"Becoming America's hottest singer off just two songs is straight out of a Greek myth," Lukinsky said while planning the post-unmasking promos. Under the US rules, Season 3 wouldn't add replacement singers anymore. The remaining five, Red Lion, Azazel, the Rugby Player, Himalaya, and the Black Goat, would each perform.
The lowest vote-getter would unmask and be eliminated, then the show would pick its top four.
"What's even crazier is that I made this myth with my own hands," Lukinsky muttered, shameless and smug. As the show's director, he rounded up his bragging to "I created a variety show miracle."
From the way Lukinsky arranged things, it was obvious he expected Chu Zhi to be eliminated in round three for insisting on singing The Internationale.
The four celebrity judges didn't matter, the three hundred audience members didn't matter. Voting shows are easy to rig, and America wasn't an exception. No matter how well he sang, they'd cut him, and FOX would squeeze every last drop of traffic first.
After running the gauntlet outside, where reporters and paparazzi snapped like mad dogs, the five masked singers finally sat in their dressing rooms.
"I'm using the Honey Badger Voice for the first time. Hope it works," Chu Zhi thought.
Xiao Zhuzi wasn't in the room. An artist's personal assistant was too obvious a tell, and the paparazzi were circling. The program kept all five assistants in their vans to reduce leaks.
He poured himself hot water. Without Xiao Zhuzi around it really was less convenient. He was relaxed, but the other four masked singers looked like they were heading into battle.
They weren't aiming to be champion, they were all aiming for second place.
Red Lion Goran thought, "Azazel's a legend. If even he shows up, I can't beat him. But the others, who can match me?"
Himalaya Horman thought, "Five-way battle, but hell, even the four of us tied together can't beat that birdman. What a crappy design. I'm here for second."
Black Goat Kara thought, "I brought a secret weapon. I'll lock in second easily."
The Rugby Player, Danny, had self-awareness after two straight losses. He was a diamond-tier player who'd wandered into a king lobby. If he didn't feed, that was already a win. No need to show off.
The celebrity judges got the memo from the network, don't vote for Azazel. They exchanged glances and understood.
Korean-American star Duncan didn't get it. His eyes almost popped out. If he drove ratings, why ax him at top five?
Jennifer, the chocolate-toned beauty, shook her head too. She didn't get it. Austin, the old white guy, and Hartman, the pretty vase, were just as confused. Burying the show's biggest hook with a backstage fix felt dumb.
Still, they'd do it. They were paid, and none of them could arm-wrestle a giant like FOX.
While the judges traded looks, the lobby echoed with noise.
"Please line up and enter in order," staff called.
They couldn't confiscate phones. In America, that'd be worse than murder. To stop leaks, they used another method, heavy penalties. Every audience member signed an NDA before entry.
"The penalty's too high," Rayne said as he signed.
"Sir… are you male?" a staffer asked, staring at the long hair and black stockings.
"The list doesn't include MTF, so I can only choose my biological sex," Rayne said.
"I'm very sorry." The staffer apologized fast. With identities across the spectrum, they couldn't risk seeming discriminatory.
"No need to apologize," Rayne waved, then found his seat by ticket number.
He wanted a smoke, but the studio was no-smoking. He crossed one elegant leg over the other and waited.
His father, a soldier, wanted him to be a man, but his stepmother assaulted him from eleven to fourteen. He grew to hate his male traits and feared women, so his gender identity shifted female, and he liked men.
He still wanted to make his father happy, so a few days ago, at the man's sixtieth birthday, he wore a suit for the first time in years.
"I got you a ticket to hear Azazel. He's God's messenger. He'll give you your answer. He'll help you correct your mistake," he remembered his father saying, stern and sincere.
A mistake? Rayne looked at his stick-thin arms. From the results, maybe it was a mistake. His body felt shattered.
"Lord, if you really exist, why does gender in the mind contradict the body? Is this a test? Then you're crueler than Satan," he said in his heart.
He wasn't a believer, and he wasn't exactly an atheist either. He had no faith at all.
