The Sonic 3D box, with its dynamic, speed-themed artwork, sat beside the Paper Pokémon Adventure box, its quirky art style a welcome contrast to the hardcore games.
These four launch titles were like four money-devouring beasts, their gaping mouths ready to swallow every last yen from players' pockets.
This happy dilemma was ultimately resolved in a pragmatic way.
"Enough agonizing," the buzz-cut guy said through gritted teeth. "I'll buy Gundam and Sonic. You get The King of Fighters and Pokémon. We'll go to my place this week and yours next. Anyone who scratches their disc gets cut off."
"Deal."
Even the closest of friends had to settle accounts at moments like this.
After all, no one's wallet was made of money that grew on trees. But Sega's launch lineup was clearly designed to drain wallets dry—and to do it so willingly that you might even find yourself shouting, "This is so good!"
The train from Akihabara to the suburbs was packed with players clutching their newly purchased Jupiter consoles and rushing home.
Clutching their black shopping bags, they held them not like they were protecting a game console, but like they were cradling a newborn son.
After a month of Sega GG bombardment, their minds were filled with images of next-gen games. On this weekend, if they couldn't play immediately, the earliest train to Akihabara to buy the Jupiter would have been pointless.
Back home, they unboxed it, plugged it in.
A crackle of static hissed as the AV cable connected to the TV, and the blue SEGA logo popped onto the screen.
Though the box art for The King of Fighters II and Gundam Battle Operation was incredibly tempting, most players opened their first disc to either Sonic 3D or Paper Pokémon Adventure.
The reason was simple: the joysticks for The King of Fighters II in the arcades had been worn down to the point of sparking. No one was desperate for those two combos.
They had spent tens of thousands of yen on this black beast, all for that exclusive, home-grown "freshness."
As the optical disc drive whirred softly to a stop, the blue SEGA logo exploded into a blur of afterimages on the screen.
"Holy shit—"
In a cramped Tokyo apartment, Kenjiro Harada, who had just gotten his hands warm on the controller, couldn't help but curse.
The blue hedgehog on the screen was no longer running sideways.
It was charging straight into the depths of the screen.
The sheer sense of depth and the visual impact were enough to blow the top of one's head off.
The waterfall in the background receded, the grass beneath their feet blurred into streaks, and when Sonic curled into a ball and soared through a 360-degree loop, Sato instinctively tilted his head along with the screen, terrified the hedgehog would fly out of the TV and smash into his face.
This wasn't just playing a game; it was like cramming a roller coaster into a CRT.
No lag, no dropped frames.
Kenjiro Harada had read in game interviews before the Jupiter's release that many of the technical challenges in Sonic 3D had been solved by a genius named Mark Cerny, who was also heavily involved in the Jupiter's development.
Now, it seemed that American named Mark Cerny really had something. He had managed to squeeze every bit of performance out of the machine, at least in Sato's eyes, it was utterly stunning.
In the next room, another group of players was staring blankly at Paper Pokémon Adventure.
They had initially assumed it was a children's game with a simple art style, only to realize how naive they had been once they started playing.
The team led by Eiji Ogasawara had come up with some absurdly creative ideas.
When Pikachu turned sideways and slipped through wall cracks like a real piece of paper, or when the game used origami principles to "fold" a broken bridge back together so they could cross it, this dimension-bending design sense left even adult players sitting in front of the TV feeling their brains couldn't keep up.
The combat impact was surprisingly solid.
When Thunderbolt was unleashed, the paper enemies on screen would char and curl at the edges, and the controller's perfectly timed vibrations made the satisfaction feel no less intense than in a fighting game.
This was no mere graphical upgrade.
Only now did the players, gripping their controllers, truly understand the overused term "Next-Gen" that Takuya Nakayama had been talking about.
It wasn't about stacking polygons or listing specs.
It was about how, when you picked up the controller and started playing, that world truly became three-dimensional.
39,800 yen?
As players gazed at the screen, a world of possibilities unfolding before them, they patted their empty wallets, a single thought echoing in their minds:
This money was worth every damn cent.
The fax machine at Sega Headquarters had been running continuously for twenty-four hours, its whirring and clattering a jarring sound in the strategic planning room in the dead of night.
Hideki Sato clutched a roll of thermal paper, his knuckles white from the force. Without knocking, he burst into Takuya Nakayama's office, his demeanor less like someone bearing good news and more like an alarmist reporting a fire.
"This is insane," Sato slammed the still-curling paper onto the mahogany desk. His Adam's apple bobbed. "We've all gone insane."
Takuya Nakayama was watering his nearly dead cactus, not even looking up. "North American data?"
"First-day sales in North America: 310,000 units."
A few drops of water spilled from the watering can.
Nakayama set the can down and finally turned to face Sato.
Even though he had been confident in the $299 killer move, this figure still slightly exceeded his expectations.
In those days, breaking 300,000 units in a single day in one region meant the cash registers at Walmart and Best Buy had been ringing off the hook.
"What about Japan?"
"120,000," Sato said, grabbing a glass of cold water from the table and taking a large gulp. "That's even with the logistics issues we had in Kansai; otherwise, we could have pushed to 130,000. Europe is a bit slower to warm up—Britain and France combined barely broke 50,000."
"480,000," Takuya Nakayama said, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as he quickly calculated the total. "In one day."
This wasn't just a number; it was cash flow, market share, and a devastating blow to Sony's core.
"But Managing Director, we have a problem," Hideki Sato said, his flushed face still lingering but his brow furrowing. "While our inventory is ample, we can't sustain this pace. The initial global stock plus units in transit total 2 million units. We've burned through a quarter of that in a single day. With fewer than 1.5 million units left in the warehouses, at this rate, we won't make it to Christmas Day."
North America, in particular, was showing a predatory buying power that defied logic.
Kalinski had been complaining on the phone earlier about having too much stock and no place to store it. Now, he was probably already considering camping out at the Mexican factory gates to pressure them for more.
"This isn't a problem; it's an adrenaline shot for the contract manufacturers," Takuya Nakayama said, walking around his desk to glance at the data. A slight smirk played on his lips. "Notify Mexico and the Pearl River Delta to keep the production lines running. Tell the workers they'll get triple overtime pay, paid daily in cash. As soon as units roll off the assembly line, air-freight them out immediately."
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