A week of waiting wasn't long.
For James White, it meant a handful of phone calls, a free dinner, and then enjoying the leisure funded by a down payment far higher than his usual consulting fee.
For Nakayama Takuya, it felt more like a spontaneous short trip.
He spent two days wandering around Owings Town, then drove to Washington, D.C.
In the National Museum of Natural History, he stood before a gigantic dinosaur skeleton for a long time—thinking not about paleontology, but about how to design more imposing monster models for future games.
In the National Gallery of Art, he stood before Leonardo da Vinci's original Ginevra de' Benci, feeling the weight of five centuries of art.
He looked nothing like a man about to face a titan of the military–industrial world.
Calm, relaxed, almost casual—like he was meeting an ordinary business partner.
This relaxed mood lasted right up until he sat down inside the main conference room of Colt's headquarters.
It was Monday, 10 a.m.
Paintings of Colt's historic products lined the walls—revolvers, semi-autos, the M16—quietly recounting the company's century-long legacy.
Matt Wallace, Colt's marketing director, exchanged a few polite greetings with James, Takuya, and Tom Clancy, then went straight to the point, motioning for Takuya to present his proposal.
Clancy leaned back, arms folded, looking every bit like a man settling in to enjoy a good show.
He was here purely out of curiosity.
He wanted to know what exactly this young Japanese man had come up with—something so valuable that James White would personally broker the meeting.
The room was so quiet that the hum of the central AC was audible.
Yet Takuya did not reach into his briefcase.
He didn't take out any documents, blueprints, or prototypes.
He simply intertwined his fingers, placed his hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly.
"Before I show you the proposal, Mr. Wallace," Takuya said, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable weight, "there's something we should discuss first."
Matt Wallace's professional smile froze.
Discuss cooperation terms?
Now?
Beside him, James White sat like a stone statue, eyes lowered, giving no indication of interest.
But Clancy caught something—a faint twitch at the corner of the ex–special forces operator's mouth. A nearly invisible smirk.
"I believe you already understand, Mr. Wallace," Takuya continued, "that what I'm about to show you isn't valuable because of the technology itself. Its value lies in establishing a standard. And such a standard must be adopted across the entire industry—perhaps even by NATO militaries."
"SEGA is a game company. We neither have the authority nor the influence to lead something of this scale."
It sounded like modesty.
But it only made Matt more cautious.
He leaned forward as well, mirroring Takuya.
"Then what are you suggesting, Mr. Nakayama?"
"I'm suggesting that SEGA willingly steps away from the profit."
Matt's expression finally cracked.
Even Tom Clancy, who had been lounging back comfortably, straightened up like someone had just slapped the table.
Voluntarily giving up profit?
That made no business sense.
"We'll establish a new company," Takuya continued smoothly. "For now, let's call it the Firearm Data Company. The patents for this standard will be placed under that company."
"SEGA will hold only one percent—purely symbolic. No decision power. No voting power."
"As for the remaining ninety-nine percent…"
Takuya's eyes turned to Matt.
"We propose that the NRA oversee distributing the shares among NATO-aligned small arms manufacturers. How they divide it, who gets more or less—SEGA will not participate."
Matt Wallace was stunned.
His mind raced.
No money.
No control.
No influence.
Then what do they want? Charity?
In all his years in the arms industry, he had never seen someone walk into a negotiation asking for nothing.
Someone who asks for nothing…
is usually the greediest of all.
"And what is SEGA's demand?" Matt finally asked, his throat dry.
Takuya smiled.
"Just one thing."
He raised a single finger.
"All firearms produced using this standard—and all their test data, both the base specifications and the performance metrics with various attachments installed—must have a complete copy stored inside the Firearm Data Company."
"And SEGA, as the creator of the standard, will have perpetual, free usage rights of these datasets for game development."
At last, the trap was visible.
North America's bestselling games?
Cars, guns, and sports.
And now Takuya was laying the groundwork for SEGA's future gun games.
"Of course," Takuya added lightly, "other game companies can also apply for a license. Licensing fees and conditions—SEGA won't be involved."
Then he tossed out one final, weightless sentence:
"For security and transparency, the entire data archiving procedure may be supervised by the Pentagon."
"Pfft—!"
Tom Clancy almost sprayed coffee across the table.
He coughed violently, face turning red.
Good Lord!
He was giving away a golden goose…
and only asking to peek at the eggs.
For Colt and other arms manufacturers, performance data was nothing more than a byproduct of testing—pure overhead, costing them nothing.
But to a game company?
Accurate, real firearm data measured down to the millimeter and millisecond—
that was priceless.
The difference between a mediocre shooter and a masterpiece.
And that final sentence—bringing in the Pentagon—instantly elevated the matter from business cooperation to NATO military security standards.
It placed an ironclad seal on SEGA's access to the data.
And built a towering wall for any competitor.
Matt Wallace frowned deeply.
Now he understood.
There was no conflict of interest to manufacturers.
They lost nothing, gained influence, and got the NRA to distribute benefits.
The only surprise was that SEGA was offering everything to the NRA so cleanly.
He stood.
"I'll need a moment."
As soon as the conference room door closed behind him, Tom Clancy leaned in, barely containing his excitement.
"Jesus, Takuya—what you've done is pluck every feather off a golden goose and then tell them, 'Don't worry, raise it well. I only want to look at the eggs.'"
James White lifted his coffee cup, the corner of his mouth pulling upward in a rare smile.
"He'll agree. No one can turn down a deal like this."
Takuya simply smiled and said nothing.
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