Author's Note

I've wanted to write this for a long time, and with Monsters University coming out next year, I figured I'd better get in there. (Yes, I realise MU is a prequel and my story is more of a sequel, but either way, I don't want the upcoming film to influence my writing at the moment.) It's been a long time since I've written fanfiction, and this is probably the last one I'm ever going to write. It just sort of needs to be done, and I say that completely selfishly- I'm writing this for my own sake more than anyone else's. I just needed this story to be down on paper, just so I can know that it's there, and I know that after I graduate, it'll be difficult to find the time to commit to writing this thing. To say it's been years in the making would be an understatement.

However, I'm going for a no-holds-barred approach with this one. This is not going to be a particularly pleasant story, for the most part. If you're very fond of Randall and don't like the idea of bad things happening to him (or him doing bad things, for that matter) then I wouldn't recommend continuing. Saying that, I've fantasised about how dark it's going to be and so on, but it might not end up quite so bad. Either way, you've been warned.

I not only readily welcome but encourage critique. From major stuff ("Randall would never say that!") to minor stuff ("the way you've phrased that is stupid"), I implore you to let me know what you think. I haven't written the whole thing yet, so any advice I can use for future chapters is most helpful.

Finally, apologies for the brevity of this chapter, and for this lengthy introduction. It's difficult to put into words how much this means to me- how much Randall means to me. It's heavy stuff. Hopefully I'll be able to convey that in this story.

Chapter 1: A Tasty Morsel

The shovel had last been used to dig their dilapidated truck out of the mud when it had become stuck the previous day. Dried flecks of swamp goo were scattered through the air as the rusty implement was raised and then brought down heavily; the woman was strong from her years of physical, rough living, and her aim was sound.

As the flat side of the shovel flattened Randall's forefront frond, smacking him slightly left of the centre of his skull, he cried out in pain and fear. His vision seemed to be stuck for a moment, fixated on a grimy pot bubbling away on the humans' makeshift stove, though he did not comprehend what it was, or where he was, or, for a moment, who he was. He was in an almost ultimate state of being, when physicality is the only experience that one can perceive, and this physicality was being harshly abused.

The shovel had been raised and swung low again, something else that Randall had not perceived, so that when the blunt edge caught first his raised arm and then his cheek below the eye, knocking two teeth out, it felt as though time had not progressed since the last hit. He cried out, louder this time, the metallic tang of blood encroaching on his senses and curling down his throat.

A final hit caused his vision to fail. He felt the ground seemingly rise up to meet his body, and his stomach emptied itself. There was no last hurrah, no flash of life before his eyes, no sweet memories of home and family being brought to the forefront to comfort him in his last moments. There was just blood and vomit and pain. It was only at this point that he noticed a very loud ringing in his ears, a screeching almost, as though his brain was howling at this barrage of sensations. He passed out.

The woman who had inflicted most of this pain (it would be incorrect to say that Randall was not already in pain to some, comparatively minor, degree before his encounter with this human) was entirely unaware of the creature before her being even remotely sentient; she was barely sentient herself. She turned to her son, beckoning him over, and the two stared at their prize for a few moments before glancing at the bubbling pot and thinking of their empty stomachs.

Despite her general lack of intelligence, this woman could see that there was something different about this 'gator'. As her mother had always said, poison was hidden in the most appealing of places, and so she knew to perform a taste test of sorts. Her eyes scanned the small, dirty kitchen surface they had in the trailer, and she picked up a nasty-looking serrated knife. She gave Randall a nudge with her foot and, satisfied that her catch was unconscious, bent down, grabbed his middle frond, and sliced it in half. Blood poured out of the open wound.

The human woman lobbed this fleshy handful into the bubbling pot, unconcerned by just how strange the creature in her trailer was. Money had been tight as of late, so any potential source of food that was free and even remotely tasty was not going to be wasted. She turned to the pot, keeping an eye on its contents and stirring it on occasion. In the meanwhile, her son had stepped forward and approached Randall's unconscious form.

Picking up a crowbar of sorts that was propped up against a small table, the boy gave Randall a prod and warily eyed him, acting as though he expected this lifeless form to suddenly leap up and attack. After a moment or two of slight concern, he sniffed the air, the strange smell from the pot being sucked up into his nostrils, and shrugged. This thing looked like some sort of swamp mutation- stranger things had happened- and anyway, did it really matter what it was? It was most likely dead. And it sort of looked tasty, in an alien kind of way.

The boy was distracted from his musings by his mother howling and gagging behind him. He turned to see her bent over their counter, spitting with such fervour that it sounded as though she was trying to detach her own teeth. It became apparent that she'd tried a bite of the creature's frond and hadn't liked it.

"Get that thing outta ma trailer!" she wailed at her son, clutching her stomach. The boy rolled his eyes, sighed, and tucked his hands into his pockets.

"Aw, but momma, I don't wan-"

"Get it outta here! NOW!"