This is based on a dream I had a week ago. I guess my subconscious wanted a reason for the worse aspects of All-Stars (namely the horrible ending and the massive character derailment). All in all, I think I produced a decent one-shot. -shrug-

The title is a reference to the song "Downtown" by Petula Clark from the movie 'Girl, Interrupted'.

Knowing now that Mal had been defeated, Zoey grabbed Mike and pressed their lips together, and they shared in their first real kiss...

"Cameron, honey, what are you doing?" a female voice calls, snapping me out of my zone.

"Just writing, Mother."

I put the notebook down, my story fading from my mind. I realize just what the truth of my life is. Stuck in a bubble, friendless, wondering what grass smells like and if I'll ever get a chance to actually know...

I pick up my notebook with a sigh, thumbing through the pages. Ever since I read about this thing called "fan fiction", I've wanted to try it. You would think I would write about something I know by heart, like one of my favorite Shakespearean plays... No, I had decided instead to write my own season of the most popular reality show at the moment, Total Drama.

I can hear children playing outside the window. Someone goes by on a bike, bells ringing. Sounds I'll never experience firsthand, so why not at least have a medium to pretend?

I've never seen much of Total Drama, as my mother finds its contents inappropriate for someone my age (ironic considering the contestants are all sixteen, just like me). I've kept the spirit of the original, from what I've seen: the host is a sadist running a show full of humour, drama, romance, and a healthy dose of self-deprecation on my part. I'd opted to creating original characters, 12 unreal people along with myself, since I didn't know enough of the original cast. Nothing wrong with indulging in a bit of self-insert fantasy, after all.

I think Total Drama: Revenge of the Island is a pretty good work. It has about the right number of contestants, and they're pulled off rather well. A foul villain people would love to hate, a pretty girl to play the damsel in distress (who later proves her abilities), and of course, our hero, my absolute favorite out of everyone I created, Mike.

Something sinks within me when I think of his name. I'd written Mike and Zoey as my best friends. This will sound sad, almost pathetic, but everything in me wishes they were real people. I rarely have the opportunity to speak to anyone my own age—so why can't this beautiful doe-eyed girl and her valiant knight in shining armor be here, sitting next to me? Why can't they be watching their weird indie movies and explaining phrases to me that my Mother claims are too "dirty" for my supposedly innocent ears?

"Cameron, sweetie!" calls Mother, entering the living room where I currently reside in my bubble.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I was wondering what you'd like me to pick up from the store."

"I'm fine." But I never am, I think with a sigh.

"Are you still upset I didn't buy you those odd 'indie movies' you wanted?" she wonders with a frown. "I just don't want you to walk around dressing strangely and attracting all sorts of attention to yourself. We both know how much you hate getting too much attention!"

Actually, I'd love a little spotlight. I can't say that to her face, though. "I only wanted the indie movies for research. I don't know enough about the subculture, so when I wrote my sequel I kind of wrote myself into a corner with this girl's dialogue..."

"Hmm... Well, how about this?" She heads closer to my bubble, smiling in that comforting (albeit slightly off-putting) way she has. I've been told that Mother hasn't been the same since my father's death, a tragic event that happened far before my birth. Perhaps it explains her worry for me, how she always acts as though I'm a glass doll. "I'll let you watch one episode of that Total Drama show. Just one. How's that for a birthday present?"

"Really? Oh, wow! Thank you, Mother!"

She turns the TV on, as she so rarely does, flipping it to a channel I don't recognize. She enters some parental block codes on the remote, informing me that the TV will shut off automatically after 30 minutes. My face lights up as the happy, hopeful tune opening theme music finally graces my ears (as much as it can through the bubble, at least).

Dear Mom and Dad, I'm doing fine

You guys are on my mind...

It must be nice to have to write a letter to one's parents. I've never been away from Mother for more than an hour at the most.

You asked me what I wanted to be

And now I think the answer is plain to see

I wanna be FAMOUS!

"Famous..." I breathe. Something about celebrity and fame has always seemed magical to me. It's silly, of course, but the very idea of it makes my head feel light, spiraling out of control.

Famous...

To be loved unconditionally. To go wherever you want, whenever you want. To have friends your own age, always there to laugh at your jokes or provide a shoulder to cry on.

Famous people are never stuck in a bubble, doing the same old monotonous thing, same old monotonous thing, same old monotonous thing. Every day is something new, a blank canvas of possibilities. I wouldn't drink or "party", as Mother seems to fear... No, if I had fame, I would use it to live a normal life. I would walk in the rain. Listen to the music of the traffic of the city.

Here before me on TV, I see a bunch of teenagers taking the world for granted. The air they breathe is a gift of the trees, not mindlessly pumping from a machine like my own. The people they speak to are a variety basket: all different races, heroes and villains, chaotic and lawful and all the wondrous grey areas in between.

Thirty minutes passes quickly. I can barely follow the story, too preoccupied with the little details of the water, the wind, the vehicles they've ridden on...

Finally seeing a complete episode doesn't lift my spirits as I'd expected—if anything, it lowers them further till they fall with a splat.

I realize all at once the horrible truth I've fought to ignore, the reality I threw away when writing Revenge of the Island:

I am never getting out of this bubble.

The TV screen cuts to black in an instant. I pick up my notebook, turning to a few pages into my Revenge sequel. That thought I had earlier, heroes and villains, was the theme I'd chosen. Total Drama All-Stars, my title. I'd started off with so much hope, keeping the real cast in character as much as I could through the interviews and biographies in the magazines I'm not supposed to have.

I feel myself being oddly mean-spirited as I take a pencil to the paper. I'm not a cruel person, honestly, but...

I begin to change a few things about the season to fit my mood.

I turn Scott, the boy I'd called a sociopath last season, into a bumbling, lovesick moron. Why not? That's how most teenagers I've seen in love are anyway. Zoey's naivety pushes her into denial so strong that the pages practically stink of it. Gwen and Duncan's relationship comes to a sudden, crashing halt (I have no clue what really happened to it, but I've always seen the two as more of a brother-sister duo than anything). Courtney abruptly turns into a villainous persona, throwing all friendship and kindness she'd shown out the window...

I'll freely admit that my motivation is jealousy, perhaps more than a hint of it, but God does it feel good to toss around a few more injuries! A derailment here, a break up there, why not! That's my question, the one I ask the page now and the one I've asked my mother since my conscious mind could comprehend the protective prison around me: why not?

I come across the finale, leafing through the blank pages where I'd planned an epic fight between Mal and Mike. As I've been for several weeks, I am unable to think of a good fight description. I throw everything out the window with the first thing that comes to mind, because why not? A button. A simple button that can fix everything. Why not a button? Why can't something so trivial be the answer to all of our problems?

To me, it seems elegant. It's symbolism, really, to have Mike's alters come together to morph into one. It also happens to reek of deus ex machina—Annie Wilks may call it a "cheat"—but I've never minded that particular writing convention...

The pencil falls to the floor of my bubble with a thud. It's not like it matters. No one will read my fanfiction anyway. And if they did, they certainly wouldn't take it seriously.