The next day, the hyper-efficient Tom Kalinske pulled along Bernard, the company's marketing director in charge of Hollywood affairs, and the three of them flew straight to Los Angeles.
From Redwood City to Hollywood was only about an hour's flight.
But for Kalinske, that hour felt like an eternity.
He spent the whole time rubbing his hands in excitement, muttering to himself, as if he could already see SEGA consoles appearing on every giant screen in every theater across America.
Bernard, on the other hand, was a bit nervous. Although he often dealt with Hollywood, most of the time it was just routine game-adaptation licensing. A line-up like today—personally led by the North American president and a senior executive from headquarters—was a first.
Especially Headquarters Executive Director Nakayama Takuya. Young as he was, he still gave Bernard a mysterious, unfathomable feeling.
That afternoon, the group drove to the 20th Century Fox lot.
In the producer's office, a middle-aged man greeted them—a man with brown slicked-back hair, glasses, looking a bit tired but with sharp eyes.
"John Hughes," he introduced himself, offering a handshake. "Good thing you called yesterday. If you were a day later, I'd already be in Chicago—my new film is about to start shooting."
John Hughes—Hollywood's golden screenwriter, director, and producer, especially known for his teen-focused comedy films.
After brief pleasantries, Hughes began explaining his next project.
"The script is called Home Alone," he said quickly. "It's about an eight-year-old boy, Kevin, who's accidentally left behind at home by his family and ends up taking on two bumbling burglars."
He spoke fast—clearly he knew the story inside out.
The moment he finished, Kalinske couldn't wait to jump in.
"John, we'd like to place a SEGA Mega Drive in Kevin's house. And Kevin can carry our GamePocket handheld with him."
Hughes raised an eyebrow. That sounded like someone here to deliver money.
"For that," Kalinske said, holding up three fingers and speaking loudly, "SEGA is willing to pay a placement fee of 300,000 dollars."
The office fell silent for a moment.
For a simple scene prop, this was already extremely generous.
Hughes was just about to nod when Kalinske dropped the real bombshell.
"If Kevin has a scene where he plays the Mega Drive while he's alone—doesn't need to be long, just a few seconds—SEGA will pay one million dollars."
"And additionally, if during his attempts to evade the burglars, he can pull out the GamePocket and play it briefly—say, while hiding in a closet—SEGA will pay another one million dollars."
The fatigue vanished from Hughes's face instantly. He stared at Kalinske as if looking at a tycoon freshly emerged from an oil field in the Middle East.
He knew exactly how tight the situation was for this film.
Because of budget overruns, the original investor, Warner Bros., had backed out. It took great effort for 20th Century Fox to take over the project. And there were still tons of mechanical traps and effects to shoot—every dollar had to be stretched.
Now SEGA was delivering a massive bundle of cash right when he needed it most.
"Deal!" Hughes slapped the table decisively. "Don't worry—I'll give you plenty of screen time, smooth and natural. No awkward product placement!"
"As for the contract, once I'm back from Chicago, we'll bring in legal and discuss it properly."
After leaving a very cheerful John Hughes, the three of them headed immediately to Universal Pictures.
There, they met a man wearing a baseball cap and black-rimmed glasses, sporting a full beard.
Steven Spielberg.
"Bernard," Spielberg smiled, clearly familiar with the marketing director. He patted Bernard's shoulder, then looked at Kalinske and Takuya. "For the Hook game adaptation, SEGA's capability is more than sufficient—you coming was enough. Why bring the president and this gentleman as well?"
Bernard quickly introduced them.
"Mr. Spielberg, this is our North American President Tom Kalinske, and this is Mr. Nakayama Takuya, Operations Executive from headquarters."
"Nice to meet you, Steven." Takuya smiled and extended his hand.
After shaking hands, Kalinske got straight to the point.
"Steven, we of course want Hook. But the reason we came today is because we want the game adaptation rights to another project."
Spielberg looked puzzled.
"Another project? I don't have any new ones in development right now."
Takuya looked at him and spoke gently:
"Mr. Michael Crichton—the novel that hasn't been published yet."
Spielberg's expression froze.
He snapped his gaze toward Takuya, stunned.
That dinosaur novel—he had only just gotten his hands on the manuscript through private channels and was preparing to meet with Michael Crichton to discuss film rights.
This matter was top-tier confidential in Hollywood.
How on earth did this Japanese man know?
"How did you—"
"We have our own sources," Takuya replied calmly, without further explanation. "We believe that story has limitless potential. Not just as a film—its game adaptation would also be a groundbreaking work."
Spielberg fell silent, studying the young man before him.
He had met many executives from game companies, and most were pure businessmen, reeking of money.
But this Nakayama Takuya carried something different—a familiar aura.
The sensitivity and foresight of a creator.
"That depends on Michael's approval," Spielberg finally said, his tone softening.
"Of course," Takuya nodded. "But I believe no one could adapt it better than SEGA. Bernard, show Mr. Spielberg the list of games I've worked on."
As Bernard read out the titles—Fatal Fury, Pokémon, Golden Sun, DDR—and explained that Takuya was the creative lead behind all of them, Spielberg's eyes widened more and more.
He had played many of those games—and even been addicted to some.
He had always assumed such masterpieces came from an experienced elite team.
He never imagined the core figure behind them was this young man in his twenties standing before him.
"My God…" Spielberg looked at Takuya with completely changed eyes.
The scrutiny was gone—replaced by admiration, even a hint of respect.
"Mr. Nakayama, you are a true master of game creation. It's an honor to meet you."
"Likewise, Mr. Spielberg," Takuya replied with a smile. "I believe that in the future, the sparks between games and films will far exceed what we can imagine today."
"I don't doubt it," Spielberg said solemnly.
He even took the initiative to offer help—he would personally arrange a meeting between Takuya and Michael Crichton.
In a single afternoon, they secured two Hollywood giants and three major projects.
On the ride back, Kalinske was so excited he was flailing his limbs wildly, practically ready to tear the roof off the car.
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