Even more intriguing was what happened at Kinokuniya Bookstore.
Manager Ikeda had been puzzled lately.
Jurassic Park was scheduled to be released in Japan in July, so the book's popularity should still be building.
Yet for the past week, Michael Crichton's original novel had been flying off the shelves as if it had sprouted legs. Before the store could even display it prominently, a horde of young people had swept it all away.
"Boss, do you have any more Jurassic Park?" A high school student, backpack slung over his shoulder and face flushed with sweat, burst into the store.
"Out of stock. Been out for days." Ikeda pointed to the empty shelf. "Re-stocking takes three more days."
"Ah? Out again?" The student looked devastated. "My game is stuck! I heard the novel has detailed descriptions of how to deal with Velociraptors. I need it to figure out a strategy!"
Ikeda stared, utterly bewildered.
Buying science fiction novels as game guides? These players have some... unconventional thought processes.
But he quickly snapped out of it, turned around, grabbed the phone, and dialed the publisher: "Hello? This is Kinokuniya's Shinjuku store. For Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, I need two thousand more copies! Yes, immediately! Empty the warehouse and send them over!"
After hanging up, Ikeda glanced at the Sega game poster in the store and muttered to himself: "Strange things happen every year, but this year is especially bizarre."
Before, people bought books after seeing the movie. Now they're buying books after playing the game.
This tropical storm whipped up across the Pacific had set Japan ablaze with feverish excitement before the movie even officially hit theaters.
Inside Bandai's headquarters, the atmosphere was as stifling as a freshly steamed bamboo basket.
Several sales reports faxed from the United States lay spread out on the conference table, their columns of zeros dizzying to behold.
The head of the marketing department was spittle-flecked as he pointed at the project plan on the wall, itching to dump hundreds of thousands of plastic dinosaurs—just delivered to the warehouse a few days prior—into every toy store in Japan.
"President! We can't wait any longer! Sega's raking in the cash, and even the bookstores are getting a taste of the profits. We have the official model licenses in our hands—why are we just sitting here staring at them?" The head of public relations slammed his hand on the table, making it rattle. "This buzz is pure gold! My suggestion is to flood Ginza's shop windows with those Tyrannosaurus Rex models tomorrow, backed by a TV GG blitz. It would absolutely—"
"And slap a two-hour 'toy commercial' label on the movie before audiences even step into the theater?" a cold voice interrupted the impassioned plea.
Chuta Mitsui sat at the end of the long table, methodically closing the lid of his teacup with a crisp click.
The conference room fell silent.
Makoto Yamashina frowned, turning to the executive director who had recently been growing close to Sega. "Mitsui, what do you mean?"
""
"This is a direct instruction from Executive Director Nakayama." Chuta Mitsui didn't even look up at the flushed head of public relations. He simply pulled a memo from his briefcase and pushed it to the center of the table. "Spielberg is an artist and a control freak. He hates nothing more than commercialized merchandise and promotions that ruin a movie's mystique. If we aggressively shove those plastic dinosaurs in people's faces now, it will only make the film seem cheap."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled executives, his tone laced with a hint of mockery. "Gentlemen, let's not forget that we only secured this license because Sega relinquished it. If we botch this opportunity and provoke Universal Pictures, do you still want to play in Hollywood?"
The Publicity Director opened his mouth, wanting to protest but finding no words, his face flushing crimson.
"Are we just going to watch the money slip away?" someone grumbled, unwilling to accept this.
"That's not slipping away, that's called building momentum." Chuta Mitsui stood up and walked to the window, pointing at the bustling street below. "This patience now is to make July's flood even more devastating. When audiences are left breathless by that Tyrannosaurus Rex in the theaters, and they want something to soothe their nerves, our models will be their best choice."
He turned around, raising a finger. "Remember this: true hunters never rush to pull the trigger."
Makoto Yamashina remained silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting between the radical publicity plan and Chuta's composed expression.
Finally, he let out a long sigh and swept the colorful marketing proposal into the trash.
"Listen to Mitsui," Makoto Yamashina declared, his voice steadying. "Notify the factories: keep the production lines running and fill the warehouses. Stop expanding the promotional materials. We want those kids to be begging us to sell them the toys when the time comes."
Chuta Mitsui nodded slightly, secretly relieved.
Takuya's "wait and see" strategy had not only preserved the film's prestige but also left Bandai on the edge of their seats.
When the floodgates opened, the resulting deluge would likely overwhelm Bandai's cash registers.
Deep within Bandai's warehouses, tens of thousands of meticulously packaged dinosaur models lay quietly in the darkness, awaiting the starting gun.
Watching the steadily rising box office prediction curve in the Los Angeles Times and the phone lines at Sega of America Headquarters' Marketing Department nearly overwhelmed by order faxes, Takuya Nakayama knew his presence was no longer needed here.
The monster named "Jurassic" had completely broken free from its chains. All that was left was to wait for it to devour the world's dollars.
He didn't even wait for the champagne to be opened at the victory banquet before hastily packing his bags and rushing to Los Angeles International Airport.
He threw all the hair-pulling additional orders and media interviews to Tom—after all, the guy was enjoying the spotlight's glow more than anything, so a little extra work was only fair.
After over a dozen hours of flying, the plane touched down at Narita Airport.
It was afternoon when he returned home to Meguro Ward.
Pushing open the door, he saw a pair of small toddler shoes by the entrance.
"I'm home."
Takuya Nakayama changed out of his wrinkled airplane suit and removed his tie.
He tiptoed into the living room.
On the carpet, a chubby little boy was bent over, intently pushing building blocks under the sofa.
"Kazuki?" Takuya crouched down, spreading his arms wide, his face wearing that inscrutable smile of Japanese businessmen—now stripped of its sophistication, leaving only goofiness. "Daddy's back."
The little boy froze, then slowly turned his head.
Eighteen-month-old Nakayama Kazuki stared at the unfamiliar man before him for a full five seconds.
There was no expected joyful reunion, no sweet "Daddy."
The boy's lips pursed, his eyes filled with terror. He turned and stumbled toward the kitchen, crying out "Waaah!" before he even reached the doorway.
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