Takuya Nakayama took a sip of iced coffee.
"Mr. Katoki."
He set the cup down and pulled a thick, old setting book from the nearby shelf.
Thump.
He slammed it onto the table. The cover bore the title Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam.
Hajime Katoki froze.
Nakayama flipped the book open, pointing to a row of mobile suits.
Hizack. Marasai. Nemo. Barzam.
All of them were mass-produced grunt suits from the Gryps War era.
"Gundam Sentinel's timeline falls exactly at this point," Nakayama said, tapping the page twice. "All these old suits will appear in the series."
Katoki nodded. "The New Desides Rebellion, with the Federation Army suppressing it. Both sides rely heavily on mass-produced units from their regular forces. The script makes that very clear."
Nakayama closed the setting book.
"My request is this: I want you to redesign every single one of these grunt suits."
Katoki gasped. "A complete overhaul?"
"Correct," Takuya Nakayama stared at him. "Just like you did back then with Mobile Suit Gundam 0083."
A buzz echoed in Hajime Katoki's mind.
The massive success of the grunt suits in 0083 had been largely due to his redesigns.
The GM Kai, the Powered GM, the GM Custom, the Zaku II F2 Type, the Gouf Marine Type...
Those once-clunky, outdated grunt suits had been transformed by his hand, infused with realistic military elements and intricate armor details, instantly becoming bestsellers in the model kit market.
"But Managing Director—" Katoki Hajime pointed to the setting guide. "There are too many grunt suit models from the Gryps War and the First Neo Zeon War. If I have to redraw them all in my style, the workload—"
"The workload will double. I know," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning forward with his hands braced on the desk. "But this is our best chance to squeeze every last drop of profit from Bandai's production lines."
Takuya Nakayama tapped the table.
"In the past, Bandai couldn't sell the models of these old mobile suits. Why? Because their designs were too dated, too toy-like. Players wouldn't buy into it."
Katoki Hajime remained silent.
"Now, Sega has taken over the model department." Takuya Nakayama straightened up. "I want these grunt suits from decades ago to be redressed in the modern military-industrial aesthetic you've designed, Katoki Hajime, and brought back to life."
Nakayama pointed to the S Gundam on the table.
"The hero suits bring in the money, but the grunt suits are where the real profit lies. If a player buys one S Gundam, they'll want to buy three Nemos to create a battle scene. We need to build an entire battlefield ecosystem."
Katoki stared at Nakayama.
This was pure, unadulterated business logic.
But for a mechanical designer, it was also an irresistible temptation.
To leave his personal stylistic imprint on every single mobile suit from a pivotal era in Gundam history.
What immense power that was.
Katoki managed a wry smile and shook his head.
He picked up a pencil from the table and spun it between his fingers.
"Managing Director, you're trying to work me to death."
"The capable are given more work. Of course, you can appropriately reduce the lineup of grunt suits participating in the battle," Takuya Nakayama said, patting him on the shoulder. "As for Bandai, just tell them how many model engineers you need. If Chuta Mitsui refuses to give them to you, tell him to come to me."
Hajime Katoki pulled the Zeta Gundam setting book in front of him and flipped it open.
"Fine. I'll take the job." Katoki stared at the Marasai in the book. "I've been wanting to redesign the shoulder shield connector on this suit for a long time. The previous design completely ignores mechanical principles."
Takuya Nakayama smiled.
"Go all out. On the day the OVA is released, I want to see every model shop in Japan filled with the mechs you designed."
Takuya Nakayama turned to walk toward the door.
"Oh, by the way," he stopped at the doorway, "take care of your health. Don't be like that madman Masaya Takahashi, pulling all-nighters until his hair falls out."
The door closed.
Hajime Katoki looked at the pile of sketches on his desk.
He scratched his head.
The workload was terrifyingly huge.
But he still picked up a pen and drew the first heavy line on a blank sheet of A4 paper.
Takuya Nakayama and Masuo Ueda walked side by side out of the mecha design studio.
At the end of the corridor, an open window let in a few wisps of the early autumn breeze.
Masuo Ueda stopped at a vending machine against the wall and dropped in a few coins. The machine let out a low, heavy hum.
Clunk. Clunk.
Ueda bent down, retrieved two cans of black coffee, straightened up, and handed one to Nakayama.
"Managing Director, Mr. Takahashi has finalized the script outline, and Hajime Katoki's mecha designs are now on track." Ueda pulled the ring tab on his can with one hand. "Next is the soundtrack. That's going to be a tough nut to crack."
Nakayama took the coffee but didn't drink it.
