The Father of Super Orlando
"Hyeon-gang?"
The man from Daisho plainly had no idea what Hyeon-gang was. Even so, words like group and third-generation heir, together with the interpreter's almost reverent manner, seemed to have left him certain that he was in the presence of someone who mattered.
"It means a chaebol."
That must have been answer enough. He dug frantically through his jacket pockets.
"M-my card... where did I put the thing..."
He drew out his wallet and, from somewhere deep inside it, produced a single slip of paper.
"Ah—I still haven't had American cards printed. We don't even have a proper office, so a pamphlet has had to stand in for now. In a pinch, this will have to do..."
What he handed over was a Japanese business card, the name written in kanji.
Miyamoto Hideo
"You can read it as Miyamoto Hideo."
I had doubted it and doubted it again. And still I ended up hearing that name.
"You're saying you're Miyamoto Hideo?"
"Y-yes, of course. Is there... s-some kind of problem...?"
A problem? Hardly. I was simply too delighted.
The father of Super Orlando. Miyamoto Hideo.
No. That Hideo? Out here in America, pounding the pavement for sales?
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Hideo, from the look of him, was every bit as dumbfounded as I was.
"I-I only came to sell arcade boards, and here I am meeting a chaebol. It's an honor."
"Shall we step outside? I'd rather talk somewhere quiet."
At that, Hideo hurriedly gathered his things.
We left the arcade together, and not a single thing had been decided. Half of me wanted to invest. The other half wanted to quit before I pulled any aggro. Even as the pendulum of desire swung hard from one side to the other, I kept my feet moving.
"How about here?"
"Anywhere is fine with me."
We ended up at a café nearby. The interpreter and I sat side by side, and Hideo took the seat opposite, alone. Everyone ordered an Americano. Naturally, I was the one to speak first.
"You must have been pretty shocked."
"Pardon? Ah, well... I suppose so. I thought you were an ordinary student. It was a little unsettling."
I gave him a brief account of why I had come to America—the business of selling paintings. Hideo, as expected, looked more than a little thrown.
"Do chaebol families all start businesses while they're still students?"
"No. I'm a special case."
"Ah. I see."
Hideo could not have been much past thirty. He didn't have a great deal of experience in the world, and an atmosphere like this would sit awkwardly on him. I took my time and led the conversation.
"Have I introduced myself enough?"
"Yes. Q-quite enough."
"Then shall I hear your side of it, Mr. Hideo?"
"Mine?"
I nodded.
"Hmm."
Perhaps he assumed all of this had something to do with an investment. Hideo began to speak as clearly and carefully as he could.
"Fortunately, the company seems to have thought well of me. They appointed me head of the American branch. Well—head in name only. I don't actually have much authority."
"And support from headquarters?"
"Next to none, you could say."
"Is the company in serious trouble?"
"Until a few years ago we were a company that sold toys. We're not exactly flush with cash."
Toys. As far as I knew, Daisho was a firm that made hanafuda—those traditional Japanese flower cards.
"So that's why the employees are out doing the sales themselves?"
"Yes. For the moment. If we can move about five thousand units, we might bring in a distributor and try to grow the operation... but that will take quite a while."
In short, they lacked the seed money even to dream of help from a professional firm. The staff were on their feet, handling sales and promotion at once.
Anyone can see they're desperate for an investor.
"The pamphlet said Daisho America. Did you set up a corporation separate from headquarters?"
"Yes. It's a company run independently of Japan."
"And I suppose that's the excuse for getting no support from the home office."
"Well, yes."
Even I, who knew nothing about business, could see how appetizing the thing looked—if I may put it that way. Daisho in Japan was a company of real size. Daisho America, by contrast, was barely a corner shop. Put money in now, and I would be a founding investor, the sort they carved into the origin story.
I don't even need that much.
Just drop in a few million dollars. Barely that—if you could call it barely. From then on, the profits rolling out of North America would be mine to share, on and on and on. Nothing short of a golden goose.
