The morning air at Camp Wawanakwa was thick with the scent of rust and old oil. Chris McLean stood at the center of a literal mountain of scrap metal—twisted handlebars, skeletal bike frames, bent rims, and a suspicious amount of jagged sheet metal.
"Welcome, survivors!" Chris announced, his grin wider than usual. "Since you've spent so much time destroying things on this island, today we're going to see if you can actually build something. The challenge: The Wawanakwa Grand Prix. You must assemble a functioning bicycle or motor vehicle from this pile of junk, and then race it through an obstacle course designed by Chef Hatchet's darkest nightmares."
The remaining nine—Gwen, Ezekiel, Owen, Izzy, Heather, Lindsay, Courtney, Duncan, and DJ—stared at the heap of trash in stunned silence.
"And," Chris added, holding up a sleek, black mountain bike shimmering with professional-grade gear, "the winner gets this baby and a crate of high-voltage energy drinks to keep you buzzing until the finale!"
The Genius of Lindsay
As the campers dove into the scrap pile, a surprising shift in power occurred. While Duncan and Izzy naturally gravitated toward the tools, it was Lindsay who suddenly became the most popular person on the island. She didn't just pick up parts; she looked at them with a surgical eye.
"The alignment on that fork is totally three millimeters off, Duncan," Lindsay noted casually as she tightened a bolt on a frame she'd found. "And Owen, if you use that seat post, your center of gravity will be too high for the mud pits."
Everyone froze. Duncan looked at the tool in his hand, then at Lindsay. "Since when do you know how to build a chopper?"
"Oh, my dad was obsessed with vintage bikes," Lindsay giggled, wiping a smudge of grease off her nose. "I used to help him in the garage when I wasn't busy shopping."
Heather watched this with narrowed eyes. She knew her own technical skills were limited to basic physics. She needed Lindsay. But after months of bossing her around, she realized a new approach was needed. She softened her features, putting on a mask of pure, sweet admiration.
"Lindsay, darling," Heather said, walking over with a forced but convincing smile. "I am honestly blown away. I had no idea you were such a... mechanical genius. It's actually quite inspiring. Do you think you could help me put together something worthy of your talent? I'd be so honored to ride a 'Lindsay Original'."
Lindsay beamed. The genuine-sounding praise hit her like a drug. "Oh, Heather! Of course! I'll make yours super fast!"
Courtney, however, lacked Heather's finesse. She marched over to Lindsay, pointing a screwdriver like a gavel. "Lindsay! My frame is wobbly. Fix it. Now. And I want the gears calibrated for a high-intensity sprint. That's an order from a CIT!"
Lindsay's smile faltered. She looked at the arrogant girl, then glanced over at Gwen, who was working nearby. Gwen gave her a subtle, firm nod—a signal to stand her ground.
Lindsay straightened her back. "Actually, Courtney, I'm kind of busy helping a friend. But if you want, I can give you some advice on how to do it yourself. Start with the tension on the chain. It's a 10-millimeter wrench. Figure it out."
Courtney's jaw dropped. Her face turned a dangerous shade of red, but as she looked at her pile of useless junk and then at the functioning machines around her, she realized she had no choice. She gritted her teeth. "Fine. Give me the advice."
The camp became a workshop of clanking metal and sparks.
* Gwen and Ezekiel: Gwen sat with Zeke, sketching out a simple but rugged design on a piece of cardboard.
"Think of it like a horse, Zeke," she explained. "Balance and frame strength. If the welds are weak, it'll snap in the mud."
Zeke nodded intensely, following her sketches with surprising precision, his farm-boy hands proving to be quite capable.
* The Boys' Club: Duncan and Owen were working on a beastly-looking machine for Owen. DJ was hovering nearby, unsure of where to start.
"Hey, man," Duncan called out, tossing DJ a wrench. "Don't overthink it. Focus on the shock absorption. Use those old bed springs for the seat, or your back will be toast."
Owen added, "And make sure the pedals are big! My feet always slip!"
* The Chaos Factor: Izzy was building something that looked less like a bike and more like a catapult on wheels. She was humming to herself, using duct tape as if it were a structural element.
By late afternoon, nine bizarre contraptions stood in the clearing. Heather had a sleek, silver racer (thanks to Lindsay). Courtney had a sturdy, if slightly lopsided, cruiser. Ezekiel had a gothic-looking mountain bike with Gwen's aesthetic, and Owen had a tricycle reinforced with steel beams.
Chris walked out, clapping his hands. "Impressive! You guys actually made things that don't look like they'll explode immediately. But... this is Total Drama. Did you really think you'd be riding your own bikes?"
A collective groan went up.
Chris produced a battered top hat. "In this hat are all your names. We're going to draw lots. Whoever's name you pull, that is the bike you'll be riding through the obstacle course!"
