Don't Give Up

Since the other party is being so cooperative, Toho, as a veteran in the Japan film industry, can't appear petty.

"Toho appreciates your sincerity." Sato's face broke into a smile, his scrutinizing gaze vanishing, replaced by a warm feeling of "sharing wealth together." "Since we share the same goal, we can discuss our cooperation within the cinema further."

He turned to his subordinate in charge of theater management. "Clear out the prime spots in the lobbies of those leading theaters in Hibiya, Shinjuku, and Shibuya that were originally reserved for popcorn and beverage promotions."

The subordinate was taken aback. "Minister, those areas are—"

"Make room for them." Sato emphasized, tapping his finger on the table. "Allocate space for Sega to use as a demo area, and for Bandai to use as model display cases. Place them along the main route to the ticket gate so that visitors can see them while queuing."

A hint of joy flashed in the eyes of Sega's representative; this was precisely the resource that Executive Director Nakayama had repeatedly urged them to secure.

"Also," Sato thought for a moment, then added, "that lightbox next to the ticket window, used for putting up posters, can also be shared with you in half. Since it's Dinosaur Storm," let's make the storm even fiercer."

This is the concrete manifestation of top-level business mutual flattery.

Sega and Bandai tens of millions of Japanese yen in GG fees to acquire the most targeted offline channels for traffic in all of Japan.

Without spending a single penny, Toho gained two powerful marketing allies.

On the evening of July 12th.

Nakayama Takuya had already put Kazuki to sleep.

He stood in front of the French windows in the study. He had just looked at the preparation schedule for the premiere filming at the cinema on the computer next to him, and was now shutting down the computer.

The progress is in line with expectations.

But this relaxed mood didn't last until 10 p. m.

The television in the living room was playing Variety show when suddenly the screen flickered, and NHK's signature emergency news alert pierced the air.

"Urgent Report. A strong earthquake struck Minami-Nishio, Hokkaido at approximately 10:17 PM tonight."

Eri, who had been looking at a fashion magazine, stopped abruptly.

Both of them stared at the screen, which was shaking violently, before it switched to Okushiri Island.

It was a hellish sight—flames soared into the sky over the dark sea, and fishing boats were thrown onto rooftops amidst the ruins left by the tsunami.

"Rui's level 7.8." Both of them gasped.

Takuya's face darkened. As a transmigrator, he had a vague impression of the disaster, but the impact of seeing the horrific real-time footage was still immense.

A wildfire in the Aonae District of Okushiri Island is being carried away by the sea breeze and is engulfing the Homeworld of survivors.

"Turn the TV volume up." Takuya sat up straight on the sofa.

On the screen, the host was speaking rapidly, "Part of Okushiri Island has experienced land subsidence, and the tsunami warning could not be delivered in time—"

For the next few days, the entire Japan archipelago was shrouded in a gloomy, low-pressure atmosphere.

Television was no longer filled with comedians' slapstick humor; instead, it was filled with constant aftershock reports and lists of the victims.

The tsunami warning system's lag became a target of criticism, with the Japan Meteorological Agency being severely reprimanded. However, it was precisely this painful lesson that forced the country to begin rethinking its outdated disaster prevention system.

At school, the children who were originally discussing going to the cinema to see dinosaurs were instead organized by their teachers to practice crawling under tables again and again.

The neighborhood aunties have stopped gossiping and are now busy checking their first-aid kits for expired canned goods.

"You have to save your own life"—this seemingly cruel phrase has become the headline on the front page of newspapers these past few days.

On Wednesday evening, Nakayama Takuya went to a convenience store near his home to buy cigarettes.

--

The atmosphere in the store was somewhat somber, with the cashier mechanically scanning barcodes.

Just then, a song came on over the loudspeaker in the store.

As soon as the prelude began, the previously lifeless air seemed to come alive.

"Negative けないで(Don't admit defeat)/もうし(Only a little bit)/Last までりけて(Please keep running to the end)----"

Sakai Izumi's clear and powerful voice pierced through the noisy buzzing of the convenience store's refrigerated display cases.

A middle-aged office worker at the front of the line, who had been staring blankly at the newspaper about earthquake casualties, trembled slightly upon hearing these lyrics.

He took a deep breath, stuffed the newspaper into his briefcase, and straightened his back.

Nakayama Takuya watched this scene with a mix of emotions.

This song, originally intended to cheer on test takers, became popular during the economic downturn following the bursting of the bubble, and now, in this devastated summer, it has been given a new meaning.

It was like an invisible hand, catching the nation's plummeting emotions.

ZARD's song is likely to become a "national anthem" in the future.

"That'll be three hundred and twenty Japanese yen in total," the cashier's voice came through.

Nakayama Takuya paid, opened the cigarette pack, and walked to the smoking area outside the store.

Across the street, in the window of an electronics store, the TV wall that was originally playing the trailer for Jurassic Park was now uniformly broadcasting an NHK special program—a video of the Self-Defense Forces rescuing a survivor from the ruins of Okushiri Island.

The background music was also this song, "Don't Give Up".

Nakayama Takuya lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

The disaster will pass, and life must go on.

The cigarette butt was extinguished forcefully and slowly in the ashtray.

Nakayama Takuya stared at the children in the TV window, who were hugging cushions and crawling under their desks, a thought suddenly popped into his head.

It's not about making money, but about something more practical—muscle memory.

For gamers, as soon as a prompt appears on the screen, their fingers can press the button before their brains can even process it.

What if we applied this reflex mechanism to disaster escape?

Current disaster prevention drills are too boring, and children's drills easily turn into a mere formality with laughter and jokes.

However, if it were made into a game, such as "Fire Escape Master" or "Earthquake Survival Guide," using Sega's most proficient QTE (Quick Response Event) system, it could simulate furniture collapsing due to aftershocks, finding cover, and even simple first aid bandaging.

The game aims to instill in players the fundamental knowledge and procedures of "turning off the gas," "pulling the power switch," "opening the door," and "protecting their head" during the tense countdown.

Takuya pulled out his notebook from his suit's inner pocket and, using the dim light of the convenience store sign, quickly scribbled down a few lines: "Disaster Prevention Simulation Project," "Public Welfare Nature," "Dual Platforms: Handheld and Home Consoles."

He paused for a moment, drew a circle next to it, wrote down the numbers "1995", and then heavily crossed it out.

Two years later, the Great Hanshin Earthquake, powerful enough to destroy Kobe, will turn the entire Kansai into a living hell.