Desperation was the only thing fueling Roland.
Under the beating shadows of studio lights, he heaved from yet another grueling rehearsal where he was expected to demonstrate a showmanship he wasn't even sure he carried. The fairytale of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" bled into the demand to sing the defiant cry of a dying man: "The Show Must Go On." Roland wasn't sure what the logic was that deemed him appropriate to sing a song he knew he could not inhabit with any sense of honesty. It certainly wasn't because he was worthy to sing Freddie Mercury, though he had a feeling that was the narrative the producers of America's Next Big Star were going to push.
As he felt himself teeter on the edge of wanting to collapse, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Roland's head jerked up to see the concerned expression of Smokescreen's human holoform, the Autobot's simulacrum of youthful features creased with worry and amazement all at once. For as much as Roland had many consternations about Smokescreen risking exposing himself to this many humans, the singer afforded himself one moment of selfish relief in seeing his closest companion here. Roland leaned into the moment of comfort, Smokescreen's presence temporarily chasing away the feelings of isolation he felt within the confines of the TV studio.
"How much longer of a breather you need?" Smokescreen asked through the chaos of rehearsals behind himself and Roland.
"Just a minute or so… hope I'm done for the day," Roland kept his voice low, always keeping an eye out for a camera or a producer.
"Do you mean, done with the singing or done with the other stuff?"
"Hopefully both of them…" Roland sighed out.
For as paranoid as Roland was about having Smokescreen around even the vaguest vicinity of showbusiness, it was an immense relief to have him around in the moments where he flirted with physical and mental exhaustion. Still, as Freddie Mercury would belt out, the show must go on. He was prepared to lead Smokescreen back to the dressing room until the both of them were intercepted by one of the show's many intrepid producers, eyeing Roland with a scrutinizing gaze.
"You're getting better, but more oomph. We're going to get the judges to say that this performance is just as good if not better than last week's, and you know what they said. You won't be joining the others for tonight's party and we are recording a segment where you are breaking down in your room in the house. When we record more footage for the VT, we'll say you're struggling. Got it, Morrow?"
Roland could do naught but simply nod, reminded of the pressure that a contestant was only good as their latest performance. For a scant few moments, the producers trained their gaze on Smokescreen before hurriedly walking over to prepare one of the remaining contestants for their auditions. Just like that, plans were made, and Roland couldn't find many other avenues to actively resist or even try to provide some input for the narrative the show was constructing around him. Roland could feel the questions from Smokescreen, knowing the rookie witnessed the rather one-sided exchange. Without trying to miss a beat, Roland would lead the Autobot through the chaos of the show's production, line producers walking about like clockwork trying to prepare the show for its live performances broadcast in two days' time. Roland was able to lead Smokescreen to one of the dressing rooms reserved for the contestants, finding it mercifully empty.
Thus, the singer was met with the silently incredulous questions plastered upon Smokescreen's expression.
"Yeah… it's… it's like that," what else could Roland say?
There wasn't much he could do to sugarcoat how the show as exacting and controlling even for the contestants it had every intention to push far. Roland didn't even want to recount what the producers were capable of behind the scenes when they were clearly stringing along a contestant for shock value and ratings.
Smokescreen's expression was etched into a horrific scowl, inflaming a rage that felt palpable within the dressing room. His face was directed towards the direction of the door, and Roland had a feeling that Smokescreen wanted to send a message his own way. If this was how he regarded the producers of the show, humans who were just nameless strangers to the rookie, Roland did not want to be on the receiving end of Smokescreen's ire. There was a terrifying darkness in Smokescreen's optics, a disturbing premonition of what could be if the rookie's anger was left unchecked to fester into something that could endlessly destroy.
"It's not fair. This is just singing, not some… it's like they think you'll just comply and take it."
Roland could hear the initial venom wavering into an emotional indignation. As much as the singer wished he had the answers, he was still navigating the maze of the music industry. Roland wasn't sure how to explain or mediate the horrors, especially with the knowledge that Smokescreen's eventual concerns were larger than any manipulation for a show that was just a piece of light entertainment to be consumed and enjoyed without too much thought. Still, there was a certain and twisted sense of vindication that Smokescreen was seeing America's Next Big Star for what it is.
"I wish it was just singing… where they let us have control over what we sing and they don't worry too much about how to make us look or act," that came off far more wistfully than he intended, and he caught himself about to wax lamentations in a space where he and the rest of the contestants were often surveilled. Roland couldn't fight the instinct to check over his shoulder, to see if he was being caught in camera shot somehow.
"I wanna show 'em a piece of my processor somehow." Smokescreen said, hints of a growl entering his voice. "Ro… I thought this show was slaggin' something else when I watched, but seeing it with my optics… Ro, I don't wanna say that these people are evil, but…"
"You can be honest."
There was a moment of silence between them, Smokescreen visibly contemplating his words.
"I know they ain't 'Cons, but… they're slimy as frag, little dude. Everything in my processor is screaming at me that they're terrible. And you've been dealing with these humans for months, just like this?..."
Roland tiredly nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion more acutely now that he was hearing Smokescreen validate what he had been experiencing when the cameras weren't rolling. It was liberating and validating in its own, twisted way, a strange hallelujah that Smokescreen saw the show for what it is. This perpetually pushed him to continually consider why he was doing this, why he was using this show to try and jumpstart his music career. What scared Roland was that he had a feeling he was only just merely scratching the surface.
