Hey, remember when we would apologize for being a week off schedule? Those were the good ole days…
If you'll recall, when we left Courtney and Duncan, they had at one point or another:
Been filmed by Camera Crony in a suggestively compromising situation that totally wasn't what it looked like (Chapter 2)
Discussed their first ever conversation on Day One of Wawanakwa (4)
Insulted an intern over the color of bedsheets (7)
Frozen a pool to play hockey (8)
Almost fallen off a roof (12)
Cut a hole through the floor and caused a power outage (18)
Learned of the loss of Billy the Octopus (19)
Tried to out-Canada each other (19)
Realized bunny might have liked Duncan even more than Courtney did (19)
Almost died in an elevator (23)
Gone to look for that suggestively compromising footage (which Duncan has had in his duffel bag since chapter 3) (24)
Trashed Chris's penthouse and gotten drunk on red wine (26)
Discussed their feelings in a hot tub (26)
Played footsie (27)
Sort of told Bridgette about their intimate interactions (29)
Vandalized a yacht (29)
Hijacked a yacht (30)
Flirted in the captain's cabin by mocking Duncan's capacity for human decency (30)
Subsequently crashed said yacht on a beach (31)
Made out on said beach (31)
Cooked their own dinner (33)
Fought in the gym (but not with their fists) (34)
Partially informed Bridgette about it (34)
Learned through the interns that they would be stuck on Playa for another 24 hours past the time of their scheduled departure (35)
"But Rina! But stray!" we hear you say, "That's such an oddly specific referenced list of things that happened to Courtney and Duncan previously in the eight years you've been writing this story!"
To which we respond, "Yes. Yes it is."
And now, we learn their fate...
Rule 36: Never run from your problems (They'll find you)
"Well," the louder of the two female interns announced, "that went about as well as expected."
Her taller companion gave her a hard stare. A few paces ahead of them, their fellow intern-slash-cameraman was swearing, kicking sand, and screaming into the sky on his way back to their living quarters.
"I would hate to see your not well scenario for this," she deadpanned.
"C'mon, A.! Think about it," the shorter girl said, grinning wildly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card that had her photograph and McLean Productions typed in bold letters across the top. She casually threw it into the air behind them. "Thank god almighty, we are free at last!"
A. made a face as the card lodged itself in a sandbank. "Just because you said you quit...and kicked their fruit platter into the water...and said some things that Becky in post-production is definitely going to have to censor…"
"I just got so caught up in the moment!" The shorter intern clapped gleefully. "Sure, at first I was shitting myself, what with them yelling at us and throwing things and demanding 'answers', like we would even have those. But then! But THEN! Heather said that thing about us being lazy and incompetent, and this guy—" she indicated the one-man hurricane raging a couple paces ahead of them, "—just let her have it! I couldn't stop myself. I had to quit with him in solidarity!"
"Sure, O.," A. sighed, rolling her eyes. "In 'solidarity'. It had nothing to do with the subsequent list of grievances you unloaded on those teenagers."
O. smirked. "You talk as if you aren't the one who beamed your walkie-talkie at Tyler's head and told him, in explicit detail, where he could shove it."
Frowning, A. pulled her own ID out and glanced at it once before tossing it away with equal disregard. "At least I was creative in my anger. And precise with my aim."
"Indeed. I don't think anyone has ever strung the words 'albino ceramic pinhead' together in all of human history. As an English major, I would know."
"I was provoked! Ezekiel tried to claim that McLean's yacht belonged to him. He wanted me to reimburse him for it!"
"We probably shouldn't have told him you were in the props department," O. agreed.
"I'm sorry, we? You're the one who brought it up!"
O. clutched her arms to her chest defensively. "I panicked! They wanted to rip someone apart over the No Food Situation, and Captain Camera over there—" currently punching a palm tree, "—threw me under the bus! I had to defuse their murder-eyes!"
"Gee, that really restores my confidence in you," A. said. "If you wanted someone to blame, you should have turned it on them. The show's only delayed because they trashed the yacht."
"Yeah, how did we miss that?" O. asked, glancing at the giant, wounded yacht they were approaching.
"We didn't. You stopped midway through yelling at them about the frozen pool fiasco and screamed—this is a quote—'Is that the fucking finale yacht?'"
"But how did we miss it on the boat ride over this morning?"
"Personally? Tunnel vision." A. shuddered. "A tunnel toward a high speed train called, 'telling 20 volatile sixteen-year-olds that we're keeping them stranded for one more day, but without food this time.'"
"That's a terrible name for a train."
"You know what I mean, O."
O. glanced at her partner in crime, then back at where her ID card had lodged itself in the sand. "Hey... Do you want to exchange real names now?" She dug her hands in her pockets. "Our contracts our void. No more rules against sharing personal details."
"Why was that in there, anyway?"
"To 'dissuade friendship, mutiny, or'—that apocalyptic concept—'unionization,'" she quoted, shrugging a shoulder. "I tell you mine, you tell me yours?"
