The climax of this chapter were inspired by the song Long Way Down by Robert DeLong. The author recommends that it accompany your enjoyment of this chapter.
You've returned to me.
I know you are afraid. There was a time when I was afraid as well, in this place.
Solfeggio Kant presents:
Hold that fear. Know it well. There will be a time when you are like me, and you will no longer be afraid of anything.
Someday you will miss the fear.
Total Reform: The Ephraim Atrocity
Chris strode too quickly back towards Sketch's group with an anxious expression, which the Skater was quick to pick up on. When a hollow thump sounded from the freshly-arrived van, and the Host jumped a foot in the air. The armored vehicle looked like a speckled egg that was ready to hatch. A second bang came, followed by the muffled, but unmistakable sound of man sobbing.
A few feet away, standing closer to the van that anyone else. the older version of Chris whispered into the collar of his shirt, "Come."
At once, ten Chris-bots jerked their heads uncannily, flung their recording equipment on the ground, and formed a perfect circle around the vehicle and the man. "Drama! Total Drama!" they chorused, in oddly-timed waves.
Maxwell McLean was old in the medical sense: he had lived sixty-eight years. But any doctor would tell you, he could easily live sixty-eight more: His flesh was like a legion of large snakes in a casing of human-colored leather. Every one of his muscles was swollen, mutinous, bulging through his uniform. And though his sun-damaged face was hidden by grey stubble and his mirror-shades, every visible line was etched with conviction. His baseball-mitts hands dented the door handles of the van when he gripped them, and he threw them open on their hinges with the slightest yank.
The Colonel was quicker than Victoria Locke, who lunged at him from within the van with a guttural-sound roar. He was able to fling her tiny body over his shoulder and dive underneath the van in the time it took Rudolph to fire his first bullet. Victoria shrieked, dove, and darted herself out of range, only to be seized at once by a robot.
"Total! Drama!"
Maybe McLean was too fast, maybe Rudolph knew it would be a lost shot, because no bullet went for the Colonel. All six opened clean holes in the Chris-bots, right between the leering eyes, to no avail. Rudolph appeared in the doorway looking truly frightened.
"What the fuck are those things?"
"Doesn't matter!" declared Katz, and Rudolph found himself shoved unceremoniously to the machines, out of the way. "Move! Move! Move!"
With McLean out of sight, the robots zoomed forward on their wheeled feet with alarming speed. Like a spider-monkey, Anton flung himself out of the doorway and wove through their grabbing hands, their glowing-red eyes. Nora trailed him, drawing their fire. Maybe she wasn't so smart, but damn, the Brawler was strong: she dove directly for the bots and took three of them down with a body slam. Suddenly, the air was alive with the sounds of circuits being ripped out, of sparks and crackling. Chris was shouting for someone to stop her, that those bots were expensive, but he needn't have worried. Already, the scarred girl, and Rudolph, were vanishing under a crush of mechanical hands.
Unseen to all but the towering Dice, Melissa alone seemed unperturbed by the violence. Her eyes were cemented on the robots. "No senses... not possible..." she was muttering, and she sounded genuinely bewildered. "It's like they're thinking..."
Guards were shouting abuse, pulling cattle prods and tasers from their belts, wrapping around the scene. But clearly, they were apprehensive to intervene. McLean was nowhere to be found, and meanwhile, Anton had already made it to the driver's seat.
"Shit!"
"Hit the dirt!"
It took seven bots to hold her, but Nora was on the ground with her arms bent behind her. She let out a howl of rage when the back doors slammed shut. "Katz, stop!" she shrieked. "Don't go yet! They locked us out here!"
Guards and bots alike dove as the van roared to life and jerked left, right, over the red clay. For the other inmates, though, there was nowhere to run. All they could do was back themselves against the link of the fence, let the razor wire scrape them. But Anton, now wrapped in armor, only had eyes for Chris McLean, who by the grace of God, was perfectly positioned with the front bumper. He looked at the Acolyte like a doomed man, literally a deer in headlights.
"Dies irae," Katz snarled, "motherfucker!"
The screech of tires, the desert wind wailing in the open windows, a shape moving like lightning from beneath the van. Suddenly, impossibly, there was a man standing on the hood. Katz roared and veered furiously, but there was no shaking Maxwell McLean.
The old man's fist went right through the windshield, baptizing them both with broken glass. The van skidded, stopped, and with wide, bleeding eyes, Anton was pulled from the seat by the skin on his sinewy chest.
"H-How..." he was gaping. "What are you?"
"God," replied Maxwell McLean.
Victoria, Rudolph, and Nora were brought forward by the robotic army. Nora had disfigured and damaged many of them, but they had not stopped moving, obeying. These things had no bones to break, no blood to spill, and they continued to grin as though they weren't full of holes. Chris was obviously more concerned about them that the injuries his new cast had sustained. But after a moment, he shook his head, drew himself up to full height, and his face changed completely.
No... that wasn't right. It was better to say his face reverted. The terror over the gun, over the skirmish with the van, they seemed to melt away and with them, all the humanity drained from Chris' black eyes. Now, suddenly, he was wearing the beaming smile he wore on Total Drama for all those years.
"Dude, please tell me we got that on camera!"
"Drama!" chirped a camera-bot blankly.
"No." corrected Chris. " 'Reform'. Total Reform. Heh heh..."
The next ten minutes seemed to encase an eternity, a time without time. The bleeding, battered guards were dispersed, the bots scrambled, and the inmates lined up by the fence: the cannon-fodder, and the three rebels. Anton had vanished with the Colonel.
With four guards flanking him and the first battle won, Chris seemed to have recovered from his ordeal. In fact, he looked downright elated as he thumbed through the footage on a tablet he'd been brought. "Alright, one more time. Let's crack that bad boy open."
If he feared any more retribution, he had hidden it well. The four remaining inmates were given the same treatment that the first eight were. Once again, Sera took a chance and stepped in front of River, barely missing their eyes narrowing in distaste.
Gaslight was the first to be hoisted to his feet, his face horribly purple and swollen. It seemed that the question of what the hollows thumps heard earlier were had its answer. Chris made a low, irritated noise. "Guys, can we please not mark them up so much before we get a good shot? That one doesn't even match his promotional art now."
He gestured rudely at Gaslight, who was audibly sobbing and trembling horribly in the guards' grip. "They didn't do this!" he shouted back at Chris, with large, frightened eyes. "It was that thing, that Russian! He's an animal, man! If I didn't comply, he said he'd-"
"Noise, noise, and more noise..." Chris rolled his eyes. "That's all I hear from you little urchins... Well, the Russian's out of commission for now, so stop bawling."
Nora, who was thrashing at Gaslight, beside herself with rage, suddenly stilled. "What does that mean?"
"My dad wants to have a chat with him," answered Chris absently. "And I get it: he threatens the cast into rebelling, and kinda made an attempt on me... Fine, but it's gonna be real confusing for the folks at home when he shows up next episode... We'll do a mini-episode, maybe. I mean, we'll have to do something for continuity. We can't just eliminate him, not with that fire he's got."
His ramble was interspersed with yelps and curses, and when he looked up again, his remaining fifteen cast members had collars around their necks, each bearing a brilliant silver buckle. The straps varied: the cannon-fodder all had red ones, while the rebels's were blue; but each gave a low hum as though it were harmonizing with its fellows.
"What did your goons do to my dad exploded Ma-Te, with a renewed fury.
"And my mother," snarled Sunlight. "If you so much as threatened her, I swear by the south..."
Chris quieted her with a dismissive wave. "You really think I'd send my guys to hurt your families? I'm not the monster here, kids." There was sincerity in his gloating voice and in the crinkles around his eyes. "I did your parents, guardians, and parole officers a monumental favor, and I got paid very handsomely for it too. Not as handsome as myself, but that goes without saying..."
Dice interrupted, "Stop stroking your dick in front of us and spit it out already!"
