COVER ILLUSTRATION by deviantartist Ech0-73.
A/N
I do not own any of the Pixar characters.
12/11/14:The story undergoing revision, meaning that the 2nd revision will alter some of the scenes and plot points in the first publications. ALL chapters but the first are to be deleted to prepare for each chapter revision. By the time the Second Chapter will be reposted, the first chapter will be revised.
12/25/14: Chapter 1 Revised.
2/6/2014 The Second and FINAL revision beings. All other chapters deleted and undergoing revisions.
"...if you work hard and never give up, everything will always work out, ... It's not always true,"
-Dan Scanlon, director of Monsters University
Chapter 1: The Mature Student
In the dark of the classroom, Don Carlton was neither surprised nor pleased to hear the students' collective sighs of relief.
It had became glaringly clear that this Scott will be the first (likely among the worst) failure of the Exam. The kid's abysmal performance gave them something to out-perform, to out-score. And failing or not, they just had to perform better than him to place themselves above gossip-worthy shame.
He shook his head. Don had outgrown such selfish student mentality and felt sympathy rather than relieved superiority for the kid. He recognized the sighs of relief because he had sat through exam presentations in the past and shamefully used to be guilty of that subtle deed. Still, it was awful to have a front-row view of the kid's humiliation, having diligently selected the front-row seat for maximum attention to Derek.
It was pragmatic, but guilt-inducing to evaluate the kid's performance (after all, he had yet to be Derek's "victim"). The kid's face was simply too benign to fire up the Scare stimulator. He could probably blare a load roar, but even that wouldn't be adequate. It did not help that he was a small generic form of a two-armed, two-legged blob of harmless peach color with a non-threatening blue sweater and cap. If the kid was taller or more robust, he would have had the advantage of towering over the bedside and casting a shadow.
This Scott had to be Derek's seventh "victim" (a term Derek jokingly called his examinees in a casual conversation).
That kid was now blaring out a feeble roar. His posture seemed like a parody of beginner Scarers. His movements were inhibited, stunted even, not out of caution and stealth, rather, paralyzed by anxiety.
His results were feeble, his breathing focused but unprojected. He was slow to answer oral questions, even if the answers were correct (it was said that you were graded on the speed of your answers). He stammered, a faltering Scaring presence.
Above them, Don could imagine Hardscrabble shaking her head, a shadowy presence up on the balcony, presiding over every student's progress.
At his final demonstration, the kid took a deep breath. But his jump was ill-timed and his howl came out inhibited and wavering.
The dummy had its final scream, corresponding with a weak beam of energy on the scream meter.
Everyone went dead silent, as if to absorb the fulfillment of the kid's failure, and the wispy panting of the kid became the only sound in the auditorium.
"Thank you, Mr. Squibbles." But the disappointment was evident.
The kid sprung down from the stage, scurried up the stairs pass the onlookers, and burst through the exit, letting in a momentary glare of the sunlight, right when Don turned his head to receive the sun beams into his eyes, before he could make out the kid's expression.
By the time Don turned his attention to Derek, Derek was shaking his head. It was unprofessional to comfort a failed student or even make your sympathies overtly known (something Knight lamented to Don once). From all the stories, he knew that Derek had witnessed and overseen the failures of others over and over.
The frantic, graceless exit of the kid attracted pointing in the crowd. They gestured toward the doors, as if the kid's presence remained.
"If I fail, at least I'll be better than that kid," one whispered.
Derek picked up the student papers.
There was an uncharacteristically lengthly pause before the calling of the next name, the "Eight Victim." Derek tended to be more immediate when calling.
"Carlton."
It was stern but said with that subtle edge of affection.
"Don Carlton. You're next."
Don was not quite a favorite, a "teacher's pet," of Derek (that title belonged to his classmate Javier, according to gossips), but they had conversations that did not involve academic complaints. Sometimes they talked after class, when Derek was through with answering the younger students' questions.
Wearing his best salesman grin, Don Carlton did not bother with his usual greeting to Derek as he stepped up to the Scare stimulator before the eyes of his fellow (younger) Scare classmates.
"I'm a five year old who's shy of adult strangers," Derek's voice rang with the edge of gruff, impartial authority, withholding all favoritism for Don. This was a tricky question.
All the Fall semester Scare knowledge jogged through his head. "That would be the Lingering Stare followed by a Bellowing Roar." Nailed it.
"Demonstrate."
