Nintendo's response was swift. In just two days, they had taken decisive action.
President Hiroshi Yamauchi issued a public apology, bowing deeply, tears in his eyes.
They had never imagined such a failure could occur. Yamauchi announced that all Famicom units currently in production or on sale would be recalled. Any customer with proof of purchase could return their console at a local Nintendo store.
Nintendo promised to fix the issue as quickly as possible and release a revised Famicom model.
In the original timeline, this mishap delayed Nintendo by a full month, allowing Sega's SG to briefly surpass the Famicom in sales.
But Nintendo soon reclaimed the lead thanks to their outstanding first-party software.
"Giving you the chance, and you still blew it," Kobayashi Tetsu muttered, summing up Sega's performance in history.
If only Sega had released a single decent game.
In 1983, the SG launched with twelve titles—none of which were worth anything. Such a ridiculous waste of a golden opportunity.
But the present was different.
"I admit, Yamauchi-san is impressive. In a situation like this, he still chose the most correct course. But… what if, while the FC is off the shelves, Sega launches a new console bundled with a great game?"
What would Nintendo do then?
After all, this wasn't the console-war era of the '90s. In the '80s, aside from computers like the MSX and the Commodore 64, the home console market had only two players: Sega and Nintendo.
If one fell, the other would inevitably rise. Market share lost wouldn't be easily regained.
Kobayashi Tetsu stretched lazily.
Everything was ready. Now they simply had to wait for next year's bundled launch.
He grabbed his coat and called out casually, "Naka-yū-kun, I'm heading out to look around and buy lunch. What do you want?"
Yūji Naka looked up instantly.
"Katsudon."
Kobayashi frowned. "Have you ever eaten anything besides katsudon?"
Yūji Naka nodded with solemn conviction. "If I can't eat katsudon, life isn't worth living."
"…Fine."
Kobayashi looped a scarf around his neck.
He had barely taken two steps when Yūji suddenly stopped him.
"Kobayashi-kun, you should go take care of your work. I'll buy lunch myself!"
Kobayashi glanced back, finding Naka on the verge of tears. "Every time you say you're buying lunch, you disappear until evening. Let me go myself this time!"
The emotional accusation made Kobayashi laugh.
"Alright, alright. We'll go together. Honestly, maybe we should just tell them upfront and ask the restaurant to deliver meals directly to the garage."
Setagaya wasn't far from the diner—it was just a ten-minute bike ride.
The two headed to the restaurant. It was winter break, so many students were gathered inside, chatting around tables and fiddling with trendy gadgets.
Kobayashi swept his gaze across the room and noticed a few of them holding handheld consoles.
Yes—handhelds.
"Nintendo's GW…"
Game & Watch—Nintendo's long-running handheld line. The performance was primitive, but it had birthed some iconic dot-matrix titles.
"Handhelds are a major platform too. Something like Tetris was practically born for handheld play."
Kobayashi pursed his lips, becoming increasingly intrigued.
Handhelds were essential to the home-gaming ecosystem. And Nintendo had a natural advantage—many of their games translated perfectly to portable systems.
It was no wonder that, decades later, from the DS to the Switch, Nintendo still beat Sony's PSV.
The PSP survived on early momentum and superior hardware, but once the PSV era arrived—when hardware was roughly equal—Sony's lack of compelling software became fatal.
And Sega?
Sega withered after the early 2000s—handheld competition was out of the question.
They did release one handheld in the '90s: the Game Gear, or "GG."
And it really GG'd.
Among the many competitors to Nintendo's Game Boy, it was the only one with real potential—and the last to die out. Nostalgia for it remained the strongest.
"Naka-yū-kun," Kobayashi suddenly asked, "do you think Sega should release a handheld?"
"Eh?"
Naka had just taken off his scarf and froze mid-movement. "Does Sega even have a handheld production line?"
Kobayashi shrugged.
Of course not.
But he could always ask Kentarō.
Maybe—just maybe—they could.
He refused to believe that with Game & Watch this popular in the '80s, Sega had never thought about entering handhelds.
"Tetsu-kun? Naka-yū-kun?"
A familiar voice sounded. Kobayashi looked up to see Jezaki Nene approaching with a tray in her arms, her light-brown hair swinging in a neat arc as she walked, perfectly framing the small beauty mark at her eye.
She stopped beside them, her gaze settling on Kobayashi.
"Tetsu-kun, aren't you taking off your scarf?"
He responded with a nod and removed it.
They placed their orders, and as Nene scribbled quickly in her notebook, Kobayashi asked casually, "Does DIXIES do delivery? It'd be nice if you could bring meals to us."
"Well…" Nene looked troubled for a moment, then bowed slightly. "I think we do. I'll ask the manager."
She hurried off, and Kobayashi leaned back into the sofa seat, relaxing.
Japan did have meal delivery in this era, but not the modern delivery service of later decades. Restaurants only delivered to familiar customers, sending staff on bikes with food and tableware. After eating, the customer would set the dishes outside for pickup.
It cost more than dining in, but the portions and service were impeccable.
Several… "two-person short films" had even used this unique delivery system as inspiration—stories where delivery went wrong and the worker had to "compensate" the customer physically to avoid a bad rating.
Kobayashi mused.
He'd been eating at Old Dixies since July—four months now. Surely he counted as a regular. Delivery shouldn't be too much to ask.
Footsteps pattered across the floor. Nene returned with her small leather shoes tapping lightly.
She pulled a pen from her apron pocket and respectfully offered her notebook to Kobayashi.
"The manager said that since you're regular customers, delivery is no problem. Please write down the address."
Kobayashi scribbled the address of the garage.
Nene glanced at it—and paused in confusion. Her light-colored eyes flickered with uncertainty.
"It's a garage," Kobayashi explained. "Naka-yū-kun and I rented one there—we're starting a business. So the address looks a bit unusual."
Nene nodded, finally understanding.
"I see. But still… starting a business at your age? That's really impressive."
Naka lifted his head.
Impressive?
More like unbelievably amazing.
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