ジョニーライデン少佐

Screenplay draft

Title: ジョニーライデン少佐
Credit: Written by Screenwriter
Author: Grok
Draft date: October 2023
Contact: film7@ticker.com

FADE IN.

EXT. VACANT LOT BATTLEFIELD - DAWN

Cherry blossoms drift across wet asphalt. Pink petals stick to oxblood foam plating that leans against a chain-link fence. A rusted construction exoskeleton stands half-dressed in the center of the vacant lot, its yellow arm joints streaked with sodium-vapor light. Cardboard Zakus lie scattered like fallen toys.

MAJOR JOHNNY RIDDEN, late 30s, permanent five-o’clock shadow, scar across his left eyebrow, adjusts a garden sprinkler head bolted to the suit’s right shoulder. He wears a faded red Zeon jacket two sizes too big. His fingers are grease-black.

JOHNNY
Koji, if the left vernier leaks again I’m demoting you to Zaku.

LT. KOJI HOSHINO, late 20s, wiry, grease-stained coveralls with the left sleeve rolled higher, wipes his hands on a rag. He sighs before answering.

KOJI
You said that last year. Still here.

Johnny steps back, studies the sprinkler. He gives it a tap with a wrench. Water dribbles, catches the dawn light, turns briefly rainbow.

JOHNNY
(rapid-fire)
This time it’s different. Full Armor Operation. We finally outscale the Federation kids. No more foam peeling mid-salute. I measured the beam-rifle angle twice.

KOJI
(soft, polite)
The glue on the left actuator still needs another hour. And the LED strips are drawing from the same outlet as the vending machine again.

JOHNNY
(nervous laugh)
Details. The children are watching. We give them the dream first, then fix the wiring.

A small boy pedals slowly past on a rusted bicycle just outside the fence. He stares at the half-built Gundam head, mouth open. Johnny notices, straightens, and snaps a crisp two-finger Zeon salute. The boy’s eyes widen. He pedals faster, chain rattling.

Cherry petals keep falling. One lands on Johnny’s scar. He brushes it away without looking.

KOJI
Mitsuko called last night. She asked if the papers were still in the helmet.

JOHNNY
(beat, quieter)
She’ll see the sortie. Everyone will.

The exoskeleton’s shadow stretches long across the concrete. A single sprinkler head clicks and hisses a test spray that arcs pink in the light before falling back to grey asphalt.

JOHNNY
(to the suit)
One perfect run. That’s all we need.

EXT. VACANT LOT BATTLEFIELD - DAWN

Cherry blossoms drift across a half-built exoskeleton frame bolted to a rusted excavator. Oxblood foam armor plates lean against the chain-link fence, already streaked with dew. Sodium-vapor streetlights still glow yellow on the wet asphalt. Scattered cardboard Zakus lie toppled in the gravel.

MAJOR JOHNNY RIDDEN, late 30s, permanent five-o’clock shadow, stands on the excavator’s arm in his grandfather’s faded red Zeon jacket two sizes too big. He tightens a garden sprinkler head bolted to the left shoulder with a wrench that slips every third turn.

JOHNNY
Koji, if the left vernier leaks again I’m demoting you to Zaku.

LT. KOJI HOSHINO, late 20s, wiry in grease-stained coveralls with the left sleeve rolled higher, crouches beneath the right knee actuator. He wipes his hands on a rag already black with oil.

KOJI
(sighs)
You said that last year, Major. I am still here.

Johnny drops the wrench into a bucket of pink petals and steps down. The exoskeleton’s foam chest plate creaks, shedding a thin strip of tape. He circles the machine, checking LED strips taped along the forearm.

JOHNNY
This time the seals are double-wrapped. We do the salute at oh-seven-hundred, then the full armor charge before the Federation kids show up with their cardboard GMs.

KOJI
(soft, polite)
The glue on the left knee is still tacky. Perhaps we wait until the children have gone to school.

A small boy on a bicycle coasts past the fence, staring at the half-painted white plating. Johnny snaps a crisp two-finger salute, Zeon bark softening into a nervous laugh at the end.