Wouldn't it be productive, to have the test done in a private room? In the actual Scaring field, no one was there to really supervise you. Or judge you.
Don re-straightened his spectacles and rubbed his tentacles arms on his blue shirt to minimize the stickiness of his suction pads of his tentacles arms, a trait of his Cephlopodian heritage.
Then he creaked open the simulator door, pulling his tentacle off the door knob as he shut the door.
Tricky question, but the performance required simple techniques: soft human-like breathing, subtle for atmosphere, downplaying the volume of his breath to not wake the child but to rouse its auditory-based subconscious suspicion.
He crouched down and creeped forward.
Pop. Pop, pop, pop...
Oh darn.
His darn sucker pads, popping noise. That's when he noticed he was sweaty.
... pop, pop, pop...
At the very least, it could contribute to noise atmosphere. But would it be appropriate for this kid? But he had to set his sights on the dummy. He can't think too much now. Just let instinct take its course.
His soft breathing was controlled, giving him ample air in his lungs, even if he was wary that his suckers popped louder over his breath.
He made it to the bedside. Now to rise up, cast his shadow for a few seconds, and...
His back snapped.
Don's uncalculated cry of anguish startled the dummy, which sprung up with its obligatory artificial scream, causing the meter to beam feebly.
Students whispered in their seats.
If only I was as young and sprightly as these youths are...
"Don-, Mr. Carlton, are you all right?" Concern rang in Professor Knight's gruff voice.
Durn my old back.
"I'm fine, Dere-, um, Professor, sir!" Don reassured him.
Professor Knight shot a look toward the high balcony of the classroom where Dean Hardscrabble stood. Risking a glance at her, Don could discern the silhouetted nod of her head, and felt blessed that Hardscrabble would consent to a rare act of academic mercy.
But there was also shame. Was his case so severe that it inspired her pity?
With that, Prof. Knight ordered, "Mr. Carlton, please re-demonstrate the technique."
He tried to brush off the noise of snickering in the dark crowd. Top row. A mellon-headed purple monster from a top row chuckled audibly as if he could not believe the display before him.
Then Don understood, if a Scarer couldn't do this before a judging crowd, then a Scarcer couldn't do it in an isolated environment.
Focus, old Donny.
Plagued by his creaking back, Don exited the child's bedroom, reentered, crept near the bed (with his suckers still popping with extraneous noise), rose over the dummy, and belted out another roar at the dummy, which jolted up with a scream and fired up a longer, therefore improved beam from the meter.
Don could barely process what happened afterwards. His Exam proceeded as Prof. Knight shot up three, no maybe four, maybe five, dang, lost count, questions. He could not remember the oncoming questions or his answers. He could not remember his proceeding roars, howls, crackles against the dummy, but he remembered every dose of pain tearing through his shoulder with every demonstration.
And in the intervals between his lackluster performance, he tried to ignore the stifled fits of snickering in the auditorium.
That evening, Professor Knight slapped the results outside his office.
Don J. Carlton – Oral Questions: Passed—Scare Energy Average: "46/100"—Demonstration: Failed
His back still throbbing, Don sustained the grin on his face, as a salesman did, moving from customer to customer after unsuccessful sale to the next potential client. He slipped through the crowd of rowdy Scare students, gathered around to see their Exam results.
He spied Professor Knight crossing through the crowd from the corner of his eye. Despite their casual relationship, Don didn't want to make eye contact. But he did, feeling some pang of politeness.
To his relief, Derek gave him a friendly nod to acknowledge how grateful he was to have one nice student, who spoke to the faculty staff like old friends and equals, unlike the youngsters who vented about deadlines and intensive work. Then Derek vanished into his office, as if Don was an afterthought.
Whistling a tune to alleviate disappointment, Don stepped outside the School of Scaring, the sun pouring its warmth on him. He had to rest again, so he settled himself on the stone steps of the School, and scooted aside to give space for students skipping down the steps, boasting of a new semester to look forward to.
Then, that familiar peach glob-like monster in a M.U. sweater trotted down the steps, when his foot slipped at the edge, and he would have tumbled down if weren't for Don, who disregarded his aching back and snatched the kid's back-collar. By jerking the neck-collar, the kid's cap flew off and tumbled down the steps, revealing a tuff of brown hair next to an angled white horn (the matching pair was missing).