A. thought about it for a long moment. "...Nah. After all this time, it would be hard to change. Besides, I rather like our convention."
O. nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
The two walked in silence a little further, watching in fascination as their cameraman companion continued to unleash his rage on any foliage that came too near him.
"I'm proud of us," O. said out of the blue.
"That's nice. I'm full of shame."
"A lot of shame?"
A. sighed, tearing her gaze away from the beached yacht as they passed it by. "My shame is inversely proportional to the amount of adrenaline in my body."
"Which is to say...increasing?"
"Rapidly. As I assess the damage I may have done to my future career in television."
"Hey, screw television!" O. cheered, reaching up to loop her arm amicably through A.'s own (which was at about the level of her shoulder). "When you laid into Duncan for that time he refused to acknowledge that the sheets were 'cosmic fucking latte'? I don't think I've ever been prouder to be your coworker-slash-friend."
"Hey, I spent a long time picking out those sheets." A. chuckled. "Though in retrospect, I probably should have brought up the time he cut that hole in his floor. And caused all of our power outages. Or trashed Chris's penthouse. I don't have any proof, but I'm convinced that was him..."
"When you put it like that, I'm surprised we hung onto these jobs as long as we did," O. said solemnly, but her optimism returned a moment later. "See? Chris can't fire us now. We've beaten him to the punch and quit! It's all going to turn out okay."
"Yeah… You're at least half right." A. took her arm out of O.'s and draped it across the shorter girl's shoulders, smiling faintly. "Screw them all. I have three airplane sized bottles of tequila in the cabin that I was saving for a rainy day."
"You are literally my hero."
"We can save one for what's-his-name," A. added, as what's-his-name kicked down the door to his cabin with an animalistic cry. The cabins were, in reality, just two rickety shacks situated up against the facade of Playa that served to hide the prop room. One for the girls and one for...what's-his-name. "He'll calm down eventually, right? We have to ride in a boat with him to get back to the mainland."
O. checked her watch. "Eight weeks of pent up fury should wear the Tasmanian Devil out in...another ten minutes, I'd say."
"Great," A. said, cracking her knuckles and unlocking the door to their cabin. "Just enough time to get the fucking fuck off this motherfucking island." She paused, glancing at the hidden camera in a nearby tree. "Sorry, Becky."
Courtney turned a page of War and Peace on the now empty dock, fighting a throbbing headache. The long-overdue shitstorm of campers vs. interns had come and gone without any loss of life, but loss of sanity was a different issue entirely.
Demands had been made. Courtney had demanded answers, while others had demanded retribution. Noah had demanded an aspirin. Izzy had demanded a ritual sacrifice. Yet through all the screaming, shouting, and throwing of personal items that had transpired, the interns had only demanded that everyone remain calm and almost succeeded in doing so themselves.
Until Camera Crony snapped. Unleashing a season's worth of anxieties in one fell swoop, he'd almost torn Heather's new wig off her head, and his female companions were quick to follow. Courtney was confident that she'd never feared an overworked, underpaid twenty-something more than she had in the moments after realizing she was at least tangentially involved in over half the things Altitudinous and Obstreperosity were ready to murder someone over. And holy crap, since when had Camera Crony grown a pair?
But unlike the other campers who had scattered afterwards, cursing the interns, Courtney felt some regret for everything they'd inadvertently put them through. The interns and campers weren't so different, now that she thought about it. Both had agreed to be on the show without a full understanding of Chris McLean's psychosis. Both were on their last nerve. And with the exception of either Owen or Gwen, neither would be seeing a single cent for their efforts.
Retrospectively, it almost made Courtney regret how she'd never really appreciated them.
An image came to her mind, unbidden: there had been a moment, in the middle of their blow-up, when it had really looked like Camera Crony was going to punch Geoff's teeth out for telling them that this "wasn't a big deal". She'd turned to Duncan on autopilot, ready with a quip on overreacting, and been met with nothing but icy blue eyes.
Courtney realized she'd been staring into the middle distance for the better part of the last few minutes. Readjusting her legs, she tried to focus on the book in her lap and the tiny text she had highlighted in a previous read-through.
"Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women," she read aloud. "Thanks, Leo," Courtney muttered, flipping ahead a few chapters in irritation. "Tell that to you-know-who."
She found another highlighted passage. "People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong."
Courtney closed her book with a snap. She wasn't really in a reading mood.
All she needed was a simple distraction, but even that seemed out of reach now that she and Bridgette had burned their shared bridge. Bridgette thought she could pick and choose when she wanted to be Courtney's friend, so Courtney was going to do the same. Her choice was never.
Bridgette could hang around on the dock as long as she wanted. She could send Courtney stubborn, let's-talk-so-I-can-apologize-for-a-genuine-screw-up looks so intense, Courtney could feel them burning into her back like a magnifying glass under the sun. Bridgette could loiter until she eventually gave up in frustration and stalked off back to the main building with Geoff in tow. Courtney wouldn't care. It's what Bridgette had wanted, right? To spend time with Geoff instead of being the friend Courtney needed.
