Chapter Text
It would seem that after the disastrous ending of Total Drama: World Tour, Chris McLean regretted his abrupt decision to fire Noah Munjal. The eccentric host wasted no time hiring Noah back as his personal assistant for the upcoming fourth season of Total Drama: Revenge of the Island.
One would consider Noah’s job as Chris McLean’s personal assistant an understatement. With the premiere of the fourth season just a few days away, the bookworm’s workload had become even more demanding. Noah’s tasks ranged from getting coffee for Chris and Chef, making countless calls to the original cast regarding their planned cameos, reviewing schematics for the Hurl of Shame and the new luxurious cabins, taming the mutated wildlife, managing this season’s budget, ordering the unpaid interns around, and—when things inevitably went wrong—fixing the expensive monitors.
Which is why Noah was currently under one of them, shoving tools into place while the rain hammered the windows.
Earlier, an intern had left a window open, letting chipmunks scamper into the recording room. They chewed through the wires connected to the TV monitors, and Chris immediately assigned Noah to repair them—because apparently, even production equipment wasn’t allowed to function without Noah saving it first.
“Can you pass me the pliers?” Noah asked as he held out his hand from underneath the monitor.
A metallic claw placed the pliers in his palm.
“Thanks, Drama Bot.”
A rhythmic beeping was the robot’s reply as Noah resumed replacing the chewed-up wire.
As much as the snarky male hates to admit it, he was starting to enjoy Chris’s new “toy.” The robot was a strange addition to the Total Drama production crew—rusty, worn-out, and far too competent for something Chris had probably bought on impulse.
Noah focused on the task at hand. The sounds of the bustling production crew faded into the background. As he twisted the pliers around the wire, he couldn’t help thinking how absurd his life had become.
“Just remember why you’re doing this, Noah,” he told himself. “And besides—perks are nice.”
One of Noah’s many perks was the free bed and board at Chris’s luxury cottage estate on the other side of the island… the least contaminated side, supposedly.
With a final twist of the pliers, the monitor flickered back to life.
“And… fixed it!” Noah shouted, pushing himself up from his makeshift workspace. He then looked down and noticed his clothes were covered in dust and bits of wire.
“Yuck. I better change before my allergies start.”
He exited the recording room and headed down the long hallway toward the main room, while Drama Bot wheeled right behind him like it had decided he was part of its daily routine.
Lightning flashed. Thunder and wind roared through the corridor, drowning out the creaks of Drama Bot’s wheels. Noah tried to ignore it—he really did—by making the most practical commentary available.
“I guess the radioactive waste isn’t just affecting the plants and animals… but the weather too, apparently.” He looked out the window as angry dark clouds swarmed the entire island.
Drama Bot answered with only a chorus of beeps.
Noah couldn’t help but giggle at the robot and his cute beeps. “Tell you what, since you’ve been such a great help, how about I give you a fresh wax job tonight?” And reached his hand up to pet Drama Bot’s noggin.
The machine eagerly leaned into the touch, his beeping turned into a soft, melodious hum.
It was still curious how Drama Bot was mute-but-useful to everyone—quiet when Chris talked about himself, quiet when Chef barked orders, quiet when the interns panicked. But with Noah? It was almost as if the robot had found its favorite human and decided that “personal space” was a myth invented by people who didn’t know better. Thus earning the position of Noah’s ‘personal assistant’.
And thus causing Noah to lose his strength to act annoyed and become more at ease with the machine’s company.
Before he could step around a corner leading to the main room, where Chris’s voice was coming from. Noah adjusted his outfit—because his uniform obviously never looked like it belonged to an intern.
Where the other interns wore red button-up shirts over white undershirts with cargo bottoms, Noah’s uniform was uncannily similar to Chris’s outfit: tailored like a mini-host version of the man himself. It came with an earpiece, a walkie-talkie, a pair of white sunglasses that Chris had bought him, and a utility belt with his initials engraved—supplied by Chef, as if that made the whole thing completely normal.
The worst part was that everyone acted like it wasn’t suspicious at all.
