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It was quite strange how a mansion so big could feel so small.
It was odd how filtered, perfectly air-conditioned air could be absolutely suffocating. How beds covered in downy pillows and feather-filled comforters could weigh down upon you so heavily that no memory foam mattress or mahogany bed-frame could sustain it, until you were sinking through the carpeting and the carefully hand-poured concrete, into the center of the Earth. And then you were burning. Panicking. And the sinking wouldn’t stop.
Mal was here, at the center of the Earth. Sure, he was in a cushy room in a mansion on what was technically a private island. It had matcha-green walls, an in-room mini fridge, and a jacuzzi in the place of a bathtub. But it truly didn’t matter.
He rose from the bed, leaving behind his indent in the mattress. It had given him no comfort, anyhow. It hadn’t even offered. He was wrapped in a lush white bathrobe, sewed immaculately to his measurements and ending just below the knee. The kind, underpaid Total Drama crew had even embroidered a red M into the breast of it, though for whom this M was meant, he had no clue. He supposed that was the harm in being two halves of a whole.
He wandered into the bathroom, where the jacuzzi jets were still dripping the last of their excess down into the floor drain. He saw his hazy image in the steamed-up mirror, an indistinguishable picture in browns and blacks. He shook his sleeve down off its comfortable position on his shoulder until it covered his right hand and used that to clear the glass. He was clear now. He stared himself in the face.
His hair had lost its spike and hung limply down the sides of his face. He usually would’ve wrapped it in a towel, but he didn’t particularly care. Now that he’d been found out, he had no reason to pay attention to how his hair looked (rather than his own aesthetics), plus he knew he’d have a dry pillowcase on his bed within the minute if he asked for one, so sleeping on a damp pillow wasn’t an issue either.
He flipped his hair up, and though he had no reason to want to hairspray it, still tried to style it into Mike’s signature set of spikes. It somehow managed to stay up, though strands began to peel off from their points and droop as quickly as he had put them up. It didn’t feel right. So he flipped about half of it back down, over his eye. It still didn’t feel right. Did anything?
What remained of the fog on the glass began to condensate, slowly traveling down like a teardrop, the water beads silently racing to see who could reach the bottom and drip onto the marble counter first. Normally, Mal would pay more attention to them. He did have fond memories of sitting for hours and staring out the window as the cold Canada rain poured, listening to the thunder and having a staring contest with the lightning. It was one of the many ways he attempted to calm down, back in the day. Before Chris McLane, before a briefcase full of money, before Scott and Duncan and Chef. Before juvie. Before he was relegated to a subsystem in the headspace which sat abandoned, unused, separated from the rest of the alters. Because Mal, unlike his anger, could be contained.
Now was not a time for reminiscing on the days of old, however, and Mal returned from his spaced-out state to look at himself in the mirror until he could bear to no longer. He had been mulling over his options all week, until he found himself here, on the eve of the finale. Chewing on his anxieties like a tired, flavorless lump of bubble gum. Having- in his mind- usurped Alejandro and even Heather as the most infamous Total Drama villain before he had even played out the finale, he had no reason to be nervous.
But alas.
He was tired of the mirror and the monotonous dripping of the jets, so he went back out into the main bedroom and peeked through the peephole on his door. He saw the red shirts of the Total Drama interns, lined up on constant alert. They’d been put outside his room as soon as he’d entered. Three of them had to go with him any time he wanted to go somewhere else in the mansion, and he wasn’t allowed in the opposite wing for any reason. Usually, the interns couldn’t be paid enough to care for anything but their own lives, but this was different. They were as scared as whoever sent them here.
Mal slid a chair over to the wall, climbing on it and jamming his fingernail into the slot drive of one of the four screws holding the air vent cover on as he continued to think. His rambling had become pointless by now, walking himself through every action. But it was the only way to keep himself grounded with what he was about to do.
