Chapter Text
Now when BigHit announced that they’d be hiring a new producer to work with BTS, naturally, half the population of the music industry was gunning for it. And when they announced they were interested in a young hire, someone to not just work with BTS but become a mentee under them? Shit hit the fan. Like quite literally the music industry world wide was about to break into a fight over this opportunity. Some of the biggest names in music were not just digging up rocks to find candidates to represent them, but going out of the way to train and give producer credit to these young hopefuls.
Most unfortunately, they were not prepared for the application process. The application was long (and I mean LONG), it was rigorous, and half of the candidates realized they wouldn’t meet all requirements half way through. Mainly given that they were politely asking for someone who was fluent in Korean. But even after that little roadblock, potential producers were asked to submit work from a time span of over five years, give the names of any artists or music companies they’d work for, as well as give a list of songs they had produced or have producer credit on. They asked for letters of recommendation for at least five different artists or music labels. BigHit wanted personality tests done and background checks complete. Health care and dentistry up to date and vaccines in order, with doctor notes. There was a lot more, but to sum it up, it was hard and it was an in depth look at a producer’s music and personal history. It showed their growth, their characters, their own musical tastes, and how well they could mesh with a variety of music genres. This application was more or less asking candidates to give over their entire career in music to judgment. Not to mention a great deal of personal information. And Morgan O’Dowell did this on five cups of coffee and a prayer as she decided to go job hunting to procrastinate editing some of her latest tracks.
Morgan’s POV:
I stared at the computer, the bright green message telling me my application was completed and sent out staring back at me. I rubbed my temples, blinked twice, and opened my eyes. The message was still there from last night, when I apparently submitted an application to BigHit to become a producer for BTS.
What the fuck was I thinking.
Groaning, I leaned back in my chair, ignoring the threatening creaks from the worn out cushions. Staring up at the dusty white ceilings of my office/bedroom, I willed myself to be having a realistic nightmare. When I was 23 hours into a track and nearly high on caffeine, I should have not opened the email my old mentor had forwarded to me. I should not have seen ‘Music Producer Wanted’ and immediately started clicking. I definitely should not have reached out to five of my friends in the industry for letters of recommendation at 4 in the morning and I NEVER should have hit send.
I groaned again and sighed deep enough to feel it in my bones.
BTS. Bangtan….something. I should probably google that sooner than later. I knew who they were, anyone in the music industry knew who they were. The famous K-pop group that was now a global sensation. Lyrical geniuses, masters of the beat. And I, a nineteen-year old Irish producer who worked as a freelancer, just submitted my entire musical history to them. Plus half my personality.
A headache was forming behind my eyes and I sat up at my desk, fumbling for some water and painkillers. Staying up all night before eventually crashing was not the smartest move, but then again, NEITHER WAS APPLYING TO FREAKIN-
“Breath,” I told myself, closing my eyes, “Breathe in, breathe out.” I repeated the motion a few times until my loud brain started to quiet down some. Better, but would be perfect with some food.
Getting up meant shaking the pins and needles from my legs, as well as trying to rub away the imprint of my notebook off my cheek, but after that was done I was stepping into my living room to sneak into the small kitchen crammed against the front of the house.
“It’s one in the afternoon dear,” a gentle voice chastised and I turned around slowly to give a guilty smile to my mother, sat up under a pile of blankets next to the fire. IV stand ever present besides her.
“Dia duit Mama,” I said softly, walking over to wrap my arms around her. She accepted me warmly, smelling like the sea and fresh bread. Honestly, the woman needed to open her own perfume brand. “Late night?,” she asked, giving the dark patches under my eyes a scolding look. “Early morning,” I teased and she chuckled, wrapping herself tighter in the blankets.
I frowned and went over to the small chest tucked by the wall, opening it to grab another wool blanket. I smoothed it over her and she sighed, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you dear.” “You eat yet?,” I asked, “I can make some eggs and toast, maybe some beans if we’ve got a can left.” My mother shook her head and I frowned once more. “Don’t give me that look young lady,” my mother said, clucking her tongue. “You need some food in you mom, you know the meds-”
“I’ll eat in a bit, darling, I promise,” my mother said in a softer tone, noticing my worry, “I just always get nauseous after a round of chemo.” “Right,” I mumbled, forgetting her early morning appointment, “I’m so sorry- I forgot about it. I should have been with you-”
“Sweetie, cancer holds me back enough as it is,” she said sternly, “Don’t let it hold you back too. Besides, you know Auntie Hana is an early riser. She insisted on accompanying me.” “Of course,” I smiled, thinking of my neighbor (well, family more like) and her walking cane and no nonsense attitude.
