and crush others. We do not attempt to control the tree's growth like... like some kind of bonsai!" They took a calming breath, and continued in a more monk-like tone, "for is it not written, that all branches strive for the light?"

I'd heard that old chestnut before from my local church, but the idea that an entire branch of time could be 'sick' was new. What would that even mean? More likely it was some kind of dogma to justify the work they did here. I wanted to say something pithy, but I swallowed my bile and said "Indeed. Thank you for sharing your knowledge, Kindred. Shall we continue our tour?"

We walked up scaffolds, across platforms erected on the sturdiest branches, climbed ladders in some places. I endured more lecturing and held my tongue this time, until we got to the place I had planned for.

"And this, my young friend, is our branch. Each leaf a possibility, each whorl and knot an immutable event in history - from our perspective."

It was quite impressive. Almost more an extention of the trunk than a branch. Here, on the top of the tree, I could see all the way to the edge of the floating island it was kept on, and past, to the horizon far below us. I thought I recognized my hometown.

I thought, if I squinted, I might be able to see the hospital she was being kept at.

I steeled myself. My moment had to be soon. I thought I could almost feel the tree shiver under my hand. "So, when and where are we, exactly?"

The guide launched into an explanation, but I didn't need it. I'd been studying for months. I walked casually behind him, carefully studying each leaf as he walked. To the learned eye, each represented a possible new future. The truly learned could see the possibility in each sprout, the turning event that would cause a split within the great tree. Surely. Surely a death was significant enough. Surely it would be here. My hand gripped the shears in my pocket, knuckles white as the guide droned on and on and on and... there!

I glanced at the guide, and it was a mistake. In that one glance, they knew what I was about to do. They lunged for me, but I couldn't stop now - I pulled the shears out of my pocket and held them before me in both hands, and-

And suddenly, my hands were covered in blood, the monk's robes soaking in it

They fell, and I was only barely able to yank my shears back as they dropped

A great shout went up underneath me, and I could feel the monks charging up towards me

I whirled back to the tree. Where was the sprout? I couldn't tell anymore, and the monks were getting closer.

Desperately, I searched as the ladder behind me clattered. New sprouts were popping up as I looked, miserable things- there! Her death, I was certain of it!

A shout went up behind me as my shears were spotted, but I had no time to look. I simply grabbed the branch and sni-

-ip-

-pped

I held the now-dying sprout in my hand, and a few others. I'd gouged into the tree itself, a rivulet of sap running downwards. No time to dwell. The monks nearly upon me, I ran, and lept downwards through the innumerable branches. I had to get to her.

As the monks charged down after the murderous intruder, the area around the fresh gouge began to turn grey.

Mech Pilot who isn’t as important to you as you are to them.

"The fuck is your problem, Lady?!"

The white furred rat bastard hissed, his tone more pained than defiant considering the tightly bound telephone wire I'd secured around his wrists and ankles. Were the squat rodent a human still, they'd have probably drawn more attention in the crowded marketplace. Us rodents are hardly worth looking down for even if we're the dedicated pilots of killer robot suits. This piece of shit wasn't just some idle hand no one would fail to appreciate the absence of, he is a Striker Pilot, and me? Well. I guess I am too but not by choice.

Rats like us aren't strangers to Bunker 18, in fact it's kind of considered a safe space despite the rest of humanity's opinion of us. I can thank my cousin for saving the place from certain doom for today's little victory. I can imagine he's pretty fucking spooked about being kidnapped regardless. He demands my name, I tell him to shut the fuck up and throw in a well deserved kick to the asshole's ribs. To me his name is dirt.