Once everyone signed, the host, Nick, stepped into the center. The lights missed their cue, so he stood in the dark. With his chameleon-level stage instincts, the audience didn't even notice him at first.
"We meet again, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my party," Nick said. "Quick reminder, even though it's my party, I don't know who the masked singers really are. We've got to guess together."
"First, our celebrity panel…"
The usual intros, the usual banter. We all knew these folks, no need to waste stream time.
For those who care about the real goods, Hartman wore a pale yellow deep-V gown. No necklace blocked the view, white and dazzling. The cameraman must've found extra drumsticks in his lunch, because he kept cutting back.
Red Lion took the first slot. Instead of rock, she picked a song that fit her actual style.
It was pop, with high notes riding the edge of a crack without breaking, and her opening and closing phrasing felt like two different singers. All three of her trademarks were on full display.
It was still a competition stage, and Goran went a little feral. One mic, all gas, zero brakes.Any decent critic could pierce that mask, honestly even a frequent listener could.
"I know who Red Lion is, a rocker with a high-bright tone."
"It's gotta be Verena, the female guitarist from Lonely Reliance."
The judges led the guesses astray. It wasn't an act, they really didn't know music. Their words had that pure, transparent cluelessness.
Lonely Reliance was a rising post-90s band that wrote about loneliness. Rayne had heard their tracks. To be fair, Red Lion's high notes did sound a bit like Verena.
"Verena's voice has more grain. Red Lion's is silkier, even when she pushes it rough," Rayne judged.
Next came the Rugby Player. Danny planned for a farewell performance, unleashing his subwoofer low notes with zero restraint.
They called him Cannon Danny for a reason. Even if he was diamond tier, he was the diamond that almost gleamed like star rank.
"I know the Rugby Player. I've got a guess, Tungus Danny. I've heard his 'Hey Jack,'" Austin said, finally landing a solid ID.
"I don't think so. Tungus doesn't sound this good, I swear," Jennifer pushed back.
Third and fourth were Himalaya Horman and Black Goat Kara, who accidentally picked the same song, "So."
On this stage, that was rare. "So" was a signature by one of the twentieth century's greats, Clapton.
Both tweaked the original. Horman sped it up, Kara slowed it down. Opposite choices, but the crowd felt the changes weakened the song.
Chu Zhi stepped out. His wings shifted from black to crimson, a blood-reborn angel, an effect he'd asked stylist Adam to prep.
The big screen flashed the title: L'Internationale.
A wave of gasps rolled across the seats. Duncan, Hartman, Austin, and Jennifer finally understood why FOX would cut a ratings machine at top five. Was it that Internationale?
"Fa… cool," Horman blurted, turning a curse into a compliment.
"He's actually singing The Internationale on FOX," Red Lion Goran said, wiping her glasses twice.
"???" Black Goat Kara's head filled with question marks.
Guests and singers were stunned, so the audience was even more so. Eighty percent had come for Azazel, and more than half of them were believers.
What was this, luring them in for a red baptism?
"Spreading the gospel, spreading joy, then The Internationale?" Rayne almost laughed. He hadn't expected that turn.
He'd had zero interest in any messenger from God, but now he was hooked. He wanted to see what an angel with a sickle and a hammer looked like.
The crowd's reaction was exactly what Chu Zhi expected. Trumpet and guitar kicked the intro. The rhythm throbbed like a heartbeat.
🎵"Arise, you hungry, you who freeze in chains. Arise, all who suffer across the world. Our boiling blood cries out for truth, for struggle. Smash the rotten world to pieces, rise up, rise up!
Don't say we've got nothing, we'll be the masters of the earth."🎵
He opened up sixty percent Honey Badger Voice, supported by a full chest tone. The fighting spirit landed clean.
Where there's oppression, there's resistance.
The four judges sat there, quietly listening to The Internationale, and even they felt the pull.
🎵"This is the final struggle, unite and tomorrow, the Internationale will be the human world."🎵
My God, Nick thought, is this the legendary singer's divine weapon?
What does America produce best? Capitalists, obviously.
Half the three hundred had been chewed on by bosses. As they listened, fists clenched.
