Chihara Rinto hadn't exposed Michiko's secret. Even if he suggested now that they didn't need the girl anymore, Murakami and Fujii probably wouldn't agree—no, they definitely wouldn't. To them, Fukazawa Michiko was a goldmine of potential, ripe for exploitation.
He realized his mistake too late. He'd misjudged her entirely. This Fukazawa Michiko wasn't just an ordinary child; she seemed precocious, perhaps even teetering on the edge of rebellion—an archetype of those kids pushed too hard by overambitious parents. The kind who crumble under pressure, their fragile psyches bending toward darkness as they struggle to live up to impossible expectations.
It wasn't uncommon in the world of child stars. Most were thrust into adult roles far too young, swimming in waters meant for seasoned swimmers. By the time they grew up, many either spiraled into self-destruction or sank into depression. Their stories often ended tragically, leaving behind whispers of what could have been.
Chihara said nothing, regret gnawing at him but unable to change anything. After a long silence, he shrugged it off and returned to work. Over the next two days, he didn't see Michiko again. Then came the day when filming officially began.
For the first time, Chihara stepped into Studio 17, allocated to them by Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB). If the ratings held steady and seasons two and three materialized, they might end up spending a year or two here.
The studio sprawled like a giant warehouse. Near the entrance ran circular tracks for moving cameras smoothly across the floor. Suspended from the ceiling were arrays of lighting rigs and steel cables, ready to hoist wires for action sequences involving flight or acrobatics. On one side of the space, small cubicles served as temporary rest areas for actors—a necessity since most of their time was spent waiting between takes. Opposite these was a control room where technicians managed everything from lights to sound effects, simulating weather phenomena with the push of a button.
In the center stood three main sets. Dominating the space was a mock bus, its front section removed and mounted on a flatbed trailer. Without wheels or an engine, it was clearly designed purely for shooting convenience. As part of TEB's shared inventory, this prop would be reused countless times, saving money in the long run. Similar reusable assets included train carriages and airplane cabins, all passed down from one production to the next—a hallmark of Japan's efficient yet frugal TV-making system.
Of course, some directors insisted on authenticity, renting real buses or trains for shoots. But such extravagance came with complications—and costs—that smaller productions like theirs couldn't afford. Besides, safety concerns made studios preferable. Sure, filming in actual locations lent realism—as seen in the original version shot on a commuter train—but replicating that approach would bleed their already meager budget dry. For a shoestring operation like theirs, roughing it out in the studio was the only viable option.
Curious, Chihara wandered around the set. Beneath the bus, he discovered motorized mechanisms capable of simulating vibrations and jolts to mimic movement during travel. Blue screens covered the windows, awaiting post-production magic to fill in the scenery outside. Nearby, a modest stage had been erected for introductions and transitions within episodes. Across from it lay a composite hospital set destined for use in the first episode's opening skit. Prop masters scrambled to assemble the final pieces, ensuring the set remained modular for future reuse.
Facing these sets stood two stationary cameras alongside a monitor for the director, while a third camera awaited its turn on a track nearby. Above hung a mechanical arm equipped with rotating and swinging capabilities controlled remotely from the booth. Though unused for now, it loomed ominously overhead.
"Tales of the Unusual" felt like a patchwork quilt stitched together from scraps. The programming committee's funding allocation bordered on stingy, yet they provided ample manpower, free props, and equipment. When tallied up, the investment seemed adequate—but only because most resources were recyclable. Still, this perpetual reuse highlighted the penny-pinching nature of Japan's television industry. No wonder local production companies struggled to compete globally; shackled by cost constraints imposed by the very systems meant to support them.
Just as Chihara finished his cursory inspection, Murakami Iori called out, "Chihara, over here."
He hurried over to find Murakami directing assistants in arranging an altar. Three tiers rose before him: atop sat a languidly reclining doll with an oval face, jet-black hair cascading to her waist, dressed in a plain kimono. Below her knelt two more dolls clad in traditional red-and-white shrine maiden attire. The lowest tier displayed ritual tools, clear water, fresh flowers, and assorted sweets.
Chihara understood the purpose. Prayers for smooth filming and blockbuster success were common practice. He'd witnessed similar rituals elsewhere—even ones invoking Guan Yu, complete with incense-heavy ceremonies reminiscent of yakuza initiation rites. Yet, today's deity was unfamiliar. Turning to Murakami, he asked, "Who is this?"
Murakami clasped his hands together and murmured reverently, "Taema-hime, the Cloud Princess, patron goddess of performers."
Chihara drew a blank. Sensing his confusion, Murakami chuckled and launched into an explanation. "Legend has it that long ago, a king enraged a powerful monk. In retaliation, the monk sealed away a dragon god using sacred ropes, halting rain and plunging the land into drought. Famine spread, and the nation teetered on collapse."
Murakami straightened the offerings. "Taema-hime appeared, claiming to pray for her deceased husband. Her beauty and acting prowess entranced the monk, who vowed to marry her. On their wedding night, she tricked him into revealing the dragon god's location, freed the deity while he slept, and saved the realm from destruction."
"And then?" Chihara prompted.
"That's it," Murakami replied. "She vanished. Later generations honored her bravery, charm, and talent by calling her Taema-hime. Kabuki actors revered her, and today, she's considered the guardian spirit of entertainers."
