HOMECOMING

By Light Rises

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Author's Note: The beginning of the REAL fun at last! Yay! And I hope this installment lives up to the expectations set by its predecessors.:) As always, BIG thanks for the reviews, folks; they are greatly appreciated.

'Nuff said. On with the story!

Disclaimer: You know the rap.;)

Time: Begins the night of Sunday, April 13, 2003, and ends the afternoon of the next day.

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Chapter 6 – The Unwelcoming Committee

…I'm…I'm back.

Down the first hallway of Monsters, Inc.'s darkened office sector, Randall Boggs lied atop a thickish, exposed pipe suspended from the ceiling. Sensing a slight chill in the air, he watched with strange, entranced intensity as the faintest of white plumes escaped his lips with each breath. Again, he repeated the thought in silent, disbelieving affirmation: I'm back.

It had taken awhile for the realization to sink in; the past half hour (or perhaps more?—he honestly couldn't tell) had been a frantic blur, what with that moving truck and the door and then—on the other side—a call sent up by a factory employee which flipped on the lights, consequently prompting Randall to dash away and find a place to lie low until everything cooled down. Only now, in these quiet moments when the danger didn't feel immediate, did he have the luxury to actually think about what had just happened.

Back here, in the Monster World, after all he'd been through…the idea was surreal enough to be hypnotizing.

A shudder ran down his spine and he shook it off, coming out of his spell. His thoughts returned to all the fuss that employee had made, the lizard monster puzzling over his mysterious reaction. Just a door sitting in the middle of a Scarefloor late at night wasn't cause for such alarm, right? Of course it wasn't; normally, it was a ridiculous waste of time to worry about. Unless…

With sudden conviction—and a sharp pang of something he couldn't identify—Randall shook his head. No—HE would never let that human girl go through the door after Randall. The last thing HE wanted was any attention drawn to HIS workings, much less to the lizard monster who was set to benefit from those workings. So it couldn't be her; not a chance. The better guess was that Randall himself had accidentally tipped off the employee, and so now was truly running for cover.

Typical—the guy provided a way home only to leave me up the river without a paddle once I got here. He snorted in annoyance at his deduction, his emerald eyes hardening immediately afterward as rising bitterness knotted his throat. And why should I expect more? What's HE expecting to get out of helping a lizard monster? Nothing; and HE knows it as much as I do. As much as everyone else does…

His bitterness gave way to chest-tightening emotion, and the instant Randall sensed self-pity wedging itself into the feeling, he defiantly gulped it all down with clenched teeth. No—it was stupid, stupid to feel that way. There was a time, years ago, when he truly didn't care if feeling sorry for himself aggravated more than it comforted, or that doing so had nearly killed him several times. But even though these moments of weakness still flared up (especially during those first few months of his exile), the will to live always managed to win out. He'd learned—and was determined—to never fall prey to those useless emotions again. They'd never gotten him anywhere before, and they certainly weren't going to now.

Yes…so long as that human kid minded her own business, stayed out of trouble, and so long as he escaped this factory, everything would be all right. The cynical part of him wanted to scoff at this line of thinking, of course, but it was all he had left…

Straightening onto all eights, Randall shimmied backwards on the pipe and slid off once he reached the wall. He crawled onto the cold floor tail-first, his limbs wobbly from a cloud of light-headedness as he slinked down the hallway, deeper into the office sector. He kept onward until he caught sight of an alcove to his left, into which he turned and found a tool rack set upon a wall of pipes that made up the alcove's far end. Raising to an upright position, he approached the rack and worked his fingers around the fake pipe on the far right, where it hopefully wouldn't be missed. He then gripped it and twisted with a steady pull, feeling the long section of pipe loosen from its riveted junctions above and below even as his arms protested against the exertion. Just as the need to stop and recoup became too pressing to resist, the pipe gave and thumped against Randall's chest, freed. He nearly lost hold of it, his limbs suddenly like jelly and his light-headedness intensified ten-fold, leaving him reeling for a moment. Out of sheer willpower, he stiffened and closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath with the top end of the pipe held against his forehead in a four-handed grip.

"Steady, Randall…" he whispered aloud, his voice hoarse. As the spinning world about him settled some, he peered through eye slits and half-staggered to the alcove wall on his right, bracing his right arms against it as though to catch his breath. It was peculiar; a couple years ago, wrenching that pipe from the wall would've been a cinch. But his many months spent deprived of the comforts of civilization had taken their toll: malnutrition, lingering aches from slow-healing injuries, and a mind not quite as keen as it used to be, among other things. Tonight had been a worse night for Randall than usual, so once he'd entered the factory, he ruled out the possibility of using his camouflaging ability to avoid being spotted. It required more energy and concentration than he had any hope of mustering right now; he'd overdone it on Friday when trying to get away from that kid's father, and he'd REALLY pushed it about an hour ago in that school restroom stall. On top of all that, his blending was a recently reacquired skill, having been lost for over a year after that idiot woman repeatedly took a shovel to his skull. The searing headaches which still occasionally plagued him had been an hourly torture for weeks after the incident, and there'd been several horrifying, gut-twisting moments when Randall feared he might've lost his unique ability—the thing he'd built his career upon—forever.

So, considering his disadvantages, Randall wasn't about to take any chances with his escape from the factory. Hence, the pipe.

Presently, he pushed away from the wall and tested the solidity of his legs. Satisfied that they'd bear his weight now, he let his tail take the pipe in its coils and then dropped back onto all eights, slithering out of the alcove. He tracked his way out of the office sector toward the main hallway which, if memory served him right, branched off into Scarefloors A through F on either side. Before entering the hall through a final door, he checked the latter's bottom crack for lights and listened for voices. Then, the hinges giving a slight squeak, he softly opened it and looked in.

All the lights were indeed off by now…except for one emanating down the hallway across from him. And it seemed to be coming from one of the floors' dispatch offices.

Lemme guess—Roz is pulling yet ANOTHER all-nighter. Randall shook his head almost imperceptibly; that woman was downright fanatical when it came to paperwork, and she'd probably use the office as a bedroom if company policy allowed it. But alas, her obsession had to be sated by working late nights and clocking in impossibly early almost every day, including Sundays. Randall had seen Roz at it himself, what with his working on the Scream Extractor after hours. He knew of no one else who was THAT devoted to so mundane an activity, Fungus being a close second with his lint collection. So this was one of those nights…and it was one of those Sundays.

