I Declare Myself an Idol

Don't try to swim against the current.

There's an old saying about a mantis trying to stop a chariot. And how did that mantis end up?

I strode confidently into Ssa-yo's stream, and a stable three thousand-plus viewers stuck around for me.

Someone watching that might call me an opportunist, or reach for something cruder — a leech, a bloodsucking mosquito. That kind of thing used to crop up on Pan-beo-gal all the time: virtual streamers who latched nakedly onto the big corporate names, hoping for trickle-down scraps, getting mocked and looked down on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for it.

The really funny part? The same people who tore into those hangers-on would, the second their own pick got a shot at cozying up to a major streamer, start screaming ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at them to grab on and never let go.

Sure, there were a few of the rare "I practice what I preach" types who never flipped. But on that subject, I had something to say.

Refusing to hold your hand out to a corporate streamer, refusing to chase trends, insisting on your own style and your own broadcast — it looks principled and cool from the outside. But what does it leave you with in the end?

No new viewers, a stubborn little island of your own making, and a lonely ending where you just wither and die.

If you're streaming as a hobby, fine — no argument. But principles aren't free. You need the ability to survive on your own before you get to talk about them. The world works the same way. Ideology, whatever — survival comes first.

Lucy's case from before the regression floated up unbidden, and it left a bitter taste. If she'd just had a hundred dedicated fans, she might have been able to stream on her own terms without getting jerked around so much.

Ah, but with her personality, that was never going to happen anyway, was it?

"Alright, everyone! Let's give it everything we've got again today!"

"Ssa-yo, are you okay? Those dark circles are down to your jaw."

"Doesn't matter if I'm okay — I have to see this through. You know what kind of audition this is."

While I was lost in old memories, the Group B audition for October 16th got underway. Forty-two participants — one more than yesterday.

So the Group B order is…

Number sixteen — a little ahead of the middle — Lucy's name sat right there. Honestly, the order itself wasn't what bothered me most. She'd dodged Park Na-na, the undisputed star of the first round, but Baiyo was up immediately after her.

Baiyo, tangled up with Park Na-na in one hell of a story. Even if Lucy pulled off a brilliant stage and grabbed the spotlight, the odds of that attention getting snatched away instantly were high — and that kept the regret simmering.

Nothing to be done. Nobody was willing to swap slots with her.

I'd gotten lucky enough to trade my own turn. This was running by the book. I had to accept it.

"Then for our first performer — Mashiro, please come up to the stage."

With the chat roaring along, the early stretch of the Group B audition flew by. Probably because there wasn't anyone in the opening slots worth watching that closely. Before I knew it, number nine — Sae-dalkom — was up.

The chat reaction was on another level. Setting aside me — a pure-blooded Pangea TV virtual — Sae-dalkom was one of the early transfer streamers who'd ridden the biggest buff wave. On the strength of that name recognition, the consensus expected an easy pass.

The judges, though, were ice cold. Ssa-yo's attitude in particular was so blatant that the chat — and Sae-dalkom herself — were left reeling.

"I've seen a few of the Bang-sels you've shot, Sae-dalkom. Between those and the way you present yourself on full-tracker streams… I'm worried you're showing too much of a provocative side. This is an audition to recruit virtual idols, after all. You know how critical an idol's image is. Honestly, it concerns me."

"Ah — yes. That… I'm sorry."

Ssa-yo's comments kicked up a storm. Was it too aggressive for a public setting? Sae-dalkom's fandom in particular lost their minds. Whatever his actual intent, it landed like he was slamming her as if she ran an almost adult-rated stream.

A lot of Ssa-yo antis did come out of Sae-dalkom's fandom after this.

You could write it off as a handful of people — but karma like that piles up, and eventually something breaks.

"Next — Mango-rang, please come in."

Sae-dalkom still scraped through with two Passes, and the audition rolled on.

An avatar with one conspicuously prominent front tooth. A slow, drawling accent straight out of Chungcheong Province. Nothing like the pretty, polished, slightly glamorous look people usually pictured for a virtual streamer. That was Mango-rang — and that look never changed, not even up through the day I regressed. Which made it all the more impressive. A virtual streamer who survived not as the pretty, feminine type, but in a position closer to "court jester."

No — just saying she "survived" sold her short. Before Rabbit TV shut down and the corporate virtuals transferred over, she'd been called the "V-Emperor" for a good long stretch.

Riding the trickle-down from corporate streamers for that long — and actually absorbing it into something stable — that was her own ability in the end.

That was the future waiting down the line. Right now, she was just another small-time streamer. True to the jester role, her mouth was sharp enough to win over Ssa-yo and Great Moon, and she squeaked through the first round — but her singing scored a failing grade that painted a grim picture of what came next. Still, for a no-name streamer, just getting into a major production like this and putting your name in front of the casual audience once was a real opportunity.

