Kobayashi Tetsu brought the finished off-road motorbike game to Sega for a brief meeting about distribution.
By Sega's usual production schedule, the game wouldn't be slotted for manufacturing until August. But on Kobayashi Tetsu's account, they moved it forward—by late July it could already start hitting the shelves.
"Honestly, I didn't expect you to finish this fast!" Tanaka Minoru said with a hint of awe. "Only two months, and you already have a new title."
"It's nothing. I outsourced some of the work to a studio," Kobayashi Tetsu answered casually.
Tanaka flipped through the scheduling calendar and asked, "When do you plan to start promotions for Off-Road Motorbike?"
"Whatever. Just the usual routine promotion is fine." Kobayashi spread his hands.
Atlus had been around for a year now and had already released several titles. After Jörmungandr launched not long ago, the brand effect had begun to take shape. There was no need to run large-scale promotions for every single game.
Kobayashi Tetsu dared say that as long as the name Atlus hung outside a game shop, even if the game were a pile of garbage, players would still buy it just to see how it tasted.
—Of course, if it really were garbage, they wouldn't buy the next one, and Atlus's reputation would be ruined. Kobayashi wasn't stupid enough to kill the golden goose.
He didn't place much weight on Off-Road Motorbike. What he really cared about was the AI program Kojima was experimenting with, and the game he intended to promote heavily for the MS—Sonic the Hedgehog.
For that project, the old three-step plan was essential:
Anime. Merchandise. Game.
"When can Off-Road Motorbike be released?" he asked the crucial question.
"Normally the schedule would push it to around September or October," Tanaka said. "But since it's Atlus, we can reserve an August slot."
Kobayashi nearly laughed. So you're packaging something already decided as a personal favor? How pointless.
He was sure that even without the pretext, the game would still have met the August release.
Large companies always kept some slack in their pipelines—rarely did they run production at full capacity. Only Nintendo would go all-out for a Mario title, mobilizing the entire company when necessary.
Tanaka forced a smile and suddenly felt the top of his bald head turn cold.
"All right, August won't be a problem. Everything else will follow our usual process. Sound good?"
Kobayashi nodded.
The matter of Off-Road Motorbike was wrapped up. The rest no longer required his attention.
Estimating the time, he bid farewell to Tanaka Minoru and headed to the console hardware division.
Come to think of it, Kentarō hardly went home anymore—he seemed to live at Sega.
When they suddenly ran into each other, Kentarō looked even more surprised than Kobayashi.
"Tetsu? What brings you here?" He quickly pulled up a weary smile. "Atlus's big boss still has time to visit me?"
Kobayashi opened his mouth to reply, then his gaze drifted downward.
"What happened to your hand?"
"Nothing. A machine glitched a few days ago and pinched me." Kentarō brushed it off, slipping his right hand into his pocket to hide the bruising. He chuckled. "You came at a rare time, but there are some things I can't show you. I can give you a tour of the rest, though."
He leaned closer, hooked an arm around Kobayashi's shoulder with his left hand, and lowered his voice. "I signed NDAs for certain projects. If you don't have the clearance, I can't talk—even with family."
Kobayashi understood perfectly. He wasn't here for secrets anyway.
"I want the development kit for Sega's next-gen machine."
He got straight to the point. "The console isn't out yet, but the development environment should already exist."
Kentarō's expression tightened, turning serious.
The MS console was Sega's first true competitor to the FC—a real second-generation system after the SG line. Companies dealing with hardware always kept technical reserves. What reached the market was usually just the earliest model; later iterations were already waiting behind the scenes.
Sega wasn't deep-pocketed enough to hide several generations of tech, but when the SG-1000 launched, they already had SG-3000 and MS research tracks running.
Originally, Sega had intended to release the 3000 model, but switched to the 1000 at the last minute to counter Nintendo.
Kentarō stopped walking and looked at Kobayashi with utmost seriousness.
"You can use the SG dev kit directly. That's all I can say. But I can tell you this—go ahead and plan for a larger cartridge capacity. And your assets can be more detailed. You don't need to hold back for SG specifications."
Kobayashi nodded.
That was enough.
Though bound by secrecy, Kentarō had already made everything clear:
The two generations' dev environments were similar—later, the games might only need simple adaptation.
And the MS cartridges would support more capacity—not just 40 KB.
More space meant richer content, better audio, and more ambitious designs.
Kobayashi bowed his head slightly.
"I understand."
As he prepared to leave, he suddenly paused.
"You're not buying medicine?"
"No time. I have to oversee both sides of the work. I can't leave."
"I'll go buy it for you."
Kentarō hesitated, then nodded.
"Be careful."
It was only injury ointment—nothing dangerous. He simply didn't know what else to say.
In just a year, Kobayashi Tetsu had become someone he could no longer fully see through.
Sega's headquarters was temporarily located in Sumitomo Construction's Kōten Building, a seven-story campus. Sega's PR department, First Software Division, and administration were there, while manufacturing and sales—cartridge factories included—were in other districts. Only many years later, after building a new HQ in Shinagawa, would everything finally be consolidated.
Leaving the campus, Kobayashi suddenly felt a twinge of regret. He didn't quite know why he had blurted out something like that.
"Why am I buying medicine? What's it got to do with me? I'm not the one who's injured."
He muttered to himself, but still asked around for the nearest community clinic.
Such clinics weren't large—they handled headaches, colds, minor injuries, stitches—nothing complicated. They were the best place for picking up basic medicine.
"Takamine Internal Medicine Clinic? They should have bruise-healing ointments, I guess."
Kobayashi stepped through the doors of the small neighborhood hospital.
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