**The Aftermath Studio: Double Date of Doom**
The artificial frontier town still smelled faintly of fresh-cut pine and spray-paint even hours after the last challenge wrapped. But now the smog that had choked the Toronto film lot earlier in the day had been replaced by something finer and stranger: a drifting veil of orange dust kicked up by the massive industrial fans that had spent the afternoon simulating prairie wind. Every breath carried the same peculiar cocktail—dry, sun-baked earth, the worn-in musk of old saddle leather, a whisper of machine oil, and something faintly sweet like distant hay that had been left too long in the sun.
The "High Noon" set sprawled in every direction under sodium-vapor work lights: false-front saloons with swinging doors that had been oiled to creak romantically on cue, crooked hitching posts painted to look weathered by a century of ghost-town abandonment, a rickety wooden jail whose bars were actually lightweight PVC tubes spray-painted matte black, and—most absurdly—a clock tower whose hands had been permanently glued at twelve o'clock because the mechanism kept jamming during takes. Even the tumbleweeds were fake. They had been harvested from a prop warehouse in Burbank, carefully placed by PAs, and then subtly repositioned throughout the day by hidden air hoses whenever the shot needed "more atmosphere."
Downtown, far from the dust-choked backlot, the Aftermath studio felt almost unnaturally peaceful.
The usual circus had vanished. No shouting walkie-talkies, no blinding follow-spots sweeping the room, no interns sprinting with clipboards and half-melted iced coffees. The enormous neon "ON AIR" sign above the main entrance was mercifully dark. Only soft amber work lights remained, bathing the set in the warm, slightly melancholy glow of a late-night diner ten minutes after closing time. A single handwritten sign had been duct-taped crookedly to the back of Noah's usual director's chair. The message—written in thick black Sharpie—was brutally clear:
**ON VACATION. DO NOT CALL. DO NOT TEXT. DO NOT EXIST NEAR ME.**
Ezekiel and Gwen sat together behind the wide anchor desk, looking more relaxed than the Aftermath audience had ever seen them.
Ezekiel had one long arm casually draped along the back of Gwen's chair. His fingers rested just close enough that every time he shifted his weight, the backs of his knuckles brushed the sleeve of her black hoodie. Gwen, for once, didn't flinch or pull away. Instead she toyed absentmindedly with a silver stylus, twirling it between pale fingers like a tiny baton. A small, private smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—barely there, but unmistakable.
"Welcome back to the Aftermath, eh!" Ezekiel said to the camera, voice bright but noticeably softer than usual. The nervous farm-boy stammer that normally peppered his sentences had retreated, smoothed out by Gwen's quiet presence beside him. "It's a little quiet today since most of the crew is takin' a well-deserved breather after that wild Western challenge, but don't worry—we've still got some heavy hitters in the hot seats tonight."
Gwen tilted her head toward the guest couch, one dark eyebrow arching. "Quiet is an understatement. But I think our guests are going to make up for the lack of background noise pretty quickly."
Sprawled across the long black leather couch were the season's first two official eliminations: Duncan and Owen.
Duncan sat with arms folded tightly across his chest, motorcycle boots propped defiantly on the glass coffee table, the toes of his boots leaving faint smudges that the cleaning crew would curse about later. His posture screamed calculated menace—he was clearly running mental calculations about exactly how many security cameras he could disable and how long it would take security to reach the soundstage if he decided to simply walk out.
Owen, by contrast, radiated nothing but uncomplicated bliss.
Someone on the craft-services team had left behind an enormous stainless-steel bowl of nachos—chips still warm, cheese still molten, jalapeños glistening like tiny green grenades. Owen had claimed the entire bowl as his personal territory. He was working through it with religious devotion, occasionally making small, involuntary sounds of pure happiness every time he found a chip that carried the perfect cheese-to-salsa-to-sour-cream ratio.
Gwen leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "So, Duncan," she began. Her tone sharpened just enough to carry an edge. "How does it feel watching Courtney take your spot as the Gaffers' resident menace?"
Duncan snorted. He reached into the inner pocket of his battered leather jacket and pulled out a prop pocket knife—one of the dull training versions the stunt coordinator handed out during fight rehearsals. He flipped it open with a practiced flick of his thumb, then closed it again. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
"Courtney's a headache with a law degree and a superiority complex," he said flatly. "Predictable. What actually bugs me is that the scrawny geek—Cody—is still breathing the same air as the rest of them while I'm stuck here talking to a farm boy and eating studio nachos."
"Hey, I won the first season, eh!" Ezekiel reminded him cheerfully, completely unbothered.