Besides Courtney herself, there were nineteen campers on the island. Take away Bridgette and Geoff, and she had seventeen. Minus Duncan, sixteen. Subtract out everyone she never wanted to see again and that left...zero. Add them back due to necessity and that gave her 16 people to talk to, all of whom she hated.
But having conversations with people she despised on a molecular level was a talent she was honing for her future in politics. There was nothing stopping her from talking to her fellow campers, except the knowledge that after the very boisterous argument Duncan had started with her in front of everyone, the likelihood of being able to discuss anything other than him with anyone was shot to hell. It was everything she'd feared about making their relationship public: the stares, the gossip, the I-told-you-so's. All because she'd made such a big show about how much she hated him and then made it embarrassingly obvious that she didn't.
Plausible deniability might have given her a way out in most cases, but when the Nielson ratings suggested a statistical average of 3.4 million people would watch Total Drama Island, it meant roughly three-quarters of that audience (factoring in loss of viewership through the mid-season) would see her kiss with the delinquent stereotype on national television when the show aired in a few weeks. There would be no getting out of it then—plausible deniability was a ship that had sailed away with her common sense ages ago.
Her back ached from hunching over her book. Reaching back, Courtney pulled a cardigan from her suitcase and bundled it into a pillow for her head. She leaned back on the dock and looked at the clear skies and entertained the fantasy of doing it all over again.
She wished she could quit, like the interns had. Playa de Losers had nothing left for her. She closed her eyes against the sun. What had it ever had?
The taste of expensive red wine. Bridgette's voice, so certain, he's crazy about you. That flash of icy blue eyes agai—
Courtney bolted upright, gripping the edge of the dock hard enough to hurt. She tried to tame her suddenly ragged breath. There were some very persistent feelings and stuff clawing at the double-bolted door to her mind.
She had to get off Playa de Losers.
No more sitting on an empty dock like the pathetic loner she wasn't. No—she had a goal now. A ludicrous one, she knew. Of the asylum overflow of campers that had been dumped on this island with her, she wasn't the first one to consider escape. She knew for a fact that Izzy and Cody had each attempted several improvised getaway methods with varyingly epic degrees of failure.
Courtney stood and began collecting her suitcases. Cody was clever enough to come up with inventions and plans. Izzy was ballsy enough to attempt them. But Courtney was both clever and ballsy, and as she started running down the beach, a suitcase under each arm, she became more and more confident that no one else had thought enough about the interns to wonder exactly how they got on and off the island.
She reached the intern beach as a whistling Obstreperosity walked out of the intern shack, tossing away a spent box of matches. Camera Crony stood on the beach with a backpack, looking much calmer as he examined a checklist on a notepad. And Altitudinous...was stacking their suitcases into a simple wooden motorboat.
A motorboat.
Courtney took a moment to put down her suitcases and adjust herself so it wasn't immediately apparent that she had just sprinted across the island. Then, as calmly as possible, she walked over to the trio.
"Good morning!" she called, desperately hoping they wouldn't bolt like deer at the sound of her voice.
Camera Crony looked her way, paled, and jumped into the boat. Altitudinous looked up from her Tetris-ing of suitcases and briefly cocked an eyebrow before resuming her work.
Obstreperosity didn't so much as quicken her pace. Behind her, both shacks were now engulfed in flames. "Oh, look, it's the Type A," she said sarcastically (and loudly). "Come to yell at us some more?"
"Um, no. Not today," Courtney answered, trying to keep the levity in her voice. "Do you have room for another?"
"Not today," Altitudinous parroted, shoving a duffel bag under one of the benches.
"And just when I thought you people couldn't sink any lower," Camera Crony growled from where he stood safely on the other side of Altitudinous.
Courtney feigned innocence. "I just thought, since the three of you were so helpful and accommodating to all of us here on the island—"
She broke off at the three sets of terrifying, overworked stares she promptly received.
"All right, look," Courtney said flatly, the pleasant expression falling off her face. "If those flames are any indication, you need to get off this island. I, also, really need to get off this island. All I'm asking for is a ride to the mainland. No fuss, no muss."
"All fuss, total muss," Obstreperosity corrected, standing by Courtney on the shore. "We would be legally kidnapping you."
"Not true!" Courtney insisted. She had her contract on hand (all 100+ pages of it) in her suitcase, but she had the brunt of it memorized anyway. "Article 3 of Section 15 says that contestants are allowed to be evacuated off the island in case of a life-threatening medical emergency that endangers other campers in which staff and on-site medical teams," she paused to roll her eyes, "are unable or incapable of assisting."
"You're suffering from a 'life-threatening medical emergency' that's a danger to other campers?" Altitudinous said skeptically.
"Yes," Courtney said tightly. "I'm going to murder them all if you don't get me out of here."
Altitudinous scoffed. "If you were going to murder them, you would have done it already."
Obstreperosity crossed her arms. "And even if it weren't too late for a murder spree, Article 3.1 states, and I quote: 'such evacuation shall be placed into effect if and only if on-site medical teams'," she too sighed, "'deem the evacuation necessary and non-negotiable, and only then if given explicit written consent by The Host with the rights bestowed upon him by the signer of this contract.'"