Auntie Hana had left Korea at 25 with nothing but a ticket for Dublin in her pocket and the clothes on her back, and she made herself a home and lived with sheer hard work and unwavering determination. I respected her a lot, and loved her even more. Auntie was the one who watched me when I was young so my mom could work, and she was the one who gave me my first music lesson. She was also the one you taught me to read, write, and speak Korean, never letting me get soft with it either.
“You’ll thank me one day!,” she proclaimed loudly, smacking me gently in the shins after I complained one day after school about the additional work she gave me studying Korean.
And I did. Well, I did in my head. Auntie had a big enough ego without me boosting it. But I owed her a lot, not only for what she taught me, but for what she did for me and my mom. She was our honest to God savior. And she’d be the one to laugh the loudest in my face when I told her the news about my late night, no-thinking straight moment of stupidity.
“Morgan?!,” my mother called out as I finished whipping up some eggs and toast for myself. “Um!?,” I mumbled, mouth stuffed with a cookie I knew would get a shoe chucked at me if my mother discovered I ate it before breakfast.
“After you’re done, could you run outside and collect whatever’s growing in the garden? And then take half and run it down the road to Auntie Hana and Uncle Pat.” “Yep!,” I agreed, wolfing down my food and pulling my raincoat over my flannel.
It wasn’t raining yet, but it would eventually in the twenty minutes or so I would be outside. And I was proven correct as I grabbed a couple of potatoes from the ground and stuffed as many ripe blueberries as possible into the small container that got passed back and forth between the households in the area.
The smell of the sea hit my nose as I started down the road, the familiar scent helping me calm down and settle my nerves. Greenery surrounded me, growing up the old rocks that built up a small wall alongside the gravel road, and I ran my hand over the blooming wildflowers. In a few weeks, they’d coat the countryside in pinks, whites, blues, yellows, and oranges. I’d pick a few for Mama and Auntie, they’d be nice on the table. Then Auntie would make a stew and bread, we’d all gather together and eat and play cards well the rain bounced on tiles overheard. I’d laugh as Auntie teased Uncle Pat and fetch my mom blankets when the night chill creeps in through the floorboards. And all would be well, all would be normal.
I glanced at the sky, rain drops immediately going down my face from under my hood. I think a small tear may have joined them, but my face didn’t shift.
If everything was normal, then I’d be happy.
Yes, I told myself, finishing up my walk.
I’d be happy.
Namjoon’s POV
When BigHit announced they wanted a young, new producer to work with us, we immediately protested.
Our military services were finally done, our fans alive and excited for the impending comeback, and our relationships- well, still there. We were content and prepared and in no way needed some extra roadblock like a new producer to slow us down in the next phase of our career.
It sounded awful, and really, I would have been beyond thrilled to accept a dozen new producers into BigHit normally. But…it wasn’t normal. I wasn’t back to normal, my brothers weren’t back to normal, and our group sure as hell wasn’t back to normal. We needed to find each other after being apart so long, not try and fit a new piece into the puzzle. And I voiced that much to Bang Si-Hyuk.
“I understand that you need to find yourselves again Namjoon,” the man said kindly, placing a fatherly hand on my arm, “But I also believe that with this newstep in your careers, you need a new voice with you.”
I still hadn’t liked that, but seeing that I wasn’t going to win the battle, I could at least make sure it was to his terms. And so, I created the application form.
No one in their right minds could get through it and meet all qualifications. I asked for experience with foreign artists, with artists local to the applicant’s community, for a minimum of five years in the music industry, and for the candidates to not exceed 23 years of age. I asked for more or less the entire music history of the candidates and for letters of recommendation. For near fluency in Korean, for experience in at least three musical instruments, to have had at least one interview with a credible media source. It should have been enough to convince BigHit that BTS would not accept anyone else into their tight inner circle of musical creation at the moment.
So two weeks later, when Bang Si-Hyuk entered my studio, I was sure it was to admit defeat. Instead, he got a stack of papers tossed on his desk and a grin of victory from his long time mentor. “You and the boys have six applicants to pick from.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Joonie-hyung, this is madness,” Jimin groaned, burying his head in his hands as they all poured over the papers littering the coffee table of Jin and I’s apartment.
“I thought that you created an application capable of scaring off anyone interested,” Taehyung agreed, frowning as he looked over one of the candidates' information, “This guy doesn’t even sound real. Worked with Halsey? Plays guitar, piano, violin, saxophone….. And like ten other instruments?”
“He’s fake, I already texted Halsey about it,” Yoongi mentioned, reading over one of the files with what appeared to be honest interest.
In fact, I hadn’t seen him touch any of the other profiles yet. “Someone catch your eyes Yoongi-hyung?,” I asked, all the attention now on the second oldest member. “Possibly,” he admitted, “She sounds legit and her producer record isn’t half bad- pretty sure I’ve actually listened to some of her work before. Plus, she’s met all the qualifications.”
