As a time traveler, Takuya Nakayama couldn't influence the movement of tectonic plates. But if Sega could use games to subtly teach even one more child the correct escape methods in these next two years, it would make his efforts worthwhile.
Moreover, this would be an excellent opportunity to enhance Sega's public image.
Who could resist a company that cares about the safety of its citizens?
Takuya's finger hovered over the phone keys, ready to call the Third Development Department.
But the moment he pressed the call button, he paused.
Not now.
The fires on Okushiri Island were still burning, and the list of victims continued to grow.
If Sega were to jump out with a "disaster prevention game" now, no matter how noble their intentions, the media and the public would view it as opportunistic exploitation—cashing in on tragedy.
The timing isn't right.
Takuya snapped his phone shut, tore off the page of his notebook crammed with ideas, folded it carefully, and tucked it deep into his wallet.
This project needed to be developed, but the best time for Sega to enter the market would be after this wave of grief had subsided—when society shifted from mourning to reflection.
For now, there was another battle to fight.
He looked up at the massive Jurassic Park poster at the end of the street. The Tyrannosaurus Rex, with its gaping maw, seemed poised to devour the entire Japanese summer box office.
"Let's feed this dinosaur first."
On the evening of July 23rd, the red carpet outside the Toho Marunouchi Theater was swarmed by reporters and photographers.
Although Universal Pictures had gone to the trouble of flying in Hollywood stars Sam Neill and Laura Dern, Takuya Nakayama knew the real star of the night wasn't human—it was the Tyrannosaurus Rex, a creature that had already captivated the hearts of every child in Japan, even before its big-screen debut.
Inside the VIP lounge on the second floor of the theater, the air conditioning blasted cold.
Hayao Miyazaki sat in a corner of the sofa, staring at the program booklet in his hands, its cover emblazoned with a massive dinosaur skeleton.
"So this is Spielberg's new gimmick?" Miyazaki scoffed, flinging the booklet onto the table. "Chunks of meat pieced together with digital images, and they call it a 'miracle of life'? More like a miracle of money."
"Miyazaki-san, that's rather biased."
The voice came from a young man with thick glasses and hair as messy as a chicken's nest.
At this time, Hideaki Anno hadn't yet been driven to depression by EVA. He was still a die-hard fan of tokusatsu, his eyes fixed on the poster on the wall, his pupils practically glowing. "That rain-soaked attack sequence in the test screening— the slick, reflective sheen of the Tyrannosaurus Rex's skin in the rain, the splashes of mud kicked up by its feet— that's pure physical beauty!"
"If we could capture that kind of realism in Shin Godzilla—"
"You'd bankrupt us just to get a few seconds of that," Yoshiyuki Tomino interjected coldly. As the father of Gundam, he was acutely sensitive to costs. "I heard Industrial Light & Magic burned through several supercomputers rendering those few minutes. Anno, if you dare put that kind of budget item on the books, the investors will kick you out first."
Anno rolled his eyes in frustration, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the poster.
Takuya Nakayama walked over with two glasses of ice water, set them on the table, and took the seat next to Tomino.
Hayao Miyazaki finally looked up, his thick-lensed gaze sweeping over Takuya before he spoke with a complex tone, "Mr. Nakayama, I hear your game is selling like crazy in the United States? Even Michael Crichton is raking in extra royalties?"
"It's all thanks to Director Spielberg," Takuya said modestly, waving his hand, though his pride was unmistakable. "Audiences are craving more after the movie. They're fascinated by anything dinosaur-related. We're just riding the wave."
"Hmph, riding the wave." Hayao Miyazaki stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray with a little too much force. "More like you had your ship ready and waiting for just the right wave to come crashing in."
Though they feigned skepticism, these industry veterans knew the truth.
After tonight, the Japanese visual entertainment industry would change again.
Once, they had debated the tension of hand-drawn lines. From tomorrow onward, everyone would have to confront the behemoth called "CG Technology."
Yet this young Sega Managing Director before them wasn't just unafraid of the wave—he was standing atop it, counting his money.
"Don't be so serious, everyone," Takuya said, gesturing toward the faint screams coming from below—the signal that the premiere was about to begin. "Movies are the art of dreaming. Whether we use paintbrushes or computers, as long as we can draw audiences in, that's all that matters. Isn't that right?"
Yoshiyuki Tomino, the legendary anime director, flashed a rare smile and clinked his water glass against Takuya's. "Easy for you to say. But why do I get the feeling that artists like us will eventually be working for you coders?"
"How could that be?" Takuya blinked. "At most, we'll just collaborate and prosper together."
The air in the lounge finally stirred.
Outside the door, the Tyrannosaurus Rex's thunderous roar from the theater officially announced the arrival of the "Dinosaur Storm" in Japan.
On July 24th, the film premiered across Toho theaters in Japan.
As the end credits rolled to the majestic score by John Williams, the lights suddenly came on, and a brief silence fell over the Shinjuku Toho Cinema theater.
Then, like a switch had been flipped, a cacophony of exclamations and discussions erupted.
The audience, still reeling from the Tyrannosaurus Rex's roar and adrenaline surging through their veins, channeled their primal instincts into impulsive spending.
The lobby transformed into a battlefield.
"Give me that one! The biggest Tyrannosaurus Rex!"
"I'm sorry, that was the last one and it was just bought by that gentleman."
"Then give me that Velociraptor! Hurry up! My son is about to cry!"
At the Bandai counter, the staff wished they had eight arms.
Dozens of boxes of merchandise vanished like sugar cubes tossed into water, dissolving in the blink of an eye.
Parents handed over several hundred yen without batting an eyelid for these soft plastic models, as if they were buying not toys, but pacifiers to silence their children's cries.
Even more interesting was the Sanrio counter next door.
Everyone had assumed dinosaurs were a boy's fantasy, but Bandai shrewdly licensed some of the rights to Sanrio.
When those ferocious prehistoric beasts were transformed into round, fluffy, and cutesy plushies, their appeal doubled.
"Naoki, I want that one!" a girl who had been hiding in her boyfriend's arms during the movie now pointed at a dazed-looking Triceratops plushie. "It's so cute! We have to buy it!"
Her boyfriend pulled out his wallet with a wry smile. "She was screaming just a moment ago, and now she wants to cuddle. Women's hearts are even harder to decipher than dinosaurs."
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