From Idler to Tech Tycoon: Earth
Chapter 82: Easy Company

Chapter 82: Chapter 82: Easy Company

The glow of the monitor painted Bernard’s face in shifting hues of blue and grey. Two days. Two long days since Bytebull’s World War 2: Frontlines had launched, and the anticipation still thrummed under his skin, a live wire.

He’d made his choice. USA. Airborne.

A click. A confirmation.

The loading screen flickered, then solidified.

His heart, a frantic drummer, hammered against his ribs. Everyone who knew anything about the war, about the legends, wanted in on one specific unit.

Easy Company...

The thought echoed in his mind, a fervent wish.

Everyone wants in after that Lieutenant Winters video.

That fan-made tribute, a compilation of grainy footage and stirring music, had cemented the lieutenant as a near-mythical figure in the pre-launch hype.

That guy’s a legend, even if he’s ’just’ based on the TV show.

Bernard leaned closer to the screen, his fingers drumming a restless tattoo on the desk.

Fingers crossed I get assigned to the 506th. Or at least Dog Company, if I’m lucky, under Lieutenant Speirs. Speirs, another name whispered with a mixture of awe and fear.

The game world coalesced. Mud. Barbed wire. The muted shouts of drill instructors.

Bootcamp.

The familiar digital faces that materialized around him sent a jolt, not of surprise, but of profound satisfaction.

Joe Toye, his jaw already set in a stubborn line.

Malarkey, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.

Sergeant Guarnere, radiating an impatient energy that even the game’s avatar couldn’t fully contain.

Sergeant Lipton, his expression thoughtful, observant.

Muck. Penkala. Perconte.

And there, with an aura of beleaguered authority, Lieutenant ’Buck’ Compton.

He was in. Easy Company.

Then he appeared. Captain Sobel. His digital likeness was uncanny, every bit the overbearing, relentlessly nitpicking officer from the series. The voice that barked orders was a perfect imitation, laced with that particular brand of insecurity-driven tyranny.

The grueling exercises began. Endless push-ups in virtual mud. Long, punishing runs under a perpetually grey, pixelated sky. The ’Hi-yo, Silver!’ taunts. It was all there.

Yes! I actually got in! Bernard thought, a grin spreading across his face despite the simulated exertion.

Sobel’s a menace, but they nailed his personality.

A bead of sweat, real sweat, trickled down his temple.

This is incredible. It feels... authentic.

The days in bootcamp blurred into a montage of exhaustion and begrudging camaraderie. Then, a shift.

The loading screen flickered again.

When the scene reformed, Captain Sobel was gone.

A new figure stood before them in the hastily constructed briefing room. Lieutenant Thomas Meehan Jr. His presence was different from Sobel’s – calmer, more serious, but with an underlying current of solemnity that was almost palpable.

The air in the virtual Nissen hut was thick with it. The weight of what was to come. D-Day.

Bernard felt a knot tighten in his stomach. This was no longer training. This was the precipice.

This is it. D-Day.

He glanced around at the assembled paratroopers, their faces a mixture of grim determination and nervous anticipation.

No turning back.

A new, unexpected thought surfaced, a strange sense of responsibility.

Time to make sure some of these guys make it through Bastogne this time.

He knew it was a game. But the faces, the names, the history woven into the code – it felt like more. A chance, however illusory, to nudge fate.

Another scene transition. The vibrating interior of a C-47 Skytrain.

The roar of the engines was a physical presence, a deafening, all-encompassing thrum that vibrated through his chair, through the floor, up his legs. The air was thick with the smell of oil, sweat, and nervous energy.

He was packed in, shoulder-to-shoulder with the others. Living, breathing pixels, each with a backstory he knew by heart.

And there, right beside him, solid and reassuring, was Lieutenant Winters. The man he’d hoped to serve under. His face was calm, but his eyes held an intensity that cut through the dim, red light of the fuselage.

On his other side, Private Albert Blithe, who was already lost in his own thoughts.

The red jump light blinked on, stark and urgent.

Winters’ voice, cutting through the din, louder than the engines.

"Alright, boys! This is it!"

A surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Bernard shuffled forward with the line, the static line hook heavy in his hand.

My turn.

He could almost feel the wind outside, the cold night air.

Normandy.

The figure in front of him vanished into the black.

Here we go.

He launched himself into the screaming chaos of the night sky.

Flak. Explosions of angry orange and white light, blossoming silently in the distance, then the delayed CRUMP reaching him a moment later. Tracers, like incandescent claws, raked the darkness, crisscrossing in lethal patterns.

The distant, guttural rumble of explosions from the ground below.

He saw other C-47s, some trailing smoke, one tilting at an unnatural angle. Parachutes, like pale jellyfish, dotted the sky, scattered, drifting.

He was alone. Separated.

The map overlay flickered in his vision, a ghostly green against the black. His position blinked: west of Saint-Marie-du-Mont. Wrong. Miles from any planned drop zone.

Just like in the show. Just like in the books. Chaos.

He craned his neck, searching the sky. Far below, he could just make out a silhouette he thought, hoped, was Winters, plummeting towards the dark, unseen earth. Further still, another chute, smaller, more distant – John Hall, perhaps.

This is not how they planned it.