“Seriously?,” I questioned. “Seriously,” Yoongi nodded, not looking up from the application, “Obviously we’d have to verify all her work and get in contact with the people who gave her recommendations, but….well, she’s at least interesting.”
Jin reached over and snatched the papers from Yoongi’s hands, earning a loud protest from the rapper. “Morgan O’Dowell, producer title: Rin…born April 15, 2005…..from Dingle, Ireland…..piano, flute, and guitar…….Hozier, AJR…..recommendation from……” Jin read off, “And….fluent in Korean, English, and Irish.”
“Huh,” Jungkook muttered, sinking into my sofa, “Looks like someone passed your crazy exam after all hyung.” “It was an application, not a test Kookie,” I sighed, taking the papers from Jin.
Looking them over, I saw that every question was answered and answered well, no reply seeming to be pulled from thin air or made up.
“Well, what now?,” Hoseok asked, leaning forwards, “Everyone else we have legit reasons for turning down…but what about her?” I frowned slightly, turning over the pages again and again, trying to find something missing. But, nothing was, it was a great application.
“Well, we get her background and credentials checked,” I eventually sighed, tossing the papers on the table, “And we go from there I guess.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
Morgan's POV
Two weeks have passed since I submitted my application for BigHit.
Two weeks of silence and peace, until I got a call from Andrew one afternoon.
“Dia duit Rin!,” he greeted cheerfully. “What’s up Andrew?,” I grinned, settling on our living room sofa. My mother looked up from where she was sketching quietly, a small smile on her lips. “Well first and foremost,” he chuckled, “I just sat down, well, I was on a call with, Hitman Bang of BigHit. And he seemed very interested in you.”
I flew to my feet. “Go mbeire an dá dhiabhal deag leo tú,” I swore, shock still over me, “You aren’t fucking with me, right Andrew?”
“Language!,” my mother scolded. “Dia duit Ms. O’Dowell!,” Andrew yelled through the phone. “He says hello,” I said to my mom before taking the call outside.
“Are you serious, Andrew? They really called?,” I demanded, taking a set on the metal bench on our porch to stop my legs from shaking. “Cross my heart Rin,” Andrew laughed, “And actually, should they ask, I never told you they called me, I’m not supposed to tell you they’re interested in you yet.”
“Course, course,” I murmured, running a shaking hand across my face and letting out a nervous laugh, “I just- I can’t believe…..”
“Rin,” Andrew said gently, “You’re a fantastic, young producer who’s years of experience ahead of most others your age in your career. They’d be crazy not to hire you, especially given that you’re also a part time genius that speaks three languages.” “But-,” I swallowed hard, “This is a globally known band, with millions of followers and- jesus fuck Andrew- I’ve listened to some of their songs by chance but I know nothing about them-”
“Well my friend,” Andrew interrupted, “I’d study up.”
After finishing my call with Andrew, also known as Hozier, I bit the bullet and told my mother the story of my late night, half-asleep, half-ready to fight God stupid decision.
“Honey, this is incredible!,” my mother gasped once I’d finished rambling, “Oh, sweetie, I’m so, so proud of you!” I fought back some tears as I slowly knelt down in front of her armchair. Like when I was a child, I put my head on her thigh and took a shuddering breath, trying hard to not let a single tear loose before her.
Her hands, icy cold despite being so close to the fire, gently rubbed my scalp, murmuring soft and comforting words to me until I was ready to voice my worries. “If,” I started, “I am picked, I’d be leaving you here alone. And I’d be moving halfway across the world when I’ve never even left Ireland. I’d be going to a city with millions of people who will be completely different from me and probably think I’m just some stupid American tourist and I-”
“Hush a stóirín,” my mother soothed, “Breathe.” And I did, slowly and shakily. I took a few deep breaths and let the warm fire and my mother’s cool hands on my head lull me into relaxation. “I’m not-I’m not good enough,” I whispered finally, my biggest worry now set free.
“Morgon,” my mother said gently, “You are human. You are smart and funny and kind, just as you are stubborn and painfully honest. I have seen you work harder than anyone I’ve ever known for the last five years to be where you are in music. I see your passion and love for music in all you do. There is no one I think that deserves this more than you.”
She raised my head to meet her eyes. “You, my precious daughter, are enough. And let no one tell you otherwise.”
“But what about you?,” I asked, my voice small and weak, “The cancer-” “I,” Mama interrupted, “Will be fine. Where do you think you got your strength from little one?” I chuckled quietly and snuggled my head back into her leg. “What if I paid someone to be with you?,” I asked, “They can stay here, in my room, make sure you’re eating and that you stay healthy.”
“A stóirín,” my mother said sternly, “I would kill that person and you know it.”