The best part, of course, was she'd be so absorbed in her work, that Roz was unlikely to cast a glance Randall's way even if he simply strolled down the hall like any normal, unassuming monster. So being sneaky around her should be an easy ticket out of whatever threat she posed to blowing his cover. Confidence rising, he began padding down the hall on all eights, the pipe still securely wrapped in his tail as the latter swayed with the lizard monster's quick, cautious gait. Before long, the light and subsequent hallway leading into Scarefloor F loomed up and urged Randall to slow to a crawl, then stop altogether. Several yards to his immediate right was a stark, golden haze splashing onto the floor through shaded windows…a detail which he found to be rather curious. When the heck did dispatch offices start using window shades?

Well, at least they offered one advantage: he could see a silhouette moving inside the office, through the window panel closest to him. More importantly, the shades prevented whomever it was inside from seeing out, which made things even easier than he'd anticipated. Without further delay, he began continuing down the main hallway—

"Ah, Mr. Boggs! We've been expecting you."

Randall froze, going cold from within. Okay…that was definitely NOT Roz. He slowly turned his head to see the silhouette still at its post, its mouth now agape in an obvious, beguiling smile.

"Come in, come in…" the voice, which was deeply feminine and silky, coaxed as the metal smoke door shutting the service window slid open. "We both know it's been a long time coming."

At this, Randall's eye ridges wrinkled in shrewdness. Maybe HE had been a SHE all along…and perhaps was more committed to Randall's well being than the lizard monster had concluded. But no—would he dare to believe that? From his experience, someone who used a tone of voice THAT sweet was up to no good, so it was hard to believe this mystery woman would be any different. In any case, he had little choice in the matter; she knew he was there, and he wasn't about to find out the hard way just how badly she wanted her invitation accepted.

Fine. I'll play along. Standing upright, he took the pipe into his lower pair of hands and clutched it close to his belly, then strode to the dispatch office's service window and used his remaining six limbs to crawl inside. He slipped over the counter and, seeing that the woman was still at the end counter with her back to him, he thrust the pipe-bearing hands behind his back as he straightened and then looked her over carefully. She wore a deep, hunter green business suit which fit tightly about her hourglass figure, along with a short skirt under which a furry, snow-white slug tail supported her weight. She didn't seem much taller than himself, if not the same height, and she was presently busying herself with something on the counter in front of her.

"So we meet at last," she spoke in that same, nurturing voice without turning around.

Randall narrowed his eyes at her. "How did you know I was out there?"

"Oh, I have my ways," the woman answered cryptically. "Even if I haven't the benefit of sight, I know enough about Randall Boggs to make rather…accurate guesswork of what you'll do next."

Almost instinctively, Randall's lower hands tightened their grip around the pipe behind his back.

"I see…" Randall said warily, tilting his head as he folded his upper arms. "So tell me…how did you manage to learn so much about me? I'm not exactly an open book, y'know."

She abruptly laughed. "Now, now, I don't know all that much," she replied, her long arms working a tad more feverishly at whatever was on the counter. "Just a few basics: you were banished"—click—"young"—snap—"naïve…" She then turned, a smug grin spreading across her thin lips as she aimed a large taser gun at Randall. "…And have outlived your usefulness," she finished, the weapon charging with a high-pitched whine.

He stiffened slightly, but he met her red-hued, maniacal glare with unwavering eyes. "We'll see about that," he muttered. Then—although every square-inch of his body protested against it—he vanished and with the quickest movement he could manage, he disarmed the woman and bent the seemingly floating pipe into a bind around her wrists, all before she could even react to his disappearing act.

Stepping away from her, Randall shifted his colors back into view, hefting the gun in his top pair of arms. His knees were ready to buckle, and his lower arms—which had helped in bending the pipe—shook and felt as though his nerves had turned into wet, limp noodles. He let out an amused chuckle at the woman's expense, though, even as his eyes unfocused momentarily when light-headedness erupted with a vengeance.

"Looks like your guesswork still needs some fine tuning," he remarked, vaguely dusting his lower pair of hands. He then turned and started to head toward the window—but only took two strides before furry forearms looped over his head and jerked him back and upward, almost off the ground, his windpipe now sandwiched between metal-bound wrists and the woman's upper torso. Snarling, he aimed the taser toward her head at pointblank range, only to feel something sharp press threateningly against his ribcage and something else wrap around him, pinning his body to her abdomen. Perplexed, he glanced down and realized three things at once: one, that her slug-like tail was actually two shaggy legs that she'd been kneeling on before; two, that she had a pair of retractable arms which had burst through the sides of her suit; and three, that one of these arms restrained him while the other brandished a knife. Silently, he cursed both his luck and his presumptuousness.

"Ah, ah, ah," she said in mock reprimand. "Unless you want to test who's the quicker draw, I advise you drop your arms. And, oh—no funny stuff with that pesky tail of yours, all right?"

With a frustrated growl, he lowered the weapon and dropped it to the floor. The woman's grin broadened at this, her sharp teeth showing as she tucked away the knife. "Good boy…" she commended. She then punched Randall's lower jaw with her free hand, loosening her vise-like grip on his neck and body as he sank to the floor in a coiled heap, his eyes rolled back. His vision had exploded with blinding colors when the uppercut hit, but it quickly blurred to darkness and then a vague distinction of light and objects surrounding him. His entire head pounded, stabs of pain pulsing within his skull as one of his old headaches reemerged, unrelentingly agitated by this newest abuse.

In an immense act of willpower, Randall lifted his head from the floor and dazedly looked up at the woman. She had unbound her upper arms and tossed the mangled pipe aside, then bent down to retrieve her weapon. Presently she straightened, chuckling as she realigned the gun's loosened charge cartridge and watched Randall try to get up, his limbs shaking.

"I must say, Mr. Boggs," she said, almost good-naturedly, "you've provided me quite an exercise tonight. But, really—" she went on, raising the gun and lowering her voice, "I must finish this."

Breathing hard, Randall's sudden, desperate desire to NOT die—at least at this clown's hands—kicked in, defiance surging within and showing up in a hard glare and a sneer that curled his upper lip.

"Not if you can't—think fast!" In a flash, the whip end of his tail slapped against the gun just as its electric pulse flew out of the barrel, diverting the shot's path so that it burst into static harmlessness against a file cabinet. Randall slithered away, again making for the partially open window when another shot crashed in his path, and then more began to rain around him. His defiance suddenly swelled into a fire that streamed through his veins; now barely giving his actions a thought, Randall started dodging and leaping and crawling around the room—along the walls, on top of counters and file cabinets, everywhere the sticky pads of his digits could gain purchase. Meanwhile, the woman kept shooting and missing, so much so that her fur began to stand on end from all the released static.

"Hold still already!" she spat crossly, still shooting. "You're making this a lot harder on yourself than it needs to be!"

"Who said it was hard on me?" he retaliated, easily avoiding those shots. Indeed: with the onslaught of an adrenaline rush, all of Randall's injuries and weaknesses had been deadened and almost forgotten, to the point that he had regained—for at least a few glorious moments—some of his feline gracefulness and quick cunning. For a few glorious moments, he could conceivably escape this gal and get out of this situation alive.

