Chapter 8: Found a Job
For a brief moment, Chihara Rinto allowed himself to feel elated. But he had no intention of getting drenched. This was the only decent outfit he owned, and dry cleaning wasn't in his budget. He rushed to catch the train home, but just as he stepped out of the station, the rain began to pour—sudden and relentless, with fat droplets pelting down like bullets.
At that moment, all semblance of maturity vanished. Chihara Rinto scrambled for cover, clutching his head as he sprinted toward his apartment. Fortunately, it wasn't far. He managed to make it inside before he was completely soaked.
He lived in an aging residential area of Meguro Ward, likely destined to be demolished after the year 2000 to make way for skyscrapers. Knowing this didn't help; Japan's real estate bubble had burst long ago. Prices had plummeted, with minor fluctuations along the way, but by 2019 they still hadn't recovered. Hoping to profit from property investments here was nothing short of delusional.
In Japan, housing had transitioned from an investment asset to a consumer good. Buy a house for 50 million yen, live in it for two years, and its value might drop to 45 million. Forget about turning a profit—maintaining value was challenge enough.
Chihara Rinto climbed to the third floor and entered his small studio apartment. Typically rented to students from out of town, the unit required three months' deposit and six months' rent upfront. After being expelled from university, the original Chihara Rinto had stayed put, unable—or unwilling—to move elsewhere.
He peeled off his shoes and socks, carefully hanging up his suit jacket, vest, and shirt to dry. Then he settled at the desk, clad only in shorts. The room contained little else—a chair, an electric kettle, a few cups and dishes, and a futon rolled up in the corner. Everything else had been sold to fund his networking efforts. Had the desk and chair not been fixtures of the apartment, he likely would have sold them too.
Now, the desk was cluttered with stacks of manuscript paper and pens. The original Chihara Rinto, unable to cope with his fall from grace, had spent his days cooped up writing aimlessly. Those supplies now belonged to him.
Spinning a capped ballpoint pen between his fingers, Chihara Rinto sat hunched over a sheet of paper, reviewing the conversation he'd had with Murakami Iori earlier that evening. Was there anything amiss? His approach to work was methodical, rooted in five key steps:
Set a Goal: Understand what you need and want. Face Reality: Assess whether the goal is realistic. Evaluate the environment, anticipate challenges, and weigh your strengths and weaknesses. Plan: Break down the tasks required to achieve the goal into discrete events, prioritize them, and prepare contingency plans for potential setbacks. Execute: Follow through on the plan without excuses or delays. Accept Results: Regardless of success or failure, calmly accept the outcome, reflect deeply, and use it to inform future goals.
These principles had guided him since childhood. From a modest single-parent household, he'd navigated life's hurdles—including the loss of his father during high school, which cut off their primary source of income. Yet, he persevered, earning admission to a prestigious university while juggling part-time jobs to cover tuition and living expenses. By his sophomore year, he was already assisting directors on film sets, groomed as a protégé.
Now, thrust into this parallel world, he applied the same discipline. To secure employment, he'd done everything within his power.
After reviewing his notes, he concluded that the plan had executed flawlessly—even better than expected. Many contingencies hadn't been necessary. Folding the paper, he set it aside. For now, all he could do was wait three days.
Shifting focus, he pulled out another outline and jotted down a few lines. Closing his eyes, he began recalling details from his past life. As a diligent student of film and television, he'd studied neighboring countries' cultural and entertainment landscapes. What new program formats gained traction? Could they be adapted or transplanted? What psychological triggers resonated with audiences?
His mind brimmed with fragments of knowledge—bestselling books, hit songs, manga classics, historical contexts, cultural nuances. Japan, China, and Korea shared intertwined entertainment ecosystems, and he'd memorized plenty about them. If fate had sent him to Seoul instead of Tokyo, he'd have thrived there too.
Though he couldn't reproduce every detail verbatim, memories remained vivid in this early phase of his arrival. Capturing the essentials now might prove invaluable later. Preparation was key; laziness led only to regret.
Since realizing his predicament, he'd been tirelessly documenting these recollections.
"Occasional flashes of light may leave one lonelier than eternal darkness. To glimpse hope, then watch it fade—that cuts deepest…"
"Who wrote that poem again? Never mind, jot it down…"
"Oh, right—Don't Bundle Me Up, a modern classic Japanese high schools require students to memorize. Gotta note that. Memory's fuzzy; fill in gaps later."
"Misaka Mikoto's theme song, Electric Sparks at Her Fingertips… Does it still matter if A Certain Scientific Railgun doesn't exist here?"
