The conference room door opened without a sound.
The head of legal strode in, face livid, clutching a single sheet of paper.
He looked at no one, walking straight to Hiroshi Yamauchi and placing the A4 page gently on the table.
It contained excerpts copied, cut, and pasted from the thick contract.
Each passage was circled in red; glaring lines connected them like a map to the abyss.
Yamauchi's eyes settled on the page.
Every director present strained to read the text.
"—Sony Corporation has the right to manufacture and sell consoles compatible with the SFC-CD format—."
"—For such compatible consoles, Sony Computer Entertainment enjoys independent rights to publish game software—."
"—Software published independently by Sony Computer Entertainment shall not be subject to Nintendo's royalty terms—."
Dead silence gripped the room.
Individually, each clause seemed a negotiable concession.
But linked by legal's red lines, a monstrous picture emerged.
Sony had used Nintendo's funding and name to develop an "allied" product.
Then, exploiting contractual loopholes, they could openly release their own "compatible" console and build an entirely independent game empire—one free of Nintendo's control and owing not a yen in royalties.
The SFC-CD had been a smokescreen from the start—a perfect parasite to drain the host dry.
A pen clattered to the floor from a director's numb fingers.
Shigeru Miyamoto pressed his forehead. Finally, he understood.
This wasn't about games or creativity.
This was raw commercial warfare.
He muttered, "They… could release games without our quality checks?"
"Quality?" The marketing director gave a bitter laugh. "They've poached hordes of elite developers. They'll make their own games, sell them on their own hardware. The market we bled to build will watch players flock to them."
"Poaching…" Gunpei Yokoi repeated quietly. His low voice rang like thunder.
Exactly—poaching.
Sony's reckless, limitless campaign that deliberately spared Nintendo.
Not fear.
Preparation.
Stockpiling talent for their imminent new console.
Laying groundwork for total betrayal.
Everyone saw it now.
Bone-deep chill surged from soles to scalp.
This wasn't inviting a wolf in.
This was digging one's own grave—and handing the enemy the shovel.
Yamauchi's gaze lifted from the fatal clauses to the ashen Masayuki Uemura.
The room held its breath.
All expected the meritorious veteran to be shredded by presidential fury.
Instead, Yamauchi waved calmly.
"Meeting ends here. Everyone except Uemura-kun and Yokoi-kun is dismissed."
His quiet voice carried absolute command.
Directors rose in relief and terror, fleeing the stifling room.
Miyamoto hesitated, glancing at Yokoi, then the collapsed Uemura, but said nothing and left with the rest.
The door shut.
Only three remained.
Yamauchi ignored Uemura, turning to Yokoi. Rare approval flickered across his icy face.
"Yokoi, this time you saved the company."
Simple words, weightier than any accolade.
Yokoi bowed slightly, silent.
This was no moment for ceremony.
Yamauchi's eyes finally fixed on Uemura. The man jolted like prey under a viper's stare.
"President, I—" Uemura's voice shook.
"You committed Nintendo's gravest error since founding," Yamauchi said, cold as frost. "But now you have a chance to redeem it."
Uemura's head snapped up, hope flaring.
"Sony enjoys the charade?" Yamauchi's knuckles tapped the table—dull thuds. "Then keep performing. Smile, cooperate warmly, convince them we're still blind."
"While cooperating," his tone darkened, "plant our sharpest operatives in their team. I want every detail on that 'compatible' console—progress, specs, future plans. Nothing escapes."
"Yes! Absolutely!" Uemura clutched the lifeline.
"Out."
Uemura scrambled away, reborn.
Now only Yamauchi and Yokoi.
"President, Sony's intent is clear. We must terminate cooperation immediately," Yokoi said gravely.
"Terminate?" Yamauchi sneered. "That would announce we know. No—the play continues, and we perform it better."
He rose, gazing at Kyoto's nightscape.
"It's merely a CD-ROM drive. Sony has one—does that mean no one else does?"
Yokoi's pulse quickened. He understood.
"Philips."
"Precisely." Yamauchi turned, eyes razor-sharp. "CD patents aren't Sony's alone. North American intelligence says Trip Hawkins is restarting his venture. Besides Panasonic, he's courting Philips—and Philips is keen on consoles."
He stepped before Yokoi, enunciating each word: "You will handle this."
"Me?" Surprise flickered.
"You're currently an idle man here," Yamauchi's mouth curved—self-mocking yet calculating. "Ideal. An idle man draws no eyes. Sony watches Uemura's group. Who notices a sidelined former veteran?"
Warmth flooded Yokoi, igniting fierce resolve.
The president had never forgotten him.
"Understood." Yokoi nodded firmly. "I'll prepare at once."
"Go to the Netherlands. Tell Philips," Yamauchi's gaze burned wolf-bright, "Nintendo seeks a new friend—one who can make our SFC-CD surpass anything Sony dreams."
Yokoi departed, steps resolute. The genius behind Game & Watch and Game Boy had reclaimed his battlefield.
Yamauchi stood alone, lifting the report on Sony's loopholes.
He did not destroy it.
Carefully, he folded and pocketed it.
Such humiliation demanded repayment—multiplied victories.
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