"Change our habits?" Yasuo Miyakawa asked, puzzled.
"Align with Arican standards," Takuya Nakayama replied, picking up his steak knife and gesturing on the tablecloth. "Japanese ani episodes are typically 24 or 25 minutes long. But in the US, comrcial television stations have half-hour slots where they reserve about eight minutes for comrcials and station announcents. That ans the actual program can only be 22 minutes."
"If we don't edit it ourselves and send it to Arica, those clueless editors at the TV stations will hack it apart with their big scissors. The plot will beco disjointed, the visuals will stutter—it'll ruin Sunrise's reputation."
Takuya's tone grew serious. "For future projects targeting overseas markets, we need to write the scripts with a 22-minute runti from the start. Also, let's try to make the number of episodes a multiple of 13. Thirteen episodes per season, 26 per half-year, 52 per year. That fits the Public Television Network Alliance's requirent for seasonal episode lengths and will make it easier to sell to more stations."
Yasuo Miyakawa listened with growing excitent, his pen flying across the page.
Without soone pointing out these details, Sunrise might have wandered in the dark for another decade and still been stuck at the doorstep.
"22 minutes of main content, 8 minutes of GG... multiples of 13 episodes..." Yasuo Miyakawa murmured to himself, as if reciting so kind of wealth code.
"Exactly. If we make our specifications standardized enough, Arican TV networks can buy them and broadcast them directly. This makes it much easier for them to introduce our shows, significantly reducing their investnt in ti and effort. That will make them more inclined to consider our work."
"Of course, all these grand visions depend on Ted Turner being willing to foot the bill." Takuya Nakayama speared a piece of butter-drenched crab at and popped it into his mouth.
Yasuo Miyakawa put down his pen, his brow furrowing slightly.
He understood the logic perfectly, but facing that dia tycoon still made him feel uncertain.
"I won't be joining you at the negotiation table," Takuya Nakayama said, grabbing a napkin to wipe his hands. "That's your domain, President Miyakawa. Sunrise operates independently, and as its president, you should be the one to make the final decisions in such a high-profile and crucial mont."
Yasuo Miyakawa froze for a mont, his fingers tightening around the pen.
As the major shareholder, Takuya Nakayama had every right to lead the negotiations.
After all, this wasn't just about Sunrise's future; it also involved the vast strategic plans of Sega and Bandai.
Any other investor representative would have probably written the speech for him and handed it over, telling him to read it verbatim.
This complete trust and delegation made Yasuo Miyakawa feel a weight on his shoulders—the burden of responsibility and the warmth of being respected.
"Managing Director, this is Sunrise's first serious attempt to enter the Arican mainstream television market..." Miyakawa hesitated for a mont before deciding to seek advice. "Do you have any recomndations regarding the bid? I'm not familiar with the Arican market. If I bid too high, I'm afraid we'll scare them away, but if I bid too low, I'm afraid we'll lose face for Sunrise."
"Don't overestimate the Aricans' generosity, especially Ted Turner. He's so eager to expand his empire right now he'd probably split a penny in half if he could," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up his iced water and swirling it. Water droplets slid down the side of the glass. "Cartoon Network is still in its early days, and those 24-hour slots are like a bottomless pit. The cost of producing their own animated shows runs into tens of thousands of dollars per minute, and even licensing reruns of old shows isn't cheap."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice, a cunning glint in his eyes. "So, we need to give him an irresistible special offer."
"A special offer?"
"A tiered revenue sharing agreent," Takuya Nakayama said, extending his palm and making a slicing motion in the air. "We'll lower the price of the initial broadcast rights, even to half the cost, making it seem like an unbeatable deal. But that's just the ticket. We'll add a clause to the contract: if the viewership reaches a certain threshold, the subsequent profit-sharing ratio will increase by one tier."
Yasuo Miyakawa's eyes lit up.
"This is a godsend for CN right now. Low initial investnt and almost no risk—perfect for filling those unpopular ti slots. If the show becos a hit, they'll gladly pay more. If it falls flat, the impact on them will be minimal." Nakayama smiled. "As for us, Sunrise has plenty of cash flow; what we need is an opportunity to prove ourselves and a beachhead into the U.S. market. Once the show airs, Bandai's toys can flood the shelves—that's where the real money is. Even if we earn less upfront from the animation rights or see a longer payback period, it's still a win-win. After all, we've already recouped our costs in Japan."
"Selling at a low price to gain market share, and gambling on the future." Yasuo Miyakawa murmured to himself, then nodded decisively. "I understand. This isn't just about selling films; it's about solving their pain point of a lack of content."
"Exactly. Let them buy what might beco gold for the price of cabbage." Takuya Nakayama snapped his fingers. "Once we've figured out Arican tastes with this round, even if Sunrise invests more in high-quality visuals and stable animation for future global productions, we'll have the confidence that the money will co back from across the ocean."
Yasuo Miyakawa took a deep breath, closed his notebook, and the anxiety on his face largely dissipated, replaced by a restless excitent.
He picked up the slightly cooled clam chowder and drank it in one gulp.
"This war, I know how to fight it."
On Tuesday evening, the sky over Atlanta hung low and heavy with thick clouds.
Takuya Nakayama and Yasuo Miyakawa had no interest in admiring the pre-Olympic city's scenery. After a hasty al at the hotel, they once again reviewed the details of tomorrow's negotiations.
The next morning, they arrived at the CNN Center's reception lobby right on ti.
This was the heart of global news. A massive globe rotated slowly in the center of the soaring lobby, while staff bustled past, each face wearing the urgency of soone "handling world-changing matters."
Ted Turner was clearly part of that urgency.
The dia mogul hadn't arranged any leisurely tour. His secretary led the two visitors directly into an office plastered with monitors. Turner was on the phone, roaring into it. Seeing his guests, he hung up and gestured toward the sofa.
"Coffee's on the table. Help yourselves," Turner said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting down. He cut to the chase: "I've only got twenty minutes before I have to listen to the quarterly earnings report. So, talk. What can Sega's Managing Director bring to my Cartoon Channel, all the way from Japan?"
Yasuo Miyakawa instinctively glanced at Takuya Nakayama.
Nakayama didn't move toward the coffee pot. Instead, he leaned back casually against the sofa's backrest. "Mr. Turner, Cartoon Network has been on the air for over a year, and its ratings are indeed rising. But I suspect your programming schedule is a constant headache, isn't it?"
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