Summary: A series of thirty oneshots. Sketches of Randall Boggs, what has happened, what might happen, and what will certainly never happen

See below for a few explanations. Oh, and if anyone is interested in any of these and would like to continue it into a full fic, I encourage/beg you to do so. We need more MIFF. Badly.

Disclaimer: Who reads these things, anyway?

Sparks and Stowaways

1. Home

Mike wasn't quite sure what he'd pictured. Something like the lair underneath the factory, perhaps, all scrap metal and dingy corners. A small part of him wouldn't have been surprised to see a dungeon. What he hadn't expected was that Randall's apartment looked… almost exactly like their own. It was a lot smaller; predictably, he lived alone; but it was neat, furnished as nicely as a fresh-out-of-college monster could hope, with something of an unfinished modern look. Like theirs, his walls were mostly brick, and he had covered them with many of the same jazz posters. New Yorker magazines and books with titles like 'Nelson Advanced Chemistry' lined the many shelves.

What attracted Mike's attention was his expansive CD collection. It was alphabetized. Mike was pleased to note he hadn't gotten ahold of that rare Sonny Terry album that he had, but there were Oscar Peterson records there that Mike hadn't even realized existed.

2. Lessons

"Shawna? Please, have a seat."

"What's he done this time?"

"Oh, no, nothing. I'm just… concerned about him."

"Jesus, it must be serious. Do I need to replace anything?"

"He hasn't done anything recently. That's not what this is about."

"And you called me down here for that?"

"Well… I think maybe he would benefit from more… Um. Look, he's a very bright boy. Maybe if you could spend some time with him at home, see if you can find something that'd interest him. It might be a better outlet for his abilities."

"Look, I'm working two jobs, I can't exactly do jigsaw puzzles with him."

"I just thought… some positive attention, something that would challenge him…"

"He doesn't need challenging. He challenges himself enough as it is. You know he took apart our radio the other day and now all it picks up is some weird French jazz station?"

"Maybe you could listen to music together."

"This is ridiculous."

"Shawna, please - I - I really think he's doing these things for attention. Right now no-one can give him that but you. I know it's hard for a single parent-"

"How do you know that? That's none of your business."

"Well, if one of my students has no father to speak of, it is my business."

"Oh, and I bet your boys know exactly who their daddy is."

"This isn't productive, Shawna."

"You think you're better than me?"

"No. I don't. I think you need to help your son before it's too late."

3. I'm Looking Through You- The Beatles

He would never admit that he'd followed them. He could barely even admit to himself that it had happened; there was nothing to justify it. He'd just… been curious. What was it like, to hang around with Sullivan on friendly terms? How did those two stand each other, living and working together?

And so one day after work he had concealed himself and slunk after them, listening in. They had talked about nothing at all; groceries they needed, ex-girlfriends and a stupid movie. But somehow they had made it funny, had found things in such banal topics about which to joke and laugh. They were walking side by side. Still invisible, Randall came closer and walked with them, on Sullivan's other side, just to see what it felt like.

4. Improvised

"Celia
I care about you for real-ia
Just can't explain what I feel-ia
Celia
Now your heart I'm longin' to steal-ia
Won't toss you aside like an orange peel-ia
Celia-ia-ia-ia
If you love me, we'll call it a deal-ia
And I'm hoping that you'll let me feel-ya…"

A laugh surfaced, and a moment later she wondered if perhaps she should have stifled it. He could have just made it up on the spot, or it could have been the subject of countless hours, the full extent of his artistic ability. You never could tell, with Mike.

5. Answer

Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. "Hey. This is Randall. Either I'm not in or I'm purposely ignoring you. Do what you want. …Actually, if this is Fungus, for every word over twenty I remove one of your toes." Beep.

6. Broken

Fungus glanced around them, as if making sure no one had come into the office without his noticing. And then he leaned in, chewing on his lip with small sharp teeth. "Not even Wazowski can know about this. It's not that I don't trust him, but… he- talks…" He trailed off, his gaze falling to the floor.