He broke formation as he said this and got right up in Chris' face, but the Host simply blinked at him innocently. Then he reached for his lapel, where there was a tiny button affixed, awaiting him. He clicked it and Dice crumpled on the ground, writhing, a soundless scream unfolding from his jaws. Several inmates leapt back. Melissa recognized at once what was happening.
"Stop it!" she squealed, "please, stop it, you'll electrocute him!"
Thirty terrified eyes drifted down to the twitching boy and his humming collar. There was none of the cartoony effects they might have expected: no flashes of light or smoldering skin. Dice simply jerked and blinked and oozed a trickle of froth from his mouth. Two guards audibly counted to fifteen before hoisting him up and leaning him back in line, where he slumped.
That's better," said Chris, ignoring the looks he was getting. "Now, I want each of you to think of the one person in this world you trust. And I want you to visualize them handing your ass over to Total Reform, unprompted, for money, because that's what happened. In other words, kids, someone paid me to have you kidnapped, and brought to this hellhole."
Even Nora had nothing to say. Like many others, her hands were clasped firmly around her collar and she watched Dice struggle back to his feet. His neck was now a foul, lesioned scarlet. River was shaking their head fiercely behind Sera and whispering, "Wouldn't."
"Now you're here," Chris went on. He gestured broadly at their enclosure. Now that the confusion had died down, the inmates could see it was much bigger than they'd thought. They seemed to be standing in a moderately-sized campground: several dingy, corrugated buildings rusted in the midmorning sun, all with barred windows and heavy-looking doors. Hasty-looking roads snaked around their feet, past this encampment and along the fence and into the distance. "The Total Reform Youth Correctional Facility at Ephraim Ridge. I won't mince words with you, kids: you're here because you fucked up. But we're here to show the world there's hope for you. At Total Reform... we're here to help."
"There's laws about shit like this, McLean," Sera said bravely. "Child labor laws, decency codes," she pointed at Dice. "He could sue you for so much goddamn money..."
"Actually, we have a very good legal team," Chris smirked. "Turns out that all I needed were a few forms and a streaming deal, courtesy of a very interested buyer, to do whatever the hell I wanted. So if there aren't any more interruptions," Chris fingered his lapel again and, despite themselves, everyone recoiled, "Good. Let's start having fun! Let's see… our reds… we'll call you Team Shit. Our blues, you guys get to be Team Stain."
Everyone was too distracted by Dice to care that they were being insulted. The tall boy was breathing shallowly and glaring at everyone to distract from the obvious agony he was in. Gaslight immediately registered the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He noticed too, behind Chris, his same-faced robots were tightening cameras, adjusting lights and microphones. Possibly, the whole world was watching right now. "Of course, your living quarters are divided by gender. I know one among you is confused, so we've sorted it out for him."
River bit their lip so hard that they tasted blood.
"I know you guys have had a long morning. So before we take a crack at the rules for the game, you guys go get changed and cleaned up. We meet back here in thirty minutes on the dot. Be late at your own risk, and Williams," he shot at Dice, who could no longer turn his head, "I'd rub some dirt on that if I were you."
The guards didn't accompany the inmates around the camp, which made sense. There were cameras everywhere, and every so often, you caught the blink of a red light in your periphery, or the slightest gleam of a lens. Nt only that, the inmates' collars continued to hum. It was like having eyes and a thumb on you at all times. Each of the inmates, still in their respective pajamas, felt vulnerable and naked. River picked up on it at once - already, people were putting up walls, defending themselves in any way they could.
The boys' barrack contained four bunk-beds with a nightstand on either side. In back of the musty-metal building, there was a latrine with two urinals and a single stall, all of which reeked. In fact, the whole building stunk horribly. It smelled like the exhaust that came out of car engines, and Gaslight found himself choking on it as he explored his new home. He had no bag to set down, no possessions to leave so that his bed was marked. It didn't really matter to him which bunk was his. He didn't think he'd ever sleep again.
There was a single, dirty mirror in the bathroom. He ran the taps until the water wasn't brown any more and then gently ran a wet rag over his face. The dried blood and red dust on his skin further reddened the basin. Only when his face was fully wet did he let the smallest sniffle escape him, taking a few tears with it. But no one would know, he told himself, and if they did, he could fool them.
After all, he smirked though his tears, he'd fooled McLean.
"Figured I'd find you back here, by the toilets."
Gaslight made sure all evidence of his emotions had been blotted away before he lowered his towel. The redheaded boy from the van was standing right next to him, smiling like a serial killer. It took everything Gaslight had not to jump back in shock.
"Y'know," snorted Redhead, " 'cuz you're so full of shit and all."
He laughed at his own joke. The Observer was surprised by his laugh - it was higher than he would have expected, and maybe… freer? Kinder?
"I dunno what you're talking about," said gestured at the taps. "What, you want the sink? Coulda just asked…"
He turned to go and Redhead stopped him, broadening his chest to keep him exactly where he was. "You lied about the Rasputin back there, and the attempt, huh? You planned that whole thing."
"And if I did?"
"I wanna hear you say it."
"Or else?"
The artist cracked his knuckles.
Gaslight stopped. He couldn't take this boy in a fight. In fact, Redhead probably could use his spine like a jumprope, but somehow, it didn't seem like he wanted to. In fact, he didn't look like he wanted a fight at all. In a split second, Gaslight checked, double-checked, and triple-checked every option, every angle, in his head. He must have come to an amicable conclusion, because he looked directly into Redhead's eyes, cleared his throat, and told the truth. "Fine. Whatever they do to Katz is my fault. Because I knew he was unstable, and I still put the plan to fight in his head. That one's on me."
"Man, they'll show his organs to broad daylight," said Redhead, almost wistfully. He fixed Gaslight with a searching look. "You're a twisted little fuck, gambling with him like that, and the gunman."
Gaslight said, "And?"
"And I bet we've got a challenge to get to," said Dante Coleman, giving his blood-colored dreads a careful preen in the mirror. He had watched Total Drama, of course. He knew what to expect.
"Impress me again today, and then we'll talk."
There hadn't been any sets of clothes in the nightstands, per se. There were two pairs of heavy jeans apiece, three grey shirts, and factory-grade undergarments that felt like steel wool. Victoria had the sinking suspicion that she would be expected to launder her own clothes. She didn't like that prospect.
Everything around her felt like it were drifting in and out of place. The only part of her that felt settled, solid, were her hands. Her fingers flexed on their own, aching to seize... something, anything. There was no other reason for her to exist.
"Jesus, kid, did they pull you out of a dumpster?"
Victoria looked up from the log stool she'd claimed. Chris was looking down her with revulsion and the inklings of suspicion. All around them were those guards: even if she saw something that her brain wanted in this barren courtyard, she would never have been allowed to take it. She regretted returning early, but there had been nothing to keep her in the barracks.
"I'm talking to you." Chris jabbed at her. "What, you don't speak English? Cuz' that'll be a problem."
"I speak English," Victoria replied quietly. "And just because I sleep outside sometimes doesn't mean I sleep in a dumpster. That's a really mean thing to say."
She could see her words had taken Chris aback, or maybe he hadn't expected her to know any words. Maybe he thought she was just an animal - just like her new team. But Victoria Locke knew more than she let on - you had to in her line of work. She took advantage of his silence and she said to him, "I don't hate you for having a house. Why do you hate me for not having one, huh?"
"Maybe people hate you because you're a thief?"
"People say I'm a thief because I'm dirty, that's always happened. And it's always people like you, people whose houses are too big."
This was all bullshit, of course, but Victoria could tell, Chris believed every word. He looked far from sympathetic, but he looked uncomfortable as well. He might've retorted, but then the guards were on the move again, position as the other inmates filled in. Chris was silent as he led them all to a replica of Wawanakwa's fire-pit. He must've gotten over any shame Victoria had caused for him, because he roughly bumped into her as he passe.
Those more familiar with Total Drama looked around the diorama with mounting unease. It felt liminal and oddly unreal, like a fever dream, or a glitch in a simulation. Ma-Te was one of the many who hesitated in taking a seat on anything.
