The Green Prototype
“If you’re coming, follow me!”
The secret room wasn’t far. It was the same multimedia room where Yoo Jae-won had once shown Ken Kutaragi the Joypad loaded with Doom and Live Force Feedback. Even back then, it had housed a massive projector boasting the highest resolution of its era and professional-grade AV equipment renowned for its superior sound quality. Upgrades had continued steadily since. Yoo Jae-won usually played games on his personal workstation in the study, but when he set aside time to truly indulge, he came here. And more often than not, he wasn’t alone—Tiffany was with him. She frequently used the room for music and film, so its recent renovations reflected her refined taste, giving the space an unmistakably sophisticated air.
“Whoa!”
Oh Jung-geun and his four teammates couldn’t help but gasp. The room didn’t contain a single trace of the word “value.” Oh Jung-geun, who had a particular interest in AV, felt his eyes spinning. The projector suspended from the ceiling was a model he’d never seen before, and its sheer size was extraordinary. He recognized the speakers at a glance: Focal’s Grand Utopia I. They were the dream speakers of a man who had fallen into the world of AV alongside gaming. The amplifiers driving them and the receivers handling various inputs were equally impressive. Yet what instantly seized Oh Jung-geun’s attention was the green circuit board placed at the center of the multimedia room.
“This is the prototype Xbox. I’ve matched the specs as closely as possible to what I promised at IDDC 99.”
The other team members, who had been mesmerized by the room’s equipment, turned their gazes to the green board as Yoo Jae-won continued. It looked unmistakably like a temporary board. Large sections of the motherboard were empty, with only the CPU, GPU, and chipset handling input/output occupying prominent positions. The expansion slot areas that normally took up significant space on a computer motherboard were entirely absent, leaving the board looking hollow. In their place, a massive cooler sat where the CPU should be—enormous, almost like an eight-cylinder car engine, and visibly heavy. A slightly smaller cooler was attached to the graphics card.
“It may not look like much, but it boots and runs games. The specs are above average, too. Keep in mind, though, that these specs aren’t finalized yet.”
Yoo Jae-won spoke about the Xbox prototype with the pride of a parent. He didn’t worry in the slightest that his employees might see him as boastful. The prototype’s level of completion was genuinely worth showing off. The Xbox project had first been announced at IDDC 99, and now, just over a month later, a concrete system had been completed. It was a striking display of ID Group’s extraordinary execution speed. Any other company would still be stuck in the design phase. Yet nothing about it felt half-baked. The CPU was AMD’s dual-core system running at 800 MHz, exactly as promised at IDDC 99. The GPU was NVIDIA’s latest GeForce model. System memory stood at 128 megabytes, with 64 megabytes of dedicated video memory for the GPU. In terms of memory capacity, it fell slightly short of the latest computers—1999’s high-end PCs came with 256 megabytes as standard, and premium video cards offered 128 megabytes. A DVD-ROM drive had been installed as the optical drive, bearing the clear logo of Geumseong Electronics. It wasn’t chosen because it was an official Xbox component; it was simply the most readily available and affordable option at computer shops.
Overall, the Xbox’s specs were the highest among game consoles, but when compared to computers, only the CPU stood at the top. By the 2000 launch, higher-spec systems would be even more widespread, and memory capacity would likely double, leaving the console behind quickly. However, computers were general-purpose systems designed for stable execution of all kinds of applications, while the Xbox was a system built solely for games. That distinction meant far greater potential for optimization.
As soon as Yoo Jae-won finished outlining the prototype’s specs, he powered it on. Interestingly, the power switch was a toggle lever that flipped up or down. Since it was a nude system without a case, a proper switch couldn’t be installed. The researchers at the High-Tech Lab who had built the prototype had simply scavenged a toggle switch from somewhere and attached it. The switch might have been outdated, but the system itself was cutting-edge.
After powering on, the projector’s blue screen gave way to a boot sequence. The screen turned green, then rippled like waves before splitting open. A deep golden light burst through the crack, forming the shape of an X. The boot screen was simple, but rendered in 32-bit color computer graphics, it was impressive enough. The gradient shadows were smooth, and the way the golden light radiated felt natural.
Click-click. The hard drive whirred loudly as the boot process finished, revealing the desktop. Unlike the Android operating system, the desktop was minimal—only three large icons labeled Games, Store, and Settings. There was still plenty of room for future changes. The current operating system was little more than a customized version originally made for Sony’s PlayStation 1, with an ME kernel transplanted and the desktop slightly modified. Having worked with multiple game consoles, Yoo Jae-won had no trouble implementing an efficient interface.
“Shall we run the game demo?”
With the boot complete, Yoo Jae-won inserted a blank CD into the DVD-ROM drive. It only looked blank; it was actually a CD-R containing specific data. The system recognized the disc and launched it automatically.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The title screen burst forth with chest-rattling sound effects. The massive screen filled with the words DOOM III—the alpha test version of Doom 3, which ID Software was currently developing. Though it was only an alpha, the game’s polish was evident in the interplay of light and shadow, enhanced by dazzling polygons and high-resolution textures that elevated the destructive visuals of the previous installment. Oh Jung-geun felt his heart might burst. He couldn’t tell whether it was from the vibration produced by speakers worth hundreds of millions of won or from a gamer’s pure excitement. But one thing was certain: the Xbox’s domination of the next-generation console market was no pipe dream.
A few hours later.
