The year is 1987, and Michael Jackson is having entirely too much fun for what is technically supposed to be a professional photoshoot.

Japan is only the first stop of the Bad World Tour, yet he's already enchanted by the country. He'd spent years consuming Japanese cinema, admiring the discipline of martial arts, collecting books on history and culture, and daydreaming about visiting places he'd only ever seen in photographs. Unlike many celebrities who endure promotional appearances with visible boredom, Michael approaches the experience with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loves learning about the world.

The samurai armor only makes it better.

A team of specialists has spent the better part of the morning dressing him piece by piece. The armor is heavier than it looks. Beautiful too. Intricately patterned fabric, lacquered plates, decorative cords, and a katana resting at his side. Every few minutes Michael finds himself touching some detail of the outfit and quietly marveling over it.

"This is incredible," he says, examining one of the shoulder guards. "Look at the work they put into this. Can you imagine making all this by hand?"

His friend, lingering just beyond the camera equipment as usual, receives the comment despite not having asked a question.

Michael turns toward the photographer.

"Okay. Tell me if I look ridiculous."

"You don't."

"Be honest."

The photographer laughs. "You don't."

"Alright."

A moment later Michael is standing beneath the lights attempting to embody what he believes a legendary samurai warrior should look like. His shoulders square. His hand settles near the katana. His expression grows serious.

Stoic. Intimidating. Focused.

The resulting photograph actually looks remarkably convincing. "Oh, that's cold," Michael says when shown the preview. "I look mean."

A grin immediately ruins the effect.

Nearby stand two local models dressed in beautiful kimonos, prepared to join the next round of photographs. Michael is fascinated by the craftsmanship of their clothing almost as much as he is by the armor. He keeps asking questions. How long does it take to put on? Is it difficult to walk in? How many layers are there? The kimono dresser patiently answers every one.

Then Michael glances across the room.

His friend is standing there watching everything unfold.

An idea immediately appears.

The kind of idea that usually means everybody else's day is about to become slightly more complicated.

He points. "She should wear one."

The room follows his finger.

His friend immediately knows she's being volunteered for something.

Michael's smile widens. "No, really. She should."

The suggestion is met with obvious hesitation.

Michael waves it off. "Oh, come on. It'll be beautiful."

A few minutes later he's somehow convinced both the kimono dresser and his friend to go along with the plan. While she disappears behind a dressing screen, Michael returns to the photoshoot.

Or tries to. Every five minutes he's glancing toward the dressing area. "Ready yet?"

"No." Five minutes later. "Now?"

The answer remains no. Michael sighs dramatically.

Nearly twenty minutes later the screen finally parts.

The studio quiets. Michael turns.

And forgets whatever he was about to say.

The kimono isn't elaborate by the standards surrounding them. The hairstyle is a quick adjustment rather than a formal arrangement. Yet together they transform her appearance completely.

Michael just stares. Not in a dramatic way. Not like a movie scene.

More like someone genuinely caught off guard.

His eyes move from the kimono to the hairstyle and back again.

For several seconds he says nothing. Then a soft laugh escapes him. "Wow."

The smile that follows is genuine.

Disbelieving. Almost bo.yish.

"You look really pretty."