A/N: This is the longest chapter by far at 9.7k words. I didn't plan on it being this long BUT it finishes up this arc if that's what you want to call it. Don't expect future chapters to be this long, I'll try capping them around 4k - 6k per the last few I've done. Sorry if this is a bit too long Also, this is where I'll say this story will heavily involve canon divergence in the monster world. I haven't watched Monsters at Work completely. I just couldn't get into it and frankly this story was thought of way before that even was a blip on the radar way back in 2014. But wasn't actually written until wayyy after. So... I'll be using Monsters University and Monsters Inc as "accepted canon" with some cameos from characters from Monsters at Work... maybe. I'll see if I want to try to blend them later or just stick with my original ideas for now. Hope you enjoy!
A kaleidoscope of color whirled, blending into shapes and shadows, forming a sort of world, or rather his idealized dream world, filled to the brim with shelves decked in trophies of his successes, his genius. He'd earned his victories, by hook and by crook, claw and teeth, but won all the same and not by cheating his way into the victory. His prowess as a cunning adversary proven in every win, never a shred of evidence to defame his victory or his skills.
Row upon row of towering shelves lined the edges, stacked with polished trophies and medals etched with his name in gleaming script. Their metallic surfaces caught some unseen glow, scattering prismatic rays across the floor. The hush in the air tingled with reverence, as though the very atmosphere recognized his greatness. In each reflective glimmer, he glimpsed Randall Boggs—victorious, cunning, unstoppable—without a single blemish.
Some part of him half-expected a scoreboard on a distant wall, each rung of it proclaiming his name in bold letters. But no scoreboard was necessary here. His achievements needed no external measure. He gazed up, heart swelling with satisfaction as he strode down a corridor reminiscent of the Scare Floor warped in the tendrils of his dream logic. The overhead lights glinted off sleek tiles beneath his feet, and the faint hum of capturing screams—pure, untainted power—rippled through the silence like a subdued heartbeat.
He moved with a languid pride, fingertips tracing the edges of a plaque proclaiming "Top Scarer," "Greatest Uncle," and "Not a useless windbag of a son." Of course, a voice in his mind murmured. This is how it should be. He could almost feel the heat of envy from the unseen crowd. Wazowski, Sullivan, any others—they receded to footnotes in this reality. Underlings, where they belonged.
But then the color-shifting corridor dimmed. A hush poured over everything, soaking the dream in a warmer, gentler glow. The trophies receded into hazy silhouettes, and shapes emerged at the corridor's end. Faint, unformed—a presence that breathed quiet acceptance. Nothing about it said "monster," yet it didn't say "human" either. Something in-between, or beyond. It was more a feeling than a body: a subtle sense of peace, a warm hush that settled on his fronds and coaxed him forward.
For a moment, that presence felt… comforting. It lacked the hunger or intimidation that spurred the rest of his life's conquests. An unknown tension he hadn't realized he held eased in his chest, as if the shape beckoned him to step off the dais, to set aside the trophies. The dream fluttered at the edges of logic, an ache stirring in his ribs. Why would he let go of triumph?
He took a step closer. The shape, half-lost in luminous haze, tilted as if turning toward him. The air carried scents of honey, apple, vanilla, coffee, crayons and motor oil—unexpectedly odd and nostalgic, reminiscent of some memory on the tip of his mind. Something about it whispered that success might not always be measured in roars or trophies.
Confusion lanced him. A prickle of vulnerability threatened to disrupt the power he basked in. This is ridiculous, he told himself, wanting to cling to that corridor lined with testaments of his genius. Yet the shape's presence pulled him, urged him to reach out. The hush intensified. He could sense the same swirl of achievement and acceptance, but laced with a softness he didn't know how to parse.
Lightness sparked in his veins, an ember of—what, affection? Curiosity? The corridor flickered as though reality slipped, and everything else fell away: the plaques, the canisters brimming with raw scream energy, the invisible watchers. The shape hovered near, luminous and intangible. On an impulse he couldn't name, he leaned in, daring to acknowledge its closeness. His pulse thrummed in excitement or confusion. One silhouette stepped forward, one only slightly taller than him, frond-less, no tail to speak of, no visible face but warm regardless. It said his name, its voice a duality: familiar and alien, both light and dark. Both calming and alarming.
