"Each one of you twenty campers is here because you want to be."
They shift stances, but keep their eyes plastered on the blinding smile.
"Remember that when the going gets tough: the only thing keeping you here is your signature on a contract and your own desire to win."
Some of them nod to themselves; some of them just stare; a few of them get uneasy.
"And I'll tell you right now that things are going to be rough. This isn't a typical reality show and you will not be facing typical threats."
"What do you mean 'threats,' eh?" a boy with a green ski hat and hoodie asks with confusion.
"That's an excellent question. But if you have to ask it, then you didn't read your contract closely enough, Ezekiel."
The green-clad lad wisely decides to close his mouth and avoid further attention. The spiteful emphasis on the name makes him also decide he doesn't like the man with the eerily white smile.
"Your number one priority here is to act. To play your character convincingly and win the grand prize. In this regard, your every act and movement will be taped, edited, and televised. Your every word and breath will be recorded, mixed, and placed into the mouth of your delightful fictional personas.
"Speaking of personas, you are encouraged to take this very seriously. While you're not required to stay in character at all times, I can tell you that even the slightest bit of slacking may be taken into consideration when splitting the losers from the winner. Because you're not here to get others to like you, you're here to impress us by playing your part better than anyone else and earn your place in the finals. I will reveal your secondary priorities to you as I deem necessary, but they will play a large role in your future. Don't worry, you have my word that I'll keep each one of you informed of events as they arise."
He flashes a smile and meets the eyes of nearly every camper. Only DJ and the pale girl with the homemade dye job avert their eyes; he doesn't give two shakes of a leper's dick about anything Chris could possibly say, and she feels more uncomfortable than she ever has before, leaving her looking for any way off the island.
"As all of you know," he begins again, "I am Chris Maclean, actor, producer, and multimedia enterprise mogul. As all of you will come to know, I like when things go according to plan." His eyes quickly sweep the audience, taking in their attentive faces. "When you were contacted, you were given two general instructions in addition to your personal instructions: one, respond to the invitation within twenty-four hours, and two, maintain yourself healthy at all costs. Everybody standing here followed those rules excellently, but as your basic math skills will tell you, not all of you are here. Two of your fellow contestants decided to ignore those requirements. One phoned in 36 hours after contact, and the other had the audacity to get a cold the morning he was leaving. That's why we've decided—YOU!"
Twenty heads spin around in the direction of his outstretched finger to face a brunette girl walking a distance away. She slowly stops in her tracks and turns to the large gathering. Even from twenty yards away, the group can tell she is nervous.
"Wh-Who, me?"
"Yeah, make up intern, I am talking to YOU!"
She takes a tentative step forward and Trent immediately recognizes her as the girl who he was trying to chat with in the tent only moments ago.
"Wh-Who needs help with their make-u—?"
"No. Change of plans. Your name is Beth and you're part of the game."
"What? What do I—?"
"And YOU."
The heads make their way back to Chris and the blonde standing beside him with a pained look on his face.
"Whatever-the-hell intern you are. You've been promoted. Your name is Geoff. Put this on." He pushes a fluorescent pink button-up into his face. "You'll also want to wear this like your life depends on it."
A cowboy hat slowly drifts to a stop at his feet. The former intern bends down and collects the head wear off the ground while muttering to himself. "What am I supposed to be, a gay John Wayne?
"…Fifteen, twenty, twenty-two. Now that all the players are accounted for, I'd like to give you the chance to settle in and meet each other at your own pace."
The teenagers sigh and a collective drop of the shoulder seems to sweep the group as the host continues. "I'm saying 'I'd like to say…' because I'm not going to. As of this moment, the only things each you have of your new character are a name, some pieces of wardrobe, and small behavioral hints. That's why I'm giving you fifteen hours to write down absolutely everything about yourselves. Your former selves, that is. This will be instrumental in crafting the personas we're preparing for you and is absolutely required. The most thorough and convincing job will earn its creator a cash reward and our favor before this party even starts!"
The contestants stare dumbfounded at the beaming host.
"And before another one of you geniuses like our friend Ezekiel there asks, I am aware that this first assignment may cut into your sleep time. To that, I say: get used to it. The mess hall will be open from 7:00 to 7:45 a.m. — if you can spare the time! — and then we'll collect the submissions at 8 o'clock on the dot. Anybody who needs light throughout the night can use the campfire between the cabins. You are now dismissed for the evening to go to your cabins. Good luck, campers, and welcome to Total. Drama. Island!"
Twenty-two pairs of eyes watch Chris hop off the stump and stroll away from the mass gathering. A few seconds of silence pass before each person's attention settles on the other. Without saying much else, they each grab their respective bags and make their way to the cabins.
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It takes forty-five minutes for the guys to kill enough bugs to feel safe setting down their bags on the cabin floor. Few words are exchanged, but the shared act seems to be enough to break the ice among the complete strangers and the dialogue begins.
"Hey man, that was kinda… lame of Chris to single you out there, uh…. Ezekiel. I… uh… That really… sucked." Geoff finishes buttoning his new shirt and tries to reassure himself that he didn't sound like a complete loser. But he knows he did.
"Yeah," he answers, "I don't know what point he was trying to prove, eh? It seems unlikely that he actually believed I was mentally deficient and he must know that I'm enrolled at the University of Toronto."
"Woah, what?" the teen with the green mohawk asks in the middle of rifling through a suitcase. "I thought there was an age cap for this show. Don't you have to be like sixteen to seventeen?"
"Oh, I am, eh. I just skipped a couple grades. Studied hard and took some stuff early. I'm trying to get through school as fast as I can and get a job to support my folks. We own a farm and things really aren't goin' so well, so the sooner I get working, the sooner I can help Mom and Dad hold the place." He stomped on a roach and smiled weakly. "That's why I decided to be a part of this competition. When I win that prize money, it will definitely help us stay in… business…"
His smile and speech trail off as every eye in the room avoids direct contact. Everyone manages to be completely engrossed in fiddling with bags, zipping and re-zipping the same pouches absentmindedly. The look on all of their faces makes it clear that they each have their own valid reasons for wining.
"I guess everybody's got their own story, eh?"
The mutual acknowledgment seems to lighten the mood of the room, and they continue trying to unpack their belongings into the few secure, clean nooks they can find.
"There really is no point in unpacking is there?" The boy straightens up from looking beneath the bed and continues. "Everything here is so bug-infested and mold-ridden, I'm pretty sure if I put my clothes anywhere outside of my suitcase, they'll be gone when I wake up."
Several heads nod in agreement but no one laughs.
"By the way, my name is… Duncan, I guess."
Some of the others nod and smile, knowing that it's as much a pseudonym as the name they're going to use to introduce themselves. But no one says much else as the sky darkens outside and it becomes more difficult to see in the poorly windowed and ventilated cabin.
Duncan watches the setting sun and reaches for a pad of paper; tucking a pen behind his ear, he reaches the door and is the first out the door toward the already started campfire and the other half of the campers. From the aloofness of the cabin, there was nothing telling him that he would find an easier experience with any of the girls.
He imagined it was going to be a very long night.
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