There was no Dock of Shame in the amphitheater. No massive cannon, or giant toilet, or anything that indicated expulsion. There was a gap in the fence, but it faced away from the main gate and the gravel road by the barracks. It seemed to lead deeper into the desert. "You're headed out there today," gloated the buzzcut lieutenant, when he caught a few of them staring. "On foot," he added.
Farther down the group, River must've pulled a face because a bald guard swatted them hard in back of their head. "It'll be good for you, string-bean."
"I'm fourteen and perfectly healthy for my size," River responded blankly. "You on the other hand-"
The guard had a pink face which was burning now that the sun. River longed to tell them so, but Sera strode over before they could. "Piss off, li'l freak. Seat's mine"
River hit the ground hard and the guard wheezed like it was funny. "You gonna take that from a woman, boy?"
"I'm not a boy."
"Cowards come in all shades," Sera cut in, and at once, it was clear what she was doing. Her eyes darted, sending desperate signals, and maybe River could have been grateful but no, 'coward' was taking things too far. They had never once asked for this woman's help.
"You're sweet, trying to help 'em," the guard got right up in her ear to hiss. "S'not worth it, in my opinion, but it's sweet."
There was something about the way this man flirted that River found reprehensible. They looked after him with the kind of coldness the kid reserved for cats that had scratched them.
"I told you to piss off."
"I know what you're doing and I don't like it," River retorted. "But never mind that now. Look."
They pointed through the gap in the fence, where the vans were rolling up from the horizon. It was clear which one had been damaged earlier, but the windshield had been replaced, and the back doors unbent. Nora remembered something when she saw them.
"What do you think they did to Katz?"
Victoria still had one hand curled around the new treasure in her pocket. It would be useless to her, probably, but it was a treasure nonetheless. "Could be that he was right about them," she suggested, gesturing at the stupid, sloping men and women around them, looking for a reason to hurt them. Nora didn't like her implication, and she disliked the implication of the returning vans even less. She wasn't at all keen to get back in, but that was clearly what was expected of them. The guards were already brandishing what looked like cattle prods from their belt, edging them towards the vehicles' open mouths.
Dice tried to find an angle, some way to resist, but he was surrounded on all sides. Beside him, still fucking with her collar, Melissa bleated like an injured lamb. "It isn't right," she gasped. "It's a gift, from the clouds… and the earth…"
"What is?"
"Electricity," she replied emphatically. "It's a gift from nature and it's supposed to be beautiful! But this is not beautiful!"
Edie had stumbled and received a jab for it. The little shriek she gave was drowned out by Melissa's outburst, and the guards' subsequent mocking her. The little girl sniffed as she, Dice, and the rest of Team Shit filed back into the van. Wordlessly, Miles took the seat next to her and offered her his arm to play with. Her hands trembled as she accepted, and towering over them, Dice watched, forming a plan in back of his head.
He'd need the girl and her massive, odd brain. And Metal-Man, he'd need him too, dead or alive.
A short while later, the fifteen inmates were elsewhere. It was impossible to say precisely where they were in relation to the camp, as the windows in the van were no longer tinted, but painted black. Not even sharp-eyed Gaslight could see anything past them.
In the dark, Sunlight closed her eyes and seemed to slip away. Ma-Te noticed a look of suspended comfort ease her face. Odd though it was, it was far from unpleasant.
"Out, now," came Chris' voice through a megaphone. The doors opened and, predictably, the inmates were not allowed to dismount on their own. As guards seized them, jostled them, Chris was saying to his lieutenant, "Keep one camera on either team while my dad's speaking, Truman. All the others will be on him."
"Yes, Mr. McLean."
"And... what are you thinking? Your bosses will be into this?"
"Yes, Mr. McLean. I'm predicting a full season."
"God, I love hearing that." Chris beamed. "Okay, inmates, eyes up."
From where he was standing, still protected by his knot of goons, he pointed across the landscape. It seemed that they were still on Ephraim Ridge: the ground around them was still barren and blank, but now not quite so flat. Indeed, the vans had parked at the base of a large, pathless hogback that rose high into the yellow air. Its entirety wrapped snugly around an abyssal gap in the red ground. "You're looking at Masterson's Landing," came Chris' voice again. "And that there," he pointed again, this time at the crevice, "is Lake Lazuli."
They were allowed to approach the border, and more than a few of them immediately inched back once they did. Lake Lazuli was no lake, at least not from the surface. From where the inmates were standing, it was the mouth of a cavern which seemed to drop forever. Its depths were so dark that they were invisible. River said, "There's… water down there?"
Only Sera looked at them, so only she picked up on the excitement in their voice. Chris merely shrugged, looking gleeful. "Dunno. No one's ever gone in and lived to tell the tale."
Sketch lofted a brow. "Uh…?"
"Yep," Chris went on. "As recently as a two centuries ago, the savages that used to live around here threw their kids in here to make the crops grow or something. Shit load of good that did them, am I right?"
"Eyes up here," said a new voice.
This voice didn't issue form a megaphone, but rather the inmates' collars. At the very top of the hogback, surrounded by what looked like a rope's course, Maxwell McLean was positioned. It looked as though he were being circled by a kettle of black vultures, which on closer examination, turned out to be drones.
"Welcome to the very first challenge of Total Reform," swelled Chris, facing into a camera now with raised hands. He was clearly speaking to an audience as well as the inmates now. "For those of you at home who're unfamiliar with our format, let me break it down for you: these little shits behind me have their teams, right? Well, for now, these two teams'll battle it out for the world to see, all for the amusement of you folks at home. For the next twenty weeks, they'll face death-defying stunts, military-level discipline, and of course, one another."
Chris chuckled as a Chris-bot took a shot of the pit to oblivion that was Lake Lazuli. "We here at Total Reform are proud to say, we have no idea what's down there! But that's what we're gonna find out today. Our brave inmates will leap to certain doom, to show their dedication to the healing process. More on that later, because first, they have to get up there. And to do that, well, they'll need leadership, won't they?"
He looked over his shoulder and said, "Will Seneca Skinner and… you, Dante Coleman, come on down."
Both parties obeyed. Seneca did so apprehensively, with Edie nodding at him furiously; Dante looked smug. Possibly, Anton was meant to have whatever honor that Redhead was about to receive, because it seemed like Chris had chosen him at random.
"Seneca Skinner, everyone," said Chris, gesturing at the expressionless boy. "If he has no objections, he'll be leading his fellows up the mountain. What say you, my man?"
The Ghostwriter simply asked, "Are you happy, Chris McLean?"
"I'm overoyed, my man, because I'm back," chuckled Chris to the camera, roughly thumping Seneca on the back. "Total Drama may be well and done, but you guys wanted me back. And I'm never one to disappoint my people."
Looking on, Miles thought he'd never seen anyone look less eager to lead. But from what the Opportunist had seen, Seneca just didn't seem to possess agency of his own. The Ghostwriter nodded, and Chris handed him something that made the boy recoil before moving on to Redhead.
"And, our resident artist-turned-jailbird. Talk about failure of the human spirit, ey, Dante?"
Redhead shifted instantly when the camera was shoved in his face. He threw back his head and gave a laugh so charismatic that he might've outshone the Host for a second. "Not at all," Redhead said gregariously. "On the contrary, I've never felt more creative than I do out here. I can't wait to lead, Chris, I really can't."
He concluded with a beaming smile that, off-camera, looked unhinged. But Chris was a man upstaged, taken aback, and he didn't like that one bit.
"Well said," he said forcefully. He turned to Team Stain and demanded, "Why don't you show your new subjects what you're packing? You too, Kafka!"
Seneca and Redhead both raised their new weapons: a cattle prod, like the guards all had. Chris laughed again.
"Alright kids. You have the first part of your challenge: climb the Landing, make peace with your gods, and jump for it. For each inmate that chickens out, their team will lose a point. For each inmate to jump, they'll gain one. The team with the lowest score at the end of the day, faces another Total Drama favorite: the infamous elimination ceremony."