It didn't pull or push. It offered. A simple opening, the gentlest touch, almost like a hand held out in trust—unconditional and impossible but there all the same. A little twinge in his chest ached. Hesitation flickered. But his head moved forward only to be yanked out of this odd dream like a leash yanked out of an unsuspecting hand. A wet persistent tongue lapped at his snout and woke him instantly.
Randall jerked back and gagged out of reflex, opening one eye to meet a pair of soulful ones gazing back.
"Seriously, now?!" he muttered, flinging a hand up at the offender. Blondie pulled back just a touch but wouldn't budge from where he had planted his haunches.
"Gah!" he snapped a hissing growl between his teeth, flinging his arm across his face in an attempt to block out the hound from sight and smell and everything else that made it annoying.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him as he wiped the remainder of the dog drool off of his face with the back of his palm, quickly slithering out of bed and to the bathroom. He made his way to the tiny sink, flipping on the tap. The water coughed out in fits, then steadied. Leaning down, Randall cupped the flow, rinsing the gross taste from his mouth. It was lukewarm at best, but better than dog drool. For good measure, he splashed some across his face. A quick glance at the narrow mirror showed him a reflection that was half-grouchy, half-unnerved. He closed his eyes, brow furrowing. Get a grip, Boggs. He spit out the last mouthful of water, turning off the tap with a decisive twist, hoping to drown the lingering illusions from his dream.
The engine rumbled beneath his feet as he emerged from the tiny stall. Blondie lingered in the main cabin, letting out a small "woof" that sounded suspiciously amused, tail wagging to the right in a languid slow arc. Randall scowled. "Don't look at me like that," he growled, his own tail flicking.
Rita glanced back from the driver's seat, hands loosely around the wheel. Night pressed against the windows, broken only by the beams of the headlights. A battered sign reading Far Creek loomed faintly up ahead in the gloom. She offered him a thin, tired smile. Even this late at night, her hazel eyes glimmered with amusement. "Fun fact: He's got no sense of boundaries when it comes to morning greetings."
Blondie snuffled at Randall's tail. He scooted out of reach, keeping a wary eye on the mutt. "I don't think he's smart enough to understand personal space."
"You'd be surprised at what he knows, or thinks he knows," Rita quipped, returning her focus to the road ahead. The engine thrummed as they approached a small, shadowed town. Lit porch lights hinted at a few stray residents, and the road widened and evened out, signaling some form of civilization. Streetlights flickered past in the darkness, glinting against the pavement.
For the first time since climbing into the RV, Rita seemed uncertain. Randall saw the pinch of a frown between her eyebrows, the slight white-knuckle of her grip on the steering wheel.
"You're nervous," he observed, as tactless as ever. "Something I need to know about, other than your bleeding-heart personality?"
Her mouth pulled to one side in a humorless smile, not quite an expression of annoyance, but too tired for anything close to indignation. "I have friends that live here." Her sigh tickled the air. "Figured a town I know would be our best shot but..." Her voice trailed off and whatever thought had crossed her mind remained locked inside.
He took the not-so-subtle cue. Tipping his chin, Randall leaned toward the nearest window. Crickets chirruped in the trees and bushes, barely audible over the sound of the RV's rumbling engine. From here, the town sprawled in a wide, crooked sort of sprawl, comprised of streets, a cluster of buildings, and what looked like a strip mall.
"You better not bail on me." There was no malice in his voice, merely an undercurrent of warning that wove between every word.
"I wouldn't." She left it at that, tone defensive as she guided the RV from Far Creek's winding main street and then down an adjacent road. Something in her eyes flickered as she drove down the familiar forked road, both sides receding down into brackish waters.
"This is where we found you." Rita piped up randomly, "Kind of odd that we met they way we did. But I don't regret it." her smile linger, as did her gaze on him.
He didn't know what to do with it and instead kept his gaze trained on the swampy shores rolling by. If what she said was true, and this was the place where she or someone else had found him, then that meant the old crone and her loud-mouthed son might be around, lurking among one of the dilapidated trailers they passed. Rita was quiet, her hands steady on the wheel as she guided the RV along the narrow road, thick with cypress and bald eagle nest warnings for all the barred off roads they passed.
A few minutes later, she turned onto a side drive marked by a worn wooden sign in stylized lettering 'Sweet Bay Park' scrawled in faint paint, and smaller script reading "Lake Papillon, 2 mi." She slowed the vehicle, scanning the edges of the tree line until she found a gravel loop. Thickets of palmetto and hanging moss crowded either side, obscuring the single-lane path from any main road traffic. Rita guided the vehicle onto the loop and drove it into an empty parking lot for a public swimming hole.
