Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C38

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Chapter 38: The Unfortunate Child

’s persistence paid off. His grand vision successfully rallied Murakami Iori and onto the ambitious path to securing the top spot—the coveted pinnacle of success that promised instant elevation to industry royalty.

Fujii Arima, however, remained reluctant. It wasn’t that he didn’t crave the top spot—everyone did—but the prospect of managing a group of idols who could barely act gnawed at him. He envisioned his head swelling three sizes as he dealt with their singing, dancing, and cutesy antics. Yet, with both the producer and screenwriter onboard, his room for opposition was minimal. Resigned, he braced himself for the challenge. If it worked, he’d admit Chihara had been right all along and treat his future suggestions with utmost seriousness. But if it failed? Any idol daring to step foot in his studio would promptly receive a swift kick to the gut.

In the early 1990s, idols were considered inferior to even the pinkie finger of actors, relegated to lurking in dingy basements at best.

Murakami Iori, ever decisive, wasted no time acting on her convictions. Though she couldn’t fully grasp why Chihara was in such a hurry, their goals aligned, and ambition was never a flaw. As long as he wasn’t losing his mind—and Chihara certainly didn’t seem unhinged—his theories held water and deserved a shot.

Perhaps his ambition was simply outsized? But again, that wasn’t necessarily bad! Who didn’t yearn for greater success? She herself dreamed of becoming the first woman to enter the television station’s programming committee!

Once committed, she immediately reached out to , testing the waters, gauging prices, and pitching Chihara’s “win-win” theory. Meanwhile, Fujii Arima returned to filming, now demanding even stricter quality control in pursuit of the elusive top spot. His young actors bore the brunt of his wrath.

"If you dare let those idols outshine you, I’ll string you all up in the studio!"

Chihara Rinto remained calm, seated behind the director, diligently writing scripts. Though the idea of casting idols had been his brainchild, he was well-prepared. Several previously submitted scripts were tailor-made for idol groups—requiring little more than natural performances, particularly within a school setting. No need to rush; everything was under control.

A team needed unity, especially when pursuing such an audacious goal. Both Murakami and Fujii now radiated renewed determination, reminiscent of their earlier days. The only lingering concern was whether Murakami might swell back into her "piglet" state from stress.

Truthfully, Chihara relished leading a team, setting plans, and defining objectives—it felt exhilarating. Had the production bureau not restricted producers to elite graduates from prestigious universities, he might have pursued that role himself.

By late afternoon, nearing four o’clock, Chihara had spent the day observing Fujii’s filming and enduring his relentless barking. The set was chaotic, and the director stood at its core, overseeing every detail. Without the patience or time for gentle explanations, shouting orders was the quickest way to keep things moving.

"I have my plans. Just follow instructions and get to work—no excuses, no delays!"

On set, a director’s commanding presence was crucial. Chihara noted this, pondering how his “serious gaze” ability might prove useful before heading to the main building.

Per his routine, these two hours were reserved for gathering information by reading newspapers—a task better suited to privacy. Writing scripts while flipping through papers in public would draw unwanted attention, potentially labeling him eccentric.

He sought investment opportunities to improve his financial situation. After paying six months' rent for 1995, his initial 300,000-yen signing bonus had vanished, and December’s salary hadn’t arrived yet. With barely any cash left, he fretted over how long it would take to amass enough capital for meaningful investments.

Lost in thought, he entered the annex housing the production bureau and stepped into the elevator. Just as the doors began to close, a hand intervened, allowing two people to enter.

Unbothered, Chihara continued contemplating his finances until one of them pressed a button and glanced at him curiously. "You’re that guy from Murakami’s crew… what’s your name again?"

Chihara looked up, recognizing Ishii Jiro and his "ex-girlfriend," Kondo Airi. Their encounter wasn’t entirely surprising—both crews operated within the same annex—but meeting after nearly a month apart felt serendipitous.

Though he disliked Ishii and wanted nothing to do with Kondo, Chihara avoided trouble for Murakami’s sake. "I’m Chihara."

Ishii vaguely remembered him but lacked the casual disdain he reserved for juniors like Murakami. Older and self-assured, he spoke without much deference.

"Ah, yes, Chihara. You’re the writer Murakami brought in, right? I’ve heard about you in producer circles."

"That’s me," Chihara replied flatly.

He kept his distance, maintaining a cool demeanor. His expression bordered on dismissive, silently cursing the awkwardness of the situation. He assumed their exchange would end there—a fleeting encounter—but Ishii studied him for a moment before asking with sudden interest, "Say, Chihara, how’d you like to join my crew in April? I need an episode writer for next season."