"Have you drawn up the shortlist?"
Ueda tucked his coffee can under his arm and pulled a folded A4 sheet of paper from his briefcase. He unfolded it and handed it over.
Three names were written on the paper in black ink:
Kenji Kawai.
Kow Otani.
Mitsuo Ogita.
Nakayama's gaze fell on the first name.
"Kenji Kawai."
"Out of the question." Ueda retrieved the coffee can and shook his head before Nakayama could even speak. "His schedule is booked through the end of next year. His agency wouldn't even give us an appointment—they just said he's completely unavailable."
Nakayama's finger traced down the list.
"Kow Otani," he read, his voice lingering on the second name.
"Mr. Otani has a very solid foundation in orchestral music," Masuo Ueda added quickly. "His mecha battle scores are incredibly powerful. Several producers here at Sunrise recommended him."
Takuya Nakayama slapped the list down on the hallway windowsill.
"No," Takuya rejected immediately.
Masuo Ueda froze.
"The Gundam Wing OVA just finished its release," Takuya said, tapping Kow Otani's name. "The hype hasn't died down yet. Kow Otani's personal style is too distinct."
Masuo Ueda remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
"The audience's ears have a certain inertia," Takuya said, turning to face him. "The moment they hear that kind of grand orchestral opening, their minds will immediately conjure images of the Wing Zero shedding its feathers in the sky, or those pretty boys posing. The two works have completely different tones. Gundam Sentinel is hardcore military—it's a slaughter in the mud. If we use Kow Otani, the audience will get confused the moment they hear the BGM. The brand identity would be completely muddled."
Masuo Ueda finally understood.
He pulled out a pen and crossed Kow Otani's name off the list.
"That leaves only Mitsuo Ogita," Masuo Ueda said, pointing to the last name. "His work on military themes is very grand. The combination of brass and a full choir can really support those massive battle scenes. It fits the setting of Gundam Sentinel perfectly."
Takuya leaned against the windowsill and popped the tab on his canned coffee.
Takuya Nakayama took a sip of his coffee.
"The military feel is definitely there," he said, setting the can down. "But Gundam Sentinel isn't just about Mobile Suits shooting at each other. You saw the revised script Masaya Takahashi just finished."
Masuo Ueda nodded.
"There's a lot of character-driven drama," Takuya said, tapping the windowsill. "The ideological rift within New Desides, the struggle of young officers facing their shattered ideals, the sheer desperation of the Titans' remnants... All these scenes need a powerful atmosphere to truly land."
Ueda looked at the list of names.
"Mitsuo Ogita is too blunt for this kind of subtle psychological tension," Takuya critiqued. "He's great for grand, sweeping scores, but he lacks the nuance needed to peel back the darker layers of a character's psyche."
Their three top choices had all been ruled out.
Ueda put down his pen, a headache forming. "Managing Director, do you have someone in mind?" he asked tentatively.
A name surfaced in Takuya's mind.
The summer of 1997 had just passed.
A theatrical anime film that had sparked a nationwide phenomenon had just finished its run.
"Go get Shiro Sagisu," Takuya said.
Silence hung in the hallway for two seconds.
Ueda's eyes widened, and he nearly spilled his coffee.
Shiro Sagisu.
In the Japanese animation industry, that name was now impossible to ignore.
The music for Neon Genesis Evangelion, Hideaki Anno's brainchild, was entirely composed by Shiro Sagisu.
The EVA film The End of Evangelion had just hit theaters in July. Its oppressive, almost psychologically scarring score had left countless viewers pinned to their seats, enduring a relentless own kind of torture.
"Him?" Masuo Ueda hesitated. "Managing Director, isn't his style... a bit too bizarre? That religious mysticism and stream-of-consciousness from EVA—will it even fit into a hard military drama like Gundam Sentinel?"
Takuya Nakayama smiled.
"You're only seeing the side of him that goes mad alongside Anno." Takuya tossed his empty coffee can into a nearby trash bin. "Shiro Sagisu's true nature is versatility. He started out arranging pop and jazz."
Masuo Ueda thought it over.
"He can compose the most classical, solemn symphonies to heighten a battle," Takuya said, stepping closer, "and he can also craft a single, oppressive piano solo to signal a psychological collapse. Masaya Takahashi's current script needs music that can tear open the characters' inner conflicts. The New Desides are, by nature, a bunch of madmen consumed by obsession. Shiro Sagisu is the master of scoring madness."
Masuo Ueda was convinced.
The core of Gundam Sentinel did indeed carry a tragic undertone of inevitable destruction.
