Sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds, scattering mottled shadows across Nakayama Takuya's desk in Redwood City.
The phone rang, cutting through his concentration as he worked on the final stage design for Critical Crisis.
Takuya pressed the button to answer. A steady, familiar voice came through the receiver—James White.
"Mr. Nakayama."
White's tone carried its usual terse composure.
"It's done."
Takuya leaned back in his chair. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained calm.
"Oh? Let's hear it."
"The Pentagon and the Rifle Association have reached their final agreement."
This time, a ripple of suppressed excitement leaked into White's voice.
"Production rights have been granted to the Picatinny Arsenal."
"As expected," Takuya replied lightly.
"But the process was… more entertaining than we imagined." White paused, choosing his words.
"The engineers at the arsenal—those arrogant, self-important guys—dismissed our data at first. They dug through decades' worth of old connectors and mounting rails, even Warsaw Pact ones. They spent three whole weeks running over a hundred assembly trials and live-fire tests trying to prove your design was flawed. Or at least to find a 'more American optimization.'"
Takuya listened quietly, easily imagining those proud white engineers tearing their hair out amid piles of outdated hardware.
"And then?"
Phone-side silence lingered for three full seconds before White let out a low, chest-deep laugh.
"And then, they had to admit that your Japanese design is the goddamn perfect standard answer."
"They've now officially named the project and are preparing to submit it to Congress as the next-generation universal standard for U.S. and NATO small arms."
"Oh, right," White added, as if remembering something, "they've given it a formal military designation and name. They're calling it the 'Picatinny Rail.' Named after their own arsenal. You don't mind, do you?"
When he said the name, his voice was tinged with complicated emotion.
This name—proof that the engineers had fully embraced the art of American-style appropriation.
They accepted the standard, but crowned it with their own name, erasing any trace of the Japanese man behind it.
But to Takuya, it didn't matter in the slightest.
"It's a good name."
He spoke as casually as if commenting on a dish.
"Mr. Nakayama—"
For the first time, White sounded genuinely puzzled.
"You don't seem surprised at all?"
"I merely provided a solution, Mr. White. Besides, the folks at Picatinny are hoping this project gets them promotions and raises. We can't ruin that for them, can we?"
After hanging up, Takuya stood and walked to the wide floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the busy flow of traffic far below.
History rolled forward on its predetermined tracks.
Round and round—and the thing was still called the "Picatinny Rail."
---
Phoenix, Arizona.
Inside a gun shop chilled by blasting air conditioning, the atmosphere burned hotter than the desert outside.
"Hey, Jimmy, check this out!"
A young man in a work vest, arms covered in tattoos, raised a brand-new AR-15. "Colt's new release! See this rail on top?"
Old Jimmy—cleaning a classic M1911 behind the counter—lifted his eyes just enough to express disdain.
"Another flashy toy? Kid, guns are for shooting and staying alive, not turning into Christmas trees."
"No, Pops, this one's different!"
The young man gently set the rifle down, grabbed a red-dot sight from a box of accessories, lined it up with the metal strip on the rifle, and pushed—
Click.
The sight locked on tight.
Then he picked up a tactical flashlight and slid it onto the side rail.
Click.
Smooth as water. In under ten seconds, a plain rifle had become a fully kitted tactical platform.
"See that? No tools. No lining up those damn screw holes!" The young man's face flushed with excitement. "I can mount whatever I want, wherever I want! This thing's like LEGO for rifles!"
Jimmy put down the M1911 and adjusted his glasses. He reached out and ran a rough fingertip across the newly christened "Picatinny" rail, then tugged at the attached accessories—solid as bedrock.
"Fancy nonsense," he grumbled.
But his eyes were locked on the rail, staring hard enough to burn a hole in it.
A long silence later, he muttered, "So how much more does this thing cost?"
---
Colt Headquarters.
On Matt Wallace's desk lay a freshly compiled early market feedback report.
Sales numbers weren't great—exactly as he'd predicted. Most consumers were still watching from the sidelines.
He didn't mind at all.
Skipping over the sales column, he tapped directly on customer comments.
"A revolutionary change! I can finally mount my flashlight, laser, and scope together without them fighting each other!"
"Takes seconds to install or remove, and zero shift is tiny! God, whoever designed this is a genius!"
"Looks awesome! My girlfriend says I look sexier messing with this rifle than when I play guitar!"
"Colt needs more compatible accessories ASAP. My wallet is ready!"
Matt slumped back in his chair, exhaling deeply. The exhaustion from weeks of arguing with competitors evaporated.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number in Redwood City.
"Nakayama, your damn invention is selling like rainfall in a California drought!" Matt complained the moment the call connected.
"Is that so," Takuya answered evenly.
"But!" Matt's tone flipped instantly, brimming with excitement, "the people who do buy it are obsessed! Some Texan wrote a three-page review calling it the greatest rifle innovation since rifling! Three pages! He didn't even put that much effort into his thesis!"
"And someone else said it makes his gun look like a movie prop—'cool,' he said! They actually used the word cool!"
Matt could almost see Takuya smiling quietly on the other end.
This Japanese man had seen the whole picture from the start.
He wasn't just changing guns—
He was changing how Americans felt about guns.
Turning firearms into a new middle-class lifestyle element.
Takuya listened patiently until Matt had vented enough. Then he spoke, calm as ever.
"Seems we'll need to accelerate our movie schedule."
The seed had been planted.
Now it was time for Hollywood's grand commercial spectacle.
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