But he'd shed enough tears over this.
Yet he still had more tears left within him to cry.
"5 million dollars, Smokescreen," he said. "That's the prize… a 5 million dollar recording contract and the promise of a career. A better life for the both of us… where I can get us out of that apartment and give you… us, a home. A life where we can both do what we want and we don't have to worry anymore."
Roland could still see the hesitance and rage in Smokescreen's 'eyes,' his approximation of a human carrying a subtle uncanniness when looked at too closely. The intrepid singer knew what he was fighting for wasn't the end. Hell, he wasn't even sure he would see a single cent of the show's prize, knowing how assets worked. It felt awful to bury his head in the sand, to try and blot out that he was but a persona, a puppet on a television screen where his room for self-expression was limited except for what he was told he could express.
"I'd bear it… if it meant I could have that chance. I don't like any of this either, Smokescreen… but I'm in too deep now."
Roland could see the retort in Smokescreen's eyes, a mounting frustration with the situation. However, their private moment was interrupted when a contestant entered the dressing room with a line producer in tow. The producer identified Roland and immediately, there was cajoling and commands.
"Roland! You got another shoot for the video tape! Austin needs you in 10, right near the backstage landing. Tell your friend to pack it, it's getting late."
To Roland's horror, the rookie had already stormed away, the aggressive gait in his steps communicating that Smokescreen was provoked by being in this environment for too long.
All Roland could do was comply and smile while his heart was drowning in desperation.
The sensory overload of America's Next Big Star meant that time passed both slowly and quickly. All he could think about was the anger on Smokescreen's human holoform, and the communication that had become unbearably terse since then. It was only a small ugliness that Smokescreen had witnessed, but even Roland himself was dreading where the road lay ahead if fortune fell upon him and he landed the mother of all prizes from that show.
That record deal.
That holy grail that he had fought for so long to make a livelihood of what he loved.
But what was worth the sacrifice in chase of a dream of what so few could achieve? He'd always grown up knowing the music industry was like this, and reality singing shows were merely its worst tendencies crossed over with the television industry's whims. You sacrificed a bit of your dignity and creative control for the chance to have a platform that could grow or falter. Roland had always resolved to do it alone, even if it meant losing himself to what other people would say. He'd relinquish control now in the hopes that maybe, just maybe… after paying enough time to pay his dues, he could be the singer he wanted to be.
That dream was always unrealistically unattainable, but he buried his head in the sand.
But what he never expected was Smokescreen, someone so far outside of the endless thirst for music stardom. Someone who fought, albeit abstractly and arguably naively, for a noble cause, and someone who for all intents and purposes does not have a place to call home. With Smokescreen, different things began to matter, and Roland was left with burgeoning desires that competed and clashed with what he'd known for so long. He couldn't reconcile the feelings he felt and the debt he owed to Smokescreen for essentially saving his life, more than just literally saving one's life from a Decepticon attack.
All Roland could do was sing.
He held onto the hope that there was still a way to make this work without losing Smokescreen into a taciturn jadedness.
That hurried hope fueled Roland when it was time for him to perform live on national television once more. The thought of following up on a performance that impassionedly declared as an all-time great, even if Roland doubted the sincerity of such a statement from the judges, was difficult enough. For the sixth week of live performances, Roland was sent out to open the show with a song he wasn't even sure he mastered, no less a song he knew he couldn't make 'his own' the same way that he had a lifelong bond with 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow.' The thought was a musical sacrilege, because he knew the only person who could inhabit this song was Freddie Mercury. Yet, what aspects of America's Next Big Star weren't drenched in some sort of musical blasphemy?
The show had no choice but to go on.
The stage was drenched in white lights as the song began in a theatrical manner, driven by orchestras instead of electric guitars. Roland had no choice but to throw into the theatrics the show wanted him to exude, beginning the song with dramatic poses, holding an arm upward timed to each flourish.
Since he was opening the show, there was no way to properly ramp up and build the climax to the song, so he knew that everything was going to be truncated. The adrenaline of the moment added a quiver to his voice, but he couldn't let the nerves crumble him into a mess. He felt a strange shift when his mind finally processed that he was live, that this was the performance that would 'count' amongst those that watched the show. He navigated the shortened first verse with as much gusto as possible, gazing into the cameras with an intensity fueled by a burgeoning abandon.
When the chorus quickly manifested, Roland let his voice ripple with the style he was comfortable with. He belted out the song's title as he strutted about the stage bathed in those white lights, letting go of any pressure to live up to the song when his mind was dominated by the fight to justify his dream, to prove that he was not merely burying his head in the sand. He ad libbed when he was not singing the song's lines, knowing that the climax to his performance was coming in mere moments.
After a brief interlude of improvised vocals, he moved to the song's bridge, throwing himself into the utter abandon and urgency this song demanded. In the face of war and uncertainty, he would keep singing, throwing his voice into the ethers of a dark unknown where he knew he faced cruelty and spite. Even through the glitz and the glamour of what the producers wanted, he needed to make this moment real.