There it was: the thing that each inmate had been dreading to themselves. Sketch bit her lip, because she had long since put two and two together. Clearly, there was no leaving Ephraim Ridge, not until Chris was done with them. So what would happen if they got axed today? How much worse, she wondered, were things able to get?
The climb up the side of Masterson's Landing wasn't filmed by any Chris-bots. A couple drones whizzed past the two teams, presumably for aerial shots, but there was no commentary or interruptions, which both teams were glad for. The face of the Landing was incredibly jagged, and down below, Lake Lazuli yawned up at them tauntingly. All that really stood between them and its maw was the rope each inmate held onto as they climbed, toward… what? The top of the hogback, avoiding the darkness below. But what was up there, standing in the sun, that they were meant to reach?
"It's obvious, isn't it," said Seneca. "We're not meant to reach anything. They just want us to labor. It's how they mean to break us."
"But you heard what Chris said," Miles called down. "This is a challenge, like Total Drama."
"And?"
"Maybe we'll be expected to hang glide off or something."
Melissa, just barely within earshot for how far behind she was, perked up. "I'd like that," she said wistfully. Privately, Seneca doubted she would get that far without falling, or dropping, or panicking.
Despite their cannon-fodder label, Team Shit wasn't doing poorly. Miles led the group - his metal arm was stuck fast to his shoulder and doing most of the hoisting. Sera, Sketch and Dice were right behind him. Hot on their heels was Edie, who was surprising everyone with her hustle. In fact, oddly enough, she seemed to be getting into her element despite the silent tears still going down her face.
"They did… whatever they did to that foreigner because he's Christian, you know," she insisted bitterly to Sketch as she passed her. "A good Christian man, and make no mistake, that's why he was so brave."
"I mean, it could also be that he tried to run us all over," suggested Sketch, cursing when her foot slipped. She wasn't one for religion, especially not at a time like this. "Not that anyone really deserves this shithole, but…"
"And anyway, why should you care?" Dice added. "He's not even on our team."
"Because I'm of the faith, just like him," Edie said pointedly. "My 'team' was picked out for me by God."
Sketch shrugged and turned away as Dice adjusted his own neck, bitterly. Down below, still struggling to get to the ledge, was the other half of Team Shit. Seneca looked to be having no trouble navigating himself, but it wasn't just him: Melissa and River were both attached to his harness, lagging behind, weighing him down. "Help me," he said to Sera, as he pulled himself onto the ledge, and the two of them yanked their stragglers up to join them.
"If we do lose today," Dice muttered, "we should ditch the blue-haired kid. It'll just slow us down."
"Fair point," agreed Edie, scowling. It was the first thing the two had ever agreed on, come to think of it.
"I dunno," Sketch interjected. "What do you think happens to eliminated contestants here? I can't believe they'd send us home."
Edie shrugged. "Slave labor, probably."
"You think?"
"Take a look."
She gestured all around them and, for the first time, most of her team noticed the view. It seemed they could see the width and breadth of Ephram Ridge: a sea of red clay, guarded by mountains, flecked with the grey-brown corpses of shrubs and trees. From up there, they could see, the barrenness of the place looked intentional; much of the land had been visibly cleared away to make room for…
"Of course," muttered Dice. The location made sense now: sure, it was hot and dead and miserable, but it was also empty, secluded. "Chris needed a place to put al his toys."
And indeed, there was industrial litter everywhere. Metal scaffolds which looked like gallows, concrete ruins, and massive alien-looking structures that, Dice was sure, would house the other challenges. He tried not to think about how many there were.
"Shit, these kids are heavy," Seneca griped. His baton dangled impotently from his wrist, silent. He had deactivated it the instant he'd felt safe to do so and he seemed to have no interest in booting it back up. Sera was struggling as well: Melissa seemed to have gone completely limp, and she vomited profusely once she'd gotten up on the ledge.
"Sorry… I'm sorry," she was saying, as Miles helped her up. "I think the heat is making me sick."
Sweating profusely himself, Seneca spared Melissa a very foul look and took a seat next to Edie and Dice once he'd hoisted up River, who had no apology for anyone. "I've changed my mind," Edie announced without bothering to lower her voice.
Dice rolled his eyes. This fucking choir-lady was a regular dragon. "Barfy over there? She doesn't have my vote yet," he muttered, which was true. He was sure now that he needed her for what he was planning. "Blue-hair, though..."
The River in question was looking positively infatuated with something in the lake. They continued to mutter numbers under their breath like a little automaton. Sera shot Dice a dirty look, and asked River too kindly, "Did you remember you favorite number?"
To her slight surprise, River fell out of their trance at once to answer. "Turns out I didn't have to. They found it for me."
"Found what?"
But a second answer was too much to hope for, and once again, River was lost to echolalia. Sketch looked up the peak and suggested to everyone that they continue. Sera finally voiced what she was thinking.
"We should keep moving. The other team will have the lead before we know it."
Her team looked up. They still had a fourth to go, and already their bodies felt like hot lead. As they set off, Miles hung back.
"You good, Sparky," he asked.
"Is that my name now?" she asked back, with the slightest, pinkest smile. "Well, I like it."
Sera needn't have worried. Most of Team Stain was tangled in their own ropes a few feet from the ground. They had, however, managed to make it far enough from solid ground that falling was a real threat for them all. Redhead outstripped the rest, and kept calling insults down at his stragglers. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that, with Anton indisposed and Rudolph unarmed, he was the most dangerous member of their team. He also appeared to be enjoying the power that had been afforded to him; his baton had been turned all the way up, and it dangled precariously from his belt-loop like a deadly stinger as he scaled the cliff-face. Gaslight was sweating terribly trying to keep up, both from exertion and the horrible suspicion that his rope wouldn't help him much of he lost his grip.
"This challenge sucks," he groused, nearly loosing his footing for the umpteenth time. Redhead spared him half a backwards glance.
"You ever seen Total Drama?"
"No," Gaslight answered. "Why?"
"No reason," said Redhead, but he was grinning again. He changed the subject before Gaslight could press any further. "You've got a tailgater."
Gaslight steadied himself before he looked down, and in that time, Redhead outpaced him. Nora was indeed approaching Gaslight at an alarming speed, her scarred face contorted.
"You're a fucking coward, greenie."
Gaslight looked up again to see that Redhead was long gone. He growled to himself before resuming his stride, making sure to kick a cloud of dust down first. Nora growled too, like an animal. "You sold out Katz! You gassed him up, and then you let him take the fall! And I'll tell you something else, if we lost today-"
"We aren't," Gaslight shouted, as though it would end the conversation.
"-then it's your ass on the chopping block!"
Gaslight only laughed. Nora wasn't accusing him of anything that wasn't true and there wasn't any point in denial. After all, she had been there for the whole plan. And it wasn't as though Gaslight hadn't expected her ire, it was merely that he didn't care. He refused to be scared of this behemoth. Pretty soon, he would never have to be scared of anyone ever again.
And Nora was an idiot. He cocked his right leg as she approached him again, farted spectacularly, and kicked her rope from up above, sending her scrambling. Several people down below laughed and she let out a howl of rage.
"You're fucking dead!"
"Good luck catching me, then!"
Newly invigorated, the Observer moved like a squirrel up a tree, leaving the Brawler to seethe. Ma-Te had laughed to herself, but found herself begrudging Gaslight when his fart lingered, forcing her to climb through it. Beside her, Sunlight also wrinkled her nose. It wasn't at all the moment that Ma-Te had been hoping for, but she shot her shot anyway.
"Your poor nails..."
She nodded at Sunlight's hands, which had been fully bound in scraps of cloth. The Witch only shrugged. "It isn't my nails, it's my hands," she explained. "Those goons cut my hands up bad getting me in the van. I don't want to get an infection."
"You might anyway," said Ma-Te grimly. "All the tap water is brown."
"Such is fate," Sunlight answered, though her voice was suddenly cool. Ma-Te might have kicked herself if her feet weren't engaged at the moment.
