After touring Yu Suzuki's motion-capture lab, Takuya immediately sensed that something was off about Hideo Kojima.
On the way back, Kojima didn't say a word. His fingers kept tapping on his thigh, as if playing a piano piece no one else could hear.
Takuya knew: a storm was raging in that man's head.
That gray humanoid mannequin they'd just seen had already put on combat fatigues in Kojima's mind, picked up a rifle, and was running wild through absurd, physics-defying scenes.
"Stop thinking about it. The hardware can't handle what you want yet. Those ideas of yours will have to wait for the next console generation."
Takuya pulled him back to reality with a single sentence.
Kojima blinked as if awakening from a dream. He sighed deeply, his face filled with the melancholy of a hero with nowhere to use his talents.
As they talked, they arrived at the core development floor of SEGA's North American headquarters.
The person in charge, Mark—an obese white guy with a magnificent beer belly—greeted them with a slap of his fan-sized palm on Kojima's shoulder.
"Hey! Folks! Heads up, everyone—stop what you're doing!"
Mark's booming voice echoed across the open office space, instantly drawing every gaze.
The rock music blaring through the speakers shut off mid-riff.
This place was the complete opposite of Japan's suffocating, hierarchized workplace culture.
No cubicles—only desks that looked even more chaotic than junk piles, buried under comics, action figures, empty pizza boxes, and crushed energy-drink cans.
Dozens of eyes of mixed colors turned toward them—curious, assessing, and faintly hostile.
"Let me introduce you all! This is a genius designer from Japan HQ, Mr. Hideo Kojima!"
Mark's arm clamped around Kojima like an iron hoop, nearly choking him.
"He'll be working with us from today, preparing for a top-secret new project!"
Sparse, perfunctory applause followed.
Most simply folded their arms and stared, sizing up the not-so-tall, slightly awkward Japanese newcomer with an expression that said we'll see.
"A Japanese guy?" a bearded programmer muttered to the coworker beside him. "Here to supervise us? Check our code?"
"Who knows. I just hope this 'secret project' isn't another Sonic the Hedgehog Plays Baseball crapfest," a blonde artist whispered, twirling her pen.
Even though quiet, each snide remark stabbed into Kojima's ears like needles.
His face remained blank. He bowed slightly and spoke in fairly fluent English:
"Hello, everyone. I am Hideo Kojima. Please take care of me."
Mark seemed oblivious to the undercurrents—or simply didn't care.
He dragged Kojima aside, blocking others' view, and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear:
"See them? That's the best bunch of assholes in our North American division. But we've got one rule here."
He leaned in mysteriously, his massive head blocking out the ceiling lights.
"You want them to work for you? You can't rely on mandates from HQ. You gotta show them something real—something that makes them respect you from the bones. You have to make them worship you. Got it?"
Kojima paused, then understood.
This wasn't just a collaborative assignment.
This was an audition.
And the entire development department was his panel of judges.
He needed to win these defiant American geniuses over with nothing but his ideas and ability.
Kojima looked past Mark's shoulder at the office.
People had returned to their screens, but their attention remained fixed on him.
Without responding to Mark, Kojima walked straight between the messy desks toward a huge steel storage cabinet in the corner.
"Hey, what's that guy doing?" the bearded programmer, Dave, whispered.
"No idea. Maybe he wants to replay Sonic."
A suppressed wave of chuckles.
Kojima ignored them.
His fingers brushed over rows of brightly colored Mega Drive cartridges as if inspecting troops.
Altered Beast, Golden Axe, Streets of Rage—all SEGA's proud, brawler-heavy action titles.
But they weren't what he wanted.
His hand stopped.
He pulled out a cartridge with a pitch-black cover—no bright colors, only a soldier with a weapon emerging from the shadows.
The title was printed in cold military lettering:
METAL GEAR
"Metal Gear…?" the blonde artist whispered in surprise.
Holding the cartridge, Kojima walked to the dusty old TV and Mega Drive in the lounge area.