Roland belted out the chorus, hanging on by a thread to the song's dangerously fast pace. There was no grace to his delivery, but there was a resonance that even if he wasn't near death, he could understand what it meant to stand steadfast in the face of a world that risked choking you to silence. He was carried by the breakneck pace of the song's arrangement, having no choice but to find the will to carry on this hurried performance, his voice rippling through the studio even if it was strained by an anxiety that refused to disappear.
Roland fought through his emotions to deliver, gritting his teeth to deliver movements that seemed so silly and overdramatic during rehearsals. For the final bits of the performance, he held his arms upwards, motioning them towards the ceiling as if asking for the deities themselves for an escape. Roland took cues from an idol, Celine Dion, for these movements, knowing they were exaggerated and maybe even horrific. Yet, everything felt magnified for this stage, and if this was what he needed to deliver to remain in the competition, that is what he would deliver.
Then, the climax of this version of the song manifested by way of the instrumentation quickly paring back, letting Roland's voice take center stage as he belted out the word 'show,' his voice tearing through the television studio. The crowd seemed to hunger for more as Roland threw himself into the image of being a showman of a bygone era. Roland felt no shame for throwing bits of melisma, pouring in every single trick he had learned as a vocalist into these last set of notes. Then, the lights descended upon him once more as he concluded the song, belting out the title with utter abandon as he stepped back. The relief of the performance being nearly finished was there, the sweet release of a cheering crowd very nearly within reach.
With one last flourish, he extended his arms outwards as the song entered its dramatic, sweeping conclusion. Roland would then raise a trembling fist to the air when the song ended with a bang, causing Roland to stagger back. He would blow a quick kiss to the ceiling, hoping that if Smokescreen was watching that he noticed the gesture.
There was so much swirling in the singer's mind that he was not even sure what he was feeling. All he knew was to stand still in position and try to remain measured as the crowd cheered, loud enough where he was struggling to focus on his in-ears. He saw the judges, including his mentor Angela, look at each other with expressions of disbelief. At the very least, he saw them gaze at the cheering crowd with measures of incredulity.
"Roland! Roland? Can you hear us?" One of the judges asked through the chaos of the studio crowd.
Roland nodded, able to pick up the gist of the quick question.
"That was exquisite. I don't think you need us to tell you how well you've done. Do you hear this crowd right now, Roland?"
The crowd hungrily cheered, their sounds of excitement intensifying the strange and surreal energies of the room. Roland's frayed emotions from his performance had left him more vulnerable on stage than he already was. He was sure he was going to be raked to the coals by producers later on, but there was something about the crowd's reactions that made him tear up. He wasn't even sure if it was real or if this was just the effect of being the first to open the show, but it felt real in that charged moment.
"Roland, if there is any justice in this world, you should be sailing through to the finale and be there at the very end. You are such a class act and you're very easily one of the best voices on that stage, right now. You are going to be a huge recording artist; the other acts have such huge shoes to fill after you!" said another judge.
He then gazed at Angela, the celebrity singer and pop star meant to serve as his on-screen mentor. It was hard to read her gaze when it was time for her turn to provide feedback and commentary on his performance. In truth, Roland found it difficult to read any of the judges in the moment, sometimes needing hours and days after the broadcast to piece together what the judges were truly saying and how that tracked with what the producers planned for each contestant.
"Last week, you had what we all called and agreed was your best performance in the show and the best performance America's Next Big Star has ever seen. This week, you're stronger and even better than ever," what did Angela mean with those words? Regardless, the crowd reacted with a hunger and excitement at her words, clearly interpreting her words to mean Roland had already surpassed the viral watermark of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
"I am so proud of you Roland. If there is any justice in this world, you will be in that final 3, and you and I will work together to make sure viewers at home see why you deserve to go all the way to the end."
Was any of this sincere?
Roland could only nod with tear-streaked eyes as he was shepherded off the stage, finally finding a respite to simply breathe and be himself even when backstage was teeming with so much bustling and anxious activity. Any talk of the finale felt incredibly premature, even though he knew the producers had something of a vested interest in taking him rather far into the show's competitive cycle. But what was it that they wanted? What exactly, outside of fitting the role of someone with an astoundingly big and powerful voice, were their intentions? Roland wasn't sure if he even wanted to find out the real answers to such questions, and he knew that no producer in this show would ever reveal their cards so plainly.
The only thing that ran through Roland's mind was that he needed to talk to Smokescreen.
Roland didn't really decompress until he was at the contestants' house after enduring the barrage of post-show interviews and media obligations. It was often that either one of him or George were some of the first ones to make it back to the house after either an episode was aired live or if there was some sort of event that demanded the contestants' attention. The nightlife was tempting to experience, but the bubble of America's Next Big Star had left him too worn out to even contemplate partying. As it is, the show had also attached an image of safety and innocence to him, with his perchance and habit of crying on camera being part of his public persona for better or for worse. Roland had tried not to read too much into blogosphere and reality show journalist discourse, but he has seen the declarations of him being deigned as a crying, earnest, but horribly outdated balladeer with a squeaky-clean image. Given that the show often thrived from any hint of controversy, the last thing he wanted was to end up in some unsavory gossip magazine. That was one aspect of celebrity fame he never wanted to be subjected to.
Even the good kind of fame was stressful on its own.
