Yasuo Miyakawa pushed the tiered compensation proposal across the table.
"If the ratings fall below 0.5%, the $500,000 will cover everything. We won't take a single cent from any subsequent reruns."
"If the ratings are between 0.5% and 1.5%, we'll take 15% of the GG revenue."
"If the ratings exceed 2%, we'll take 30% of the GG revenue, plus an additional cut from merchandise sales."
The CN executives huddled together, crunching numbers on their calculators.
After a few minutes, they exchanged a knowing glance—the kind of smug satisfaction one gets from seeing a fool practically hand you money.
Cartoon Network's average ratings barely hovered around 0.8%, propped up by reruns of classic shows.
Could two completely unfamiliar Japanese robot anime, no matter how well the toys were made, possibly achieve a 2% rating in the culturally impenetrable American market?
It was utterly fantastical.
In their eyes, these Japanese were clearly desperate to break into the American market, so desperate they'd sign a deal that was practically a charity act.
"Since you insist, we have no objections," the content director said, barely suppressing a smile as he quickly signed the contract, fearing they might change their minds. "But let me be clear: we can only schedule you for the 4:30 PM slot—that's when most kids have just gotten out of school and aren't home yet."
"No problem," Yasuo Miyakawa agreed readily.
Watching the Americans gleefully pocket the contract as if they'd just stumbled upon a treasure, Takuya Nakayama stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the bustling streets of Atlanta while gently twirling his coffee cup.
These Americans clearly didn't understand the business model where "free is the most expensive."
The moment that little hero with the Dragon-Slaying Sword appeared, the moment the line "Opportunity has arrived!" was uttered, American kids glued to their TVs would eventually beg their parents to empty their wallets at toy stores.
American kids would definitely rush home after school.
When the ratings climb and the phone lines are flooded with requests to change the broadcast time, that will be our moment to shine.
By then, the pitiful licensing fee will probably be less than a fraction of what Bandai makes from merchandise sales in the United States.
"Let's go, President Miyakawa," Takuya Nakayama said, setting down his cup with a cheerful demeanor. "We're off to enjoy a Michelin three-star meal courtesy of Mr. Turner. This meal was bought with the promise of tens of millions in future profits, so we'd better eat our fill."
Yasuo Miyakawa looked at the thin contract in his hand. Though a knot of anxiety still tightened in his stomach, seeing Takuya's confident back gave him an inexplicable surge of confidence.
He straightened his suit and hurried after him.
"Managing Director," Yasuo said, "if Turner knew how much this show would eventually earn, do you think he'd regret treating us to this meal?"
"Probably. But that's Bandai's problem to worry about. After all, they're the ones who have to pay the GG fee. Please pass on the details of this collaboration to President Yamashina, Managing Director. I'm sure he'd be pleased to have another golden channel for selling toys in the United States."
Yasuo Miyakawa, in high spirits, smiled and said, "Managing Director Nakayama, are you afraid President Yamashina will be upset if you contact me but not him?"
Takuya Nakayama shook his head. "Of course not. I'm just the intermediary. The actual deal is Sunrise's business, so they need to inform the partner directly."
Back at the hotel, Takuya Nakayama didn't forget to make a call across the Pacific.
It was just after the morning rush hour in Tokyo. Nakagawa Jun had likely just finished reviewing the previous night's ratings report, making him particularly irritable at this time of day.
When the call connected, Takuya skipped the pleasantries and briefly relayed Ted Turner's request.
A five-second silence followed on the other end, broken only by the crackling of the line.
"You mean... that CNN's Turner wants to buy the rights to our quiz show?" Nakagawa Jun's voice trembled slightly, clearly taken aback by the news.
After all, Japanese TV stations had always been the ones waving money to buy rights from Hollywood and Europe. The idea of an American media mogul coming to Japan to acquire a variety show format was unthinkable.
This was unprecedented.
If this news got out, TV Tokyo's standing among the Big Five commercial broadcasters would soar. In future negotiations with Dentsu over GG fees, they'd be able to slam the table with twice the force.
"Exactly, Father. I've already made the introduction. Just tell the copyright department not to miss this opportunity—free money is free money." Takuya Nakayama loosened his tie, his tone casual. "Mr. Turner is definitely willing to pay up to expand his empire."
"This was your original proposal to the station, you know." Nakagawa Jun snapped back to attention, his voice brimming with barely concealed excitement. He even addressed his son-in-law more warmly. "Technically, you deserve a share of these copyright fees. It's not just about the money; it's about the station's prestige. Without you, there would be no show, and no benefit for TV Tokyo."
"We're family, after all," Takuya said with a smile. "Besides, a successful station would make Eri very happy."
Nakagawa Jun let out a playful curse over the phone, his mood clearly soaring.
This son-in-law, who had clearly brought home a monumental political achievement, insisted on playing it down as if it were just a casual favor.
Nakagawa Jun, having spent his entire career in television, saw through it all. This wasn't luck; it was clearly Takuya Nakayama's meticulously laid plan.
Selling Japanese variety shows to Americans was a brilliant move, and it even reflected well on Nakagawa Jun as the station manager.
"Alright, go attend to your important business. When you return to Tokyo, I'll save you that twenty-year-old whiskey at home. We'll have a drink together, father and son."
"Then I thank you in advance, Father."
After hanging up, Takuya collapsed onto the soft bed and let out a long sigh.
He'd secured the anime deal, partnered with Turner, and even helped his father-in-law boost his reputation, solidifying his own standing at TV Tokyo.
This trip to America had far exceeded expectations.
While Yasuo Miyakawa was still in Atlanta haggling with CN executives over a few percentage points of the GG fee, Takuya Nakayama was already boarding the early flight back to San Francisco.
As soon as he returned to Sega of America Headquarters in Redwood City, he ran into Mark Cerny by the hallway vending machine.
The architect, once hailed as a genius, was now slumped against the wall in a state of disarray. He clutched a chilled can of Dr Pepper, and dark circles hung heavily under his eyes, making him look like he'd just been abducted and returned by aliens.
"Well, well, if it isn't our hero," Takuya Nakayama said with a grin as he approached, inserting coins into the vending machine to buy a can of coffee. "I thought you'd be in Tokyo enjoying the celebratory kaiseki dinner."
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