When looking around the site, I've noticed that there seems to be a notable lack of sci-fi Total Drama fics, which saddens me some. This will be a sort of futuristic crime fic, taking place in the not-so-distant future. Every single character in the Total Drama series will make some form of appearance, including PI characters, although they won't make appearances for a while, so no worries about spoilers for now. Enjoy!

World peace was considered by all to be an impossible achievement that nonetheless people attempted to work towards. Human nature dictated that peace would be impossible. Conflicting interests and beliefs would always make sure that there was some conflict in the world.

However, after the struggles of the early twenty-first century, the major governments of the world proposed an idea. To create one giant union of countries in a manner similar to the European Union, only much, much bigger. Slowly but surely, most of the other nations in the world would hopefully merge into this proposed Worldwide would be simplified, all the countries would have common enemies in the problem countries. All issues between nations would be brought to the council's notice. Each nation would operate independently but ultimately answer to the union.

47 out of 196 nations had become part of the WU as of January 21st, 2048. The remaining 149 countries had varying degrees of problems to sort out, from civil wars to terrorism and a whole bunch of other horrible things, but people were hopeful that more and more nations would join as time passed by. For the most part, world peace was somewhat on its way to being attained, with a little luck and cooperation from other countries. Meaning that it most likely was just going to lead to war, but no one preferred to think about that. Of course, there were still tumultuous arguments where nothing was ever accomplished really, but that was politics.

Hampton Station was a tantamount to years of hard toil by nations to create this hopeful peace. Hampton Station was located in Boston, Massachusetts, and contained airplanes that would fly to anywhere in the realm of the WU, and as more and more nations joined, more and more flight destinations would be created. The entire ceiling was made of Plexiglas, and was regularly cleaned so that the shock and awe of sunlight streaming through the roof was kept fresh in peoples' minds. Tourism was of course very important.

Of course, it could have been cheaper to have a regular-style ceiling, but the effect was much greater and much grander this way. And it went without saying that there were many precautions in place just in case there was to be an attack on the station. On January 21st, 2110, the weather was partly cloudy, sunshine dripping through the water vapor tentatively and gently. The station was fairly busy, guards checking people in and out mechanically, the same thing over and over and over again.

The young man next in line was in his mid twenties. He wore a simple blue t-shirt and jeans, with headphones wrapped around his neck. A band-aid was stuck to his left arm. His chocolate brown hair was spiked up, and his tanned skin would make him look good if he weren't as precariously skinny as a lamppost. A bright smile seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face.

"Good day, sir!" the guard said with the demeanor of a man forced to keep up enthusiasm for his job the entire day. The college-aged man handed him his backpack. "How are you doing today?"

"Oh, I'm great!" the tanned college-aged boy said happily. "I'm going back to college, you know, winter break is over and all."

"That's really cool!" the guard grinned. "Where do you go to school, um..." The guard looked at the ID the boy had just given him. "Mike?"

"PU," Mike replied easily, his face completely straight. It took the guard a while to get the joke before bursting out laughing.

"That's a good one! Here, hand me your headphones." Mike obliged calmly, and walked through the metal detector without incident. Absentmindedly, he scratched the band-aid on his arm.

Having passed the checkpoint, he watched indifferently as the security guards opened his backpack and took out an empty can of spray paint. "Sorry, son, we're going to have to confiscate this," the guard said apologetically.

"No worries!" Mike chirped, and took the rest of his bag, although his grin faded slightly when the guard's gaze wasn't directed at him. The guard handed him his headphones before turning back to his post. Mike placed the headphones around his ears, and calmly peeled off the band-aid. Underneath was a square of plastic. While the guard was turned around, Mike's eyes narrowed and he calmly took a step towards the guard. Using his thumb, he pressed it into the guard's exposed skin.

The plastic chip sank into the guard's skin, steam rising from its acidic touch. The guard let out a scream of pain as he fell over clutching his throat as his breathing accelerated, the poison spreading from his mouth. His veins bulged and his body seemed to be breathing of its own accord, pumping out a gaseous toxin. As the screaming began, people began to inhale the poison and began crumpling, clutching their throats and eyeing their bulging veins, horrified. Mike pressed a button on his cordless headphones, and music began to play.[1]

Mike began to waltz with an invisible partner, humming along to the eerie melody as screams echoed in the background and poison gas clung to the floor. With a sweep of his hand, he combed his spiked hair down, letting it fall into one eye. A tourist stumbled to the ground in front of the placid murderer, and his veins exploded, spraying the area with blood. Mike waltzed out of the way and grabbed the empty spray can. He opened it. The psychopath placidly scooped up some of the blood with a handkerchief into the canister, swaying dangerously and mouthing the words to the lyrics as he did so.

