Chapter Text
Doctor Anaxagoras, MD, PhD: The youngest professor at Grove University School of Medicine, a renowned researcher at Grove Medical Center, a brilliant mind with a slew prestigious accolades under his belt, and a self-proclaimed #1 dromas fanatic. He wondered, exactly, which God, Buddha, or Satanic being he had pissed off this time to have ended up where he was on this fine spring evening.
With wheezing breaths, Anaxa panted--splayed on the floor with limbs too numb to support his own weight and lungs on utter fire. He thought he was suffocating under the intense bright lights of a bustling dance studio, his own body no longer his. Every muscle hurt, every fiber of his being was fighting to not immediately perish the moment his eyelids closed. He was exhausted from dancing from sun up to sun down, frustrated with his own lack of skill, and disgusted with how strands of his hair were perpetually stuck to his forehead, the rest of his body sticky and stinky.
Anaxagoras was, fully and completely, regretting his decision to work this temporary job--because somehow, he ended up being a contestant on the ever so popular idol survival show Project IdolZ .
Fuck being an idol, fuck this show, and fuck that Z in particular.
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-1 month ago-
Whatever the great and exceptional Doctor Anaxagoras was supposed to accomplish, downing a large cup of ramen noodles in 20 seconds flat was likely not that.
“Calories 620, 21g of fat, 1560mg sodium, 75g carbohydrates, 8g protein. Not bad,” Anaxa listed. He sat cross-legged on his favorite spot on the couch, in nothing but a drab t-shirt and shorts. A laptop was open beside him, the screen displaying a browser window with a three-digit number of tabs open to various research papers.
“How the mighty have fallen. Are you done wallowing into your bowl of trash?” A teasing voice pipped through his phone. It was none other than Cerces--for a physician, she oddly had too much time on her hands.
“It is not ‘trash’,” he defended. “And I am not wallowing .”
“Right, right--What do the kids these days call this again? Oh, right, a ‘crash out’,” Cerces’ laugh was grating to the ears. “You, Professor Anaxagoras, are crashing out.”
“What does that even mean?”
Without missing a beat, Cerces answered, “To go insane and-slash-or do something stupid.”
Anaxa’s eyes narrowed. “You have Urban Dictionary open right now, don’t you?”
“Nope!” Cerces cackled. “I am on shift right now, no computer in sight.”
Anaxa sighed. Doctor Caplypso was one of the many brilliant doctors in charge of overseeing clinical rotations at Grove Medical Center. If Anaxa hadn’t taken a sabbatical, he would have been teaching first year pharmacology in the mornings and fiddling away at the medical research lab in the afternoons--like he had done for the past few years. For at least one semester, he wanted to devote his entire attention towards his research: It sat at a precarious junction, where a ground-breaking discovery was imminent. But alas, the great Doctor Anaxagoras, MD, PhD, had become stuck.
And he was crashing out.
“You know, Anaxa,” Cerces changed her tune from amusement to something more pensive. “It’s okay to come back without results.”
“Failure is unacceptable,” he firmly denied. No results? A stagnation in his research? He would rather die. “Please do address me by my full name, ‘Anaxagoras’.”
“You are obviously making no progress.” Cerces could be blunt whenever she wanted to. After all, it was likely the best way to get well-needed advice through his own thick, stubborn skull. “Why don’t you pivot your focus for the remainder of your sabbatical? Document everything you have done so far, and look for something else to do in the meantime. A break, maybe pick up a new hobby, and then come back strong. Maybe one of your grad students would have results by then.”
Anaxa remained silent. He didn’t want to waste his time on fruitless efforts.
“Maybe what you need is a new perspective,” Cerces continued. “If you only focus on teaching and your research, you might lose sight of what’s more important: The patients. Have you thought about gaining new insights by working with patients directly?”
“I have.” In all honesty, working with patients would not be helpful: His research topic was narrow, focusing on the optimization of drug delivery of a very specific set of compounds. The chances of coming across more than one patient needing this drug was incredibly small. Anaxa had hoped, in solving this conundrum for a known drug, he could introduce a revolutionary method of drug delivery that could open the gateway for a flood of a new generation of medicine. But alas, there was no eureka moment waiting for him.