Rita put the RV in park and spun around, sitting sideways in the driver's seat. "So we're ditching the RV and walking into town from here. There's a walking trail that runs pretty much all the way through."
Randall slid forward to stand behind her seat, arms folded tight across his chest. "Sounds easy enough. Slip in unnoticed, get what we came for, and high flying to Monstropolis where the real party starts." The corner of his mouth ticked up into a sardonic grin. He caught the edge of his forked tongue between his sharp teeth, only the slightest flash of pointed canines visible between a smile bordering on a scowl, and for a moment, she thought he might laugh. Wicked thoughts wreathed behind his slitted pupils of the many wicked ways he could get back at Sullivan and Wazowski for even getting him into this mess. Oh, he would show them what revenge looked like.
She gave him a tentative smile, misreading the tension in his body. "You look excited."
He released a short bark of laughter, low and sharp. "Excited?" he echoed, curling his lip. Without even meaning to, he flashed his razor teeth and slit pupils, the mirth vanishing from his expression to a hollowed-out hate. A thin snort sounded—part amused, part offended. "Toots, I can assure you, the word excited couldn't even begin to scratch the surface."
She blinked, taken aback by the sudden dark edge in his tone. An uneasy weight pressed at her and she shifted in the seat, chalking it up to his untimely intensity. "Right… well, let's get going, then. The sooner we get through that trail, the sooner you'll get what you want."
He just inclined his head, a glint still sparking in his eyes, then swiveled away to check the latch on the RV door. Rita bit her lip, dismissing her pang of concern. He must be really itching to see his home world again—no wonder his mood spiked so fiercely. She tried to ignore the undercurrent she couldn't quite name, the sense that his half-smile carried more venom than simple longing. "Gimme a sec."
In a flash, Rita picked herself up out of the driver's seat and towards the back of the RV where she did an impromptu outfit change into black cargo pants, outdoor boots and a relatively ratty navy blue hoodie. There, that would do it. Dressing to look the part of baby's first cat burglary. Plus, it would help protect against the droves of insects and snakes and whatever else awaited them in the murky night. Just to be safe, she pocketed a small knife in her many pockets, along with the keys to the RV.
Rita snapped the plastic lid onto Blondie's water bowl after filling it, the dog's tail flopping in disappointment as she quietly apologized for leaving him behind. The hush of the park pressed around them: cypress silhouettes standing guard beneath slivers of moonlight, the distant lap of Lake Papillon beyond the treeline. A damp, moss-laden breeze curled through the open RV door, bringing with it the nighttime calls of frogs and crickets.
She straightened, pulling the hoodie's drawstrings tight around her neck, gaze flicking to Randall. He waited by the narrow stairwell, two pairs of arms still across his chest, tail flicking with impatience. In the dim glow of the overhead light, the purple sheen of his scales looked more predator than passenger.
"So," she began, forcing her tone into something steadier than her nerves felt, "there's a walking trail here that—well, it kind of loops around the lake, crosses this old hooded bridge, and eventually exits near a small park. That park's on the edge of a neighborhood with a few families. People I… know."
Randall tilted his head. "Convenient," he said, voice low. "What's the plan once we get there? I assume you're not going to ring the doorbell and ask to borrow their kid's closet."
"Yeah, no." She contemplated going for her flashlight stashed in the closet, but decided against it. Between muscle memory and limited light sources, they should make it. "But you mentioned your monsters typically show up late at night to scare kids."
"For collecting scream energy," he corrected. "The younger the better, easier to rattle, bigger payoff. Usually, by now, we—" He faltered as though old habits died hard. "They'd be prowling, slipping into closet doors across the human world, harvesting screams."
"Huh… so that's how it works." She tried not to imagine all those small children startled awake by a monstrous silhouette, pale nightlights casting elongated shadows on the walls. "So… if I know of a, uh, a timid child, that's the best shot? Because that's where a monster might appear?"
"Exactly." Randall's pupils narrowed. "Any house with a scared kid, especially one who's maybe been spooked before—that's prime territory. Their door's more likely to open, energy surging from the child's fear. So if you do know such a place, that's where we should go."
"Then you slip through, piggybacking on that open door. Got it."
