Sega Enterprises Headquarters, Ōta, Tokyo – Late October 1985
The conference room on the executive floor smelled of strong green tea and cigarette smoke. A large television had been wheeled in, hooked up to an arcade PCB rig. The lights were dimmed, and the screen glowed with the title card for 'Contra '.
Hayao Nakayama, Sega's ambitious president, sat at the head of the long table, arms crossed, watching intently as the demo played. Around him sat key executives from marketing, hardware development, and third-party relations. The room was unusually quiet except for the rapid-fire sound effects and driving synth music blasting from the speakers.
On screen, two commandos in red and blue pants tore through a jungle overrun by alien forces. Bullets sprayed in bright orange arcs. Enemies exploded in satisfying pixel bursts. The two-player co-op action felt raw, fast, and addictive — exactly the kind of high-energy arcade experience Sega needed to push the Mark III.
When the short demo loop ended, Nakayama leaned forward, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Well?" he asked, voice low but charged.
The head of arcade development, a sharp-eyed man named Kenji Saito, spoke first. "It's strong. Very strong. The run-and-gun gameplay is tight, the co-op feels natural, and the difficulty ramps in a way that keeps players feeding coins. This isn't just another shooter — it has personality. The alien designs are grotesque in the best way."
A marketing executive nodded enthusiastically. "The music is perfect for arcades — that driving beat makes you want to keep playing. We can build campaigns around 'two players against the world.' Pair it with the SG-1000 console version coming a few months later, and we have a complete package: intense arcade experience at the venues, then deeper story and extra levels at home."
Nakayama tapped the table. "Exactly. The console port will have additional stages and more narrative — the boys at Blue Star already confirmed they're adding cutscenes and extended campaign modes. That gives us a strong one-two punch: arcade coin-op for immediate revenue, then home console sales boosted by the same brand."
He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"This is the kind of relationship we want with third-party developers. In 1985, the industry is still recovering from the crash. Publishers like us finance manufacturing, handle distribution, marketing, and take on the inventory risk. In return, we usually demand high revenue shares — often 70-85% after retail — and sometimes even ownership of the IP. Many small teams have no choice but to accept those terms just to get their game on shelves."
He gestured toward the now-black screen.
"We were to slacks with our first negotiated. They'll keep full ownership of the IP. They avoided manufacturing costs. And they secured 30% of post-retail revenue on Zelda. That's almost unheard of for a brand-new studio, especially one run by kids. Yet here we are — Zelda is already a system-seller, and now Contra looks like it could be another hit."
One of the younger producers spoke up cautiously. "They're talented, no question. But they're still young. Can we trust them working on multiple projects at once?"
Nakayama's smile returned, sharper this time.
"We don't have to trust blindly. We watch, we support where it benefits us, and we keep the relationship productive. If they keep delivering quality like this, we become their preferred partner. If they slip, we have options. But right now? Blue Star is giving us something Nintendo doesn't have — fresh, bold Western ideas on our hardware. That's leverage."
He stood, signaling the meeting was wrapping up.
"Prepare a full marketing plan for the arcade version of Contra. Emphasize the simultaneous two-player chaos. As for the console release a few months later, highlight the extra levels and story elements — make it feel like the definitive experience. And keep a close eye on Blue Star. If they're this good at ten and thirteen years old… imagine what they'll do when they're older."
The executives nodded, already mentally shifting resources.
As the room emptied, Nakayama lingered by the TV, staring at the blank screen.
"These American boys might have played us in the first but, everyone falls on desperate times," he murmured to himself.
As much as he loved the amount of attention and revenue Zelda had brought to him not having full ownership or strong control over the IP or studio behind it was a sore spot. But, as a predator of the industry eventually they'd eventually get a hold of their prey and in th end they'd become a part of them.
---
Back in New York – Blue Star Interactive
Later that same week, Alex sat in the studio reviewing the latest feedback from Sega's testing team. A grin crept across his face as he read the notes.
'They loved the co-op. And they absolutely love want were planing for the console version. '
He already had ideas for how to expand Contra for the Mark III: additional jungle and base levels, brief cutscenes explaining the alien invasion, similar to Ninja Guiden. And a slightly deeper progression system. The arcade version would stay pure, fast, and coin-hungry. The home version would reward players who wanted more.