Fittingly enough, he found himself facing George the moment he was about to attempt to contact Smokescreen. George was an interesting conundrum from what Roland had observed throughout the show. Their intense rehearsal and promotion schedules had made it impossible for them to discreetly discuss their pet conspiracy theories surrounding America's Next Big Star, but it was in the silent in-betweens late into the night was where Roland and George had bonded as they both survived, and perhaps even thrived, in the voting rounds. Roland was aware to a degree that George was something of a voting magnet whose appeal needed to be controlled. George, after all, was the only one who was singing country music and hailed from the American South amongst the initial top 12 contestants.
Roland had seen the metrics and discussions when he couldn't bear to look at what others were saying about him. It was amusing to see how many were insisting George was a threat to win the season and that he was guaranteed to win. The thought of George winning brought a strange sense of relief to Roland, even though he himself coveted the title of being the proverbial next big star that the show always proudly announced. What was even stranger was how there was an insistence on having him and George being opposing, dueling forces with a rivalry awaiting to be manufactured, even though Roland had never heard a peep from production that his role was to be George's rival or antagonist. In truth, Roland had disabused himself from trying to read the tea leaves of the story that the producers wanted to sell except for the continued insistence that he sings more and more vocally demanding songs.
"Somethin's troublin' ya, Roland."
Trust George to be perceptive when the cameras weren't rolling, even though Roland knew he wasn't one to hide his emotions well. He trusted that the walls didn't necessarily have ears, but all it takes is a confession that is too candid to change a narrative.
"You alright to talk tonight?" and to Roland's relief, he was met with a silent nod. "Do you… remember me mentioning that friend of mine? The friend that I always gesture to after every performance, the whole kiss to the ceiling that's become… almost a signature of mine."
Roland watched as George's brows furrowed, a beat of silence before a look of recognition alighted on his face.
"Yeah, I remember him! Well, as much as I can remember someone whose name I don't really know," George couldn't resist adding a sassier inflection to his voice, not hesitating to send an amused smirk towards Roland's direction. However, that sass would soon turn into a light hint of concern. "Everything alright between you two? I reckon you're not bringing him up out of the blue for no reason."
Trust also that George would be perceptive even about the hidden silences buried in Roland's words and nervous disposition. Emotions were truly the worst kept secret of Roland's life, and he wasn't even sure he could hide anything from even total strangers. Still, he hoped that the obvious secret would never be found out, knowing that George would recoil in horror if he ever found out about the true nature of Smokescreen's existence. Talent show manipulation, deceit, and glamour all seemed so horrifically quaint when he thought about the Decepticons, but even Smokescreen's adversaries felt distantly abstract.
"I actually brought him to the studio with me," Roland wasn't sure if things were alright between him and Smokescreen. "He… saw them, the producers, how blunt they were that they were steering the whole thing."
Roland could see the grim glint in George's eyes, the weight of having bore witness to how shameless the producers could be even all the way back to when they were just making it through the untelevised audition rooms before they were allowed to grace national television. Nothing about the show was left to chance, with every soul that passed through the audition queues always being stringently evaluated as to what kind of archetype they could fit and perform for the screens. In George, Roland knew he would understand in a way that nobody else outside the bubble would.
It was one thing to watch from a distance, but to be molded by the show itself was another.
"How did he take it?" George asked with the drawl slowly fading from his voice.
"Not well."
"I'm sorry."
The weight of those words bore down upon Roland's shoulders. Already, his mind could not avoid flashes of Smokescreen facing not just reality television, but also the horrors of the music industry itself and how unforgiving it was to so many people who aspire to make music their livelihood. Roland's aspirations in comparison were delusional, chasing for a stardom that may not even be there, hoping against hope that his rise to fame would be one of mythic and biblical proportions.
"I used to think that I was singing for myself. I still am, but… things have changed," Roland said, his eyes gazing upon George with a weary look. "I think I'm singing for him."
Roland wasn't sure how many dams he was holding back in himself and he was tired of saying or singing things out loud that made him cry. He was exhausted with the tears that he thought were dried up at this point and he didn't want to live an existence where even saying the most basic of confessions caused him to well up in tears. He aspired to be a professional singer who wore his heart on his sleeves just enough, always making sure to be honest without being too forward. Yet, here he was again, crossing the precipice of losing control of his emotions. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to break, to feel what he needed to feel. In the corner of his eyes, he could see George shift awkwardly at such an uncomfortably open display of emotion. He didn't blame him for a single second, for how do you appropriately respond to someone breaking apart at the seams?
"Do you love him, Roland? I still don't know much 'bout him, but the way you talk about doin' singing for him… I gotta ask, do you love him?"
"I do," Roland croaked out, breathless as the response was instinctual.
He wasn't even sure what kind of love it was, or how to even articulate such a love to George.
But Roland loved Smokescreen.
Hours later, even though he was supposed to be asleep in anticipation of rehearsals for the results show that always happened the night after the performances, he sacrificed precious hours of sleep in an attempt to contact Smokescreen. He knew it wasn't a wise idea, especially since Smokescreen may have needed more space and time.
But the thought of Smokescreen growing distant provoked an unhealthy balance in Roland that he had been unable to shake off. He knew that the stress of the show was making his anxious feelings even worse than they already normally were, having to wear intense emotions day after day and night after night to perfect them from the cameras bearing down on how he functioned when the cameras were off. What was happening to his mind? What was happening to him?
