Debut or Die!

Chapter 9

The choreography for the theme song had the contestants arranged in a fan shape, those with a platinum badge in the center. As one might expect, the higher your grade, the closer to the center you were. Other than that, the only special treatment one got for being in the platinum grade was a solo portion of the song.

However, a single good shot could have a huge impact on the rankings this early in the game, so everyone was pretty sensitive about their grade. The production team and the trainers constantly reiterated the importance of the grades, creating an atmosphere where it was very easy for the young contestants to be swept up in all the hype.

All of this is to say that I was being approached by the other boys five times more than usual since getting my platinum badge. It left a bad taste in my mouth—this kind of social climbing was something I hadn’t even experienced in high school. The production team had deliberately crafted this atmosphere, and I wondered what they were planning next.

Thankfully, even the wicked producers paid close attention to how things looked on screen. Among the platinum contestants, those who were A-grade or higher in dance were closer to the front at the start of the performance and during dance breaks.

The contestants who were not as good at dancing were strategically placed toward the back. This was, of course, the case for me. The routine had been arranged so that I was positioned behind the gold grades during the dance breaks. I was right next to Seon Ahyeon and Lee Sejin, who had been assigned a gold grade.

The child actor Lee Sejin had been given silver. The way things were going, I was seriously beginning to wonder if this other Lee Sejin was actually the one who had debuted.

“Aren’t you a bit disappointed?”

As a result, I tried to keep interactions limited with the overly friendly gold-grade Lee Sejin. I’d lowered my guard without meaning to when I’d thought that he might not really be the one to debut.

“Not really,” I replied calmly. He was referring to my position on stage, which was less than ideal considering I was ranked platinum.

“Whoa, really? I would have been really disappointed.”

“That would be understandable in your case.”

“Yeah? Why do you think so?” he asked.

“You’re good at dancing.”

Lee Sejin was an A- in dancing according to his stat window. His vocals were C+, and if he hadn’t sung the high notes out of tune during his evaluation, he might have been the one to receive the platinum badge instead of me.

“Hmm. Thanks!” Lee Sejin said with a grin, pleased at the praise.

Another voice suddenly interjected, “You can’t dance?” It was the platinum-grade contestant standing at the front of the formation, smack in the center. His questioning expression was innocent and lacked any ill intent, but the problem was that he had nabbed first place after the very first round of auditions. I was also pretty sure this guy ended up winning the show in my original timeline.

His name was Cha Eugene, so famous that I’d seen him a few times on TV at the restaurant I’d often eat at while studying in Gosichon district—a neighborhood populated largely by civil service examinees. He was a bit of a weirdo, contrary to my expectations.

Was he seriously asking me if I couldn’t dance while his microphone was on and the cameras were running? It was surprising he’d managed to win with such a blunt personality. His stats were excellent, of course, and he’d stood out in every evaluation so far, without exception. That meant it was likely that the editors had favored him.

I shouldn’t get into this with him. I grinned. “You didn’t see my performance?”

His expression took on a guilty quality. He seemed to be the sort of guy who felt bad for small missteps like this, which was also surprising to me. “We were all so focused on getting ready for our own performances. I wasn’t watching everyone else that closely.”

“Next time you can see my dancing and judge for yourself.”

“Sounds good.” Cha Eugene nodded and turned his attention back toward the front.

Lee Sejin laughed, looking taken aback. “He has a unique way of speaking, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s because he’s been living overseas?”

“Seems so,” I said.

Lee Sejin left the conversation at that, no doubt aware of the cameras trained on him. I gazed down at the staff milling around in front of the stage. It seemed as if everything was finally in order.

“Rehearsal will begin soon!” one of them shouted.

I’d been correct, they were done setting things up. I withheld a sigh. It had been hard enough lugging around equipment and waiting on the street during my time filming idols. Who knew I’d end up on the other side of the camera? It was six in the morning, and we’d be filming the main performance at four in the afternoon. It was going to be a long, hard day.

***

At eight o’clock that evening we finally finished filming.

“Good work, everyone!”

As I’d anticipated, it had been a hellish experience.

“Ugh…”

“Oh gosh… I feel sick.”

The contestants flopped to the floor all around me, groaning with fatigue. Everyone was soaked in sweat. I was no different, but all the other guys had already sprawled themselves all over the stage floor, so there was no room for me to even sit. It was kind of funny.

I was completely exhausted. The rehearsal lasted all morning until we were all weak in the knees. Only after rehearsal was over did we finally get a break for lunch. Apparently, the production team hadn’t been able to secure any food-related sponsorships, since all we got was kimbap wrapped in aluminum foil.

The stylists and various other staff had rushed onto the set as soon as we were done.

“We really need more storage space around here.”

