Homeward Bound
The car cut through the nighttime streets of Tokyo and came to a stop in front of Kyung-ho's dorm.
As Miyazawa got out to retrieve the wheelchair, Mari stared intently at Kyung-ho from inside the vehicle.
"Just two rides left now. Make sure you come when I call next time."
Kyung-ho paused while unbuckling his seatbelt and looked at her.
"Why two? There should be five left."
"Because you pulled all-nighters there, I only got to give you three rides."
Mari replied matter-of-factly, propping her chin on her hand. Kyung-ho let out a disbelieving chuckle.
"The deal was clearly for six rides, and staying overnight was my choice. So five left is right."
"What I meant was I'd call you for as many rides as I gave you..."
It was logic bordering on stubbornness, but Mari's gaze was unwavering. Kyung-ho stared at her resolute eyes for a moment before shrugging in surrender.
"...If that's how you see it, fine."
Only then did a faint smile flicker across Mari's lips. With Miyazawa's help, Kyung-ho transferred to the wheelchair, watched the black sedan's taillights fade into the distance, and wheeled inside.
After that day, Mari didn't call Kyung-ho for a while. He threw himself into production on Bandam during the remaining time. Unlike the original history, the planning for Bandam—solidified rapidly under Kyung-ho's influence—progressed smoothly. Pre-production wrapped up before December even ended, and by mid-December, they could dive into full animation production. Of course, with the broadcast scheduled for early March, it was a tight schedule starting mid-December and finishing by late February—but to Kyung-ho, who had lived in the 21st century, it was par for the course.
Thus, early January of the new year. In the grand conference room of Dokan Agency, Moonrise Production's massive parent company, an unusual executive meeting was underway. The agenda: changing the production priority for Bandam. And spread across the table were dozens of key animation sheets drawn by Kyung-ho himself—the very reason for this meeting.
"This isn't just some kids' cartoon. It's going to be a masterpiece that goes down in animation history forever."
An executive on the pro side held up one of the sheets, his face flushed with excitement.
"We need to ramp up the promo budget and production funds right now. With this quality, we could even aim for prime time!"
"Isn't the investment already excessive? I grant it shows potential for something great, but pouring in more money won't dramatically change the returns."
"Even if we wanted to inject more funds, we don't have a way to source them."
"That's the biggest issue, isn't it?"
As skeptical voices from the opposition mounted, Director Tomizawa, who had been listening quietly, pulled a fax from his pocket.
"A proposal from Glober Company."
"Glober?"
Glober was one of Moonrise's biggest sponsors. They couldn't just ignore a proposal from them.
"What's it say?"
Director Tomizawa unfolded the fax and read aloud.
"Elevate the production priority of the currently in-progress Mobile Weapon Bandam to the company's absolute top. And fully guarantee Moonrise's creative autonomy. If those two conditions are met, they'll spare no expense on funding."
The executives exchanged glances. The fax bore Glober's official seal. Glober was already investing heavily as a sponsor. For a company so ruthlessly capital-driven to guarantee creative freedom and offer even more money—it was an outrageously generous deal that defied common sense. Dokan Agency had no reason to refuse.
"...Well, no need to deliberate then."
"It's procedure, and we need to make it official."
"Agreed. Shall we proceed with the meeting on the premise of channeling all resources into Bandam per Glober's proposal?"
One night in January, when key animation work was at its peak...
"Hey, Kyogo! Your girlfriend's calling. Better go see her, huh?"
Director Tomizawa grinned mischievously through a cloud of cigarette smoke. As Yamada approached to push Kyung-ho's wheelchair, the director added,
"Third straight all-nighter?"
In response to the director's question, Yamada answered for him.
"Last time I helped him was four days ago."
"Perfect. Crash at the dorm while you're out with your girl. Hell, spend the night together if you want. Heh heh heh."
He'd denied the girlfriend rumors multiple times to no avail, so Kyung-ho stopped bothering. He shook his head at the characteristically 70s crude joke and headed out with Yamada.