Sulley smiled, briefly, ruefully, and said, "I understand. He doesn't need to know. We don't suspect you of anything; I know Randall forced you into it. I just want to know what was going through your head."

Fungus nodded, still looking at the ground. There was a pause. Then he said, "This may or may not come as a surprise to you, Sullivan, but I'm gay."

It did come as a surprise, especially when he realized what Fungus was saying. "So- you… Randall?"

"Ever since I first met him," said Fungus, miserably. He looked tiny, sitting in that huge chair, and profoundly vulnerable. Now he wished he'd never asked. He couldn't imagine how difficult it must have been for him to admit. Bad enough being forcibly outed without having to admit you were secretly in love with the nastiest, most unscrupulous monster around.

Fungus's lip twitched. "I know what you're thinking. Why him of all people, right?"

Sulley winced. He could hardly deny it.

"Truth is, I don't really know either." He shifted in the chair, raising his eyes to Sulley's. They were wide; scared and ashamed. "He wasn't all bad. I know he was proud and mean and downright evil at times, but… He- he was just so unhappy, and I- I thought if he'd let me help him…" Fungus had trailed off again, and he swallowed.

All Sulley could do was nod for him to keep going.

Fungus fidgeted, his whole body tense. When he spoke, his voice was low and thin. "I thought… maybe I - could… fix him," he murmured.

7. Hero

He wondered if Sullivan had ever realized.

8. Human

The tallest of the three was big in every respect, powerful-looking, but his face was open and kind. His blue eyes were soft with fatigue or thought, a deep thought that always seemed to draw his brows into concerned knots below a neat fringe of brown hair. His skin was freckly, and he wore blue. To his right, almost comically shorter, a young man of the same age whose slight gut had not spread to his skinny limbs and whose tawny hair was slicked up into little points. His wide grin was irreverent; there was intelligence and mischief in his eyes. He wore a green t-shirt that t-shirt read 'Brooklyn Improv Tournament 2008'.

Several feet away, as though he was making a point of the distance between them, a long, lean man who walked with a fluid, almost liquid stride. His brown leather jacket hung too big on his frame and did not quite hide the violet shirt underneath. His unkempt hair was white-blonde, so pale that his brows and lashes were nothing but faint white glints. His face, equally pale, was drawn up into a grimace of obvious dislike, showing close, crooked white teeth. His eyes were hooded, underscored by sleepless lines, a poisonous green that showed only anger, unless you were to look carefully.

9. Kid - Stowaway Universe

The boy was seventeen. His name was Sidney; he was skinny and shy and seemed to spend most of his time, involuntarily, in lockers. He had accepted the idea of monsters right away, not just because of the evidence of his own eyes but because he had always believed in them. It seemed to Sulley that he had never finished growing up.

Strange, then, that he had immediately gone to Randall, who had grown up much too fast. All they seemed to have in common was an interest in music. Randall wasn't exactly kind to the kid, either; he spoke to him roughly, ordered him around, gave him much more abuse than praise.

"Don't talk to him like that."

"Like what?" Sulley frowned at Randall, astounded. He'd just been trying to be nice. After a day with Randall, he'd thought Sidney might need it.

"Like he's five." Randall pulled a box of tools from one of the shelves, sifting through them. Sulley wondered if he was looking for something, or if he just needed something to do with his hands. "You treat him like he's that Boo kid."

"You treat him like crap," said Sulley. It seemed absurd that Randall would lecture him about this. "Kids need kindness. Getting mad at them doesn't help."

"He's not a kid!" snapped Randall, looking up from the tools. "Everyone talks to him like he's a child. He's not." He glared at Sulley for a moment, and then, seeming to remember he wasn't supposed to care, turned and left. He did not bring any of the tools with him.

It didn't take Sulley much longer to figure it out. It was logical, in that pessimistic Randall-logic way; of course Sidney preferred him. Randall respected the boy enough to treat him the same way he treated everyone else.

10. Bullies

He'd reconciled himself to it by thinking about the perks of having a slave, someone to kick around who'd have to answer to him and do his bidding. What was the good of that if he was already everyone else's punching bag too? Only Randall ought to be allowed to abuse him. Nobody else.

