What's the Crew's Name?
I had witnessed the rise and fall of countless crews before my regression.
Freeca, Rena Universe, Decrescendo, Pocotin, Vitamin, the mutual aid circle, and more.
People often said that humans could learn a great deal from history.
So what was I supposed to learn from it?
The answer was simple.
Analyze the reasons failed crews went wrong, and the success factors of the ones that thrived. Then cherry-pick every usable element and apply it to our own crew.
For failed crews, Decrescendo is the absolute must-study case. That one was doomed from the very start.
In pure short-term impact, it stood as the greatest virtual crew in Pangea TV history. Out of five members, three were trickle-down from major corporate streamers yet still hit ten thousand concurrent viewers, while another broke ten thousand on pure personal talent alone. The last one lagged behind in raw viewer count, but she was the real heavyweight: the first virtual streamer in Pangea TV history to crack the one-million Candy Club.
At the time there were rumors that Muyo or Amichang had also hit the monthly million-club mark if you counted Candies from duel missions that never registered on the Candy Calculator site, but those numbers never received official certification. Only records logged on the Calculator carried any real weight. The title of first and only virtual million-club member would not end until Rabbit TV shut down its Korean service and the big corporate virtual streamers transferred over—a glorious crown that lasted more than a year. That was how explosive Decrescendo had been.
Though that same explosiveness went too far and they blew themselves sky-high. Makes me wonder what a world where that crew never vanished and just kept going would look like…
Decrescendo was also one of those topics the old-timers on Pan-beo-gal dragged out whenever they got bored—a reheated leftover stew that always started with “Back in my day.” They would reminisce about how incredible early Decrescendo had been, then post sexual harassment comments about underage virtuals with bitter little smiles.
Decrescendo’s real problem was the members. They recruited people whose directions never matched from day one, so of course it fell apart. On top of that the crew was too equal. Without real power or authority for the leader, the whole ship sailed straight into the mountains.
Unlike Rena Universe, I actually knew quite a bit about Decrescendo. When Lucy transferred, the mainstream on Pangea TV was Rena World, and Decrescendo’s members—corporate streamers aside—were basically starring roles there. The communities talked about them so much you couldn’t help but know.
In our crew we lock that down hard. Everyone can have opinions, but we move in the direction I set.
Strong leader authority was non-negotiable. The fact that it sounded a little like Blueby’s method gave me a brief existential crisis, but there was a clear difference between us.
Blueby cast herself as the protagonist and treated the rest like extras. I’m different. I’ll give everyone a real shot.
No matter how talented you are, a one-man show hits a ceiling. If the crew members grow solid and have your back when it counts, the difference is night and day. In the end we had to grow together.
“So the conclusion is we do it my way. Clear? When I drop the crew meeting date and time, you show up on the dot—no late arrivals. Crew first, personal play second, always. Don’t get blinded by short-term cash. We’re in this for the long haul.”
We exchanged real phone numbers and basic personal details. If we were going to be a crew, that level of trust was the bare minimum.
Lucy (Yun Dasom, 24) / Miho (Lee Hansol, 30) / Mayo (Kim Pureum, 18).
“Eek? Miho-nim, you’re actually thirty?”
“……That’s exactly why I didn’t want to say it. Stop poking old wounds.”
“Auntie.”
“Hey! You really want a thrashing?”
I had roughly guessed Miho was cagey about her age, but I never expected her to be a genuine thirties. Of course being in your thirties didn’t mean you couldn’t stream—most of the big corporate streamers were thirties right now. But they already had long careers; most of them had started in their twenties. Miho had a short career and almost nothing to show for it at thirty. Coldly speaking, that was a disadvantage. There was a reason some virtual streamers hid their ages. Viewers might say it was fine on the surface, but a man’s instincts didn’t just disappear. Younger female streamers were still the default preference.
“But if you’re the same zodiac animal, you’re not unnie—you’re auntie.”
“…….”
