The game's fundamental quality, as demonstrated by the machine, had all but shattered Bandai's hopes of catching up through their own Development Department.
"Let's go. Father already made a reservation at Tsukiji Jisaku," Takuya Nakayama said, checking his watch.
The group drove to the traditional Japanese restaurant.
Nakayama Hayao was already seated on the tatami mat, a warm cup of sake before him.
When Makoto Yamashina entered, the head of Sega showed no airs. He laughed heartily and rose to greet him.
"President Yamashina, it's been a while. Your golf skills at the course last time left quite an impression."
"Not at all, President Nakayama, you flatter me," Yamashina replied politely, his gaze sweeping over the father and son as he sat down.
The elder was like a crouching tiger, the younger like a cunning fox. Sega's current momentum was truly unstoppable.
Throughout the meal, exquisite kaiseki cuisine was served in a flowing procession.
Takuya Nakayama made no mention of the black machine or the "merger" proposal from long ago that had so rattled Yamashina. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, diligently poured sake for the elders, and filled the air with amusing anecdotes from the United States.
"Mr. Turner's steaks are certainly generous, but the flavor is so crude—I felt like throwing up after just two meals," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up a slice of sea bream sashimi, dipping it in soy sauce, and savoring the taste. "Nothing beats the taste of home. President Yamashina, I heard you're planning a trip to the United States soon for an inspection?"
Makoto Yamashina's chopsticks paused momentarily before resuming their rhythm. "Yes, I do. After all, Takuya has built such a great stage for us—we should at least see the play."
"Absolutely," Nakayama Hayao chimed in, raising his glass with a bold, assertive air. "The young people today are much more daring than we were. I heard about that Cartoon Channel project—he did well, but it still relies on Bandai's toys for monetization. Licensing animation alone doesn't bring in much. Come, let's toast to Gundam's success in America."
"Cheers."
Amidst the clinking of glasses, Chuta Mitsui couldn't resist interjecting, leaning forward slightly. "President Nakayama, that new Gundam project—it's truly..."
"Ah, let's not talk business over a meal," Nakayama Hayao said, waving his hand to cut off Mitsui. His smile remained, but it carried an undeniable authority. "Today is simply a gathering of old friends. Let the subordinates worry about work. Our old bones should be enjoying themselves. I hear this restaurant's sake is specially reserved. Mitsui-san, care to try it?"
This was a masterfully executed Tai Chi move.
Chuta Mitsui swallowed the compliment he was about to utter, his face flushing slightly from the effort. He could only awkwardly lift his sake cup.
Makoto Yamashina, meanwhile, cast a deep glance at Takuya Nakayama, who was intently peeling shrimp.
This isn't about not talking business at all.
That machine earlier was about Prestige; this meal was about Favor.
Sega had established a technological barrier, telling them, "Only we can build this," while dangling the profits of the US market, promising them, "Follow us, and you'll get a share of the spoils."
Silence, in this case, was more unsettling than conversation.
The meal ended with everyone seemingly satisfied—at least on the surface.
They chatted about horse racing, golf, and the new club in Ginza, but never once about games or business acquisitions.
After seeing the Bandai duo off, Takuya Nakayama stood at the entrance of the restaurant, loosened his tie, and let out a long sigh.
"How'd it go?" Nakayama Hayao stood behind him, his amiable older brother facade fading slightly, his eyes sharp. "Judging by Yamashina's expression, he won't be sleeping well tonight."
"The timing's right," Takuya Nakayama said, watching the taillights of the departing car. A faint smile curled his lips. "We've shown them our muscles and given them a taste of the sugar. Unless they want their precious Gundam game to flop or become obsolete, they have no choice but to hand over the game division to us."
"You little rascal, even darker than me," Hayao snorted, turning to walk back, though his tone was full of admiration. "Still, you pulled it off beautifully. If Bandai falls into our hands, that old fox Nintendo will be sweating bullets."
Takuya fell into step with his father, his tone relaxed. "Let him sweat. Once Model 2 and Jupiter games are successful, and Jupiter's install base surpasses the break-even point, the momentum will be unstoppable. Two consecutive successful consoles. Given the global market's growth, their combined sales will easily exceed 100 million units by the end of their lifecycles—spanning over seven years of gamers' lives."
"Sega is destined to become the undisputed leader of the video game industry. Anyone who doesn't join forces with them will only regret it."
The early spring wind swirled fallen cherry blossoms across the ground, stretching the shadows of father and son into long, elongated figures.
Bandai, like a ripe fruit, was just one more gust of wind away from falling into Sega's basket.
Mid-April.
After six months of development, the project codenamed 72 Hours After the Disaster was finally ready for pressing.
The Marketing Department had been racking their brains to avoid the somber connotations of the word "survival." In the end, Takuya Nakayama made the final decision: the game would be called Disaster Relief Little Hero.
At that moment, the Mega Drive cartridge lay quietly on Nakayama's desk.
The cover featured a two-headed cartoon character wearing a yellow hard hat and an emergency backpack, pointing forward with a serious expression.
"Director Yoshikawa, it seems your PR budget was well spent," Nakayama said, picking up the cartridge and running his fingertip over the list of prestigious endorsing organizations: the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications Fire and Disaster Management Agency, the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology, and the Kyoto University Disaster Prevention Research Institute.
This long list of names was practically an immunity charm.
Director Yoshikawa, unable to conceal his smugness, picked up his teacup to moisten his throat. "Managing Director, you have no idea how difficult those bureaucrats are to handle. When they first heard we were making a game, they shook their heads like maracas, terrified of being associated with 'electronic heroin' and jeopardizing their careers."
"So how did you manage to convince them?"
"As you instructed, I gave them two reassurances." Yoshikawa held up two fingers. "First, that legitimate disaster prevention guidance donation." This money flowed through public welfare accounts, giving them both face and substance. Naturally, they had no complaints about doing the work."
Takuya Nakayama chuckled softly. In any era, funding was the best lubricant.
"The second was your liability waiver clause." Yoshikawa couldn't help but admire the young Managing Director's shrewdness. "We put it in writing in the agreement: if the final review fails or the test feedback is poor, Sega will remove all government department credits at launch, rename it a purely fictional entertainment product, publicly release the failed review report, and simultaneously issue a disclaimer stating that the product has no professional guidance functions."
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