11. Eyes - Sparks Universe

Sulley would have been a lot happier if everything had just gone back to how it had been before. It would absolve him of his guilt, for one thing. He could tell everyone else appreciated the change in Randall, but that only seemed to underline the sadness of it. Whatever had happened in Louisiana - no one knew, he wouldn't talk about it - had ruined a lot more than people seemed to realize.

He mostly worked in mechanics at the factory, now, things he could touch. Sulley knew he hated needing an assistant, but he didn't say anything about it. He barely said anything at all. Fungus, who had promised to keep an eye on him, reported that he played piano more than ever, and seemed happy enough while he was doing it. But other times he sat alone, silent, and it would seem like he was watching them if you did not see that blank, unfocused luminousness in his eyes. His movements had become fluttery and awkward, thin shoulders locked high and head bowed; his facial expressions were those of a child.

The other monsters said it had humbled him, taught him a lesson. But Sulley hated having to look into those bright, sightless eyes and wonder just how much of Randall there was left.

12. Mirror

He had come to hate the sight of himself. It was not the fact that he looked uglier than ever, not the dark flaccid skin under his eyes or the loose sneer of his lips. It was not, either, that he was undersized and slight. No news report any of that would make. It was that every time he looked into a mirror he saw what they saw - what Sullivan saw - and he did not like it. The mirrors showed the truth, and every time brought him closer to it until he was dangling off a precipice.

Rotten to the core. Nothing left worth preserving.

13. Life - Darwin Universe

Randall awoke in a nightmare.

A lab. It had to be. He was alone; the room was dark. He was tied flat on some kind of workbench. Two lengths of thin plastic cord held him down, tied so that they did not touch the bruises on his side and came nowhere near the broken rib. A computer monitor glowed blue-green a few feet away; by its light he could see syringes, ampoules, a powerful-looking microscope. He could feel a new wound on his upper right arm, like someone had scraped it with the blade of a knife.

Human scientists. His hands flew to the cords, scrabbling to undo them. In better shape, he might have been able to just snap them, but not today. The fasteners were simple, and in a moment he had the first one open, but the second proved more difficult; he could only reach it with his second pair of hands, and the left of those was badly swollen and barely usable.

A click somewhere behind him, and the room lit up. Randall whipped around as far as the cords would allow, his hands still fumbling guiltily with the fastening. Standing in the doorway behind him was a male human, a young adult, wearing a long, white lab coat. He glanced at Randall, then did a perfect double-take, his eyes falling on the single undone cord and opening wide. "Woah."

For a moment, Randall couldn't move. He stared back, frozen.

The man in the lab coat came closer, frowning. "How'd you- shit, you must be smart."

That did it. He was so sick of being mistaken for unintelligent life that it shocked him out of the daze. "What the hell is going on?" Randall demanded, before he could stop himself.

The scientist froze, and his eyes grew even larger. There was a moment of silence. "Jesus Christ," he said at last. "Did you just talk?"

Randall let out a breath. Not smart. Now every biologist in the country would want him. He glanced around, and saw that while it was equipped like one, the room he was in was not a lab- it looked more like a house basement that someone had outfitted for the purpose. There was a bookcase and a couch and a TV in one corner and even a rug on the floor. He snarled. "Yes. Yes, and I'm not a - a robot or - a frigging alligator or whatever you people seem to think I am. Why am I tied down?"

The scientist took a step closer. He was slight and thin; the lab coat was too big for him. He had to be around Randall's age, probably just out of college. His eyes, wide behind black-framed glasses, were very blue. "I- I didn't want to sedate you too heavily-" He put a hand to his head, his eyes squeezing shut. "Am I imagining this or something? What are you?"

Randall sneered, squirming in the cords. Knifeblades of pain were being forced between his ribs. He wished he could have disappeared. "Why don't you hack me open and find out?"

He wasn't good at reading human expressions, but he could see the man's face cloud. "Why would I do that?"

