Sulley's tie is red, today, red with festive rainbow confetti printed all over the silk. He isn't working the floor, today, but he is there supervising the diligent monsters as they slip into and out of doors, collecting Laughter from human children-mostly in southeastern Asia, this shift. Amid the busy, shuffling feet, the dull roar of passing chatter, and the dinging of filled Laugh tanks, children's voices bubble out, surplus energy that leaks from the canisters themselves. Sulley, watching his monsters work, even now, years and years after the Waternoose scandal and the subsequent shift in company leadership, still feels his chest swell ever so slightly with pride.

He's shaken from Supervisor mode when a brassy voice calls out, "Sulley!" and turns to see a fleshy, green orb with eyeball, tiny horns, and waving limbs steps onto the Laugh floor. A fleshy, green orb Sulley himself knows all too well. "Lunch, right?"

Crap, Sulley forgot. "Sorry, Mike," he groans, slapping a great fuzzy paw to his suddenly sheepish face. "I meant to tell you I'd have to cancel, but I came in early to inspect the tank bay, and I had to reschedule a meeting with the board-"

"Not another word, brother," Mike replies, both hands held up reassuringly. "You've got a lot on your plate, so, I understand." The little green monster stops before his friend and leans to look past him at the throng of working men and women with an approving whistle. "After this morning's training session, honestly, I'm glad. It gives me another heavenly lunch hour to spend with Celia." He rocks back to look at Sulley and reaches way, way up there to pat him on the shoulder.

"Great, Mike," Sulley chortles, returning the glance with that winning Sullivan smile. He turns away, then, from both Mike and the floor to pore over a thick stack of notes on his clipboards, the sounds of the crowd, the children, and the canisters swimming around him without breaking his sudden change of concentration. "The annual company banquet and Mary Gibbs both thank you."

Mike grins knowingly and nudges Sulley in the ribs. He chides, "So, you still haven't gotten Boo a birthday present, yet?"

Another groan. "She'll be thirteen, Mike: officially older than any girl I have any practical gift-giving experience with, human or monster."

"Sulley, it's you," Mike dismisses, rolling his eye dramatically. "You'll get her something, she'll love it, you'll both have fun. Just like every year." He catches sight of the Laugh floor clock and snaps his fingers. "Five 'til. Gonna drop by the front office and pick up the wifey-" He sighs. "-So, I'll see you after work."

Sulley looks at the clock to confirm, then, nods. "Seeya." He flips his notes closed (banquet logistics, speeches, entertainment, etc., will wait until after lunch) and announces the shut down of the Laugh floor for lunch, which is met with a chorus of acknowledgment from the workers.

For lunch, Sulley acquires a sandwich from the in-house deli and, in the interest of quadruple checking some shipping figures and brainstorming gift ideas for Mary, heads for his office. It's where he heads, but instead, he runs into Randall. Literally. The large, blue monster, mid-sandwich-bite, collides with the smaller, purpler lizard, sending both plus Sulley's clipboard and lunch as well as the Laugh tank cart Randall had been pushing toppling to the floor. Despite the cacophonous metallic crash, Sulley manages to keep the cart from spilling most of its contents onto the ground, and Randall saves Sulley's clipboard, but the sandwich lands with an undignified thump on the gaggle of energy canisters.

"When are you ever going to learn to watch where those giant feet of yours are going, Sullivan?" Randall spits, scrambling out of the tangle of monsters and brushing himself off. "I just finished cleaning these tanks."

Sulley rights the cart fully before climbing to his feet. "Good," he replies, reaching for his lunch, "Means my sandwich is gonna be just fine."

Randall scowls and replies, "I've only got a day and a half of this humilitation left, Sullivan. And I won't be sorry to see you eat your words when I take over the Scream Team and blow your so-called legend to tiny pieces."

"Listen," Sulley says, taking another bite of the sandwich once again in his hand and continuing with his mouth full, "Your pride in a redundant system aside, you still have a day and a half of working your way back into Monsters, Inc., the way Mike and I did, so, I would hate for anything to mess up your prospects when you're so close." Sulley swallows and grins at Randall smugly but without venom. Randall's been redeeming his previous actions for a few years, now, and the enmity between them, though initially roaring on in full force, has abated significantly.

