"Spare me," Mark Cerny said, tilting his head back and taking a large gulp of soda. He let out a loud burp. "All I want now is the California sunshine and greasy burgers. Staring at that mountain of tedious code for the R3000S all day has my stomach craving high-calorie comfort food."
"Sounds like the project went well?"
When work was mentioned, Mark Cerny's previously unfocused eyes lit up.
He pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket and shook it. "I fulfilled my mission. The Jupiter prototype testing was flawless. Since we reused the Model 2's architecture, we adapted the development tools along the way.
For third-party developers, creating games for Jupiter will be much easier from now on."
This was exactly what Takuya Nakayama wanted to hear.
The Saturn's biggest failure had been its dual-CPU architecture, which had led to development hell and driven countless programmers to the brink.
Now, with this user-friendly development environment, it was as if Sega had already built a moat around the company.
"However—" Mark Cerny changed tack, crushing the soda can in his hand. "This kind of custom chip work is a one-and-done deal. To squeeze out that extra bit of graphics performance, we had to grind away at the instruction set level. It's just too inefficient and costly."
Takuya Nakayama leaned against the vending machine, his fingertips tapping lightly on the can. "You feel it too?"
"Hard not to," Mark Cerny sighed. "There's been a lot of movement in the PC market lately. Some manufacturers are starting to develop dedicated 3D graphics accelerator cards. They're still primitive now, but that general-purpose approach is the right way to go. With hardware standardization on the horizon, our kind of painstaking, thankless custom development will be obsolete sooner rather than later."
Truly a top-tier tech genius, Takuya thought, with an uncanny sense for trends.
Takuya accurately tossed the empty can into the trash bin, then brushed the dust off his hands. "Since you feel the same way, this makes things easier. When you're back from vacation, I'll have a sum of money that needs to be spent."
"Spent?" Mark Cerny raised an eyebrow.
"Check out those small graphics accelerator card companies in California," Takuya Nakayama said, lowering his voice as if plotting something big. "The rise of PC gaming is inevitable. Many PC games are designed with keyboard and mouse controls in mind—like the one Blizzard, which I've invested in, is developing now. Console manufacturers can't reach that market, but we can enter through a different route. Find a promising one, and the Sega Investment Department will invest based on your recommendation."
Mark Cerny's interest was piqued. "Blizzard? I should drop by sometime. As for graphics card companies, do you have any targets? There are countless of them now, most just trying to scam venture capital."
"Consider keeping an eye on a company called NVIDIA."
"NVIDIA?" Mark Cerny searched his mental database and shook his head in confusion. "Never heard of them. New?"
"They were founded last year. The founder is a Chinese man named Jensen Huang." A knowing smile played on Takuya Nakayama's lips. "I hear they like to discuss business at Denny's. Their burgers should be right up your alley."
At the time, NVIDIA was just a year-old seedling. Who could have imagined that this small company, barely known by anyone, would one day become a trillion-dollar AI empire? Investing in them now, even just a small stake, would have yielded returns that would have allowed Sega to lie back and count their money.
"Alright, since you've called me out, I'll go meet these guys who started their company in a fast-food joint," Mark Cerny said, stretching lazily. His joints popped like firecrackers. "But I'll need to sleep for three days and nights first. Right now, everyone looks like a line of buggy code to me."
Watching Mark Cerny's wobbly figure depart, Takuya Nakayama headed for the top-floor president's office.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds of Redwood City, cutting the room into strips of light that fell across Tom Kalinske's spacious desk.
When Takuya Nakayama pushed the door open, the head of Sega of America was staring blankly at his calendar, a red pen hovering over a circled date.
"Counting down the days?" Takuya Nakayama asked, pulling up a chair and casually picking a cigar from the box on the desk. He sniffed it before placing it on the desk. "If you're worried about the hearing, save that cigar for the celebration."
Tom rubbed his temples, tossing the pen aside. "Still over a week to go. The ESRB is established, and public opinion has shifted, but you know those Washington types—they won't let go until they've sunk their teeth into something. After all, Mortal Kombat is the center of this whole storm."
"Precisely because it's the center, we're safe," Takuya Nakayama said, twirling an unlit cigar between his fingers. His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Whether it's the ESRB's rating system or that recall program for the 'mis-sold' copies, we've built every possible defensive fortification. If they still find something to criticize after all that, everyone might as well quit making games and join a church choir instead."
The mention of the "recall program" made Tom chuckle.
It was undoubtedly Takuya's stroke of genius in this whole affair. Just before the ESRB's formation, Sega of America suddenly announced that, in response to the new rating system, they would buy back Mortal Kombat cartridges "mis-sold" to minors at full price, offering a free copy of the all-ages Kirby as compensation.
This move completely flummoxed the senators preparing to attack at the hearing.
Originally, the plan was to condemn Sega for being greedy and corrupting young people. Instead, they proactively implemented a rating system and even funded their own buyback program out of their own pockets.
In reality, very few kids actually came to return their games—who would give up a hard-won M-rated title?—but the gesture was enough.
The media erupted in praise, calling Sega a "truly socially responsible company."
In contrast, Nintendo, still stubbornly clinging to its "we don't make violent games" stance and feigning ignorance, found itself in an awkward position.
"The Finance Department is wincing at the buyback budget, but the PR department is practically building a shrine to you," Tom said, leaning back in his chair, clearly relaxed. "This million-dollar gamble was a better investment than a Super Bowl ad."
"Since the outcome was predictable, there's no need for me to stick around and watch the show," Takuya Nakayama said, rising to his feet and smoothing the hem of his suit jacket. "My plane ticket is booked. I'm heading back to Tokyo tonight."
Tom looked surprised. "So soon? I thought you'd want to see Senator Lieberman squirm in person."
"Imagining that scene is enough. No need to waste time," Takuya waved dismissively.
"Wait, Takuya."
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