"I'm not stupid," said Randall, a low growl building in his throat. "You still have me tied up. You've taken tissue samples. Aren't you keen to find out how a warm-blooded reptile works? "

The scientist shook his head. "Not all biologists are butchers. And- anyway, your being sentient… changes everything." He looked up, and seemed to notice that Randall was still straining at his bonds. "Oh- hang on, stop. You'll hurt yourself."

In a moment he was beside him, undoing the second strap. Randall wanted to protest, but he didn't; the human's hands were gentle, and his own were in no fit state. "I'm leaving," he snarled.

"Don't." The human bit his lower lip. "You're badly wounded. I can treat you here and then we'll talk about… what I'm going to tell people…" He trailed off. His expression was pleading. "There's so much I want to ask you."

Randall narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he said, after a moment, "but I can go whenever I want and no-one knows about me unless I say so."

The human paused, thinking, then nodded. "Deal."

"You won't go public with this?" It made no sense that he wouldn't. Discovery of a whole new species - not just a species, an entire other half of the kingdom Animalia - would make his career.

"Not based on you alone, no." He bit his lip again, and his eyes met Randall's. He wasn't lying. "I'm not even sure I would want this to go public. This changes natural history- the world-" he began to pace up and down, his face twisted in thought. "It would have to be approached with incredible caution, or it could end in chaos, social upheaval, religious outcry-" He turned to Randall again. "A war. Mass genocide."

Randall slipped off the workbench, putting a hand to his injured side. At his full height, he came up to the human's eyebrows. "Okay. I'll stay. For now. But no more skin samples."

"Fine, fine. What I found was amazing, though. The chemistry under your skin-" He seemed to catch himself, and stopped mid-sentence. "You still haven't told me what you are. Or who you are, for that matter- I mean you must have a name."

Randall gave in. "Chameleo sapiens. In common parlance, a monster." He frowned, and then held out one of his uninjured hands. It would make their bargain official. "Call me Randall."

"Homo sapiens. Charlie," said the human, shaking his hand.

14. Show

Randall folded his arms. For a moment he'd looked angry, almost hurt. Now he was grinning. "I'll ignore the slander. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"In future, Wazowski, I am directing."

15. Lost - Sparks Universe

"Need a hand?"

Randall smirked. "Rethink that sentence, Sullivan."

"Okay, wise guy," said Sulley, with a faint laugh, "Need help?"

"A pair of eyes would do it." Randall paused, a look of frustration pinching his face. His eyes stared blank and bright out into nowhere. He hesitated. "I- just got turned around a bit. Where are we?"

Normally his sense of direction was impressive. It was a bit of a shock to Sulley, a reminder that no matter how well he knew these hallways, he was still blind. "West wing corridor. Laugh floor D is directly to your right."

"Ah," said Randall. And, after a pause, "Thank you."

Even Randall needed help now and again. Maybe he always had. But now Sulley could give it to him.

16. Gentleman Cambrioleur - Garou

" 'The thief's entry point appears to have been the twelfth-story penthouse's single open bathroom window, accessed from outside the building, but security footage shows no sign of such an intruder. The thief broke into M. Cuvellier's combination safe, taking a carved sapphire estimated at over $70 000 value. Though the safe and surrounding penthouse contained many other valuables, nothing else was taken. The thief also left behind a calling card of sorts- a single page of sheet music, without title, composer or lyrics, placed on the piano. Experts have attempted to identify the origins of the music and say that it has never been published or recorded for public distribution.' "

Grinning at him, Randall tossed the heavy blue stone from hand to hand. "Wait'll they figure out it can only be played with twelve fingers."

17. Addiction

He lit the cigarette, taking a long pull. He'd forgotten how it tasted, how it felt, the way it soothed everything in him that was frayed and jagged. Somehow, the thought of cancerous smoke curling through his lungs and eating black through his tissues did not upset him. It was even reassuring. Destroying himself piece by piece.

18. Message

"Hey, Fungus. I - figured you'd be home, you're always home, but - guess now you're not. Uh. Jesus, this is weird… Sorry for bothering you, but there was no-one else to call. I'm - I'm back. But my apartment's gone, all my stuff - Uh- I need your help." Pause, breath. "No. You know what, forget it. I don't need anyone's help and you're - you're probably a lot happier with me outta your life."