The atmosphere turned icy.
"Heather," Chris smirked. "You first."
Heather stepped up, her hand trembling slightly. She had poured her trust into Lindsay making a masterpiece for her. She reached in and pulled a slip of paper. Her face turned pale.
"Ezekiel," she read. She looked at Zeke's bike—covered in black paint and spikes.
"Next, Duncan."
Duncan pulled a slip. "Heather." He grinned. He got the fastest bike on the lot, the one Lindsay had spent hours perfecting.
"Lindsay," Chris called.
Lindsay pulled: "Courtney." She smiled. "Oh, I gave her good advice! This should be fun!"
"Courtney," Chris prompted.
Courtney pulled: "Lindsay." She smirked. "Finally, some quality equipment."
One by one, the swap was completed:
* Owen got DJ's bike.
* DJ got Gwen's bike.
* Gwen got Izzy's (she looked terrified).
* Izzy got Owen's (she looked thrilled).
* Ezekiel got Duncan's rugged chopper.
That evening, the bikes were locked in the storage shed for the morning race. Heather was fuming. Even though she was safe for now, the thought of Duncan riding "her" bike—the best one—while she had to ride the "homeschooler's" bike was driving her crazy.
She sat on the porch, clutching the fake statue in her pocket for comfort. "Tomorrow," she hissed, "I'll show them. Even on a peasant's bike, I'll win."
Duncan watched her from the shadows of the mess hall. He didn't care about the race as much as he cared about the psychological game. He pulled the real statue from his boot, the moonlight catching the carved wood.
He leaned over to DJ, who was sitting nearby. "Hey, man. Look at this."
DJ's eyes widened. "Is that... Heather's statue? You stole it?"
"Borrowing it," Duncan corrected with a smirk. "She thinks she's protected. She thinks she's the queen. But tomorrow, when the pressure is on, she's going to realize she's holding a piece of firewood. And that's when we strike."
DJ looked at the statue, then back at the cabins where the girls were sleeping. The game was reaching a boiling point. The alliances were shifting, the bikes were swapped, and the real power was hidden in a delinquent's boot.
The race is set for tomorrow.
The air horn shattered the morning silence. Before the sound could even echo off the cliffs, nine makeshift vehicles slammed into the dirt. Dust clouds exploded as the "Wawanakwa Grand Prix" officially began.
Because of the swap, the dynamic on the track was pure chaos. Owen was struggling to keep DJ's bike upright, while DJ pedaled Gwen's dark-colored frame with surprising grace. Heather was screaming in frustration as she tried to navigate the spikes on Ezekiel's bike, nearly impaling her own designer shorts with every rotation.
But at the front of the pack, two racers were absolutely flying.
Courtney was hunched low over the handlebars of Lindsay's creation. It was a masterpiece of hidden engineering. The frame was lightweight, painted a shimmering pastel pink, but the mechanics were flawless. As Courtney hit a steep incline, she noticed the brake levers were shaped like tiny, glittering unicorns.
"I can't believe I'm saying this," Courtney shouted over the wind, her competitive spirit warring with her pride. "But Lindsay is a genius! This thing has zero friction! The gear shifting is smoother than my lawyer's closing arguments!"
Right beside her, Gwen was clinging for dear life to Izzy's "Death-Trap-3000." It looked less like a bicycle and more like a post-apocalyptic motorcycle, built from rusted pipes and what looked like a lawnmower engine. On the center of the handlebars sat a large, ominous red button.
"Don't touch it, Gwen!" Izzy screamed from far behind, where she was happily pedaling Owen's heavy trike. "That's the 'Turbo-Boom'! It either breaks the sound barrier or your ribcage!"
Gwen gripped the handles tighter, her knuckles white. She didn't dare touch the button, but even without it, the vehicle was a beast. It roared through the mud pits, its oversized tires chewing up the terrain.
"I hate to admit it," Gwen yelled back to Courtney as they raced neck-and-neck through the halfway point of the woods. "But Izzy really knows her way around a combustion engine! This thing is terrifying, but it's the fastest thing I've ever sat on!"
For a few moments, the two rivals were in perfect sync. They weren't fighting; they were marvelling at the skill of the girls they usually underestimated. Courtney on the "Unicorn Racer" and Gwen on the "Mechanical Monster" were miles ahead of the rest of the group.
Far behind them, the rest of the campers were having a much harder time:
* Duncan was actually doing well on Heather's silver bike, but he was more focused on watching Heather struggle.
* Heather was currently tangled in a bramble bush. Every time she tried to pedal Zeke's bike, the decorative spikes caught on her clothes. "Ezekiel! I am going to sue you for this fashion disaster!" she shrieked.
* Ezekiel was having the time of his life on Duncan's chopper. "This is way better than a tractor, eh!" he yelled, popping a wheelie.