"Whatever," Duncan muttered. He jerked his chin toward the large monitor mounted on the far wall. "Just roll the footage already. I wanna see if Harold actually falls off a horse this time. My money's on face-plant."
Owen paused mid-chew. A long string of orange cheese stretched from his chin to the chip he was holding. "I hope the horses are okay," he said earnestly. "They look so soft and confused. Like big puppies who don't understand why everyone's yelling."
Gwen rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. She reached for the remote and hit play.
**The Challenge: The Dive into the Saddle**
Back on the Western set, Chris McLean strutted down the center of the dusty main street like a man who had personally invented the concept of cowboy swagger.
He wore a full rhinestone-encrusted outfit: blindingly white Western shirt with pearl snaps, black bolo tie tipped with silver steer skulls, fringed leather vest, and a cream-colored ten-gallon hat so enormous it cast its own moving shadow across half the corral. The hat was so ostentatious that even Chef Hatchet—standing beside him in a brown poncho and an aggressively oversized sombrero—looked almost understated by comparison.
Chef's arms were folded across his massive chest. His expression radiated the particular brand of silent fury that usually meant someone was about to be used as a human barbell.
"Howdy, partners!" Chris bellowed. His voice bounced off the false-front buildings and echoed back at double volume. "Today's genre is the Western! Grit! Spit! Very expensive horses that are probably insured for more than your entire extended family's life savings! Challenge number one: **The Leap of Faith**!"
Twenty feet above the corral floor, a narrow diving board had been bolted to the top of a skeletal scaffolding tower. Below it hung a mechanical bucking horse covered in realistic horsehide. The entire apparatus was suspended from thick industrial chains and swayed gently on a heavy pendulum—like the world's angriest metronome.
"The goal is simple," Chris continued, spreading his arms wide. "Jump from the board. Land clean in the saddle. Stick the landing, and your team gets a massive head start going into round two. Miss…" He grinned, all teeth. "Well, hope the dust is soft. And pray nobody's filming your face-plant in 4K."
The Killer Grips went first.
Tyler bounced on the balls of his feet at the end of the board, radiating the kind of misplaced confidence that had already become legendary among the production assistants. "This is basically extreme sports!" he shouted. "Watch this!"
He sprinted down the narrow plank, launched himself into an over-ambitious triple mid-air somersault—and missed the mechanical horse by a solid six feet. He hit the trough of oats face-first with a spectacular splash. Oats flew in every direction like beige confetti.
Justin refused to jump until three PAs physically dragged the mechanical horse out of the direct sunlight.
"I'm not getting a saddle-shaped tan line across my thighs," he declared, arms crossed. "That's a career killer. Tell Chris I'll do it when the sun moves."
Trent managed to at least graze the saddle with one hip before sliding off sideways. Beth got closer—her fingertips actually brushed the pommel—but momentum betrayed her and she tumbled into the dirt with a soft *whump*. Lindsay screamed the entire time she was airborne, arms windmilling, then immediately apologized to the mechanical horse when she landed.
"Poor horsey," she sniffled, patting its fiberglass flank. "I didn't mean to kick you in the face."
Then came the Screaming Gaffers.
Geoff stepped up first. The usual laid-back party-boy bounce was gone, replaced by something quieter, more focused. "I spent a whole summer working on a ranch outside Calgary," he said simply, rolling his shoulders. "It's all about timing. Rhythm. Breathe in, breathe out, feel the swing."
He sprinted down the board with easy confidence, launched himself at the exact crest of the pendulum's backward swing, and landed square in the saddle with a satisfying *thud*. The mechanical horse rocked violently beneath him, but Geoff rode it out without so much as gripping the mane. He even tipped an imaginary hat toward the nearest camera.
Courtney went next.
Her dive was surgical—pike position, arms locked tight to her sides, body arrow-straight. She landed just behind the saddle horn, seized the coarse synthetic mane with white-knuckled intensity, and rode out the violent pendulum swing like she was personally offended by the concept of gravity.
Harold muttered something about "Cavalry Physics" and "center-of-mass compensation vectors" under his breath, adjusted his glasses, took three deep breaths, and executed a surprisingly clean seat. The horse bucked; Harold wobbled once—then steadied. He looked mildly astonished that it had actually worked.
Leshawna simply stepped off the end of the board with regal calm. She landed hard, thighs clamping the barrel of the mechanical horse like a vice. She gave its neck a single, approving pat, the way one might acknowledge an old friend who had shown up to help move furniture.