He was holed up in a bathroom at 3am, knowing he risked one of the remaining contestants barging in depending on how long they were partying or doing interviews. Roland gripped his phone as he sent the first call, praying to some deity above that Smokescreen would answer. Was there some sort of Cybertronian deity? Some equivalent to God? The fact that Roland had never asked crossed his mind, and he began to realize with a measure of horror that he never asked Smokescreen what his culture or home planet was like. However, Roland's burgeoning guilt gave way to relief when the line picked up, and he heard a voice he desperately needed.
"Little dude? Slag, you called at an interesting hour," Smokescreen sounded exhausted, as if jolted awake from a recharge he likely needed.
"Hey…" Roland breathed out, to the point where he wasn't sure if his phone even picked up. He whispered the word, knowing he needed to be quiet.
"Hey back, Ro. You… you alright? You usually don't call for no reason." Smokescreen said.
"I… it's late and I think most of the contestants are asleep… I… I just wanted to say sorry about… when you visited the studio… I got worried…"
Roland stopped his rambling when the line went silent for a few moments.
"Ro…" hearing the heaviness in Smokescreen's voice was painful. It was strange to think that there was centuries, even millennia, weighing on Smokescreen's processor. An entire war… what did it matter about a group of humans producing a show? "Look, not gonna deny I was mad. It took a while for my processor to set my slaggin' self on the right track. But I was never mad at 'ya, Ro… is that what got you worried?"
"It worried me… I started thinking and… I know how dangerous that is, but I just… It made me realize, again and again, that… None of this means a lot unless I have someone to share this with… and… I didn't want you to think…"
"Little dude, shh, it's okay. Do you need me to come to the house? Think you can sneak out?" Smokescreen had asked.
"Can't… rehearsals for the results in seven hours."
"Frag… okay, I can come down after results then. Look, I need you to remember something. I know I was mad when I heard that human just treat ya like… you and I both know that ain't fair, and I don't wanna think about how they treat people they don't like. As far as I'm concerned, they're worthy of the pit." Smokescreen's voice took on an edge Roland had heard from time to time, a righteousness befitting someone who was still a rookie soldier according to his home. "But what I'm more worried about is you, Ro…"
"What… do you mean?" Roland would ask, though he suspected how the rookie would answer.
"I know how much you want to be a singer, Ro. But… I've seen how tired you are and how much the show works you over. Even the way those producers just told you what to do… I just don't want you to lose yourself doing this, even though I know it's your dream. I know the number, the whole 5 million in your currency thing. It's like me stumbling upon prized high grade except it'd make me a better fighter. I get it. But I still want you whole and safe after all of this slagging madness for you is done, alright? I don't wanna lose the only friend I got in this planet."
Roland's mind was too exhausted to weep, but he drank in the words as a lifeline he refused to let go of. To his exhaustion addled mind, Roland swore this was the longest he had heard the rookie talk at once, and he felt his heart falling for the yearning he heard even over the phone line. He wanted nothing more than to be near Smokescreen's presence, to be safe within the warmth of his alternate form. Roland knew that he would have to wait before he had the chance, but it was a wait he was willing to endure.
Maybe getting eliminated in the next 12 hours wouldn't be such a horrific prospect, as terrifying as that sounded.
"I love you," Roland blurted out, blubbering the words almost incoherently in the strange form of a half-sob.
"I… Ro…" Smokescreen audibly stumbled over his words, and Roland could imagine the way Smokescreen's optics would widen and twitch in bewilderment, the metallic ridges of his faceplates being human-like tells for how he was falling. "I… frag it, it's just you and I, slag maintaining a reputation. I love ya too, little dude."
And for the first time in days, Roland felt a visceral and genuine sense of relief. The weight on his shoulders and the pressure of the competition did not abate, but it felt like he could focus on singing without a shadow in his heart. For Roland, at least, he let Smokescreen know that there was a measure of deep love in the bond they have developed over the course of the past months or so, verging on half a year knowing when he first encountered Smokescreen. Whatever happened, he wanted Smokescreen to know that he was loved, even if Roland wasn't sure what kind of love that was except for a deeply rooted affection that made singing make more sense.
"Thank you," words failed him, but Roland knew there would be a more elegant way to show his gratitude to the Autobot.
He couldn't help but think of that one cliché: when words failed, music speaks.
Roland couldn't be fully at peace, but he found it much more bearable to navigate not just the glitz and glamour of America's Next Big Star, but the prospect of navigating the fame that he was garnering by singing on national television for the past five weeks of the show. There was a sense of being overwhelmed by circumstance that Roland could not ascribe words to when he was declared safe and through to the sixth week of the competition, leaving him one step closer to the finale and towards the dream of that elusive recording contract.
Success begot success as in moments of downtime from rehearsals, he often could not avoid the talk from the producers surrounding him or even the idle conversations he had with George or even the more secretive exchanges he had with Smokescreen. The producers' plans for Roland began to grow more grandiose, with the producers sitting down Roland with a plan, a dedicated step-by-step vision in anticipation that he was popular enough to secure a ticket to the top 3 and by extension, the show's season finale.