She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Sorry. That wasn't helpful."
"Honesty usually isn't," said Sunlight. "I like yours though," she added.
"My honesty?"
"Your nails," Sunlight corrected, with a dewy sort of smile at Ma-Te's chipped polish. "Red is a lovely color."
Ma-Te blushed. They climbed in silence for a little longer, and finally Sunlight voiced what she'd been annoyed about. "Can you believe this," she said. "A fucking reality show? And Chris McLean, of all people."
"I can believe it, actually," said Ma-Te reluctantly. "Honestly, I could see my dad thinking this is funny."
Sunlight suddenly remembered how adamant Ma-Te had been in the van about her father being innocent in all this. The way she said this, Sunlight wondered if he still was innocent in Ma-Te's eyes. But she'd never be so rude as to ask; for some reason, she rather wanted this girl to like her.
"Still," Sunlight continued, "Chris McLean? I mean, I thought he was gone for good after that scandal with Blaineley O'Halloran. We're supposed to believe that he was paid to do all this?"
"He might've been," Ma-Te reasoned. "Just because Total Drama dropped him doesn't mean he isn't still a celebrity. Anyone could have funded this little venture if they thought it was a good investment."
"I should like to ask who..." Sunlight hissed as a particularly-pointed rock sliced through her bindings, "thinks this is good television."
A drone whizzed past and both girls, emboldened by the other's presence, posed and pouted for the camera. It seemed a grim parody of nonchalance - dangling over certain death with inadequate protection - but it was better than nothing. When the drone passed, Sunlight chuckled approvingly at Ma-Te, who's blush deepened.
Yes, she thought. This was better than nothing.
An hour later, Rudolph was still bringing up the rear. Victoria had been doing very well and wasn't even slightly tired from the climb, but she hung back on a ledge she'd found to wait for him. She received some abuse for this - for all her team knew, this jeopardized the challenge - but Victoria ignored them. She felt, somehow, that making the acquaintance of this boy would be worth it. And that was one impulse she had learned to trust; it came from the small part of her brain which belonged to her, and not her compulsion.
"You smell like metal," he told her frankly, but not maliciously. Indeed, he looked rather curious. Victoria shrugged.
"I was living in an old hangar when they found me. In Slab City, I think."
To her surprise, Rudolph looked wistful behind his wincing. "I heard of that place. Wanted to go there m'self, once."
"Why are you talking like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like a kid on Halloween," Victoria answered, with frankness of her own. "Why are you trying to sound like a sheriff?"
Rudolph's red nose twitched quizzically. He looked at Victoria as though she'd just said something in Latin. "I think you're a little confused there, ma'am."
Victoria said nothing and paused to let him catch up. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, that wasn't it, but he seemed to appreciate her lack of tact. She took that as an okay to continue the conversation.
"You sure were armed to the teeth when they found you. Were all those guns yours?"
"I mean, I was holding them, so yea."
"You mean you stole them?"
"What do you care?"
He gave her a sudden, sharp look and Victoria treaded carefully. "I'd admire you, if you said yes," she said simply. "Seems like you're good at stealing what you need."
Rudolph had no clue that, as she said this, Victoria was thinking about the useless key, contented in her pocket, and how she loathed it for what it could do to her. She had been searched once by these men, and she had no doubt they'd do it again. The Gunslinger was looking morbidly flattered. "I had a whole stockpile back home," he crowed. "At the house where I grew up, 'course that's probably all ripped up now—But had near about fifty that I'd snatched up, in the walls and the crawlspaces."
It would be so easy to drop this key into the ravine, Victoria thought. In her mind's eye, she watched it fall, forever and ever, out of her life. But of course, she couldn't do that. Her hands were not loyal enough.
"You're good at hiding things?" she asked finally.
"The best, li'l lady. Weapons, ammo, old bodies..."
Victoria waited for the drone circling them to pass before she asked, "What's your secret?"
"Dude, you've gotta help me out here."
"Oh my God, just drop it."
"Edith, shut the fuck up already."
"Stop defending the thing, Sarah, or whatever you-"
"My name's Seraphim to you, bitch. And I don't give a fuck about that little blue twig, I'm just sick of your harping."
That wasn't true and River knew it; Sera was clearly getting something out of being a pain in their ass. Something stupid and maternal, more than likely, because she was helping, as though they'd somehow asked for help; but they hadn't. They hadn't asked Seneca to hoist them, and they hadn't asked Sera to keep coming to their rescue. They didn't want to be coddled, and these children didn't seem to get it. But once again, River held their tongue, as was sensible. And lo and behold, they were rewarded: Edie's ire for them had now rounded on Sera, and the rest of the team had stopped glaring at them to watch a rapidly-devolving standoff. It seemed to River that someone was about to get shoved off the peak.
Seneca looked over to the side. At the very crest of the hogback, there was a clearing that oversaw the whole world, it seemed. A beautiful, stark smear of defiant orange against the harshest, bluest sky that had ever been. And that was where Team Stain was waiting, smirking at them. The Ghostwriter sighed.
"I don't harp, you blasphemous fuck," Edie said haughtily.
"Yeah, you do." Sera snarled. "You've been punching down all day and I think we've all had it." She shoved Edie fast and hard and the smaller girl just barely caught herself. "Maybe learn to shu- Augh!"
"Seneca, wh- No!"
"We lost," Seneca said blankly, lowering his baton again. "I'm done listening to the both of you."
"Not yet, sonny," said McLean. Everyone turned.
Both teams had just realized that they'd both gone up the eastward face of the hogback - the only end that faced the chasm. The westward side, previously unseen, was equipped with the metal skeleton of an elevator. On a steel platform, Chris, the Colonel, several robots and a few guards rose to face them.
"Mr. Skinner, you haven't lost yet. But that was a step in the right direction."
"If I had a soul," said Seneca dryly, "it would be writhing at your approval."
Seneca stepped back in line and resumed being as handsome and as boring as a statue. The Colonel, surprisingly, quirked the tiniest smile.
"That's right, folks," Chris was saying to the camera, arms splayed. "Both teams have made it to the top in one piece, with Team Stain makes it to the top, but we here at Total Reform have decided, we gotta honor our roots, y'know? So now that they're all in place, let's get our challenge underway."
"That wasn't the challenge, Chris?" Redhead said from across the clearing. For the first time, there was a definite edge to his voice. Behind his beaming smile, Dante's eyes were dangerous, challenging. "Just that my idiots are tired over here, man."
"Ooh, about that," Chris started. He clicked his button again and Redhead sparked and buckled. Caught off guards, he cried out, and Chris clicked his tongue like he'd won. "Let's try calling me 'sir' from now on. Don't worry, the Colonel and I will know who you're talking to."
He could hear the fat fucks at home on their couches, laughing at him, across the country. Redhead's face was shrouded by his hanging hair - no one could see the humanity leave his features, his eyes unfocus, his mouth split into a grin.
"You should really figure out your place, kiddo," Chris bent down to whisper, when the camera panned away. But Redhead only smiled further.
"You gotta put that remote down sometime, old man."
"You know what, just for that, you get to go first."
Before Redhead could ask, the guards stepped in, and the inmates were brought into lines. They must've been between takes or something because, when Chris was repositioned on the ledge, he welcomed an invisible audience back.
"Lets take a minute to remember our dearly-departed Wawanakwa," he went on. "Who could forget her majestic peaks, her crystal waters, her one-of-kind fauna... And though times change, we at Total Reform wanna honor where we came from. Anton, c'mon out!"
Clad like the rest of the inmates, head shorn down to his tattooed scalp, Katz emerged from behind a cluster of guards. His eyes were like the vacant windows of an empty house - nothing but mirrors for the brilliant sun overhead. He walked aimlessly towards Chris, avoiding the Colonel completely, and even flinched as Chris arm slung itself around his shoulders.
"Anton, buddy, tell everybody what you used to be afraid of."
In a such a blank, toneless voice that even Seneca raised his eyebrows, Anton muttered, "That I was killing for nothing. That there was no reward for my work in the coming Tribulation."