But in the midst of his evasive moves, Randall made one potentially fatal error. He'd nimbly plopped onto the floor, in front of a door which led to the office's back room, and was about to make another leap when the door abruptly swung inward. He twisted around at the noise, tensing for a possible new attack.

"W-what in Monstropolis is going—?" The red monster gasped, paling and almost losing hold of the pile of papers he carried at the sight of Randall. The lizard monster was similarly stunned, relaxing slightly and widening his eyes as he did a double take. They had only held each other's gaze for a split second—but it was enough a distraction for the woman to get a clear shot.

A jolt of searing, prickling pain tore into Randall's back then radiated throughout his body. Its energy enveloped him in tendrils of white electricity while sapping away his strength utterly, even the strength to stay conscious. The process ran its course very quickly, though, in less than two heartbeats. Eyes rolling into his head, Randall murmured a faint "Fungus…" as the tendrils faded, outstretching an upper arm as he flopped to the ground. And then, darkness.

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"AAUUUGH!" Fungus recoiled dramatically, dropping the paperwork and flicking his jittery gaze from a motionless Randall to the armed woman. "W-what did you DO that for?!"

Shirley Klump blinked at him, her expression blank as she slowly lowered the weapon. "Uh…" Averting her eyes a moment, she suddenly shot a hot glare at Fungus. "Why else do you think, you imbecile?!" she snapped. "This maniac of a scaley forced his way inside touting this horrid thing"—she roughly shook the gun to indicate it—"and it was all I could do to protect myself. It was self-defense, plain and simple." She arched a brow, looking over the bespectacled monster carefully. "What's it to you?" she queried slowly, folding her lower arms.

Fungus opened his mouth to give a rather thorough answer, but stopped dead as he noticed something cold and deranged flash in Shirley's gaze. A brief glance downward at Randall—whose long body lay at an odd angle—was enough to make him think better of telling too much.

"O-oh, nothing, nothing!" he insisted. "It was just…it looked so painful, what you did to him."

"I had no other choice," she explained, almost sounding rueful. "Besides, I have a hunch he was behind all that ruckus out in the hallway." She hooded her eyes, smiling lightly. "I was just doing my part to…'clean house', so to speak."

Fungus took a tentative step toward Randall. "He isn't—what I mean is, you didn't—?"

She chuckled. "Oh, of course not," she said in a sickly sweet voice. "The gun was…only set to 'stun'. Indeed it was…"

She ran her fingers along the weapon, looking at it with a faintly smug smirk. Again, Fungus directed his gaze to Randall, overcome with deep unsettlement at the lizard monster's ghostly complexion and utter limpness. He certainly seemed quite a bit MORE than "just stunned"…

Fungus toed the floor shyly. "S-s-so do you think we should call the authorities?" he stuttered.

Shirley's unnerving sweetness disappeared, a scowl creasing her brows. "We? There is no 'we' here, because you dropped that paperwork and you are going to pick it up! Now! Pronto! Ándale! MOVE IT!"

Seeing she was now in his face, Fungus bent down obligingly and shot a quick glance at Randall. "B-b-b-but w-what about Ra—I-I mean, the intruder?" he sputtered, his voice trembling as much as his limbs.

"Will you forget about that already?!" She stopped herself, shutting her eyes to take a quick, exasperated breath. "Look, if it'll make you feel better, you can get a cart and take this trash out yourself while I clean up your mess. I have better things to do than argue with someone who's afraid to share a room with a lousy stiff!"

Fungus gulped at what she said, revelation dawning. Another swift look at Randall drew a soft, impulsive whimper of sympathy from the red monster.

Shirley blinked, her eyes losing focus for an instant as if she'd just realized something important. It was gone as fast as it came, however.

"Well…?" she pressed him.

"Oh, yes yes, that sounds good!" Fungus answered hastily. "D-downright agreeable!"

"Then what are you still doing here? Shoo! Go on! Out!"

"I'm out, I'm out!" Fungus scampered through the office's entry door, bursting into the Laughfloor and slowing to a stop, panting. His three-lens specs glinted with streaming-in moonlight as he looked ahead at nowhere in particular.

Randall…he came BACK. Fungus quickly calculated the probability in his mind, of ever seeing ANYONE who'd been missing for this length of time again, and found it to be rather—more like hopelessly—slim. Yet Randall had somehow beaten those horrible odds…only to be shot down right before his former scare assistant's very eyes.

Fungus whimpered again, sucking in his bottom lip. Quiet, intermittent sniffles preceded him as he searched for a stray cart on Laughfloor F. He soon found one, and as he wheeled it toward the dispatch office, he mentally recited mathematical factorials—Five factorial equals 5 x 4 x 3 x 2 x 1, which also equals 120—in hopes of keeping his mind off the grimness of his task.

Rolling the cart in front of the office entry, Fungus stopped it and clicked its handlebar into place. He absently adjusted his glasses as he peered through the doorway.

"I-I found a cart, Shirley," he indicated meekly.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she shouted back, from the main office area where he couldn't see her. "Get on with it an' get him out of here!"

Fungus clenched his lower jaw, willing himself to not look at Randall's body just a few feet to the right. "I-I would gladly do so, e-except I'm certain I don't possess sufficient muscle mass to lift his weight, a-and—"

An infuriated groan sounded. "All right, ENOUGH already! Ugh, have to do everything myself around here…" Shirley stepped into view, gesturing gruffly for Fungus to come stand with her over Randall. After rolling Randall onto his back, she took the lead in lifting his body, taking hold of Randall's upper torso while Fungus was in charge of the lower half. The red monster shuddered at how cold to touch he felt, but somehow didn't feel the same queasiness that usually struck him when presented with such morbid circumstances.

Easily stepping over the cart with her long legs, Shirley backed out of the door and moved next to the handlebar end of the cart, waiting as Fungus shuffled to the other end. Upon her order, they laid Randall onto the cart length-wise and stood back, Shirley only huffing slightly as she dusted her hands.

"That's that," she said curtly. "Least his tail won't drag so much, with these bigger carts and all." She heaved a sigh, stepping into the dispatch office again. "I'm closing up," she muttered wearily. "Just take the cart to the hall and wait for me, will ya?"

"S-sure." As she vanished inside, Fungus trained his gaze on Randall. Slowly, he drew near the lizard monster's head and hunkered down, vaguely wringing his hands. He noticed that the head hanged over the cart's edge, fronds brushing the ground, so he gingerly lifted it and readjusted the body's position before laying the head down again, this time on the cart. Randall's head lolled gently to the side, so that now he didn't seem so limp and more like he was only asleep.

