Kitagawa Takeshi slid the folder he carried everywhere across the table to Kobayashi Tetsu.
"These are the design works I did during my years at the company. Aside from the ones I wasn't allowed to take with me, almost everything is here."
Some originals were too risky to bring out, or weren't in his possession anymore.
Kobayashi flipped through the pages. The early pieces were simple studies of human figures; later, his style gradually shifted toward graphic design, carrying the distinct flavor of GG's aesthetics. Among the pages, Kobayashi even spotted color illustrations he had done for Namco.
So—Kitagawa had indeed collaborated with game companies before.
One poster of Galaxian was particularly striking. The outer space backdrop was ordinary, but given how few pixels the original fighter ship had, he had managed to refine it into a complete form without losing its original style.
By Kobayashi's judgment, Kitagawa's skill level was nothing short of excellent.
Kobayashi suddenly looked up.
"Mr. Kitagawa, how is the salary over there?"
Kitagawa hesitated.
It was terrible—of course it was terrible.
Kobayashi had initially assumed he was a lead artist, only to learn that the name printed on the posters belonged to the actual art director; Kitagawa was just an ordinary employee at GG.
He wanted to quote a higher number, but when he met Kobayashi's gaze, his confidence drained away. He reported honestly:
"Eighty thousand yen."
Kobayashi's hand trembled—he nearly threw the folder.
Yuji Naka jerked his head up.
Eighty thousand!
At Sega, a regular employee earned over 100,000 yen a month after probation.
He himself earned fifty thousand only because he was brand new and still on trial; after probation it would rise to 120,000, then increase with seniority.
Kobayashi felt a headache coming on.
Damn.
Eighty thousand yen a month—he would've jumped ship too! That was miserable!
Converted to modern currency, it was about four thousand RMB. Even adjusted for the higher value of money in the '80s—eight to nine thousand RMB—it was still Tokyo.
A highly skilled illustrator, in the capital, earning the equivalent of eight thousand yuan a month.
Kobayashi could feel the crushing weight of Japan's corporate culture all over that number:
No achievements, no promotion; with a superior above, no achievements. A loop with no way out.
Kobayashi stood up and clasped Kitagawa's hand firmly.
"Mr. Kitagawa, you've suffered… Why don't we collaborate in a different way?"
He put on a gentle, "I'm doing this for your own good" expression.
"You should stay at that company for now. Just… don't get too close to them. Drag out the work if you can—keep collecting their salary. I'll commission illustration work from you regularly, but paid per piece, not as wages. Each fully designed character illustration: 10,000 yen. Background material or simpler sets: priced per set—50,000 yen."
Kobayashi elaborated on his pricing structure for various design types, then added:
"I may also have you design posters for new games. Your name will be on them. If the game gets big, you can resign then. And if those posters are reused in the future, you'll receive a portion of the royalties."
Kitagawa was on the verge of tears.
He gripped Kobayashi's hands tightly.
"Yes—yes! I can do it!"
Kobayashi signaled with his eyes; Yuji Naka understood and brought over a boxed package.
"What is this?" Kitagawa looked down, momentarily stunned.
He recognized it, of course—but that wasn't the issue. For a second, he simply couldn't comprehend why they were giving him a digital tablet.
Those things were expensive.
Kobayashi spoke solemnly:
"A fine blade should be entrusted to a worthy hero. This belongs in the hands of someone who can truly wield it. Mr. Kitagawa, please accept it—no one deserves this tablet more than you. A few hundred thousand yen is nothing compared to your talent. This is what you should have."
Then his expression hardened, turning serious.
"This tablet is yours—but if, in the future, you fail to deliver satisfactory materials, I will come down on you harshly."
Kitagawa clutched the box, eyes reddening. He bowed deeply.
"Please rest assured! I will give it everything I have!"
Yuji Naka watched, moved.
Look at that—Lord Ishida Jibu-no-shō has started spending money again. But damn, it worked.
He himself had stayed—and even volunteered for overtime—because Kobayashi had directly handed him fifty thousand yen.
…
…
With Kitagawa settled, the next day Kobayashi brought the game cartridge and Yuji Naka to meet Tanaka Minoru.
Tanaka was in charge of home-console publishing, not arcade releases—but he could still put in a word.
The three met in his office. Tanaka examined the report Kobayashi submitted, flipping it over several times, eyes widening slightly.
This was the sort of proposal worth paying attention to.
"So, Kobayashi, you believe this game should be released in arcade format?"
Kobayashi nodded.
"As a home-console game, it won't work—the scale is too small for long-term play. But as an arcade title? Different story. We can adjust the difficulty, leverage the hardware's stronger performance, even experiment with different music. As long as the game consumes coins efficiently, it's a good arcade game."
Tanaka nodded gravely.
He couldn't argue with that.
Hits in arcades didn't guarantee home-console success—nor the reverse.
He soon picked up the phone and dialed.
Kobayashi glanced at Yuji Naka; all he saw in the young man's eyes was admiration.
When Naka visited alone, he could only see entry-level publishing staff.
But Kobayashi had brought him to the head of the home-console publishing division—and that man was now arranging contact with the arcade publishing staff for him.
Before long, Tanaka hung up.
"It's arranged. Yuji, take the materials and this report, go with the assistant to the arcade division. They'll set up the publishing process. Discuss the specifics with them."
Of course, whatever the arrangement, a portion of the arcade revenue would go to Atlas Studio.
A referral couldn't be for free.
Yuji nodded—but then glanced at Kobayashi.
Why wasn't he going?
Kobayashi leaned in, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.
"You go ahead. I think Director Tanaka has something to discuss with me privately."
Naka understood at last, bowed, and left.
Kobayashi turned back to Tanaka, waiting.
Tanaka remained silent until Naka had fully left, then rose to close the door.
"Next year, Sega will release the SG-2000. It's an improved model built on the 1000 and 1200 series. Better performance, better controls. The price will be raised to 19,800 yen. There will also be new peripherals—like a light gun, and redesigned joysticks."
The words hit like a thunderbolt—Kobayashi was shocked.
"So soon? Didn't the 1200 just come out?"
"The 1200 was merely an architectural upgrade, not a true improvement. And…"
Tanaka smiled meaningfully.
"According to market research, consumers are dissatisfied with the current controller. Sega plans to redesign it into a proper gamepad. The internal prototype uses a similar layout to Nintendo's, but that's only temporary."
Kobayashi nodded.
A gamepad… that was a milestone worth noting.
The SG-2000 should have launched in July 1984, but with the SG-1200 accelerating development, the timeline had clearly moved up.
He thought a moment, then asked the key question:
"That's all very interesting, Director Tanaka—but none of it concerns me directly. I assume you have a commission?"
"Correct."
Tanaka said,
"Sega wishes to commission Atlas to develop a game for the SG-2000. It must showcase the upgrades of the new model. Sega's internal software team is excellent—but I trust Atlas even more."
Kobayashi nodded.
So—that was the job.
He pondered briefly, then asked something crucial:
"Just to confirm… Director Tanaka, did you say the SG-2000 will launch with a light-gun controller?"
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