In the lead up to rehearsing for his sixth week of performances, he found himself face-to-face with
"Morrow, we're going to be honest. With the way the voting has gone, there are only two options. It is either you or George that is going to be the winner this season."
Roland wasn't sure how to respond to that except with a careful nod. For someone who had been assigned mostly older material, he knew he had a much more gracious editing in comparison to the older contestants he competed against that were assigned to sing similar songs. Yet, when they were criticized for being outdated, Roland often dodged those same biting critiques in favor of the 'best performance of the night' declarations. It was undeniably fishy, but neither was he sure he wanted to cross the very people that were pulling the levers of the show. They were the ones who made the stars, and it seemed that the general public were playing ball.
"We took a risk by presenting you the way we did for your audition all those months ago, and it's paying off. By any metric, from the view counts to the way online blogs are writing about you, you are the one to beat this season, Morrow. We don't have many options left, so you will be the one we will try to get over the line."
How much of this was he supposed to believe? Roland was never one to follow his own image online, but he had seen the view counts of his performances and saw fleeting glimpses of the response behind his most viral moments. As much as Roland did not want to think of himself so highly, the reality of his situation was abundantly clear. He was surrounded with some measure of fame, both manufactured and real all at once, and now he was once more tasked to play whatever part the producers wanted him to sell.
"This is still a competition, so you need to pull off what you did for the last two weeks. We're switching to two songs this week because we're getting into the home stretch of the competition. You've got two songs to nail this week, and they're in your wheelhouse. We have a dual Disco and Whitney Houston theme."
Roland's eyes widened at that, but he only softly nodded at the commands.
"You have the Donna Summer arrangement of 'Could It Be Magic,' upbeat but dated. Then, you will be singing 'I Have Nothing.' Should be simple enough."
And just like that, the process of the show became a whirlwind once more.
As he rehearsed, the talk online and on the ground began to coalesce into the producers playing into what the public were naturally voting for. Despite Roland trying to escape the tall shadows of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and "The Show Must Go On," it was clear that there was some reality in him being a real contender to win the show. Each rehearsal of his two songs saw the producers grow more and more enthusiastic, to the point of a strange insincerity that he swore he was reading into their faces. The choreography for his first number was a suitably tasteful one that complimented his vocals rather than upstage his lack of natural stage presence. "I Have Nothing," his second song, was suitably given a large production.
With the finale of the show drawing dangerously closer and every media interview insisting on repeating the adage that either he or George were going to be the winners of the show, the pressure to deliver was worse than ever.
When the night of the sixth week's performances were upon him, Roland threw caution to the wind for "Could It Be Magic," trying to let go of reality and instead live in the yearning of the song. It amazed him that he was too young of a soul singing these kinds of songs so clearly meant for those at least ten to fifteen years his senior. However, there was something about being under these glamorous lights that made him feel alive, like he was finally thriving and coming into his own anytime he had to pick up a microphone and sing in front of an audience. Sure, the song he was singing was a love song at its core, but there was a magic to the stage. There was a high that was fleeting and yet so addicting.
The disco arrangement him kept from lingering too long from one emotion, but unlike his disastrous second week performance, there was more room for him to stand still and belt. With less dancers on the stage, he had more room to breathe and stand out, for as much as someone who was still an amateur in show business could stand out. Roland had no qualms about letting his voice soar to the kind of acrobatics that defined his run on the show. He met each chorus with an unstoppable belt, each verse with a falsetto. It was exhilarating so simply let his voice soar free within the confines of his vocal routine, to know that he was capable of following and hitting the notes that the show wanted him to hit.
Come what may, there maybe was a silver lining to these reality shows.
The judges were as effusive as ever with their remarks, hollow as they felt in their enthusiasm. Roland could only wonder how this was coming across on a television screen.
"Roland, you've done it yet again! You sing, now you dance. You can sing anything and you make it your own. We are getting so close to the finale of America's Next Big Star and dare I say it, you deserve that title! Your destiny is to become a sensation and a brilliant recording artist."
"Roland, simply sensational. As your mentor, I've watched you grow and grow throughout these past six weeks. We will get you into that final and God willing, you are going to be America's Next Big Star."
The rest of the night, and the next 24 hours were a blur for Roland. It was surreal that he was being given what quite literally were lay ups. "I Have Nothing" was the kind of song that he grew up with, and it felt strange to treat the song as if it were something he needed to own. Yet, having grown up imitating singers like Whitney Houston and Celine Dion since his childhood, this felt like singing in his bedroom without shame in his attempt to match those singers note for note. It was doubtless odd to treat such a monumental song in such a way, almost sacrilegious even.
But what about this show wasn't sacrilegious at this point?
The following night, Roland was announced safe yet again. In the context of the whole show, he was only one week away from the finale. There was only the seventh week of the show remaining, which would be billed as the 'semi-final,' and then after that was the week of the finale itself. In a manner of two weeks, the show was going to anoint its next champion as befitting of the show's title, and that act would win the vaunted $5 million dollar recording contract and secure what was ideally going to be a fighting chance in building a career in the American music industry.
Yet again, he was sat down by the production. This time, he was accompanied with George.