He nodded. "Piece of cake." The twitch of his fronds betrayed deeper tension or excitement, but his tone stayed clipped. "If we find the right kid."
She let out a shaky breath, wracking her mind for the family she'd considered. "Mrs. Cormier," she said at last. "She's—she used to let me crash in a spare room back when I… had nowhere else. She's got a daughter, Tia, who has a son. The kid's maybe five, six. Pretty jumpy, honestly. Kind of a baby."
Randall's tail flicked once, predator-smooth. "Sounds perfect. Jumpy means easy pickings. Where's their house?"
"Not too far from the park," she replied, stepping out of the Winnebago, followed by Randall, shutting the door behind her as softly as possible. Cool night air pressed in around them, thick with humidity.
The hoodie already felt uncomfortable, but it was necessary. "I can lead us. But… let's do this quietly, all right? I… I know those people. They helped me before, so… it's not like I want them terrorized. Just a quick in-and-out, right?"
"Quick in-and-out," Randall echoed. "You assume any scaring routine is gentle, but fine." He shrugged. "Point is, the door'll open. We go in, I see the closet, I snag my way back to Monstropolis, and you get rid of me. Simple."
She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak as she made sure the RV was as locked down as it could be. No point in potentially letting someone steal or tamper with it while she and her unwilling companion were elsewhere. Plus, there was always the extra-extra protection for her sweet pup. Hopefully, Blondie would sleep peacefully and not be upset at being left behind.
Rita blinked her eyes, looking up into the clear star-filled sky, drawing the light of the bright moon. A sad smile pulled across her features. Last night with her monster, and likely ever. Her throat tightened. It was to be expected and was not the first or last time she had rehabilitated and released a creature. But those had been animals, easier to detach herself from the relationships with. Randall was a sentient creature, albeit a snarky and very, very troublesome one. But even she had seen the smallest flickers of compassion and empathy there, a strange form of attachment. It was nice and not altogether terrible, but she couldn't keep him caged. Or keep him away from whatever it was he was vying to get back to. If it meant he was free, then she had to commit, consequences or not.
"Forgot to ask, but… do you see in the dark?" Rita asked. "Flashlights are too conspicuous and not great for stealth…"
"I see well enough," Randall replied in a softer tone. Not exactly relaxed or anything, more in the zone and ready.
"Not that I'm trying to get all up in your business, but…" The insinuation lingered, half curious, half testing to see how willing he'd be.
He was quiet, as if mulling it over, then replied with a tentative, "Fine. Which way?"
"Should be a sign next to a post that says 'Nature Trail'." Rita said, placing a hand on where she assumed his elbow was but missed the mark, brushing his fronds instead. "Shit… sorry…"
Randall grunted and grabbed the scruff of her sleeve with a free hand from his lower pair of arms. "Let's just get moving."
One tug, and they were off. They crept along the trail through the woods, an unspoken promise thrumming between them in the night-wrapped silence. Neither moved swiftly, eyes adjusted enough to navigate the twisting trail in the gloom, avoiding briars and thorns that rose from the underbrush. Each footfall squelched slightly as they slunk their way closer to the bridge where they would exit into the small town on the other side of the waters.
Rita couldn't tell what time it was, just that the ebbs and flows of life around them seemed to slow and sink into some sleeping slump. Maybe, like them, people preferred to sleep as deeply and as long as possible during the hotter parts of the night. She certainly didn't fault them for that. A mosquito hummed its way toward her, buzzing at an ear. She winced and shooed it away. The clasp of Randall's digits didn't falter around her wrist. If anything, the grasp tightened. His footsteps echoed with every soft pad against the boards, eyes ahead and ears keen. The only light to be found came from the moon overhead, bright in the darkness and somehow sharpened, with every inch of land wreathed in a wash of silvery light. Crickets sang their reedy songs, the occasional scatter of leaves or scrabbling of paws from the other side of the water sounding against the oppressive muggy stillness. Could be gators, could be bobcats, or even just a deer.
They reached the old hooded bridge a few moments later. As Rita predicted, it crossed over a rather large branch that broke off the main lake. Once they were a quarter of the way across, Rita nudged her hand a bit to catch his attention. Randall's eyes caught the starlight.
"See those lights?" She gestured with her chin, keeping her voice to a near-whisper. "That's where we're going."
He leaned back, about to move, but seemed to reconsider and paused.