Oh Jung-geun and his team had spent the afternoon thoroughly enjoying Doom 3 on the prototype Xbox in the multimedia room—which could easily have been called a game room. Though only Stage 1 had been implemented and many areas remained sparsely populated, the game lived up to its status as a national classic, and everyone had a great time. Afterward, Yoo Jae-won joined Oh Jung-geun’s team for lunch. That marked the end of their official schedule. It was still technically working hours, but crossing the Pacific by plane wasn’t an ordinary feat, so he had arranged for them to rest early.
He asked Kim Dae-seok to escort Oh Jung-geun’s team to their accommodations. Their lodging was the grand mansion Yoo Jae-won had prepared as a wedding gift when Remington got married. Perched on a hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, the house was built on an enormous scale, almost like a castle. After Remington declined it as too burdensome, it had been converted into a hotel for ID Group employees. It now served as a reward for outstanding performers or temporary housing for staff traveling from afar, like Oh Jung-geun’s team. Meanwhile, an office space for the Xbox team was being prepared in one wing of ID Technology’s new headquarters. Even though Yoo Jae-won preferred online work, he couldn’t ignore the synergy that came from team members working together in one place. Once the office was ready, the Xbox team members would be gathered for orientation before beginning official operations. Until then, Oh Jung-geun’s team would stay at the hotel.
Ding!
After several dozen minutes, an ID Talk notification sounded on Yoo Jae-won’s T-Touch Phone. It was Chief of Staff Kim Dae-seok.
—Team Leader Oh and his team have arrived safely at the residence.
“Understood. Thank you for your work. You should head home as well, Chief of Staff.”
—There’s still an hour left in the workday.
“It’s only an hour. I’ll be working from home today anyway, so there’s no need to return. The weather’s nice—why not take your wife out for dinner?”
—I see. Thank you for your consideration. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.
Yoo Jae-won had specifically assigned this task to Kim Dae-seok instead of another subordinate so he could show this consideration. Thanks to the recent video meeting with Choi Kang-wook, which had ended on an awkward note, Yoo Jae-won now had the mental space to look around him. Kim Dae-seok had caught his attention on his newly sharpened radar. Kim Dae-seok was someone Yoo Jae-won had played matchmaker for. The couple was still deeply in love, yet they had no children. Asking when they planned to have kids would be meddlesome, but he couldn’t help reflecting on whether he had overburdened Kim Dae-seok with work. Every other employee was guaranteed an eight-hour workday, and even contract executives were now being looked after—yet Kim Dae-seok, who followed him like a shadow, had always been the exception. It might be worth expanding the secretarial staff and assigning multiple executive assistants. After all, the goal was to live well and enjoy life; no one should work themselves to death. Of course, Yoo Jae-won himself was the exception to that rule.
After sending Kim Dae-seok home early, Yoo Jae-won returned to his study. He woke his computer from sleep mode and resumed work. Playing with the team in the multimedia room had put him slightly behind schedule. He immediately opened his inbox and selected the item marked as important. The sender was the Strategic Planning Office, and the subject was “Weekly Activity Report for New Launch Services.” The title was odd, but the document contained performance metrics and notable points for new services such as Nextcom Mobile Service, Next Answer, TokTok, and N Pay. He downloaded the attached IDW file and opened it. Switching to viewer mode, supported since ID Office ME, made reading the electronic document much easier.
“Hmm. The mobile page is performing exactly as expected.”
The viewer count for Nextcom’s mobile page was just under one million—roughly 14 percent of T-Touch Phone adoption, precisely as anticipated. The T-Touch Phone, with its large screen and full-touch web browser optimized for the interface, was certainly capable of internet use. However, the 2G mobile network environment carried the Achilles’ heel of speed, which inevitably limited user numbers. Next year would bring IMT-2000, enabling video calls, and from that point onward, Nextcom’s mobile page would truly gain momentum.
TokTok had exceeded expectations. Yoo Jae-won’s all-out effort to recruit celebrities had paid off. While some had tried it for a few days and moved on, a significant number had quickly grown accustomed to TokTok. These were people who understood the importance of communicating with the public, and TokTok’s simple interface helped them adapt rapidly. Among TokTok’s top users, some had already posted thousands of toks despite the service being only a month old. Following someone on TokTok indicated a highly dedicated fan, so every post received immediate positive responses. This had led to users sending several toks per day.
The problem, as always, was that where there was light, there was also shadow—and side effects were beginning to surface on TokTok. Specifically in Korea. Korea served as ID Group’s test field and first-party market. In other words, whenever ID Group launched a new service or product, Korea received it at the same time as the United States. Some services even launched in Korea first. The T-Touch Phone, for instance, had gone on sale simultaneously in the U.S. and through TG Mobile in Korea. TokTok was no exception. Its official Korean-language service had launched immediately following the IDDC 99 announcement. Marketing had been similar to the U.S. campaign. Celebrities from music, acting, and various other fields had started using TokTok. Politicians had joined as well. Members of the Unification National Party, in particular, had all created TokTok accounts and begun communicating with the public. Idols from Dream Entertainment—the agency Yoo Jae-won had acquired from LSM Entertainment and rebranded—had also started using TokTok. Among them was the official HxT account, which had once caused an enormous plagiarism scandal. The HxT members didn’t manage the account themselves; it had been created by their managers and A&R team to post selfies and updates and communicate with fans. More than six months had passed since they declared their hiatus, and it was time to begin preparing for a comeback. TokTok was the perfect platform for sharing the members’ current activities, so they had started posting—and apparently, it had turned into chaos.
“Let’s take a look.”
Yoo Jae-won opened his web browser and accessed HxT’s official TokTok account. What he found wasn’t the internet as he knew it. It was a battlefield—a cyber war between an enormous idol fandom and an even larger anti-fan group, a world of pure chaos.