“Then relax! Maybe go climb a mountain or two. Your noodle legs and wimpy arms need the exercise,” Cerces’ singsong laugh echoed from his phone’s speaker. If Anaxa broke his phone, he would send Cerces the invoice for a replacement. “My break’s over, don’t go bald worrying about this. Bye!”
The repeated beeping of a disconnected call was annoying. Anaxa sighed, rubbing his temples. He could not deny Cerces had a point: If he remained as he was, nothing would get done. He had assigned a handful of graduate students to research a few different promising leads, and it wasn’t like he could rip those tasks from them to fulfill his own desire to be productive. Moreover, the biochemist with whom he had been consulting was on maternity leave for another two months.
“A new perspective…”
Seriously, what could Anaxa do? He flopped onto his side, tilting his laptop sideways and browsing through the map for nearby clinics. He could volunteer his time, in the interim: It was better than rotting on his couch. He doubted, however, that any well-respected clinic would appreciate a volunteer who could only show up for two to three months before quitting.
He wracked his mind for options for a “new perspective”. A vacation out of the country was out of the question, especially with the hassle that came with traveling and its associated logistics. It was too late to participate in any of the upcoming symposiums considering their strict deadlines, and it was impossible to host lecture series considering he had nothing new to show for. Reaching out to other researchers for a collaboration was not something that could be completed at such short notice.
Three months. What could he do with only three months left of his sabbatical? Staring at an open browser tab and watching the persistent blinking of the text cursor, nothing came to mind.
Ping!
With great effort, Anaxa peeled himself from the couch and reached for his phone. A text message blinked on the screen: Anaxagoras, $250k Job Offer (Remote) Good Morn…
Ah spam, the bane of anyone with a singular functioning brain cell. Anaxa scoffed, promptly deleting the message and setting his phone on silent. But… this gave him an idea.
He grabbed his laptop and typed in a search for temporary job listings. Sure enough, there were quite a few. And narrowing down the time frame to end in the summer… A hit.
Temp Sport Medicine Physician
Posted 2 day(s) ago.APPLY DIRECTLY
Job Description
We are looking for a temporary Sport Medicine Physician for the entire duration of our on-site production of an international survival show. The physician will focus on the wellbeing of our participants and treat any acute or chronic pain arising from injury (sport, sprains, slip-and-fall, etc), as well as any general medical conditions.A successful candidate should:
- Be licensed and in good standing with the local board of medicine.
- Have experience working on a production set.
- Possess excellent communication skills.
- Be willing to be on-call 24/7 according to the filming schedule.
Benefits:
- Pay: Negotiable
- Live-in position, lodging provided
- All meals covered
Location: Okhema
Heh. A survival show, huh? Anaxa doubted it would provide him with a groundbreaking epiphany on his research, but maybe it could offer a satisfying, new experience. It was, quite literally, something simple to take his mind off of his incomplete research and prevent his mind from spiraling into a pit of self-destruction.
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-1 week ago-
When Anaxa received an offer for the temporary position, he didn’t expect it was for one of the most popular idol survival shows, Project IdolZ . Though he was not quite interested in the world of idols and entertainment, he always heard hushed and excited whispers from his students about the “next big hit”. From what he gathered, the debuting group from the first season of the show went on to be an international sensation, with sales surpassing almost all of the already established groups. Each subsequent season of Project IdolZ broke streaming records, and this season was slated to be one of its best, especially now that voting had been opened to international fans as well.
To appear on this show, it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for participants--or trainees --to make their dreams of becoming an idol come true. And so, of course these kids would practice until their legs would literally buckle under them.
“Tsk, this isn’t good.” Anaxa had finished binding a distraught’s trainee’s ankle to a splint. The boy had missed a backflip during the group’s practiced choreography and, unfortunately, landed at such an awkward angle that he managed to put his entire body weight on this single, fragile ankle.
“I-I can still perform,” the boy heaved. “It’s just a bad sprain, right, doctor?”