The show insisted on a rivalry between them both, but both Roland and George knew that this was but another flashpoint in the show's quest for ratings. They were both but singers with roles to play and fulfill for the cameras, a price that they both needed to pay in exchange for the ostensible exposure they were getting through this sustained promotion on national television.
"Morrow. McCurdy. You both know why you're here." one of the show's producers would say, a continued insistence with their surnames being used.
It was chilling still, being surrounded by a sterile production room where the cogs of the show's narrative were being produced and where the storyboarders of the show regarded them as mere tools on the stage. Roland glanced over at George, who was the face of calmness against such strange circumstances that should've been normal after so many months existing in this hyperreal bubble.
"One of you two is going to be the winner of this show. Neither of you two are going to be the 'ideal' winner per the record label, but we should get our priorities straight. Per the production, Morrow is the one we want, but we've also prepared for the possibility of you winning, McCurdy. The numbers speak for themselves.
"Morrow, the views for "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" are the most we've seen in a long time, both your audition and the performance you did. McCurdy, the Deep South will carry you to the finale. So, you're not just going to be singing your songs this week. You two will be recording the winners' single this week, a cover of 'Hallelujah.' Yes, that song. Any questions?"
Roland and George uncomfortably glanced at one another, a million thoughts going through their mind at the advent of such information. Given that there was only two weeks in the season left, he knew that any time he wanted to spend with anyone was going to be limited. He wasn't even sure if he would even have the time to spend with either Smokescreen or George, much as he wanted to have some form of a deep conversation just as things were approaching the business end of the competition. Roland realized then and there that he had made it so much further than he anticipated, and the producers' words also reinforced that the end was nigh, and that a new beginning was right around the corner.
It was rare they ever had any input that would be productively taken by the production, so both Roland and George nodded.
Shortly after the meeting with the producers and just before the rush of rehearsals began, George gave Roland a weary look that had become so commonplace amongst the contestants that remained in the show. The life of showbiz had become a never-ending grind, and this wasn't even the version of a music career where everyone was endlessly touring, recording, and writing music. Roland and George, with the both of them having sung 'older' songs throughout the competition, had an awareness that what they were doing in America's Next Big Star would be considered 'easy' amongst the standards of those who paid their dues away from the glamour of televised talent shows.
This didn't make the process any easier to bear.
"I don't ever wanna do somethin' like this ever again…" was what George whispered to him.
And in all honesty, neither did Roland.
The process of recording "Hallelujah" and nailing the two songs that were ostensibly meant to get Roland through to the finale, that being covers of "The Power of Love" and "Listen," had caused Roland to operate largely on autopilot for most of the week. Yet again, he was singing another string of powerfully sung ballads, but with an added touch of self-empowerment for "Listen." It was to the point where he was practically singing everyday in the lead-up to the night of the semi-final, leaving him with only one method to bear through singing these songs, which was merely to belt them out with the desperation that had become his signature.
It did not help that the arrangement he got for "Hallelujah" was tailor-made for his kind of brutish style. Roland could sing with precision, but he knew that it was a fool's errand to try and match the vocal nuances of someone like Leonard Cohen. When he sang along, the arrangement had peaks and valleys where he was allowed to belt and build up to a dramatic climax, including even the addition of a dramatic choir when his version of the song had a key change. The lyrics were so heart wrenching and poetic, but they clashed so heavily with the arrangement's intent to transform the song into a grandiose ballad.
As far as artistry was concerned, Roland knew he wasn't doing himself any favors.
With the end in sight, it felt strange to even think that operating on every single cylinder would mean that the hours and days of rehearsals blurred even further. The moments to take in the experience were few and far between as the home stretch of this season became so much more apparent and real. The finale was now only a mere week away as the performance night of the semi-final quickly approached, catching Roland by surprise.
"The Power of Love" and "Listen" were songs that fit almost too well with his style, with Roland allowed to belt out without any reservation. The line between script and feeling began to blur, and he began to believe the words he sang especially with "Listen." Beyond just the complimentary arrangement where he was guided towards a key change, this ballad from Dreamgirls was more than just the obligatory rite of passage to prove one's vocal chops. There was no hope of matching Jennifer Holliday, but by God did he buy into the empowerment and defiance.
He had to believe.
If he didn't believe, what was the point of giving it his all?
Things were changing and happening so quickly.
"The first person through to next Saturday's finale is… Roland!"
It wasn't until roughly a few hours after that announcement that Roland found a moment to breathe. After an endless barrage of interviews and press chats, Roland sought refuge with the only person, well Autobot, that saw through the veneers of the rapid fame that now clouded Roland. When Roland found himself nestling atop Smokescreen's shoulders, it was the closest feeling to home he'd had in months. He was risking the ire of the producers that would need him in top shape for the festivities and promotion associated by making it to the finale of America's Next Big Star. Of course, simply having to perform in an arena for the finale was not enough, neither was singing and rehearsing four songs and various group performances. There was always more, but the details were lost on him.
What mattered, at least for this moment, was Smokescreen.
Roland was battling to stay awake, or to stay 'online' if he were to use the parlance that Smokescreen was more used to as a Cybertronian. The warmth of his form was a balm he craved, even though he knew the luxury beds in the contestants' house were objectively more comfortable.
"Little dude, this show is really doing a number on ya. You sure you'll be alright?" Despite the bond that had formed between them, it was always surreal for Roland to hear Smokescreen sound so concerned.
