Universal Pictures' public relations budget had even secured coverage from mainstream media outlets like the *Los Angeles Times*.
Their entertainment section wrote with a tone of curiosity and anticipation: "An intriguing phenomenon has emerged: a film that hasn't even released a single trailer has already garnered astonishing attention through a video game. Young people are discussing the protagonist's gunfighting skills, mimicking moves that don't even exist in the game yet. Is this a bold gamble by Sega and Universal, or a glimpse into the future of Hollywood marketing? The summer box office will tell."
Even more interesting was the polarization of discussions on film forums.
"Liam Neeson? The guy from *Darkman*? He's doing an action movie? Has Universal lost its mind?"
"Did you see the poster? That look in his eyes is insane. The tagline is 'Don't Mess With Him.' I'll bet five bucks this guy goes on a killing spree in the movie."
"I just came from the game forum. They're saying the game's protagonist can use his pistol as a battering ram and even jump off enemies' bodies. Is that for real? If the movie even captures one-tenth of that, I'll buy three tickets!"
This unique interaction between gamers and movie fans kept the topic's popularity soaring.
The game's cool features became the fans' greatest expectations for the film, while Liam Neeson's weathered, menacing image on the movie poster sparked endless speculation among players about the character's backstory.
In July, the California sun blistered the docks of the Port of San Francisco.
Row after row of containers were steadily lifted from cargo ships by massive cranes and gently placed onto trailers.
Within each box slumbered the black beasts poised to sweep across North America.
Twenty-five thousand *Extreme Pursuit* arcade cabinets, like a silent army, had landed.
This time, the preparation was far more relaxed than the frantic rush to corner the Super Nintendo Entertainment System market the previous winter.
Without the pressure of multiple games being rushed to completion, everything proceeded with orderly precision.
The atmosphere at Sega North America Headquarters was so relaxed, it felt like everyone was on vacation.
After the CES Exhibition, those dozens of meritorious demo units were immediately moved to the headquarters' showroom, becoming sacred relics for all channel partners and arcade owners to "pilgrimage."
The result was obvious.
"Tom, the statistics for the first batch of orders are in," Bernard Stora said, walking into Kalinski's office and placing a report on the desk, his face radiating a relaxed confidence that everything was under control.
Kalinski didn't even bother to look. He was gazing out the window, admiring the sprawling empire he had built.
"Tell me something I don't already know, Bernie."
"Alright, here's something you didn't know." Stora cleared his throat and announced with dramatic emphasis, "For the initial production run of twenty-five thousand units, we received orders for twenty-two thousand. But just now, Fat Joe from Chicago—the same guy who criticized our Captain Hook poster last year—called to say that ordering only ten units was the stupidest decision he's ever made. He asked if we could add twenty more to his order."
Kalinski finally turned around, a huge grin spreading across his face.
"How did you respond to him?"
"I told him, 'If you want more, sure, but get in line. There are already hundreds of idiots ahead of you just as foolish as you are.'"
The office erupted in hearty laughter.
A similar phone call rang out in Universal Pictures' distribution department, though this time it was from the wealthy and influential theater managers.
"Listen, I know the contract says the third week of July," the regional manager from AMC Theatres said urgently, his voice strained, "but it's already the second week! The most prominent spot in my ticket hall is already cleared, and my staff ask me eight times a day when those new gaming machines are arriving!"
"Very soon, sir. Our logistics team is working at full speed."
"Then tell them to speed up!" The manager's voice raised. "Do you know how much more wear and tear that carpet took during those two months of *Captain Hook* compared to the rest of the lobby? I want *Extreme Pursuit* machines in there now! The kids are on vacation, my friend, and their pockets are stuffed with pocket money!"
This time, the theater managers didn't grumble; they were eagerly anticipating the arrival.
The success of *Captain Hook* a few months earlier had thoroughly convinced them that this wasn't just a game console—it was a money-making machine.
The third week of July saw all the paperwork finalized.
Crate after crate, loaded with game boards, were opened, and core components were carefully installed into the silent black frames.
As the final screw was tightened, the screens lit up, the familiar "SEGA" logo flashing briefly.
Then, Liam Neeson's weathered face appeared on the standby screen, his cold gaze seeming to scrutinize those about to face him.
Trucks emblazoned with the Sega logo rolled out from warehouses in major cities, racing to arcades and theaters that had been craving the new machines.
At Fat Joe's arcade, he personally directed workers to place ten brand-new *Extreme Pursuit* cabinets in the most prominent positions, even shoving several still-popular action games into the corners.
He gazed at these metallic behemoths, not seeing game consoles, but volcanoes about to erupt with gold coins.
The storm had fully gathered.
All it needed was the command to "release the movie," and it would instantly sweep across all of North America.
On the evening of July 16th, at the TCL Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, the red carpet was flanked by a sea of camera flashes, illuminating the night sky as bright as day.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke, and each person walking the carpet seemed welded to the world's center by the spotlight.
"My God, Mark! It's Rocky! And next to him is John McClane!"
Dave, the tallest African-American programmer on the team, gripped Mark Cerny's arm with such force it felt like his bones might snap.
The "Rocky" and "John McClane" Dave referred to were none other than Sylvester Stallone and Bruce Willis. The two action legends were surrounded by a swarm of reporters, fielding a barrage of questions.
Mark Cerny patted Dave's hand, signaling him to calm down.
Truth be told, Mark himself wasn't much calmer, his palms slightly sweaty.
He glanced at his development team colleagues. These geniuses who ruled the realms of code and pixels now resembled country bumpkins who had stumbled into the Garden of Eden. Even their polished suits couldn't mask the nervous excitement in their eyes.
Following Sega's tradition, the core members of the game development team were invited to attend the premiere and enjoy a week-long vacation.
This was both an honor and a silent declaration.
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