"Rebuilding the core means starting from scratch, even rewriting the entire engine," the lead programmer said, shrugging. "Our current algorithm can't handle real-time collision calculations for such irregular geometry. Unless—"
"Unless what?"
"Unless we make them textures."
And so, the once-magnificent space fortresses were forced to be downgraded from "battlefield installations" to mere desktop wallpapers.
They were welded rigidly to the farthest edge of the screen. No matter how hard the player pushed the throttle, the A Baoa Qu forever hung in the sky, neither closer nor farther, like a shoddy stage backdrop.
But that wasn't the worst part.
To make the scene look more lively, the designers proposed adding Federation and Zeon fleets firing at each other in the background.
The idea was grand, but reality was brutally stark.
Since they were background textures, they had to adhere to perspective principles. Battleships hundreds of kilometers away appeared no larger than green beans on the screen.
The final result was a farce: on the distant backdrop, rows of pixels flickered mechanically, occasionally crossed by light beams thinner than a hair. There was no sense of pressure or depth, only a further emphasis on the absurdity and emptiness of space.
"Why don't we... ask Sega for help?" someone suggested in a low voice. "They managed to create such complex throws in 3D environments with Virtua Fighter. Writing our collision logic shouldn't be too difficult for them."
"Shut up," Chuta Mitsui snapped, whirling around, his eyes blazing with murderous intent. "This is about Bandai's reputation. If we can't even produce a decent demo and have to beg Sega to patch it up, we'll be nothing but meat on the chopping block at the negotiating table."
This was a stubbornness bordering on tragic.
Knowing the path ahead was a minefield, they had to charge blindly forward, just to ensure they fell with slightly more dignity.
"Fine," Mitsui said, waving a weary hand at the screen, which still displayed a hollow interface, albeit with a few colorful wallpapers. "Turn up the background music to mask the thin sound effects.
Whether it's a horse or a donkey, this thing needs to be stitched together by E3."
Back in the President's office, Mitsui's face was darker than the game's "cosmic background."
He slammed the freshly printed test report onto his desk, overdoing the force. The paper slid half a meter, nearly falling into the trash bin—perhaps that was its true destiny.
"What do you think?" Makoto Yamashina didn't even look up, idly spinning the Montblanc pen in his hand, his tone unreadable.
"It's unplayable," Chuta Mitsui said, pouring himself a glass of water and downing it in one gulp, as if trying to wash down the nausea in his throat. "If you just listen to the sound effects, it's almost like a Gundam game. But the moment you open your eyes—
"It's a 6,000-yen vision test. Players have to hunt for pixels on the screen that are barely larger than dead pixels."
The executives in the office exchanged uneasy glances.
"Is it really that bad?" the marketing director asked, reluctant to give up. "Sega's Gundam Battle Operation is being hailed as a masterpiece. If we can't even produce a competitor—"
"Compete with what?" Chuta Mitsui scoffed, pointing at the report. "They're making players feel like they're piloting Gundams. Ours is just a 3D Little Bee. Sega captured the weight and hydraulic feel of the mechs. We've got this weightless, floaty sensation—not the realistic zero-gravity of a physics engine, but a hand-feel so loose it's like ice skating. If we show this to hundreds of picky Western journalists and players in Los Angeles for a hands-on demo—"
He paused, then delivered a conclusion that sent chills down everyone's spines: "Bandai will become the laughingstock of the entire gaming industry."
The air grew thick with tension.
E3 was the stage set by IDSA, where Sega, Sony, and Nintendo would all perform their grand acts.
For Bandai, the Japanese toy giant, to be absent would be to admit defeat. But to show up with a plate of rotten food would be a disgrace.
"Then don't let the players touch the controllers."
Makoto Yamashina, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke, slamming his fountain pen onto the table with a sharp clack.
All eyes turned to him.
"Cut all the footage with clipping issues, broken controls, and backgrounds as dark as a power outage," Yamashina said, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin on them. His eyes held a mixture of cunning and helplessness, the look of a shrewd businessman. "Have the CG department work overtime to pull out the least embarrassing mecha models and create a trailer. Keep the cuts fast—one scene every two seconds—so the audience doesn't get a good look at the background textures. Add some rousing background music and a few lines of over-the-top voice acting."
The head of public relations' eyes lit up. "Are you suggesting... a conceptual trailer?"
"Exactly. The kind where the actual gameplay will be revealed at launch." Makoto Yamashina chuckled self-mockingly. "Tell the media we're only showing development footage to maintain secrecy." This will build suspense and maximize anticipation. As for the launch day—"
He didn't finish the sentence. By launch day, it was anyone's guess if the Bandai Games Division would still be called Bandai.
"What about the rest of the booth time?" Chuta Mitsui asked. "Just showing the trailer won't make enough of an impression."
"Bring out those old stocks from the warehouse." Yamashina waved his hand as if swatting away his troubles. "The Dragon Ball fighting game, the Sailor Moon side-scroller, and those technically outdated but still playable Mega Drive and Super Famicom titles. Make the booth look flashy, hire more showgirls in revealing outfits, and fill it with Gundam models. As long as it's lively, nobody will question whether the screen is running a cutting-edge 3D masterpiece or a rehashed 2D classic."
This was a kind of tragic, pragmatic approach.
Since the core was already rotten, they had to go all out with the superficial facade.
"So be it," Chuta Mitsui sighed, crumpled the report into a ball, and tossed it accurately into the trash. "This might be the Bandai Games Division's last independent E3 appearance. Even if we're just putting on a show, we have to act like a giant."
The people in the conference room began packing up their things, their movements carrying the somber air of a farewell dinner.
They all knew that this so-called "last struggle" was merely to secure a slightly better price for Bandai at the inevitable negotiation table.
At the very least, they couldn't let that Takuya Nakayama guy think Bandai was just a worthless corpse.
But now, it seemed unlikely they'd be able to negotiate any price at all.
The aftershocks in Kobe had subsided, but the tremors in the Japanese media landscape continued.
More than a month after the Great Hanshin Earthquake, the media's spotlight had shifted from the cries of the rubble to the conference rooms in Nagatachō.
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