"I hope so…" he whispered back to the rookie, taking for granted Smokescreen's far more advanced capabilities.
"I believe in ya, Ro… and I gotta say, never thought the first human I'd ever meet in this planet is on the whole fast track to being famous thing. Slag, you're actually in the finale."
Roland couldn't help the chuckle that slipped from his lips, a sound of disbelief. It was strange to think that it was the actual reality of the situation.
"A couple of months ago I was singing in a shit bar with nothing to my name, and then I met you. This show has been a lot of things but, what doesn't change is that you… Smokescreen you're the best thing to have happened to my life." Roland took a deep breath, finding the will to break through the temptation to sleep on the rookie's large shoulders. "My dreams, in a way, have already come true. I don't know if I'll actually win, but… people are beginning to get to know me."
Smokescreen couldn't resist chortling at that, leading to Roland glancing at his faceplate with a curious expression.
"Little dude, you undersell yourself."
Roland raised an eyebrow, before he sighed against Smokescreen's faceplate. He knew better than to take the bait, but he couldn't resist.
"Well… what do you mean by that exactly?"
"You're more than just people getting to know ya, y'know. Like… you're becoming this phenomenon. Every time I poke around what you humans call the internet, I see you or that other dude's face. The one with the cute country voice, George right?"
"Yeah… that's him."
"Awesome. Well, my point being… don't underestimate yourself, Ro. If you don't win, look at how far you've made it. If you do win, same thing. No matter what, I'll be there for ya. You know where to find me."
With that, Roland couldn't help the fragile smile that went through his face. It wasn't a smile practiced for the cameras, but a smile unburdened from expectation. How strange and yet beautiful that a living alien construct from space was the closest thing to a human connection he had in so many years.
"No matter what happens, being with you will always feel like home."
"Little dude… Ah, Ro, not you getting all mushy. Slag…"
The week of the finale was undoubtedly stressful, filled with a mountain of media obligations and performances leading up to the event itself. The amount of carefully scripted and curated interviews he needed to do sometimes felt like it was overpowering the singing itself. The way he was being treated as an almost bonafide celebrity was a mental block he had to overcome, even though he was still carrying marching orders to appear as a humbled, perpetually anxious balladeer who was always overwrought with emotion and was shocked by his success.
Was this what fame was like? Was there a possibility that the producer on his side would be replaced by a PR manager?
Then there were the rehearsals in the lead up to the finale itself as well as the promotional appearances. Roland knew it was himself, George, and a twin brother act whose band name was TwoSteps that were the last three acts left standing. However, most of the conversation excluded TwoSteps, with the media and production focused on what was going to be the eventual duel: Roland vs George.
A proverbial fight to the death between two singers that mostly appealed to older demographics.
It wasn't lost to Roland that there were no women amongst the final three, neither were there any acts that actually sang what was actually charting and commercially singing. Roland wasn't sure if any of the production cared that it was someone like Rihanna lighting up the charts, and that singers like himself were dead singers walking the path towards obscurity.
But even that thought was too depressing. There has to be a path, a chance for him, right?
"Morrow, you have five songs to sing. Three on Wednesday. Two on Thursday. The chances of you and George duking it out on the final Thursday are all but guaranteed. All of the songs are important, sure, but the song you have to nail is Hallelujah. If you make it to Thursday, which you will, your performance of the winner's single will be the last one of the season."
Even for the finale, Roland was still receiving these cold, almost lifeless marching orders. He'd endured a few months of singing live on national television to have gotten strangely used to being told what to sing by producers that were actively sketching out his narrative almost on the fly. It should've concerned Roland that there were so many assumptions that were baked into the songs that were ultimately going to decide whether or not he was going to be this season's champion. What was George even going to sing? How were the producers going to stage the both of them?
In the world of reality TV, he knew Smokescreen would witness five hours of what the producers and the production company wanted to be broadcast live. For those five or so hours, that was when America's Next Big Star existed for the country, when the pageantry of this televised talent show would finally crown its winner. Had he just been someone outside of the world of this whole operation, he would've tuned in as a fan, with only a passing curiosity and some speculation to the show's inner workings.
The build up to those five televised hours was at least three to four days' worth of rehearsals and media interviews. Pseudo red carpets and appearances in little bits, extras, and skits where Roland wasn't even sure if anybody was even watching except for dedicated fans that would obsess over the details. God, or Primus forbid if he were Smokescreen, the punters and betters that had some modicum of financial stakes in assessing who would win the season. The thought of someone clinically placing money on either himself or George to win or lose this season was a thought that made Roland uneasy.
Those five hours were really going to be forty-eight painful hours, some of which he hoped would be sleep between Wednesday and Thursday. Forty-eight painful hours where reality and story blurred, where the line between belief and acting blurred.
Forty-eight hours where he was caught between pretending to feel and actually feeling.
Forty-eight hours of acting upon what seemed to be a script, but that script comes so close to what he felt inside.
And yet somehow, this was still a fight, a competition. The record deal was the carrot on the stick, the very promise of the very stardom he fought for, the promise of a better life he wanted to build himself and for Smokescreen.
Roland had to believe.
If he could not win for himself, he would win for Smokescreen.