On Tuesday, Bernard fulfilled his promise to let Takuya experience a "true Californian-style relaxation."
He didn't choose any noisy tourist attractions. Instead, he drove Takuya to a secluded beachfront restaurant in Malibu.
Sunshine, waves, sand, and servers in light clothing bringing over chilled lemonade.
"How is it? This is life, right?" Bernard removed his sunglasses and stretched comfortably. "Forget those producers, scripts, and damn licensing contracts. Today, our only job is to get a tan."
Takuya took a sip of the lemonade, the sweet acidity blooming on his tongue.
Watching the surfers in the distance, he smiled and shook his head. "Bernard, I'm starting to think you're more Californian than Tom."
"Of course. I grew up here." Bernard raised his eyebrows proudly. "Tom, that guy's brain is full of nothing but data and market share. A textbook Redwood City workaholic. Unlike us—we understand art and… enjoynt."
After a short rest, they boarded a flight to Washington.
The mont they stepped out of Dulles International Airport, the air changed—no longer the lazy heat of California, but the crisp, cool scent belonging to the center of power.
They spent one night in an airport hotel.
Early the next morning, they rented a Ford sedan and drove toward Owings, Maryland.
The scenery changed from urban to rural, with long stretches of greenery and occasional quiet hos.
This place was calm, peaceful—almost like another dinsion apart from the bustling crowds of Los Angeles.
"Hard to believe soone who wrote The Hunt for Red October lives here," Bernard murmured, feeling like his designer suit didn't belong in this setting at all.
"Maybe because of this, he can calm down and think through all those compelling plots," Takuya replied.
Clancy's insurance company sat on an unremarkable small-town street—a two-story red-brick building with a simple wooden sign that read Clancy Insurance Associates.
When they entered, a middle-aged woman was focused on paperwork at the front desk. Without lifting her head, she asked, "Do you have an appointnt?"
"Yes, ma'am." Bernard cleared his throat, trying to appear more formal. "We're scheduled with Mr. Tom Clancy at two o'clock, from SEGA."
"SEGA?" The woman finally looked up, her gaze sweeping over them—lingering a little longer on Takuya's overly young, distinctly Asian face.
Without much expression, she pointed toward a row of chairs. "Please wait over there. Mr. Clancy is still on a call."
Bernard, used to Hollywood where people fawned over him, suddenly felt out of place. He kept adjusting his tie, unable to relax.
anwhile, Takuya sat quietly, calmly observing the layout of the office.
At exactly two o'clock, a door clicked open.
A slightly overweight man in a plain plaid shirt and black-rimd glasses walked out, looking more like a friendly neighborhood accountant than the king of military thrillers who could command entire fleets with his pen.
He still held a file in hand. His gaze paused briefly on Takuya and Bernard.
"SEGA?" he asked, voice flat, unreadable.
"Yes, Mr. Clancy!" Bernard imdiately stood up, professional smile in place.
But Clancy's eyes moved past him—straight to Takuya, and the bulging briefcase in his hands.
"Half an hour," he said calmly. "I have another eting after this. Co in."
As soon as they sat down, Clancy pointed at the wall clock, getting straight to the point.
"I know you're here about The Hunt for Red October, but the movie cos out next month. You're cutting it close."
His eyes swept over them again, sharp and unapologetic.
"So tell —how exactly do you plan to turn my book into a rushed, Christmas-season turkey?"
His bluntness was almost identical to what his agent had said over the phone.
Bernard's smile froze. He was about to explain when Takuya spoke first—smiling.
"Mr. Clancy, we're not interested in turkeys," Takuya said calmly, overturning the author's assumptions in one sentence. "More accurately, we're not here for The Hunt for Red October at all."
Clancy blinked, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlaced—a gesture that ant: I'm listening.
"Oh?"
"With current ga technology, it's nearly impossible to capture the intricate, gear-like precision of a submarine crew working in sync," Takuya said honestly. "Players would mostly experience simple torpedo firing or dots moving on a sonar screen. That can't recreate the intellectual chess match that drives your story."
He looked Clancy straight in the eyes.
"It would reduce your work to a diocre shooting ga.
That would be an insult—not just to your novel, but to my own brand."
He paused, then delivered the killing blow:
"SEGA has no intention of becoming another Atari—burying unsold trash gas in the desert."
At the words "Atari disaster," Clancy repeated them softly, and his gaze changed completely.
He removed his glasses and slowly wiped them with a soft cloth.
Only the ticking of the wall clock filled the silence.
When he put the glasses back on, the guardedness and skepticism in his eyes were gone—replaced by genuine curiosity and parity.
"Interesting. So what do you want?"
"Clear and Present Danger."
As Takuya spoke, he placed the thick stack of manuscript papers from his briefcase onto Clancy's red-oak desk.
"I heard Paramount has already started preparing a film adaptation, correct?"
Clancy didn't answer.
His attention was completely taken by the diagrams in front of him.
He froze.
Blueprints.
Tactical assault routes.
Colored-pencil markings showing fire coverage, breach arrows, sniper perches, and potential hostage positions.
Each page looked like a real special-operations briefing packet.
"We're not trying to make another mindless ga where players just run forward shooting," Takuya said, tapping a mall floor plan. A red route traced a path from the parking garage, through ventilation ducts, to the surveillance room.
"This is the Tactical Planning Interface. Before missions, players study maps, assign gear to each squad mber, set rules of engagent, plan entry routes—down to who carries which tool and when to breach."
His voice was steady, almost hypnotic—pulling Clancy straight into the world he envisioned.
"This is the essence of your novels: rigor, professionalism, and making decisions under asymtric information—achieving the objective at the lowest cost."
"To ensure authenticity, we'll hire real military consultants. GIGN, for example—their retired mbers are relatively accessible." Takuya sighed, the gesture just right. "Delta Force files are classified. Even their retirees can't disclose their service. We're not capable of reaching them."
Then he shifted, eting Clancy's eyes with earnest intent.
"Of course… if you have suitable contacts in the military who could introduce us, SEGA would be deeply grateful."
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