"Randall…?" Fungus murmured. He started reaching a hand then stopped himself, wincing. Why? Why couldn't he accept what was so obviously in front of him? Randall was dead—gone. He'd seen it with his own eyes. What was so hard about accepting concrete, visible facts for what they were?

He sighed almost silently, thinking back…the last time he'd seen Randall before tonight hadn't exactly left them on good terms, although not exactly on bad terms, either. It was just…how could it be fair, for them to never have the chance to make amends; for Randall to work those hundreds of hours on the Scream Extractor and then disappear inexplicably for over a year—returning with a new array of scars which bespoke countless horrors—and for what? To end up like this? To come to an end so ignominious and…and meaningless?

Dispirited, Fungus closed his eyes and shook his head. No; THIS—the pointlessness of Randall's death—was infinitely more illogical than Fungus' desire to believe he wasn't really dead.

A lump forming in his throat, he sniffled again and blinked away the mist in his eyes. It was now clear to him he wasn't just saying good-bye to an old co-worker, but to someone who'd become his friend.

"No matter what anyone says about what happened tonight," he whispered to the body, his words strangely clear, "you didn't deserve this."

As he spoke, Fungus stretched his hand toward Randall's head again, this time to finger an unfamiliar scar that crossed the lizard monster's forehead. He'd traced the gash's length about halfway when Randall suddenly grimaced, moaning. Fungus leaped back, nearly startled out of his skin.

"Ohmygoodnessyou'realive!" he gasped before clapping his hands over his mouth, trembling. He flicked his gaze about, waiting for Shirley to stalk out here to see what was going on, but she failed to come. Lowering his hands, Fungus looked back at Randall and approached him again. The lizard monster still remained motionless, and the sign of life had been so fleeting that Fungus was uncertain he'd actually seen anything in the first place. Gulping, he pressed two fingers against Randall's neck to feel for a pulse, dreading that his sight might've been mistaken. But he felt one—faint but steady—fluttering through the artery. He sighed in relief, hope flaring anew as he withdrew his fingers—

"C'mon, c'mon! Stupid thing…"

Fungus stiffened, quirking an eyebrow. Cautiously, he moved around the cart to step inside the office and see what Shirley was up to. Peeking into the main office area, he saw her standing over the service window counter—not with the keys to lock up in hand, but with the taser gun she'd claimed was Randall's. She was trying to pry out the weapon's charge cartridge, whose indicator light glowed a dull, pulsating red. How strange…unloading the gun was fine and all, but why bother since its charge was too low to be dangerous—?

SNAP! The cartridge had finally come loose and clattered onto the counter. Releasing a grunt, Shirley pulled out the aforementioned keys from a suit pocket and used one to open a drawer (which was always locked) right below the counter space in front of her. From inside she extracted another charge cartridge, muttering, "This'll keep the little twerp quiet," as she snapped it into place. Immediately, its indicator light gleamed a steady green…

Fungus tore his gaze away, turning to an even paler shade of red than when he'd first seen Randall. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh NO! He was dead. SO dead. And if Shirley found out she hadn't quite "finished off" her original quarry, so was Randall. Wishing he'd been more heedful of his original suspicions about her, Fungus railed at his brain to think—and FAST!

The faint beginnings of an electrical whine struck his ear holes. "Blast, why can't these new cartridges charge faster?" Shirley hissed under her breath.

Okay—he had a few seconds. What could he possibly do with a few seconds?

…Except maybe catch her off-guard, since he was already supposed to be out in the hallway, waiting? Yes, it could work—although chances were about fifty-fifty she'd either hide what she was doing or annihilate him on the spot, even if the gun wasn't ready. But time was just about up; right now, it was quite literally "do or die".

Saying a quick prayer, Fungus leaped into Shirley's line of sight. "Shirley, I need your assist—!"

She swept around, quickly hiding the weapon behind her back. "F-Fungus!" she stammered, cracking a nervous grin as she shoved the weapon into the drawer and shut it inside. "I-I wasn't…wait a minute—you're supposed to be waiting for me in the hall!"

"I know I know," he replied tremulously, another idea blossoming in his mind as his motor-mouth got started. "But the handlebar won't click out of place, which means the cart can't move, and if the cart can't move, I can't wheel it into the hallway which means I can't follow through with your orders which makes quite a mess of things—"

"STOP." She held out a hand palm-first. "Just. Stop." She then sighed loudly, starting toward him. "I'll get the stupid toolbox from the back room and see what I can do."

She pushed Fungus aside and in a few strides had vanished into the other room. Quickly, he cast a glance at the counter to see if…yes, she'd left the keys sitting on top, distracted as she was! Superlative! Now there was no time to waste; snatching them up, Fungus rushed to the open back room door. He then stopped to fumble with the copious keys, hunting for the one which went with this door while simultaneously glancing to check for Shirley.

"Hey, Fungus!" Shirley called from within. "I can't find the toolbox anywhere!"

"O-oh, it's probably just under some stacked boxes in the far corner!" Fungus replied, sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm approximately ninety-eight point seven percent certain it's in there—Huzzah!" He held out the key and then, as carefully as his nerves would allow him, he shut the back room door. It was the sharp click of his locking it from the outside which ultimately drew Shirley's attention.

"Wha…? Fungus? Fungus…?"

He ignored her baffled inquiries, bounding over to the drawer where she'd stowed away the taser. The drawer easily slid open since Shirley hadn't locked it, so Fungus took out the gun to power it down—and found that its cartridge had been jarred out of place, which saved him a lot of trouble.

"Fungus?! Fungus Oz, let me out of here right now!"

He looked down at the gun, momentarily uncertain if he should take it or leave it here locked away. He gritted his teeth in indecision, then on a whim he resolved to take it with him and exited the office, keys in tow.

"Fungus?! FUNGUS! OPEN UP, OR I'LL TWIST YOUR SORRY BIRD LEGS UNTIL THEY BEND THE RIGHT WAY!"

He'd already laid the weapon on the cart next to Randall when Shirley began pounding on the door. Clicking the handlebar out of place, Fungus steered the cart down Laughfloor F's length toward the back way out, its wheels squealing as it peeled across the ground.

"…The things…you get me mixed up in…" he panted at the unconscious Randall.

Moments later, he disappeared through the back exit with his unusual load, Shirley's muffled, outraged shrieks still resounding behind him.

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Warmth touched Randall's fronds and the back of his head as he awoke. The sensation had penetrated through a thick, vague haze of pain, and had abruptly roused him into consciousness. As his mind began to register the light filtering through his closed eyelids, he shut them tighter and groaned. Stirring, he started to pull the bedcovers tucked around his jaw over his head, but stopped in mid-motion. Bedcovers…? And a…mattress?

