ambition | idol producer

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NOTE: A glossary of all Chinese terms used is at the end of the chapter!

"Hello, everyone, and welcome to Idol Producer. I am Zhang Yixing. For a month, our hard-working trainees have been practicing non-stop to bring to you the performance you are about to witness: our very own theme song, 'Ei Ei.' Can you spot your favorite trainee?"

The director raises his hand, his eye on the main camera man. The director nods, and Yixing smiles again.

"So, did you spot them? Your favorite pick? Make sure to always vote for them every day! Your votes are very important to them, and will soon determine their official rankings. But first, let's take a look at their own choosing process: how they chose their day-one ranks."

BACKSTAGE

A gaggle of trainees enter the loading room. The staff herds them toward the mirror and stacks of stickers. The stickers are lettered from A to F, and the five trainees peer at them, keeping a safe distance away from the higher letters.

Except one. Wang Ziyi runs his fingers over the stacks, one by one, prowling, until he reaches the letter A. It feels like gold between his fingers as he considers it, tests it.

The trainees are a group of four boys and one girl, and all but Ziyi chat nervously, looking anxiously at the Cs and Ds and Fs. The girl, Wang Ziyu, picks up a D and presses it between her two palms, muttering a quick prayer.

"Please accept me," she says, squeezing her eyes shut.

Ziyi peels the backing from the A and sticks it on his nametag. He grins. "What do you think?"

"I believe in you," says one of his teammates.

ASIDE

"If anyone in our group deserves an A, it's Ziyi," says the teammate. "He works the hardest out of all of us. He trains all day, all the time, and even helps us when we are struggling. His skill are meters above ours."

"You have to consider whether the A accepts you, not the other way around, ge," Ziyu says.

"Don't discourage him!"

She curtsies. "Sorry."

A light by the door flashes.

"Time to go!" Ziyi exclaims, rubbing his hands together. "Ready?"

The D sticker is still in Ziyu's hand, slightly crumpled and damp from her clammy hands.

"Xiaomei! You still haven't put on your sticker!" one of the boys yelps, and Ziyi's head snaps toward her.

"Hurry hurry hurry," he says, and takes the sticker from her hands, peeling it and smoothing it onto her name tag. "Pay more attention, okay?"

"Kuai dian!" the staff say, and the trainees jostle each other, hurrying toward the door.

STAGE

The room is in cacophony. It's huge; an Olympic-sized swimming pool could fit inside, or maybe even two. Two sets of pyramid-shaped bleachers overlook the stage area, each one filled with rows of seats, the numbers on the backs of them decreasing the higher up they are, and the extravagance and size, too. They're at an angle to each other, and nestled between them, at the bottom, are a row of chairs along a lengthy table.

Trainees are scattered across the bleachers, girls on the left and boys on the right. The girls all chat excitedly; one is up and dancing around; two others scream their conversation three rows apart. A small group of girls make their rounds, shaking hands and introducing themselves to each fellow trainee.