He’d heard Chris say it once with a proud, wide smirk—something about how Noah “fit the part,” as if the host were a brand and Noah was the assistant package deal. And Chef… merely shooked his head in agreement.
Noah and Drama Bot entered the main room to find Chris pacing back and forth with a phone in his hand.
Chef sat at the table with a calm, almost smug expression—because there were no interns anywhere insight to be ordered around. The snarky assistant could tell something was wrong by the host’s agitated frown.
“I don’t care if there has been a weather delay!” Chris yelled into the phone. “When I order two giant totem poles and a trampoline, I expect overnight delivery!”
Noah cleared his throat, even though his earpiece would probably have done the talking for him, “I finished fixing the monitors, Chris.”
Chris didn’t even look at him at first. He slapped a quick hand over the lower half of the phone and turned toward Noah with a sharp, pleased smile. “Nice job, kid.” The host even patted his witty assistant on the shoulder for added effect.
Then Chris immediately returned to the call, voice booming again. “Do you know who I am?!”
Noah did his best not to preen at the praise.
Who needs positive affirmation from a man old enough to be his dad? Not him. Definitely not him.
The bookworm ignored the blush beginning to form on his cheeks anyway and took the only logical step to regain control of the situation: sit down before anyone could notice it.
He slid into the seat next to Chef. “So… where are all the interns?”
“This weather ain’t gonna clear up anytime soon,” Chef answered, sharpening his knives with the kind of quiet intensity that suggested he’d been born holding a blade. “So we sent them home early.”
“Okay, my shift will be over shortly,” Noah began as he reached up to remove his earpiece. He unhooked his walkie-talkie next, then tugged off his teal buttoned shirt—because even in the middle of a storm, he liked having control over at least one thing.
He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of the day calling Amma and his sisters, and then gaming with Owen.
“Ugh,” Chris groaned as he hung up the phone and sat down next to the pair. “It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
Chef didn’t even glance up. “Especially when the weather decides to ruin everything.”
“Yeah,” Chris continued, rubbing his temple as if the island itself was personally insulting him. “But what’s the point? If this storm continues, we may have to delay this season’s premiere.”
“The producers are not gonna be happy about that,” Chef added dryly.
Noah tapped his fingers against the table, trying—very hard—to look calm, like he wasn’t already running through mental checklists of how to salvage a schedule.
“Do you want me to start calling the contestants and tell them about the postponement?” he asked. “If we get ahead of it now, we can still keep the premiere moving even if we have to adjust everything else.”
“Actually, no,” Chris said with a grin that made Noah want to hide.
It cut through the storm with the kind of calm that only happened right before things became ten times worse.
“I have a more important job for you, Noah.”
Chris flashed an unfamiliar hand signal at Chef—one Noah didn’t recognize.
But Chef reacted instantly anyway.
The taller male stood up, grumbled incoherently, and left the room. A few seconds later, the taller man returned carrying a strange box, like it were contraband.
The box was placed on the table in front of the young adult.
Noah simply stared.
Then he glanced down at the box… and then at Drama Bot, both of them sharing a look of pure bewilderment.
Noah felt far too hesitant to open it—because knowing Chris meant there could very easily be a mousetrap in the mysterious package. Or a rabid raccoon carrying a laser.
Chris didn’t hesitate.
He reached for the lid himself and carefully opened the box with the kind of anticipatory grin that practically sparkled with arrogance.
Inside sat a small wooden figure shaped like his face—an absurd little carving with just enough detail to be tacky.
Chris lifted it high, proud and possessive all at once, as if the statue was the Hoy Grail itself.
“This here,” he announced, “is the McLean-Brand Chris Head—AKA The Invincibility Statue,” he corrected himself with a smug little smirk.
Then he set it down on the table and leaned back toward Noah like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“And I need you, Noah…” Chris pointed right at him. “To take it and hide it somewhere on the campground.”
Noah stared at the statue.
Then at Chris.
Then back at the statue again, its beady eyes staring right through his many layers of clothing. Trying to process the fact that this was happening right now, during a weather delay, with the interns already sent home, and with the entire island looking like it was holding its breath.
So this was what Chris meant by “more important.”