“Doctor, please tell me this is just a sprain.” The producer-director, PD, had been hovering nearby since the staff realized the trainee was in dire trouble.
Great. Anaxa was going to be the one to deliver the soul-crushing news. “PD, please have a staff member drive this trainee to the nearest hospital.” Next to him, the child sobbed. “It is undoubtedly a fracture, but the degree of the break can only be assessed with an X-ray at minimum. I do not recommend this trainee to continue with this show.”
With an exasperated sigh, the PD sprinted off--literally, she took off in an Olympic-worthy sprint--, all the while shouting for her assistants. They had a “Code Red” on their hands, which Anaxa took to mean it was a show-ending event. Well, whatever--he was just a doctor.
Anaxa returned his attention to the trainee, now flanked by his groupmates, solemn in their shared despair of a mate losing this opportunity of a lifetime. In this cutthroat competition, the vast majority of trainees would never see the light of a shining stage--and for this trainee, just had his chance heartlessly ripped away.
“Child,” Anaxa found himself saying. “Once your bones have mended and you can dance again, I look forward to the stage you will put forth.”
Was that enough? Anaxagoras was never good with words, but empty words like, “it will be okay” and “there will be other opportunities” never sat right with them. All he could do was encourage the trainee to move past this event and look forward to the future: As long as he was willing to sing and dance, surely a stage would be waiting for him at a journey’s end.
The PD and two assistants, all out of breath, reappeared in front of the group. One of them had a wheelchair, and helped the trainee into the seat to wheel him off. The remaining groupmates were dragged off by the second assistant, most likely to review and amend their choreography for their introduction performance. The PD, however, immediately bowed to Anaxa--the entire ordeal with both hands on her thighs with hips bent at an almost 90-degree angle, and showing her entire top of the head.
“Please be our 99th participant!” The PD begged.
Huh?
“No,” Anaxa felt himself flush at the incredulity of it all.
“Please!”
“No.”
“You’re our last hope!”
What the fuck.
“No.”
“Just for these first few episodes! We direly need a 99th participant.” The first few episodes consisted of an “introduction performance”, where each set of trainees performed a selected song and dance to make their “big impression” on the staff, mentors, and fans of the show; followed by the “theme song mission”--whatever that meant. The first episode would air the moment filming for the “theme song mission” was complete.
“If you’re so desperate, go pick a random guy off the streets,” Anaxa retorted.
“The hiring and contract process takes too long,” the PD explained. “We are filming in less than two hours.”
“And contracting me would take less time because..?”
“We have your documents and background check already, the only thing left will be to draft a contract for you to sign. One hour tops.” This woman seemed adamant to have Anaxa accept her proposal.
“You have plenty of other staff members to pick and choose. Why me?” Anaxa crossed his arms, though he really should not be entertaining this thought further, because his answer remained a resounding no .
“You are the pre--the youngest. The current season comprises an all-male trainee lineup. Please look around you: The majority of the staff are women, and the men are so old, their bones will immediately break if they take a small tumble.” The PD straightened herself and made a grand gesture towards the staff surrounding them. Behind her, a cameraman snorted.
Anaxa’s eyes narrowed. He caught that stutter. What was she about to say?
“With all due respect, I do not understand why the show needs a 99th,” Anaxa rubbed at his temples, feeling the beginning of a new migraine. “Proceed with only 98 trainees.”
“No!” The sheer intensity of this rejection made Anaxa jump. The PD took a deep breath. “Sorry. Ugh--The show’s quality would take a hit if, on the very episode, there is a participant missing from the lineup. That is unacceptable to us.”
“Delay the first episode,” came Anaxa’s curt response.
“We can’t,” the PD drawled. “If we delay the first episode, everything else will be delayed as well! This will be a catastrophe! The stages and venues we booked, all of the songs and licenses we had to fight for--everything will be off and it’ll be the end of Project IdolZ !”
Was… the PD crashing out? Was this what the kids these days referred to as “dooming”?
Suddenly, she grabbed Anaxa’s hands and continued with her plea, “Please! We will make a large donation to Grove University--w-we will also only hire Grove Medical Center healthcare members for any of our future shows!”
