Tanaka hesitated slightly before speaking. "The progress is a bit slow. The electronics factories in Shenzhen have the technical expertise, but they're too cautious. They're afraid this is a trap we've set, and they don't want to take on the job of translating Japanese games into Chinese, fearing we'll sue them for copyright infringement."
"The factories are wary of liability? That shows they're thinking clearly and understand the law. That's a good thing," Takuya said, exhaling a smoke ring into the San Francisco morning light, watching it dissipate. "I wouldn't want to work with reckless fools anyway."
Tanaka hesitated again. "So, what about the localization..."
"Have Nine-Tattooed Dragon handle the negotiations. Don't use Sega's name. Just tell them it's a request from underworld buddies who want to understand the games better; they're frustrated because they can't read Japanese." Takuya flicked ash into the ashtray. "Tell the factory owners that as long as they don't put Sega's logo on the games or sell the cartridges back to Hong Kong, even if they change Sonic into Sun Wukong, we'll turn a blind eye."
"If this goes well, I wouldn't mind giving them the inland GAMEPOCKET cloning and localization work too."
"I see. They're trying to muddy the waters," Tanaka chuckled on the other end of the line. "What about the supply side? The Nine-Tattooed Dragon has quite an appetite. He wants another 5,000 units and asked if he could pay a 30% deposit upfront, with the remainder due by year-end."
"Credit? Don't even think about it." Takuya's tone turned frosty, his fingers tapping twice on the bedside table. "Tell him Sega isn't a charity or a loan shark. Cash on delivery. We're already giving him the factory price—that's the greatest concession we can make. If he can't afford the goods, he'll have to figure out a way to raise the cash—even if it means hocking his underwear. Otherwise, he can take smaller batches."
Though they intended to use the Nine-Tattooed Dragon to pave the way, they had to maintain absolute control.
When dealing with Triads, extending credit opens a floodgate of bad debts.
"Understood. I'll make sure he gets the message," Tanaka replied crisply.
"There's one more thing. You need to specifically instruct the Nine-Tattooed Dragon to set some rules for his shop operators," Takuya said, shifting his posture, his tone turning slightly playful. "Don't be too ruthless in business. Especially with students in school uniforms—kick them out when their time's up. Don't let them hang around all day."
"Huh? Turn away customers?" Tanaka thought he must have misheard. "But... why would we drive away business?"
"It's called sustainable business," Takuya chuckled softly. "Think about it. If every kid in the city skips class to play games, doesn't come home at night, and doesn't do their homework, what will their parents do? They'll storm the shop with brooms to smash the machines, or even march on the government with protest banners. At that point, we won't just lose money—we might get the entire industry banned."
Back then, the "electronic heroin" label could be slapped on at any moment.
Takuya didn't want this promising seed to be uprooted before it even sprouted, all because these kids were being too greedy.
"Tell them to learn how to harvest sustainably," he instructed. "We could even set up an 'A-Student Rewards' program—ten free minutes for turning in a perfect test score. We make money and shut the parents' mouths in one go."
A few seconds of silence followed before Tanaka's voice came through, filled with awe. "Managing Director... how do you come up with these brilliant ideas? You've barely even been to mainland China—how do you understand them so well?"
"Stop flattering me," Takuya chuckled. "The Guangdong Province market is mostly set. Next, we move north. Have him extend his feelers to Shanghai."
"Shanghai?"
"Exactly, Shanghai. It's the dragon's head of the Yangtze River, full of shrewd people who know quality and are open to foreign goods." Takuya's mind conjured images of the Bund from that era. "Moreover, its economic foundation is solid, and the working class has some disposable income. The kids playing 50-cent-a-game now will be the main buyers of legitimate consoles in ten years."
Those children growing up in the alleys would become China's most powerful consumer group in the future.
Imprinting Sega's logo in their minds now would be more effective than spending tens of millions on GG campaigns later.
"Remember, our goal isn't how many machines we sell there, but to plant the seed. Even if only one out of ten people eventually buys our legitimate console, this deal will be wildly profitable."
Takuya paused, his tone turning serious. "Finally, and most importantly, Sega must remain completely unaware of all this. We're simply clearing out inventory. Where the sold products end up, who repairs them, and who rents them out—none of that concerns us. Even if someone investigates later, we must stick to this story."
"Understood," Tanaka said, his voice turning serious. "All the documents are watertight, following proper disposal procedures. I've also given Nine-Tattooed Dragon a good talking-to. He knows the rules and understands that any slip-up would cut off his own revenue stream."
"Also, have him stock up on controllers and other consumables in two months. With how hard they'll be playing, we don't know how many controllers might break."
"Alright, get back to work."
June 9th, Los Angeles.
The end of Sunset Boulevard was shattered into fragments by the beams of searchlights.
The red carpet in front of the CineramaDome was nearly melted by the flashes of cameras.
This wasn't just a movie premiere; it was more like Hollywood's coronation ceremony.
Takuya Nakayama followed Tom Kalinske out of the car.
Screams filled the air around them, but he couldn't tell if the decibels were for Laura Dern, who had just walked past, or simply a release of the suffocating anticipation in the air.
"God," Tom said, tugging at his tight bowtie, stepping sideways to shield Takuya from a reporter trying to shove a microphone in their faces. "We never get this kind of fanfare for a game release."
"It just takes getting used to," Takuya said, straightening his cuffs with a relaxed expression.
Bernard, the seasoned Hollywood veteran, brought up the rear, clearly more at ease in this setting. He even had the leisure to nod politely at several familiar producers.
As representatives of Sega, the trio was seated in a relatively prime location, just a few rows away from Spielberg's small circle, which was swarming with celebrities.
As the lights dimmed, the chatter ceased as abruptly as if sliced by a knife.
When the massive Brachiosaurus on the screen first raised its front leg, stomped heavily into the mud, and began munching on leaves high above, Takuya heard gasps rising around him.
This wasn't the astonishment of seeing special effects; it was the instinctive shudder of witnessing a living creature.
In this era, audiences were accustomed to stop-motion animation and Godzilla in a rubber suit.
The realism created by Industrial Light & Magic, built from millions of polygons, shattered everyone's psychological defenses.
Tom Kalinske stared intently at the screen, forgetting to put down his popcorn bucket.
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