Miles tried not to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the noise Edie made. Chris looked at the camera like a hero, like he were a saint blessing a common leper. "And what are you afraid of now?"
Anton muttered something and Chris made him repeat himself.
"Tarantula hawks," Katz said again.
Chris and the Colonel both gave identical swells of self-reverence. "Good answer. Now go show your new teammates how they score points today."
One eye had turned as red as blood. Aside from his arms, which looked to have developed a salmony rash, his skin was cool-looking and unbroken. But Katz lips were moving oddly, mechanically, without making a sound. He broke into a run, he was making another break for it, but there was no where for him to go except-
"Katz?"
"Dude- fuck!"
Down he went, over the side and into the Earth. He sank and faded, and the unfortunate onlookers could only gape. Miles' voice sounded like his mouth was full of fur when it came. 'What's down there?"
But if there were an answer to that question, it didn't seem that Chris had it. He ignored Miles' question completely and summoned his guards to hoist Dante back on his feet, and start shoving him to the edge. Chris continued to call out positions for the drones, and they obeyed like trained birds. Some seemed to know where he intended them to go without even being directed. "That's what you're gonna tell us!" Chris chirped. There was a mad glint in his eye that had never translated over the airwaves. Now that they were seeing it, though, it wasn't a stretch to believe that it had always been there.
"Dante here'll be sure to tell you."
And grinning an evil, unhinged grin, Dante vanished into the abyss.
"There's no not going over the ledge," Chris explained. "But if you go over without making one of my interns here toss you," (Chris gestured at his guards), "That's a point. Bravely face the unknown, or be tossed in kicking and screaming. For the losing team, how you answer that question might be the difference between seeing another day, or elimination."
The inmates all looked at one another. Chris said, "Now, Team Stain, I admit that we did put you at a disadvantage - it's unfortunate that your teammates had it coming. So to show we're all good sports here, you get the points for Dante and Anton. You're welcome."
"Chris, we can't do this!"
Someone had started to cry. All heads turned and, to everyone's surprise, it was Sera. The Colonel stepped forward.
"Told you we were right to put her with the cannon-fodder," he said to Chris, who laughed too hard at his father's quip. Sera drew a breath that seemed to chill and shiver inside her. "Seriously? Guys, this is fucking insane. That drop must be sixty feet."
"Plus an extra twenty, once you get in the pit," commented a guard, and the rest of them laughed too. Sera shook her head furiously and stepped back. She sank to her knees like a felled boar and watched any respect she might have garnered vanished. But it didn't matter, of course it didn't. What good was respect to a dead woman? And that's what she was, what they all were. Dead children, now.
"Jeez, they really are pathetic, aren't they," muttered the Colonel. "They made trouble for everyone back home, and now they can't even-"
"I'll go."
Once again, everyone turned, surprised. There was River, setting their little jaw, bracing for a running start. They were blind to the mocking smiles, deaf to the jeering, because Sera was positioned just so by the ledge. It was now or never to prove themselves. Now or never, to make them all understand.
River Thompson never acted without thinking first. They always studied the logistics, always made sure, and now they were completely certain of their hypothesis: Chris had a god - he'd always had a god - in the audience. So they had to be likable, more likable than him, if they wanted to had to play the game if they meant to live. And River meant to live.
"For Team Shit!" they thundered, and their tiny feet carried their body over the clearing, building steam and momentum, enough to tackle Sera with enough force to send them both tumbling over the edge. Melissa screamed and scrambled towards the elevator, but the guards blocked her way.
"Uh… Right, okay, well…" Chris was sputtering, caught off-guard. Of course he was. Miles and Sunlight both realized at once what River had been getting at. But Sunlight was the one who drew the cameras' attention first.
"Ma-Te," she said serenely, seductively, cheating out to the camera. "I'll feel much braver if you'll hold my hand on the way down."
Her words sent a warmth over the Boulder's rough skin, but Ma-Te wasn't stupid. She knew this to be a ploy for salvation, but she saw no harm in playing along. So she beamed at the camera herself, scooped up Sunlight in her arms, and announced, "I will follow you to the ends of the Earth, and over them."
"Damn," Gaslight had to admit, quietly, as he watched them vanish. How the hell could he top that one? But now Edie had caught on as well. Before she could steal his spotlight, Gaslight gave an almighty whoop, launched himself over the edge, and turned several backflips on the long way down.
She stepped forward dramatically, and maybe Chris thought he had her number, because he looked at her expectantly. But she didn't what she'd just seen, like he clearly hoped she would. Instead, she thought of her dear, departed hunting dog, and tears sprang fresh from her eyes once more. "You see that," she said, directly to the Colonel. "That was love! You insist that we're incapable of it, but I… I won't be! You, er… dear child," she offered her hand to Melissa. "Jump with me. I'll break your fall, wherever we end up."
Melissa moved quickly, awkwardly. She never was much for improv. "R-Right, yes," she said, just convincingly enough. And then, magnificently, she said, "I… want my mommy, Edie. I wanna go home."
Sniffling, she took Edie's outstretched hand, and Chris gave a definitive noise of compressed panic. "You guys are so manipulative… and after all t-the shit that you've done to innocent people-"
"I'm here because I got caught sleeping in someone's dumpster. They booked me on trespassing charges, and you know that, I think."
Victoria stepped forward with cold eyes, demanding eyes. "I've never hated anyone for having a place to go, but everyone seems to hate me because I don't. And that's fine, that's… the way of the world. But I won't let you call me a monster for that. I've never hurt another person and I never would."
"I wouldn't either," said Miles, coming forward too. "Y'know, I-I've done what I had to to get by, but I was brought here without trial. You're here injuring an innocent man."
"I'm here injuring a drug trafficker!"
"Chris, shut up!"
"He admits it," Miles spat, and he removed his arm to display the awful, lesioned purple that the climb had inflicted on his stump. One of the guards - clearly some dumb college kid - actually vomited. "Might as well put myself out of my misery, right?"
Over he went, Victoria close at his heels.
Now it was only Dice, Sketch, and Seneca for Team Shit, and only Nora and Rudolph for Team Stain. The Colonel seemed calm again, and Chris was clearing his throat like he'd just reassumed control of the defective machine. He clicked his tongue and said, "No excuses from you fuckers, huh? You all know why you're here, huh?"
Dice did know what he was in for, and if Chris split those beans, he'd never get the audience on his side. So the King of the Underground did what he did best and took a gamble, presuming that he was about to play his cards right.
He grabbed Seneca's shoulder, planted a kiss on his lips, and gave him a final, wistful look. "I couldn't go with doing that at least once."
"I've never been kissed before," Seneca admitted, "I never thought I would be. But I'm... so glad it was you." And for once, the Ghostwriter's face melted into an expression - a sensitive, plaintive look that Sketch could recognize as bullshit, but she knew at once that no one else would. So she feigned a misty smile and through her arms around both boys' waists. "I love you guys," she said. "Ever since the van, when we recorded our names. I don't care what the world says. I think we're pretty neat."
"We're luckier than most, if this is the end," Seneca agreed.
"Most people face the end alone," Dice added. "Not us Shit-heads, though."
"Never."
And holding hands sweetly, they descended. On the way down, Dice kept his eyes ahead, feeling gross, but the job was done. Everyone loved the wounded gay guy - it was like, audience-candy.
Now it was down to Rudolph and Nora, who looked blank and apprehensive, respectively. Rudolph's eyes had been drawn to the Colonel, who alone seemed to still be on top of what was happening around him. He had slid his pistol off his belt, let it hang out from its holster slightly, and it glinted tantalizingly in the sun. Rudolph's hands began to twitch.
But Nora had taken Gaslight's words to heart. She wasn't anyone's pawn, anyone's muscle. She was her own strength, and that's how she'd been known. She whipped around to Chris, who was muttering to the camera.
"That's the one, with the red nose. He's the one who pulled a gun on the staff-"
"And you left us with him in the back of that van, for ten hours."