The pendulum that had been swinging left and right suddenly lurched hard to one side. If it weren't for the aggro, I would have been writing a contract on the spot. Honestly.
I forced my heart back into line and asked.
"May I ask something personal?"
"Ah. Yes."
Perhaps he thought that I, as an investor, was about to inquire into a partner's philosophy of business. Once again he opened his mouth with great care. Curiosity had hold of me, and I asked.
"...?"
"I got so buried in college that I drifted a long way from my dream. I came to my senses and found I'd already turned into an ordinary man just making a living."
Hideo nodded at my question.
Unlike when he had been speaking of the company's affairs, a keen light gathered in his eyes.
"No. Story is a tool. A tool for giving a character its nature."
"So what matters most, in the end, is the character?"
"Yes. That's how I see it."
Perhaps he felt he had said far too much that no one needed. Hideo moved to cut himself short. My feeling was the exact opposite.
It's only just getting interesting...
Chances to hear Hideo's philosophy from his own mouth were hardly common.
"I'd like to hear more. About characters. The plumber I played earlier was really cute, too."
"Ah. That fellow's name is Super Orlando."
There it was at last. Super Orlando!
"It isn't in the official setting. It's a name I gave him myself... Ah, I-I've said something unnecessary. You probably aren't even curious."
"No. I'm the one who brought it up."
Hideo scratched the back of his head, shy, then hurried to add more, as if to smother the embarrassment. A character that lived and breathed.
"The character has to feel alive... Then the player can become one with that person. A kind of empathy. Because that's how you come to love a character..."
"So the ultimate goal is for the user to fall in love with the character."
"That's the very best outcome. Of course, there isn't a single right answer."
Hideo still looked embarrassed.
"I liked it. Very much."
"L-liked it? Everyone knows this."
Did they really? If everyone knew it, the way Hideo said, then everyone ought to have been making characters like Super Orlando. And the reality? Only Hideo had created characters that would be remembered for the rest of history. Two of them, no less.
I looked at Miyamoto Hideo, meaning to look calm. I tried, but a glint of respect must have shown in my eyes for a moment. There was something quietly moving in the fact that the man who had made those things was this pure.
Thanks to that, the pendulum in my chest could stop at last.
Then I made a small decision. I would walk the whole way beside this man's dream.
"You said you're the one in charge of Daisho America?"
"That's true, but it's a company of three people, including me..."
"I'd like to invest. Would it be all right to discuss that with you?"
"Pardon?"
The words he must have been waiting to hear all along. Sure enough, Hideo's Adam's apple jumped.
"A-an investment—what kind do you mean?"
"I'll pay every cost related to distribution and promotion."
"The costs... all of them?"
I nodded.
"Then what would we have to give you...?"
"We split the profits, of course."
"W-wait a moment."
Hideo gulped down the hot Americano in great swallows. I half thought the roof of his mouth must have been scalded raw, but he didn't seem to care.
"And if you don't turn a profit and the whole thing goes bust?"
"O-of course that could happen, but there's also such a thing as luck..."
He looked as if he still had more to say. I waited quietly, and at last he went on, careful.
"If, by some one-in-a-thousand chance, we take a loss... would I have to cough the investment back up?"
"Of course not. I'm the one taking on the risk. That's the condition for sharing in the profits."
Hideo looked ready to leap for joy. The reaction lasted only a moment. He swallowed the smile with an effort and asked.
"How should we divide the profits?"
"Seven to three seems about right."
"What? No—if you're the one bearing the risk, why a ratio like that...? You could take more..."
"Then shall we make it eight to two?"
For an instant, enormous bewilderment rose in the other man's eyes. He had innocently assumed the seven belonged to Daisho.
Sorry about that.
I had resolved to walk with his dream because I truly respected him. Even so.
The truth is, I know the future.
So a guide fee applies. Just a little.
Hideo, who of course had no way of knowing any of this, could only keep swallowing on a dry throat.