Mayo’s brutal fact bomb dropped Miho flat. Scarier kid than I expected. With the atmosphere already sliding off the rails, I decided hierarchy had to be fixed first.
I really didn’t want to do this, but no choice.
Hierarchy starts with titles. I swallowed my pride and resolved to start calling both Lucy and Miho “unnie.” That should at least cut down on Mayo’s cheekiness.
“Seo-a, say it one more time.”
“……Lucy unnie.”
“Good. One more!”
Lucy’s high tension like this was rare—she must have wanted to hear “unnie” that badly. After sorting the titles, I continued.
“Let’s be completely honest. We haven’t even known each other a full year. The longest is Lucy unnie at just three months. Mayo I only met at the interview yesterday, so acting like best friends already would just be fake.”
“…….”
“But I pride myself on reading people. Lucy unnie, Miho unnie, Mayo—you’re all good people, and I think we’ll create real synergy as a crew. Of course I can’t be a hundred percent right. Even blood families fight constantly, and we’re strangers. Still, let’s try to understand each other and make it work.”
“Wow! Our leader’s sharp. That’s why I picked you. Looking forward to it.”
“I have to live up to being a superstar so I don’t embarrass my fans.”
“……Unnie, please forget that part.”
The three of us already had some common ground from all the planning talks. Mayo still seemed awkward, though; she hesitated before speaking.
“Then the two of you are unnie. And Miho-nim is auntie, right?”
“……Seo-a, don’t stop me today. I’m about to break the seal.”
Ah. She hadn’t been quiet because she was awkward—she’d been fretting over titles the whole time. I already knew she had talent, but her brain really ran on a different operating system. Nicely put, four-dimensional; otherwise… ahem.
Still, some lines had to be held.
“Mayo, I’m dead serious. Miho unnie’s age is private. Got it? Don’t let it slip even by accident. It’s our crew’s top-secret classified info.”
“I like auntie better. Feels warmer.”
“Tsk. Want me to use physical methods to turn that mayonnaise on your avatar’s head into ketchup?”
“From today I’ll call you Miho unnie.”
“…….”
She had that MZ-generation energy, but at least she could read the room and recognize real power. The fact that she at least pretended to listen when I spoke was promising.
With titles settled, we moved into the actual meeting. First agenda item: the crew’s name. This mattered. A single name could rewrite how people saw you. The ideal was something that sounded good and stuck in the memory.
We each revealed the names viewers had recommended through our broadcast station boards.
“How about V-Academy? Concept is that we’re still virtual students learning and growing. Viewers suggested it because I dropped out of school.”
“Oh? Not bad. Has meaning. Student vibe opens up a lot of content too.”
“So three students and one teacher, right?”
“Huh? Teach… ah.”
“Mayo, unnie’s in a hurry—read me your address? Yeah? I really want to see our Mayo’s face.”
“Ahaha.”
If real feelings were involved I would have stepped in, but the teasing felt playful, so I let it ride. Maybe a little mischief was the fastest way to get close.
“I think V-Melody is good—what do you all think?”
“Ah!”
Lucy pulled out the exact name the old crew had used before my regression. Back then the name had also come from an idea in Lucy’s room. Everyone’s reaction was positive enough.
“Lots of fresh ideas. I’ll go safe—how about V-Live? Meaning virtuals who do live broadcasts.”
That one was solid too: intuitive, clean, and it stated the identity right in the name.
Finally my turn. I confidently unveiled the name I had spent days crafting.
“Please Do Your Debauchery After You Die.”
“Huh?”
“I think it’s a name that can lock hardcore fans in for life.”
“…….”
A short, heavy silence. It was probably my imagination, but I could have sworn contemptuous stares were boring into me from somewhere.
No, this was genuinely a good name. It carried the iron resolve never to do debauchery!
“Regarding Joining the Crew Only to Discover the Leader Was Completely Insane.”
“I’ll agree with this one for now.”
“Seo-a. This one doesn’t feel right to me either.”
“…….”
The leader’s authority collapsed in a single clean crash.
