Tom Kalinske tilted his head slightly and leaned in to whisper to Takuya, "Takuya, I think we made a mistake."
"..."
"Hmm?"
"We ordered too few units for the initial shipment." A tremor ran through Tom's voice. "This isn't just a movie—it's a divine manifestation. No one will want to leave empty-handed after seeing this."
Takuya stared at the fleeting Sega logo on the screen. As a deep collaboration partner, they'd even managed to secure a credit in the end credits. A faint smile played on his lips.
Two hours later, the lights came on.
There was no applause.
A full five seconds passed before the theater erupted in cheers and applause that threatened to shake the rafters.
Spielberg stood and bowed to the audience.
At the post-screening reception, Spielberg held a glass of champagne—before he could even take a sip, an excited Tom blocked his path.
"Steven! You're a madman!" Tom abandoned all business etiquette, slapping the director on the shoulder. "That Tyrannosaurus Rex! Damn it, it nearly ate me alive!"
"That's exactly the effect we were going for, Tom," Spielberg said, laughing heartily as he pointed to his head. "The future has arrived early. And the best news is that your game has brought this fear right into people's homes."
That night, Los Angeles couldn't sleep.
The media didn't even need to polish their press releases. The Los Angeles Times ran the headline "The First Year of the Film Industry" on its front page. This frenzy quickly translated into cold, hard numbers the next day.
Across the nation's 3,400 theaters, advance tickets were sold out within three hours.
When the film officially premiered on November 11th, chaos erupted.
Lines snaked around the blocks outside theaters in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and countless other cities. Scalpers hawked tickets at prices several times higher than face value.
Frustrated crowds, unable to secure tickets, blocked box office windows, forcing managers to call the police to maintain order.
$41.5 million.
That was the weekend box office total.
When Tom Kalinske slammed that thin fax onto his redwood desk, the force nearly spilled his cold coffee.
This wasn't just a number. It was the deafening roar of Hollywood's money-making machine running at full throttle.
"Madness, utter madness," Tom muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, yet he buzzed with energy, as if he'd just downed an entire can of Red Bull. "The media is reporting people fighting at the box office just to get a midnight screening ticket. This isn't about watching a movie—it's a full-blown pilgrimage."
The media had completely fallen for it. Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and other industry publications churned out article after article, crowning Spielberg with words like "miracle" and "milestone."
A few self-proclaimed "serious" film critics grumbled in the corners, nitpicking the shallow plot or the lack of character depth. But their voices, still smelling of freshly printed ink, were drowned out by the roar of the ticket lines.
Who cared about character development?
This summer, audiences were buying tickets solely to see the Tyrannosaurus Rex drag that unlucky lawyer off the toilet.
The cast wasn't idle either.
Jeff Goldblum was sitting on the couch of Late Night with David Letterman, recounting hilarious behind-the-scenes stories with his signature staccato delivery. His signature open-collared shirt elicited waves of screams from the female audience.
Laura Dern and Sam Neill became human billboards, flying from morning news shows to late-night talk shows, fanning the dinosaur fever into every living room in America.
The heat even radiated back to bookstores.
Michael Crichton's original novel was prominently displayed at Barnes & Noble, its cover replaced with the iconic red-and-black Jurassic Park movie poster.
Staff struggled to restock fast enough to keep up with the checkout scanners. Even families who never read science fiction tossed the book into their shopping carts, simply because their kids were clamoring to see dinosaurs.
Takuya Nakayama sat on the sofa, flipping through the latest market report. His fingertips lingered momentarily on the line about "related product sales."
The fervent movie-going craze was like a match thrown onto dry grass, instantly igniting the powder keg Sega had been secretly preparing.
Building on the success of simultaneous releases like Urgent Crisis and Captain Hook, Sega's marketing team moved with practiced efficiency this time around.
In the ticket lobbies of major theaters, prime display spaces that once showcased movie posters were now dominated by black Mega Drive demo units.
Colorful tube TVs were prominently placed near the ticket counters, showing the Mega Drive version of Jurassic Park. The Tyrannosaurus Rex roared, its gaping maw synchronized with the deep growls from the speakers, instantly drawing the attention of moviegoers still buzzing with adrenaline.
Audience members fresh from the theater, their minds still buzzing with images of dinosaurs, turned to hear the familiar roar of a dinosaur coming from the TV.
"Hey, look at that!" A little boy in a baseball cap tugged at his father's sleeve, pointing at the screen where a raptor was running. "It runs just like in the movie!"
This was the power of Mark Cerny's inverse kinematics program.
The dinosaurs on the screen lacked the stiff, jerky movements of cheap video games. Every turn and leap carried a sense of real weight.
This seamless visual experience kept moviegoers, still immersed in the film's afterglow, glued to their seats.
The demo controller passed through countless sweaty hands, the rapid-fire clicks of buttons filling the air.
A Sega staff member in the blue uniform nearby added the finishing touch: "This is exclusive Sega technology. Want to take this big guy home? We have stock over there."
Several parents who normally avoided video game consoles, seeing their children's mesmerized faces and glancing at the credit cards they hadn't even warmed in their hands, felt their mental defenses crumble instantly.
"Fine, just this once."
This scene played out in thousands of theaters across the United States.
Many people had simply come to buy a dinosaur plushie or a Jurassic Park T-shirt, only to leave the theater clutching a brand-new Sega MD console and a black Jurassic Park game cartridge.
By bringing gaming consoles into movie theaters, Sega had brilliantly bridged the gap between moviegoers and gamers.
The situation was even more frenzied in the game sections of Walmart and Best Buy.
The limited-edition Sega CD bundles, featuring Tyrannosaurus Rex artwork, were priced steeply, yet they vanished from the shelves at a visible pace.
"Sold out? You mean even the $300 console is gone?" A father who hadn't managed to snag one stood at the checkout, spreading his hands in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, sir. The last one was bought by an elderly woman half an hour ago for her grandson," the salesperson said, wiping sweat from his brow and pointing to the empty display behind him. "Even the demo unit has been reserved now."
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