19. Peace - Darwin Universe

The house above the basement lab was small, but Charlie had insisted he take the only bedroom, since he himself apparently slept on the couch in the lab. Charlie didn't actually sleep much. Randall, meanwhile, found himself sleeping twelve hours a day. Now that he was safe, not struggling for his life, the exhaustion and strain of the past few months had come to bear on him in its full force. Charlie teased him about it, but said it was perfectly normal; Randall usually told him to put a sock in it.

Despite himself, despite the fact that Charlie was an idealist and a human and something of a nerd, Randall didn't dislike him. You couldn't. He was too nice. He played guitar and drank chocolate milk, watched nature programs narrated by men with soothing British accents, talked enthusiastically about Mendellian genetics if you acted like you were interested but also seemed to know when to shut up when you really weren't in the mood. He was from New York; he'd come to Louisiana to do some 'independent field research', or in other words to make use of his time while he searched desperately for a job. When Randall wasn't asleep, he helped him with research (the thought of not earning his keep somehow rankled at his pride, and he'd aced biology back in high school), or else read his way through Charlie's massive collection of books.

Human literature, like human music, was almost strikingly akin to that of the monster world. there were parallels, even; giants of one genre had their counterparts, as if the two universes were mirrors of each other. Randall read detective novels when he wanted to shut off his brain, but he was drawn to more serious fare as well; there was Steinbeck, the sun-beaten powerful images of a desperate time, and Richler, whose Jewish Montréal was dirty and bitter - 'The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz' reminded him forcefully of his own life, and the first time he read it he stayed up through the night with his heart in his throat as the boy went rotten with ambition.

He returned to piano, as his hand healed, and though it hurt at first it seemed to draw the old thoughts out of him. Just as now he was at liberty to sleep, he also found himself at liberty to think, in depth, upon everything that had happened at the factory, and at times it chased around his head and made him want to scream. He'd given Charlie a few details, a small piece of the story, but he would never tell him much. The human was too good, too utterly moral. He would hate him if he knew, and it would ruin the brief peace that the had established, the little snatch of friendship he had stumbled upon.

20. Loyalty

I was always shocked that he had time for me. I wasn't popular in high school, more well-liked by accident, because I was on the football team but I was quiet and I had been crushing pitifully on the same girl since ninth grade without having the courage to ever tell her so. You know, the capital-N-G Nice Guy? He was something else. Mike's scene was the drama room. He was captain of the improv team, he had a witticism for every occasion, everyone thought he was hilarious. And even when he could have had his pick of all the outgoing drama kids and popular kids and whole demographics that didn't include his childhood best friend, he stuck around.

21. Master and Commander

December 1806, Off the coast of Cape Horn
Aboard the sloop H.M.S. Sophie

James was very conscious of the class lines hat had been drawn, even among the sailors, who were all too poor for a pot to piss in. But an Irishman, a Catholic, was different. He'd been the lowest of the low when he arrived. He'd had to earn their admiration piece by piece with bravery and good seamanship, and now captain Waternoose (The men called him Old Crab, because no prize could escape his claws) was talking about making him a lieutenant. Imagine, an Irishman, an officer! The only people lower in the social heap were Negroes and Jews. The sloop didn't have any Negroes on it, but it did have a Jew; Malachi Wazowski, James' particular friend. Wazowski - the men had been calling him one-eyed Malachi ever since the battle at Port Mahon - was small, witty, a fine taker, and like James he had a certain defensiveness about his creed and faith, which had made them brothers in otherness. He, too, was moving up in the ranks, mostly for his cleverness with navigation. The men liked him. He made them laugh.