Overtime forever, firing without cause, jobs without meaning, grinding like machines.
It was ordinary cruelty, the daily kind. If you're not working for capital, you're working for the state. Every American in the room felt the urge to push back.
Chu Zhi sang "Herbal Canon" in Seoul and The Internationale in Los Angeles. Nobody else did that.
🎵"Most hateful are the beasts and vipers drinking our blood. Once we sweep them from the earth, the scarlet sun will shine across the globe.
This is the final struggle, unite and tomorrow, the Internationale will be the human world."🎵
Rayne hummed along. He thought about the tax office. His boyfriend had owed twelve bucks. They never sent a notice, then auctioned the house without him knowing.
Market value, two hundred ninety thousand. Auction price, one hundred fifty thousand. After subtracting the debt, they wired back 149,988.
🎵"Once we sweep them from the earth, the scarlet sun will shine across the globe."🎵 Rayne decided the tax office was the beast and viper.
His father wanted him to receive God's baptism. Rayne felt only the red sickle and hammer.
🎵"The Internationale will be the human world!"🎵
Chu Zhi ended it clean, one line like a blade.
Two bowls of dumplings just for a dip of vinegar. Worth it.
Clap, clap, clap.
Rayne and a few others stood first, then the applause spread.
Even if you ignored the resistance and the history, the stage itself was excellent.
Backstage, Himalaya Horman clapped loudly. Inside, he thought, "Who is this guy, so hip-hop, hell, even more hip-hop than me."
Hip-hop lives on rebellion and release. What's more rebellious than Azazel doing this here and now?
The sets were over. Nick came up to land the plane. "We just heard five fantastic performances. Which one stuck with you most? Azazel's Internationale knocked me out. Now, singers, center stage."
All five lined up. Height-wise, the Emperor Beast didn't have the edge, but nobody could ignore him, not with those red wings and that set.
"Mr. Azazel, why did you choose to sing The Internationale?" Nick asked.
"Because I like it," he said.
Nick blinked. The logic was perfect, but not the answer he wanted.
"Now, vote for the singer you love," Nick said. "Red Lion, Rugby Player, Himalaya, Black Goat, Azazel."
Each audience member used a phone from the show. It wasn't a three-hundred split. You could vote for anyone you truly liked, or not vote.
Two minutes passed. Backstage, the real numbers put him first, even with The Internationale.
On stage, they announced something else.
"I'll announce the two lowest," Nick said. "Fourth place goes to the Rugby Player. You were great, only three percent behind third, razor thin."
"I love the Rugby Player's voice. Those lows shook my soul," Hartman said.
"He's gotta be Danny, and his bass hits like a cannon," Austin added.
You always praise the one who loses.
"In fifth place, the singer who'll unmask and leave us… is Azazel," Nick said.
"God, no way!"
The judges faked shock. The audience felt the real thing.
A lot of people had him first, then the results said dead last. The drop was so hard that silence popped in the air.
Because he sang The Internationale, even with the shock, nobody leaned over to admit who they'd voted for. It made the backstage fix harder to catch.
The other four weren't newbies either. They knew the show's little tricks.
"I don't want Azazel eliminated. I loved his 'Jesus Loves Me,' and my mom loved it too," Jennifer said.
"Who could dislike 'Jesus Loves Me'?" Duncan said. "And 'She Taught Me How to Yodel' made me happy. Both are in my library."
They were playing nice, but the praise sounded pretty genuine.
"Rugby Player, you're fourth. Congrats on another chance. Please head backstage," Nick said.
If they hadn't suppressed the count, Cannon Danny would've been last today, three straight losses and still not out. That's what luck looks like.
Horman, Kara, and Goran headed back but stalled in the hall. They wanted to see Azazel's true face.
Who didn't? He'd set the whole country buzzing.
The singers wanted to know, the panel wanted to know, and the three hundred wanted to know most of all. Who was this shapeshifting legend?Eyes locked on Azazel, the room almost held its breath.
"Next, we reveal Azazel," Nick said.
Chu Zhi lifted the hood. His refined face hit the camera.
The studio went silent.