With *Golden Sun*'s development underway, Takuya Nakayama felt a weight lift. The renewed fire in Yuji Naka and Rieko Kodama's eyes bolstered his confidence in Sega's RPG future. As he turned to refine *My Neighbor Totoro*'s game details, his assistant knocked, delivering a letter from Toho and Gallop. *Pokémon: Mewtwo Strikes Back*, the franchise's first theatrical film, was ready to launch its promotional campaign.
From the project's outset, Takuya insisted on leading the marketing himself, a demand that sparked tension in Toho's boardroom. As Japan's film distribution giant, Toho's rigid promotional system bristled at a game executive's interference. "Executive Nakayama, we respect your gaming achievements," a senior Toho director said diplomatically but firmly, "but film marketing is our expertise."
Takuya smiled, sliding a document to the table's center. "I understand. But we're not just promoting a movie. This is an extension of a phenomenon with millions of core fans. Our goal isn't just ticket sales—it's signaling to players, to kids, that their beloved story and emotions will climax on the big screen." Toho remained unmoved, the room deadlocked, until Takuya's bold gambit saved his plan from the shredder: "Treat MD's launch campaign as a rehearsal. I'll show you my strategy's power."
After the "Pokémon Invades Tokyo" miracle and MD's launch frenzy, Toho's executives revisited Takuya's plan with new eyes. Its focus on core fans, layered to ignite broader buzz, proven by real-world mania, convinced them his vision was scarily prescient. Toho relented.
The campaign's first phase launched with the letter's arrival. Sega and Toho collaborated seamlessly, plastering minimalist posters across Pokémon Centers nationwide overnight. Each featured a giant white question mark with small text below: "A special invitation awaits every Trainer." The event began. Pokémon electronic pet players could claim an invitation at Centers.
Kids lined up, queues spilling outside, clutching their cherished Poké Balls, faces tense with anticipation. "Next!" a boy approached, handing his device to staff, who connected it to a Center computer via a custom cable. With a click, the connection synced, flashing the player's ID and pixelated Pokémon. A special marker was silently written to the Poké Ball's chip—a feature Takuya fought to include for future Pokémon tie-ins.
"Here's your invitation, Trainer," the staff said, handing over a sturdy card sized to clip perfectly onto a Poké Ball's loop. Its front bore *Mewtwo Strikes Back*'s striking logo, the back the release date: July 22. More than paper, it was official proof of participation. The boy, beaming, clipped it to his Poké Ball and rushed to friends, waving it. "Look! I got invited!" "No way! Show me!" Word spread virally. Owning an invitation-clipped Poké Ball became a status symbol, uninvited kids frantic, recipients flaunting it like a medal.
Within days, the July 22 release became a sacred pact among millions of Pokémon pet players. The first wave rippled perfectly through the fanbase. Takuya reviewed reports: invitation pickups soared nationwide. This was just the start.
Days later, as the initial buzz lingered, a heavier "stone" dropped. At Tokyo's Shinjuku Station, amid surging crowds, a high schooler froze, pointing. "What's that?" A sci-fi transparent mechanical cocoon replaced an ad billboard. A meter tall, its cylindrical base gleamed with metallic sheen, blue light strips pulsing like veins. A translucent tube above held a curled, sleeping Pokémon, linked to a glowing machine.
These cocoons appeared overnight in Shibuya's crossing, Ginza's plazas—Tokyo's busiest corners. Curiosity ignited. A daring teen, egged on, pressed the cocoon's glowing console button. A faint vibration hummed, followed by a hoarse, fervent male voice crackling through static: "This machine—cloning Pokémon—analyzes genetic sequences—to create another—our clone is exquisite—found a legendary Pokémon—Mew—recovered its eyelash fossil—decoded its genes—created Mewtwo—the strongest Pokémon—our dream—but Mewtwo's temperament is volatile—research lab destroyed—we must abandon and escape—" The message cut off, the screen dimmed, leaving the sleeping clone as silent evidence.
The crowd fell quiet, then erupted. "Gene cloning?" "They made a new Pokémon from Mew?" A suited man paled, recalling news of the "Human Genome Project." Ethical debates leaped from parliament to the public. Was this a stunt or a social experiment? Questions spread like wildfire.
Media swarmed. A tabloid, known for chasing oddities, ran a bombshell: the cocoons' Pokémon—from Bulbasaur to Dragonite—matched the 149 species from the "Pokémon Invades Tokyo" event, stopping at Pokédex #149. This sparked Pokémon fans. "149 again!" "Let's find them all!" Kids, armed with maps and papers, turned cocoon-hunting into a citywide puzzle game. The tabloid, listing locations, sold out.
Adults debated gene ethics; kids hunted Pokémon in an urban adventure. These parallel threads wove together, embedding "Mewtwo" in Japan's collective psyche. A late-night talk show spotlighted the frenzy, showing a sleeping Squirtle in a cocoon. A sociology professor and government official faced the host. "Professor, is this 'performance art'?" the host asked.
The professor adjusted his glasses. "Just commercial hype. We saw it earlier this year for a game. Same recipe, flashier execution." The host played the cocoon's audio, its "lab destroyed" line haunting. "That sounds like a last testament." The professor waved it off. "Exaggerated stories spread faster. It's marketing 101. But it raises a real issue—gene technology, tied to the Human Genome Project. It could cure diseases, extend life, but ethics are murky. Is a clone a product? A person? Laws can't answer. Worse, decoding genomes risks targeted bioweapons or uncontrollable 'super soldiers' like this 'Mewtwo.' Not alarmist—it's possible."
The host turned to the official. "With such risks, has the government contacted Sega?" The official, prepped by Sega's info, replied evenly, "We've confirmed with Sega these are promotional models, harmless. Sega and Toho filed full permits with Tokyo's Urban Planning Bureau a month ago. No issues. Japan's Human Genome Project involvement is still under review." Viewers sank into thought.
At the debate's peak, Sega and Toho unveiled the campaign's climax. A TV ad interrupted the talk show. With soaring music, Mewtwo's purple eyes snapped open, radiating power and confusion. Lab explosions, shattered cocoons, and a chilling question—"Who am I? Where am I from?"—flashed, ending with the title: *Mewtwo Strikes Back*, and "July 22, witness the strongest Pokémon's birth." All mysteries resolved: a movie campaign. Public shock turned to massive anticipation, the cocoons' debates fueling hype.
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