One screw clacked to the ground, then two, then three. The fourth screw finally fell, and Mal silently slid the cover off, tossing it onto the bed so as not to make any indication of his plan. He mumbled a message of thanks to whoever had installed such a spacious ventilation system through the mansion and heaved himself up. It wouldn’t take him long to find his destination.
He didn’t know why he was doing this, but he knew that it was what he must do. Somehow. Something pulled him in the correct direction- a right turn, then a left, then right again. He found himself in the opposite wing surprisingly quickly. Chris really hadn’t thought out security.
He moved even more quietly in this wing, so as not to attract any suspicion. Something softly brushed against his leg, but he was too smart to jump at it. He looked back and saw the long string of his bathrobe following along. He hadn’t changed. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he had forgotten in his rush. It didn’t matter to him anymore. He finally came upon the vent opening that was shining a golden light up into the ducts and peered over, finding exactly what he’d wanted to.
Zoey sat at a desk in the room, humming softly. It was something by The Bertles, Mal recognized. No, he hadn’t pronounced it incorrectly- it was Zoey’s favorite band. Some indie rock clan of hipsters. She undid her hair from her pigtails and ran her fingers through it to brush it out as it came down, shaking her head until her hair was finally completely undone from its tight up-do and rested comfortably against her face. She slowly pulled a necklace off over her head, staring at it for an uncomfortably long time. A simple wooden medallion on a blue ribbon.
Mal had watched long enough, but he didn’t know what to say.
“So I was wrong. It wasn’t a bracelet.”
Zoey screamed, leaping up and toppling her chair as she did. She grabbed the nearest object, a golden candelabra, holding it out in front of her like a spear. “Where are you?”
“Up here.” Mal didn’t see any reason to be dishonest. Zoey inhaled deeply, running to the door. “You scream for help and I’ll give you something to-“ He closed his eyes and rested his head against the bottom of the duct with a soft thud. “No, no, I’m sorry. Wait.”
Her voice faintly shook with hope. “Mike?”
“No, it’s still me.”
Zoey threw the candelabra down. She didn’t appear to truly be scared, or anxious for her own safety whatsoever. She just looked tired. “You’re not coming down from there. You know that.”
“That’s what I expected.”
Mal would usually delight in antagonizing this girl. Tugging her along on a string until he swooped in dressed up in a character masquerade to save her at the very last second. But he was as tired as she was. They had both lost the plot.
The anger swelled back into Zoey’s voice. “Why are you here?” She propped her chair back up, making a point to drag it to the furthest corner from the vent.
“I just want to talk.”
“What do you even need from me? You… you took my boyfriend away, he’s gone forever, and now you want to-“
“I’m sure Mike is glad to hear you call him that.”
Zoey sat in silence for a while, staring at her feet. She finally looked up at the vent. “He’s here?”
“That’s why I need to talk to you.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“But you believe me.”
Zoey couldn’t stay still. She rose to her feet and paced. “I believed everything you said. I believed everything. Why should I talk to you now? I-“ She kicked the foot of her bed, recoiling shortly after.
“If you want Mike back, I suggest you treat every word coming out of my mouth like the fucking gospel. Got it?”
“Mike never said any words like that.”
“Mike’s a pussy.” Zoey reached for her candelabra. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be like... this.”
“Then why are you?”
Mal slammed a fist against the wall of the air vent, making Zoey jump. “You can’t understand, so instead of unlocking our tragic backstory, how ‘bout we just get to the point?”
Zoey stopped pacing and laid back on the bed to get a better view of him, shooting him a scathing glare. “The gig is up, so you don’t have to act all mysterious. I know you’re Mal, I know you’re evil, I know you got Mike locked up, and I know you’ve been creeping on me in my air vent for who knows how long, so why don’t you explain it to me and then do whatever you came here to do so I can get to sleep?”
“I’ve known Mike longer than you have.”
“Duh. Get on with your monologue.”
“I don’t know what to say to you. I’m… neutral about you. So I’m just gonna start at the beginning. But, like, quickly. Save your questions for the end, sweetie.” Zoey scoffed. “You condescend to me, lady, I condescend back.”