“What if I gave Auntie Hana money to come and stay with you, even just a few nights a week?,” I offered. “Your auntie would smack you with her cane if you tried to pay her,” Mama laughed, “But even then…..I can’t ask anymore from her. She’s done so much for us already.”
“Then I'll stay here,” I decided. “I’m not going to leave you.”
“Morgan Maeve O’Dowell,” Mama said sharply, and I jerked upright to see her glaring daggers into my head, “If you get this chance, you will go to Korea, you will produce your music, and you will find your own path in life. And not I, nor my illness, is going to stop you.”
“But-”
“I,” my mother continued, “Would rather spend the rest of my life alone, than spend it with you knowing I held you back.”
“Mama,” I whispered, throat tightening. “But for now,” Mama said softly, “We will play cards and we will call Auntie to bring some warm wine and we will move forwards together.”
KOREA
Namjoon’s POV
We all gathered in a conference room, multiple feet tapping anxiously on the floor.
Bang Si-Hyuk called for a meeting sounding joyful, which meant one thing. And none of us were ready for it.
I cracked my fingers nervously, glancing at the door every few seconds, torn between running out or barricading us in. Unfortunately, Hitman Bang entered before I could decide.
“Gentlemen,” he said happily, a wide smile on his face, “Good news.”
I quickly scanned around the room, reading everyone’s faces. The maknaes looked the most nervous, Hoseok appeared oddly calm, Yoongi seemed indifferent and yet interested, and Jin…..well Jin looked startlingly stunning as always. So stunning as to knock my attention of Si-hyuk for a moment.
“-checked out. Rin’s recommendations all had glowing reviews about her and her background check came up clear. Not so much as a parking ticket.” “So then,” Hoseok asked slowly, “What now?” Hitman Bang smiled even wider. “After the final interviews we will hopefully send the offer to her, and by this time, four weeks from now, she may be on her way to Korea.”
Morgan’s POV
Not long after Andrew called, I got an email that my application was accepted and that if I was still interested, an interview was waiting for me.
The staff interviewing me were kind, but very hardcore. They asked me everything from my experiences in the music industry to my prior knowledge of k-pop to my dietary habits to my love life (not much to say there-). But at the end they seemed relatively pleased, informing me that BigHit would be in contact soon. And they really meant soon as two hours later an email was in my mailbox, congratulating me and informing me I was chosen to move up again in the application process.
I’ll spare the long two weeks of constant interviews, phone calls, and emails between BigHit and myself- but let’s just say I felt like I was about to be accepted into a cult rather than a music label.
So finally, FINALLY, when they informed me I could expect one final phone call before the process was complete, I nearly cried happy tears. Never again was I filling out a job application on a caffeine high.
ONE WEEK LATER:
“Mama? Did you move the cookies again?!,” I complained, opening up every cabinet in our small kitchen. “No sweetie, try the fridge!,” she called from the fireplace, shaking slightly as a breeze came in through the window. It was a rare sunny day out so we let the windows open, but there was also a strong breeze from the sea catching our house.
“I can close it Ma,” I said, putting my search for cookies on hold. “Just the ones facing me,” she instructed as I popped into the living room, “I like the smell of the sea in the house.” “As you wish your royal highness,” I bowed, earning a small chuckle from her.
I tried not to fret as she exhaled slowly, breathing a tad ragged. It wasn’t abnormal for her to be aching, struggling to catch her breath, or in pain, but it never got easier to see. From the last two years of this though, I knew from experience that constantly hovering around her would get me a shoe to the head. Mama was stubborn, but not stupid. She thankfully knew her limits extremely well and wasn’t shy about admitting when she did or didn’t need help.
I had just finished closing up the windows when my phone buzzed. Frowning, I walked back over to the kitchen and nearly dropped my phone into the sink as I read the caller ID. BigHit Entertainment. “Fuck,” I muttered, “Oh fuck.”
“Morgan-”
“It’s BigHit Mama.”
“....Well don’t just stare at the screen, pick it up!”
Right. Mama was right. I stared a moment longer before answering, clearing my throat. “H-hello?”
“Good afternoon, am I speaking with Ms. Morgan O’Dowell?”
“Yes sir, this is she.”
“I’m glad to finally get the chance to speak with you Ms. O’Dowell, you’ve certainly impressed us so far.”
“Thank you sir, and who may I ask am I speaking to?”
“Ah yes, apologizes, my name is Hitman Bang Si-hyuk, CEO of BigHit.”
“It’s a- it’s a pleasure sir, I’m honored to be speaking with you.”
“The honor is all mine, now, I must ask if you know why I’ve called you today.”
“I have…hopes sir.”
“Then I’m happy to pass along the good news. Ms. O’Dowell, on behalf of BigHit Entertainment and BTS, we’d like to offer you a position here as a producer.”