ENTER: OKIMOTO CHISAKA. He's fifteen, but looks like he's fifty. Inhaling deeply, he looks out over the grounds of Shiketsu Academy and grins.

OKIMOTO (V/O): Smell that? That's the smell of money. Money waiting to be made.

He turns around, squints, and sighs. His shoulders sag.

OKIMOTO (V/O): Shame I'm surrounded by idiots.

He is standing in a classroom. The tables have been pushed to the side, allowing a makeshift arena to emerge. A small crowd of students are cheering as they watch a large Caucasian boy wrestle with a green-skinned, long-tusked mutant. Both of them are topless.

OKIMOTO: What the fuck are they doing?

A GREY-SKINNED GIRL, her ears long and pointed, appears from seemingly nowhere. OKIMOTO jerks backward, stifling a swear.

GREY-SKINNED GIRL: They're wrestling for the right to use Inigo Myoga's image in their merchandising.
OKIMOTO: What for? The rights were granted to our class as a body corporate.
GREY-SKINNED GIRL: You think I didn't tell them that already?

She sighs and folds her arms.

GREY-SKINNED GIRL: Anyway, I'm going to go and check on the streaming data. You should do something more productive with your time, too.

OKIMOTO tags along as she slips out into the corridor. They pass a pair of students who are posturing at each other. On the left is a grimy, deranged-looking student with a helmet of antlers. There is a feathered, bird-like mutant opposite him.

ANTLER BOY: You know not what you are toying with, Ayleid! It is I who shall bring doom to Shiketsu, not you!
BIRD MUTANT: Two can play that game, Witchman!
OKIMOTO, quietly, to the GREY-SKINNED GIRL: They're still at it?
GREY-SKINNED GIRL: Yep.

At the end of the corridor, there is an air-conditioned room filled with monitors. In the centre, a hugely obese boy, his bald head glistening in the dim light, is hunched over a chessboard. Seated opposite him is a reptilian mutant, yellow eyes narrowed as she drums her black-scaled claws against the table. The GREY-SKINNED GIRL crosses the floor to stare at one of the screens, fingers flying over the keyboard.

OKIMOTO: How's it going?
FAT BOY: Wonderful.
LIZARD GIRL: Splendid.
OKIMOTO: Shouldn't you two be, like, out there? We could really use some extra hands. It's a madhouse.
FAT BOY: Oh, no, no, no. We're strategists, not soldiers. It's not our place to wade in the muck with the footmen.

OKIMOTO shakes his head and shifts his gaze to a MASKED GIRL who's monitoring the screens alongside the GREY-SKINNED GIRL.

MASKED GIRL, quietly, to the GREY-SKINNED GIRL: When I automated those hashtags, it was to free up manpower, not enable our classmates to slack.
GREY-SKINNED GIRL: Not everyone's as altruistic as you, Belle.

OKIMOTO leaves the pair to their conversation and heads for the stairs. One of his classmates is lurking in the stairwell, and turns to him as he approaches. He resembles nothing so much as an OVERGROWN CAT, turquoise-eyed and perpetually bedraggled.

OVERGROWN CAT: Hey. Chisaka. Want some kush?

OKIMOTO considers it.

OKIMOTO, finally: You know what? Fuck it.

He slaps a few thousand yen into the CAT's paw and snatches up the resulting joint. The CAT helps him to light up. OKIMOTO takes a few long puffs, tips his head back, and exhales gustily. He sits down and leans his head against the wall.

OKIMOTO: Why aren't you out there, man?
OVERGROWN CAT: This one got mistaken for a common housecat on his first excursion downstairs. With all due respect, fuck that shit.
OKIMOTO: My sympathies.

Still smoking, he heaves himself to his feet and heads down the stairs. He is almost at the foot of the stairs when the tip of a rapier appears at his throat. OKIMOTO raises his hands instinctively, his whole body tensing. His joint falls out of his mouth. There is a rogue MURDERHOBO on the ground floor, backed up by his clique of acolytes and sycophants.

