The assistant strode into the office, practically glowing with excitent, clutching a stack of statistical reports.
"Managing Director, these are the latest figures from the PR Departnt. The Asahi Shimbun, Yomiuri Shimbun, and several TV stations have all sent interview requests for feature reports. The Marketing Departnt suggests we strike while the iron is hot and print these case studies as posters—"
"Stop."
Takuya Nakayama raised his hand, cutting him off before he could even glance at the faxed docunts. He snapped the cap onto his fountain pen with a crisp click.
"Tell the Marketing Departnt to drain the water from their brains. Print posters now? Are we trying to die any faster?"
The assistant froze, clearly unable to follow his boss's logic. "But—these are positive examples, and they're based on facts."
"They're facts, but they're also blood money."
Nakayama stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside, Tokyo remained bustling with life. Yet hundreds of kiloters away, hell still reigned.
"Right now, all of Japan is mourning, and everyone is watching the governnt's inadequate disaster response. If Sega were to jump out and make a big splash with self-promotion right now, I'd be the fool. Even if we save ten thousand lives, tomorrow we'll be branded as heartless capitalists profiting from a national tragedy."
"To do good deeds without seeking recognition is the mark of a saint; to broadcast your good deeds everywhere is the sign of a hypocrite."
"Since we've already beco heroes, don't tarnish that halo."
"Then... what about these interviews?" the assistant asked cautiously.
"Turn them all down. Just say that this is a critical ti for rescue efforts, and Sega doesn't want to monopolize public resources or divert attention from the disaster-stricken areas."
Takuya Nakayama turned around, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Let's unify our public ssaging: we're simply doing what any responsible corporation should. That's all. The lower our profile, the greater the weight we'll carry in the public's hearts."
He paused, his tone softening.
"But while we maintain a cool exterior externally, we can't let our own people lose heart."
He opened a drawer, pulled out a pen, and quickly scribbled a line on a sticky note.
"Notify the Finance Departnt to issue a special bonus to all mbers of the Disaster Relief Little Hero project team. As for the amount—" He paused, then drew a circle on the paper. "Issue it at the sa rate as last year's year-end bonus. Also, make copies of these thank-you letters and post them on the wall of the Developnt Departnt."
"The money is for them to live on, but these letters are to give them so recognition. Tell those tech geeks that the code they write is more effective than a hundred-billion-yen seawall."
The assistant took the mo, his throat bobbing as he saw the astonishing figure. "Understood. I'll handle it right away."
"Go ahead. And make sure the Osaka Branch keeps its mouth shut. If I hear any employee bragging outside that Sega is more useful than the Self-Defense Forces, they're fired on the spot."
After the assistant left, the office fell silent again.
Takuya Nakayama settled back into his chair and picked up the top sheet from the stack of statistical reports.
It was a child's drawing with a crooked, smiling face, and below it, in childish kana, read: "Thank you, Sega big brothers. Mom and Dad are safe, and we're alive."
He stared at the drawing for a long ti, then finally pulled open the bottom drawer and carefully placed the paper inside.
Ti quietly slipped into February.
The television screen showed a monotonous and oppressive scene: the scorched earth of Kobe, as if ravaged by war, and the ugly faces of politicians in the Diet, shifting bla to each other.
Murayama Tomiichi's signature long eyebrows drooped before the cara. Faced with the opposition's furious accusations of "slow rescue efforts," he could only repeat "regret" and "reflection" like a broken record. The public's powder keg had been thoroughly ignited.
Anyone who dared to laugh or stage a public entertainnt event on television at this ti would be drowned in a torrent of public condemnation.
The entire Japanese society quickly entered a peculiar state of "self-restraint": no gatherings, no cherry blossom viewing, no loud noises—even half the neon lights were voluntarily turned off.
In the top-floor office of Sega Headquarters, Takuya Nakayama slamd his pen down on the desk, shoving the newly delivered marketing proposal far away.
"Cancel it."
The head of Marketing Headquarters across from him paused, his gaze falling on the cover of the plan.
A striking tactical silhouette was printed there, along with a title that would drive countless hardcore gars wild: tal Gear Solid 2.
This was the masterpiece that Hideo Kojima, that oni of a genius, had been secretly perfecting for a year and a half.
Ever since Takuya Nakayama poached him from Konami with "unlimited funds" and "absolute creative freedom," the round-glasses-wearing man had beco like a monk living at the office, obsessing over every detail with his team, day and night. They had finally reached the point of mastering the master discs, clearing all the bugs, and were ready to unleash their masterpiece upon the world.
"Managing Director, this is our ace in the hole for the first half of the year," the Marketing Head said, wringing his hands in pain as he made a last-ditch effort. "The Kojima Team barely took any ti off during the New Year holidays to et the deadline. We already have 200,000 units in the warehouse. If we hit the brakes now—"
"Just 200,000 units?" Takuya Nakayama scoffed, pointing at the TV in the corner.
The screen happened to cut to a scene of a Self-Defense Forces soldier standing guard with a rifle beside a pile of rubble.
"If you release this ga now, I guarantee tomorrow's headlines will be 'Sega Rubs Salt in the Wounds of Disaster Victims'!" Takuya Nakayama stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The sky outside was gloomy, perfectly mirroring the mood of the Japanese public.
"What kind of ga is this? Special forces, infiltration, assassination, explosions, terrorists occupying facilities. Normally, these would be selling points, adrenaline-pumping features. But now?" He turned around and tapped the project proposal, its cover featuring a soldier with a rifle, twice with his finger. "Now, when people see camouflage and guns, they'll only think of the unresolved ss in Kobe and the Self-Defense Forces' slow, ineffective response. Selling a war the at this ti—are you trying to ruin Sega's hard-earned reputation?"
The Marketing Headquarters chief opened his mouth but was speechless.
He had been so focused on sales figures that he had forgotten the most basic rule: "reading the air."
In Japan, those who fail to understand "the air" often et the most tragic ends.
"So—when will it be postponed to?"
"Indefinitely," Takuya Nakayama replied firmly. "At least until this wave of self-restraint passes, until people can calmly treat the 'explosion' as entertainnt rather than a disaster. Inform Kojima not to rush; this year marks the IDSA's first E3—an organization we helped establish. He'll definitely get plenty of exposure for MGS2."
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