Noah let out a small, tired sigh.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, keeping his voice even. “You want me to go outside into a massive thunderstorm to hide a wooden statue—shaped exactly like your face?”
The host’s maniacal smile widened. “Exactly.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Of course you just had to mold it in your face. Naturally. Because subtlety is clearly beneath you.”
Chef snorted and shook his head, deadpan. “If you think that wooden figurine is bad, you should’ve been there when Chris originally wanted it made of silver—shaped like his ‘chiseled physique.’” He said it like the memory still tasted like regret.
Chris lifted a finger, offended. “Hey! I am the host of this show. My handsome face is the first and last thing the audience sees in every episode.”
“Truly your humility knows no bounds, Chris,” Noah muttered as he began to grab his raincoat and boots.
“You’d understand when you get the chance to host your own reality TV show, kid.”
“Never gonna happen,” the snark shot back as he placed the tacky figurine inside his utility belt and
“I’ll go and hide your wooden ego somewhere before you decide you also want it cloned.”
Chris leaned forward, delighted. “That’s the spirit!”
Noah grabbed the key to the golf cart and made his way to the garage, but before he could reach the door, a pair of metal arms wrapped around his waist.
The brunette froze, then looked behind him.
Drama Bot had latched on with the same clingy devotion Noah usually only saw from Ark—except Drama Bot didn’t have the decency to be whining. The robot’s face meter blinked, slipping into the blue range.
“I’m sorry, Drama Bot,” Noah said quickly, trying—and failing—to sound stern. “But you can’t come with me. It’s raining, and you’re not waterproof.”
The robot’s arms released with an annoyed reluctance. Drama Bot immediately sulked, rolling a little too far to the side like it were afraid that the witty male would leave and never come back.
“I promise I won’t be gone for long,” Noah tried again, softer this time. “Just… wait right here.”
He turned toward the golf cart, keys already in hand, and swung himself up into the driver’s seat. Rain streaked down the windshield in messy lines, turning the world into a smear of gray.
Noah glanced back once.
Drama Bot—still by the door, still clinging to the idea that Noah was its personal planet—made a sluggish little wave with one metal arm.
Noah rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t miss me too much.”
Then he drove off, waving again as the island swallowed the cart in thunder and heavy rain.
****
A few minutes later, rattling along the muddy roads, Noah realized something important.
He forgot to bring his walkie-talkie.
And his earpiece.
Noah slapped his forehead in exasperation and stared at the steering wheel like it personally betrayed him. Then he let out a frustrated shrug.
“Too late for me to turn back now.”
He forced a breath, leaning forward slightly like that would help his common sense kick back in.
“And besides—there’s nothing dangerous out here anyway,” he muttered, pushing forward on his mission.
If you ignored the biohazardous wildlife and the many barrels of toxic waste scattered throughout the island.
The storm made it hard enough to see where he was driving. Add the darkness, the rain spray, and the way the trees seemed to lean closer… and suddenly the island felt like it was daring him to get himself hurt.
Noah tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Okay,” he said through the windshield, voice raised over the roar of thunder. “Hide the statue. No heroics. No collateral damage. Just—”
The cart jolted.
The tires slid.
And then the golf cart lurched into the mud like it had found a bottomless sinkhole. The engine strained, spinning uselessly while the muck swallowed the wheels higher and higher.
Noah slammed his foot on the brake.
Nothing.
He could hear the cart grinding and shifting, stuck with the stubborn finality of a problem he hadn’t asked for.
“No, no, no!,” he groaned, yanking the key and leaning back. “Please, not now!”
The storm boomed overhead.
Noah climbed out, boots sinking immediately. Cold rain and wet mud soaked his coat in seconds.
He took a look at the wheels—then at the muddy pit—then back at the cart like it had personally insulted his intelligence. The brunette briefly thought about leaving the vehicle and just going home, but decided against it on the likelihood of getting fired. For it wouldn’t be wise to do so leaving one of Chris’s many expensive vehicles in the middle of nowhere
“Alright,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “I guess I have no choice but to push it out.”
