The old film lot had undergone a dramatic overnight metamorphosis. What used to be an open, sun-bleached movie set now resembled something straight out of a Cold War-era penitentiary thriller. Towering slabs of gray concrete formed an impenetrable perimeter, each wall crowned with vicious coils of razor wire that glinted menacingly under the harsh floodlights. Search towers stood at regular intervals, their spotlights sweeping the dusty yard in slow, predatory arcs. The air carried the sharp, metallic tang of wet gravel mixed with the faint, lingering odor of motor oil and something faintly sour—probably whatever Chef had been brewing in the mess hall all night.
A low chain-link fence separated the yard into two halves, each marked with faded team colors: red and green. Bleachers had been dragged in for the "audience" (mostly interns and a few bored crew members), and a massive wrought-iron gate—complete with an unnecessarily dramatic skull motif—served as the main entrance. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely train whistle echoed across the artificial landscape, reminding everyone that the set was still technically part of a working studio lot.
High above it all, perched on the observation platform of the tallest guard tower, Chris McLean surveyed his kingdom. He wore a tailored dark-blue warden's uniform, the kind that looked like it had been stolen from a 1940s noir film, complete with polished brass buttons and a peaked cap tilted at a rakish angle. Mirrored aviator sunglasses reflected the chaos below. Next to him stood Chef Hatchet, looking even more enormous than usual in full riot gear: matte-black tactical vest, elbow and knee pads, combat boots, and a helmet with a tinted visor. He slapped a heavy black nightstick rhythmically against his gloved palm—thwack, thwack, thwack—like a metronome counting down to misery.
Chris leaned toward the microphone attached to the tower railing and flicked the switch. The loudspeakers crackled to life with a burst of static that made several contestants flinch.
"Listen up, inmates!" His voice boomed across the yard, echoing off the concrete. "Welcome to the most secure facility this side of Wawanakwa—the Total Drama Maximum Security Studio Lot! Today's movie genre… is the classic Prison Film! You've seen the tropes: the hardened lifers, the desperate escape plans, the corrupt guards, the terrible food, and the inevitable betrayal in the showers. Well, congratulations—you're living it!"
He paused for dramatic effect, letting the nervous laughter and groans ripple through the two teams.
"Let's meet our incarcerated stars, shall we?"
He gestured grandly toward the left side of the yard.
**Screaming Gaffers**—still clinging to seven members after a string of narrow victories: Harold (fidgeting with his glasses and already mentally cataloging prison-movie clichés), Leshawna (arms crossed, looking ready to fight anyone who looked at her wrong), Courtney (standing ramrod straight, ponytail tighter than her expression), Cody (trying to look cool but mostly looking like he was about to faint), Izzy (bouncing on her toes and grinning like she'd just been handed the keys to an asylum), Katie, and Sadie (huddled together whispering furiously about how "this is so not fetch").
Across the yard, the much smaller group of **Killer Grips** stood in uneasy silence: Lindsay (absentmindedly twirling a lock of hair), Beth (adjusting her braces nervously), Tyler (bouncing lightly, trying to stay loose), Geoff (flashing his signature party grin despite the grim surroundings), and Justin (posing subtly even though no cameras were obviously pointed at him—yet). Trent stood slightly apart, rubbing his left shoulder with a grimace. He hadn't said much all morning.
Chris clapped his hands once, the sound amplified into a gunshot-like crack.
"Alright, prisoners! We've got three challenges today, each one more soul-crushing than the last. The team with the most points at the end of the day wins invincibility… and a reward that will make you forget Chef's cooking for at least twelve glorious hours. The losers? Well… let's just say the Warden's office has already sharpened two Gilded Gavels."
Chef grunted in agreement and pointed his nightstick toward a row of iron cages that looked like they belonged in a zoo rather than a prison movie.
**Challenge 1: The Solitary Confinement Spread**
"First up: The Solitary Confinement Spread!" Chris announced with sadistic glee. "One volunteer from each team will be locked inside one of these charming little six-by-six iron boxes. Your only way out? Finish an entire tray of Chef's world-famous Prison Slop. We're talking pulverized cockroaches for crunch, expired fermented tofu for that special umami kick, and just enough industrial-grade axle grease to make sure it slides right down… or comes right back up. Your choice!"
The two cages were rolled forward on squeaking wheels. Inside each sat a metal tray holding a quivering, gray-green mound that seemed to breathe slightly. A single plastic spoon lay beside it like a cruel joke.
Courtney stepped forward for the Gaffers before anyone else could volunteer.
"I've survived three years of cafeteria meatloaf at one of the most prestigious private academies in the country," she declared, yanking her hair into an even tighter ponytail. "This is merely a texture and flavor management issue. I can handle it."