Chihara was dumbfounded. Was this man so brazen as to poach talent without preamble? Shaking his head, he declined politely. "Thank you, but I’m satisfied with my current position. No plans to switch."

He harbored no fondness for Ishii, let alone any desire to reconnect with Kondo. Besides, transitioning from lead creator to episodic writer under someone else’s banner was absurd. What was this man thinking? Randomly poaching talent? Ridiculous…

Unfazed by the rejection, Ishii maintained composure, seemingly in good spirits. Smiling, he said, "What a shame. I read positive reviews about you today. Thought I’d offer you a chance to grow. Oh well, perhaps another time."

Pausing briefly, he added, "You’re still young. Joining a big production accelerates growth. Stick around long enough, and you’ll see—connections matter in screenwriting…"

His floor arrived shortly thereafter. With a graceful exit, Ishii strode out confidently, exuding satisfaction. Kondo Airi cast a surprised glance at Chihara before hurrying after him, clutching her bag tightly. Her confusion mounted—what exactly had transpired? This "ex-boyfriend" wasn’t just a writer but also personally courted by prominent producers?

If only she’d known sooner! They might not have broken up! She still kept the bag he’d gifted her—a token of affection…

---

The elevator resumed its ascent, leaving Chihara alone. Muttering under his breath about bad luck, he shrugged it off. Getting angry over such trivialities wasn’t worth the effort.

If only had higher ratings—he could’ve redirected the conversation, boasting about viewership figures to shut Ishii down.

In television, ratings reigned supreme. Aside from leveraging idols, what other shortcuts existed to boost numbers quickly?

Deep in thought, Chihara resumed brainstorming, determined to leverage his foreknowledge for clever solutions. He desperately needed a resounding success—not mere mediocrity—to establish himself firmly in this foreign industry devoid of connections.

Soon, the elevator dinged, signaling his arrival. Stepping out, he spotted Nambu Ryoko and her daughter Michiko. The mother scolded the child quietly, her face etched with frustration.

Curious, Chihara approached. Alert to the elevator bell, Nambu turned toward him, her irritation vanishing instantly. Smiling warmly, she bowed deeply. "Good afternoon, Chihara-sensei."

Returning the gesture, Chihara observed Michiko’s silence. They were familiar enough that she no longer feigned sweetness in his presence. Avoiding prying into their private matters, he asked instead, "Nambu-san, what brings you here today?"

"To request leave for Michiko," she answered promptly, then added effusively, "And to congratulate you, sensei! I saw glowing reviews of your work in the papers. Congratulations!"

"Thank you," Chihara replied, intrigued by the mention of newspaper coverage. For now, though, he focused on the matter at hand. "Why does Michiko need leave? Has something happened?"

Beaming, Nambu explained, "Thanks to your guidance, Michiko received two audition invitations today. I’d like her to prepare thoroughly. If that’s acceptable…"

Her daughter was barely twelve, already limited to two daily hours of leisure. Now, even that freedom was being stripped away? At her age, shouldn’t she be playing freely?

Yet, protesting was futile. As neither guardian nor formal mentor, Chihara bore no responsibility for Michiko’s future. Even if he objected, he lacked grounds to deny her auditions. Knowing Nambu’s starry-eyed aspirations for her daughter, opposing the move might sever ties altogether.

Sighing inwardly, he forced a smile. "Very well. Take a few days to prepare."

"Thank you so much!" Nambu gushed, turning to Michiko. "Learn well from your sensei. I’ll wait outside at six."

Michiko nodded silently, her mood evidently sour.

As Nambu departed tactfully, Chihara ushered his apprentice back to his workspace. Apologetically, he admitted, "I’m sorry—I couldn’t help."

"It’s fine. She’s always like this." Michiko made no attempt to play victim, seating herself at her desk and staring blankly at its surface. Softly, she murmured, "Congratulations on your success, sensei."

Chihara suspected her playful mispronunciation was intentional but lacked proof. Humble as ever, he responded, "Success is relative. Let’s call it modest progress."

"Don’t be modest," Michiko countered bitterly. "People are contacting my mother because of you. Clearly, the reviews are glowing. You can check yourself."

Sure enough. Her mood was clearly foul—likely due to resisting her mother’s demands—and she showed remarkable maturity by refraining from tears or tantrums. Still, it was sad.

Silently vowing not to provoke her further, Chihara settled at his desk and began perusing the newspapers Shiraki Keima had prepared for him.

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