Randall opened his eyes a crack, trying to blink away the blurriness of his vision. He slowly propped himself up on the bed with his upper right arm, then brought a hand to his forehead.

"Jalapeña, my head…" he muttered, eyes squeezed shut again. When the twinge subsided to a dull ache, he opened them and looked about, this time having better luck taking in his surroundings. It was a modest bedroom, golden light spilling onto the bed through the horizontal slits of window blinds. The room's wallpaper was yellowing and pealed off in several places; its carpeting was a shaggy, pukey orange, and the weathered furniture obviously dated back to the '60s. A shadowbox display of categorized lint hanging on the wall was his final tip-off: this was Fungus' bedroom. As for exactly how Randall had ended up here, he hadn't the faintest.

Try as he might, he could only draw a blank as to what'd happened in the last twenty-four hours. The last thing he remembered was a fruitless afternoon spent hunting for a meal in that snob-infested human city, Edgewood. He had a fuzzy recollection of being struck in the back, and then a flash of intense pain, but before that and the hunting…nothing. And worse was he had no idea how he'd ended up back in the Monster World; in a way, it was infuriatingly anticlimactic.

Randall sighed and flopped onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling while he absently rubbed his forehead again. Perhaps HE had taken care of everything despite their arranged appointment—the idea of which, since the process had somehow involved severe pain and memory loss, peeved Randall to no end. But if there was anyone who might have answers right now, it was (in a supreme turn of irony) Fungus.

Through immense willpower—how LONG it'd been since he'd laid in a real bed!—Randall pulled the plaid covers off his body and slid onto the carpet, his movements slow and deliberate as though he hadn't used his limbs for a long time. He walked to the door and creaked it open, stepping into a short hallway to his right. It ended in a great room with a small, L-shaped kitchen area to his right and a round breakfast table in the living area to his left. More shaggy carpet (except for the rectangle of linoleum tiling in the kitchen) extended into this space, along with more '60s-era furnishings. A TV set stood atop the kitchen counter's far end, faced toward the table and turned on with its volume low…and poking his head into a kitchen cabinet on the floor was Fungus, mumbling incoherently to himself.

Leaning against the hallway's entry with his arms crossed, Randall pointedly cleared his throat. Startled, Fungus jerked upward and smacked his head against the top of the cabinet, then pulled out shakily to look Randall's way.

"R-Randall!" he exclaimed, eyes lit up with clear astonishment as he rose. "I-I hadn't expected you to be awake for several hours yet."

Randall shook his head curtly. "Forget about that," he said, narrowing his eyes and stepping inside the great room. "Something screwy's going on and I'm not gonna sit down to chat 'til I get some ans…" He trailed off as his gaze rested on an umbrella stand huddled next to a dresser in the living area. Stowed inside with the umbrellas was a bulky gun, the sight of which nagged at Randall's brain with familiarity. Where have I…?

Then, his breath catching, everything rushed back to him—the middle school, the human girl, the moving truck, the door, the factory, the woman…

The woman!

"That…that MANIAC in the dispatch office!" Randall spat vehemently, his weakness forgotten for the moment. "She tried to kill me with that taser gun—!"

"I know, I know," Fungus interrupted, approaching the lizard monster. "Sh-Shirley tried to kill both of us, and we quite narrowly escaped with our lives…y-you more narrowly than myself."

Bowing his head and sighing irritably to mask a dizzy spell, Randall rubbed his forehead. "And I suppose nowadays you make a habit of befriending deranged killers, huh Fungus?"

"Oh, goodness no!" he responded emphatically. "I-I had no idea Shirley possessed such violent tendencies—at least not to the extent that she'd actually murder in cold blood." Fungus tutted to himself, becoming reflective. "What baffles me is how Mr. Sullivan would've ever allowed someone as unbalanced as her to replace Roz'—"

"Whoa, hold up!" Randall raised a questioning eye ridge, a part of him suspecting that the "Mr." moniker implied something new about a certain someone. "'Mr. Sullivan'?"

Fungus looked up at him. "You haven't heard already?" he asked, his voice colored with surprise before immediately descending into meekness. "Well, far be it for me to identify what you know; but—a-as it so turns out—our very own James P. Sullivan has recently acquired the position of CEO at Monsters, Inc."

Randall stopped breathing, nausea swirling under his heart. "…What?"

"Well, you know…the former Scarer, the one who's friends with Mike Wazowski, the one who took the kid and destroyed the Scream Extractor, the—"
"I KNOW who you're talking about!" Randall snapped. His momentary tenseness grew shaky, and nausea twisted his diaphragm anew. "But…but that's impossible. Waternoose—"

"Has been incarcerated for over a year," Fungus informed. "His trial's coming up this summer."

The lizard monster snorted. Well, there'd never been any love lost between himself and Waternoose, so he wasn't exactly "cut up" over hearing what'd happened to the old money monger. But any satisfaction that thought might've offered was overshadowed by another, GLARINGLY far-fetched bit of news that just did not compute.

"Okay, so Mr. High-and-Mighty is a jailbird now," Randall said. "But just how the heck did somebody like Sullivan take the helm of a huge, multi-branch power conglomerate?"

Fungus scratched his head. "Well, I-I recall the exact reasons being rather complicated. From what I've gathered, however, it seems most people agree the largest factor which played in Mr. Sullivan's ascent to the office was his introduction of laugh power."

"'Laugh power'?" he echoed. His tone was equal parts incredulous and skeptical.

"Why, yes," Fungus answered. "A-around the same time Waternoose was arrested, Mr. Sullivan discovered that laughs are ten times more powerful than screams. Once the switch was made to laugh production, the company immediately shot out of the red. He'd helped salvage Monsters, Inc., Randall—almost single-handedly!"

As he listened to this, Randall's face gradually fell, then suddenly tightened as a familiar, hot bitterness sparked at the pit of his stomach. Lucky, LUCKY Sullivan! How is it that he ALWAYS manages to come out all roses? It's worse than unfair—it's CRIMINAL!

"I don't believe this…" he muttered indignantly. "That Throw Rug in charge of the company; how much lower could the Board of Directors go?!"

Fungus blinked in utter perplexity. "But I-I don't understand," he began. "Mr. Sullivan may have thwarted the Scream Extractor, but I've never found the least bit reason to dislike him—"

Swiftly, he leaned into Fungus' face. "Well maybe you'd understand why the feeling's not mutual when you've been tossed by 'Mr. Sullivan' into the Human World like so much garbage!"

Randall stood back, faintly panting, his green eyes still burning with deep, hurt-tinged loathing. The red monster only gaped at him, rendered speechless by disbelief, then looked away as the realization finally seemed to sink in.

"Oh my…" Fungus murmured, shaking his head. "You…you mean he just…banished you? W-without so much as a word?"