"Besides, he handled the more disciplined battle scenes in EVA perfectly," Takuya Nakayama added. "And he just finished the EVA movies. He shouldn't have any major new projects on his plate right now. His schedule should align perfectly."
Masuo Ueda immediately flipped open his notebook and wrote Shiro Sagisu's name in the most prominent spot.
"I'll contact his agency this afternoon."
"Invite him in the name of both Sega and Sunrise," Takuya Nakayama said, straightening his suit jacket. "Tell him Sega will fully fund it. The budget is uncapped. There's only one requirement: push the quality of Gundam Sentinel to the absolute limit."
Masuo Ueda closed his notebook and nodded firmly.
The script's tone was set, the mecha designs were being overhauled, and now they had secured a top-tier composer.
With this dream team in place, it would be hard for Gundam Sentinelnot to be a hit.
Time jumped forward to late September.
Tokyo, Kokubunji.
Tatsunoko Production Headquarters, second-floor conference room.
Onishi, the legal representative for Big West, sat on the right side of the long table. Beside him sat Shoji Kawamori, the core creator of Studio Nue.
Across from them, Tatsunoko Managing Director Narita leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. To Narita's left sat Tatsunoko's Head of Legal.
"Managing Director Narita," Onishi said, pulling a document from his briefcase and sliding it across the table. "This is the supplementary material we've prepared regarding the copyright ownership of subsequent derivative works of Macross."
Narita didn't take it.
He glanced at the cover.
"Mr. Onishi, we've had enough of this back-and-forth over the last few years," Narita said, tapping the table. "Tatsunoko provided the bulk of the funding back then, and we led the production of the first-generation anime. According to the contract, the overseas distribution and all subsequent rights for the entire series belong exclusively to Tatsunoko. No matter what materials you bring today, it's useless."
Onishi pushed the document forward another inch.
"I suggest you read the contents first," Onishi said, leaning back in his chair. "This is a memorandum recently issued by Harmony Gold USA. It bears their official seal."
Narita's fingers, which had been drumming on the table, stopped.
He picked up the document and opened it.
The only sound in the conference room was the rustle of paper.
Narita turned the pages slower and slower.
His frown deepened with each page.
The black-and-white text on the memorandum was crystal clear.
Harmony Gold explicitly admitted that the authorization they had obtained from Tatsunoko was limited to the overseas broadcasting rights and related merchandise for the first generation of Macross.
It did not include any derivative rights for subsequent works, mecha designs, or character settings.
This document tore apart the flimsy claims Tatsunoko had been making in the overseas market for all this time.
Narita pushed the document to the Head of Legal sitting beside him.
The Head of Legal scanned it quickly, a thin layer of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He leaned in and whispered a few words into Narita's ear.
The muscles on Narita's face twitched twice.
Shoji Kawamori seemed not to notice Narita's expression. He calmly lifted the paper cup on the table and took a sip of water.
"Managing Director Narita," Onishi said, his fingers interlaced on the table. "Harmony Gold has laid their cards on the table. The contract Tatsunoko holds only covers the first generation. Big West and Studio Nue own all the underlying copyrights, including the mechanical and character designs. The Americans have conceded."
Narita slammed his palm onto the document.
"A memorandum from an American company proves nothing!" he roared, throwing the paper back into the center of the table. "The original contract was signed in Japan and is subject to Japanese law! Tatsunoko put up the money and the manpower to build this IP. Now you expect to kick us out with a scrap of wastepaper?"
Onishi didn't argue. He simply returned the document to his briefcase.
He had seen this same stubborn pride from Japanese businessmen too many times before.
Tatsunoko's business was deteriorating. They were barely surviving by renting out the first-generation copyrights overseas. They would never willingly give up such a lucrative asset.
"Since Tatsunoko insists on this position," Onishi said, rising and buttoning his suit jacket, "we have no choice but to take legal action."
Narita scoffed.
"A lawsuit?" He rose to his feet. "Mr. Onishi, everyone in the industry knows how much Big West has in the bank. A cross-border copyright case would drag on for at least two or three years, with legal fees in the tens of millions. Can you even afford to play this game?"
Onishi zipped up his briefcase.
"That's not your concern, Managing Director Narita," he said, picking up the case. "See you in court."
Shoji Kawamori stood up as well, and the two men walked out of the conference room without looking back.
Narita stared at the closed door, tugged at his tie, and turned to glare at the Head of Legal.
"Find out! Where did Big West get this document? What gives them the confidence to take us to court over an international dispute?"
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