Courtney blinked at her.
"What, did you think Mr. McCranium and Chef Hack-N-Slash wrote up your contracts themselves?" Obstreperosity asked, looking smug. "Good game, but you can't out-legalese the English major."
"I thought you studied creative writing," Camera Crony mumbled. Obstreperosity held up a hand to shush him.
"Okay, fine," Courtney acquiesced, throwing her hands up in defeat. "You can't legally take me off the island. So what?! I thought you quit? Chris can't fire someone who isn't in his employment!"
"You know who doesn't care who I don't work for?" Altitudinous offered, hoisting the last of their suitcases into position. "The RCMP. You're a minor. We are not. We take you anywhere without consent by the adult in charge of you, and we get in trouble." She nestled the case between the two onboard already, turned back to Courtney stoically, and pointed at her own face. "This would not do well in prison."
The mention of prison sent a katana of white-hot guilt right into her stomach, and Courtney gulped down a breath to change the topic as quick as humanly possible.
"A minor? You three are barely older," Courtney shot back.
"Are we really not that much older?" Obstreperosity asked her partner-in-crime, holding out a hand for Altitudinous. She climbed into the boat, sighing something bone-weary and defeated. "I feel like we've aged eight years since we started working here."
"No fears, my dears," Camera Crony announced, regaining some bravado now that both his compatriots were in the boat. He hopped up and planted a foot proudly on the boat's motor. "Today, we leave this hellhole behind us. INTO THE SUN!"
"FOR BILLY!" Obstreperosity seconded.
Camera Crony reached down to start the boat's engine, but Courtney splashed into the surf, soaking her wedges. "Wait! Wait, wait, don't go! There has to be something I can offer you. Something that'll change your mind!"
There was a pause as the boy considered.
"Can you pay my college tuition?" Camera Crony offered.
Courtney glared. "If you had started saving early like some of us did, maybe you wouldn't need to be asking a teenager—"
With a shrug, Camera Crony reached for the lever, but Courtney threw herself on the engine, water now up to her knees. She hugged the actual propeller between her calves and covered the lever with her arms.
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry!" she backpedaled. "I didn't mean to make fun of your saving habits and your non-paying, possibly illegal internship, but please take me with you. I'll do anything!"
Courtney struggled to keep her shoes from sinking into the sand under her feet, her words reverberating in her ears. Above her, the interns glanced at each other, sharing a look. Courtney didn't recognize it, but the interns understood it easily: underdogs realizing that there was another underdog among them—even if said underdog was far too proud to ever realize it herself.
"Listen," Altitudinous conceded, rubbing her eyes. "Even if we take whatever bribe you have on hand and have you write a written confession for the penthouse, the yacht, and a handful of other disasters I'm sure we haven't even found yet, it still doesn't change the rules of—"
"Screw the rules!" Courtney said so violently the three interns jumped. "What have the rules ever done for me? For any of us?! You followed the rules, and for what? A fancy recommendation letter? A line in your resume you're never getting now?" Courtney banged a fist on the motor. "I followed the rules too! I played the game right, and fairly, and here I am anyway!" Something seized in her chest. "I did everything I was supposed to, but he still—!"
Courtney cut herself off. She was shaking. The surf crashing around her legs was soaking her capris up to her thighs, and three total strangers were watching her lose her composure, if it wasn't already gone. She screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.
Courtney had a solid habit of punching her problems in the jaw. But getting mad, being mad, had never solved any problem for her in the long term. Punching a hole in the intern's motorboat would only exacerbate her current predicament, and punching Duncan would only prove whatever point he thought he was proving.
Without meeting any of the three interns' gazes, Courtney stared into the water around her knees. "You don't know what it's been like," she mumbled. She hugged the motor a little tighter. "Or, I guess maybe you know better than anyone else."
The waves crashed around her, their sound unbroken until Courtney finally chanced a look at the interns. The girls were exchanging a knowing look again, but this one felt less hostile.
"...Yeah. We do," Obstreperosity said uncharacteristically softly.
"You...do?" Courtney repeated.
"You kids aren't as subtle as you'd like to think," Obstreperosity said with a grin. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key ring. Each of the dozen keys was color-coded in various shades of green and ranged in size from a suitcase key to that of a human hand.
"Maybe we can't get you off the island," Obstreperosity went on thoughtfully, fanning the keys out in her palm, "but I've always felt bad for animals in cages. Even fancy, spa-equipped ones." The intern tossed the keyring Courtney's way, and the CIT had to release the boat to catch it. "That's everything under my jurisdiction," Obstreperosity informed her. "The kitchens, loading docks, camper entertainment rooms, and staff spaces. Go. Be free-ish."
Courtney looked to Altitudinous, hoping for some clue as to whether or not this was normal, and found her gaping at her partner, eyebrows raised. "Did you just...?"
Obstreperosity nodded serenely.
