I nodded my head vigorously, and Ray grabbed a packing knife. He cut the box open and then instructed me to hold onto its sides as he pulled out the Styrofoam cube housing the controller’s various components. A few seconds later, everything was freed from the packaging and laid out on the glass countertop in front of us.
The Armada Interceptor Flight Control System (IFCS) contained an Interceptor pilot helmet (incorporating a set of built-in VR goggles, noise-canceling headphones, and a retractable microphone) and a two-piece HOTAS (Hands-On Throttle and Stick) rig, comprised of an all-metal force-feedback flight stick and a separate dual-throttle controller with a built-in weapons control panel. The stick, throttle, and weapons panel all bristled with ergonomic buttons, triggers, indicators, mode selectors, rotary dials, and eight-way hat studs, each of which could be configured to give you total control of your Armada Interceptor’s flight, navigation, and weapons systems.
“You likey, Zack?” Ray asked, after watching me drool over it for a while.
“Ray, I want to marry this thing.”
“We’ve got over a dozen more back in the stockroom,” he said. “Maybe we can build a display pyramid out of them or something.”
I picked up the helmet and hefted it, impressed by its weight and detail. It looked and felt like a real fighter pilot helmet, and its Oculus Rift components were state-of-the-art. (I had a half-decent VR headset at home that Ray had gifted me, but it was a few years old, and the display resolution had increased drastically since then.)
I set the helmet back on the counter, resisting the urge to try it on. Then I reached out and rested my left hand on the throttle controller while I wrapped my right hand around the cold metal of the attached flight stick. Both seemed like a perfect fit, as if they’d been machined to match my hands.
I’d been playing Armada for years, and the whole time I’d been using a cheap plastic flight stick and throttle controller. I’d had no idea what I’d been missing. I’d coveted an IFCS ever since I heard they were coming out on the Armada forums. But the price tag was somewhere north of five hundred bucks—even with my ten percent employee discount that was still way too rich for my blood.
I reluctantly slid my hands off the controllers and shoved them into my pockets. “If I start saving up now, I might be able to afford one by the end of the summer,” I muttered. “That is, if my crapmobile doesn’t break down again.”
Ray mimed playing a violin. Then he smiled and slid the helmet across the counter to me.
“You can have this one,” he said. “Consider it an early graduation gift.” He elbowed me playfully. “You are going to graduate, right?”
“No way!” I said, staring at the controller in disbelief. Then I looked up at Ray. “I mean—yes, I’ll graduate—but, you’re not kidding? I can have this one? For reals?”
Ray nodded solemnly. “For reals.”
I felt like hugging him, so I did—throwing my arms around his thick midsection in a fierce embrace. He laughed uncomfortably and patted me on the back until I finally let go of him.
“I’m only doing it because it’s good for the war effort!” he said, straightening his flannel shirt and then ruffling my hair in retaliation. “Having your own flight control system might make you an even better Interceptor pilot. If that’s even possible.”
“Ray, this is way too generous,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Ah, don’t mention it, kid.”
Although I’d been worrying for years that Ray’s runaway altruism would drive him bankrupt, and that I’d be forced to go find a real job somewhere, it didn’t stop me from accepting his latest extravagant gift.
“Want to head back in the War Room and give it a spin?” He motioned to the small, cramped back room where dozens of linked PCs and gaming consoles were set up. Customers rented the War Room out for LAN parties and clan events. “You could work out the kinks before that big elite mission later tonight. …”
“No thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll just wait and try it out then, on my home setup.” Because I might flip out or start foaming at the mouth the next time I see a Glaive Fighter coming at me, and I’d rather be alone in my bedroom if and when it happens.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You sick?”
I looked away uneasily. “No, I’m fine,” I replied. “Why?”
“Your boss just offered you a chance to play your favorite videogame at work, on the clock, and you turn it down?” He reached out to touch my forehead. “You got a brain fever or something, kid?”
I laughed uneasily and shook my head. “No, it’s just—I recently vowed to stop goofing off so much here at work, regardless of how much you encourage me to.”
“Why in the hell would you do that?”
“It’s all part of my master plan,” I said. “To show you how responsible and reliable I’ve become, so you’ll hire me on as a full-time employee after I graduate.”
He shot me the same look he always seemed to give me whenever I brought up this subject.