Across the yard, Tyler raised his hand immediately.
"Dude, I'm an athlete! Protein is protein, right? I'll just… visualize it as the world's grossest smoothie and chug it!"
Chris smirked. "Admirable. Inmates, into your cells!"
The cage doors clanged shut with theatrical finality. A buzzer sounded. Two digital timers appeared on giant screens.
Courtney sat cross-legged, back perfectly straight. She scooped up a spoonful of the sludge, examined it for exactly two seconds, then shoved it into her mouth. Her eyes watered instantly. Her cheeks puffed out. A vein throbbed in her forehead. But she chewed. And swallowed. Then another spoonful. And another. Her face cycled through every shade of green imaginable, yet her expression remained one of furious determination—like she was personally suing the slop for emotional damages.
Tyler's strategy was less refined. He grabbed the entire tray, tilted it toward his mouth, and attempted to pour the mass down his throat in one heroic gulp. Big mistake. His eyes bulged. His throat convulsed. A horrible wet gurgling sound echoed through the yard. Somehow—through sheer athletic stubbornness—he forced it down, gagging violently between swallows. When the last glob disappeared, he collapsed against the bars, gasping.
The timers stopped almost simultaneously.
"Courtney finishes first by three seconds!" Chris called. "But both teams earn the point. Well done… I guess."
The cages opened. Courtney marched out with as much dignity as someone who had just eaten axle grease could muster. Tyler staggered behind her, clutching his stomach and muttering, "Never… doing shots… with Chef… again…"
**Challenge 2: The Laundry Day Dash**
"Round two!" Chris shouted as the cages were dragged away. "The Laundry Day Dash! One lucky contestant gets to ride in style—inside a 400-pound industrial laundry cart filled to the brim with soaking-wet prison uniforms. The rest of the team has to push that bad boy through the most sadistic obstacle course this side of Shawshank!"
A monstrous steel cart rolled into view, already dripping. Piled inside were dozens of heavy, drenched orange jumpsuits. Sitting on top of the pile for the Grips would be Lindsay, who waved cheerfully.
"Like, this is gonna mess up my hair, right?" she asked no one in particular.
Geoff clapped his hands. "Alright, party people! Lindsay's our VIP passenger. Everyone else—hands on the bars. Let's keep the vibes high and the speed higher!"
The Grips lined up. Geoff took point. Tyler and Justin pushed from the back, Beth and Trent took the sides. When the starting horn blared, they surged forward with surprising unity. Geoff called out encouragement like a coxswain.
"Left! Right! Together now! Feel the burn, dudes!"
They navigated the first section smoothly—dodging swinging searchlights that triggered deafening alarms if touched. They powered through a shallow mud pit, splashing filthy water everywhere. Trent gritted his teeth, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder.
Then came the final stretch: Chef's "Slick Spot"—a ten-meter patch of oil-slicked concrete camouflaged with dust. Trent's boot hit the grease first. His leg shot out from under him. He crashed hard against a concrete barrier, shoulder taking the full impact. Pain exploded up his arm. The cart lurched violently to the right. Lindsay squealed as she nearly toppled into the mud. The team scrambled to stabilize it, losing almost twenty seconds while Trent dragged himself upright, face ashen.
They crossed the finish line eventually, but the damage was done.
The Gaffers' turn was pure chaos from the opening second.
Heather and Courtney immediately began fighting over who should direct the push.
"Left side, you brain-dead control freak!" Heather snapped. "You're throwing off the center of gravity!"
"I'm literally on the track team, Heather! I understand vectors better than you understand basic human decency!" Courtney fired back.
They shoved in opposite directions. The cart zigzagged wildly. Katie and Sadie shrieked every time it tilted. Cody tried to run ahead and warn them about upcoming obstacles, but no one listened.
Finally Leshawna had enough.
"Both of y'all—MOVE!" she bellowed.
She seized the center handle and planted her feet. With one massive heave she sent the cart rocketing forward, nearly flattening Cody in the process. The others scrambled to keep up. Leshawna powered through the mud pit like it was a kiddie pool. She dodged sandbags, ignored searchlights, and roared at the top of her lungs whenever Heather or Courtney tried to bark orders.
They crossed the line panting and covered in grime—but faster than the Grips.
Chris checked the times. "Gaffers take the Laundry Day Dash! Two points to one!"
**Challenge 3: The Tunnel to Freedom**
"The grand finale!" Chris announced as the sun began to dip behind the fake prison walls. "The Tunnel to Freedom! Each team starts digging from the center of the yard. Your goal: tunnel under the perimeter wall and emerge inside the Freedom Boxcar waiting on the tracks. First team to get at least three members inside wins immunity!"
He held up a gleaming, oversized golden shovel. "And because the Gaffers won the last round… they get this beauty!"