MURDERHOBO: Look what we have here. Fresh meat.
OKIMOTO: Dude, aren't you supposed to be watching the tournament?
MURDERHOBO: Tournament? Pah! We are here to test our blades. We are here to seek out the most challenging foes. We are here to weed out the weak. We shall slay without mercy and strike with righteous fury -
OKIMOTO: Mitsurugi is up next. You know, Chihiro Mitsurugi? Your Siren of Slaughter? Your Madonna of Misery?

The MURDERHOBO slowly removes the tip of his rapier from OKIMOTO's neck.

MURDERHOBO: I will spare you this once, old man.
OKIMOTO: Thanks.

As the MURDERHOBO and his clique slink away, OKIMOTO bends down, brushes his joint off, and sticks it back into his mouth. Hands shoved into his pockets, he ambles out into the noonday sun. The grounds of Shiketsu Academy are chock-full with members of the public, and the atmosphere is festive. A GREEN-HAIRED GIRL is standing on top of a crate, wielding her megaphone with contemptuous ease as she hawks her products to passing spectators.

GREEN-HAIRED GIRL: Come one, come all, and test your luck and judgement!

She is clearly running some sort of semi-legal betting booth. Prominently displayed is a chart holding the names and faces of the Shiketsu students participating in the tournament. In the time that it takes OKIMOTO to duck into the back, half a dozen gamblers fall in line to place their bets. As he stumbles into the neighbouring booth, he bumps into SUZUKI NENE.

OKIMOTO: Nene? What are you doing here?
NENE: Your classmate invited me.
OKIMOTO: My class - oh, him. Sorry about that.
NENE, giggling: Don't worry! He's cute. In a pathetic kind of way. Anyway, I've got to go and support my kouhais. Toodles!

She sashays in the opposite direction as OKIMOTO shakes his head. After a while, he emerges into the light once again and lightly bats his CLASSMATE on the shoulder.

OKIMOTO: Dude! What did I tell you about hitting on my third cousin?

His CLASSMATE begins babbling excuses, but OKIMOTO isn't having it.

OKIMOTO: I don't give a shit. You said you were going to sell three hundred T-shirts by the end of the day. Get to it.

He pivots on his heel and heads into the neighbouring booth. This one has a pair of reptilian mutants manning it. One of them glances over his shoulder and clocks OKIMOTO.

OKIMOTO: How's it going?
REPTILIAN MUTANT: Great! We're almost out of yakitori!
OKIMOTO: Okay! Hang in there!

He emerges into the sunlight, still puffing on his joint, and elbows his way to a desolate alcove not too far from where his class has set up their booths. The alcove contains a collection of crates stacked haphazardly into a teetering pile. OKIMOTO arrives at its foot, cups his mouth, and shouts.

OKIMOTO: MORE YAKITORI!

After a few moments, an answering shout rings down from the top of the pile.

DISEMBODIED VOICE: PASSWORD?
OKIMOTO: AKATOSH!

A dragon takes flight from atop the teetering pile of crates and transforms into a girl in mid-air before alighting before OKIMOTO. She is toting a crate, which she shoves into his arms before taking to the air without a backward glance. OKIMOTO struggles back out to the stall, dumps the crate of yakitori in the back, and pauses to steal a skewer of takoyaki. He places his joint behind his ear as he eats, then dumps the residual toothpick in a nearby dustbin on his way out. He plops himself down on a nearby bench and sighs.

OYSTER-HEADED MAN: Hey, Okimoto.

OKIMOTO starts. There's an OYSTER-HEADED MAN seated beside him. He smells vaguely fruity.

OKIMOTO: Oh, hey, man. Didn't see you there. You good?
OYSTER-HEADED MAN: Not really. Some punk bumped into me and knocked me into this snot-nosed intern. Spilled orange juice all over my suit.
OKIMOTO: Sorry to hear that. Want a joint?

He removes his joint from his ear and offers it to the OYSTER-HEADED MAN, who tilts his head briefly before accepting it.

OYSTER-HEADED MAN: Thanks, Okimoto. See you this weekend.
OKIMOTO: Aunt Sakura's place, right? Yeah, I'll be there.