He stood, walking casually, conducting to the beat as a guard yelled at him to put his hands up before falling over, asphyxiated like the rest. Smiling warmly, he patted the dying guard on the head. Turning to the wall, he sprayed the blood of the tourist onto the stone wall, still humming along. He frowned as he found that blood and paint were two entirely different substances and that it was rather difficult to create letters out of it, but eventually just used his hand to wipe off the blood so that the remaining substance formed letters on the wall.

As sirens began to wail, Mike Summers [2], who preferred to go by Mal, daintily walked out the door, allowing some of the gaseous contagion to curl out as a helicopter proceeded to touch down right in front of him, right on schedule. He smirked, and climbed in. As backup arrived with suitable protection against the contagion, he couldn't resist flashing them a sardonic wave as well as flashing them something else.

Nothing was left in the station but dead people and sinister poison mist. The men in gas masks turned and saw the blood writing on the wall. "We need backup, fast," one of them whimpered nervously. "We need backup, fast!" he repeated, more forcefully, and voices began rising tumultuously as calls were made, politicians and agencies were informed, and the area was searched for any survivors.

The leader simply stood, staring at the wall where Mal's sloppy, crude blood writing had been written. He didn't know what it meant, but what he did know was that there was a new threat to the world, to peace. And precautions would have to be taken in order to stop it before it was too late.

Sanctum says hello.

Inside the helicopter, Mal took his headphones off his ears and looked down below him at the chaos he had crafted.

He smiled.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

January 22, 2048 10:00 P.M. EST

"Hello ma'am, welcome to Wiggin's Pub. You here for a drink?"

The bartender's voice was surprisingly rough for such a young and slim man. The woman sitting at the other side of the counter nodded to him. "Surprise me."

At first glance, one would think she was a relatively normal woman of her age. She was of Hispanic descent, wore conservative clothing, and had a certain professional air to her. One might have guessed her occupation as a lawyer. She spoke very formally and chose her words very carefully, and sat with perfect posture. However, if one were to train their eyes on the badge underneath her jacket, or the gun concealed in her pocket, one would reconsider exactly what they thought the woman's occupation was.

The bartender, however, did not notice, and prepared his customer a drink, which in this time meant pressing a button and having the drink be prepared in seconds by using machinery. The usual fare around those parts, not very good beer, but beer nonetheless. "Here ya go, ma'am," he said, sliding the drink over to the Hispanic woman.

"Thank you," she told him with a cordial smile. "Here's your tip." She passed him the money, and he smiled to himself. It was always good to have a polite customer now and then, what with the rowdy crowds these days, he thought. She took a tentative sip, wrinkling her nose, but continued drinking. Two months away from the job had left her a bit unsure of herself. But the reason that she had taken leave still lingered at the back of her mind.

She pressed two fingers to her forehead as she recalled the sound of a gunshot, of the screaming. It gave her a headache just thinking about it.

"It never seemed like you to drink, Mills."

Startled, Agent Courtney Mills turned around the chair to see a large and imposing African American man standing in the doorway. Agent-in-charge Dominic Hatchet, but everyone in the FBI referred to him as either "Hatchet" or "Chef." The nickname of Chef had come around during his days as a trainee, when he'd been cornered during a firefight and had thrown his own cooking at the perpetrator, knocking him out with the stench. The nickname stuck. Just like his meatloaf did to peoples' throats.

Courtney shrugged upon seeing him. "And it has always seemed like you'd be the one to drink, Chef."

Chef shrugged and sat down next to her. "I miss having you as an agent. Your behavior during the Sanford Case was exemplary, no matter what those fruitcake fops said."

"Here to reminisce about old times, sir, or do you have something for me?" Courtney, or as she was known on the job, Agent Mills.

"Hey! You! Drink! Now!" he shouted at the bartender. And there's the usual crowd, the bartender thought, sighing as he complied.

"You still have your way with people," Courtney giggled. "At least that hasn't changed."

Chef rolled his eyes. "I know you had some trouble after you lost your partner during the Sanford case, but I think this is something you're going to be interested in. A long-term opportunity. Maybe a little revenge."

Courtney perked up at this. "Sanford's dead. Killed himself. How could I get revenge?"

Chef smirked, and withdrew from his overcoat a square tablet, and pushed it over so Courtney could see. "You know how Sanford kept blabbering about Sanctum? But we could never figure out exactly who or what that was?"