Harold snatched it immediately. "Gosh! The weight distribution is perfect! Optimal soil displacement angle! My grandfather always said: 'In a hole, be the mole!'"
The teams were given ten minutes to strategize.
The Gaffers turned into an oddly efficient digging machine. Harold took charge of the shovel, directing traffic like an air-traffic controller. Cody scavenged broken plywood and old set pieces to brace the tunnel walls. Izzy dove in headfirst, clawing at the dirt with manic glee.
"I lived in a badger sett for almost a month once!" she cackled, flinging dirt behind her. "This is luxury compared to that! Five stars! Wi-Fi would be nice, though!"
Courtney organized supply runs for water and oxygen breaks. Even Katie and Sadie helped haul dirt away in buckets. The tunnel grew fast.
On the Grips' side, morale was crumbling.
Lindsay refused anything sharper than a plastic spoon. "I just got a manicure last week!"
Justin spent most of his time adjusting the angle of his face relative to the dim tunnel lighting. "Is this subterranean glow doing anything for my bone structure? Be honest."
Tyler dug valiantly but kept glancing at Trent, who was visibly struggling. Every swing of the shovel sent fresh pain shooting through his injured shoulder. His movements grew slower, shakier. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with dirt. He tried to hide it, but everyone could see.
Geoff tried to rally them. "Come on, guys! We're almost there! One big push!"
But the gap kept widening.
At last, a muffled cheer erupted from the Gaffers' tunnel. Harold's head popped up through the floorboards of the Freedom Boxcar, followed by Cody's muddy grin and Izzy's wild, dirt-caked laughter.
"Screaming Gaffers win!" Chris shouted over the loudspeaker. "Immunity is yours! Enjoy your luxury prison feast—aka actual edible pizza!"
The Gaffers whooped and high-fived. The Grips slumped against the tunnel wall, exhausted and defeated.
**The Double Elimination**
Chris descended from the tower via a dramatic helicopter drop (because of course he did). He landed in a swirl of dust and hopped out holding two golden gavels.
"Gaffers, fantastic work. Pizza party in thirty. But first… the Warden has a special announcement. Today we're doing a double-header. One player from each team is being paroled. Permanently."
Groans and nervous glances rippled through both groups.
**Killer Grips Elimination**
The five remaining Grips formed a tight circle near the boxcar. No one wanted to speak first.
Trent stared at the ground, rubbing his sore shoulder. Finally he sighed.
"Guys… I know it's me. My head hasn't been in the game for days. My body just followed. You all deserve to go further than this. I'm sorry I couldn't keep up today."
Geoff put a hand on his shoulder—gently. "Dude… you're the glue. But yeah… today hurt us."
The votes were quiet, respectful, unanimous. Trent nodded once, gave a small wave to the group, and walked toward the exit gate without looking back.
**Screaming Gaffers Elimination**
The mood among the Gaffers was electric—and poisonous.
They gathered in a tense semicircle. Heather stood with her arms crossed, smirking like she already knew she was safe.
She was wrong.
Courtney stepped forward first. "We've put up with the backstabbing, the secret alliances, the constant insults. But today? You almost cost us the laundry challenge because you couldn't stand not being in charge for five seconds."
Leshawna nodded. "We tired of it, girl. We tired of you."
Harold adjusted his glasses. "Statistically speaking, removing the highest-conflict individual increases group cohesion by approximately forty-seven percent."
Heather's smirk vanished. "You're joking. You're actually voting me out? Me? After everything I've done to drag this pathetic team forward?"
Izzy giggled. "You dragged us into a dumpster fire, maybe!"
Courtney didn't flinch. "The vote is final."
Chris appeared holding the second Gilded Gavel. "Heather… your services are no longer required on this production. Your scripts were just a little too toxic—even for reality TV."
Heather's jaw dropped. "You're keeping the psycho, the dork, and the walking liability over ME? I basically invented strategy on this show!"
Leshawna stepped closer. "We made this show. You just made it miserable."
Heather spun toward Courtney, eyes blazing. "This isn't over, C.I.T."
Courtney met her gaze evenly. "It is for you."
With one last venomous glare, Heather stormed toward the Lame-O-Zine, heels clicking furiously against the gravel. She didn't stop screaming about lawyers, agents, and revenge until the doors slammed shut behind her.
The prison gates creaked open one final time. Trent walked out quietly, head high despite everything. Heather stomped after him, still ranting.
**Remaining Contestants**
**Screaming Gaffers (7):** Harold, Leshawna, Courtney, Cody, Izzy, Katie, Sadie
**Killer Grips (5):** Lindsay, Beth, Tyler, Geoff, Justin
The yard lights dimmed. The razor wire gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, the train whistle blew again—long, lonely, and final.