When Nakayama Takuya and Kojima were fully absorbed in wrapping up Crisis Imminent, an unexpected phone call from Colt broke the heat of discussion in the development department.
Takuya stepped to the window and answered.
On the other end came Matt Wallace's voice—hoarse, tired, and edged with smoke.
"Takuya… it's done."
"Is that so? Then congratulations, Mr. Wallace," Takuya replied lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
"Congratulations?" Matt let out a dry laugh. "I feel like I just negotiated over a fresh carcass with a pack of wolves that haven't eaten in half a month. I'm lucky to have any limbs left. At this point, I'd rather argue with DoD procurement officers for three straight days."
Takuya chuckled. "The capable do the heavy lifting."
"Don't remind me." Matt sighed. Takuya could practically hear the flick of a lighter through the receiver. "Anyway, they agreed. Colt will hold that one percent of Sega's voting rights on your behalf. But—"
"But?"
"But Colt is the biggest sucker in the room, that's what!" Matt's voice rose sharply. "In the movie, Colt's civilian models got shoved completely into the background! The protagonist's home-defense gun? A Smith & Wesson revolver. The cool trick-shooting scene at the range? Ruger competition pistol. And the final showdown? Those bastards insisted on giving Remington's shotgun a five-second hero shot!"
He growled, "Their excuse? Colt has NATO military contracts to lean on, so we can 'afford' to yield some exposure to our so-called starving brother companies. Brother companies, my ass."
Takuya couldn't help smiling wider.
He could easily picture those arms-industry giants fighting over screen time like Hollywood actresses jockeying for red carpet angles.
"But you still secured the leadership position, didn't you?" Takuya said, hitting the center of the matter in one stroke.
Silence lingered for a moment.
"…Yeah." Matt's voice eased, fatigue laced with a quiet sense of triumph. "We got it. Trading a few movie shots for control over industry standards for the next decade—that's a bargain in any ledger."
"So congratulations, Mr. Wallace," Takuya said again.
This time, Matt didn't argue.
"Universal has been hounding us. You can give them the green light now," Matt said, tone settling back into businesslike calm. "That damn script of yours—they've already assembled a writing team for it."
"Then let them begin," Takuya answered. "Don't forget—Sega only has seven years."
"Believe me, I won't." Matt hung up.
Takuya lowered his phone and looked out at Redwood City's brilliant sunshine, mood bright and clear.
Colt had given up face to secure substance.
The other firearms companies would get their publicity from the film—but in exchange, they accepted Colt's leadership.
A civil war he had quietly instigated ended, improbably, in a win-win-win.
And Sega, the instigator behind it all, walked away spotless—with nothing but a data-usage right worth its weight in gold in the future, and a seven-year exclusive game adaptation license.
One week later. Universal Studios meeting room.
For the first time, Matt Wallace found Los Angeles' sunshine irritatingly harsh.
Beside him sat vice presidents from Smith & Wesson and Remington—pressed suits, straight backs, solemn expressions, as if they were testifying before the Pentagon.
Across from them sat Hollywood's elite, led by Universal producer Bob—smiles bright, posture relaxed, the air thick with cologne and the scent of money.
Two completely different atmospheres clashed in the same room.
And at the head of the table, Nakayama Takuya was the silent eye of the storm—serene, almost excessively so.
"Takuya!" Bob waved animatedly, brimming with enthusiasm. "We've spoken to several stunt coordinators already. Your 'Gun-Fight' concept—my God, they're blown away! Gun-combat martial arts! Just the phrase sounds like fifty million at the box office!"
Matt cleared his throat, cutting off Bob's theatrics. "We are more concerned with accuracy. The weapons and tactical attachments in the film must follow the list we provide. We don't want to see the protagonist wielding a Colt rifle with a Remington magazine."
The Remington VP immediately added, "Exactly. And that warehouse battle—our M870 shotgun must have a full reload-and-fire close-up. No less than three seconds."
"Of course, of course! Details are everything—we get it!" Bob nodded vigorously, then looked expectantly at Takuya. "As for the protagonist's backstory, we want to add a CIA covert-ops past, to strengthen his motivation for—"
"Mr. Bob."
Takuya finally spoke. His voice was soft, yet the room fell silent instantly.
He looked around politely.
"I'm a game developer—not a filmmaker."
He gestured to the firearm executives.
"You are the weapons experts. You handle authenticity."
Then he pointed at the Universal team.
"You are the movie experts. You handle spectacle."
"As for me"—Takuya spread his hands, relaxed as if sitting in his own living room—"I'm only the one who made a proposal. My job is already complete."
He rose and straightened his suit jacket.
"Sega's one and only requirement is that the movie must be cool—cool enough to show the beauty and allure of firearms. How you achieve that is your field, not mine. And I trust you'll keep your promises."
With a small nod, he turned and walked toward the door.
Leaving behind a room full of arms-industry titans and Hollywood moguls staring at one another.
As the door closed, Matt Wallace watched it with a complicated expression. This Japanese man had ignited the conflict, drawn the battle lines, set the rules—and then casually walked away, leaving everyone else at the card table.
While he himself remained untouched.
Outside Universal Studios, Takuya sat in the car back to his hotel. He glanced at the massive "HOLLYWOOD" sign on the hillside—but his thoughts weren't on box office or profit shares.
He was imagining something else:
When the film released, when the world's youth went wild for that elegant, lethal gun-combat art—
what kind of game would Sega unveil to catch that desire spilling out from the silver screen?
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