The next day, the hyper-efficient Tom Kalinske pulled along Bernard, the company's marketing director in charge of Hollywood affairs, and the three of them flew straight to Los Angeles.
From Redwood City to Hollywood was only about an hour's flight.
But for Kalinske, that hour felt like an eternity.
He spent the whole ti rubbing his hands in excitent, muttering to himself, as if he could already see SEGA consoles appearing on every giant screen in every theater across Arica.
Bernard, on the other hand, was a bit nervous. Although he often dealt with Hollywood, most of the ti it was just routine ga-adaptation licensing. A line-up like today—personally led by the North Arican president and a senior executive from headquarters—was a first.
Especially Headquarters Executive Director Nakayama Takuya. Young as he was, he still gave Bernard a mysterious, unfathomable feeling.
That afternoon, the group drove to the 20th Century Fox lot.
In the producer's office, a middle-aged man greeted them—a man with brown slicked-back hair, glasses, looking a bit tired but with sharp eyes.
"John Hughes," he introduced himself, offering a handshake. "Good thing you called yesterday. If you were a day later, I'd already be in Chicago—my new film is about to start shooting."
John Hughes—Hollywood's golden screenwriter, director, and producer, especially known for his teen-focused cody films.
After brief pleasantries, Hughes began explaining his next project.
"The script is called Ho Alone," he said quickly. "It's about an eight-year-old boy, Kevin, who's accidentally left behind at ho by his family and ends up taking on two bumbling burglars."
He spoke fast—clearly he knew the story inside out.
The mont he finished, Kalinske couldn't wait to jump in.
"John, we'd like to place a SEGA ga Drive in Kevin's house. And Kevin can carry our GaPocket handheld with him."
Hughes raised an eyebrow. That sounded like soone here to deliver money.
"For that," Kalinske said, holding up three fingers and speaking loudly, "SEGA is willing to pay a placent fee of 300,000 dollars."
The office fell silent for a mont.
For a simple scene prop, this was already extrely generous.
Hughes was just about to nod when Kalinske dropped the real bombshell.
"If Kevin has a scene where he plays the ga Drive while he's alone—doesn't need to be long, just a few seconds—SEGA will pay one million dollars."
"And additionally, if during his attempts to evade the burglars, he can pull out the GaPocket and play it briefly—say, while hiding in a closet—SEGA will pay another one million dollars."
The fatigue vanished from Hughes's face instantly. He stared at Kalinske as if looking at a tycoon freshly erged from an oil field in the Middle East.
He knew exactly how tight the situation was for this film.
Because of budget overruns, the original investor, Warner Bros., had backed out. It took great effort for 20th Century Fox to take over the project. And there were still tons of chanical traps and effects to shoot—every dollar had to be stretched.
Now SEGA was delivering a massive bundle of cash right when he needed it most.
"Deal!" Hughes slapped the table decisively. "Don't worry—I'll give you plenty of screen ti, smooth and natural. No awkward product placent!"
"As for the contract, once I'm back from Chicago, we'll bring in legal and discuss it properly."
After leaving a very cheerful John Hughes, the three of them headed imdiately to Universal Pictures.
There, they t a man wearing a baseball cap and black-rimd glasses, sporting a full beard.
Steven Spielberg.
"Bernard," Spielberg smiled, clearly familiar with the marketing director. He patted Bernard's shoulder, then looked at Kalinske and Takuya. "For the Hook ga adaptation, SEGA's capability is more than sufficient—you coming was enough. Why bring the president and this gentleman as well?"
Bernard quickly introduced them.
"Mr. Spielberg, this is our North Arican President Tom Kalinske, and this is Mr. Nakayama Takuya, Operations Executive from headquarters."
"Nice to et you, Steven." Takuya smiled and extended his hand.
After shaking hands, Kalinske got straight to the point.
"Steven, we of course want Hook. But the reason we ca today is because we want the ga adaptation rights to another project."
Spielberg looked puzzled.
"Another project? I don't have any new ones in developnt right now."
Takuya looked at him and spoke gently:
"Mr. Michael Crichton—the novel that hasn't been published yet."
Spielberg's expression froze.
He snapped his gaze toward Takuya, stunned.
That dinosaur novel—he had only just gotten his hands on the manuscript through private channels and was preparing to et with Michael Crichton to discuss film rights.
This matter was top-tier confidential in Hollywood.
How on earth did this Japanese man know?
"How did you—"
"We have our own sources," Takuya replied calmly, without further explanation. "We believe that story has limitless potential. Not just as a film—its ga adaptation would also be a groundbreaking work."
Spielberg fell silent, studying the young man before him.
He had t many executives from ga companies, and most were pure businessn, reeking of money.
But this Nakayama Takuya carried sothing different—a familiar aura.
The sensitivity and foresight of a creator.
"That depends on Michael's approval," Spielberg finally said, his tone softening.
"Of course," Takuya nodded. "But I believe no one could adapt it better than SEGA. Bernard, show Mr. Spielberg the list of gas I've worked on."
As Bernard read out the titles—Fatal Fury, Pokémon, Golden Sun, DDR—and explained that Takuya was the creative lead behind all of them, Spielberg's eyes widened more and more.
He had played many of those gas—and even been addicted to so.
He had always assud such masterpieces ca from an experienced elite team.
He never imagined the core figure behind them was this young man in his twenties standing before him.
"My God…" Spielberg looked at Takuya with completely changed eyes.
The scrutiny was gone—replaced by admiration, even a hint of respect.
"Mr. Nakayama, you are a true master of ga creation. It's an honor to et you."
"Likewise, Mr. Spielberg," Takuya replied with a smile. "I believe that in the future, the sparks between gas and films will far exceed what we can imagine today."
"I don't doubt it," Spielberg said solemnly.
He even took the initiative to offer help—he would personally arrange a eting between Takuya and Michael Crichton.
In a single afternoon, they secured two Hollywood giants and three major projects.
On the ride back, Kalinske was so excited he was flailing his limbs wildly, practically ready to tear the roof off the car.
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