“Tilt your head this way, please!”

“Let’s get this over with quickly.”

They complained about the less-than-ideal working conditions in the large, open area we were using as a dressing room, as they worked with the efficiency of machines, applying makeup to all the contestants and touching up their hair. Frankly, no one underwent all that dramatic of a transformation, but we all looked presentable enough for TV.

After that, we all got dressed in our stage outfits. Then a camera appeared in front of me.

“Do you like the clothes?”

“Yes…”

What sort of idiot would just come out and say they hated the costumes?

“What do you like about them?”

“Hmm, the design looks like a mix between a soldier’s and school uniforms. I think it’s pretty versatile.”

Too bad I can’t tell them I find it kind of icky that all seventy-seven of us are wearing the same thing, like little kids.

As soon as I was done, the other contestants around me jumped in.

“I love that we can mix and match accessories since the outfits go with a lot of different styles!”

“Ah! It goes really well with the badge!”

At most, they’d only get a few seconds of screen time, but I had to give them credit for being so eager. Next was the actual recording of the performance. Frankly, I had no idea how the final footage would come out.

“Let’s go again!”

“Ugh!”

I didn’t have it in me to worry about it while all of us were made to dance the same routine more than thirty times over, all in a studio so hot it’s a wonder no one had gotten heatstroke. I vaguely remembered receiving compliments, critiques, and at one point someone delivering some sort of pep talk aimed at rousing an emotional response from the viewers, but overall it was just a hazy mess.

I couldn’t remember much. And there was no knowing what footage from the thirty different takes the production team would end up using. Trying my best to gather myself, I listened as the producer, or PD as he was mostly referred to, spoke to us.

“You’ve really done well, everyone.”

The main PD, who’d appeared for the first time just as the filming was coming to an end, handed out a few useless compliments, then finally delivered some actually useful information.

“This recording will air next Friday on the Music Bomb show. You’ll start filming again the day after that. Rest up until then, but remember that this is a great opportunity for you to get in more practice. Make the most of it.”

He made it sound like hard work was all we’d need. The contestants cheered though, as the PD implied that the possibilities were endless if we were willing to put in the effort.

“Let’s work our butts off,” the director cried.

“Let’s do it!”

“See you next week. Great work, everyone!”

“Thank you very much!”

Everyone summoned the last of their energy to cheer and clap. I clapped as well, though my hands shook from exhaustion. I’d have to work on my stamina before the broadcast of Music Bomb next week.

***

The week went by in a flash. My plan to work on increasing my stamina was only half successful since I developed a fever immediately after the filming ended and was stuck resting in bed for three days. Park Moondae’s body hadn’t been able to handle several weeks of intense physical activity.

In any case, after recovering for three days, I stubbornly increased the portions I ate during mealtimes. I also began weight training and practicing my dancing. Even now, as I watched the Music Bomb broadcast, I had a dumbbell in my hand. I had to give myself some credit, surely all that qualified as working hard?

“Siwon, SoulWe has just returned to the stage with an exciting EDM track. Did you enjoy it?”

“Of course. I’m always hyped for a fresh EDM track!”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of EDM, Siwon! Ooh!”

“Ooh!”

A pair of idols were emceeing over-enthusiastically on the screen. They seemed to be reading off teleprompters but were still doing a pretty good job of pulling off the cringy, poorly-written script. Despite their no doubt extremely busy schedules, they were giving it their best effort.

“Siwon! Should we introduce the next amazing performance?”

“Yes, let’s! Did you hear the news, Yoonji?”

“What news would that be?”

“It’s the news that all the shareholders have been waiting for! ‘Idol Incorporated’ has been relisted!”

“Yay!”

It’s going to begin soon. I put down the dumbbell and found my phone, opening up the website I’d already logged into, in preparation. It was a viewer message board hosted on a huge internet portal, and it was the best place to gauge the general public’s reactions. Because no big-name singers were making a comeback this week, the page was filled with talk about Idol Incorporated.

[“MusicBOMB” Talk Talk!]

- Relisted? LOL, are they serious?

- They’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t they?

- Wow, season 3 of a total hot mess!

- ROFL, relisted? More like delisted.

- The hell? What’s all this ruckus about?

ㄴ A new season of “Idol Inc.” has been announced.

ㄴ Oh...

- Am I the only one who came to see the comments instead of the actual performance?

Hmm. As expected, the reactions were a mixed bag. Every time I hit the refresh button, a fresh round of jokes appeared, made at the show’s expense. It seemed many of the people commenting weren’t even the usual audience of Music Bomb.

And a concise summary of their reactions went something like this: The production staff was in over their heads and season three was doomed. Season two had been such a trainwreck that everyone seemed to think the series had no hope of ever reviving itself.