People instinctively moved aside, letting him through.
"Hey, Kojima," Dave called out, amused. "Don't tell me you're gonna show us how to beat the game. We've got plenty of pros here."
Kojima didn't answer.
He slid the cartridge into the console with a crisp click and powered it on.
The screen flickered.
The classic SE–GA! startup jingle played.
He didn't touch the controller.
He simply let the title screen sit until it auto-transitioned into the opening sequence.
And when the credits rolled to Director—
The name on the screen read:
Hideo Kojima
The blonde artist gasped.
"You're that Kojima?!"
---
While Kojima was busy conquering the Americans, Nakayama Takuya had arrived once again in Owings Town, Maryland.
This time, he was here to meet a military adviser recommended by Tom Clancy.
Inside a modest steakhouse, Clancy was struggling with a T-bone, all while complaining about how Paramount's producers were again butchering his screenplay with clueless suggestions.
"They think a submarine is too 'dreary' and want a scene where the crew throws a party on deck. In the Arctic Ocean! God, I want to load them into a torpedo tube and fire them out."
Takuya listened with amusement, slicing his filet mignon. This bestselling author was more down-to-earth than any character he'd written.
Just then, the door opened. A man walked in.
Medium height.
Faded flannel shirt.
Old jeans.
Dark skin from years outdoors.
Calm, razor-sharp eyes.
He didn't look like a soldier—more like a contractor just off a construction site.
He came straight to their booth, sat down without hesitation.
"Jim, you're late," Clancy said.
"Traffic."
The man—Jim—turned to Takuya and extended a hand.
"James White."
His grip was firm, calloused, brief.
"Nakayama Takuya."
No small talk. White ordered a black beer, then looked at Takuya.
"Tom says you want to make a game about special forces?"
"Not exactly."
Takuya wiped his mouth and leaned forward.
"Most games make the player a one-man super-soldier, shooting through hordes of enemies. That's not tactics. That's gambling."
White's brow twitched, mildly intrigued.
"What I want is more like a tactical planning simulator," Takuya continued.
"Imagine a building taken over by armed criminals, with hostages inside. Before the operation, you have the full floor plan. You don't rush in—you solve the problem on paper."
He wet his fingertip and drew a rough box on the dark tabletop.
"This is the entrance. Three hostiles—one at the door, two deeper inside. Hostages here." He pointed.
"Traditional gameplay is: break in, hope your aim is good. My game is about pre-planning—assigning roles according to each squad member's gear and skills."
His finger traced crossing paths on the table.
"Operator One breaches, throws a flash. Two and Three follow and cover left and right sectors. Four takes a precision shot from the window, eliminating the biggest threat to the hostage. The timing is exact to the second.
You plan everything, hit Execute, and watch your strategy unfold—or fall apart because of one small miscalculation."
Clancy nodded in approval.
This was exactly the meticulous, professional tension his novels were known for.
White took a long drink of his beer.
"Plans never survive contact."
Finally, he spoke—sharp and blunt.
"What if there's a fourth hostile you didn't know about? What if the hostage isn't where you thought? On the battlefield, surprises are the norm."
Clancy's face grew serious. This was a real operator talking.
Takuya, however, smiled.
"That's why I want real-time adjustments after the plan starts."
"If the execution fails, players won't just respawn right there."
He met White's eyes.
"They watch their team die because of their decisions. The mission fails. Their only choice is to go back, review the recording, and revise their plan—again and again—until they produce a strategy that accounts for every variable."
"This isn't a game about aim. It's about the player's mind—and their grasp of basic tactics."
White stared at him for a long ten seconds.
The scrutiny was back—but now mixed with a hint of something new.
Interest.
He leaned back, finally relaxed.
"Not bad."
He pulled a napkin and pen over.
"I can teach you how a real four-man team handles such situations. Breaching methods, loadouts, hand signals, jargon. But—"
He looked up.
"My consulting fee won't be cheap. My time now costs more than when I was risking my ass overseas."
