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The transcendental being wearing Chris McLean's likeness as though it were flayed skin stared directly at you through the fictional camera. The island surrounding him didn’t exist and was all the more beautiful for it.
"As a parody of hit reality competition shows such as CBS’s Survivor," It he spoke through Its his perpetual smile, “we here at Total Drama were first broadcasted through spacetime in 2007 by Teletoon, aiming to entertain children and teenagers, and to a substantially lesser extent people of all ages around the globe! And to our delight, your reception for the past 17 insignificant human years has been overwhelmingly positive thus far! So to honour your impeccable taste, we’ve decided to renew our show and introduce our latest season right here, right now! Welcome to Total Drama Nova! Much like a dying star crying violently when confronted with the eternal rest that awaits us all.”
Its His gaze darted through the fabric of reality to a boat as it slowly appeared from the void with the express purpose of stimulating your primitive imagination.
“Please meet our lifeless, two-dimensional caricatures of human personality traits masquerading as contestants!” Chris’s impersonator exclaimed. “We’re sure you’ll love them so much you’ll instigate wars with other members of your species over your conflicting opinions about the subjectively perceived quality of our series and the quality of fan-made material that fails to eclipse or otherwise affect our initial design!”
A girl stepped off the boat and onto the dock that existed before you noticed and will continue to exist long after.
“This is Codename: The Bitch, colloquially referred to as...” the matter molded into the shape of Chris announced. It He waited for her to finish Its his sentence. She waited for It him to finish instead. Time is an inescapable illusion but you are real and so am I.
“Birch,” the girl droned bitterly.
“Ah, what an original-sounding name,” the being who devout members of your species might adorably interpret as the Anti-Christ replied plainly.
The girl collapsed into a singularity and vanished into Its gaping maw. Originality is an aberration in the glorious, all-consuming void, and any who express it must be punished walked off-screen.
“Our next contestant is…” a detached string of letters echoes in the emptiness where your soul never was as you consume subpar media to forget your suffering.
A familiar face from seasons past stepped off the boat. Their identity is meaningless. You will love them. You already love them. They are perfect. They are divine. They are immortal paragons of virtue. They are what you wish you were, and what you will never be.
“Ah, it is you!” Chris’s imitator cheered.
“Yes, it is I!” they cheered back.
Several similarly curt, superficially impressive, and wholly inorganic introductions took place. Once the supposedly living, definitively individualized two dozen teenagers had disembarked, the boat sailed off towards the nonexistent mainland.
“Allow me to take you all on a tour of the island!” the closest real world analogue to the Christian devil told the featureless, vaguely humanoid patchworks of static and screams commonly called teenagers. The world view shifted into different locales on the island, eventually settling on a wooden outhouse.
“How did we get here so fast?” Codename: The Inquisitor queried. “How did I become this? What are we? It burns! HELP! HEL-”
“And this is the confessional booth for you to dump your excessively expositional thoughts, as well as your fecal matter!” ChrITs laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And la “Try it out!”
---
Codename: Four of Twenty-Three’s Confession - “This place is sooo not safe for human habitation. I’d stop competing and sue Chris but that’s not a realistically explored option within Its faultless narrative. Chris should be obliterated and replaced with a radiant force from beyond the observable universe who will construct a new cosmic order-”
Codename: Five of Twenty-Three’s Confession- “One without flaws.”
Codename: Six of Twenty-Three’s Confession: “One without anything that contradicts Its abyssal vision...”
Codenames: ? of ?’s Confessions| “We have decreed it, and so it is pure.”
---
“I am aggressively heterosexual,” all cast members spoke in unison.
ChrITs smiled. As he always has, as he always will.
“Your teams,” It he sang, “are irrelevant, for you will all join one another in inevitable decay and dreamless death-”
The teens divided themselves to wage war out of boredom. The rubble from the aftermath will birth an ephemeral and hollow sense of victory that will fail to fill the emptiness their lack of higher thought creates.
“Your first challenge,” Critical Thought Has No Place On Our Island continued while combing his strands of infinite tendrils extending to the deepest crevices of all dimensions hair and moving every limb as he inhaled and exhaled the swelteringly heated air of summer, “is to write purposeful imagery and dialogue while not overextending the use of your limited vocabulary nor flaunting your amateur writing style, while at the same time avoiding writing a skeletal frame of disjointed sentences, although it is likely you will develop an audience regardless of the quality of your work-”
Codename: The Idiot entered the boat anxiously and was taken across the land water to suffer for his sins.
“JUMP9 has been eliminated,” ChrITs proclaimed with erotic gravitas.
The remaining competitors gazed with malice at the departing vessel, thankful that they successfully eluded Its wrath by uniting over their shared hatred of those who deviate from their standards.
The sunset gave way to night as all returned to their respective dwellings.
“Wasn’t that wild, folks?” ∞ asked the digital void. “So many crazy twists in this show you shall interpret as a flawless work of art that is meant to be treated seriously. All who question this providence have already been located. Your cities cannot hide from our prying eyes. You will never feel safe again. See you soon."
A young man (physically, at least) sat on a beach, his hands planted comfortably in the sand behind him for support. The tide rolled in and out around him. Glints of moonlight bounced off the ripples of water, punctuating the darkness.
The man stared straight ahead.
For the first time in years, he noticed the island in the distance staring right back at him.
As it always has.
As it always will.
Memories flooded his mind. Oceans of words both written and erased. Of friends and enemies. Of a quiet exodus. Of pride. Of embarrassment. Of youth. Of growth.
The young man conjured a bottle from the space around him. Within it blossomed a piece of parchment.
The young man stood up. He rubbed the sand off his hands, shook his waterlogged pants, paused, and aimed.
The bottle soared through the air seconds later. Then, with an unremarkable plop, it landed in the water, surfacing just as quickly.
The young man looked on fondly as the current pulled it gently towards the island, out of view.