After the elaborate and exhausting betrothal ceremony, Nakayama Takuya felt like he had just fought a hard battle; every muscle in his body ached with stiffness.
The formal wedding was scheduled for later in the year, with the shrine already booked nearly six months in advance.
The next day, Takuya politely declined his mother's suggestion to "take another look at the wedding venue" and practically dashed back to the office.
To him, managing development teams was far more reassuring than navigating ceremonial formalities.
The first place he visited was the joint project between the hardware development department and the computer software department: the MD-compatible PC suite.
During the hectic days of his engagement, the teams he had paired together—Director Nakamura and Manager Nohara—had been astonishingly efficient.
The market department's report on mainstream disk drives and printers had just arrived, and the development team had already contacted several target manufacturers to begin preliminary compatibility work.
The joint lab was now a hub of activity.
Several engineers surrounded a workbench. A black Mega Drive cartridge slot held a gray engineering cartridge of strange design, with a thick parallel cable trailing from the back. A keyboard was connected, and the other end of the cable hooked up to a popular inkjet printer—the Canon BJ-80.
"Executive Director!" Nakamura spotted Takuya first and hurried forward, exhausted from project strain but eyes bright. "Congratulations, sir!"
"Thank you both," Takuya said, patting Nakamura on the shoulder, his gaze already fixed on the printer making rhythmic noises. "How's it coming? Can our 'learning machine' print yet?"
"See for yourself," Manager Nohara said, squeezing through the engineers to point at the printer.
A sheet of A4 slowly emerged, the print crisp and clear:
Sega Genesis is not only a toy.
It is an investment for your child's future.
Takuya picked up the warm paper and ran his fingers over the letters. Satisfied, he nodded.
"Well done."
The simple praise brought smiles to all the engineers.
At first, the project had seemed absurd—using a game console for office work?
Yet as they realized it worked, imagining it in Takuya's intended household scenarios, it no longer felt impossible.
"How much storage does the driver take?" he asked Nohara.
"It's compressed to the limit," Nohara replied immediately. "We cut the interface beautification to squeeze in the driver and simple editor. The software is basic but completely practical."
"Basic is fine," Takuya said, handing the paper to Nakamura. "We don't need flashy; we need useful. Something that makes an American housewife at Walmart pause and think, 'This is good—worth buying.'"
He paused, continuing with instructions: "Refine the list of compatible brands from the market department. We don't need all devices, only the top-selling, most household-friendly models. Optimize the driver so that users can just plug and play—no extra steps."
"Understood!" Nakamura and Nohara answered in unison.
Next, he visited the arcade department, where development on Hook Captain was progressing beautifully.
The developers were energized—after all, this was a Spielberg-supervised blockbuster adaptation. Pride was evident.
Takuya offered brief encouragement before moving on.
He was here to see Hideo Kojima.
At this moment, Kojima sat in a private review room arranged by the company.
Though called a review room, it resembled a small warehouse, shelves stacked with third-party and in-house game cartridges.
When Takuya entered, Kojima wore headphones, expressionless as he watched the screen.
On it, a crude pixel figure jumped illogically, accompanied by harsh 8-bit sounds. The character collided with walls and perished. Kojima sighed, removing the headphones and marking a large "X" on the evaluation sheet.
Then he noticed Takuya at the door.
"Executive Director?" Kojima said, surprised, standing quickly.
"Sit, don't be formal," Takuya smiled, glancing at a cartridge he plucked from the shelf and then replaced. "So, Kojima-san—any hidden gems in this sea of mediocrity?"
Kojima's lips twitched in a faint, bitter smile. "Gems? None. Just pixel blindness. Executive Director, must we really review all these copycat games? It feels like my inspiration is being ground down by this trash."
Since finishing Metal Gear, Kojima's mind had teemed with ideas. But the Mega Drive's limitations could no longer contain his increasingly wild concepts.
Takuya had assigned him to review games, ostensibly to gather diverse influences and accumulate knowledge for the next-generation console. Kojima understood and accepted.
But genius is lonely—mediocrity rarely comprehends it.
"Exactly because mediocrity is abundant, genius becomes precious," Takuya said, pulling up a chair and placing a folder before Kojima. "And who says you'll stay here forever? I've got a new job for you."
Kojima's eyes landed on the folder. The cover read the English title of Tom Clancy's novel, Urgent Crisis.
"The U.S. just signed the license," Takuya said, tapping the table lightly. "I want to adapt it into a game. But not a traditional action game, nor your usual single-player stealth."
He looked at Kojima, outlining his vision: "Imagine a god's-eye view—or tactical map view. You command not one person, but a special operations team. Before action, you can plan each operative's route, breach method, shooting angles… everything. Then press execute and watch your team act like precise machinery, carrying out your strategy perfectly."
As Takuya spoke, Kojima's eyes lit up.
The lifelessness caused by reviewing mediocre games gave way to fire.
"Tactical planning with real-time squad infiltration?" he murmured, already envisioning gameplay. "It's completely different from Metal Gear's solo stealth, yet shares a core logic… this is fascinating!"
"Exactly," Takuya smiled. "Metal Gear tests player reflexes and skill. This game tests strategic thinking and planning. It's colder, more professional."
Takuya had sought Kojima partly for his obsession with military themes, partly because, in his past memories, Kojima was one of the few Japanese designers who could perfectly integrate into Western development teams and earn their respect.
A talent like Kojima was worthy of a project based on the Doorkickers gameplay Takuya had designed in his previous life.
"This project will take you to the U.S.," Takuya dropped the bomb. "You'll assemble and lead the team, work with Clancy's military advisors, and collaborate with real American developers. Kojima-san—interested in teaching those arrogant cowboys a lesson?"
"The U.S.—" Kojima repeated the word, head snapping up, eyes ablaze as if he could ignite the folder on the table.
To America! The heart of global cinema!
Leading an international team to craft a game ahead of its time!
His long-suppressed creative drive finally erupted.
"Executive Director," Kojima said, grasping the proposal with hands slightly trembling from excitement, "when do we leave?"
"Soon," Takuya replied. "I've already arranged for your transfer documents from Redwood City. Prepare your visa."
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