The taller girl's expression turned to one of concentration. Then, after a quiet moment, it morphed into clarity. Altitudinous shrugged and dug into her side-bag, rifling around until she produced a second keyring, this time the keys in various shades of blue. She sighed, wearing a rueful smile. "I feel like I should give a speech or something."
Obstreperosity shrugged, her eyebrows shooting high as she cracked a grin.
Altitudinous snorted, stepping gingerly around her colleagues and leaning down to offer Courtney the second set of keys. "Look, Courtney," she said, her voice serious. "There are a lot of broken things on this island." She dropped the keys into Courtney's palm. "But, with access to the prop room, penthouse, supply closets, and electrical rooms... Maybe you can fix a few of them."
"Are you..." Courtney looked down at the sets of keys she now held in each hand. "You're just giving these to me?"
"Oh, no," Obstreperosity intoned, grinning that smug grin that was becoming commonplace. "We're leaving these with Playa's carefully chosen, most responsible camper. They need to be stashed in the receptionist's desk when everyone leaves. Until then?"
"None of our business," Altitudinous finished, high-fiving Obstreperosity.
The two then sent a meaningful look at Camera Crony, who was still standing like a pirate with one foot on the motor.
"What?" he demanded. "This isn't a John Hughes movie! I don't have to get in more trouble just because YOU two—"
"Do it for anarchy, man!" Obstreperosity said.
"Do it for love," Altitudinous countered.
Camera Crony looked between Courtney and his companions, weighing some cosmic revenge scale in his mind. "But—"
"Better yet, do it because I say so and I know your deep dark secret," Obstreperosity interrupted, smirking.
Camera Crony flinched before sagging down in defeat. "...All right, all right," he grumbled, glaring at his loud accomplice and reaching into his shirt to pull out a red lanyard. When he pulled it off his neck and held it over Courtney, she saw that it was attached to a set of three keys. "Here's film storage, darkroom, and cutting room." Camera Crony winced as he let the keys drop into Courtney's waiting hands. "Don't...burn too much footage, okay? They still need to run a show. And all publicity is good publicity, right?"
Courtney paused in looping the lanyard around her neck and glanced up, startled. "Wait. One of these keys opens a room with all of Total Drama Island's footage?"
Camera Crony pulled at his collar, devolving into the nervous wreck of an intern Courtney was more familiar with. "Did I say that? I didn't say that! No one said that."
"Hatchet wouldn't even tell us where the steel-plated vault was, and he gave you the key?" Obstreperosity cried, pointing a finger at him.
"Are you the film studies major?" Camera Crony asked. "Didn't think so, Captain English."
Courtney shoved a key ring in each pocket and inspected the three keys hanging around her neck. Two were brass, and one was silver. More than silver, even. It looked like it was made out of titanium.
"I'm looking for some specific footage taken at Playa," she shouted over the voices of Obstreperosity and Camera Crony, bickering about the merits of their respective liberal arts majors. "From the day I arrived here. Would it be there?"
"No reason it wouldn't be," Altitudinous answered, rolling her eyes as her companions argued over Citizen Kane. "All the Total Drama Island and Playa de Losers footage is supposedly there. Not that they'd ever show it to the Statistics major..."
"Where's the vault?" Courtney demanded, tugging at the bottom of Camera Crony's khakis. "I promise I won't burn everything."
Camera Crony winced. "I can't just—"
"Oh my god, Chris, just tell her," Obstreperosity snapped. "What do you even care what he thinks anymore?"
Altitudinous and Courtney turned to Camera Crony.
"Your real name is...Chris?" the tall intern said, appraising him.
The boy turned scarlet and glared viciously at his betrayer through black bangs and...beady, black eyes...
"Oh. Wow... I'm so sorry," Courtney seconded.
He pinched his brow and took the world's deepest, most calming breath. Which ended in an exhale of swear words. "It's in the basement, okay?" he said finally. "There, are you happy? Now back up before we turn you into sushi."
Courtney retreated to the shore. She watched as Obstreperosity pulled up the anchor and Camera Crony attempted to start the motor.
"Thank you!" she called, clutching the red lanyard in her hands. "And I'm sorry about all the other idiots on this island. And the penthouse! And—"
Camera Crony got the motor roaring to life, cutting Courtney off.
"SO LONG, PLAYA DE DICKS!" he called at the main building, flipping it off with both hands.
"Wait! One more question!" Courtney shouted at the boat, a realization dawning on her as her stomach growled. "What are we supposed to eat today?"
Obstreperosity didn't even need to cup her hands over her mouth to be heard over the roar of the boat. "Check Chris McLean's cookbook!"
"What?" Courtney shouted. "Why?"
Altitudinous shouted an explanation, but Camera Crony had already sat down with the motor and was pulling out into the water. Courtney heard none of it.
"Uh, well, thank you!" Courtney shouted again as the boat tore off into the waves. She watched it until it disappeared into the distance.
Once they were gone, Courtney grabbed her suitcases and, dripping onto the sand as she went, made her way back to the main building. The red lanyard of keys jangled against her abdomen. She quickened her pace in determination.