"What major global events happened in 1995? Windows 95 launch? Rise of personal computers? Internet penetration? Birth of Java? WTO formation? Collapse of Barings Bank? Will any of this occur in this parallel world? Write it down; compare later."
The night stretched endlessly as he labored over bridging two worlds' cultures. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he collapsed onto the futon.
The next morning, he awoke early, wolfed down a bowl of instant noodles, and resumed his work. With nothing to do but await Murakami Iori's response, he had no choice but to continue dredging his memory. Back in his old life, the internet served as external storage—he'd rarely saved texts locally, prioritizing disk space for video files. Now, he relied solely on recall.
If only he'd known he'd cross dimensions, he might have cleared some space for an e-library. Alas, hindsight was useless.
For two full days, he holed up indoors, surviving on six servings of instant noodles. Just as he began worrying whether her proposal had passed muster, the apartment manager knocked on his door.
"Chihara-san, you have a call." The manager rapped once and left. Landlines were common in this era, especially among those without mobile phones. Given the manager's disdain for the original Chihara Rinto, a perfunctory knock sufficed.
Chihara Rinto quickly dressed and headed to the management office. After thanking the manager, he steadied himself, picked up the receiver, and asked evenly, "Hello, this is Chihara. Who am I speaking with?"
"It's me, Murakami from TEB. Sorry to disturb you so late, Chihara-san, but I wanted to give you some advance notice."
"The proposal went through?"
Murakami Iori's excitement crackled through the line. Regardless of ratings, she'd taken a significant step forward in her career. At just twenty-five or twenty-six, she'd become a producer—a rare feat for a woman. The programming committee had hesitated, wary of entrusting such responsibility to someone so young. Producers faced immense pressure, and 99% were men. Her request to hire an unaffiliated screenwriter raised eyebrows further.
Yet, her proposal impressed them. It was well-reasoned, the scripts intriguing, and the requested late-night slot inconsequential. Budget constraints minimized risk. Approval came grudgingly—a modest gamble at best. Success would yield modest returns; failure wouldn't sting.
Relief washed over Murakami Iori, morphing into exhilaration. "It passed," she confirmed, voice tinged with pride. "Tomorrow, I'll start securing funding, equipment, locations, and staff…" She paused thoughtfully. "Can you come to headquarters by 8:30 a.m.? We'll finalize the contract."
I could go now, Chihara Rinto thought, suppressing the urge to say so aloud. Instead, he replied smoothly, "Sure, 8:30 a.m. tomorrow—I'll be there on time."
"That's great," Murakami Iori sighed with relief. Though unfamiliar with Chihara Rinto, she'd wagered half her career on this venture. Should he vanish or demand renegotiation, complications loomed. Still, something about his demeanor reassured her. Securing the contract promptly eased anxieties.
Satisfied he wasn't causing trouble, she probed further. "Are you still working on the script, Chihara-san?"
"Well…" Truthfully, he hadn't written a word. Hedging slightly, he said, "I'm progressing steadily. Fresh inspiration struck recently, and I'm slowly committing it to paper."
"How's it going?"
"Very smoothly!" Recalling fragmented audiovisual materials posed challenges, but confidence bolstered him. He trusted his ability to deliver.
"See you at 8:30 tomorrow morning. Don't forget your seal!" In Japan, seals held greater legal weight than signatures.
"Got it!"
Hanging up, Chihara Rinto clenched his fist tightly. The result was excellent. Finally, income awaited. At least he wouldn't face eviction for failing to pay next month's rent.
The first step toward integration had gone seamlessly. Cause for celebration!
A bright smile lit his face. Nearby, the apartment manager glanced up curiously from his newspaper. In his recollection, this Chihara fellow was perpetually gloomy, holed up in his room. Seeing him radiate vitality felt unexpected.
Setting the paper aside, the manager ventured, "Good news, Chihara-san?"
Chihara Rinto, preparing to leave, grinned. "Found a job."
"That's wonderful!" The manager beamed. Amidst widespread unemployment, landing a position was rare indeed. "Where's the job? Any benefits? How are the terms?"
"At TEB. Benefits seem decent." Social insurance mattered less to him; opening this door meant monetizing his transmigration advantage. Hardship endured hadn't been in vain.
"Good luck! Work hard!" The fifty-something manager, exuding Showa-era earnestness, offered encouragement.
"I will," Chihara Rinto replied, nodding with a smile before departing.
Of course, he'd work hard. The cost of his journey here was unspeakably steep. Short of overturning heaven and earth, he wouldn't find balance.