* Lindsay was calmly riding Courtney's lopsided bike. It was slow and heavy, but Lindsay just hummed a tune, looking like she was on a Sunday stroll in the park.
Gwen and Courtney hit the final stretch—a long, narrow bridge over a gorge filled with (naturally) hungry piranhas. They were still side-by-side, their respect for the bikes growing with every second.
"Hey, Gwen!" Courtney called out, a smirk appearing on her face. "If we both survive this, remind me to never call Lindsay a 'dumb blonde' again!"
"Deal!" Gwen shouted back, her hair whipping in the wind. "And remind me to never let Izzy near anything with an engine ever again!"
But as they neared the finish line, Gwen's eyes drifted to that red button. They were so close. The finish line was just across the bridge. She looked at Courtney, then at the button. Her finger hovered over it.
"Don't do it, Gwen!" Courtney warned, seeing the look in her eyes. "It's not worth the explosion!"
The race was coming down to a final, heart-pounding sprint. Behind them, the sounds of Heather's screaming and Owen's heavy breathing grew louder, but the victory was clearly between the CIT and the Goth.
The finish line was visible in the distance, but the final stretch of the course held a trap no one had anticipated. The wooden bridge spanning the piranha-infested gorge had buckled under the wind, leaving a massive, yawning gap in the track.
Gwen and Courtney slammed on their brakes simultaneously at the edge of the cliff. Below, the water churned with silver fins.
"They can't be serious!" Gwen shouted, Izzy's motorized beast idling loudly beneath her. "This is literal suicide!"
Courtney, however, wasn't looking at the water. Her eyes were fixed on the shimmering mountain bike waiting next to Chris on the far side. That obsessed, competitive glint—the one that made everyone fear the CIT—ignited in her gaze.
"Lindsay's bike is perfect... the weight distribution, the suspension..." Courtney muttered to herself, then shot a sharp glance back at Gwen. "I'm sorry, Gwen, but I don't lose!"
Courtney backed up for a starting run, then charged forward with everything she had. The unicorn-shaped brake levers caught the sunlight as she pulled up on the handlebars at the last possible second. The pink bicycle soared gracefully through the air, arching over the gorge like a stallion. Courtney stuck the landing with a perfect roll, crossing the finish line in a cloud of dust.
"Courtney wins!" Chris bellowed into his megaphone, but his voice lacked its usual mocking cheer.
One by one, the others arrived at the edge of the chasm. Gwen, unwilling to risk the "Turbo-Boom" button, took the long forest detour and finished second. Duncan followed, then a cursing Heather on Zeke's spiked bike, and finally the rest of the pack.
But one person was missing.
Minutes passed before Owen appeared on the horizon. DJ's bike, while beautiful, was never built for Owen's frame or power. The wheels were groaning, the frame was bowing, and Owen was bright red, gasping for air as he fought for every inch of ground.
When Owen finally rolled across the finish line (having gingerly crossed the gap via a fallen log), Chris's face did something unexpected: it darkened. The host took off his sunglasses and pressed his hand to his earpiece.
"Yeah... I hear you... but he's the most popular one..." Chris argued with someone on the other end of the line. "Are you absolutely sure?"
The campers watched in stunned silence. Chris McLean, a man who usually feasted on misery, looked genuinely upset.
"Guys..." Chris started, his voice uncharacteristically thick. "There's a rule. A rule my bosses—the producers—just handed down at the last second. They said the show needs more 'shock factor.' And since there was no traditional vote today... the last-place finisher is eliminated immediately."
A roar of outrage erupted from the group.
"That's not fair!" Gwen shouted. "Owen didn't fall behind because of his own skill!"
"This is a garbage rule!" Duncan snapped, clenching his fists.
Even Heather and Courtney went quiet. Despite their rivalries, Owen was the heart of the island—the only one who was kind to everyone, the one who kept their spirits up with his jokes. They realized the island would be a much darker place without him.
"I'm sorry, Owen," Chris said, and for once, a tear seemed to glisten in the corner of his eye. "For once, I'm not the jerk here. The producers made the call. You have to go."
Owen took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked around. He saw genuine sadness on everyone's faces.
"It's okay, guys," Owen said with a sad but heroic smile. "At least I got to eat that fried chicken yesterday. DJ, sorry about your bike... I think I bent the frame a little."
Everyone walked Owen to the Boat of Losers. There was no mocking, no plotting. DJ, Ezekiel and Duncan helped him board the vessel.
As the boat pulled away, Chris stood at the edge of the dock, staring into the distance. The pressure from the producers and the cruelty of the corporate rules reminded him that even he was sometimes just a pawn in the machine.
But in the shadows, Duncan touched the statue hidden in his boot.
Only 8 remain: Gwen, Ezekiel, Heather, Lindsay, Courtney, Duncan, Izzy, and DJ.