She had a plan now: a damn good one. Who needed to get over Duncan when she could simply destroy any evidence that she'd ever been into him?
"You know what's better than Courtney?" Duncan said aloud to himself. "Literally everything."
Oranges were better than Courtney, he decided, bouncing a ball against the wall of the sauna. So were tennis balls. And saunas. And total, utter privacy.
Getting any privacy on the island was no small feat. Finding somewhere on Playa that didn't have a Courtney memory attached to it was even harder. The pool, the roof, the beach, and the gym were all ruled out. Even his room had been ruined for him—he'd lasted half an hour lying in bed the previous night before deciding he couldn't take the sight of his patched floor any longer, kicked down the door of the last empty room (the one presumably reserved for Owen if he'd lost), and slept on the bare mattress instead. He'd lasted even less time in the dining room that morning after realizing that not only was there no food, but all he could think about was cooking and playing footsie and verbally sparring about the pros and cons of Canada with her.
Even approaching her on the dock earlier, if only to pick a fight, had taken reserves of strength he hadn't needed in a long, long time.
He bounced the ball a little to the left and caught it in his opposite hand. Power tools were better than Courtney, he decided. Switchblades were better than her too. He had about seven of them on hand. Maybe he'd do some target practice and teach himself how to throw knives like they did on TV. He'd always wanted to learn how to do that.
Duncan smirked through the sweat and the steam. It would be breaking the rules. And Duncan loved breaking the rules. And good running shoes, and skateboards, and motorcy—
Come here and kiss me, you degenerate.
He missed the tennis ball on the rebound and growled. Great. She'd ruined motorcycles for him too.
He got up to grab the obnoxiously yellow ball and returned to bouncing it, determining that he was giving her too much credit. And boy, would Courtney looooove that. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of proving whatever point she thought she was proving.
No, as Courtney herself had gone to great lengths to make clear, she was just a girl. It would be easy to move on. Once he was off Playa, at least, where every inch of architecture didn't remind him of her.
But not the sauna. Duncan relaxed back into a slouch, comfortable in just his underwear, and bounced the ball off the slick tiles again. No one else on the island had ever even mentioned the sauna; maybe they thought it was an extra shower. Frankly, if Duncan hadn't stormed into the spa area and started throwing things around, he never would have accidentally turned it on and made the discovery himself.
The sauna was safe. It only reminded him of how goddamm hot everything on this island was, and how—
I'm sure that whatever my feelings are, they've been painfully obvious to you, Mr. Intuitive.
Duncan scowled at the memory. That hadn't even happened in a sauna! It was a hot tub!
He squeezed the tennis ball as hard as he could. She couldn't take temperature away from him. Temperature had existed long before Courtney, and it would exist long after she stressed herself and everyone around her into an early grave.
He lay down across the bench and began bouncing the ball against the closed (but unlockable, for safety reasons) door. It was fine. This was fine. The privacy, the self-imposed solitary confinement. He liked this. Privacy was nice. No DJ telling him that pranking was below him. No Geoff and his infectious personality doing everything in his power to cheer him up. No Heather looking like she knew more than she should. No Bridgette judging him from over her shoulder. No nerds or jocks or losers cowering from him around corners. And especially, especially—
I could have asked you to do something preposterous, like be a human being.
Duncan threw the tennis ball with so much force, it bounced off both ends of the sauna room twice before hitting the floor. What was wrong with him? What had he done before spending all his time in pursuit of Ms. CIT?
Day One, Courtney's voice answered in his head. You called me a cyclops. It all goes downhill from there.
"Will you shut up?!" he shouted at the empty sauna. He covered his face with his arm. "This is all your fault."
"Duncan?" Geoff's voice called from outside. "Dude, is that you in there?"
"Leave me alone. I'm not in the mood," he groaned. He lifted his arm to glance at the steamed-over glass door. He could make out Geoff's signature cowboy hat, and the unfortunate outline of Bridgette's ponytail not far behind him. He groaned and covered his eyes again.
"Leave him, honey," Bridgette's voice seconded. "You've done everything you can. Let them handle this themselves."
"I can't leave him like this," Geoff pleaded with her, like a soldier abandoning a man in the field. "He's my friend."
Duncan groaned a little louder. "I'm fine, Geoff."
"He's not fine, Geoff," Bridgette corrected. "And neither is Courtney. But they need to handle this themselves. Like big kids."
"Hey, if I wanted a pep talk from my mom, I would've called 911," Duncan snapped.
"Dude, c'mon, she's just trying to help," Geoff said defensively.
Duncan put his other arm over his face. Right. Don't insult best friend's girlfriend in front of best friend.
He wanted to scream.
Suddenly, Geoff snapped his fingers, the sound muffled from Duncan's side of the glass. "Wait! I got it! I know how to fix this!"
Bridgette sounded dubious. "Uh-huh?"
"I'll be right back," he said excitedly. "Stay here with him and make sure he doesn't leave before I get back."
Duncan scowled at the glass door. "I don't need a babysitter, Geoff!"
