Takuya Nakayama was taken aback, finding the absurd logic surprisingly convincing.
That night, a few phone calls sent the elite circle of second-generation rich kids—who treated their cars like wives—into a frenzy.
"Really? The license plates can be used in the game? And they'll be visible globally?"
"Forget a couple of days—I'll lend you my car for half a month! But mine has a modified intake that sounds louder than the factory version. Make sure you capture that detail in the recordings!"
The following week, Sega Headquarters' underground parking garage transformed into a luxury car showroom.
Sound engineers trailed behind exhaust pipes, holding boom mics and inhaling dust. Programmers sat in passenger seats with laptops, recording data feedback.
This obsessive refinement resulted in an outrageous level of driving realism on the Model 2 board.
When players sat in the simulation cockpit and gripped the force-feedback steering wheel, they no longer felt like they were playing with a flimsy electronic toy.
The vibrations of the tires hitting the shoulder, the counterforce from the wheel during high-speed turns, even the jolt of shifting gears—it all felt so real it made their palms sweat.
This wasn't just a visual triumph; it was a physical-sensory knockout.
The driving dynamics had been refined to an exceptional degree, hinting at the level of innovation Ridge Racer had achieved in its heyday.
In the streets of Akihabara, the usual clamor of human voices was forcibly drowned out by a thunderous engine roar.
This wasn't ordinary noise; it was the distinctive gurgling growl of a V8 engine, deep and resonant, vibrating through the ground and into the soles of everyone's feet.
An office worker slurping ramen by the roadside was so startled that his chopsticks trembled, splashing broth onto his shirt. Just as he was about to curse, he froze, half a noodle dangling from his mouth.
On the giant screen overhead, a red Corvette C4 was cornering with precision, its tires biting into the apex.
The setting sun glinted off the car's paint, giving it a metallic sheen as solid and dense as a red-hot iron.
Then, the screen flickered, seamlessly transitioning from live-action footage to in-game gameplay. Except for the slightly angular palm trees lining the road, the car's dynamics remained remarkably unchanged.
The suspension compressed, the center of gravity shifted, and the heat radiating from the exhaust pipe distorted the air.
The otaku who had been debating the authenticity of various maid cafes moments before were now collectively speechless.
"Whoa—did the screen just switch?" A guy with thick-rimmed glasses pushed his glasses up his nose, disbelieving the footage he'd just seen. "That's not real-life footage, is it?"
"What are you talking about!" His companion pointed at the screen, spittle flying. "Look at the body roll during that corner, and the dust kicked up by the wheels—you think an arcade game could pull that off?"
This kind of raw, visceral visual violence was more effective than any slick marketing campaign.
For players accustomed to games that cobbled together matchbox cars from colorful blocks, footage so detailed you could see the paint reflecting the light felt like a dimensional leap.
Sure, if you looked closely, you'd notice the distant audience was just paper cutouts and the buildings along the track had a "budget" feel. But who cared?
At that moment, everyone's eyes were fixed on the steel beast dominating the center of the screen.
"Is that a Porsche 993? The new model that just came out this year!" Someone recognized the drifting, bug-eyed sports car on the screen, their voice cracking with excitement. "I've only seen it on car magazine covers—it's already in a game?"
"The texture... it feels like I can almost smell the gasoline."
Experienced players stared in awe at the car's cornering dynamics on the screen.
This wasn't the flimsy, ice-skating feel of before. The tires clung to the ground with such tenacious grip that the sensation seemed to leap off the screen.
"I heard Sega used the President's private car to collect data for this physics engine," someone muttered in the crowd.
"Really? They went that far?"
"No way! Look at the license plate—it's the exact same one from the live-action footage earlier!"
This illusion of "real and virtual combined" sent the crowd's adrenaline soaring.
In an era when sports cars were unaffordable, the chance to drive a multi-million yen supercar like this for just 100 yen, experiencing the thrill of flooring the pedal until it hit the tank—who could resist such temptation?
The crowd, originally planning to play a few rounds of Virtua Fighter 2, began to stir, their eyes instinctively scanning the lobby of Sega Building No. 1 for the custom racing cabinets.
"Don't push! Let me see that drift again!"
"What are you waiting for? If you're late, you won't even get to touch the steering wheel!"
Someone shouted, and the crowd instantly erupted like a disturbed beehive, surging toward the arcade entrance.
The engine sounds, which had been complained about as too noisy just moments before, now sounded like the most beautiful rallying cry.
Sega's move was ruthless.
They weren't just selling games; they were selling a cheap yet realistic "dream of speed."
But the arcade owners were destined to be disappointed. They were already busy calling Sega.
Within ten minutes of the GG broadcast, the phone lines at Sega's Sales Department began ringing incessantly.
Those same arcade owners, who normally haggled over every penny and complained about prices, now acted like wolves starved for three days.
Couldn't get through by phone? They'd drive there immediately.
Reservations and procedures meant nothing in the face of an automatic cash machine.
Yokohama Port, Sega Warehouse No. 3.
This was originally a logistics hub for storing discarded cabinets and spare parts. Black tire marks from forklifts still stained the concrete floor.
There were no flowers or red carpets, nor any uniformed hostesses to serve tea and water.
The massive iron gate stood open, the salty sea breeze whistling through, but the group of bosses, normally accustomed to exclusive clubs, remained remarkably composed.
In the center of the warehouse, twenty brand-new The Fast and the Furious twin-player wired arcade cabinets lined up in a row, their screens blazing with blinding light.
Several simple folding tables had been pushed together, behind which sat sweat-drenched salespeople, their tables piled high with order forms and calculators.
This was the new Sega—simple, brutal, and efficient.
"Don't crowd! Hey you, stop flicking cigarette ash on the machines!"
The security guard responsible for crowd control shouted with a voice louder than the PA system.
Boss Sato of a large chain arcade in Shinjuku elbowed his way to the front, ignoring the fact that the leather seat still had its protective plastic wrap, and plopped down.
"Insert coin! Hurry, give me a coin!"
A staff member beside him handed him a token.
Sato slammed his foot on the accelerator. The seat beneath him lurched violently, the high-frequency vibration from the engine's roar surging up his spine and straight to his skull.
He gripped the steering wheel as the Porsche 911 on the screen roared across the starting line.
The first turn.
Based on years of playing OutRun, Sato yanked the wheel hard, preparing for a sharp corner.
But the steering wheel suddenly resisted with surprising force, as if an invisible hand were wrestling with his.
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