"We pay well for expertise," Takuya said with an easy smile, extending his hand.
"Good."
White shook it firmly.
"We'll sign a preliminary agreement. Details when the project starts."
He handed over a stiff, minimalistic business card. Only a name and a phone number—clean and direct like the man himself.
As the food dwindled, the mood shifted from tense consultation to casual conversation.
Clancy resumed complaining about Hollywood screenwriters.
"Honestly, Takuya, your game idea is more professional than their scripts. I visited a set recently—they wanted the sonar operator on a sub to own a cat! For 'emotional warmth.' I asked if they wanted the whole crew thinking there was a ghost ship meowing in the ocean!"
Takuya chuckled, wiped his mouth, and neatly set his utensils down.
He looked at White.
The man didn't speak much, but every word hit home.
Now he lounged back in his seat, the earlier edge gone.
"James," Takuya said casually, "speaking of equipment—I stopped by a shooting range this trip."
White lifted his eyes slightly, a gesture meaning: go on.
"I tried an M16, and an AR-15 with a red-dot sight."
The memory made him frown thoughtfully.
"The experience was drastically different. But I noticed something: attaching accessories—optics, lights, foregrips—was a pain."
He gestured with his fingers as he spoke.
"Each accessory had its own mounting method. Screw sizes all different, tools required all different. It's like plugging a VCR into a TV, but every manufacturer uses different connectors. Unthinkable in consumer electronics—but for guns, everyone just puts up with it."
Clancy nodded vigorously.
"Exactly! Those accessory companies want you to replace your whole gun just to change one part."
White, who had been silent, suddenly let out a cold laugh.
"Put up with it? That's because there's no choice."
His voice cut through the air, silencing Clancy.
"On deployment, we call that battlefield modification."
He picked up the table knife and tapped the plate.
"You tape a flashlight to the handguard with wire, duct tape, zip ties—whatever. Because the issued gear might not work for night operations."
He set the knife down with a sharp clack.
"Your optic shifts by a tenth of a millimeter, and at a hundred meters your shot can miss by half a meter. Half a meter is enough to send you—or your buddy—to meet God."
White's tone was flat but heavy.
"So we'd rather use stupid methods to lock it down. What you're describing—this isn't inconvenience. It's lives."
The air grew still.
Takuya didn't back down. His eyes brightened.
"So why isn't there a universal standard?"
A simple, direct question.
"A Lego-like interface. Any accessory from any manufacturer attaches to any rifle at any position—easily, securely. No specialized tools, no mismatched screws. As easy as putting batteries in a toy."
"Plug and play."
Takuya circled his temple with a fingertip.
"I already have a design concept for such a system."
White didn't respond.
In his mind flashed the endless shelves of mismatched mounts in supply depots…the deadly consequences of a loose screw on a scope…the absurdity of every company making its own incompatible system.
A unified, modular standard?
This Japanese guy—did he realize what he was proposing?
This wasn't a product.
This was a revolution.
A revolution that could reshape the entire firearms industry, overhaul military procurement, and open an enormous new market.
"So," Takuya said calmly, "I need a company with real influence to promote this standard. A company respected by the NRA, with solid military ties.
After thinking it over, Colt seems perfect."
White drained the rest of his beer.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers drummed on the table—low, heavy sounds.
"Colt does have strong connections with the Navy," he murmured, half to himself. "I can put you in touch with the right people."
"That would be greatly appreciated. As for consulting fees—"
White raised a hand to stop him.
"Nakayama-san."
It was the first time he used an honorific.
"We need to renegotiate my fee."
He leaned forward.
"I charge one rate for helping with a game.
But delivering this idea to Colt's boardroom?"
A slow grin spread across his face, sharp as a shark catching the scent of blood.
"That's a different price altogether.
And trust me—SEGA won't regret the investment."
"Of course. It'll be a worthwhile project."
Takuya raised his glass.
White refilled his own and clinked it against Takuya's.
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