As expected, I saw a few jeering comments referencing season two.

- So it’s all guys this time? Do I sense gay romance on the horizon?

ㄴ Gay marriage isn’t legal in Korea, remember? I don’t see this season possibly making a bigger impression than season 2, haha

ㄴ F*ck! LOL

This was the main reason that season two had been such an unmitigated disaster. They’d allowed contestants of both genders to audition, which was completely unheard of in a program that was meant to produce an idol group. It had certainly been an odd idea. I wondered what the production team had been thinking.

If season two had been an all-boys audition, as was the standard, they wouldn’t have failed the way they had—even another all-girls audition would have been preferable. The fiasco I was referring to was this:

- Who knows? Some girl might get pregnant again and rewrite the history of idol audition shows once more

ㄴ LOL! Two seasons in a row, huh?

ㄴ We’re laughing about it now, but f*ck me if the first time didn’t already traumatize me enough. What were those assholes thinking, showing up on TV and stirring up shit like that?

ㄴ Okay… You’re taking this way too seriously… Awkward.

ㄴ It’s just a TV show, buddy. Cool it

ㄴ No, it’s not just a TV show. It’s a money-hungry audition program!

ㄴ It still makes me angry thinking about how the show did their best to paint it as the romance of the century, haha

Yes, a girl had fallen pregnant while on the show. Even a normal romance would have been fatal, but someone had actually gotten pregnant. And it had been one of the contestants, too. The bigger issue had been that the two contestants involved were some of the most popular members on the show. The production team had apparently decided they’d capitalize on the situation by generating a scandal—it was a mixed-gender season anyway—and drop the two at the last moment.

That was why they’d jumped through hoops, using their remaining screen time to make it seem like the two of them were on a romantic dating show or something. That hadn’t been all, though.

- He was even cheating on her. I don’t think I’ll ever see his equal in pure audacity.

- “Idol Inc.” is legendary… though not for the right reasons haha

The boy who’d gotten the girl pregnant had been cheating on her with another girl. This other girl had been meaning to keep silent for the sake of her career, but the romantic subplot the producers had been pushing had driven her up the wall and she’d sent screenshots of her text conversations with him to a news agency.

After that, things got… well, even worse. The story had flooded search engine rankings, celebrity news pages, and social media. Inevitably, season two never reached the finale and, instead, closed up shop early. And as long as the audience still remembered the monumental scandal, the new season was never going to avoid its fair share of mockery, especially early on.

Setting that train of thought aside, I turned my attention to the screen again. Oblivious to the chaotic mess unfolding in the comments, the Music Bomb emcees were still smiling widely.

“There’s plenty of idol stocks waiting for shareholders to invest in!”

“Shine your star!”

There was that famous catchphrase again.

“Invest now in the idol you think will skyrocket to the top!”

The comments began to flood in at a furious speed.

- The stocks will rocket to the moon… and never come back!

This was a popular meme from seasons past. As I understood, it was usually used when a promising contestant was toppled thanks to malicious editing. The comments were moving so fast that they were hard to read, and there were a few consistent complaints among them.

- Wow. The same catchphrase again?

- I wonder who came up with that? They should be fired.

- Yeah, sounds like a boomer was trying their best to sound hip.

- You idiots at the broadcast station, don’t make Siwon say lines that are so lame T_T

I grinned. “Seems like people are still watching it, though.”

They were watching so they could talk trash about the show, but that was oftentimes preferable to complete indifference. These viewers and their comments were sure to generate some buzz. I’d already watched as season three succeeded with flying colors, after all.

Most of the viewers watching from the beginning, once the finals were underway, were sure to grow attached to at least one of the remaining contestants. By then, they were loyal viewers whether they liked the results or not. This wouldn’t be the case from the get-go, though.

I wondered what the audience’s reaction would be next. As soon as the emcees were done, a stage appeared onscreen. Youngrin was standing on it, the spotlight washing over her and painting dramatic shadows over the attractive angles of her face.

“Idol Incorporated” had always been met with black comedy and plenty of memes that kept the viewers amused. After all the backlash it had gotten following the second season, though, they were apparently attempting to change their image up a little. Maybe they’re going for a more serious approach this time?

“Shareholders! Do you remember the previous seasons’ delisting?”

My short-lived assumption was proven immediately wrong as soon as Youngrin opened her mouth.

“Please accept my apology... for turning your stocks into worthless scraps of paper!”

As Youngrin’s ringing voice came through the speakers, huge captions appeared on the screen.

[※This is an apology from the production team. Please don’t blame Youngrin.※]

[※We are still accepting requests for refunds on our website.※]

As I sat there, speechless, I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d well and truly lost their minds.