Cameron only gave Tom a slight nod as a greeting, but his attention was instead drawn to the younger Takuya.
"Sega? The company that makes that blue hedgehog?"
"We're also trying to create some new things."
Takuya's gaze moved past Cameron and toward the monitors behind him.
On the screen, a stick figure made of simple lines was synchronizing perfectly with an actor's movements.
Motion capture technology.
Takuya immediately understood.
This tech-obsessed director was already preparing for his movie about the T800 returning from the future.
"Mr. Cameron," Takuya suddenly spoke, "we're developing a 3D game. If possible, we hope to introduce the technology you're using."
Cameron raised a brow, as if he'd heard something interesting.
"For a game? What do you want to capture? A hedgehog doing somersaults?"
There was a hint of arrogance and teasing in his tone.
"No."
Takuya's voice was calm, yet carried a force that allowed no doubt.
"We want to create a 3D fighting game based on real martial arts."
The studio instantly fell silent.
The playful expression on Cameron's face gradually faded. He turned around and, for the first time, seriously examined the young man from Japan.
"3D fighting?"
"Yes."
Takuya met his gaze.
"We believe games shouldn't just be cartoons and fantasies. They can also be extensions of reality—a training ground for technology. Sega, too, is an explorer pushing the limits forward."
Cameron stared at him for more than ten seconds. His eyes changed from scrutiny to a kind of recognition.
"Interesting," he finally said, then added, "This system isn't ours. We're also clients. The developer is an American motion analysis company. You can go talk to them."
He slapped Bernard's shoulder.
"Bernie, this Japanese guy you brought—he doesn't feel like a businessman."
"He's a game creator first," Bernard replied with a laugh.
"No wonder." Cameron nodded, then turned back to his monitors and waved without looking back.
"I still have adjustments to make. Do as you please."
---
On the way back from Industrial Light & Magic, once they got into the car, Tom Kalinske immediately blurted out the biggest question in his mind:
"Bernard, seriously—who are you? Spielberg, producers at Paramount, and now James Cameron—they're all so familiar with you and treat you with such respect?"
Takuya also looked at Bernard, equally curious.
Bernard stared out the window, silent for a moment before answering in a flat tone,
"My father is with the Academy."
"The Academy?" Tom didn't quite follow.
"The one that hands out the Oscars every year," Bernard clarified.
"A lot of people in Hollywood want to have a voice inside the Academy or get early information. Sometimes they contact my father through me. I never introduce unreliable people to him, so… everyone gives me a bit of face."
So that was it—Hollywood's local power broker.
"Then why did you—" Takuya frowned, confused.
"I don't like those old fossils in the Academy," Bernard said with a wry smile, the kind that carried a young man's defiance.
"They're always discussing film art from decades ago. But I prefer the new toys in Jim Cameron's warehouse, and the new worlds inside Sega's game consoles."
He turned to Takuya.
"I joined Sega because of Fatal Fury and Golden Sun. I don't want to sit with a bunch of old men guarding the glories of the past. I want to take part in creating the future."
The car fell quiet.
Tom Kalinske looked at Bernard, then at Takuya, and suddenly burst into loud laughter.
"Takuya—my friend! I think I should award you a medal for bringing such a smooth-talking ace to Sega!"
---
Over the next two days, Nakayama Takuya fully experienced Hollywood's mix of glamour and reality.
Through Bernard's connections, they met several well-known producers and agents.
Without exception, every one of them showed great interest in Sega—the "powerful newcomer"—and enthusiastically pitched their projects. From aging sci-fi series to low-budget horror scripts, they offered everything imaginable.
But Takuya only listened politely, smiled, and said he would think about it.
"Takuya, you're really picky," Bernard said as they left one studio.
"That film's rights were cheap, and it's fairly known in the VHS rental market."
"Bernard, we're not here to scavenge Hollywood's leftovers," Takuya replied calmly as he looked at the dazzling movie posters outside the car window.
"If we're going to do something, it must be something that amazes everyone."
Bernard shrugged and said nothing more. He found himself increasingly admiring this Japanese man.
Clear goals. Precise methods. Never wasting a single moment on unnecessary things.
Hollywood was full of smart people, but very few knew so clearly what they didn't want.
---
Tom Kalinske returned to the Redwood City headquarters on Friday.
Before leaving, he gave Takuya a fierce hug, slapping his shoulder so hard it thumped.
"Takuya, my friend! I'll leave the rest to you! You must win over that stubborn writer!"
He lowered his voice, expression both thrilled and nervous.
"I'll go tighten the ears of the dev team and make them prepare! Waiting for your good news!"
After the noisy Tom left, the world finally quieted.
---
Takuya locked himself in the hotel room for the entire weekend.
When Bernard came by, he saw papers scattered all over the floor.
Takuya was bent over the desk, drawing on a large sheet of white paper.
These weren't words—they were detailed architectural floor plans, marked with colored arrows, symbols, and movement routes.
"What… is this?"
Bernard crouched down and picked up a page.
It was filled with technical terms he didn't understand—
"A-point breach,"
"B-team feint,"
"Sniper position,"
"Estimated hostage location,"
"Flashbang assault,"
"Smoke line-of-sight block."
Nothing about it looked like a game design document.
If anything, it looked more like—
a counter-terrorism operation briefing.
"It's a 'greeting gift' for Mr. Clancy," Takuya said without looking up, continuing to draw straight lines with a ruler.
"Mr. Neufeld said Clancy is a stubborn Marylander who looks down on people making 'electronic toys.'
So we can't just talk money and licensing with him."
"So you wrote him a military operation report?" Bernard found it absurd—and strangely exciting.
"No."
Takuya finally stopped and held up a completed sheet for Bernard to see.
"I'm showing him the way Sega intends to bring his world to life inside our games."
He pointed at the layout.
"Before the mission begins, players enter this 'tactical planning' interface. They can study the map, analyze possible enemy positions, assign their squad's starting placements, set infiltration routes, schedule attack timings, and define engagement rules.
Even the equipment loadouts of each squad member are managed in detail.
Then, during combat, players react dynamically—using any available conditions to adjust their plans.
That's the essence of Clancy's novels: meticulousness, professionalism, strategy.
Not brainlessly charging in with guns blazing."
Bernard was stunned.
After so many years in Hollywood, he'd seen countless pitch decks and wild story ideas.
But he had never seen anything like this.
This had already surpassed the realm of "games."
It was a new kind of interactive simulation built on real-world logic.
"My God…" Bernard whispered, staring at Takuya with unhidden shock.
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