"Not much to me, at least," Randall spoke bitterly. "Wazowski talked it up a lot with him, BOY he did! But apparently, neither of those two thought I had anything to add to their little discussion about my 'punishment'. And it wasn't even much of a discussion at that." His voice suddenly became high-pitched and nasally: "'Hey Sulley! Let's chuck Lizard Boy through a door an' see how he likes it!'" Then in a much lower tone: "'Oh, okay!'" Randall exhaled exhaustingly, burying his face in his upper hands as he shook his head.

"You mean he and Mike…?"

"Yes," came Randall's muffled reply.

Fungus continued to stare a moment, not seeming quite sure how he should react to this revelation. Uncomfortably, he shuffled his feet. "Well…I-I guess that explains a great deal, not the least of which being your lengthy and unexplained absence." He paused, as though something had just occurred to him. "Wait…i-if you've been in the Human World all this time, then why was Shirley after you?"

Lifting his head, Randall averted his eyes, the well-known and familiar feeling of having been backstabbed re-igniting as he remembered HER. He may have just revealed something of similar personal hurt to Fungus, but when it came to explaining HER…it was just one thing he wasn't quite ready to disclose.

"I don't wanna talk about it right now," he replied flatly.

"B-but Randall," Fungus persisted, moving in front of him, "she was willing to take both of us down without scruples. Don't you think it's imperative to—?"

"I can't tell you anything, okay?!"

Fungus drew back, so stunned he didn't even tremble. As Randall watched him, breathing heavily from the intensity and emotion behind his outburst, his mood began to temper. For the first time since he'd gotten Fungus involved with working on the Scream Extractor, Randall had actually, TRULY scared the little guy out of his wits. Even when they'd worked on the Scarefloor together, Fungus had known Randall wasn't one to follow through with his more extravagant threats (e.g. personally putting him through the door shredder). He'd understood it was just Randall's nature, to have a short fuse when it came to inept monsters, just as Randall understood it was Fungus' nature to be an inept, rambling brainiac. But this…this whole thing with Shirley had been a matter of life and death, and he could tell now that Fungus was still deeply shaken by that experience. He was just worried about Randall, and being the center of someone else's concern wasn't exactly something Randall was used to, much less something he knew how to properly react to.

Sighing, Randall looked away and ran a hand through his fronds. He then turned back toward Fungus with a softened gaze. "Hey, Fungus," he spoke up, his voice quiet. "You were…saying something about this Shirley gal going after you, too. What exactly happened while I was out?"

His mood brightening, Fungus immediately started into a rather elaborate explanation of what'd occurred—his suspicions about Shirley, his thinking Randall was dead, his narrow escape from her intended plans for him. He'd even included the reason why he'd taken Randall to his duplex apartment instead of the E.R.: it had something to do with the latest taser technology, and the fact that whoever was shot by its ammo and initially survived either would or wouldn't recover, so there was nothing doctors could do to help. Randall had meanwhile listened, letting the red monster ramble to his heart's content, and found himself quite impressed with Fungus' unprecedented resourcefulness. But once he realized just WHY the little jarhead had acted somewhat out of character, he couldn't help but be touched, too. Fungus could've just run away while Shirley was distracted with the gun, but instead he'd decided to lay everything on the line to save both himself and Randall. There'd only been a precious few times in Randall's life when someone had gone out on a limb for him, and it was something that—in Randall's book—merited some recognition.

"…but that's the problem with hatchback vehicles these days," Fungus was saying. "They never seem to take into account the possibility of their drivers bringing an unconscious passenger almost twelve feet in length—"

Randall clapped a hand over Fungus' mouth, just to stop him and get his attention. "You probably saved my life back there," he said earnestly, removing his hand and placing it on Fungus' shoulder. "I owe you one."

Fungus cracked a lopsided grin, scratching the back of his head. "A-aww, well…I-I know you would've done the same for me."

A fleeting, sad smile played on Randall's lips. It was a nice sentiment—a naïve one on Fungus' part, but still nice nonetheless.

"…Quick question," Randall said, his gaze having wandered back to the taser gun. "I dunno about you, but isn't storing that gun in an umbrella stand kinda, well…conspicuous?"

Fungus' cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. "A-actually, that had occurred to me, except…" He gritted his teeth in obvious embarrassment. "Well, I kinda ran out of room."

Randall scanned the room, and soon understood what Fungus meant: all the various drawers and cabinets were practically bursting with papers he'd absently stuffed inside, and one partially open closet was overflowing with junk. Even the kitchen cabinetry suffered from excess storage, so that the umbrella stand truly WAS the only place left to stash away the gun. The lizard monster couldn't help shaking his head; Fungus may've possessed a larger I.Q. than even Randall himself, but he was also dreadfully disorganized and a hopeless "pack rat".

"Hunh…well, unless ya have some sorta 'system' going on here, you wouldn't mind if I clear off a seat for myself at the table, would ya?"

"O-of course not," Fungus answered. "Be my guest."

Randall strode to the breakfast table and took a seat, his tail sticking through the hole in the chair's backrest while his hind feet sat tucked up on the seat and his fore feet dangled over the seat's edge. Not the most comfortable position, but it worked. He then propped up his upper elbows on the table so he could rest his jaw on those hands, his lower arms folded loosely across his underbelly as he leaned forward.

"I could get you something to drink, if you'd like," Fungus said.

Randall's expression perked up hopefully. "You have any coffee?"

"Hmm…all I've got is decaf."

Randall made a face. "Ugh…never mind," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Some orange slime'll have to do."

"Coming right up." Within a few moments, Fungus had brought him a tall glass of orange slime, for which Randall thanked him. As he started gulping it down, however, any hopes he had for eating his first decent meal in over a year were nearly dashed; the nutritious orange slime had hit his battered stomach like a warhead, and he wasn't sure he could keep it all down for very long. Randall stopped a moment, then continued by taking more judicious sips at his drink. His stomach made no further protests, so he allowed himself to relax and begin to truly, sincerely relish his return to civilization. Sitting in a room, at a table, drinking some slime…just like any normal monster.

These pleasant thoughts pervading his mind, Randall let his gaze rest upon the TV. The four o' clock news was on, and one of the program's "roving reporters" was doing a special interest story which didn't particularly interest Randall, since he didn't consider that stuff real news. He only half-listened to the program until a fragment of something the anchormonster was saying grabbed his attention:

"…and after several hours of working under strict confidentiality, the CDA has finally released information on what could possibly be Monsters, Incorporated's second major scandal in two years…"

Randall blinked, holding his glass in midair as he stared more intently at the television screen. "Could ya turn up the sound for me, Fungus?"