There was one other Catholic aboard. Boggs, a skinny cantankerous Irishman with none of James' popularity. Boggs was a fine seaman, to be sure; he spent all his time barefoot in the riggings, clambering about the backstays like one of the doctor's South American monkeys. But he was insolent and unfriendly to an extreme. The men disliked him so much as to very nearly call him a Jonah, and called him Croppie and Bogtrotter instead, but it was not their Irish blood they hated - they liked James well enough - it was his vicious temper. He and James had quarrelled once over the Wolf Tone rebellion and even though James had all of five stone on him Boggs had been pushing for it to come to blows.

James, as Malachi reminded his, ought to have felt some satisfaction in seeing the cur flogged for insubordination. But, watching Boggs bite down screams as the cat' cut his back to the bone, James could not help but suppose that perhaps he had already endured punishment enough.

22. Remember

"I'm not blaming you. At this point that would be sick beyond belief. I'm just saying you… you didn't… Oh, hell, as if you're getting any of this. Half the time you don't recognize me anyway. Shawna, do you know who this is? Look at me. Remember? Your son?"

"…"

"Jesus. Nothing. It's like a fucking void in there… Augh. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I - I know you tried. I wish I could have turned out better on your account. You just weren't exactly the mom type, yeah? I just wish you'd, I don't know, given me a name or something. Did you really not know who he was? Hell, you could have made it up, even. I already knew he'd be a complete dirt bag given the kind of guys you always brought home… I just wanted a name. And now you're gone and it's too late."

23. Potential - Sparks Universe

"They're going to get better," said Mike, "Give it time."

"Time?' Randall's lip twitched. "It's been a too long. Nothing's going to change." He paused, and sighed, thinly. One hand reached up to touch the thick, knotted scar that ran across his forehead and over both eyes. "I'm blind. I just have to deal with it."

Mike was glad for the jazz they'd put on earlier; without it, the silence would have been unbearable. It felt unnatural to see him like this. With Charles Mingus in the background everything seemed easier to take. "Oh, come on, you've already adapted really well. You get around alone. You know were everything is. Heck, it's incredible."

"All that's the easy part," said Randall, simply. "I've figured out what I can do. Now I have to accept what I can't."

24. Potential- Darwin Universe

Fascinating. A world of incomplete dominance. Thousands of phenotypes; Evolution in hyperdrive. In their world, there are no clear boundaries between species - All offspring are viable. In their world, anything is possible.

25. Late - Stowaway Universe

Randall must have thought he was asleep. He should have been. Sidney certainly was - he tossed and turned, his eyelids fluttering, murmuring anxiously to his bad dream. But, seeing Randall's tail circle around the boy in a protective half-hug, Sulley couldn't help but be grateful for his insomnia.

26. Silence - Darwin Universe

"What's eating you, Randall?"

"What?"

"You always seem really… pissed off. Like the world's just slapped you in the face."

"Shut up, Charlie."

"Fine."

Silence.

"Jesus, you're such a spineless bitch. I tell you to shut up and you DO it."

Silence.

"You've got nothing to say to that?"

Silence.

"You know you can't give me the silent treatment. It doesn't work. I like the quiet."

Silence.

"You're frigging annoying."

Silence.

"Augh, fine! I know I'm a miserable jackass. I have every reason to be."

"What reasons?"

"Oh, now you talk. What the hell was that supposed to be?"

"I was keeping quiet because I thought you wanted to tell me something."

"Well I don't."

"Uh, clearly you do."

"Shut up, Charlie."

27. I Feel it All - Feist

Out here there is rarely complete silence, but when it comes, it is crushing. It's hard to think straight lately, with the fever, and everything blurs together. In the silence I hear things from my old life running loops around my head. Fungus cringes, stammering out apologies in that odd modulating voice of his for some fresh incompetence. Sullivan offers to shake my hand. Waternoose is angry- Sullivan is twice the scarer you'll ever be, he tells me.

Some are worse than others.

Up till then, was I the only one who had seen him speak that way? Without benevolence, for once, without the feeling that he wanted the best for everyone? Yes, I think I was. To everyone else an uncle, a grandfather, a father. To me something else entirely. And it wasn't fair. I did everything he ever asked of me. He came to me as though I was special, I had potential and ability, and yet once I had agrees to be his ticket out of bankruptcy he seemed to decide I wasn't worth the effort of being kind to. He didn't like me.

