Wolverine's claws clashed with Ryu's Hadoken. Cyclops's optic blasts collided with Chun-Li's Hyakuretsu Kyaku.
The flashy combos and full-screen super moves made the fighting game fans in the audience whistle in awe.
The release schedule was incredibly dense.
Capcom's production capacity in the arcade sector was staggering.
"Except for Red Earth," the executive said, pointing to the south side of the Convention Center, "all the other games are already available for trial at our booths. We welcome you all to go and experience them."
The presentation ended, and the executive bowed before stepping off the stage.
The crowd began moving toward the south side.
David and Paul were swept along in the throng.
"The US arcade market has been on the decline in recent years," Paul said as they walked, dodging a fellow journalist lugging a video camera. "Consoles are getting more powerful, and players would rather play games sitting on their living room sofas. Yet Capcom is still pouring so many resources into arcades."
"Look at how these people are reacting," David said, pointing to a few young reporters sprinting ahead. "High-quality arcade games still have a market. That atmosphere of pulling off special moves on a joystick in an arcade, surrounded by a crowd—consoles just can't provide that. Besides, the Japanese arcade market is still holding strong."
Paul agreed.
"X-Men vs. Street Fighter is a clever move," he added. "Marvel's IP has immense pull in the US. It'll draw people who don't even play fighting games into the arcades. Marvel's struggling right now, so Capcom probably got the license for a steal."
The Capcom executive stepped off the stage.
The main stage lights flared back to life, and an official announcement crackled over the speakers: a fifteen-minute break before Sega's next presentation.
David tucked his voice recorder into his jacket pocket and checked the remaining film in the camera hanging around his neck.
"You're going to the booths?" Paul remained seated, his notebook open on his lap as he began organizing the release dates he'd just jotted down. "I'll hold our spots. Sega's presentation will be packed, and the front row's a nightmare to keep."
"I'm going to grab some photos of Red Earth and X-Men vs. Street Fighter in action," David said, glancing at the crowd surging toward the south corridor. "The hands-on demo team is already swarming the place. Those rookies who just started last year are faster than anyone. We need a few on-site photos to go with the story."
Paul didn't even look up, his pen scratching rapidly across the paper.
"Hurry back. Sega's discussing the future strategy for Saturn and Jupiter this time. If you miss it, there's no making it up."
David nodded and merged into the crowd heading south.
The South Wing of the Convention Center.
Capcom's booth was swarmed.
Reporters with press badges hanging from their necks crowded around several newly delivered arcade cabinets.
No players—just industry insiders. Yet the scene was even louder than a typical arcade.
Two demonstrators in Capcom-branded staff shirts were battling it out in X-Men vs. Street Fighter.
On the screen, Wolverine's claws slashed through the air, leaving trails of brilliant special effects. Light and shadow intermingled.
The sound of shutters firing filled the air.
Flashes popped off one after another in the cramped space.
David found a side angle and raised his camera.
He widened the aperture and slowed the shutter speed, trying to capture the dynamic action on the screen.
"With this frame rate, the CPS2 board's performance is being pushed to its absolute limit," a bearded colleague beside him muttered, his own shutter clicking.
David didn't respond, taking three quick shots.
Film was expensive. The newspaper's budget was tight; he couldn't compete with the Japanese reporters who had three or four lenses each.
Turning around, David saw the Red Earth booth was equally packed.
The high-resolution 2D graphics powered by the CPS3 Arcade Board looked incredibly sharp on the CRT monitors. The monster models were far larger than ever before, each one occupying half the screen. David edged closer and snapped a close-up of the lion-faced swordsman unleashing his special move.
It was clear that Capcom had invested heavily in the character animations. This "heavy-asset" approach was extremely risky in a declining arcade market.
The watch on his wrist showed 10:40.
Their fifteen-minute break was almost over.
David tucked his camera away and pushed through the crowd. In the aisle, many of the new media reporters who had just rushed over to see the excitement were now hurrying back toward the main stage. One of them was stuffing a freshly swapped film canister into his backpack as he ran.
Returning to the front row of the main stage, David saw Paul chatting with a French journalist he knew.
"Did you get the shots?" Paul asked, seeing David squeeze in. He shifted aside to make room.
"Got a few of the actual gameplay," David said, hanging the camera back around his neck and catching his breath. "Capcom's really gone all out on this arcade release. The crowd's loving it."
Paul nodded noncommittally.
The lights on the main stage began to dim.
The crowd's chatter quickly died down.
Behind the curtain at the side of the stage, Oguchi Hisao straightened the hem of his suit.
He took a deep breath, temporarily shelving the dry figures of market share, shipment volumes, and financial reports that had been cluttering his mind.
Today, on this stage, he wasn't here to deliver a financial report. He was here to sell a dream.
That was the exact advice Takuya Nakayama had given him the previous night in his hotel suite.
Flex your muscles. Showcase your taste. Demonstrate how Sega is pushing the boundaries of electronic gaming.
Oguchi Hisao stepped out and walked into the spotlight at the center of the stage.
No pleasantries, no self-introductions.
Sega's deep blue logo flashed onto the giant screen.
"Everyone, welcome to Sega's time," Oguchi Hisao announced. His English, the result of deliberate practice, was clear and crisp, delivered with a sharp, decisive tone. "In the past few hours, we've seen the infinite possibilities brought by PC networking and the absolute pinnacle of traditional 2D fighting games. Now, let's turn our attention back to 3D space."
David gripped his pen tightly.
Sega's technical prowess had always been a staple in the headlines of major media outlets.
The screen transitioned.
There was no gameplay footage, only a high-resolution photograph of a green circuit board.
The dense array of chips, capacitors, and traces exuded a cold, industrial aesthetic.
"The Model 3 Arcade Board," Hisao Oguchi announced.
The hardware journalists and third-party developers in the audience began whispering among themselves.
The Model 2 Arcade Board, which had powered Virtua Fighter 2 and Daytona USA, was still serving as a cash cow in arcades across the globe.
The industry had widely assumed Sega would continue to build upon the Model 2 for another two or three years, squeezing out every last drop of its value.
No one had expected the next generation to arrive so soon.
"One million polygons per second," Oguchi declared without pause, throwing out the core statistic.
A momentary, deathly silence fell over the venue.
Then, a wave of audible gasps rippled from the front row to the back.
In the 1996 hardware market, polygon count was the most direct and hard currency for measuring 3D performance.
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