Randall responds appropriately with a roll of his eyes, shoving the clipboard in his lower pair of hands at Sulley, then, pulling the cart out of any major walkway. "So. It's that time of year, again, right?" he says, much more quietly. "How's the Kid been?"

"Mary's been great, Randall." Sulley nods. "Y'know, if you want to come with me on her birthday visit, I'm sure reconciling wouldn't be too much work. It's been years."

"Nah," Randall mutters, looking squarely at a vastly interesting tile beside one of his feet. "Thanks, though. I'll probably just... send more cupcakes."

Again, Sulley nods. "She does love them." Randall nods, this time, looking painfully uncomfortable. Sulley, then, decides not to make him suffer. "Well, listen, I'm working through lunch, so, I've got to get going. Great job, so far."

"Whatever, Sullivan," Randall says too quickly, returning to his Laugh tanks and pulling the cart out to move, also too quickly. So, he gets it.

Sulley tosses him a pseudo salute and a "Seeya."

And Randall returns, "Yeah. Bye." A pause. Then, quietly, "Thanks."

Sulley beams all the way back to his office.

His sandwich is finished before he steps through the door, leaving him free to toss the wrapper through the trashketball basket and collapse with a sigh onto his huge, comfy office chair. Every time, the first couple of minutes of Sulley returning to his chair, his throne, the spotted beast always takes for himself to sink in, soak up the cushiony comfort. He considers the purchase of this chair the single best business decision that ever he's made, which makes wallowing in its glory even sweeter. But as usual, he's also quick to get to work.

He drops his clipboard onto the large, dark mahogany desk and looks over a couple of shipping bullets before reaching for the phone. He had some questions about some of the overseas transport-a hard job that must be, Sulley thinks-but the shipping company has always been easy to work with, the past few years he's been using them. Of course, when the phone rings just before he's touched it, Sulley jumps, briefly, but recovers and picks up, putting the ear piece to his head.

"Crystal?"

"Mr. Sullivan," a soft, sweet voice replies, "There's a Mr. Chester Alexander calling representing Fear Co.?"

Chet? From MU? Sulley chuckles, "Well, that's a surprise. Put him through."

The monstress Crystal confirms, then, the line dies for a moment while she transfers the call.

When the line opens back up, Sulley announces, "James P. Sullivan speaking."

A voice very different from the one Sulley expects replies, "Mr. Sullivan," with no lisp, certainly none of the spazzing, and an octave below the Chet Sulley knew. "This is Chester Alexander, and I'm calling on behalf of Fear Co. CEO John Worthington, III."

Sulley has some small difficulty not guffawing at the ironic change in his old Frat brother's demeanor, but eventually queries, "It's been a long, long time, Chet. How are you and Johnny?"

Chet's side is quiet for some time before he replies with no change in delivery, "Yeah, Sullivan, hey. We're good, but this is about business." Distance from familiarity, Sulley notes. He is serious. "Fear Co. would like to meet with you."

"All right," Sulley concedes, "Sure thing. Regarding?"

Chet sighs audibly. "Mr. Worthington would prefer all details be discussed in person. Sorry."

Sulley grunts in acceptance. "All right, then. When would, ah, Mr. Worthington like to meet?"

"Are you available this afternoon?"

Sulley confirms, and then, it's set. Johnny will be paying him a visit in a few hours. He hangs up and leans back in his chair, staring pensively at his high ceiling. "What are you up to, now, Johnny?"

It's a few moments before he notices that his door-which he almost always keeps shut tight-is ajar. He almost chalks it up to uncharacteristic negligence until he catches sight of the cart wrangler hardhat floating in the doorway, at which point he coughs out, surprised, "Randall?"

The purple monster reveals himself, standing rigidly and clutching the doorknob, white-knuckled. He wears an expression part surprise, part confusion, two parts outrage. "Johnny? You're inviting him here?" The words have a tiny bit of trouble working out smoothly, given the slight trembling in their speaker.

Sulley notices, but before he can answer, much less ask why the reaction, Randall scurries away. Instead, the big blue monster scratches awkwardly behind a single horn. "Strange."