"Sure." Fungus took the remote and raised the volume, then sat at the table to watch the broadcast, too:

"…In a press conference which ended only minutes ago, the CDA has confirmed that it is, at this time, conducting an investigation in the general metropolitan area. According to the agency, its first lead was received around nine o' clock last night, when an employee at the major production facility—whose name has not yet been released—filed a still classified report while working at the factory. The largest power company in Monstropolis and the most influential of its kind in the nation, Monsters, Incorporated has received exceptional publicity in the past two years, the most notorious of which is the facility's now-infamous claim to having been responsible for the first security breach in monster history. With this in mind, many sources have speculated that the employee's report may very well implicate a possible REPEAT of the November, 2001 incident."

Randall swallowed heavily upon hearing the last bit. Could she…? No, of course not! He was already sure he himself had been the cause for all this alarm, and the fact that he'd dragged in tons of spores from the Human World probably didn't help matters much at the factory. Besides, this was only speculation, brought up by the news program merely because of the sensationalist effect such information was likely to have on the public.

The anchormonster continued:

"In response to this guesswork, the CDA has also released an official statement, part of which reads as follows:

'We can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a human in the Monster World.'

Some analysts have been quick to point out that this statement has a striking resemblance—if not near identicalness—to the one issued during the first child crisis. Also of note, says analysts, is the use of the term 'human' instead of the more specific 'child'. This, along with the rumored use of modified child scanners which allow for adjustments according to age, suggests not only a security breach, but one which involves a human intruder of adolescent or even perhaps adult age."

Randall's mouth went dry, his jaw slackening. No…everything just fit too well, speculation though it was. And he HAD heard rumors about those child scanners three years ago from a rather reliable source—the CDA-paranoid Mr. Waternoose himself.

The lizard monster listened on with bated breath:

"The CDA has so far refused to confirm anything related to its investigation, except for its promise to do 'thorough and expedient' work and to place its initial focus upon Monsters, Incorporated. The agency has, however, issued a warning to the public: the 'Human Alert System', established in early 2002 in light of the first security breach, has been elevated from a low alert 'Code Green' to a high alert 'Code Orange'. In regards to the current situation at Monsters, Incorporated, company CEO James P. Sullivan was not available for comment.

"And now for an overview of today's sports with—"

Randall shut it off, having taken the remote which Fungus had laid on the table. He simply stared straight ahead, his expression blank, an empty, cold feeling welling in his chest.

"Wow…" Fungus said, clearly astonished. "Well, just makes me all the more glad I couldn't come to work today, I-I must say. Boy, how my latex allergy acted up when those agents infested the factory the last—!" He stopped, noticing Randall's peculiar mood. "Randall…a-are you feeling all right?" he asked.

He glanced at Fungus. "Wha…? Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

"Because if you want, I could whip up another glass of orange slime, since it does wonders for perking people—"

"I said I'm FINE, Fungus," Randall enunciated, becoming testy. He tried to sigh away his irritation before continuing. "Look, I…I just need to use your bathroom." Without another word, he slid out of the chair and stalked toward the short hallway.

"Ah…o-okay," Fungus replied, adjusting his specs in bafflement as he watched him leave.

Seconds later, Randall was inside the bathroom with the door shut and locked behind him. Turning on the sink's tap, he splashed water onto his face and fronds, wiping at his skin with brisk, angry motions. The stupid kid! he thought hotly. She just had to follow me through the door, didn't she? What was so HARD about understanding that she needed to mind her own business? Was she THAT dense?! THAT…desperate?

He stared at the sink, his upper hands gripping its rim as water dripped off his face. He suddenly shook his head. It makes no difference, he convinced himself. She's done this to herself, and it's not my place to rescue some human kid because of a poor judgment call on HER part. Too bad for her; I gave her a fair warning and she snubbed it. As far as I'm concerned, it's not my problem…

A voice in the back of his head chimed in: But that's not enough to stop you from helping her, is it?

Randall straightened slightly, stricken by the thought's truthfulness. Devon…that was her name, wasn't it? A puny, scrawny, graceless little human kid with glasses; that was all she was, nothing more. Yet after only spending a few minutes with her, he couldn't get the girl out of his mind. This was ridiculous—she was just a kid! Why in Monstropolis did it matter so much to him what happened to her? Why did he even care? Why? Why? WHY?!

Yeah…why?

Shutting his eyes, Randall turned off the tap and groped for the small towel hanging beside the sink. He wiped away the excess water from his skin, then, lowering the towel, he looked up. His reflection gazed back at him from the bathroom mirror, and it gave him pause. One of the rare times he'd seen himself since being thrown into the Human World was last night, in that school restroom. He'd been walking around, exploring and inspecting the room, when he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. It was one of those wall-mounted metallic sheets which served as a substitute for regular glass mirrors, and its reflection wasn't all that clear. But it was enough for Randall to be reminded of how much he'd changed over the months, to see how truly thrashed and sickly he looked. Seeing that scar on his head—fingering it, realizing how hideous it was—had sent him over the edge, beyond fury and beyond grief, so all he could do was run from the mirror with a strangled cry and curl up in a restroom stall, his body shuddering with each breath. It was just another "weak" moment—in this case something Randall hadn't done since he was a child—but it might've gone on a while longer if Devon hadn't decided to wander down the school hallway right then.

In a way, though, he'd thought the timing was perfect: instead of wallowing in his own self-pity, he could take out the fierceness of his emotion on Devon and, simultaneously, send her away before his door arrived. But his plan didn't quite work out, since she had been—of all things—curious, which in turn had made him curious. She might've been a little scared of him, yes, but that hadn't stopped her from treating Randall like…well, a person. But it was more than just refreshing for him, to have an actual, intelligent conversation with someone else; he'd felt comfortable around Devon, and had—for a few wonderful seconds—completely forgotten about his troubles and profound loneliness, and even about the three monsters who'd ruined his life. Not for a long, long time had ANYONE managed to have such an effect upon him.

If for nothing else—even if not for standing up for him in front of her father—he owed her one for those few seconds.

Gently, Randall ran his fingers over the dark sliver on his forehead, watching himself in the mirror as he did so. She didn't care if I looked like this. So then why should I care if she IS just a human kid?

He already knew the answer to that: he shouldn't. Plain and simple; he shouldn't.

Grimacing in determination, Randall balled the towel and dumped it into the sink, then briskly made his way toward the great room. Fungus, who now sat at the table with a newspaper, looked up as he reentered.

"Ah, good, you're back!" he said cheerfully. "I've just been perusing the paper to find out more about that awful condiment shortage, and—h-hey, what're you doing?" Fungus scrambled out of his seat as Randall bypassed him, the lizard monster heading for the door.

"I'm leaving," Randall said curtly. "There's something I need to take care of."

