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Chapter 112: The Butterfly's Wings
🕑 Added 2025-10-06 11:23:53 +0000 UTCThe new liaison, surnamed Nishida, always wore a professional smile—a stark contrast to Kazuo Okada’s bombast. He never slammed tables or raised his voice; his words were polite, yet they stifled more than shouts.
“Kojima-kun, your idea is creative, very… unique,” Nishida would say over a sip of tea, drawling leisurely. “But from a market perspective, shouldn’t we consider something more… accessible? After all, players need guidance, but even more, they need to be catered to, heh.”
He never outright rejected ideas, instead eroding them with strings of “shouldn’t we make it more…”, “wouldn’t that be better if…”. Sometimes, he’d produce so-called “player survey reports,” their data and conclusions cleverly steering toward “simplification” and “mainstream appeal.” Kojima suspected their origins, but Nishida would just smile: “Nintendo has the broadest player base—we naturally have the most authoritative data.”
Metal Gear’s development dragged under this invisible tug-of-war. Team members noticed Kojima growing quieter, his brow perpetually furrowed. He’d haggle endlessly over details with Nishida, who never snapped, merely grinding him down with “market logic” and “player habit theory” until Kojima was exhausted.
“Kojima-kun, isn’t this stealth section a bit too patience-testing?” Nishida would muse casually. “Look at Famicom’s bestsellers—which one isn’t fast-paced and easy to pick up?”
Kojima explained MSX2’s strengths and target audience, but Nishida would nod, then counter: “I understand your vision, Kojima-kun. But we must consider a Famicom port, right? Preparing ahead isn’t a bad thing.” His tone implied it was all for Kojima’s—and the project’s—good.
Weeks later, Nishida offered another “friendly suggestion.” This time, it targeted a pivotal scene in Metal Gear: Snake learning of his betrayal, grappling with inner turmoil. Nishida deemed it “too obscure, clashing with mainstream players’ craving for straightforward thrills,” proposing a simple gunfight or an impassioned revenge speech.
“Kojima-kun, players want heroes mowing down foes, not… this inner angst. Too literary—folks might not buy it.” Nishida tapped the script lightly with his pen, smiling amiably.
That line was the final straw.
Heat surged to Hideo Kojima’s head. Staring at Nishida’s perpetual smile, he found it utterly repulsive for the first time. Wordless, he snatched the script—his blood, sweat, and dreams—and stormed out. Behind him, Nishida’s surprised voice: “Kojima-kun? Where are you going?”
He barreled straight to President Kagemasa Ueyama’s office, shoving the door open without knocking.
Ueyama, buried in documents, startled at the intrusion. He looked up to see Kojima’s eyes bloodshot, chest heaving.
“President!” Kojima’s voice quivered with barely contained fury, his gaze like tempered steel piercing Ueyama. He slammed the script onto the vast desk.
“Metal Gear must be developed entirely on my terms!”
“If you can’t grant me that creative freedom—if the company values a Nintendo liaison’s ‘suggestions’ over a producer’s heartblood—then I have no choice but to leave Konami! I’m done with this game!”
It wasn’t negotiation; it was an ultimatum—a young creator’s full force of energy and final dignity, squeezed between ideals and reality.
Ueyama eyed the disheveled young man before him, hair tousled, cheeks flushed with passion. So young, almost boyish, yet that reckless stubbornness stirred a vague memory in Ueyama of his own youth. He picked up the script, its cover wrinkled from Kojima’s grip. The office air froze. Ueyama’s fingertips drummed the cover, silent as he weighed Kojima with complex eyes—Nintendo’s pressure, Gunpei Yokoi’s stern face, company performance, and the unmistakable fire in this young man’s gaze… thoughts swirled.
After a long pause, Ueyama’s voice was even, authoritative.
“Kojima-kun, Konami has its protocols.”
“We can’t alter established policies for one person.”
“If you can’t adapt, then…”
The unspoken hung heavy.
Ueyama, the seasoned businessman, chose Nintendo’s weight over an employee’s ultimatum without hesitation.
Sacrifice the pawn to save the king.
Kojima’s heart plummeted.
He was fired.
The blood-soaked Metal Gear MSX2 project was shelved indefinitely.
Soon after, it was reassigned to another producer.
The new directive: excise Kojima’s plot entirely, rewrite a simple, Famicom-port-friendly story.
Genius seemed fragile against cold commerce.
Word spread like wind through industry whispers.
At Sega headquarters, in Takuya’s office.
Masao Suzuki handed over an encrypted report, his face alight with incredulous delight.
“Executive Director! At Konami… Hideo Kojima’s been fired!”
Takuya, reviewing test reports for new console game demos, snapped his head up.
His eyes blazed with startling intensity.
Hideo Kojima!
In his past life, the name evoked gaming legends and monuments.
Metal Gear, Death Stranding… icons tied to this man.
Takuya drew a deep breath, quelling his ecstasy.
What a windfall—fortune without the hunt!
He’d only meant to spark small fires in Nintendo’s backyard for chaos, yet it yielded this prize!
Nintendo had gift-wrapped it.
“Mr. Suzuki,” Takuya said, voice steady but edged with thrill.
“Immediately—HR now! Mobilize every connection: secretly approach Hideo Kojima! Tell him Sega welcomes him!”
“Promise maximum creative freedom! Let him build his own independent team, focusing on his strengths! Funding, tech, staff—Sega backs it all!”
Takuya’s tone was ironclad, unyielding resolve.
He knew: for a sidelined genius like Kojima, money wasn’t primary—freedom and respect were the true lure.
In a Shinjuku café near Waseda University.
Downcast Hideo Kojima nursed his coffee alone.
Fired from Konami, the future loomed blank. Back at his alma mater, he pondered reaching out to classmates for job leads.
Then, a figure sat across from him.
It was Masao Suzuki, bearing Takuya’s top directive and utmost sincerity.
When Suzuki extended Sega’s olive branch—and the promise of unparalleled creative freedom—Kojima’s dulled eyes reignited.
Disillusionment with Konami, revulsion at Nintendo’s bullying—all transmuted into hunger for new horizons.
Sega.
Once just an arcade titan in his eyes, now revealed bold vision and mettle.
Especially “Takuya Nakayama”—he’d heard the name.
The young exec always delivered surprises.
With little hesitation.
Kojima extended his hand.
“I accept—joining Sega.”
His voice, hoarse but firm, carried rebirth.
Suzuki gripped it tightly, beaming genuine warmth.
“Welcome, Kojima-san!”
“Trust me—this’ll be the best decision of your career!”
