The meeting to relaunch the Gundam TV series had barely ended when Mitsui Chuta practically glued himself to the conference room door. His posture said it all—if he could, he'd have dragged Takuya Nakayama straight back to Bandai headquarters that very moment.
"Nakayama-san, please! The car's already waiting downstairs!" Mitsui's tone was laced with feverish urgency.
But Takuya wasn't in any hurry. He raised a calming hand.
"Mitsui-san, don't rush things," he said evenly, his voice steady and persuasive. "Bandai's design team is in Tokyo, but the production line's in Shizuoka. If I go there empty-handed today, I can't properly explain my design approach. And even if I did show you perfect concepts, without direct involvement from frontline engineers, it would all just be theory."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Mitsui's face was practically etched with the word impatient, so Takuya continued:
"Even the most brilliant design is useless if it can't be manufactured—or if the product doesn't match the design's intent once produced."
"So, go back first. Bring over your most experienced engineers from the Shizuoka plant—especially the process engineers. Have them meet us in Tokyo tomorrow. I'll explain everything at once, to both the design and production teams. That way, we won't waste time relaying messages or risk any miscommunication."
Mitsui froze, then slapped his thigh so hard it echoed through the hall.
Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that?
He'd been so focused on saving time, he'd forgotten the most critical link in the chain—production itself.
"Right! My mistake! You're absolutely right!" Mitsui's admiration deepened. He looked at Takuya with genuine respect, then turned and bolted off to arrange everything without another word.
The next day, at Bandai headquarters—
Takuya arrived on time. The moment he stepped into the design department's meeting room, he sensed a subtle, tense atmosphere.
Around the long table sat several middle-aged men with serious expressions.
On one side were Bandai's senior design leads. On the other, a group of darker-skinned, calloused-handed men—clearly the veteran engineers rushed overnight from Shizuoka.
These were Bandai's true backbone, craftsmen who couldn't be fooled by fancy talk. Their gazes on Takuya carried a mix of scrutiny and skepticism.
After Mitsui gave a brief opening, he ceded the floor to Takuya.
Without wasting time on formalities, Takuya turned on the projector. A detailed structural diagram filled the screen, showing a complex interlocking joint and what looked like a soft rubber sleeve.
"You're all experts," he began directly. "So I'll get straight to the point."
"We all know PS plastic is rigid and brittle. It's highly precise, but that also means tight tolerances. Even minor deviations cause assembly issues—players either crush the parts while forcing them in or break them outright. Poor experience. Or they have to carve out gaps with hobby knives—tedious, discouraging, and definitely not beginner-friendly."
An older engineer from Shizuoka, his hair graying, spoke up gravely: "Of course we know that problem, Nakayama-san. But mold precision and current production methods limit what we can achieve with PS. And material cost is another wall we can't break through."
"Well said," Takuya nodded approvingly. "That's why the core of my proposal isn't chasing perfect precision—but compensation."
"This structure here," he pointed with a laser pen, "is what I call a 'Nested Interlock System,' combined with a 'PE Inner Sleeve Lock.'"
"Take a look at this section—the progressive bite-fit design. Instead of a simple straight plug, we use a sloped or spiral groove on the peg. During rotation and insertion, the joint locks gradually—allowing for greater part tolerance. Think of it like tightening a screw."
"This method actively absorbs errors up to ±0.1 mm. We no longer need every piece to be perfect. Once locked, the parts interlock far more securely than the standard snap-fit. No more looseness after a few days of posing."
"And the PE inner sleeve—everyone here knows the properties of polyethylene. It's elastic and low-friction. We'll use it as a soft liner, embedded at the root of PS joints. During assembly, it fills the micro-gaps, absorbs stress, and protects the brittle PS parts. Even if the PS components vary by ±0.2 mm, the PE's elasticity will keep the joints tight. And thanks to its smooth surface, assembly will feel far more satisfying."
"In short—it's like adding cartilage between bones. It prevents breakage, resists wear, and extends play durability by at least three to five years."
The room fell silent, the only sound the soft hum of the projector fan.
Designers stared at the blueprint, their minds racing.
The engineers' eyes shifted—from skeptical, to intrigued, to visibly thrilled.
They had tried every trick to increase precision, experimented endlessly with PE joints and ball sockets—but none had thought to apply that logic to everyday assembly points, to use structure itself to forgive production error.
"This PE sleeve—could be standardized!" one designer suddenly shouted.
"Yes! Manufacturing feasibility is fine, and cost impact is minimal!" another process engineer added, voice rising in excitement.
"And it's reusable—disassembly without damage! That means players can modify parts safely! This could revolutionize the entire model customization scene!"
The room erupted in chaos.
Just moments ago, these seasoned engineers had sat calm and composed. Now they were like explorers who had just discovered a new continent.
"Let's go—straight to the design lab!"
"Sugiyama-san! Pull up the Zaku arm model—let's retrofit it!"
"Fire up the CAD system, now!"
A wave of enthusiasm swept the room as everyone rushed out, leaving only a baffled Mitsui and the ever-composed Takuya.
Mitsui blinked at the half-empty conference room, still processing what just happened.
Takuya chuckled, walked over, and patted him on the shoulder. "Mitsui-san, they'll handle the tech side. Why don't we talk business?"
"Business?"
"This transitional product's too good to waste," Takuya said, smiling. "You're not planning to release it without a proper name, are you? Don't forget—once your new production line launches next year, this mold will be obsolete."
Realization dawned on Mitsui. He rubbed his hands together, grinning sheepishly. "You've always got the ideas, Nakayama-san. Help me think of something, won't you?"
Takuya leaned back slightly, his tone casual. "What year did Gundam first debut?"
"1979."
"And this year is?"
"1989—" Mitsui started to reply, then froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened, blazing with sudden inspiration.
"Ten years! It's been ten years!"
He slammed the table with excitement. "I get it now! We'll launch a 10th Anniversary Commemorative Project!"
Because of technical limitations, Bandai hadn't been able to perfectly reproduce the original RX-78 Gundam—so they'd never seriously considered a decade celebration.
But now, with Takuya's new design solution, everything fit perfectly.
"Not just that," Takuya said, raising a finger. "One mold can give you three variants."
"RX-78-1, the prototype color scheme."
"RX-78-2, the classic Amuro version everyone knows."
"RX-78-3, the G-3 color variant from the novels."
"Release them at different times. A simple color change equals a new product. Just these three alone can keep sales strong until the new TV anime launches."
Mitsui's jaw dropped. He fumbled for his notebook, hands trembling as he scribbled down every word.
At that moment, the sound of shouting echoed from the design lab.
A young designer burst in, clutching a floppy disk, face alight with excitement.
"Mitsui-san! It's done! The arm joint redesign is complete! The production engineers reviewed it—it's fully viable!"
A factory engineer took the disk. "We'll start mold testing tomorrow! If the trial goes well, we can immediately begin designing new models with this structure!"
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