The moment Director Takahashi uttered those words, it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Just moments earlier, the development floor had been buzzing with excitement. Now, dead silence. Smiles froze on faces, and exhaustion and confusion crept back in like a cold tide.
Their proud creation—the code and pixel art born from countless sleepless nights—still flickered on the test monitor, but now it seemed to mock them in silence.
"Wh-why?" a young programmer stammered, his voice trembling with the threat of tears. "We worked so hard…."
"Yeah… Weren't we supposed to hit the shelves in the first half of the year?"
"Does this mean the last six months were for nothing?"
Voices rose—confusion, frustration, despair. Morale plummeted.
"Because Hollywood only started filming Hook this month," Director Takahashi finally revealed, "and it won't premiere until the end of the year—at the earliest, sometime after Thanksgiving. And by then, our own Metal Slug will be launching on the brand-new System32. If we release Hook on the old System16 at the same time… the comparison will be brutal."
Everyone understood immediately. They were experts; they knew exactly how enormous the graphical gap between two generations of arcade boards really was.
It would be a disaster—no other word for it.
Ono, the project lead, went pale as paper. His lips parted, but no sound came out. As the person in charge, the blow hit him hardest of all.
Seeing the drained and defeated faces before him, Director Takahashi could barely bring himself to continue—but he had to.
"However," he said, forcing strength into his voice, "your work will not go to waste. Executive Nakayama has already decided: this version will serve as the foundation for the MD (Mega Drive) port. Your six months of effort will still reach players—just in another form."
MD version?
A faint hint of relief washed through the team—but it couldn't erase the overwhelming disappointment.
For top-tier arcade developers, a console port was… an accessory.
Their battlefield—where their glory belonged—was the arcade floor.
Seeing morale on the verge of collapse, Takahashi pulled out the real trump card.
"As for the arcade version," he continued, raising his voice, "we will rebuild it from the current framework. Starting today—we re-develop Hook using our most powerful weapon: System32! I want a version that's more gorgeous, more explosive, more breathtaking than anything the System16 could have offered!"
"Start over?!"
"On System32?!"
The room erupted—not in excitement, but in exhausted disbelief.
They had just run a marathon, only to be told the finish line was being moved forward, and they had to sprint again. Enough to crush anyone's spirit.
It was then that Nakayama Takuya, who had been silent until now, stepped forward.
"I know it's hard," he said quietly, but every person heard him clearly. "Which is why Director Takahashi has arranged a special reward for all of you."
All eyes turned toward him.
"Once the project is completed, the entire development team will—on company funds—travel to the United States."
"..."
"To attend the global Hollywood premiere of Hook."
"And get a commemorative photo with Steven Spielberg."
The room was so quiet one could hear a heartbeat.
"Oh, and," Nakayama added, his lips curving nearly imperceptibly, "after that, you'll enjoy one week of fully paid vacation in California. All expenses covered by the company."
Silence lasted three seconds.
Then the room exploded.
"Hollywood!!"
"Long live Executive Nakayama!"
"Spielberg! I'm gonna take a picture with Spielberg!"
The development team, moments ago on the verge of collapse, resurrected instantly—eyes shining as if someone had injected rocket fuel into their veins.
Fatigue? Despair? Never heard of them.
Ono snapped out of his slump, spun around, put his hands on his hips, and roared at his suddenly hyperactive team:
"You heard him! What are you waiting for?! Go get the System32 dev manuals—NOW!"
After feeding the team an ocean-spanning super-incentive, Nakayama Takuya finally returned to his office. He collapsed into his leather chair and let out a long breath.
He hadn't noticed it in the frenzy earlier, but now that he was alone, a faint chill crept up his spine.
This Hook incident, at its core, was a near-catastrophic project-management failure.
A Hollywood trip could temporarily smooth things over, but it didn't solve the root problem.
The truth was painfully clear: as SEGA expanded into a global company, its internal communication systems were no longer adequate.
Back when all development teams were crammed into the main Tokyo building, a shouted question could solve most issues.
But now?
Now SEGA had a sprawling U.S. branch in Redwood City, multiple partnered studios in America, and cross-border projects that required constant coordination. Complexity had skyrocketed.
Not to mention the cursed time difference between Tokyo and California.
Morning here meant bedtime there.
A single urgent document could take a full day to exchange.
Efficiency? With fax machines and phone calls? Laughable.
He came from a future overflowing with information—where emails were instant, video meetings were trivial, and teams collaborated in shared online documents.
Compared to that, this primitive setup felt prehistoric.
No. This had to change.
If the internet revolution hadn't arrived yet, then he'd bring a miniature one to SEGA himself.
The idea solidified in his mind.
He called his assistant into the room.
"Kobayashi-kun, prepare a gift for me—something high-class. Yes… that bottle of Hibiki I've been saving, and a box of Toraya yokan."
"Understood. Is it for an important guest?"
Nakayama leaned back, eyes drifting toward the sky outside his window. A faint smile touched his lips.
"No. It's for my teacher. I'm taking a trip back to my alma mater."
The assistant blinked. "Y-your alma mater?"
"Yes," Nakayama said, standing and taking his car keys. "Tokyo Institute of Technology. Our company needs something new—something we don't yet have. And to find it, I need to speak with my old professor."
After dismissing the assistant, Nakayama picked up the elegantly wrapped gift box and headed to the parking lot.
He settled into his car.
The engine purred to life.
And he merged into the flow of Tokyo's afternoon traffic.
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