I'm seated on the edge of a transport helicopter, legs dangling in the breeze, when our pilot flips on the radio to Flight of the Valkyries. "Duh duh duh duh, duh, duh duh duh duh, duh" three passengers sing in non-unison, their VOIP lagging two seconds behind the actual song. The pilot interrupts the performance with an announcement: "Jump quick once you see grass, because we're headed to the hot zone. How many of you bought a parachute?" The chopper goes silent. "Well then."
I realize this is the same pilot who taxied me to the frontline at the very beginning of the match over 40 minutes ago. He's been doing this the whole time, has zero kills, and according to his top five position on the scoreboard, has made over $35,000 of in-game currency. Bullets immediately start whizzing past the chopper as we reach the middle of the gigantic map. Our pilot descends toward an LZ with a practiced corkscrew maneuver that, from the inside, could've been mistaken for crashing.