When the dust finally settled, the scoreboard told the brutal truth:
**Screaming Gaffers: 4 clean rides**
**Killer Grips: 0**
**The Main Event: The Great Cattle Rustle**
"Challenge two!" Chris shouted. He had climbed atop a towering bale of hay for dramatic effect. "**The Cattle Rustle**! One team plays Cowboys—lassos in hand. The other team plays Cattle—wearing cow-print onesies complete with floppy ears and tails. If you get roped, you're out! Last cowboy standing wins the round!"
The Gaffers were designated Cowboys first.
Geoff was a revelation.
He moved across the churned-up dirt like he'd been born wearing spurs. His lasso spun in perfect golden arcs—fluid, almost meditative. In the first ninety seconds he dropped a loop over Tyler's waist and then, without breaking stride, snagged Trent cleanly by the ankle. Both boys hit the ground with matching yelps and matching face-plants.
Leshawna and Harold operated like a well-oiled tag team. Harold would dart in low and fast, using quick footwork and surprisingly sharp feints to herd the Grips into tighter and tighter spaces. Leshawna waited for the perfect moment—then dropped the loop with the calm, practiced power of someone who had actually done this before. Beth and Lindsay went down in under two minutes, both of them giggling helplessly as they were dragged gently toward the "holding pen" (a section of railing wrapped in red velvet rope for television).
Courtney was terrifying.
She chased Lindsay into the narrow alley between the saloon and the blacksmith's forge. Lindsay squealed and tried to duck behind a rain barrel. Courtney spun the lasso once—only once—and dropped it over the blonde's shoulders with a knot so tight and professional that the production assistant who later tried to untie it eventually gave up and fetched bolt cutters.
Heather, for once, didn't even need to lift a finger. She simply stood near the center of the street, arms crossed, smirking as her teammates did the heavy lifting. The look on her face clearly said: *This is how a real alliance is supposed to function.*
When the timer finally buzzed, the Gaffers had six Grips roped and hog-tied (metaphorically speaking). The scoreboard didn't even need to be updated. It was a massacre.
**The Aftermath Reaction: Duncan's Slow-Burning Grudge**
Back in the studio, Duncan stared at the monitor with narrowed eyes.
"Look at Harold," he muttered. "He's actually doing well. It's disgusting."
"He's got mad skills, Duncan," Ezekiel said happily. "Mr. Coconut used to say Harold was the 'Secret Weapon' of the whole show, eh. Quiet, but deadly when it counts."
Owen wiped neon-orange cheese from his chin with the back of his hand. "I just like the cow onesies. Do you think they make them in my size? They look so cozy. Like wearable blankets with little tails."
Gwen leaned forward, eyes sharp and thoughtful. "The real story here isn't just the Gaffers winning. Look at the Killer Grips. Lindsay and Beth—they're whispering. A lot. Tyler keeps glancing over at them. Something's brewing."
Duncan cracked his knuckles one at a time. "Good. Let them implode. I wanna see Justin cry when he realizes abs don't win you challenges."
**The Elimination: The Script Rewrite Nobody Saw Coming**
The Killer Grips gathered in a loose semicircle around the Gilded Gavel ceremony. The set had been dressed for the occasion: flickering lantern props, a rough-hewn wooden platform, bales of hay stacked like seating. The mood was heavy, almost suffocating.
During the long ride back from the backlot, Lindsay, Beth, and Tyler had quietly formed a pact. They liked Trent—he was chill, never caused drama. They liked Justin—he was pretty and occasionally useful as eye candy. But Izzy…
Izzy was chaos wearing a human suit.
During the cattle challenge she had tried to actually eat the hay. Later she bit Chef's leg because she decided his poncho made him look like a "very angry Cactus Man." No one felt safe sleeping in the same trailer with her.
"The statues go to…" Chris began, drawing out the suspense with theatrical slowness. He held up the golden marshmallows one by one. "Justin. Trent. Tyler. Beth. And Lindsay."
Izzy sat cross-legged on her tree-stump seat, completely unfazed. She was still picking bits of hay out of her hair and humming something that sounded suspiciously like the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
"Ooh!" she chirped. "Does this mean I get to go live with the real cows now? I've been practicing my 'mooo' all week! Listen—*Moooooo-oo-oo!*"
"Izzy," Chris said, voice dripping with mock sympathy, "the team has voted you out. The Lame-O-Sine is waiting in the parking lot."
But before Izzy could bounce to her feet, Chris's earpiece crackled. He held up one finger, listened for several long seconds, and then his eyebrows began climbing toward his hairline. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face like oil on water.
"Hooooold everything!" he shouted.
Fourteen heads turned at once.
"The producers just called from the network," Chris announced. "They've been watching the dailies. And they have… concerns."
He paused for effect.