Courtney didn't respond immediately, instead surveying photos of the carnage at Hampton Station. The veins of the dead bodies bulged while their faces were blue from asphyxiation. One man's blood vessels had all popped, spraying everywhere around him with blood. However, there seemed to be no trigger for the poison in sight. "Holy shit," she gasped. "What kind of bio-terrorism is this?" She scrolled down and froze as the blood letters on the wall stared her in the face.

Sanctum says hello.

Chef peered over her shoulder. "The United States government received a message from this 'Sanctum' a few hours after the attack. They're against the Worldwide Union, and all the countries in it. And this attack? It was caused by one person."

"Why, though?" Courtney furrowed her eyebrows. "The Worldwide Union is a great idea! Why would they want to shut it down?"

Chef shrugged. "No one knows. But they seem content to remain in the shadows, and we can't declare a war on people who could be anywhere at any time. We wouldn't want another Iraq. There's a lot of red tape involved, so the best we can do is contain whatever we can in our country. And they'll try to contain theirs. It's definitely not a perfect strategy, but it's the only plausible short-term solution. Sooner or later the WU will most likely be forced to convene and discuss this. Sanctum isn't an army, they're elites, which means that the army would be out of place."

"So what are you suggesting, then?" Courtney asked, sounding eager.0

"A special inter-agency task force dedicated to finding and bringing down Sanctum to the best of our ability," Chef declared calmly. "I thought you would want to be a part of it, given your history with Sanford."

Courtney's knuckles whitened as she clenched her fist. "Consider me in. I've moped around long enough. Who else do you have in mind?"

Chef took the square tablet and pulled up a different file. "We're considering starting off with maybe thirty or so members of your division, but the numbers should steadily grow should your success rate steadily grow. You would answer to me, and no one else. We have a couple of other agents in mind as part of your team."

"Okay," Courtney said expectantly. Chef lay down the tablet, showing a picture of a man with a pudding bowl-shaped head, a buzz cut, and a unibrow.

"Brick MacArthur, former cadet and fashion designer," Chef yawned, although it might have been concealing a chuckle. "Excellent investigator and fighter, but not very independent. Thought you might work well with him, you being the kind to take charge of things."

"So he'll be my partner?" Courtney inquired, slightly confused.

"One of your partners," Chef elaborated. "Your investigative team will be responsible for investigating these events with Sanctum's influence written on it, and you and your partners will be the highest rank in your division next to me. Your team will call the shots, direct the troops, search for clues. Every United States agency is concerned about this new threat now that two hundred and forty three people have been killed at Hampton Station."

"Okay, who else do I have with me?" Courtney continued. Chef was renowned for his stoic silences, but he could take a damn long time getting to the point.

Chef swiped the screen to the right., now showing a young, petite woman with long, platinum blond hair. "Dawn Raleigh, criminal profiler. She's incredibly intelligent, has a peculiar amount of empathy, and is capable of discerning emotions and motivations of killers. Plus, she's damn good with a pistol, despite her claims that she's only in this job to protect the world from bad people, not to kill them."

"And finally, we have Cody Anderson," Chef yawned, swiping the screen again. Cody appeared as a short, skinny young man with a gap in his teeth and a bright light in his eyes. "He's amazing with technology and science. When he first went into this line of work he thought he was going to be James Bond. He has a large ego, but that mainly stems from emotional neglect from his parents. He HAD to have a large ego or else he'd feel worthless."

"That must suck," Courtney sighed. "My parents were always pushing me to be the best. So these are the only people I'm going to work with?"

"No, there'll be others, but they'll be answering to you. For now, you can sleep, but I'd recommend not drinking. I'd like you at the crime scene tomorrow morning at 8:00, and I don't want to deal with your hangover. So. Are you ready to go back in the field? Get some payback?"

A grin spread itself across Courtney's face. It had been too long since she'd been out in the field. She'd finished moping now, and now the memory of the Sanford case fell to the back of her mind as the prospect of revenge became available to her. "Do you even need to ask?"

[1] The song he's listening to is "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce. For an enriched experience, try listening to that song while reading from that point on. Should give you a lot of insight to my interpretation of Mike/Mal's character. I blame Days of Future Past (amazing move, by the way).

[2] He was originally going to be named Mike Myers until I realized that Mike Myers is the name of the actor who plays Shrek.

This fic should be a long-runner, and one of my two major projects along with my Hunger Games crossover "From Drama to Death." Also, I thank Pika Scootaloo for my first TV Tropes recommendation for my "Beyond the Fourth Wall" one-shot (which you all should check out if you haven't already. :D) So, thoughts? Suggestions? Be sure to review, and stay tuned for next time.