Initial Rollout
When this was mentioned, Tanaka hesitated slightly. "The progress is a bit slow. Although the electronics factories in Shenzhen have the technology, they're timid. They're afraid this is a trap we've set, and they don't dare take on this kind of 'changing Japanese to Chinese' work, fearing we'll sue them for copyright infringement."
"Electronics factories are afraid of taking responsibility? That shows they're clear-headed and understand the law, which is a good thing." Takuya exhaled a smoke ring into the microphone, watching the smoke dissipate in the San Francisco morning light. "If I encountered one of those hotheads, I really wouldn't dare use them."
Tanaka hesitated on the other end of the phone: "What about the localization—"
"Let Nine-Tattoo Dragon handle the negotiations. Don't use Sega's name. Just say you're one of our underworld brothers who wants to play it more clearly and are frustrated because you can't understand Japanese." Takuya flicked his cigarette ash into the ashtray. "Tell those factory managers that as long as they don't put Sega's logo on them and don't sell the cartridges back to Hong Kong, even if they change Sonic to Son Goku, we'll pretend we didn't see it."
"If they do this well, I wouldn't mind giving them the job of copying and localizing GAMEPOCKET in mainland China as well."
"Got it, they're trying to muddy the waters." Tanaka chuckled on the other end. "What about the supply? Nine-Tattoo Dragon has quite the appetite; they want another five thousand units and asked if they can pay a 30% deposit upfront, with the remainder settled at the end of the year."
"Buy on credit? Don't even think about it." Takuya's voice instantly turned cold, and he tapped his fingers twice on the bedside table. "Tell him that Sega isn't a charity or a loan shark. Cash on delivery. We're giving him the factory price; that's the most we can do. If he doesn't have the money to take the goods, let him figure it out himself, even if he has to pawn his underwear to scrape together the cash. Or he can take smaller batches."
Although we need to use the Nine-Tattoo Dragon to pave the way, we must firmly hold the initiative in our hands.
When dealing with triads, once you open the door to credit, countless bad debts will await you.
"Yes, I will definitely pass on the message." Tanaka replied readily.
"There's one more thing. You need to specifically tell Nine-Tattoo Dragon to set some rules for the shops down there." Takuya shifted his posture, his tone becoming somewhat playful. "Don't be too ruthless in business. Especially with those students in school uniforms, kick them out when their time is up. Don't let them linger inside all day."
"Huh? Turning away customers?" Tanaka thought he had misheard. "This—there's no reason to turn away business!"
"That's called slow and steady wins the race," Takuya chuckled. "Think about it, if all the kids in the city skipped school to play video games, didn't come home at night, and didn't do their homework, what would the parents do? They'd just grab brooms and storm into the store to smash the machines, they might even go to the government building and put up banners. At that point, forget about making money, this whole business could be banned."
In those days, the label of "electronic heroin" could be attached to someone at any time.
Takuya didn't want this unsprouted behavior from these people to cause the seed that hadn't even sprouted to be uprooted.
"Tell them to learn how to reap sustainable profits." You could even offer a "top student reward"—give them a perfect score on a test and they get ten minutes of free playtime. That way you make money and shut the parents up at the same time.
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by Tanaka's voice filled with admiration. "Executive Director, your brain—"
How could you come up with such a method? You haven't been to Mainland China much, how do you know so much about them?
"Stop being so cheeky," Takuya and scolded. "We've pretty much covered things up in Guangdong Province. Next, we'll head north and let him extend his reach to Shanghai."
"Shanghai?"
"Yes, Shanghai. It's the head of the Yangtze River. The people there are shrewd, discerning, and highly receptive to foreign gadgets." Takuya pictured the Bund from that era. "Moreover, the economy there is strong, and the working class has some spare cash. Kids these days play for five cents a game; ten years from now, they'll be the main force buying genuine consoles."
Those children who grow up in the alleyways will become the most powerful consumers in China in the future.
Imprinting Sega's Iogo in their minds now is more effective than spending tens of millions to play GG later.
"Remember, our goal isn't to sell a certain number of machines over there, but to generate interest. If even just one in ten people buys our legitimate product later, we'll have made a fortune."
At this point, Takuya paused, his tone becoming serious. "Last and most important point. Sega knew nothing about any of this. We were just dealing with inventory. Where these sold items went, who repaired them, and who rented them out—that has absolutely nothing to do with us. Even if someone investigates later, we'll insist on sticking to this."
"Understood." Tanaka's voice also turned serious. "All the documents are meticulously prepared, following the complete disposal process. I've also spoken to Nine-Tattoo Dragon; he knows the rules and understands that if this leaks out, it will cut off his own source of income."
"Also, tell him to stock up on some consumable parts like controllers in a couple of months. Playing that hard, who knows how many controllers he'll break."
"Alright, go ahead and get busy."
June 9, Los Angeles.
The end of Sunset Boulevard was fragmented by beams of searchlight.
The red carpet in front of the Cinerama Dome was almost melted by the flashes of light.
This is not just a movie premiere, but more like a coronation ceremony for Hollywood.
Nakayama Takuya followed Tom Kalinske out of the car.
The screams all around him were deafening, but he couldn't tell if they were directed at Lara Dunn who had just walked by, or simply an expression of the suffocating anticipation.
"My God," Tom tugged at his slightly tight tie, stepping aside to shield Takuya from a reporter who tried to shove Mike into their nostrils, "Our game releases are nowhere near as grand as this."
"You'll get used to it." Takuya straightened his cuffs, looking relaxed.
Bernard walked last; this Hollywood veteran was clearly more at ease in such situations, and he even had the leisure to nod and greet a few familiar producers.
As Sega's representatives, the three were seated in a relatively forward area, just a few rows away from Spielberg's small circle surrounded by celebrities.
The lights dimmed, and the cacophony of voices vanished instantly, as if cut off by a knife.
When the giant Brachiosaurus on the screen first raised its forelegs, stomped heavily on the soil, and gnawed on the leaves of the trees high above, Takuya heard gasps of breath rising and falling around him.
It wasn't the amazement at seeing special effects, but the instinctive tremor of seeing living things.
In this era, audiences are used to stop-motion animation and Godzilla in a suit.
The realism created by Industrial Light & Magic using millions of polygons directly broke through everyone's psychological defenses.
Tom Kalinske was so engrossed in the screen that he even forgot to put down the bucket of popcorn in his hand.