Nora's voice, when not reduced to grunts, was surprisingly clear and effective. And suddenly, staring down the cameras, she fancied that her scarred visage made her look heroic, brave. And maybe, just maybe, she could be a fan-favorite too. "I held him down for ten hours all by myself. I kept him from firing, knowing he could kill me and then… and then my poor sister could be left with no one. But I couldn't let him kill anyone, not if I could stop it."
Rudolph was still inching towards the Colonel like a moth to a streetlamp, hands outstretched. He could have a weapon again. He could be a gunslinger. He could be powerful again…
"You're a filthy fucking liar," Chris spat, blanching. In his mind's eye, the scene from this morning looked worse and worse by the second. Now he seemed far less like the last line of defense that kept a bunch of dangerous criminals off the streets. Now he looked like a man who'd kidnapped a bunch of desperate teenagers, some of whom were unhinged… a lawyer could argue, if it came to it…
"Y-You aren't strong enough to-"
"Not strong enough?" Nora thundered, and all she saw was red. Temper, she hissed at herself, for the first time. She breathed deeply and steadied just as the Colonel gave a false noise of surprise. Rudolph gave a jubilant, "Mine!"
"He's got a gun!"
Nora acted without thinking. She lunged, leapt, and before the guards could act, before even Chris could shock him, she had Rudolph in her grip. The Gunslinger wailed as his weapon fell from his grip. "It's okay," she was screaming, in the same way she would when Rose would scream, and she couldn't make her understand. "It's okay, man. I know you're sick, but we're gonna… we're gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you away from these people…"
She had done it. She had fucking done it.
"Man, I can't do this."
A guard threw down his cap and, emboldened, another ripped the band off his arm. The lieutenant's eyes widened. "Wait-"
"This is too fucking much, Truman! You didn't tell me this was what it was gonna be like!"
Another stepped forward. "I'm not gonna help you do this to these guys. That one clearly isn't well!"
Now the Colonel was stepping up, and it was obvious, these guys were terrified of him.
"Cygnus, Bastion…"
"No!" One of them shouted. "No, keep your dirty money, man, I'm done!"
The two of them, then three, then four, broke formation. Even Rudolph stopped thrashing to watch, transfixed. Nora took this chance to lift him high over her head, and march over to the edge with him.
It was all a show, it wasn't real, Nora said to herself. Like forced toughness, like what everyone was doing at Ephraim Ridge. All you had to do was know when to lie. "I forgive you," she said to Rudolph, to everyone, and in a cloud of drones, they tumbled over the edge as one, leaving Chris alone. The gun lay forgotten, impotent, in the center of the clearing.
And Chris was stunned, truly he was. He had expected everyone to be numb, and then to be furious. They were supposed to be the bad guys. But it had taken all of a day, for them to find the flaw in all: if they became the good guys to the audience, if there was even a question...
"Pop, no," Chris said, as his mechanical reflections finally put down they equipment, the job done. The guards stood off, abashed and uncomfortable, as the four defectors made their way to the elevator. "C'mon, dad, don't do it…'
But the pistol found its way back into the Colonel's weathered hands. The guards he called Bastion raised his voice, "Colonel, we're done here-"
And he was. He and his fellows were taken down in rapid succession, and they crumpled. The remaining guards, Truman included, knew at once to be very, very quiet.
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're gonna have a time explaining that…"
"Shut your fucking mouth!"
The Host set his jaw and refused to look at his dad. Why did he have to be like this, when there was so much at stake...?
"We should have wasted one of those little shits in front of the others for putting the first toe out of line! How the fuck do you expect this program to work if you-"
"We were commissioned to do what we needed to here and to keep it quiet!" Chris shouted back. And maybe his dad was cool wasting some faceless guards, maybe he was cool cracking him across the face with his pistol, but he wouldn't kill him, wouldn't cripple him. Right now, he was so angry that that was enough.
"I need a show! I need to be able to do this stupid sham right if-"
"You aren't doing it right," the Colonel roared back. "The second that shit goes to air, we'll have protests! We'll have a bunch of pussy-footed liberals banging on the gates demanding we put the little fucks up in a hotel!"
"Enough!"
Truman stood between them both, white-fisted and pink-faced around his buzz-cut. "Colonel, you've acted very irrationally. You've made trouble for my organization."
He gestured at the bled-white corpses on the elevator as though they were a mere stain on nice carpeting. You might've thought the Colonel would have no trouble putting a bullet in the lieutenant's head, but this was Truman. This was a representative of... Well, he was a man with power. He was untouchable.
"I was acting out of necessity," he said crisply. "If they," he gestured at the dead, "went and said anything…"
"We will handle the bodies, of course," said Truman, as though he hadn't heard him. "If something like this happens again..."
"It won't," promised Chris.
"And you, Mr. McLean. My employer was very clear "
Chris parroted, "No."
"Good," said Truman simply. "We can... dress today up in editing. But this challenge was no successful, Mr. McLean. You'll need to fix that for next time."
In the depths of the Earth, deep in the bowels of Lake Lazuli, sixteen bodies were suspended over oblivion by a net that had been secured to the chasm's walls. Several of them were trembling, others were laughing, and some were sobbing. All these noises were thrown by the walls, echoing around the lot of them until they were indistinguishable from one another. Edie and Katz had assumed this was how Hell would be.
"Thanks, I guess," Sera muttered to River, who was underneath the other bodies, their arms dangling listlessly through the mesh. In the minuscule light that followed them this deep, she could see their face was heartbroken. "Are you okay?"
"There's no water down here."
"I… Yeah, I guess that's true."
Her nose was still stopped up from her breakdown. She doubted that she'd ever be allowed to live it down. But all she felt was confused at River's dejection. Indeed, it seemed like there was no chance that there was—or ever had been—water down here. It just looked like a rift that went down forever and ever without ever bottoming out.
"But you were expecting water?"
"I was."
"Well, I'm sorry then. Don't be blue."
"Hm." River offered the tiniest smile. "That's what my parents used to call me."
"S'cute."
River sighed to the dark. "My calculations were right," they announced, with conviction. But the edges of the net began to rise, and before they knew it, drones were lifting them from the lake like trawled fish onto a boat. There was a helicopter that they hadn't seen before whirling overhead, kicking up a cloud of dust on the ground.
"Good job, inmates," Chris called down, looking exactly like his normal self, from a distance. "Load back up into the vans, and we'll head back to camp for dinner, and Total Reform's first elimination ceremony!"
"Wait, what," Sketch started. "Fuck you, McLean, we all jumped!"
"Yeah, and I admit, I wasn't expecting that." Chris announced through his megaphone. "But Team Shit cleared the challenge first. So we'll say they won. And they'll get their reward once we get back. As for Team Stain, well… someone better say their goodbyes."
Team Shit's van never made it back to the campground. If Team Stain had been able to see out their windows, maybe they might have seen it veer off somewhere. But as least Gaslight had other matters to concern himself with.
"Katz?" He was asking, to no avail. "Katz, man…?"
But Anton was still and unblinking. He seemed to hear Gaslight well enough, but he didn't respond to his nickname. Gaslight looked at Redhead, "Jesus, look what they did to his arms..."
It was true. The black windows couldn't stop enough light filtering in that they could see, Anton's arms were covered in stings, oozing and purple, the flesh around them raised and fevered. "What did he say earlier, tarantulas?"
"Tarantula hawks," Sunlight said. She had let go of Ma-Te's hand, but the two were seated closely together. "They thrive in this part of the country and they get their name for how they prey on desert tarantulas."
"And?"
"They're docile for wasps, but their sting has been described as excruciating, worse than lightning," Sunlight went on. Maybe it was all the beautiful lying they had done earlier, or else the reality of it all, but she couldn't help but feel pity for this madman. "Most people can't tolerate more than a few, without..."
She sighed, unable to continue. So Ma-Te finished for her. "Without this?"
"Mm-hm."