Anaxa doubted this PD had the power to dictate how their company hired medical staff.
“If the filming cannot proceed tonight, we will have to cancel this season and send everybody home!” She looked at him with trembling lips and wide, tear-filled eyes.
Oh, give me a break.
A show of this caliber would not be cancelled just like that. He had to agree though, if a show for N number of seasons began with 99 participants, to suddenly air with only 98 would raise a lot of criticism. Even if it wasn’t within the staff’s control, the fans would bare their fangs: Did the show not have a contingency plan for something like this? Were they so incompetent as to be unable to fill in an open spot? Why did the show let a trainee hurt himself in the first place? Ratings would fall, and the current staff would be torn to shreds by the parent company. If Anaxa filled for their 99th, they would only need to answer the criticism over why a trainee got hurt before filming began.
Anaxa closed his eyes and thought back to those kids, shoulders hunched and shaking. If they were caught in the crossfire of this mess, it would impact their future chances of debuting as well.
“... Fine.”
“Please, please--wait, what?” The PD herself seemed quite astonished.
“But I have conditions,” Anaxa huffed.
“Yes, yes, of course! We will do our best to accommodate!”
Anaxa tapped a finger to his chin. “One, a second physician needs to be hired. Two, I refuse to share a room with anyone younger than 25 years old. Three, the room I reside in will have absolutely no recording devices.” When he accepted the position, he had watched a few episodes of the latest Project IdolZ season. During the show, trainees lived in dorm-like rooms, four trainees to one room with beds, desks, and a shared bathroom. Multiple segments featured trainees hanging out inside their respective rooms, whether it was to dramatize someone’s despair over whatever or to display bonding exercises between trainees in the same performance team.
“Consider them done,” the PD nodded to each of Anaxa’s demands.
“Four, the editors will do their best to remove me from every episode. I want to guarantee I am eliminated as soon as possible.” Guarantee such that he would only suffer for, at most, two weeks.
“Oh, um…” she hesitated. “It’s entirely possible to remove you from scenes where you are in the background, but not the ones in which you are part of the focus. The best advice is to not stand out as much as possible: Be bland and let the little ones hog the camera.”
Summon his introverted self and slink into the darkness. He could do that.
“Without further ado, sisters, please do your thing,” the PD smiled (she smirked). “I will have the contract drafted immediately!”
“Sisters?” In the blink of an eye, Anaxa was immediately swarmed by three enthusiastic staff members, a trio of stylists hired by the production company.
“Trust us, Professor Anaxa! We will make sure you shine under the spotlight,” one of the staff members, a blonde, took away his lab coat. Wait, no, he was supposed to not stand out.
“Your visuals are insane,” another staff member brushed his bangs from the face. Her pink hair swayed behind her as she circled Anaxa. “Your skin is flawless!” Is it?
“Simple makeup, then?” The third staff member, a woman of short stature and frizzy brown hair, piped up. “Frame the face, eyes, and lips.” What?
The blonde came back with an armful of multicolored fabrics. “We need to style his eyepatch too! How about a dark and mysterious vibe?” Please don’t.
“No no, heart me out!” The brunette proclaimed. The other two leaned in, eager. Anaxa leaned away, already regretting ever agreeing to this mess. “We can use that !” Why did that sound so ominous?
The other two stylists gasped.
“The corset?”
“With a puffy white shirt!”
“Yes!”
“Oh my god.”
“We accentuate his waist and let his face do the rest!”
What?
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-present-
What the fuck was Anaxa doing with his life? He should have ignored Cerces, and simply alternated between rotting in his bed and rotting on his couch. He could become one with the furniture for all he cared--anything but this: All 99 trainees were given the details to the “theme song mission”, which was to perfect the show’s theme song along with its complex choreography within three days. Whatever they managed to retain in this short period of time, they would perform in front of judging cameras and be assigned letter grades for their respective performances.
Just two more days… just two more days, filming would wrap up, the episodes edited and aired… and then Anaxa would be eliminated during the subsequent voting period. Please, set him free.
