Page 98 of Victorious: Part I

The truck is too quiet.

Phoenix stares at the road, jaw clenched, while I pretend to be fascinated by the landscape passing outside my window. Every time I sneak a glance at him, I see the tension in his shoulders, the tight grip of his hands on the steering wheel.

I hate that we’re fighting.

I hate even more that he might be right.

But he doesn’t have to be such a dick about it.

I mean, I get it.

He’s worried about the club, about his sister, about keeping his promise to my brother, but I don’t need constant scolding. I have a job to do, and trying to balance the normal and the not-so-normal parts of my life is freaking hard.

Did I think before posting that video?Not really.But did I need to be talked down to like I’m clueless?Definitely not.

You can tell me not to post it in a respectful way without berating me in a room full of people and alien merch.

I sigh heavily, causing Phoenix to glance my way for a brief second before returning his attention to the road.

“Next stop is the abandoned water park,” I mumble, breaking the silence but keeping my tone neutral. “Should be another half hour or so.”

He nods, not looking at me. “Sounds good.”

The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. I want to say something—to clear the air or at least make the rest of this day bearable—but pride keeps my mouth shut.

He’s the one who overreacted.

Let him apologize first.

Instead, I busy myself by checking the video settings on my camera and making sure I’m prepared for the water park. According to my research, it’s the perfect spot for the moody, atmospheric content the campaign needs. Plus, I bet the late-day light will make those rusting slides and empty pools look hauntingly beautiful.

As we drive deeper into the desert, signs of civilization grow even sparser. It’s just us, the highway, and the occasional tumbleweeds. Despite the argument still hanging in the air, there’s something intimate about being the only two people for miles around.

“There,” I say finally, pointing to a faded sign in the distance. “That’s the turnoff.”

Phoenix slows the truck, turning onto a rough gravel road that leads toward what looks like an abandoned compound. As we get closer, the skeletal remains of what was once a vibrant water park come into view—twisting slides now rusted and faded, an empty wave pool cracked and filled with sand, concession stands with broken windows.

It’s beautiful in a sad, post-apocalyptic way.

“Well, shit. It looks like another world in there,” I breathe out, unable to contain my excitement despite our fight.

Phoenix parks near what was once the entrance, killing the engine. “It looks unsafe,” he observes, eyeing the rusted metal structures.

“That’s kind of the point.” I grab my camera equipment. “The campaign is about unexpected experiences, places that tell a story.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue, getting out of the truck and surveying the area with a cautious eye. “If this were a story, it’d beFallout.Just, be careful, okay? Watch for sharp metal, unstable platforms.”

I nod, some of my irritation fading at his concern. “I will. I’m not planning to climb anything, just taking photos and… I promise to keep an eye out for ghouls,” I tease, replying to hisFalloutjab.

He raises his brow at me like he’s impressed I even know aboutFallout,and I smirk, grab my gear, and start making my way through the park.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the abandoned area, creating exactly the dramatic lighting I was hoping for. I move through the space slowly, capturing the eerie beauty of once-bright slides now faded to ghosts of their former selves, the empty pool where families once splashed now home to only dust and desert plants.

Phoenix follows at a distance, giving me space to work but keeping me in his sight. Despite our argument, I find his protective presence comforting as the shadows grow longer and the place takes on an increasingly otherworldly vibe.

“This used to be the Rock-A-Hoola Waterpark,” I explain as I set up a shot of a rusted slide twisting against the sky. “It was originally called Lake Dolores, named after the owner’s wife. Opened in the fifties or sixties, I think?”

“What happened to it?” Phoenix asks, seeming genuinely curious.

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