Chihara nodded thoughtfully. The tale sounded familiar—was it Fahai and Xiaoqing? Regardless, it carried undeniable flair.
He studied the doll again, searching for the legendary allure that supposedly felled great sages. But no matter how he looked, it remained just an egg-faced mannequin, crudely crafted at best.
Noticing his intrigue, Murakami offered, "Want one for your home altar? We've got plenty—just bought a thousand. Taking one or two won't hurt."
So, she was disposable? Chihara's respect for Taema-hime plummeted three notches. Shaking his head, he declined. "No thanks, Murakami-san."
He didn't believe in such superstitions anyway. Back in his apartment, there used to be a small shrine, but he'd sold it off as scrap. There'd be nowhere to put another idol.
Murakami shrugged off the rejection. Seeing preparations complete, he gathered the crew for the ceremonial kickoff.
The team lined up in a triangular formation based on rank and seniority, with Murakami at the apex. Striking a gong, he led everyone in bowing their heads and praying for smooth filming and commercial triumph.
Chihara didn't mind participating. He bowed silently, hoping "Tales of the Unusual" would achieve decent ratings—not necessarily matching the original world's success but close enough.
Truthfully, he harbored doubts. In the original timeline, the show started almost accidentally—a producer cobbled together short stories from various writers and hired amateur actors. Its unexpected hit status felt like stumbling upon treasure. Now, with Murakami submitting formal proposals and securing budgets, failure would sting far worse. A well-intentioned effort yielding lackluster results would be tragic indeed.
Silently, Chihara prayed—not to any deity but for the crew to rise to the occasion.
Moments later, Murakami clapped twice, signaling the end of prayer. Two staffers brought forth a brazier, and the Taema-hime doll was ceremoniously burned.
Chihara couldn't help himself. Leaning toward Fujii Arima, he whispered, "Why burn it?"
Fujii shrugged uncertainly. "Maybe it's tradition? Something about sending a message to the divine? Or perhaps she returns to the heavens afterward?"
Chihara fell silent. Burning a thousand idols per shoot suddenly made sense—but wasn't it disrespectful to treat a national heroine so casually?
Despite strict fire regulations, the flames lasted barely two minutes before being extinguished with a fire extinguisher. Everyone watched indifferently as staff hauled away the remains. Tradition dictated the ritual; rules enforced safety afterward.
Japanese logic baffled him sometimes, yet the ceremony wasn't quite over. Crew members dismantled the altar and sprang back into action. Actor Takeda Kazuma stepped onto the mini-stage as Fujii directed cameras to focus on him.
A clapboard assistant emerged, holding the slate aloft. "Scene One, Take One. Five, four, three…"
The studio dimmed, spotlighting the stage. Dressed in a sleek black suit and sunglasses, Takeda strode confidently into the light. "The world brims with wonders," he intoned. "Some defy belief; others elicit laughter or tears…"
His monologue ended against a blue screen, signaling the close of the shot. In post-production, the footage would be transformed—turning him into a sleek black cat darting across the frame, made possible by the blue-screen backdrop.
Fujii called out, "Cut! Excellent!" The first scene wrapped flawlessly—a simple opener chosen deliberately to set a positive tone for the shoot.
Polite applause rippled through the room, lifting spirits noticeably. With the ritual concluded, regular filming commenced.
Fujii coordinated adjustments to lighting, sound, and camera angles. Makeup artists touched up Takeda's look, while assistant directors ushered extras aboard the bus to serve as human backdrops. Meanwhile, Fukazawa Michiko appeared at the edge of the set, clad in a pristine white dress.
Over at the hospital set, activity buzzed. Technicians marked paths for actors to follow. Parents, doctors, and grandparents rehearsed lines, with the latter lying motionless on a bed as makeup artists applied finishing touches.
Everyone moved with practiced efficiency, a testament to years of working within Japan's streamlined production model.
Unnoticed, Murakami slipped away to prepare for Episode Two. Time was tight—the first segment would wrap in a day and a half, followed by brief location shoots tomorrow morning. Assistant directors were already scouting sites.
Chihara settled into a chair behind Fujii, scribbling script notes while observing the chaos unfold. He'd arranged this arrangement with Murakami beforehand, gaining approval contingent on maintaining quality and output. Failure meant desk duty—or worse, confinement to a hotel room until inspiration struck.
Thankfully, Dual Focus allowed him to multitask effectively. Otherwise, his early career might've involved endless hours chained to a desk.
Soon, Takeda's scenes paused temporarily as crew members rearranged the stage. Cameras shifted focus to the bus, preparing to capture Michiko lost in thought by the window. Every passing minute drained the budget, heightening urgency.
Michiko performed admirably, resting her chin on her hand and gazing wistfully outside. Yet, Fujii abruptly halted the take.
Confused, Michiko stood quickly, glancing nervously at her frowning mother among the crew. She bowed apologetically to Fujii. "I'm sorry, Director. Did I make a mistake?"
Chihara detected no issue. The sequence required Michiko to walk, sit, and pose naturally for extended close-ups, allowing flexibility for voiceovers later. The only precaution was avoiding excessive shots of the fake scenery beyond the windows. Hardly challenging.
Fujii waved dismissively. "Not you. That extra behind you—yes, you. What's going on?"