The car body tilted violently, tires screaming as it lost control and slamd into the guardrail.
CRASH! The entire cockpit shook violently, and Sato nearly bit off his tongue.
"This—this is so intense?"
He ignored the pain, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying intensity.
This visceral force feedback, this centrifugal force that threatened to throw him from the car—it wasn't like playing a ga; it was like playing with his life.
He inserted another coin.
This ti, he learned his lesson: he lightly tapped the brakes before the turn, downshifted, and steered.
The rear end swung out smoothly, the scenery in the screen blurring past. The thrill of teetering on the edge of control made his scalp tingle.
Three minutes later, Sato climbed out of the cockpit, his legs trembling, his face flushed as if he'd downed two small glasses of shochu.
He didn't even glance at the people lining up behind him to try the ga. He rushed to the simple long table and slamd his briefcase down. "I want fifty units! Cash!"
"Mr. Sato, we don't have fifty units in stock," the sales manager replied without looking up, his fingers flying across the calculator. "First-batch production is limited. Each store is restricted to ten units, and the two-player co-op version counts as two."
"Ten units? Are you kidding ? You're treating us like beggars!" Sato snapped, reaching for his checkbook. "I'll pay more! An extra 50,000 yen per unit!"
"Adding more won't help," the manager replied, pushing a printed form across the table. "This is Executive Director Nakayama's rule. Sign it, or move on—there are dozens of people waiting behind you."
Sato glanced over his shoulder.
The crowd consisted entirely of familiar faces, so of them his bitter rivals in the business association.
He recognized the glint in their eyes all too well—the sa greedy gleam they get when they spot a gold mine.
"Fine! I'd be a fool not to sign!" Sato snatched the pen, his handwriting turning into an illegible scrawl.
The sa scene unfolded in every corner of the warehouse.
The distributors, who should have been representing Sega, now stood as ek as refugees waiting for relief supplies.
So nearly ca to blows over a demo unit, while others, upon hearing of the limited initial supply, imdiately began calling banks to arrange financing.
Sega hadn't even prepared water for them, yet the n found the sll of machine oil in the grimy warehouse more intoxicating than any perfu.
"This isn't just selling ga consoles," a small business owner, still waiting for his turn, muttered in a corner. "It's selling vouchers for a money-printing machine."
Two hours later, in a temporary office in the corner of the warehouse.
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in a wobbly folding chair, holding a newly compiled pre-order report.
"Managing Director, in just two hours, the initial batch of three thousand units is completely sold out," Yoshikawa said, his voice trembling slightly. "And—the pre-paynt rate is 100%. So dealers were so afraid we'd go back on our word, they piled cash on the table."
"Tell the factory to ramp up production to full capacity," Nakayama said, tossing the report onto the desk without even glancing at the astonishing figures. "If they're so eager to throw money at us, let them drown in it. And go all out with the US launch."
As cranes unloaded red containers emblazoned with the Sega logo onto the docks of Los Angeles, London, and Paris, the gasoline-fueled whirlwind of The Fast and the Furious swept across the globe.
Players who had previously viewed 3D racing as re "blocks sliding across a flat plane" were now slamd in the face with a level of visceral realism they'd never imagined.
No more pixelated graphics, no more unpredictable physics. Only clearly distinguishable car models and the solid, satisfying resistance of a steering wheel in their hands.
Even Virtua Fighter 2, which had dominated arcades for less than a month, had to temporarily retreat in the face of this steel torrent.
While Akira Yuki's Bajiquan was a dazzling spectacle, fighting gas ultimately had a steep learning curve.
New players would often drop coins, only to be taken down by a veteran's combo before they could even figure out the basic moves, making for a terrible gaming experience.
Racing gas were different.
Whether you were a schoolkid just out of class or a salaryman loosening his tie after work, once you sat in the driver's seat and floored the accelerator, the adrenaline rush was universal.
Crashed? No problem. The steering wheel might vibrate, but there were no repair costs to worry about. Just pop it into reverse, straighten the car, and hit the gas again.
In arcades across Japan, the crowds that had once sward the fighting ga cabinets were now drawn to the racing craze.
"Hey! Hurry up, you in front! You've already hit the guardrail eight tis, what are you waiting for?"
"Shut up! I'm in the zone, trying to catch the Devil Z!"
In a Sega arcade in Shibuya, a group of high school students in uniform were gathered around a two-player cabinet, shouting.
On the screen, a silver Nissan Fairlady Z was speeding along the Shuto Expressway's Bayshore Route at midnight, streetlights streaking across the windshield like ribbons of light.
For these boys, who grew up on Wangan Midnight, it wasn't just a ga—it was a way to channel their restless, over-the-top teenage spirit.
Even if their skills were terrible, as long as they could grip that steering wheel and watch the speedoter needle climb higher and higher, they were the fastest legends of the Shuto Expressway that night.
If Japanese players were chasing the legend of the Shuto Expressway, the vibe across the ocean in the United States had completely transford into a Hollywood-style action blockbuster.
This was the land of cars, where the sll of gasoline had long since perated the very marrow of these Yankees.
In Los Angeles, at an arcade on Santa Monica Beach,
Even on a weekday afternoon, the place was packed with teenagers in baggy shorts and backward baseball caps.
During the long sumr vacation, these restless high schoolers, who should have been roaming the streets like troublemakers, were now obediently lining up behind several red machines.
"Hey, Brian, is that piece of shit Ford of yours fixed yet?"
A blonde kid in the middle of the line whistled, crushing his soda can with a loud crunch. "If not, why not get your fix here? At least if you wreck it, you won't have your dad chasing you halfway down the block with a shotgun."
Brian rolled his eyes, but his gaze remained fixed on the screen.
What was unfolding there would make every Arican cop's blood pressure spike—a heavily modified Chevrolet Camaro, pursued by three police cars, soaring through the air over San Francisco's steep hills.
"Shut up, Dom. In real life, my beat-up car wouldn't even see the taillights of a cop car," Brian said, flipping a coin into the air and catching it with practiced ease. "But here? I'm king of the road."
Finally, it was his turn.
Brian slipped into the cockpit with practiced ease, slamming his double-iced cola onto the cupholder.
He bypassed the flashy European supercars, instead locking onto a black Dodge Charger.
A big-displacent muscle car—that was the true Arican man's romance.
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