The wind howled past his ears, whipping at his face.

Scattered.

He gripped the risers, trying to control his descent, the ground rushing up to meet him with alarming speed.

Just like in the show.

His boots hit the ground, a jarring impact that sent a shockwave up his legs. He stumbled, rolled, then fought to free himself from the harness, the silken canopy billowing around him like a shroud.

Darkness. Silence, save for the rustle of his own movements and the distant, menacing sounds of war.

Now to find Winters... or anyone.

He was one man, alone in the Normandy night, the fate of Easy Company, and perhaps his own, hanging precariously in the balance. The real game had just begun.

----------------

Richard Santamo stepped out of the sleek, imposing Bytebull main building. The architecture was modern and expansive, a testament to the company’s explosive growth. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the bustling surroundings—employees, the newly constructed AI - Research Lab in the distance.

Six months had passed by like it was yesterday. The weight of progress was heavy, but Richard carried it with a maturity that belied his 23 years. He was no longer just the founder of Bytebull; he was a key national figure, navigating a new reality.

Richard reflected on Bytebull’s meteoric rise. The company had significantly expanded its workforce. Vector Core, their revolutionary game engine, was now licensed by major AAA studios and publishers. Indie developers were flourishing with the free version. Bytebull actively sponsored promising indie developers, fostering creativity.

But it wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows. Widespread job losses among 3D artists, some game developers, and article writers, all displaced by AI. Programmers had a fractured response: some were delighted by the AI assistance; others had been fired as companies realized AI’s efficiency.

It wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows... you can’t really satisfy the majority of most people... sometimes you really have to choose a side, and continue... it’ll all calm down.

A nondescript gray sedan pulled up smoothly to the curb. Feliciano Dela Cruz, formerly known as Mario, exited the driver’s side. He was dressed in a way that was both professional and unassuming, but his demeanor was alert, his eyes constantly scanning—a subtle hint to his specialized skills. He opened the rear passenger door for Richard with disciplined efficiency.

"Sir, where are we going now, sir?" Feliciano asked, his voice calm and respectful.

Richard slid into the back of the sedan. The interior was clean, functional, devoid of luxury. Feliciano got in and expertly navigated away from the Bytebull complex.

"Laguindingan Airport, Ciano," Richard said.

After a moment of observing Richard in the rearview mirror, Feliciano remarked, "You seem more busy nowadays, sir."

Richard gazed out the window, a fleeting look of weariness crossing his face before he schooled his expression.

"Yeah, politics and congressional hearings," Richard sighed. "Apparently, only I can give a suitable answer when senators question AI and ethical corners and consequences."

He continued, "As for this week, I’m off to Malacañang. President Ninoy commissioned Bytebull for a number of research initiatives, including the reopening of the nuclear Bataan power plant."

"Since Uncle Ernesto was busy with Bytebull and dealings from international companies as CEO," Richard said, a hint of humor in his voice. "He was mad at me the other day for giving him so much work."

Richard’s tone shifted, a touch of warmth returning. "Anyway, how was Grandpa and the mansion?"

Richard leaned back in the seat, the leather creaking softly under his weight. "Anyway, let’s talk about you. Grandpa wasn’t harsh with your punishment, was he?"

Feliciano’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he relaxed. "No, sir. He ensured I was up to par with my duties as your personal security. I was also exposed to the coven, and some knowledge was passed on to me."

Richard studied Feliciano’s profile, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. There was more to the story, but Richard knew better than to push. He had his own secrets, after all.

"Good," Richard said, nodding. "Does your face still hurt from the rhinoplasty?"

Feliciano touched his nose lightly, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Not anymore, sir."

A moment of silence passed between them, the hum of the sedan’s engine filling the space. The cityscape blurred past the windows. Then, Feliciano spoke, his voice low and sincere. "I’m truly grateful for your mercy, sir. If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve been gone long ago."

Richard smiled, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. He turned to look out the window, watching the world go by. "No, I didn’t save you, Ciano. I hired you for a reason. Sun Tzu said, ’Desperation truly makes a man strong.’"

He paused, his mind drifting to the weight of his own desperation, the choices he had made, the paths he had taken. "Let’s talk about other things. Have you found McKnight yet?"

Feliciano’s expression turned serious, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the road ahead. "No, sir. I did not. Ever since his tracks disappeared five months ago, I haven’t been able to find him. But I learned other things."

Richard raised an eyebrow, waiting for Feliciano to continue.

Feliciano’s grip on the wheel tightened again. "Citizens in the area said that American nationals and a few local gangs. I believe it was McKnight and his colleagues were gunfighting against a single man. They said he had powers, and bullets didn’t hit him. I , but I still don’t know who they were fighting."

Richard’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. It was a puzzle, a piece of a larger picture he couldn’t quite see yet. "Hmm... Maybe McKnight is dead or escaped because he was compromised. Save for that man with superpowers, which I find quite... ridiculous."

But even as he said the words, doubt gnawed at him. Could there be anyone who has psychic powers like me? It wasn’t quite impossible since even Grandpa was involved with the shamanic.

The sedan turned a corner, and the lights of Laguindingan Airport came into view. Richard took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The weight of progress was heavy, but he would carry it, no matter the cost.