At 11 p.m., Sega's headquarters blazed with light. The sales manager, the same man who nearly fainted watching unsold stock pile up in the crowded plaza, clutched a freshly printed report, hands trembling—not from fear, but exhilaration.
Clearing his throat to steady his voice, he still sounded off-key: "Everyone! Final numbers are in!"
The office fell silent, all eyes on his paper.
"Japan-wide, first-day sales—over 100,000 units!"
Cheers and whistles erupted, nearly lifting the ceiling. Desks were pounded, colleagues embraced. The manager, catching his breath, shouted, "Pikachu limited bundles: over 8,000 sold! Total cartridges: 180,000! *Pokémon Park: Adventure* alone—over 100,000!"
Nearly every MD buyer grabbed *Pokémon*. This bundling rate was a commercial miracle. "North America and Europe data come next week, but we're already unstoppable!" The manager leapt, ecstatic.
Amid the jubilation, the marketing team huddled in a corner, smiling but tense. As champagne corks popped, they barely glanced, diving back into hushed debate. Takuya, holding a water glass, approached calmly. "Still worried about the plumber?"
The marketing lead nodded, grimacing. "It's *Super Mario Bros. 3*. Nintendo's sales aren't out yet, and we—"
"Our fight's not over," Takuya cut in. "Today was just the start." He gestured to a side meeting room. "Sleep tonight. Check Nintendo's moves tomorrow." To the lead: "Remember my daytime plan? Valentine's Day."
The lead's eyes lit up.
"Move all large Pokémon inflatables outside Akihabara to Central Avenue's Electric Town," Takuya said. "I want them dominating the skyline."
"All of them?" someone asked. "Even Ginza's Snorlax?"
"Especially Snorlax," Takuya smirked. "It's big enough to block some eyesores." Laughter broke the tension.
"For street promo, besides Pikachu, Jigglypuff, Psyduck, and the starter trio, I've got two new faces." He raised two fingers. "Nidoran♂ and Nidoran♀."
"Nidoran?" The marketing team frowned—less popular than Pikachu.
"They're not just for crowds," Takuya said slyly. "They'll give a special gift to every couple buying an MD together." From his bag, he pulled two palm-sized plushies: a blue-purple Nidoran♂ and a light-blue Nidoran♀, tied by a red thread, looking inseparable.
"We'll call it the couple-exclusive 'Proof of Love.'"
Silence fell. The marketing lead examined the plushies, his face shifting from shock to glee. "Brilliant! We're not just selling consoles—we're selling Valentine's gifts!"
Takuya smiled. "Rest up. Night shift's handled."
The next morning, Sega's makeshift MD launch command room smelled of last night's champagne and fresh coffee. Post-party fatigue marked faces, but spirits soared. The sales manager, eyes shadowed, clutched a blank chart, pacing by a whiteboard, glancing at the door.
Just past 10 a.m., a breathless marketing staffer burst in, clutching crumpled fax paper. "It's here!"
All eyes locked on him. He dashed to the whiteboard, pen scratching loudly as he wrote: Tokyo, *Super Mario Bros. 3* first-day sales—78,566.
A strange silence followed. Under 80,000? For Nintendo's star title, it felt unreal, like a stone dropped in a still pond, rippling without waves. "Mistake?" the sales manager blurted. "Just one district?"
"No, verified Tokyo total," the staffer confirmed.
Faces shifted from anticipation to confusion, even unease. Something was off. All turned to Takuya, calmly sipping coffee in the corner.
He blew on his cup, eyes moving from the whiteboard to the puzzled crowd. "Remember Wednesday," he said softly but clearly.
"Wednesday?" someone mumbled.
The marketing lead slapped his thigh. "The DQ Uproar!"
"Exactly," Takuya nodded. "Nintendo's Tokyo core fans are holed up, lost in *Dragon Quest III*'s world. Saving the world trumps buying Mario." He paused, a playful smile forming. "Plus, today's Valentine's Day. Why would single players go out and feel miserable? *Dragon Quest*'s more fun at home."
Single staffers chuckled empathetically, easing the room's tension. "Our *Pokémon Park* and Nidoran 'Proof of Love,'" Takuya eyed the marketing lead, "won't repel couples. One wanes, the other waxes—today's sales gap will widen."
The sales manager's eyes gleamed. Nintendo wasn't weak; they were stalled by their own storm. Takuya set down his cup, strode to the whiteboard, and drew a bold ">" between Sega's "100,000+" and Nintendo's "under 80,000."
"This gap is our chance," he said sharply, scanning the room. "Before Nintendo recovers, we'll spark a media storm: *Super Mario Bros. 3* lost to *Pokémon Park: Adventure*."
"I know the Famicom's massive base will push Mario's sales to catch up, maybe surpass us. But by then, the comparison won't matter. When people think we've won, our battle's over."