The relationship with Sega was working exactly as he had hoped. In 1985, most publishers treated third-party developers like hired hands — funding them, taking most of the profit, and often owning the rights to the games. Sega, still playing catch-up to Nintendo, was hungrier and more willing to negotiate favorable terms with promising talent. As they continue to expand their own brand and game library.
Blue Star had kept ownership. They had strong revenue share. And had Sega actively marketing their games.
Alex leaned back, Stuart purring on his lap.
'One hit at a time,' he thought. 'Zelda opened the door. Contra proves we can deliver again. Then Final Fantasy and Street Fighter will show them we're not a one-trick studio.'
The future was accelerating — and Blue Star Interactive was right in the driver's seat.
---
Nintendo Co., Ltd. Headquarters, Kyoto – November 1985
Shigeru Miyamoto sat alone in his modest office on the upper floor of Nintendo's headquarters, the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds. A single desk lamp cast a warm pool over the papers in front of him.
In his hands was the latest sales report from Sega's domestic division — leaked, of course, through the usual industry channels. The numbers for The Legend of Zelda were impressive. More than impressive. They were startling.
865,000 copies sold in just 10 weeks.
Miyamoto leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin as he stared at the figure. The game had released in August, right in the middle of the Famicom's continued dominance. And yet it was moving hardware. Retailers were reporting increased SG-1000 sales wherever Zelda was demonstrated. Word-of-mouth had turned it into a quiet phenomenon.
He set the report down and let out a slow breath.
It wasn't jealousy that stirred in his chest — it was curiosity, mixed with a strange sense of déjà vu.
For weeks, Miyamoto had been quietly developing an idea with a small team: an open-world adventure game where players explored a vast land, solved puzzles, collected items that unlocked new areas, and ultimately confronted a great evil. He had even toyed with names — something mythical, something that evoked legend and heroism.
One name he had considered, almost playfully, was Zelda.
The coincidence was uncanny. The core concept — exploration, item-based progression, a mysterious kingdom in peril — was strikingly similar. People coming up with parallel ideas wasn't unheard of in this industry, especially when the creative well was bubbling with the same cultural influences: fantasy novels, adventure films, and the growing desire for deeper experiences beyond simple platforming.
Still… the name. The structure. The timing.
Miyamoto allowed himself a small, wry smile.
' Sometimes the universe has a strange sense of humor.'
He had been preparing to pitch a more fleshed-out version of the project to upper management. He had believed it could become something special — perhaps even define the next era of Nintendo software. A true flagship title to stand alongside Super Mario Bros.
However, Zelda came out which led to he had his team to go back to the drawing board. As for a lick of the project that was be impossible. Since his on team was very early in the planning stages and not a signal code had been written.
Miyamoto stood and walked to the window, looking out over the Kyoto skyline. The rejection had come swiftly when he mentioned the concept in a preliminary meeting with his boss just days after Zelda launched.
"Too similar," his superior had said flatly. "We cannot be seen as copycats. Nintendo does not follow. We lead."
Pride ran deep at the top. Yamauchi, the president, had built the company on bold, original ideas. Admitting that a small American studio of teenagers had beaten them to a similar vision — even if the execution differed — would sting. Nintendo's identity was built on being first, on being visionary.
Miyamoto understood the decision, even if he didn't fully agree with it. The industry was still small and gossip traveled fast. Perception mattered.
He returned to his desk and picked up a blank sheet of paper. For a long moment he simply stared at it.
Then, quietly, he began sketching.
Not for the rejected project.
Something new.
Something that would take the spirit of exploration he had been dreaming about and push it further — bigger world, deeper systems, perhaps even multiple overlapping stories.
If he couldn't make his own Zelda right now, he would make something better.
Miyamoto's pencil moved with calm determination across the page.
The console wars were heating up.
And Nintendo had no intention of falling behind.
---
Blue Star Interactive – First Floor
Late October 1985, Three Days After the Team Split
The studio hummed with a new rhythm.
