Ajal.
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Chapter 113: Hideo Kojima
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 11:26:00 +0000 UTCIn the executive director’s office at Sega.
Takuya Nakayama smiled, extending a hand to gesture Hideo Kojima toward the opposite sofa. Kojima bowed slightly, a touch stiff in contrast to Takuya’s easy demeanor.
The office was simpler than Kojima had imagined—no ostentatious decor, just a practical air.
“Kojima-san, I’ve heard so much about you. Mr. Suzuki hasn’t stopped singing your praises,” Takuya said, his voice clear and youthful yet carrying a maturity beyond his years. He personally lifted the guest teapot from the desk, pouring Kojima a steaming cup of sencha with fluid grace, devoid of any superior airs.
Kojima accepted the cup with both hands, the warmth seeping into his fingertips. “You’re too kind, Executive Director Nakayama.” His voice was hoarse from days of turmoil and restraint. This young executive was more approachable than rumors suggested, easing some of Kojima’s tension.
Takuya’s gaze fell on the dog-eared Metal Gear script resting on Kojima’s knee, its cover worn from constant handling. “May I take a look?”
Kojima hesitated briefly before handing it over.
Takuya flipped through it attentively. The room filled only with the rustle of pages. He read intently, nodding occasionally, his brow arching subtly at times. Kojima sipped his tea, nerves jangling—this script had been trashed as worthless at Konami.
“Stealth espionage, anti-war themes, intricate character webs, and profound explorations of tech ethics and humanity—” Takuya set the script down, meeting Kojima’s eyes with genuine admiration. “Kojima-san, you’re a true genius. Even under my harshest scrutiny, this is a masterpiece. Especially Solid Snake’s characterization—utterly three-dimensional.”
Kojima’s hand paused mid-sip, the cup hovering. His dulled eyes sparked with long-absent light. This was the first time a true insider—and high-ranking one at that—had offered such direct, specific praise. At Konami, he’d endured endless “the market doesn’t need this complexity” or “players won’t like heavy themes.”
“Executive Director Nakayama—” His throat tightened with emotion.
“Kojima-san, if you don’t mind, call me Takuya-kun,” Takuya interjected with a smile, aiming to lighten the mood. “At Sega, we value talent and creativity over rigid hierarchies.”
You see, I’m the boss’s son, but without real results, the execs wouldn’t have placed me here.
The remark softened Kojima’s pursed lips.
“Our earlier promises via Mr. Suzuki stand—and I’ll oversee them personally,” Takuya said, his smile fading into earnest focus. “Sega grants you maximum creative freedom. Your ideas, your vision—here, they’ll be fully respected. Funding, tech, staff—as long as it’s reasonable, Sega backs it all.”
Kojima’s heart, raw from betrayal, found solace in these words. Creative freedom—what he’d craved and lost at Konami. He drew a deep breath, nodding solemnly. “I understand, Takuya-kun.”
Shifting to specifics, Takuya’s expression grew serious. “Kojima-san, I adore Metal Gear and see its huge potential. But there’s a practical issue we must face together.”
Kojima tensed, fresh hope dimming like a doused flame. He sensed the catch. “Please, go on.”
“The original script is your heart’s work, but its rights carry risks,” Takuya said candidly. “Konami shelved your vision, but they might exploit the IP for a heavily altered Famicom version—rushing it out first.”
Kojima’s brow furrowed—this was his deepest fear.
“If we launch your original now, Konami’s move could spark endless legal battles,” Takuya analyzed. “For you freshly at Sega, our partnership, and Sega’s reputation—it could harm us all. You know how soul-crushing legal fights are, worse than game dev sometimes.”
Takuya’s tone was even, his reasoning sound and business-savvy. Kojima’s eyes dimmed again. That script—his soul poured out—now shackled by commerce. Helplessness welled; he clenched his fist unconsciously.
But he composed himself. Takuya’s candor felt like respect, not dismissal—worlds from Konami’s false smiles and backroom schemes.
“I understand, Takuya-kun,” Kojima said, nodding, voice subdued. “It’s commercial reality—I can accept it.” The knot in his chest lingered, but trust in Sega—and this young executive—grew. At least he wasn’t deceived or belittled.
Takuya caught the subtle shift in Kojima’s mood and smiled faintly, knowing not to dwell on the rights snag. “Kojima-san, I know Metal Gear means everything to you. Shelving it now doesn’t mean forever. One day, it’ll see light exactly as you envision—and we’ll prep legally to reclaim full rights if possible.”
“But first,” Takuya stood, gesturing invitingly, “I’d like you to see something Sega’s working on in secret. It might open a broader sky, even help you forget those Nintendo bastards’ nonsense for a bit.”
His tone held a mysterious allure, piquing Kojima’s curiosity.
