Daicon Film had only a handful of people—your typical tiny studio.
Of course, as someone running a four-person studio himself, Kobayashi Tetsu wasn't exactly qualified to judge Daicon Film.
A few years from now, this little studio would rename itself GAINAX.
But at this moment, there was no denying that animation still had to be completed entirely by hand. It wasn't easy work—certainly no simpler than making a game.
Maybe I should just switch industries, Kobayashi Tetsu mused wildly to himself. Forget games—make anime! Recruit Hideaki Anno as my right-hand man, gather influential mangaka, replace Shueisha's editorial department, dominate shōnen manga, hand-draw masterpieces that shock Miyazaki and Tezuka, and rise as Japan's third great force!
With such delusions drifting in his head, he followed Hideaki Anno into the studio.
It was mid-afternoon. No one else was around—everyone seemed to be out for lunch. Only Anno remained behind to receive the visitors.
He eagerly showed Kitagawa a few completed key frames hanging on the wall.
Kitagawa suddenly asked, "What about the earlier works you already finished?"
"We couldn't keep them," Anno replied. "There's simply no space. Aside from the videotapes, there's practically nothing left to prove they ever existed."
Kobayashi Tetsu said nothing. He rolled his shoulders, loosened his jaw, and prepared himself mentally.
The ancestral Kobayashi family philosophy: Do something to seize the attention.
Kitagawa let out a quiet, disappointed sigh.
Right on cue, Kobayashi Tetsu sneered—a deliberate sound, dripping with disdain and finality.
Anno froze and turned sharply toward him.
Before Anno could speak, Kobayashi shook his head. "Worthless things should simply be thrown out. What is there to lament?"
Hideaki Anno's fists clenched. His face flushed red. In the end, he could only choke out, "And what gives you the right to say our work is worthless?"
"'Worthless' means exactly what it sounds like. Not hard to understand, is it?"
Kobayashi casually flicked the edge of a line drawing. "1981 Osaka Arts Festival. 1982 Yokohama Arts Festival. As far as I know, you didn't win a single award. That means your work earned no recognition artistically."
Blood rushed to Anno's head. He was only twenty-four—if Kitagawa hadn't gently held him back, he would've already lunged forward and slapped Kobayashi across the face.
"Art… and business aren't the same," Anno argued. "Even if our work failed artistically, that doesn't mean it failed commercially!"
Kobayashi nodded. "And yet your commercial performance also failed. Since 1980, when Okada Toshio founded the studio, all of you combined haven't earned even one million yen. No awards, no revenue—neither artistic merit nor commercial success. How can you call your work valuable?"
Anno's head snapped up.
"We earned more than ten million yen!"
"And you spent more than ten million yen," Kobayashi replied calmly. "When costs exceed income, that's losing money. When revenue barely covers costs, that's just working for love. Am I wrong?"
Anno fell silent.
It was true—Daicon Film had never been commercially successful. They did have income, but the costs were enormous. From the outside it might look like they'd earned money, but in reality that money only covered bare operating costs: materials, salaries, rent.
Calling it "working for love" was a bit much—but profit certainly didn't exist.
Kobayashi claiming they'd only earned one million yen was an exaggeration, but even by Anno's own accounting, it was only three or four million at best.
He wanted to shout at Kobayashi Tetsu, Don't underestimate Daicon Film! We're Oscar-winning! Cannes-winning! TAF-winning! Legends!
And then pummel Kobayashi's face while shouting it.
But in reality, all he could say was:
"We participated in Yokohama International Arts Festival… didn't win. Participated in Osaka Arts Festival… also didn't win."
No awards, no artistic success, no commercial success… what do we even have…
With a mix of frustration and bitterness, Anno stared at Kobayashi.
"So, who are you really? You didn't come here just to humiliate us and call us worthless, did you?"
Kobayashi nodded. "But you are worthless."
At least, the studio was—artistically unsuccessful and commercially unsuccessful. That meant it objectively wasn't doing well.
Kitagawa stepped forward at the right moment.
"Anno-kun, this is Kobayashi Tetsu, the president of Atlas. The real, actual president."
Shff!
Anno's head snapped up instantly.
Of course he'd heard of Atlas—it wasn't a joke. Animation and games weren't separate worlds; he played games too.
From his (not entirely reliable) information, this new studio had already become a remarkable commercial success.
He just hadn't expected the company president to be this young.
"Daicon Film may be worthless," Kobayashi suddenly added, "but you are not."
Anno blinked.
"I know your story. Dropping out isn't a disgrace. A humble background isn't a flaw. If a master like Miyazaki notices you, that alone proves your ability. What you lack is simply an opportunity to show it."
Anno's clenched fists slowly loosened.
If Kobayashi were just another young guy following Kitagawa around, these words would've sounded like mockery. But coming from the president of a successful studio… they carried weight.
"I'm just an ordinary art director," Anno muttered. "Miyazaki-sensei has many like me. I'm nothing special among them."
Even so, Kobayashi caught the faint flicker of pride that flashed across his face.
"So for your sake, Anno-kun, Atlas has a commission we'd like Daicon Film to handle. We're planning a thirteen-episode animated series—one full season. Atlas will pay a five-million-yen deposit upfront to produce the first episode. Once completed, it will be broadcast on television."
—The TV broadcast wasn't confirmed yet.
—The 'thirteen-episode series' didn't even have a single concrete proposal yet.
But that didn't stop Kobayashi from saying it confidently.
Anno's expression shifted—confusion, relief, then nervous anticipation.
Kobayashi found it all delightfully entertaining.
"If you don't mind," he said, pulling out a chair, "why don't we discuss the project proposal?"
He gepstured politely, inviting Anno to sit.
For a moment, it felt as if he were the host here—and Anno the visiting guest.
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