Mal flipped onto his back and closed his eyes. It felt like maybe he could talk to her that way. He visualized the worst days of Mike’s life, watching it like a film, somewhere far away from the subconscious.
“You know Mike used to be a gymnast?”
“No, you mean Svetlana.”
“Don’t tell me what I mean. I mean Mike.” Mal took a deep breath. “I’ll get to Svetlana. But of course, Mike was a gymnast when he was young. He had a clear knack for it… I’m sure you know how strong he is.”
“Oh, yeah. Like this one time, I was hanging onto a root on the side of a cliff, but then-“
“I said ‘I’m sure you know’, not ‘write me a Sparks novel’. Anyway, he had the best coach this side of the Great Lakes. Technique-wise, anyway. Mister C was all they called him. That guy could teach a hippo to do a balance beam routine. But being a coach was about all he was good at. He didn’t really care about any of them. Us. Whatever. He used us for awards and program grant money and…”
Zoey sat silently on the bed, both of them quiet until the soft ticking of the room’s singular clock could be heard between them. All Mal could hear was his heartbeat in his ears as his breath grew shaky.
“And…” Zoey let the word hang in the air expectantly.
“You gonna make me spell it out for you? Didn’t know Mike’s type was ditzes.”
“I’m not a ditz! Not my fault you’re being all… mysterious or whatever.”
“Is it my fault? Is that what you think?”
“What isn’t your fault? You took Mike and you broke everybody’s things and now you’re-”
“What isn’t my fault? It’s not my fault that Mike first split when he was six, and then I was six too funneling memories into this room under lock and key and never knowing what was wrong. It’s not my fault that he kept splitting and splitting and the memories kept coming. It’s not my fault that I started actually looking at what I was locking up and I was pissed, but Mike wouldn’t say anything. He was so scared he’d get in trouble. Mr. C told him nobody would believe him. And it’s not my fault a twelve-year-old broke down and had to go to the hospital and get questioned by people who blamed him. Who asked him what he was fucking wearing. He was twelve. You think this is my fault?”
Zoey chewed on her lip, taking shallow breaths.
“There you go. Now I’m not ‘mysterious or whatever’. I hope you’re happy with that.”
“So… the reason all of you are there… is because…”
“Yeah. We all have a purpose, but the others were under my protection. But we’re all… there to protect Mike, I guess.” Mal paused to consider his next words but fixated on a strange sound. “Are you… crying?”
Zoey put her hand to her eyes and felt a steady stream falling from them. “I’m so confused. Are you finished yet?”
“… I shouldn’t have been so mean. Everything just came out at once. Yeah, I’m ready for questions.”
Zoey wiped her eyes, sighing. “God, I don’t know why I’m crying. Um…” She took a deep breath. “Why didn’t Mike tell me any of this?”
“Besides the fact it’s his choice whether or not to tell you, he doesn’t even remember what happened even if he wanted to tell you. Any time it gets brought up, a ‘trigger’, you know… poof. One of us is there. I guess that’s… not really helping. Which brings me to my next-“
“No, wait, wait. I have one more.”
“Shoot.”
“If you care about Mike so much, why do you hate him?”
“I don’t…” Mal stopped. That wouldn’t sound believable, even though it was true. Screw it. “I don’t hate him. I really don’t. I get so… I mean, I’m confused too. I really, really screwed up. And so they made me leave. Of course, nobody ever really ‘leaves’, do they? Don’t answer that. Anyway, I… I don’t even know what happened to him all that time I was gone. It’s my job to keep them safe, and if I’m gone…”
“So you’re just mad at yourself?”
“Oh, look at Freud over here.”
“You are.”
“I am. I’m mad at him, I’m mad at myself, I’m just… angry. At anything. You would be too.”
“… I am. And, um, I guess I haven’t even seen what you saw. So I can’t imagine…”
Mal turned in the vent, looking through the slats with resignation. “You’re allowed to still hate me. I know what I did. I just need your help.”