"Thanks," the kid mumbled as Don pried his tentacles off the kid's collar. The kid had five docile eyes and a doltish face. He must be the sort of shrinking violet who tucked himself in the back and corners of the classrooms, not to commit mischief, but to hide from the eyes and vulnerability to the Professor's questions. The kid wobbled, his lips quivering, muttered another thanks, and then turned away.
"You ok, sonny?"
With his head facing the gravel, the kid descended down the steps toward his fallen hat like a pebble sinking in a pond. "Just a hiccup." More like the choke of a sob.
At the bottom of the steps, a female monster in a flowery-dress, similar in appearance to the kid, but the size larger and golden curls draping her forehead with two horns protruding from her head, ran toward the steps and scooped up the kid's hat. He could smell the pungency of her flowery perfume.
"Sweeettie! Let's celeeeebrate!" She bellowed as she stuck the hat back on the kid's head and swept him into a suffocating embrace.
"Moooom," His voice, muffled against her clasp, broke out. She released him, astonished by his outburst. "I didn't make it. Stop it." So it was not the fall that hurt the student.
The kid's grief provoked a tighter squeeze from his mother. "Oh dear. Oh dear. I'm so sorry, sweetie." With the kid's head buried on the side of his mother, they strolled off together. It was rare to see young college folks blessed with parental warmth.
He thought of his Ma, settled in downtown Montropolis, unaware that her son had redeclared (and failed) the Scaring Major. Ma. What would she say if she knew?
The thought fired a jolt of pain on his shoulder blades. Throwing his hand to his shoulder, he decided to walk off the pain. So he staggered pass Scare students, chatting about the upcoming winter break.
He took refuge in the university café for a bite. He heard the cajoling of young mons, including frats boys in their fiery gold jackets, gathered around small tables with chairs they snatched from vacant tables, sharing gossip and conspiring future victories in upcoming competitions.
After making his purchase, he set down a plate with a little tart and a cup of hot chocolate and seated himself in front of the window. Though he normally enjoyed the pleasure of a sweet tart, it felt like shards against his throat.
Now the youth and the frat boys were conspiring about future victories in the upcoming Scare Games. Don typically enjoyed some safe, old-fashioned eavesdropping on student gossip, but he was in no mood for Scaring-related topics.
He turned his glance to the window.
His eye caught a blue poster on the glass.
"Propose Your Own Fraternity/Sorority"
Adjusting his glasses, he examined the smaller text below the bold text: "visit Office of Greek Life and see Claire Wheeler or Brock Pearson for procedures."
Interesting. In his college, well, earlier college days, he had a curiosity about frat culture. What did they do? What warranted their special treatment and status? How much good were they capable of doing? At the time, he had already hung around his own circle of friends and found that he had little interest in the idea. Say, speaking of old friends…
While buried in his Scare studies last week, Don had received a barrage of phone messages from old co-workers, wishing him happy birthday, a day of secondary importance to the Scare Finales (how lovely, they remembered!). Don stared down at his tart, his overdue birthday treat for the five decades and two years he lived. With the holidays ahead of him, he had time to get in touch with old pals. He had meant to chat with them, but resisted, knowing that he would get caught up in hours of nostalgic talk that should be saved for studying. He had been calling his Ma more often than he did with his friends.
He bit into the tart, gulped down his drink to wash the crumbs down, and picked up the remaining tart with a napkin.
On his way to the library, he passed by two familiar figures sitting at the curb of a campus road. It was the fallen Scare student again, licking half-melted chocolate ice cream cone with his mother next to him. He knew he wasn't mistaken because of that familiar odor of perfume emitting from the mom.
The kid mumbled something too low to be heard.
"It's ok," she responded, her inflection like a soothing tune, "take your time, Scottie. There are opportunities other than Scaring."
"But mom, that was my one dream." He faintly lapped up his cone. "So now what?"
Swallowing the last of his tart, Don Carlton asked himself that same question.
A/N
NOTE: old readers will find an additional Scott scene added on here.
ARTISTIC LICENSES:
- At the time the first version of the first chapter was written, I was not aware that Don's actual birthday is set on April according to his trading card. I consciously choose not to edit this out of this chapter.
- Checking in with a re-viewing of the film and the actual screenplay, the Exam for each student were done in one go on the Scare stimulation. In this chapter, each Scare student have multiple goes.
Allusions/Sources/Inspiration
- Spot the homage to Pete Docter's Up (and thus a homage to Scott's voice actor Peter Sohn)!