Twenty people now moved with clear purpose across the open floor. Desks had been rearranged into loose clusters. The air carried the familiar mix of coffee, warm electronics, and the faint ozone smell of overheating PCs.
Alex stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, quietly observing. Stuart perched on the edge of his desk like a small black overseer.
Team A – Contra (5 members)
Mark and Duke's corner had become a whirlwind of motion. The arcade test rig blinked in the corner while the five-person squad — Mark, Duke, Marvin (combat programmer), Ronnie (sprite artist), and a new QA guy named Eric — leaned over one monitor.
"Left side still feels a little floaty," Mark muttered, tweaking the player physics.
Duke nodded, adjusting his glasses. "We need that satisfying weight when you land after a jump. Feels too arcadey right now."
Marvin grinned. "Give me twenty minutes. I'll make the jump arc feel like you're actually carrying ammo."
This team was the fastest-moving — pure action, tight deadlines, arcade DNA. They thrived on quick iteration and loud playtesting.
Team C – Street Fighter (7 members)
Michael's group occupied the far wall, a more intense and focused zone. Seven people crowded around two linked PCs and a small monitor rig. Michael was in the middle, controller in hand, testing special-move timing.
"Hadouken still inputs too slow on the arcade stick," he said, frowning. "We need tighter buffer windows."
Liam (sound) was already layering punch and kick samples on the C64. "I'll make the hits feel heavier — give each character its own voice."
This team was surgical. Precision, balance, and competitive feel were everything. They were already arguing good-naturedly about whether the special moves should use charge inputs or rapid-button sequences.
Team B – Final Fantasy (8 members)
Alex and Grayson's area felt different — quieter, more contemplative. Eight people worked around a large whiteboard covered in flowcharts, character job icons, and crystal diagrams. Grayson was deep in conversation with two programmers about memory management for the battle system.
Alex moved between the three clusters like a conductor, checking in without micromanaging.
He stopped first at Contra.
"Looking good," he told Mark and Duke. "Keep the co-op feeling chaotic but fair. Give the players a real challenge. Sega wants it to eat quarters, not frustrate players."
With a skilled player Contra could be in fact completed the entire game in under twenty minutes. Hence, why the original Konami version required a high level of skill in the players.
Mark gave a thumbs-up. "We're on it."
Next, he stepped over to Street Fighter.
Michael looked up, slightly stressed but excited. "We're getting there, but balancing six characters is harder than I thought."
Alex nodded. "Focus on feel first. Numbers later. Players forgive imbalance if the game feels fun."
Finally, he returned to his own team. Grayson slid a chair over.
"We're hitting the first real wall on the battle engine," Grayson said. "Turn order, damage formulas, and status effects are fighting for the same memory pool."
Alex studied the whiteboard, then picked up a marker. "Let's split the load. One routine handles turn order and another handles damage resolution. We'll compress the status flags — we don't need eight bits for poison when four will do."
Grayson raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound easy."
Alex smiled faintly. "It's not. But we have the advantage of now knowing what works and what doesn't."
He glanced around the studio, taking in the twenty faces now split into three focused teams. A few weeks ago they had been one chaotic group. Now they had direction, ownership, and momentum.
This was how a real studio grew.
Later, during a quick break, Alex gathered the three team leads — Mark, Michael, and Grayson — at the central table.
"Quick check-in," he said. "How are the new members settling in?"
Mark shrugged. "They're hungry. Been waiting weeks for real work. Marvin's already optimizing the enemy sprites better than I expected."
Michael nodded. "Same on my side. The fighting team is arguing about input timing like it's life or death — exactly the energy we need."
Grayson grinned. "Our group already sketching out the first dungeon layout. They're excited about the job system."
Alex leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Keep the communication open between teams. Contra and Street Fighter are faster projects — they'll finish first. Final Fantasy is the long play. We support each other, but each team owns its vision."
He paused, then added with a small smile, "And remember — even though we're no longer working as closely as we did back on Zelda were still working on the same goal. Becoming the biggest and best game studio in the industry. "
The three laughed.
Alex looked across the studio one more time. Twenty people. Three projects. One clear direction.
The future was no longer something he carried alone.
It was something they were all building together.
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