JOHNNY
Eyes front, soldier.

The boy’s pedals speed up. He vanishes around the corner without looking back. Johnny watches the empty street a moment longer, then turns to the sprinkler head again, twisting it until water beads at the nozzle.

KOJI
The battery for the mega-particle LEDs is only rated for twenty minutes. If we run the full sequence we will be in the dark before the mock battle even starts.

JOHNNY
Then we salute faster. One perfect run, Koji. That is all I am asking.

Wind moves through the chain-link. More petals settle on the foam plates, sticking to the wet surface like fresh paint. Johnny tests the sprinkler trigger; a thin fan of water arcs across the lot and splashes the nearest cardboard Zaku, darkening the drawn-on mono-eye.

INT. JOHNNY'S KITCHEN - MORNING

Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead. Steam rises from two bowls of miso on the cramped table. Model-kit runners and half-painted Zeon emblems litter the surface between them. A pilot helmet sits at the far end, its visor reflecting the flickering light.

Johnny Ridden hunches in his oversized red jacket, five-o’clock shadow catching the glow. He stirs his soup without eating. Mitsuko Ridden sits opposite, phone tripod laid beside her like a rifle, bob haircut sharp against the steam.

MITSUKO
You left the lot at dawn again.

JOHNNY
(rapid, ending in a nervous laugh)
Koji had the vernier angle wrong. One more test and the shoulder plates lock in. Kids were already lining the fence.

MITSUKO
Those kids go home when the sprinklers shut off. You stay.

She slides the helmet two inches closer. Divorce papers peek from the open visor.

MITSUKO
(weary sarcasm)
Playing soldier stops being cute the day someone gets hurt for real.

Johnny sets his spoon down. The ceramic clicks against plastic runners.

JOHNNY
(theatrical bark softening)
This year the foam holds. One clean run through the cardboard Zakus and the Federation team folds. That’s all.

MITSUKO
(clear, steel rising)
The last time the left leg buckled you needed six stitches. The time before that the police wrote the address down. I’m not waiting for the third time to become the one who has to explain why Daddy never came home.

Johnny stares at the helmet. Cherry-petal pink still clings to the foam collar of his jacket.

JOHNNY
(gravelly, quieter)
It’s for the boy. He draws me in the suit.

MITSUKO
Then draw him something that doesn’t catch fire.

EXT. VACANT LOT BATTLEFIELD - DAY

Oxblood foam plates lean against the chain-link fence, pink cherry petals stuck to their edges. The rusted excavator sits half-armored, sprinkler heads already bolted to both shoulders. Sodium-vapor light from the streetlamp mixes with weak daylight on the wet asphalt.

JOHNNY RIDDEN wipes grease from his hands and tightens a bolt on the left vernier. His faded red Zeon jacket hangs open, five-o’clock shadow darker than yesterday.

JOHNNY
The shoulder scale is still off by twelve centimeters. Federation scouts will spot that from orbit.

LT. KOJI HOSHINO kneels beside the right knee actuator, left sleeve of his coveralls rolled higher, socket wrench clicking steadily.

KOJI
(soft sigh)
Major, the original Full Armor kit measured two-point-three meters across the pauldrons. We only have two-point-one.

JOHNNY
Then we cheat. Add the extra LED strip here. Makes it read bigger on camera.

He taps the foam with a knuckle. The plate wobbles.

KOJI
The LEDs are already drawing too much from the car battery. If we add another strip the verniers will flicker during the salute.

JOHNNY
(theatrical bark)
Then we accept the flicker as atmospheric interference! The dream survives the details, Lieutenant.

KOJI
(keigo polite, voice tight)
With respect, Major, last year the right sprinkler head cracked on the first test. The year before that the knee locked because the bolt pattern was copied from a 1/144 kit instead of 1/100. Accuracy is not optional when the machine is real.

JOHNNY
(nervous laugh)
This year the glue is industrial. The kids brought better tape. We are professionals now.

He lifts a garden sprinkler

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