"But you can't! You're simply in no condition—"

"I don't have time to worry about that. If I don't get to her before they do—"

"WAIT!" Fungus intercepted Randall, forcing him to stop. "'Her'? 'They'? What in Monstropolis are you talking about?!"

Randall sighed, half-rolling his eyes. "Okay, look; I know about the kid the CDA's looking for."

Fungus' eyes widened. "Y-you mean there really is a human?"

"Yeah, there is. And I'm not about to see her get caught by those creeps." He tried to press past Fungus, but the little monster stood in his way again.

"But h-how did you find out about this?"

"Fungus, please…"

"Just a moment of your time, Randall," he persisted. "I-it'd be nice to know just why you're running off into certain danger, after all."

Noting Fungus' earnest concern, Randall yielded. "Okay—when you saw me in the dispatch office last night, I'd just returned from the Human World through a factory door. And right before that, I came across this kid who was pretty curious about me." He paused. "Devon—the kid, I mean—I'm thinking she followed me through the door, too."

"Oh, gracious…" Fungus murmured. "That does sound bad."

"Which is why I'm going after her," he replied firmly. "I've seen what the CDA's done to a pitiful little sock, so I'm not exactly eager to find out how they'd react to an actual human."

"But Randall, e-everyone knows now that children aren't toxic."

"Maybe, but Devon's no little bedwetting five year-old. And because that stupid news report has already made that clear, monsters are now gonna be running scared and screaming for the 'wild human' to be exterminated, like she'll devour their kids or something. Besides, the CDA has a bad tendency to follow a 'shoot now, ask questions later' policy." He gave Fungus a questioning look. "Unless that's changed since I've been gone…?"

Fungus sighed. "I fear not."

"Figures," Randall muttered. He then shook his head, starting forward. "I've gotta get out there—"

"Not without due planning, you won't!" Fungus protested.

"Don't you get it? She's in danger now!" He exhaled impatiently, averting his eyes for an instant. "I owe her, Fungus. She helped me out of a tough spot, and maybe you don't understand it, but the LAST thing I want is to see her get vaporized by a buncha control freaks in yellow suits!"

"But what good will it do her if you fatigue, or get arrested, or worse?" Fungus' eyes bore into him pleadingly. "Th-there are simply too many factors to take into account, if you were to barrel onto the streets right now."

The reality of Fungus' words weren't easy to swallow, and it internally stung Randall to acknowledge—at least to himself—that the little jarhead was right. For the past seventeen months, Randall had lived and survived by planning things as he went along, more often guided by instinct than thought. But this was civilization, and as he'd failed to realize until this very moment, the rules had changed: he couldn't mount a rescue mission on the fly, couldn't risk that his weakened body might betray him, and couldn't risk a dozen other possibilities he'd rather not think about. Besides, the onset of dusk in a couple hours wouldn't bode well for him, since Monstropolis policemonsters were notoriously suspicious of lone lizard monsters like himself "wandering" the streets at night.

Randall sighed heavily.

"Fine. You win," he replied in a quiet, sullen voice. He trudged to the table—seething with gut-twisting frustration at the limitations of his body, frustration at the overall circumstances—and positioned himself into a chair again, his eyes downcast as he leaned on the tabletop. "But what am I supposed to do?" he asked at length.

Fungus came to his side. "For starters, I-I could help you search for her," he offered.

Randall looked at him, aggravation ebbing. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. I-in any case, it's probably best that I don't return to work for awhile. Shirley may still think you're dead, but…well…I can't say the same for myself."

Randall raised an eye ridge. "You do realize what I'm about to get myself into is probably just as hairy as anything involving a gun-touting ogress," he pointed out.

"No less so than the Scream Extractor, I would think."

Regarding him a moment, Randall allowed a small, grateful smile. "All right, Fungus. You're in." His expression suddenly became no-nonsense. "…Although I'll warn you ahead of time I'm not gonna have a lotta patience with you, considering what's at stake."

"Oh, that's quite all right," Fungus answered dismissively. "We used to work together all the time, remember?"

Randall was tempted to answer by saying, "Yeah—and at least I got PAID to put up with you then," but instead nodded, wanting to get to the matter at hand.

"The question is," he wondered aloud, "where the heck do we start looking for the kid?"

Squinting upward, Fungus grimaced in deep thought. "Well, I-I could map out a search radius based upon the probable distance of the human's travel thus far. Let's see…must take into account the time duration since entry, location of entry—the factory, of course—a-and then her weight…"

Randall had simply tuned him out, since there was almost no point in stopping Fungus while engrossed in his own train of thought. He instead concentrated upon coming up with his own ideas, drumming his fingers on the tabletop while letting his eyes wander about the room. Presently, he glanced at the abandoned newspaper across from him and started to move on…then flicked his gaze back to one of the open pages. Narrowing his eyes, he reached over and pulled the paper to himself, flipping it right side up to skim the full-page advertisement's text. After a moment, his eyes widened.

"Hey, Fungus…" He turned his head and saw Fungus still muttering to himself (something about "the Pythagorean Theorem"). With a sharp whistle, Randall immediately snared his attention. "Take a look at this," he said, motioning for him to come.

Fungus obliged, adjusting his specs as he peered over Randall's upper left shoulder.

"Ah, the Association!" he commented after reading the ad over. "Interesting movement they're involved in, I must say—only started becoming prominent when Mr. Sullivan became CEO." He eyed Randall, as if something had just dawned on him. "Y-you're not thinking…?"

"I know it's a long shot," Randall began, "but from what I've gathered, Devon seems to be a pretty bright kid. I wouldn't be surprised if she's somehow found her way to these guys already." He tapped the ad in indication, meanwhile trying to temper his quickly escalating hope with more realistic expectations. "In any case, at least it's a start."

Fungus snapped his fingers. "And I know who to contact first!" he said triumphantly. "I-I know some Association members, so I can call around to find out what's going on."

"For right now, just get out their phone numbers," Randall instructed, sliding out of the chair. "I wanna make sure you're asking the right questions when you call, and not raising anyone's suspicions."

"W-where're you going?" Fungus queried, watching Randall head toward the hallway.

"Since it doesn't look like we're going anywhere right away, I might as well do something I've been looking forward to for a long time: taking a shower." He looked over his shoulder, something familiar and almost-forgotten wedging back into his soul. "Oh, and Fungus—don't make any comments about that, or I'll be forced to throw you into the trash compactor." He flashed that trademark, mischievous grin which once came so easily to him, then continued into the hallway.

Fungus blinked, adjusting his glasses as a bemused half-smile perked the corners of his mouth.

"Well, I-I guess what they say is true, after all," he thought aloud. "'The more things change, the more they stay the same'!"

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Not much to say here, except that the next chapter should prove to be a MAJOR turning point in the story. "How?" you may ask. All I can say for now is: "Stay tuned…"