In the cutthroat business world, such an counterintuitive decision was a breath of fresh air.
But upon closer reflection, this move would not only boost morale but also strengthen the reputation of the Sega brand.
During this critical period of transition between old and new, maintaining team cohesion was far more important than saving tens of millions of Japanese Yen on GG fees.
"I understand," Oguchi Hisao said, closing his notebook. His eyes now held a hint of admiration. "I'll immediately inform the Public Relations Department and have them revise the promotional plan. We'll ensure Heirs of Light has no rivals this autumn."
"That's the spirit," Takuya Nakayama said, settling back into his chair.
After discussing the treatment of veteran employees, Nakayama shifted the topic and tapped the date circled in red on the desk calendar.
"The second Monday of next month is the Jupiter press conference. This is our first major gift to Sony. If the event doesn't generate buzz, I'll hold you personally responsible."
Oguchi Hisao, clearly prepared, quickly flipped to the back of his notebook. "The PR department confirmed with me yesterday that the Peacock Hall at the Imperial Hotel, Tokyo, was booked three months ago. The audio and lighting equipment we've secured is the top-tier available right now—more than enough for a live rock concert."
As he spoke, he pulled a neatly folded A3 color printout from a compartment in his notebook, along with a floor plan covered in technical specifications, and presented them with both hands on the desk.
"Here's the first draft of the stage design. Please take a look."
Takuya Nakayama took the drawings and glanced over them.
Instead of the usual floral arrangements and streamers of a traditional press conference, the center of the stage featured a large, deep black backdrop accented by flowing blue light ribbons. A sharp, ethereal blue beam descended vertically from above, perfectly enveloping the cube covered in a black cloth at the stage's center. The surrounding area was adorned with minimalist geometric light and shadow, devoid of unnecessary ornamentation, yet exuding an air of aloof sophistication.
"This is interesting," Takuya Nakayama's eyebrows rose. He traced the blue light circle with his finger. "These designers have finally gotten with the program. Their old, rigid style was giving me eye strain."
"The designer said that the Jupiter's casing itself is matte black, and when combined with this cool-toned soft lighting, it best highlights the concept of a technological marvel from deep space," Oguchi Hisao added, observing his superior's expression. "Moreover, this blue corresponds to the Great Red Spot on Jupiter, symbolizing that we're about to stir up a storm in this industry."
"Whether he truly understands it or just made it up, I buy this narrative," Takuya Nakayama nodded in satisfaction, slapping the design draft onto the table. "Remember, we need to convey just two words to the media and players: 'Future.' None of that fancy jargon or bowing and scraping. When the lights come on and the machines are displayed, let the performance speak for itself. Of course, we still need to highlight MD's glorious history."
He paused, his gaze sharpening. "By the way, have the invitations been sent to Ken Kutaragi?"
Oguchi Hisao blinked in surprise, then a playful smile spread across his lips. "Sent. And we've specifically reserved the front row, center seat—directly below your podium."
"Beautiful work," Takuya Nakayama laughed, leaning back in his chair as if he could already see the scene playing out. "Let him get a close look at the pressure our next-generation console will put on him."
Speaking of which, we must mention the final design of the Jupiter's casing.
The black console now sitting on Nakayama's desk was a seamless, monolithic piece, as cold and stark as obsidian dredged from the deep sea.
But heaven knows that just a few months ago, when the Hardware Development Department brought the first engineering prototype into his office, they almost made him laugh out loud.
Hideki Sato had entered, cradling a cardboard box like a precious treasure. When he lifted the lid, he revealed a lumpy, grayish-white mass of plastic.
"Managing Director, this is the 'stardust gray' we developed based on the Jupiter concept," Sato had said, gushing with enthusiasm. "Not only is it dirt-resistant, but this mold injection method also has the highest yield rate."
Nakayama, who was holding a can of cola at the time, nearly crushed it.
What stardust gray? he thought. This looks like they melted down the PC-98 keyboard next door and recast it.
The persistent, cheap plastic feel—far from representing the "future"—made the console look like unsold inventory from the last century, even on the store shelves.
"Mr. Sato, what do you think the first reaction will be when players spend a fortune on this thing and take it home?" Takuya Nakayama tapped the drab gray casing, producing a hollow, brittle clatter. "They'll think they've bought an expensive, oversized lunchbox."
Hideki Sato's smile froze. "But—the internal structure is already finalized. The cooling channels and motherboard mounting points are fixed. If we change the mold structure now, the production line will be shut down for two months. We'll definitely miss the launch date."
"Who said anything about changing the structure?" Takuya sighed, pulled a Mark marker from his pen holder, and drew a circle around the prototype. "I want a skin job, not a skeleton transplant."
As a time traveler who had seen everything from the garish, light-polluting consoles of the future to the minimalist industrial designs of the present, and who had even been a Razer user—a company known for its RGB lighting—Takuya's mind brimmed with ideas.
Since a major overhaul was out of the question, it was time for some visual deception.
"First, get rid of this damn gray.
I want black. Pure black, with a matte, frosted finish." Takuya spoke rapidly, sketching on the blueprint. "The texture should be like high-end audio equipment, not like those plastic-y washing machines and other household appliances."
"And here," he said, tapping his pen at the seam between the power button and the optical drive cover. "Cut out this panel and replace it with transparent acrylic. We'll embed a set of LEDs underneath, in that 'Jupiter Blue' we discussed earlier."
Hideki Sato stared, bewildered. "Lights inside the console? Won't that be... too flashy? And it'll increase the cost."
"It's about creating an atmosphere. Cost? How much could a few diodes cost?" Takuya Nakayama slapped the heavily modified sketch back into Sato's hands. "Remember, don't print the logo—make it hollow. Let the blue light from below seep through the acrylic and bleed along the edges of the logo. When the player presses the power button, this machine should feel like it's breathing."
Though full of doubt and convinced the plan was somewhat unorthodox, Hideki Sato gritted his teeth and followed through.
A week later, when the improved V2 prototype was delivered and powered on, the entire Hardware Department fell silent.
In the dim laboratory, the matte black machine lay quietly.
As power flowed through it, a faint, cool blue glow slowly illuminated the semi-transparent acrylic panel. The Sega logo floated within the blue light, exuding an aura of mystery and sci-fi.
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