A dozen minutes later, the conference-room door swung open again.
Matt Wallace walked back in. His expression had recovered its composure, even carrying a bit of a businessman's sharpness. He sat down, fingers interlaced on the table. Clearly, that phone call had restored his confidence.
"The board has, in principle, accepted Mr. Nakayama's allocation proposal." Matt's voice was steady, firm—he placed deliberate emphasis on "in principle."
"However, we have one small additional condition." He looked at Takuya with the eyes of a hawk that had finally found a chance to strike. "Regarding the one percent of shares held by SEGA—we at Colt hope to exercise its voting rights on your behalf."
Clancy's brow immediately creased. This trick was all too familiar—classic Wall Street maneuvering. A seemingly trivial request, hiding a whole calculus of control.
Takuya's smile did not change.
He wanted clean numbers, not to be dragged into the decades-long vendettas among American firearms manufacturers.
Let Colt hold the voting rights?
Then someday, if Colt used this one percent to wrestle with Smith & Wesson or Remington, would those companies hold resentment toward SEGA, the "authorizer," when they settled old scores?
What if someone ended up "suiciding with eight bullets to the back"?
"Agreed."
Takuya nodded so quickly that Matt was caught off-guard. The long speech he'd prepared stuck in his throat.
"But—" Takuya tapped the table lightly with one finger. The sound was soft, yet the air in the room seemed to freeze. "This cannot be a private agreement between our two companies."
He met Matt's evaluating gaze.
"If Colt is to hold these voting rights for us, then it must be aboveboard—and acknowledged by everyone."
"This arrangement must obtain written consent from every member company of the National Rifle Association. In other words, Mr. Wallace, you must personally convince Smith & Wesson, Remington, Ruger—every company on that list. They must all agree to let Colt represent our one percent."
Finally, he added, almost casually, "SEGA will not participate in this persuasion process in any form. We only look at the outcome."
Matt Wallace's professional smile froze by degrees.
He felt like he had thrown a full-force punch into a ball of cotton—only to find steel needles hidden inside.
This Japanese man wasn't agreeing to his condition; he was handing him the hardest, most thankless task possible.
Want to be the leader of this standards alliance? Fine.
First, take SEGA's one percent as your pledge, and go pacify every proud, stubborn peer in the association one by one.
If you pull it off, Colt will indeed lead the entire ecosystem with legitimacy.
Fail? Then that's Colt's own incompetence—nothing to do with SEGA an ocean away.
A sheen of sweat formed on Matt's forehead.
Looking at Takuya's almost-too-young face, he felt he wasn't facing a game designer, but a fox who had lived on negotiation tables for decades.
At length, he took a deep breath, as though making a difficult choice, and squeezed out the words:
"Fine. We accept."
Worst case, that one percent would simply become an abstention.
Takuya then produced two documents already prepared: a nondisclosure agreement and an authorization framework agreement.
He slid them into the center of the table with unhurried movements.
"The additional condition for Colt has already been included."
Matt's eyes lingered on the pages before signaling to his attorney.
The lawyer stepped forward immediately and began examining every line meticulously.
The room filled only with the soft rustling of turning pages.
Tom Clancy sipped his coffee, thoroughly entertained—less a witness, more an audience member watching a live premiere of an excellent corporate espionage drama.
A few minutes later, the lawyer whispered into Matt's ear, then nodded.
Matt picked up an expensive Parker gold pen and signed both documents without hesitation.
As witnesses, James White and Tom Clancy also signed the NDA.
When the last signature was completed, Takuya calmly opened his briefcase and took out a black hard folder, placing it lightly on the table.
"This is my proposal."
Matt instinctively leaned forward. He expected dense engineering diagrams—but when the folder opened, it contained only a few extremely minimalistic renderings.
The image depicted a grooved metal rail mounted atop a rifle's receiver.
"I call it the 'Light Weapons Tactical Rail.'" Takuya tapped the image. "Its core concept is a single word: standard."
He didn't bother with detailed technical data. Instead, he explained in the most intuitive way.
"Imagine, Mr. Wallace: a soldier on the battlefield needs to mount a night-vision scope. He no longer has to search his tool kit, no longer worries about matching screw sizes, no longer struggles with calibration under stress."
"He simply pulls the latch, slides the optic onto the rail—'click'—and locks it with a torque wrench. The whole process takes under five seconds, requires almost no adjustments, and no matter how many times he mounts or removes it, accuracy remains unchanged. Any factory that manufactures accessories to this standard can fit them perfectly onto any rifle built to this standard."
Matt Wallace's breath hitched.
He wasn't an engineer, but he had dealt with the military long enough to understand immediately.
This wasn't an accessory.
This was an ecosystem.
An ecosystem that Colt could lead—one that could encompass every gunmaker and accessory manufacturer.
Like the interface standard of televisions—everyone must play by its rules.
"As for promoting it—"
Takuya's tone shifted as he produced another document.
"I suggest we bring Hollywood in and make a movie."
Matt blinked, caught off-balance by the sudden turn.
"A movie?"
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