"The Screaming Gaffers are getting way too functional. Too cohesive. Too… dare I say it… *boring*. The ratings department is having heart palpitations. They need a dose of pure, unadulterated crazy. And the Killer Grips?" He gestured grandly at the losing team. "They need a heart. A soul. Someone who knows how to party. Someone who can lasso a vibe and ride it to victory."
Chris pointed first at the Gaffers' side.
"Geoff—you're moving to the Killer Grips. You're too good at Westerns and the Grips desperately need the help. Pack your board shorts, cowboy. You ride with them starting tomorrow."
"Geoff!" Katie and Sadie cried in perfect unison, hands flying to their mouths.
Geoff blinked five times in rapid succession. "Wait… for real? I'm switching teams?"
"Yup," Chris said cheerfully. "Effective immediately."
Then he turned to the other side.
"And Izzy—you're going to the Screaming Gaffers. Heather… Courtney… meet your new roommate."
The silence that followed was so complete it felt like someone had hit mute on reality itself.
Heather's left eye began to twitch violently.
Courtney's mouth opened, closed, opened again like a landed fish desperately searching for oxygen. She immediately began mentally flipping through the pages of her contract, searching for any clause labeled "No-Crazy-Roommate" or "Right to Solitary Confinement."
Geoff gave his former teammates a dazed thumbs-up. "See ya on the flip side, dudes! Grips—let's get this party started!"
Izzy leapt to her feet, executed a perfect backflip in the middle of the elimination area, and landed with arms spread wide like a gymnast sticking the dismount.
"I'm a Gaffer now!" she shouted. "That sounds like a type of swamp monster! I LOVE IT!"
**The Aftermath Final Word**
Ezekiel leapt out of his chair so fast the casters squeaked.
"A double trade! No one went home! This is officially the best season ever, eh!"
Gwen shook her head slowly, dark bangs falling across one eye. "Courtney, Heather, and Izzy on the same bus for twelve more hours a day? Someone is going to end up in a straitjacket by Tuesday. Possibly multiple someones."
Duncan leaned back, arms crossed so tightly the leather of his jacket creaked. "I need a drink. A non-alcoholic, producer-approved juice box. Right now."
Owen offered him the nearly-empty nacho bowl with an encouraging smile. "Want some emotional support chips? There's still some really good ones on the bottom."
Duncan just groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
**Endgame: Romance in the Green**
Across town, far from the dust and the drama and the mechanical horses, the soft glow of fairy lights spilled out of a small vegetarian restaurant tucked between a vinyl record store and a vintage clothing boutique.
The Green Leaf smelled of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and the faint sweetness of burning cedar from the candle on every table. Inside, DJ and Bridgette sat at a corner booth by the window. A single beeswax candle flickered between them, throwing gentle shadows across their faces. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers—Norah Jones, low and unhurried. The table was set with simple elegance: heavy cloth napkins, mismatched vintage plates, a tiny vase of wildflowers that looked like they had been picked that morning from someone's backyard.
DJ reached across the small table and gently took Bridgette's hand. His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles.
"You know, Bridge…" he began, voice low and steady, "a lot of the time on that island, when everything felt like it was falling apart—when the bugs were biting, when Chris was screaming, when I thought I was gonna lose my mind—the only thing that kept me going was knowing you were there. Smiling. Being kind even when nobody else was. Just… being you."
Bridgette's cheeks flushed pink under the candlelight. She squeezed his hand back, her fingers small but sure.
"I feel the same way, DJ. It's so good to finally be alone. No Chris. No cameras. No challenges. No one telling us we have thirty seconds to finish a confessional. Just… us." She paused, eyes shining. "You're the nicest guy I've ever known. And the strongest. And the gentlest. All at the same time. I didn't think that was possible until I met you."
DJ lifted his glass of lavender lemonade. Tiny bubbles rose lazily through the pale purple liquid.
"To understanding each other," he said quietly. "And to this adventure never ending."
Bridgette smiled—really smiled, the kind that reached her eyes and made them sparkle—and clinked her glass against his. Then she leaned across the small table, closing the distance between them, and they shared a short, sweet, unhurried kiss. Soft. Certain. Completely theirs.
Outside, the city lights glittered like scattered stars against the dark glass. Inside, two people who had survived a manufactured nightmare had finally found a real, quiet beginning.
**Remaining Contestants**
**Screaming Gaffers (8):** Harold, Leshawna, Heather, Courtney, Cody, Katie, Sadie, and Izzy (newly transferred)
**Killer Grips (6):** Lindsay, Beth, Tyler, Justin, Trent, and Geoff (newly transferred)