Zoey squinted up on the vent with the unsure look she often gave Mike in the early days, when Mal was merely a spectator. “Okay… I guess.”
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Perched over a cliff, his better judgment in self-preservation told him to back away. He knew that, though he’d wanted to help Mike, he’d been selfish. So he’d already decided that he couldn’t be selfish anymore. He was going to do this. “I have a plan for tomorrow. You just have to listen to me.”
Zoey winced. “Hold on, hold on… I was willing to hear you out, but we both might die in whatever Chris sets up tomorrow and I still don’t know if-“
“If you can trust me?”
“Not really that, I just… I mean, if it was Mike, I know I could trust him. Or at least with Svetlana and Manitoba, I wouldn’t get killed…”
“You’re not gonna die tomorrow, alright? You know how… ehem, ‘dangerous’ I am. Why would I let you die? We want the same thing.”
“Mike?”
“Mike and only Mike.”
“Only Mike? But-“
“Look, if we’re gonna pull this off I’d like some sleep, so just let me talk you through it. Tomorrow, you don’t know me and this conversation never happened. As far as tomorrow is concerned, we’re gonna be enemies. Pretend to be… or maybe we still are, whatever. There’s not gonna be any million if there are poor ratings, right?”
“That’s not gonna be too hard for me to do.”
“Yeah. And at some point, you’re gonna get in danger. Don’t bother throwing yourself in danger, I assure you Chris will easily provide some. And then… well, poof. Mike back in a few seconds.”
“How? Why should I-“
“I’ve been a couple steps ahead of you and Mike this entire time. There’s a big tower with me all over it- literally- inside Mike’s head, and up at the tip-top is a shiny red reset button just begging to be pressed. Originally, I was gonna do that. But ever since I found out Chris can see in my subconscious-“
“Chris can see in your-“
“Yeah, fucked up, right? Anyway, ever since I learned that, I just figured I’d let Mike press it. Big ol’ heroic triumph. And, you know, give him a victory either way. He needs it. Once he presses that button, it’s buh-bye tower, buh-bye alters.”
“Alt- alters? But Mike’s getting better, he loves his-“
“He loves them. But, you know, he… he needs to really ‘get better’. I wish he could get better without ever knowing what’s behind that door. But he has to see it eventually. We have to- we can’t protect him forever. Someday we’ve gotta move on. For his sake.” He sat in silence, watching Zoey stare up at him. “Why do you think I brought you to the finale?”
“Because Mike wouldn’t let you get away with voting me off?”
“Because you’re the only person I’d trust with Mike. Not because I know anything about you, but because he… he loves you. Who else could I pick? And… I don’t know if those memories are going to come back tomorrow, a week from tomorrow, or whenever. But… since I can’t be there, you’ll have to protect him now. You’ll have to help him through it. And he’ll cry, and he’ll scream, and he’ll scratch and hide and then sleep for a day. Who else could I have picked who would love him either way? You’re special to him.”
“Oh, wow, that’s…” Zoey sniffed.
“Come on, don’t cry again.”
“I just…” Zoey wiped her eyes. “That’s really nice for someone so evil. That’s… a nice thought. That I’ll be there. And I will. I will, I promise.”
“Mhm. It’s… a nice thought for me too, I guess.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you, Zoey,” he sighed quietly.
“Of course. No problem. I mean-“
“I get it. So, once Mike’s back you can do whatever you’d like. Either one of you can win. You’re perfect for each other, so you’ll probably just get married and split it either way. As for me, I’m just gonna go enjoy the last night of my life. You tried the jacuzzi yet?”
Zoey laughed. “Yes, I have.”
Mal found himself laughing as well. Simply at the absurdity of it all. He was in a bathrobe in a vent, talking about jacuzzis. And he was dying. He was dying already, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
“And Zoey?”
“Yeah?”
Mal began to back out of the vent, taking one last look down the grate at the girl he was entrusting his only responsibility with. “Have fun tomorrow.”