"Next — number twelve, Park Na-na."

Here she was. At last.

At Ssa-yo's call, the star of the Wooga-dol first-round stage stepped out of the dark corridor. A streamer who'd left footprints all over the Pangea TV virtual scene in more ways than one — and easily the biggest name among everyone competing in this audition.

In her prime, she'd run a YouTube channel with five hundred thousand subscribers. These days channels with a million-plus were common enough that half a million got a shrug — but as of January 2018, you could count the Korean YouTubers with a million subscribers on two hands and still have fingers left over. Her streaming career was absurdly long, too. First broadcast in 2011, official debut in 2012 — over a decade of experience, which actually made her Ssa-yo's senior.

A résumé like that put real pressure on both sides: the contestant herself, and the host. Park Na-na had started streaming so young that she was still younger than Ssa-yo, but between the career, the industry connections, and every other metric that mattered, she was not someone Ssa-yo could handle the way he handled the other contestants.

"Hello. I'm Park Na-na, a virtual streamer who's happiest when she's singing."

She took the stage. A small-girl avatar with pink double buns, built on a Karin base. A clear, lovely voice that made her age feel irrelevant. Effortless delivery that still drove every note straight into your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ear.

Her self-introduction and reason for applying rolled out smoothly enough. Then Ssa-yo opened his mouth, and the air went heavy.

"Honestly, when I got your application, I had to stop and think. Wait — Park Na-na applied? Why?"

The audition was content built around discovering new stars — unknowns the public hadn't seen yet. By that measure, Park Na-na carried a thick established-name feel, and Ssa-yo called it out.

"It's true I've been streaming a long time, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠between repeated vocal cord nodules and personal circumstances, I've taken a lot of breaks. And everyone teases me for being an 'old girl' instead of a 'new girl' — but I transferred to Rabbit TV in 2017. That's five years ago. How many Pangea TV viewers are even going to remember me?"

The chat exploded into noise. Most of it landed on Park Na-na's side. Plenty of people had heard the name; almost none had actually watched her stream. Even so, Ssa-yo still looked reluctant, dithering before he answered.

"Right. Well… understood, for now."

"Then I'll ask something this time."

Jerry stepped in to reset the mood. Scanning the application, her eyes caught on one line, and she looked up at Park Na-na.

"Under special notes, it says you've had vocal cord nodules four times. Is that true?"

"Yes. When I was little I wanted to be a voice actress, so from elementary school on I practiced voice acting and singing constantly."

A short slice of Park Na-na's life story. The pitiful, heartbreaking pieces inside it pulled the audience in completely. I realized I'd stopped looking away without noticing. This was why people said story always won in competitions — it didn't just hook you; it made you cry.

"…I completely reworked my vocal technique. The rehab alone took almost three years. I've recovered enough that I don't need surgery anymore, and my voice is stronger than it was."

"I've had vocal nodules myself, so I feel that even more. Once is hard enough — to go through it that many times… that kind of will is incredible."

Overcoming every hardship and coming back to try again. How could a story like that not move people? Jerry praised her with real empathy, and Great Moon nodded in recognition. Park Na-na's reply should have followed naturally — but a silence stretched, and then a slightly trembling voice came through.

"I'm not actually that incredible a person. My will isn't strong enough to deserve praise. The reason I could stand up again was my fans."

"Your fans?"

"Yes. After my fourth round of nodules, I couldn't even get my voice out properly, and there was a time I was going to quit streaming entirely."

"Ah…"

"The hospital told me not to speak for almost two months so I could recover. Streaming was out of the question — even daily life was hard. Being alone made me so depressed I ended up turning the stream on anyway. I couldn't sing for my fans. I just typed in chat. For two whole months, nothing but chat."

"…"

"But my fans told me it was okay. They said there were plenty of fun streams out there, but they were rooting for me — and they still showed up every day to watch my useless broadcast."

Park Na-na's mic cut out for a moment. Had a sob slipped through? She recovered quickly, and her voice came back wrapped in brightness.

"Honestly, I only applied to this audition because my fans told me about it. They said a good opportunity had opened up on Pangea TV. I have a day job, so I never even considered trying for something this big. I'd already switched to hobby streaming two years ago."

The whole broadcast had already tilted toward Park Na-na. Even Ssa-yo's avatar, which had kept its distance at the start, had its torso turned toward the stage now. Then her final line drove the stake home.

"Today's stage is for my fans. I'm a streamer with a lot of shortcomings — but if even for one moment, this can be a place where my fans can hold their heads high and be proud of me… then I'll begin."

A bright, buoyant melody flipped the atmosphere in an instant. Through it, a low, quiet voice slid into everyone's ears.