Well, no-one does.

And then there was Sullivan. He loved Sullivan. Because Sullivan is modest and charming. Superbly talented. Middle-class. Honest, not bitter and unscrupulous. Not ruined by desperation and hate the way I had been. And I could have taken it, could have pinned his preference down to slightly higher scores and a little bit of good old snobbery and given him the benefit of the doubt, if he had at least shown me a little of that.

So did I do all this to prove myself against Sullivan - or to Waternoose? Or are the two irretrievably linked?

If I had been his son, he would have adored me, I like to imagine. But I know that is not true.

I remember the face of the little girl. And I wish for anything- hunting dogs, locusts, a hurricane, death- to drown it out of my head.

28. Words

Wazowski,

The word you were thinking of is 'Cretan', pronounced with a long e and referring to an inhabitant of the isle of Crete, while I meant 'Cretin', which refers to stupidity resulting from a thyroid deficiency and has a SHORT FUCKING E. Oxford English Dictionary. LOOK IT UP.

29. Fairytale of New York - The Pogues

He missed New York City. He didn't miss Broadway or the Statue or any of that crap; that was a different New York, and he was a Bronx boy. What he missed was the crush of East Tremont, the crowds, the blare of traffic. He missed the smell and the close polluted sky and the knowledge that his future, his wonderful limitless future, would take him to a better place than this.

30. Hope - Sparks Universe

"Sullivan." Randall had stopped; his voice sounded strange and high.

Sulley turned, and saw him lift his head up, towards the window. "What? What is it?"

"I can see the light."

Sparks Universe: Inspired by Kent, the adorably vulnerable blind guy that was the only thing in the movie 'Contact' that I enjoyed. People were always leading him around and holding is arm in a very protective way. Why that made me think of Randall, I can't say, but it did.

Stowaway Universe: A year after the events of the movie, a fragile peace has been formed. And then Sulley, Mike and Randall find themselves stuck with another human stowaway. Sidney is a shy, clingy and overly sensitive, and he attaches himself- of all people - to Randall. I wanted to write out the whole thing, but I couldn't think of a good enough main plotline. Pity. Sidney's such fun.

Darwin Universe: There's a lot of anti-science stuff in the MI fandom. The ultimate nightmare is apparently being captured and experimented on by human scientists. Which is highly unfair, since most biologists have devoted themselves to the study of life because they like it and want to preserve it. I wanted to redeem science a bit by having a biologist who was actually a nice guy.

4. Improvised: I'm a drama kid. I think Mike Wazowski is too. If you ever get a chance to go to the Canadian Improv Games, do it. It's such a rewarding, bonding experience.

6. Broken: Someone gave me this idea on and it's been cooking in my brain ever since. I kinda like the idea of a really angsty, unrequited, unhealthy Randall/Fungus slash. Screwy relationships are such fun.

12. Mirror: It's not that he's ugly, it's that he thinks he is. And Yiddish reversal is awesome.

14. Show: The show will be 'City of Angels', a jazz musical about detectives. Randall will be Stone, Sulley will be Stine, mike will be Buddy, Celia will be Oolie, and Fungus can be Muños, just for kicks. I have it all planned out. Even the choreography.

16. Gentleman Cambrioleur - Garou: The song, off an album of the same title, is about a high-class cat burglar who does things like leave flowers for the women whose jewellery he steals. And Randall totally plays piano (wouldn't you, with all those hands?), so his calling card is a sheet of self-composed music.

21. Master and Commander: This one is set within the world of the Aubrey-Maturin books, which are about the British Navy during the Napoleonic wars. I hope no-one is offended by the terms used; they're intended to reflect the time period. For more information on sloops, backstays, cat's, Croppies, Jonahs, prizes, Port Mahon, or the Wolf Tone rebellion, please see me.

24. Potential- Darwin Universe: Monster biology is so weird…

28. Words: You don't know how long that's been bugging him.

Thanks for reading, and please review! Authors like me need constant reaffirmation to support our huge, fragile egos.

Dochar