"Alright," said Redhead, who had seen enough of Katz in the pit to imagine what was going through his head right now. "I say that, as a group, we give him immunity."
"Agreed," said Gaslight and Nora together.
The van rumbled on quietly for a minute. Next, Redhead turned to Victoria. It had been a long day, and she had surprised them, but they didn't even know her name yet.
"You came through today," said Nora, more forward than she'd been the last time they were in the van together. "So thanks, for that."
"We still lost."
"Wasn't our fault," Gaslight stepped in. "So, you got a name?"
Victoria thought for a moment. She considered her key, and said finally, "I call myself Keeps."
Across the van, Rudolph slammed his forehead into the steel wall, making everyone jump. He looked at them all miserably, a pinprick of blood trickling from his ear.
"I almost had that gun."
Nora sighed, and Team Stain shared a meaningful look between them.
"We know you did," soothed Ma-Te, resting a hand on his knee. "You did good today too, Ruddy."
The other team was still missing throughout dinner. They had expected more of a fight from some of the guards, but suddenly, it was hard to tell some of them from the robots. Keeps caught one of them crying in the wrong bathroom. She had to dodge a jab from their cattle prod afterwards, but she was more confused than annoyed. Dinner was cold pasta salad, which wasn't bad if you picked out the wilted black olives. They were allowed as much they wanted, though it ran out very quickly. By and by, the reality that they were imprisoned was sinking in, but everyone was too tired to lash out.
In the time, it had taken Team Shit to reach the top of the hogback, Team Stain was able to appreciate the view themselves: the repurposed buildings, the skeletal structures, all looked like rusty-metal carpeting from all the way up there. "I really can't believe that this place used to be a reservation."
The mess hall they were eating in had clearly been the cafeteria of an aid station once. The tables were painted with mystical-looking sigils, and there were cultural murals peeking through the hastily-repainted walls. There was still the iron stench of construction in there, and much of the floor was dusted in plaster, floating in the light that filtered in between the bars on the windows. Like everything else in Ephraim Ridge it felt like a building out of space and time, a model built by God and then thrown away before he colored it in.
"It used to be loved," Sunlight agreed gently. Her hands were folded in mourning; every so often, she'd see a symbol that she seemed to recognize and trace her finger over it. Katz coughed around his spoon; in his daze, he seemed to have swallowed wrong. Redhead looked to be regretting his choice to extend immunity. "We don't know anything about this guy, you know," he said to Gaslight, who'd broken away from the group to meet with him.
After dinner it came time for the ceremony. Votes were cast anonymously, and then they were herded into the mock-up of the fire-pit.
Chris was already stationed by the fire. He carried a plate laid with fifteen marshmallows.
"Here at Total Reform, we never give up on you. Unless of course you get eliminated, in which case we give up on you. But, because society doesn't really want you back, we offer gainful employment at our off-site satellites, complete with ten-hour work days, scheduled bathroom breaks, and if you're lucky, a cot with a view. We also offer a consolation package of three paper masks to protect your young little faces from the working conditions. It's great."
The inmates all looked at each other. This was a last, painful reminder that they, like the people they all trusted, were throwing one of their own. But it was too late now.
"Victoria."
Keeps had expected to be the first one to go.
"Dante, Anton, and Gaspar."
The boys all nodded and caught the treat that Chris through at each of them.
"Marisol and Aine, you both received one vote apiece…"
"You told me your name was-"
"Don't worry about that."
It did matter that Rudolph could both be manipulated. It mattered that Rudolph was their best marksman and crazy enough to try anything. And it mattered that Nora was their wall, or their cannon. Their loose cannon. But they hadn't seen what they had today, on Masterson's Landing.
"Eleanor and Wayne, this is the last marshmallow of the evening. And it goes to…
It mattered that Rudolph was a validation of what Chris was preaching.
"…Nora."
The Brawler caught the marshmallow and immediately tossed it over her shoulder. "We're sorry, man."
"So sorry…"
"All of us…"
"Fuckin' stow it," said Rudolph, over his shoulder. The robots were already pulling him into a new van now. It was particularly dirty, but not distinct otherwise. They opened the back doors and tossed him in unceremoniously.
"It's been a long day and our inmates are on edge with exhaustion, sunburn, and each other. What awaits them in the coming days, and what does our next challenge bring? Who'll be here next week, on the chopping block. All this and more on the next episode of Total Reform. Stay tuned."
Team Shit had been rewarded with a 'hot meal in town', as the lieutenant had called it. The town in question was the remains of an old diner - the windowpanes had been stripped from their frames and the equipment needed some time to turn back on. It was diner-food, nothing fancy or particularly good, but nearly everyone on the team found the greasiness comforting. Dice was immensely glad to find a broken cigarette machine in the derelict bathroom, which had yet to be looted. There must've been two-packs worth just sitting back there, still boxed, barely even dusty. He loaded his pockets and summoned his teammates, one by one, to do the same, right under Truman's nose.
Surprisingly, for the 'military discipline' Chris promised, they were largely left to their own devices that evening. They knew themselves to be under surveillance, but that didn't stop all of them from sneaking smoke breaks in a secluded little shed they'd dubbed 'the Smoking Lounge'. Dice was chuckling at Seneca, who looked horribly green from the nicotine. He kept insisting it was the burger he'd eaten for dinner.
"I really am sorry, about the stunt I pulled today."
"You should be," Seneca replied. He belched and continued, "People'll be expecting us to couple up, like those sapphics on the other team."
Dice checked around before confiding in his leader, "I've got something in the works. Something I need to iron out, and I could use a cover while I do it. Maybe..."
"Maybe it would be better if we pretended, while you scheme, and I risk my ass covering for you?"
The gambler chuckled. Seneca had no personality to speak of, but there wasn't any pulling the wool over his black-currant eyes.
"Precisely."
"And what's in it for me?"
"You'll be my guy. And you'll get out of here." Dice smirked. He followed with a meaningful look and a sincere, "I'm just asking you to think about it, captain."
Seneca puffed his cigarette a final time and visibly mourned its remains. "I don't wanna be team leader..."
"What are you monsters talking about back here?"
"Nothing important," Dice said, looking up at Miles, who'd shared his booth at dinner. "Any luck?"
"The other team was happy for the cigarettes," Miles informed them both, helping himself to a chair. "I took a poke around before coming back. I think our little clubhouse is as safe as anywhere, in regards to what they can see."
Dice nodded. Miles was a fast worker, industrious. He was glad that he recruited him first.
"The red-nosed guy is gone, by the way. Eliminated, that is."
"To Rudolph, then," Seneca proposed, lighting up again.
"To Rudolph," chorused the others. And unknown to them, known only to person who was listening to them all through their collars, the same salute was going up all around the Ridge. From Sunlight, praying to her ancestors and Robert Artisson; From Keeps, burying her key just so, as he'd taught her; from Nora and Gaslight, who'd helped themselves to the cigarettes Miles had given them. "For Rudolph, for Rudolph, for Rudolph."
When the van doors opened again, Rudolph immediately began to choke on the air around him. It sat heavy in his throat and seemed to stick. All around him, toxic particles floated in the air like restless moths. "This shit can't be safe," he sputtered, covering his mouth with his hand. Immediately, his lips burned where his skin made contact. The guards merely leered and tossed him a paper mask, far less substantial that the machinery they wore on their own faces.
"It's not," one commented. "Put that on and get moving. You've got a lot to learn before work tomorrow."
There was a structure in the distance that looked like an old airplane hanger. Its shape was pulled and twisted in the yellow nighttime, ringed by searchlights on towers like heads with a single, spinning eye. And in their beams, with his singed eyes, Rudolph could see he was surrounded by weapons. Immediately, the sob that had been sitting in his throat shrank, and he swallowed it.
Real names had power. There was no need to hide his now; out of sight, out of mind. He was Wayne Kelly and he could do more with five bullet than lesser men could do with twenty. He would soon have power, he would soon have bullets. It was a simple game of chance, and he only needed to win once.
Just once.
Total Reform: The Ephraim Atrocity