Noah placed his hands on the back of the golf cart and began to push. Or at least tried to, the cart was just too heavy and too deep in the mud to budge. He was halfway through trying to pry a wheel free when the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
Not a sound.
Not a warning.
Just the uneasy feeling that someone or something—was watching him.
And then he heard it. A ferocious growl and ragged breathing.
Noah froze. Realizing too late who was behind him.
Ezekiel.
He jumped up from behind the scrawny male with feral vigor—wild, unpredictable, and fueled by months of rage.
Noah jerked around too late.
Ezekiel pounced on Noah—all elbows and snarling teeth—clawing at the assistant like he’d been waiting all day to make him pay.
Noah stumbled backward, rain and mud kicking up under his boots as he tried to raise his arms in defense.
“Aaaaah!” Noah screamed, breath ragged. “Get off of me, you freak!”
Ezekiel’s trap wasn’t the cart falling into mud—it was the setup. The timing. The pit. The moment Noah leaned in close enough to be grabbed.
After all, Noah wasn’t the first person Ezekiel had tried to sabotage.
Ezekiel had been feral for weeks now, obsessed with revenge—failing again and again to ruin Chris’s preparations for the upcoming season of Total Drama, attacking members of the production crew, and scattering chaos across the island for he believed the entire studio owed him an apology.
And now, finally, he had Noah exactly where he wanted him.
In the rain.
In the mud.
Within arm’s reach.
And very much unable to escape.
Ezekiel’s claws hooked into his coat tearing into the fabric—like Noah’s body was just a scratching post. The world narrowed to rain, mud, and that feral grin as Ezekiel lunged again, snapping teeth inches from Noah’s face.
“Eek—NO!” Noah yelped, shoving backward with everything he had.
His boots scraped for any traction against the slippery mud.
Noah managed to grab the front of Ezekiel’s tattered hoodie and shoved him off just far enough to make space.
“Stay away!” he shouted, voice breaking under the pressure of thunder.
Ezekiel snarled, skittering forward on all fours and lunged forward with his claws out. But he missed and landed face first into a pile of mud.
Noah had ducked just in the nick of time and ran away into the forest.
Rain hammered his face. Mud sucked at his shoes with every panicked step. Noah shoved through low branches and slick roots in order to get as far away from the mutant male.
Noah burst around a cluster of trees and slammed to a stop.
A dead-end cliff.
A dramatic dead-end cliff seen in the movies. With jagged rocks and a sheer drop that the storm had already turned into a slick, dangerous blur.
Noah’s lungs burned. He spun in place, looking for an escape route, his eyes searching frantically through the rain and for any sight of the rabid creature.
“Come on, Noah, think there has to be a way out of here,” the assistant desperately trying to think, “I know, I’ll just turn back-.”
But he couldn’t, because there blocking his path was Ezekiel.
The scrawny male was cornered.
No warning growl this time—just movement. Wet, feral momentum as the deformed human lunged at Noah again.
“Leave me alone—!” Noah choked, stumbling back.
And right as Ezekiel was about to land the pounce—
A lightning bolt split the sky and struck down between the pair
The flash was blinding. The air cracked with a violent, deafening boom.
Ezekiel flinched back as the light burned his retinas. His body jerked mid-lunge—claws digging into the wet ground as he recoiled, shrieking through the shock rather than committing. Ezekiel backed off further—spattered, shaken, furious—his feral focus broken by fear of the lightning’s strike. He skittered away from the edge, caught between rage and the immediate terror of the storm.
While Noah wasn’t as lucky. For he screamed as he slipped off the edge, arms windmilling, fingers catching nothing but rain-slick air.
"AAAAH!" Noah screamed as he descendeddown into the unknown abyss. For how long? He didn’t know.
But what Noah did know was that a glowy, green substance softened his fall once he landed. Just his luck, Noah landed in a field of toxic waste, he knew he could'nt stay for long. But his crushed rib and his throbbing head prevented him from moving.
Chemical stink and burning pain hit him all at once. Causing his senses to overstimulate.
Noah gasped, trying to breathe through the noxious gas, but his throat seized and his skin reacted like it was being peeled alive. And then he fainted.