"I'm not his babysitter," Bridgette agreed. "Besides, how do you expect me to keep him there? Yoga him into submission?"
"Um...uh...oh! Oh, like this!" Geoff said. Duncan heard metal dragging across the floor. He jumped up from the bench and rushed to the door, but he was about half a second too late. Some heavy piece of furniture held the door firmly shut. From Duncan's view, its silhouette split the glass door in half.
"Geoff! Seriously, man!" Duncan shouted, pushing his whole body weight against the door. "I could die of heat stroke in here! This is a goddamn hazard!"
"That's why Bridgette's staying!" Geoff answered matter-of-factly. "She knows how to fix that, right, Bridge?"
Bridgette sounded about as desperate as Duncan. "Sweetie, this really isn't a way to deal with—"
"This is gonna work! I know it will! Just sit right here—" Bridgette yelped and suddenly her shadow was sitting atop whatever was keeping Duncan imprisoned, "—aaaaand I'll be back before you can even miss me!"
"Geoff!" Duncan shouted, banging on the door. "If I die from this, I'm going to kill you! You hear me?! Geoff!"
He got no answer other than Bridgette's bitter response, "He's gone."
Duncan swore and took a few steps back. Crouching down slightly, he readied for a sprint and charged at the door—and slipped. The door connected with his face, and Duncan broke his fall onto the ceramic tiles with his hip.
The taste of blood in his mouth surprised him more than it probably should have. Since arriving at Playa, he'd by some miracle managed to keep all his blood inside his body (despite certain hockey-playing and elevator escaping activities). Duncan held the back of his hand up to his mouth and his throbbing lip, then pulled it away. Yup, definitely blood. Ramming face-first into a sauna door was the lamest way to break his streak.
Satisfied that he still had all his teeth, Duncan gingerly adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his back against the glass door, groaning when his bruised hip burned in protest.
"...Duncan?" Bridgette asked. "Are you okay?"
"No. I'm dying."
She sighed. "Geoff will be back soon."
Duncan sucked at his cut lip. "Not soon enough."
The surfer hesitated. "Are you really okay?"
"Let me out and I'll show you," he said sarcastically. "Unless you think I'm going to go all Escaped Psycho Killer with a Chainsaw and a Hook on you now that Geoff's not around."
Bridgette didn't answer. He glanced up at her foggy silhouette above his head, but couldn't read her reaction through the glass.
They stayed silent for a few long minutes. Duncan sucked at the cut in his mouth and felt grateful for the blood. He was grateful for the heat and the stupid, possibly fatal situation he found himself in. And if nothing else, he was grateful that antagonizing Bridgette was distracting him from his Vitamin C-I-T deficiency.
What, because I told my best friend that we'd had intimate interactions?
Bridgette's voice cut through Courtney's echo in his mind. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He carefully reached for his tennis ball and resumed bouncing it, now facing the wall opposite the door. Hopefully it would annoy Bridgette away so he could suffocate to death in peace.
Bridgette kept talking. "I don't know everything. She told me something about it last night, before…" She trailed off, then started on a new thought. "Geoff and DJ are worried about you. Maybe, if you want to—"
"Is your name Jonesy?" Duncan interrupted.
Bridgette made a noise of confusion.
"Because if it isn't," Duncan went on, bouncing his ball a little more forcefully, "then you are not my court-appointed therapist, and I don't have to say a goddamn thing to you."
Bridgette's voice was tight when next she spoke. "I'm just trying to help."
Duncan scoffed. "Decided you need a hobby that isn't macking on Geoff?"
"Okay, you know what?" Bridgette snapped. "I am sick and tired of being Miss Nice Girl who fixes everyone's problems. I don't have to help you. Or Courtney!" She must have turned in her seat because Duncan could hear her clearly now, as if she were in the sauna with him. "Actually, I think I won't. You know who doesn't win reality shows and $500,000? Nice people!"
"Well, you're going to need more—"
"Shut up," Bridgette said sharply. "I am tired of being nothing but an accessory! Courtney's best friend. Geoff's girlfriend." Her silhouette spread its arms wide. "Where has being a good friend gotten me in eight weeks, huh? Being a nice person hasn't done anything. Maybe I'll try pushing all my friends away instead. Maybe I'll just scare everyone off because I'm too much of a coward to handle my problems without dragging down the people who care about me! Maybe I'll try being a selfish asshole like you!"
Bridgette turned back around and plopped her back against the glass. Duncan, meanwhile, had stopped bouncing his ball and was trying to gauge whatever he could from her posture.
"Are you done?" he asked.
"No, screw you. I hope you do suffocate," she muttered, but it didn't have the same conviction as before.
"Are you done for now?" Duncan amended. Bridgette didn't respond so he took that as a yes. "My turn, then."
