Hayao Nakayama exchanged glances with his executives, finally settling on Takuya, signaling him to proceed. Takuya smiled cryptically. "No rush, Father. Today's Tokyo sales will speak for themselves."
As he spoke, the plaza's clock tower struck 11, its hands aligning.
Onstage, Pokémon mascots, fresh from a warm-up act, waddled off, waving clumsily. The host, brimming with energy, seized the microphone, his voice booming across the plaza: "Good morning, everyone! Check your wristbands—each has an 'MD' code and six digits. That's your raffle ticket!"
Staff hauled up a giant red button. A Pikachu mascot, clutching an inflatable hammer marked "100t," swayed comically, sparking crowd laughter. "First, an exciting update!" the host shouted. "As of 11 a.m., we've issued 11,063 wristbands! Over eleven thousand players are here today!"
Giant screens showed engineers inputting "11,063" into the raffle system. Executives behind Hayao straightened, awed. "Next, we'll invite five lucky guests to draw today's first prizes!" the host gestured backstage.
Pikachu, Bulbasaur, Squirtle, Charmander, and a bewildered Psyduck waddled out, each hugging a watermelon-sized Poké Ball. They turned, backs to the crowd, and tossed the balls in unison. Five parabolas arced into the cheering throng, igniting a frenzy. A cool-looking teen, three giggling high school girls, and a boy perched on his father's shoulders emerged, triumphantly waving their caught balls.
The five took turns with the inflatable hammer. The teen smashed decisively, the girls giggled through a joint effort, and the boy, face red with effort, barely hit the button, earning roars of laughter. Five winning numbers flashed onscreen. But the final number, "00071," drawn by the boy, went unclaimed—its winner likely home gaming.
"Looks like they couldn't wait!" the host quipped. "No worries, we'll give another chance! Little buddy, one more go?" The boy nodded fiercely, leaping with all his might to slam the hammer. A new number sparked a scream from the crowd.
The five winners rushed onstage. The host, voice dripping mystery, announced, "Our prize isn't a console or cartridge—it's the unrevealed Pokédex No. 151: a Mew electronic pet!"
Silence gripped the plaza, then exploded into gasps and chatter. Envious stares burned toward the winners, who clutched purple-and-white Master Ball-style devices gleaming in the sun. Players, having toiled to fill Pokédexes from 1 to 149, saw the mythical 151—previously a rumor—materialize.
"Attention!" the host paused for effect. "The Mew electronic pet is exclusive to today! From now until 3:30 p.m., ten raffle rounds, every half hour! After today, it's gone forever!"
"Never reissued" hit like a sledgehammer. Envy turned to feverish jealousy. Passersby, planning to leave, gripped their wristbands, staying put. The five winners, mobbed offstage, faced a maid-dressed woman bowing to one: "My lady offers five million yen for your Mew."
Gasps erupted. Five million! The winner, the boy's redraw pick, froze, staring at the Master Ball, then the check. Swallowing hard, he handed over the pet, snatched the check, and bolted to a bank, fearing a change of heart. The surreal scene stunned onlookers—a palm-sized toy worth a Tokyo suburb apartment down payment.
The next nine raffle rounds offered only Mew pets, with commemorative Mew plushies for draw assistants fetching tens of thousands of yen from wealthy buyers. Pokémon and *Fatal Fury* theme songs echoed, mascots and cosplayers roamed, fueling cheers. Sega, Sanrio, and Mattel merchandise stalls drew long lines. At noon, FamilyMart's Pokémon-themed bento trucks were swarmed by hungry fans unwilling to leave.
The plaza became a carnival of money and dreams. Crowds spilled onto roads, forcing police to cordon off lanes. Each hourly draw unleashed a symphony of joy and despair, the "five million" legend stoking the feverish atmosphere.
But issues arose. Wristband holders lingered for raffles, blocking new buyers, stalling the plaza. Takuya and executives devised a fix. The host announced, "After 12 p.m., we're adding raffle registration at sales and demo exits! Register your wristband number, phone, and address. Even if you leave, your entry remains valid. Winners get free delivery and a call!"
The crowd stirred. Some rejoiced, free to eat at home; others whispered doubts about delivery reliability. "Lose it? Sega'll replace it," a skeptic was rebuffed. "They're giving million-yen prizes—think they'd scam you?" Trust won out. Registration desks were mobbed, staff scribbling furiously as players dictated details like signing million-yen contracts.
The rule worked instantly. Registered players left, easing flow. Families stayed, drawn to stage performances. By 2:30 p.m., the sales manager, flushed, raced to the observation deck. "President! All sold out! 30,000 MDs, including 5,000 Pikachu bundles, and 100,000 cartridges—gone!"
Silence fell. "All of them?" an executive asked. "Every last one!" the manager waved his radio. Executives toasted champagne, elated.
As the manager reached for the phone to restock, Takuya stopped him. "Wait."
The manager froze, joy and urgency stuck on his face. Hayao frowned, lowering his binoculars. "Takuya, what's this? Why not restock?"
Eyes turned to Takuya, puzzled. Selling out was a triumph—why halt? Takuya stepped to the window, gazing at the frenzied plaza. "Doesn't 'Sega MD Sells Out 30,000 Units in Half a Day' sound louder than any ad we could buy?"
Executives paused. "Media crave headlines," Takuya continued, smiling. " 'Sold out' is the ultimate hook—free, persuasive front-page news. Restocking now just clogs the plaza. Those who missed out? Their desire's ignited. Where will they go?"
He pointed to Akihabara. "They'll storm every electronics store, carrying this frenzy. We can't let *Super Mario Bros. 3* dominate Akihabara. This MD buying wave will flood back there."
"But… the money!" the manager stammered. "We're not creating a shortage," Takuya said calmly, "but a legend: 'I saw MD sell out today.' 'I queued forever to get one.' These stories, carried by thousands, will spread like dandelion seeds across Tokyo. That's stronger than any ad. We need time for buyers to boast—Valentine's weekend is perfect."
He scanned the thoughtful room. "This momentum must burn on, not fizzle today. We need tomorrow's headlines and sales fuel. Maybe couples will buy MDs tomorrow." He grinned.
Silence held, broken by Hayao's slow clap, followed by a wave of applause. Executives' admiration for Takuya turned to awe. "Good lad," Hayao said, patting his shoulder, chuckling at the roaring crowd. "Let's see how bright this fire burns."
Executives dispersed, doubts gone. The sales manager, still clutching his silent radio, realized it wasn't just a device but a potential disruptor of Takuya's perfect plan.