Chapter Text
Ever since she escaped the hell that was Total Drama All-Stars, Courtney Satella has found herself lonelier than ever before. And without the million dollars that should have been hers, it hurts much more than expected.
She likes to think she's the glass half full type. Positivity and self-confidence are key to making it anywhere far in life. But when said self confidence causes her to conspire against people that (at a stretch) she'd consider friends and eat a bowl of ice cream with seagull excrement as some sort of exotic topping, it does make Courtney think a little about the validity of her methods. Especially when she remembers that theoretically, even if she did win, chances are her million dollar suitcase would have been swept away in the massive flood that made sure there wouldn't be another season at Camp Wawanakwa ever again.
Well, at the very least, she hopes Zoey was lucky enough to hold onto that thing like her life depended on it. Courtney's seen too much money get violently destroyed on that stupid show. Plus, from Gwen's initial description and the additional observations that led to her entire chart endeavor, she seemed like a pretty nice person. If a little simple-minded. But a nice person all the same.
Speaking of Gwen, a year later, she realises that the desolate hole in her life is strangely goth girl shaped.
After finishing up at law school through the duration of the show, she managed to land an apprenticeship at the very same firm she used to rely on to sue it; a small job in soliciting, nothing more, nothing less. Calls come in on the crappy, yellowing handsets. She takes them, gives the client legal advice, puts them down again. The average nine-to-five grind has become commonplace for Courtney, and even though it's technically exactly what she wanted - she's well on her way to getting some sort of career as a lawyer if she just keeps working at the same standard – it feels so... underwhelming.
Which is the standard for an office job, she knows that. Though it can't help but seem a little unnatural when she remembers she's spent over half of her life taking criminology courses and attending seminars just for this to be her dream. To spend years climbing a corporate ladder for the smallest chance of getting stationed in a courtroom.
And after all of that work and effort, a much more mature Courtney lives in an ugly third-floor apartment she can't be bothered to decorate, and spends most of the time she isn't sat at a desk stalking the social media of people she wishes she still knew.
Gwen's done well for herself, she's noticed. Every alcohol-fueled scroll down her Instagram profile reveals another glimpse into who she is now - pictures of paintings she's selling, selfies of her and her hippy-dippy art school friends in arcades and concert venues and all sorts of places that would probably drive Courtney even more insane than she already has been by Total Drama. She has genuine talent, though; upon closer inspection, lots of the art she posts is of familiar landscapes. Sometimes Courtney catches herself wondering whether they're inspired by World Tour. She wonders whether Gwen thinks about the things they did together as well, regrets pushing her away.
She usually also tells herself to stop being delusional, downs the last of the wine in the glass, and goes to wash the dishes. They won't wash themselves, and it's not like she has the motivation to do it sober.
Tonight, however, Courtney leans back, stares up at the ceiling, and wonders how the hell it came to this.
All her life, she's thrived off of being a well rounded, ambition-driven girl with dreams almost fifty times the size of herself. Back in high school, straight A report cards came naturally. No studying required. In law school she passed top of her class in five different courses (all while competing on one of the world's biggest reality TV competitions, which is one of her favourite things to flaunt nowadays to the work colleagues that will listen to her). Everything she's ever done has been driven by the sense that it'll lead to something – whether it was a place at the defendant's table fighting for her life to justify some sort of petty crime, or hell, a job flipping burgers at the local McDonald's if it all went wrong. And it has. She is indeed somewhere. Somewhere more towards the end of the way she actually wanted her life to go, no less.
But it feels terrible, and draining, and like it's dragging her down to her grave at least sixty years premature. Whether it's the three years worth of Total Drama seasons giving her jet lag or her embarrassing lack of friends after it, she isn't sure.
Courtney just knows that she's become one of those washed up TV personalities, the very same ones she used to hate because they didn't work for it.
And contrary to what the forums on the Internet say about her whenever she scrolls down them on an anonymous account, she really, really misses the people she met because of it.
She lets out a deep sigh, sitting up to reach back over to the coffee table and take another sip of the wine in her glass. Surprisingly, it's not finished yet, half empty. The irony makes her laugh as she picks the bottle up from it's side and tops it up.
Gwen's picture is still on her phone screen. Courtney remembers how she used to rue the day she'd become all sad and sentimental like the goth, but hey, here she is.
It fucking sucks.
Through her little moment of self-deprecation, as she stares off into the distance in a way that'd make her past self sick to the stomach, Courtney notices the building Gwen is stood in front of in the photograph. The logo is half-obscured by another girl she assumes is her friend, but she's listened in on enough conversations about the girl's dreams when they got to know eachother properly that she finds herself able to finish the name in her head pretty easily.
Ontario College of Art and Design. It's all she used to talk about, when she wasn't choking herself up over how sorry she was for what she did with Duncan. That's a whole other story. She chuckles to herself, reckoning that if she finishes the wine, she might be drunk enough to want to think about all that crap as well.
For now, though, this is enough. She goes to her search engine and types it in with shaking hands; it's right in the heart of Toronto, only a five minute drive from her apartment. If she got there fast after work, chances are she'd be able to catch Gwen after a seminar or somethin—
Courtney stops herself for a moment, realising just how stupid and irresponsible and completely un-Courtney-like that idea is.
Of course, there isn't really much concept of Courtney-like anymore, not after she blew her million and lost all meaningful relationships in the process and became a slave to the nine-to-five office job. Maybe on the outside she still presents herself in a way that subtly hints towards dedicated. Confident. Bothered to keep on going the way things are, so in five years she can become a lawyer and stop complaining and be a normal human being like everybody else.
But just for a moment, she lets herself imagine. If she patched things over with Gwen, made the first move herself this time, she might still have Bridgette's number. And Cody wouldn't hurt to talk to, either – she does have to admit that sometimes she wonders whether that nutjob Sierra is still chasing him down. Having people like that back in her life could magically give it purpose again. No matter how hard she tells herself that she's self-sufficient, that just won't cut it anymore. It might have worked in the past, but now Courtney Satella realises friends are important.
It's a shame she caused herself to lose them all in the first place. Then she wouldn't be laid out on her almost decaying couch, drinking herself to death at 7pm on a work night, and dreaming about what things could be.
...
......
Courtney groans in annoyance, finishes the wine and allows herself to quickly note down the address of the university in her phone reminders.
She has to hold herself back from messaging Gwen in the heat of the moment by turning her phone off and throwing it to the other end of the room, which isn't a good sign, but tomorrow when she's sober it'll be a better time to think. It is safe to say that right now, she is fed up of thinking. The idea of it is making her feel sick.
Or maybe it's just the alcohol.
Either way, it doesn't matter. She knows her impulsivity will eventually win out over her rational thoughts; it's just a matter of when she'll cave. Having the world's most boring job doesn't help this problem. Courtney can only pray that in a couple years it'll suck slightly less.
Oh, well. That's enough existentialism for one night.
With a heavy sigh, she turns off the lamp on the countertop by her side, and stumbles her way over to her bedroom for even the smallest chance at a decent night's sleep.