After dropping Kyung-ho off on the first floor and vanishing up the stairs, Kyung-ho pushed through the front door alone.
Creak—
The irregular vibrations from the sidewalk blocks traveled straight through the wheelchair frame to his palms. Winter air slipped through the door crack, stabbing sharply into his lungs.
A familiar black sedan idled at the entrance, engine purring softly.
Miyazawa deftly assisted Kyung-ho into the back seat. The wheelchair went in the trunk, and the heavy door thunked shut.
Instantly, the outside noise and chill were cut off. Inside lingered the faint scent of leather, an unidentified luxury perfume, and the low hum of the heater.
Mari, lounging diagonally in the back seat with her chin propped, slowly turned from the window to face Kyung-ho.
"Bit abrupt right after getting in, but let's cut to the chase."
Her cool, sunken eyes seemed more serious than usual.
"Kyung-ho, once this project wraps, come to Toei right away."
Straight ball. Kyung-ho countered calmly.
"Offering me a director spot?"
"...Not immediately, no. But if you're on Toei's payroll and everyone sees Bandam succeed, I can fast-track your promotion faster than anyone with my authority. I guarantee it."
Conviction laced her voice.
'Director at Toei... Within their system, the capital and manpower support would be on another level.'
Kyung-ho rapidly weighed pros and cons in his mind, drumming the leather seat rhythmically with his fingertips. Finally,
"And if it doesn't succeed?"
Mari snorted at the question.
"You really think it won't?"
"...Of course it will."
"Then no problem."
What makes her so sure it'll succeed? Kyung-ho pondered in silence before nodding.
"I'll think about it."
Her eyes curved into slits at the more positive response than before. Hiding none of her delight, she drove the point home.
"Good. But decide fast. Toei's board is already itching to lock in other directors."
After dinner with Mari and dropping him at the dorm, Kyung-ho's mind whirred with complex calculations.
'...Bandam wasn't a smash hit right out of the gate originally.'
He recalled the future he remembered. In the original timeline, Bandam was a tragic masterpiece ahead of its time. And for good reason—the themes were too heavy for kids, while shoddy artwork and production quality held back adults. Initial ratings tanked, toy sales flopped, and it nearly got axed early. That was Mobile Weapon Bandam.
But now?
The themes were still weighty. But everything else—artwork, world-building, toys—he'd crammed in his vision of a winning formula. No way a forward-thinking strategy like this failed. He knew history's wheel had veered off its familiar track into unknown territory thanks to him. Yet, just as Bandam's name had been set without his input, maybe the outcome would follow the same path. That nagging unease kept him from full reassurance.
Kyung-ho looked up at the night sky.
"I'll make it succeed, no matter what."
Late February 1979, Gimpo Airport.
With the flight attendant's help, Kyung-ho descended the plane stairs. The moment his wheelchair wheels hit Korea's asphalt, a heavy vibration shot through his palms.
'...I'm back.'
Everything from Japan felt like a distant dream.
Exiting arrivals, two familiar silhouettes stood out in the distance. His father, collar turned up on his worn coat, face stern. Beside him, his mother clutching a handkerchief, eyes scanning the gate anxiously.
"Kyung-ho! Oh, my boy...!"
Mom couldn't hold back and rushed over, gripping his hands tight. Her warmth pierced the cold air, reaching his fingertips. Her trembling hands caressed his gaunt face.
"...You're back."
Dad stopped a few steps away, tossing the words gruffly. His sharp gaze scanned his son's condition and clothes, pretending nonchalance to hide his joy. But Kyung-ho caught the twitch at the corner of his father's mouth.
"I'm home."
Kyung-ho grinned. Dad cleared his throat loudly, approached wordlessly, and took position behind the wheelchair.
"Let's go. Too many people here—better move."
"Yeah, hurry and let's eat. You ate properly out there?"
Dad started pushing with his rough hands, Mom matching pace while pulling Kyung-ho's suitcase. No fanfare, but Kyung-ho felt their simple, profound love enveloping him as he returned home.