Minoru Arakawa didn't speak. He simply pushed the sales report aside.
Next to it lay another list—ga sales.
Super Mario World and The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past were still holding strong, but beyond those, the SNES's lineup was painfully thin.
Super Tennis Tour, Ozaki Golf—sports titles ported over from Japan. Their text volu was small, localization was fast, and while their sales weren't bad, they were nothing more than modest filler.
They couldn't even begin to compare with the three bombs Sega had dropped into arcades this winter.
"Where are our new gas? What about Capcom? Konami?" Howard yanked at his tie in frustration. "Are all their SFC gas still sleeping in Japan? Aricans aren't Japanese—we don't have that kind of 'otaku stamina.' No one's going to play just two gas all winter! Christmas money has all gone to Sony Columbia and Sega!"
His anger wasn't unfounded.
The SNES's montum was slowing.
Yes, monthly sales nearing three million units ant the console had long since crossed the survival line. Nintendo could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
But "breathing easy" didn't an resting on past achievents.
Not when facing an opponent this cunning.
"Howard."
Arakawa finally spoke, his voice so calm it carried no trace of emotion.
He picked up the newspaper and studied the photo of the Captain Hook arcade machine.
"We didn't lose this round because they went into movie theaters."
Howard froze, looking at him in confusion.
"We lost because there aren't enough gas on our shelves." Arakawa set the paper down, his gaze returning to the bleak sales list. "Our users bought the best console in the world, yet all they can play is Mario and Link. It's like buying a Ferrari and only driving it around the Nürburgring."
He paused, his tone sharpening with resolve.
"The SNES has survived. Now it needs food—lots of food—to feed those hungry players."
Howard's breathing slowly steadied. He understood.
Anger wouldn't solve anything. Only more gas would.
"I get it," he nodded. "I'll push the third parties imdiately and get their English versions finished as fast as possible."
"Not just push them," Arakawa shook his head. He pulled a docunt from his drawer and slid it across the desk.
It was a list of every major third-party developer in North Arica, along with their project progress.
"Starting today, Nintendo's marketing departnt will station dedicated staff inside every key third-party partner."
Howard's eyes widened slightly.
"Help them with translation. Help them with testing. Even help them with funding." Arakawa's finger traced down the list, stopping on a single na. "We're going to get their gas onto North Arican shelves at unprecedented speed. Tell them this—Nintendo's feast is only just beginning."
Howard took the list and walked out, leaving behind just one sentence:
"Leave it to ."
Sega Headquarters, Tokyo — Marketing Departnt.
"Executive Director! Great news!"
A section chief practically slamd the door open as he rushed into Nakayama Takuya's office, the report in his hand crumpled, his face redder than a freshly stead crab.
"Latest numbers from North Arica! SNES sales growth has started to slow!"
"Our combo attack worked! Sony's theater offensive plus our relentless arcade bombardnt has completely disrupted Nintendo's rhythm!"
Several staff mbers in the office echoed his excitent, looking at Nakayama with admiration.
This three-pronged assault was entirely planned by the young executive director himself.
Nakayama leaned back in his chair, took the report, and smiled—but without the wild triumph everyone expected.
He calmly glanced at the flattening curve, then placed the report on the desk.
"Good work, everyone," he said, looking around the room. "I'll request the president to double this month's bonuses."
"Wooo!"
"Long live the executive director!"
Cheers erupted instantly.
"However—"
Nakayama's voice wasn't loud, but it poured cold water over the room.
Silence fell.
"Don't celebrate too early." He tapped the desk lightly. "We only made the gorilla roll over in its sleep—we didn't knock it out."
He stood and walked to the window, looking down at the bustling streets below.
"Arakawa and Howard Lincoln are probably whipping third-party developers rcilessly as we speak. Nintendo's foundation isn't just Mario and Link."
This setback was nothing more than a light scratch to them.
The room cooled. The section chief scratched his head. "You're right, sir. But this Christmas, we'll definitely beat them!"
"Christmas…"
Nakayama repeated the word, his gaze drifting.
Of course he rembered Christmas 1991.
It was a very special Christmas.
The first image that ca to his mind wasn't a blockbuster ga, but a red flag slowly being lowered—and a lonely figure on television delivering a resignation speech.
The thunderous collapse of a vast empire would shock the world that Christmas.
In 1991, even Tokyo's air seed colder than usual.
At Sony headquarters, inside the president's office, an NHK international news broadcast played on the television.
On-screen, a weary man spoke solemnly, the Kremlin behind him.
On December 25, Mikhail Gorbachev announced his resignation as President of the Soviet Union.
The next day, the enormous red empire officially ceased to exist.
The office was silent, broken only by the voice of the simultaneous interpreter.
Norio Ohga, Ken Kutaragi, and Teruo Nakahata stood without speaking, watching the red flag bearing the hamr and sickle slowly descend on the screen.
An era ended—just like that.
"…It's hard to imagine," Nakahata finally said, his expression complicated.
As soone who had lived through postwar reconstruction, the weight of the mont pressed far deeper on him than it did on the younger generation.
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