He resumed bouncing the ball against the tiles. "You want to be an asshole? Fine. There's plenty of them in the world. But since that leaves a shortage of nice people around, let's pretend I could be one of those nice people." He rolled his eyes, imagining Bridgette's possible reaction. "I know, stretch your imagination. Let's pretend I'm a nice person. But I make a mistake that gets me sent to a not-so-nice place, where there's no such thing as nice people. Let's pretend that after this mistake, no one believes I'm a nice person anymore. And let's pretend that it's stupid exhausting to keep trying to convince people, so I let them believe I'm an asshole until—surprise, surprise—I actually am one."
He wasn't sure if the tightness he felt in his chest was due to emotional fatigue or heat stroke. He pressed on anyway.
"Then let's pretend that as a nice-person-turned-asshole, I come across an asshole-turned-nice-person and think, 'Wow, this person really gets it.' So I decide to try again, after a really long time, to be that nice person. Let's pretend I try really. Damn. Hard. I pull out every trick in the book. But it doesn't work! Because nice people are too hard to come by and even harder to be. If people are only going to see what they want to see, there's no point trying to change their minds."
Duncan's knuckles were popping from his grip on the tennis ball. He threw it full force at one of the walls again and didn't bother retrieving it when it bounced out of reach.
"There are enough assholes in the world, Malibu," he said. "We could stand to keep a couple nice people around."
Bridgette was silent for a long moment. They both were. Then, she whispered, "Duncan, what did you do?"
Duncan leaned his head back against the glass to stare up at the tiled ceiling. "It doesn't matter."
"Of course it does," Bridgette said softly. "It made you who you are."
Before Duncan could consider replying, a door slammed open.
"I got it!" Geoff declared, ecstatic even by Geoff standards. "I got it! I got it!"
Bridgette didn't say anything as Geoff helped her down from where he'd placed her and pushed the offending barricade out of the way. Duncan stood up, burying a cocktail of emotions, and did his best to hide his swollen lip.
When the sauna door opened, the shot of air-conditioned-not-steam air was so relieving, Duncan almost collapsed to the floor again.
"I can't wait for—" Duncan started but stopped when he got a good look at Geoff. His smile was stupidly wide.
And he was holding Bunny.
The party boy thrust the animal out to Duncan. "Here. This will make it better."
Duncan sighed. What had he really been expecting? "Geoff, it's just a dumb rabbit."
Geoff grabbed one of Duncan's hands, turned it over, and set Bunny in it. "This. Will. Make it. Better."
Grudgingly, Duncan looked down at the ball of fluff in his hand. Bunny adored him—he knew this. He had desperately hoped to take that secret to his grave, but somehow Geoff knew, and that meant Bridgette probably knew too, and if it got out—
Bunny blinked up at him, perfectly content, then nuzzled his head against Duncan's chest. As if Duncan were his favorite person in the whole wide word.
Geoff might have been right, Duncan decided. This actually kind of made things better.
...I'm not crying, you're crying!
From strayphoenix: Remember how everyone hated 2016? Yeah, we did too. For more reasons than we can probably spell out in a fanfiction author's note without getting Too Real. But we are back, and we promise not to stop until we reach the end. Which will arrive in less than eight more years, we promise.
We are insanely proud of this chapter. It's the emotional Pompeii of eight years of hard work on our parts to get Courtney and Duncan to this stage of their story. There's still more to come, but here's where we take a white-hot katana to your feels. And ours. Rina and I absolutely cried writing this chapter.
I even got emotional writing the interns for the last time. It may never have been explicitly stated, but Altitudinous/Everest/The Tall One and Obstreperosity/Megaphone/The Loud One are literal stand-ins for Rina and myself, right down to their college majors. We've been getting away with using them as inside jokes for the better part of our journey through Playa. We have been stuck on this island alongside these teenagers for eight years though, and writing ourselves out at long last to fully hand over the "reigns" of Playa (and TAOP itself) to its inhabitants is causing me metatextual heartache.
But stay tuned. The best is still yet to come. Here's hoping 2017 is a better year for us all.
From Contemperina: To everyone who has read, commented, or messaged us about this fic since the last update, wondering if it has been abandoned: firstly, thank you. I cannot describe how much it means to me that people are enjoying our writing after all this time and are invested enough to want to know how it finishes.
Secondly: have no fear! This story will, with absolute certainty, be finished at one point or another. Stray and I have given eight years of our lives to it, and through either love or stubbornness or a combination of the two, we refuse to stop now!
I have a lot of love for both Courtney and Duncan in this chapter. Both trying to deal with the fallout from their choices, neither being particularly effective at it. Good thing there's a whole cast of campers there to help them, and a trio of irresponsible and enabling interns.
Thanks again to everyone who has joined us on this journey. We shall meet again!
Until next time,
Rina
From both of us: Thank you to everyone who showed interest in the audio project for TAOP! If you've recorded a chapter and would like to submit it, please send it to CONTEMPEPHOENIX at google mail (Gmail) dot com. We don't mind if more than one person chooses the same chapter to submit: the more the merrier! If you're not an audiobook recording guy or gal and just want to listen to the project, the first two chapters read by the authors can be found at the link on Contemperina's homepage. We'll be adding the files we receive to that folder for everyone's listening pleasure :)