Two weeks before *Pokémon: Mewtwo Strikes Back*'s release, Pokémon Centers halted invitation distribution, disappointing latecomers while inflating recipients' pride. The final promotional wave struck without warning one morning the week prior.
Overnight, massive posters around Centers transformed into dense walls of Pokémon avatars—no film stills, no slogans. At the center stood a black silhouette in a boss chair, back to the crowd, exuding chilling menace. Below, blood-red text challenged those who found their Pokémon: "You with the invitation—July 22, will you face Mewtwo's Strike Back?!"
Passersby paused, mistaking it for art. Then: "Wait—that avatar's Bulbasaur? With ID and name 'Bulba-kun'? So lame!" A schoolboy glanced up, freezing. Amid thousands of avatars, he spotted his pixelated Pikachu with his daily ID: "Pikachu—ID: 00250640401—" A friend read aloud. "That's mine!" the boy trembled, pointing. "My Pikachu!" "No way!" "It's real—look at the nickname 'Thunder Mouse'!" another yelled. The boy flushed with embarrassment and pride, chest puffed as if his Pokémon had made a hall of fame.
Scenes replayed nationwide. Sega used upload geodata to localize avatars on regional billboards. Players hunted in crowds, finding their surprises. Schools buzzed with "My Pokémon's on the wall!" Kids planned summer's first outing: the movie together.
As hype peaked, the knockout blow landed unannounced on July 21. A joint Sega-Toho bulletin exploded like a depth charge: All ticket buyers enter a lottery via stubs. First prize: 50 limited Mewtwo electronic pets—never to be reissued. Lower tiers offered peripherals.
Initially dismissed—"Limited? Pokémon has tons"—eyes locked on "50 nationwide" and "like MD's Mew launch—never again!" Minds flashed to Mew's sky-high resale legend. Mewtwo, the strongest Pokémon, its silhouette already iconic. Owning it meant legend status.
"Insane! Sega's pulling an MD launch redux?!" "Invitations and walls were appetizers?" A high schooler, on a payphone call, brainstormed: "Buy tickets for Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma—family outing!" Theater lines crashed, busy tones mocking the slow.
Ticket clerks faced midday surges, all for *Mewtwo*. Wealthy kids chartered halls for the stubs. Remaining seats vanished. Yesterday's wall-braggers now panicked. "Thunder Mouse"'s owner clutched pocket money, sweating in lines with friends. "Damn! Should've bought yesterday!" "Who saw this coming? 50 for thousands—odds worse than lightning!" The boy stared ahead, sweaty yen bills sticky. His invitation now mocked: facing Mewtwo was just getting a seat.
At Toho's Shibuya branch, the manager fretted over arthouse flops amid smoke. The door burst open. "Manager! Phones! Box office—chaos!" a clerk panted. "What? Speak slowly." "Nonstop calls for *Mewtwo*! Someone wants Hall 1 for three days!" The manager snatched the schedule: *Mewtwo* slots "Sold Out," including largest halls.
His line rang—regional director: "Status?" "Hall 1 just chartered—" "Forget it! Sega's maniacs pulled a monster. Shift all screens to *Mewtwo*, slash dying films to minimum! Open pre-sales for next three days' golden slots—now!" "Yes!" The manager yelled: "Posters—swap Hall 3/4 romance for *Mewtwo*! Tickets—print day-after, day-after-that primes, rush to counters! Signs: future dates on sale!"
The theater became a war machine. Added shows evaporated like desert water. Staff hoarse from calling reinforcements. By 10 PM pre-release eve, "Tomorrow & Day-After Sold Out" signs hung. Tokyo's cinemas fell silent, cold letters reflecting young, dejected faces.
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