Section Chief Kobayashi paused, then waved dismissively with a drunken laugh. "Mr. Yokoi, what a joke! No matter how loaded Sony is, they wouldn't dare touch Nintendo. That'd be asking for trouble.
"Besides, they're still developing the Super Famicom CD for you, right? Allies—allies! Enix is one of Nintendo's closest partners too. Poaching them would be the same as poaching Nintendo."
"Allies…"
Gunpei Yokoi repeated the word. For some reason, the sake in his mouth turned bitter.
His thoughts raced.
Everyone knew Sony was assisting Nintendo with the Super Famicom CD drive.
Yet this "ally" was secretly undermining the foundations of the entire industry.
They'd poached from Sega, Konami, Namco, Capcom—nearly every major player had been hit.
Only Nintendo—and a handful of its tightest third-party allies, like Enix—had been meticulously avoided.
This wasn't respect.
This was deliberate deception—keeping the enemy complacent.
They didn't want to wake Nintendo from its pleasant dream at the crucial moment.
A chill raced up Yokoi's spine, banishing the alcohol's haze in an instant.
He stood abruptly.
"Mr. Yokoi? You okay?" Kobayashi and the others jumped at the sudden move.
"Nothing—just remembered something urgent." Yokoi pulled bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table. "My treat tonight. Keep drinking."
He turned and strode out of the izakaya without a backward glance.
The cold night wind cleared his head completely.
At headquarters, Miyamoto and the rest were still celebrating their "ally's" generous support.
But that ally had already smuggled troops across the river—poised for a devastating backstab.
No!
He stopped, pivoted, and marched in the opposite direction from home.
The president had to know—now.
In Nintendo's Kyoto headquarters conference room, the atmosphere was suffocatingly heavy.
Hiroshi Yamauchi's face was thunderous.
An hour earlier, Gunpei Yokoi—long consigned to internal exile—had burst back into headquarters and demanded an immediate audience.
As a founding contributor, Yokoi still commanded that much respect.
The news he brought triggered an emergency summons of the entire executive team.
On the long table sat a single sheet: a compilation Yokoi had pried—part coaxing, part bluffing—from an acquaintance at Enix.
Sony was indiscriminately poaching talent across Japan, targeting every game company of any real size.
"That's the situation," Yokoi said calmly, sounding much like his old self before the marginalization. "With Sony's resources, if they enter the field, they won't settle for being a minor third party. They want their own console platform."
Murmurs erupted.
Shigeru Miyamoto, freshly returned from leave and still weary, propped his chin on his hand, focused as ever on games. "Sony's a giant. If they want into gaming, we can't stop them, right?"
Many nodded agreement.
"Can't stop them?" Yamauchi snorted, tapping the list of company names. His voice was quiet but instantly hushed the room.
"Then explain why Sony dares poach from Sega—yet carefully skirts Nintendo entirely?"
The question lanced through every remnant of wishful thinking.
Yes—why?
One director ventured, "Perhaps… because we're allies on the Super Famicom CD? They wouldn't want to seem ungrateful?"
He felt an icy glare without Yamauchi even looking up.
The pressure alone drew cold sweat down the man's back.
Ally?
The word struck Masayuki Uemura—lead on Super Famicom hardware—like a blow.
His mind reeled as the pieces—Sony's poaching frenzy, the Super Famicom CD project, the "alliance"—snapped into a chilling whole.
In seconds his face drained from flushed to ghostly pale.
Yamauchi noticed.
"Uemura-kun," he said evenly. "What is it?"
Uemura's lips quivered; sweat traced his cheeks. His throat felt clamped by an invisible vise.
"President—back then—to get Sony to quickly accept our CD-ROM licensing terms—we added a clause to the contract—"
"Out with it!" Yamauchi barked.
Uemura flinched, voice cracking. "The clause allows Sony not only to manufacture and sell compatible Super Famicom CD units—but also to independently publish games for that hardware! We have no right to interfere—and we receive no royalties!"
Boom!
The room exploded.
"What?!"
"Impossible!"
Even Miyamoto bolted upright. He wasn't a businessman, but the implications were stark.
Nintendo had built the stage, booked the talent—only for Sony to waltz on anytime, perform a rival show, and keep every ticket yen.
They could even form their own troupe and outshine Nintendo entirely.
This wasn't inviting a wolf in—it was handing over the house keys.
Yamauchi's expression settled into eerie calm—the dead hush before a storm, more frightening than rage.
He ignored the ashen Uemura, lifted the intercom, and dialed.
"Legal? Everyone who touched the Super Famicom CD contract—here. Now."
He hung up and scanned the silent executives.
"Meeting adjourned—for now."
Relief flickered—then died at his next words.
"No one leaves the building until Legal finishes its review."
His gaze settled last on the slumped Uemura.
"You wait too."
Time crawled. The air thickened like lead.
The wall clock ticked past seven. Night pressed against the windows, while harsh lights etched grim faces in sharp relief.
Masayuki Uemura sat statue-still, soul hollowed, without strength even to twitch a finger.
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