“There you are, Professor!” A head of messy white entered his line of vision, blocking the eye-blinding white ceiling lights of the dance studio. A handsome face smiled at Anaxa, who was still gasping for his dear life on the floor.
“Ph-Phainon…” Anaxa pathetically wheezed out. Phainon, the most sought-after model from Chrysos Agency, was his one and only roommate for the duration of the show (meaning the two were the only ones part of the Coalition of Old People here). What was someone with an established career doing on Project IdolZ ? Surely, if Phainon wanted to start singing and dancing, an idol survival show would have been the most roundabout way to achieve whatever goal he had?
Sweat dripped down a chisel jawline and with a towel around his neck, the young man held out a chilled bottle of water and touched its cold underside to Anaxa’s flaming forehead. Shit, that felt good. This was so unfair. Here Anaxa was, fighting for his life while looking like a disintegrating, asthmatic wet cat that just got fished out of a swamp. Meanwhile, Phainon, ever so prim and proper, looked like he exercised only a little bit. Was this the power of a veteran model? To just… look devastating regardless of what he was doing?
“You’ve worked hard!” Phainon chirped. “Maybe it’s time for a well-deserved break.”
Anaxa could only manage a weak, pitiful cough of agreement. He sat up and grabbed the bottle of water, then chugged it down with a fervor he didn’t know he had. Next to him, Phainon sat down with his own bottle.
“The steps around the chorus are still hard,” Phainon commented. “I see you’re still struggling with it.”
“Indeed… I am…” Anaxa breathed out. His heart might give out at any moment now.
“I may not be the best dancer, but may I assist the esteemed Professor regardless?”
Tsk, that glib tongue . “No amount of practice will help a failing performance, when the performer himself lacks skill in the first place. Focus on yourself, lest I hold you back.”
“I think the Professor is giving himself too little credit,” Phainon said. “You’re one of the few who can hit these high notes.”
“They’re coming out as shrieks when I try to dance at the same time,” Anaxa commented.
Phainon was mid-swallow when he sputtered, the mouthful of water immediately going down the wrong pipe. He choked, a snort exploding from his nose as water shot from his nostrils.
Anaxa could only chuckle as he rubbed his roommate’s back while the white-haired samoyed coughed and heartily laughed. Was what he said that amusing?
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Countdown to Project IdolZ 2025
Meet the Trainee: Anaxagoras
Project IdolZ • 387K views • 3 days ago
In this series of videos, each trainee had approximately two minutes to introduce themselves and appeal to prospective viewers of the upcoming season to vote for them. Some chose to perform little skits, others chose to show off their musical talent, and some creatively showed off their lovable quirkiness.
One video stood out amongst the rest for its brevity: Lasting only 10 seconds, Anaxa’s video was as simple as it can be. Anaxa was standing in front of a neutral grey wall of the show’s logo, with arms crossed and hips tilted to one side. A puffy white shirt contrasted the dark colors of the painted wall, almost blending in with his black corset and fitting dress pants. The only observable color was his seafoam green hair framing a delicate face, bangs styled sideways to hide all but a small tip of an eyepatch that was peaking through.
“Hello, my name is Anaxagoras,” the trainee in question spoke in a firm, monotonous voice. “I am not part of any company. I cannot sing or dance. Do not call me ‘Anaxa’. That is all.”
The man walked off camera, and the video ended two seconds later.
796 Comments
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@potatowedges 2 days ago (edited)
Holy SHIT is that my professor????
Edit: OMG YESS IT’S HIM ALKSDLASFOIHOFEIUH https://www.grove.edu/grmed/directory/a/profile.html?id=616@idolzfan 3 days ago
he reminds me of a prickly hedgehog
2 Replies@trashy9238 3 days ago
He’s like a mint cat!@leslie.white 3 days ago
omg a mint cat professor!@chicken_fillet_x 3 days ago
THAT WIAST, WTF IS THAT WAIST
8 Replies@idolzfan 2 days ago
srsly, why’s his waist like that? for men to grab?@chicken_fillet_x 18 hours ago
replying to @idolzfan for ME to grab!!!