A feeling passed between them in the small gesture: his reluctance, her reassurance. What she hadn't counted on was her own desire to take his hand and gently lead him onward, his palm oddly cool against her warm one.
"After you," he mumbled a beat later, realizing she was waiting for him to give his silent okay before stepping across, a shadow amongst the night. Rita hesitated, unsure, then nodded and walked, soft footfalls echoing across the bridge.
After the hooded bridge, the gravel crunched beneath her boots, his feet. Rita drew in a careful, deep breath and straightened. Moonlit fields and dim, narrow side roads unfurled ahead. The swamp seemed to rise as a humid mist, the trail vanishing somewhere past a cluster of oaks before partially stopping at an old park. Beyond that was a town too sleepy to realize their presence—yet.
She tensed, then relaxed. Somewhere nearby was the house belonging to the Cormiers, home to a child easily scared, a house that held the nearest access to Randall's home—one that would have to be so, so discreetly opened…
A part of her ached as she imagined the possibilities of getting caught. More than getting in trouble, however, was the thought of being taken away from everything she knew, all of her hard-earned respect she worked for would vanish. Or, gods, getting arrested was too horrible of an idea, the idea of possibly ending up in a stinking jail cell again… She froze, nausea bubbling at the thought. No. She would get this right, she had to. It was up to her and whatever bit of luck might fall their way.
Randall, on the other hand, was not as worried. He was excited. Beyond eager and ready to leave. What would the company think, to hear of his sudden return? Sullivan and that eyeball had most likely returned with lies in tow about him being out-classed and the center of all their jokes. Lousy, lowly monsters.. They probably wouldn't expect him back at all, too busy living their little merry-go-round life. But Randall was nothing if not resilient and tenacious and now here, standing among the graffitied and cobweb-strewn abandoned swings of what must have been the park he'd heard her mention. He needed that scream, and he needed it bad…
Rita made her way up the last of the trail and crouched low, shifting through the scrubby brush and creeping shadows. A two-story house stood a ways ahead, pale yellow and symmetrical with white trim and a short brick chimney. Beneath the floodlight and glimmering glass panes hung from the porch roof, an incandescent lamp burned at its lowest setting. A slow wag of a hickory limb added to the hush of wind, its leaves curling against the black sky.
"That's it." she whispered, hand nudging Randall, "The Cormier's place. Window above the porch is the bedroom, you can climb using the gutter. Window latch is broken, should slide open easily..."
Together they crouched in the darkness, an unexpected breeze breathing through the pines, scented with moss. An owl hooted and cut loose into a series of mournful, low whistles.
Randall turned to her, intent flickering behind those dangerous eyes, glowing orange in the dark of the night, and for one strange and uncertain moment, Rita wondered whether she could do this. Not because she was entirely opposed to breaking and entering, what needed to be done needed to be done. It was doing it to people she knew that left a sour taste on her tongue. This was an intrusion of the worst sort: violation of privacy, the possibility that the mother or father would find them, call the police or Mrs. Cormier would see her. See her becoming the very thing she'd fought not to be all those years ago. A feeling that wouldn't shake. And of course, she'd put her through this now. And not hours before. Idiot... idiot...
"Thanks." Randall murmured at last, turning his head away and squinting at the home, "I got this."
"Be careful" Rita spoke, wanting to say more, to encourage, but feeling anything that came from her lips wouldn't have helped at all. Not much could with someone like Randall, whose plans and intentions ran wild and who kept them close to his scaled chest. "Randall?"
He did not respond at first, shoulders hunched. Then his voice drifted back to her through the dark. "Thank you," he said at last, glancing sidelong. "For this."
Then he was off, gliding past her, an almost slithering kind of gait in a mere flash of movement. The crawl was so swift and quiet that one could have sworn it were not Randall and his soft footfalls upon the earth that sounded. It seemed that he faded into the deep, midnight-rich hues of night, with only the barest flickers of moonlight caressing the edge of his body like water, a shimmer-slate whisper. He blended, meshed.
Randall hugged the brush to the side and paused. No movement caught in the corner of his eye, nor from within any windows. Good. He flexed his hands. For a moment he didn't know why his pulse quickened so violently until the flicker of his home-world shone in his memory like the sun-reflected surface of a lake. Almost there, almost...
He ascended the side of the wall, thankful for his innate ability to cling with sticky digits and wriggly toes, like an overgrown spider, with the added benefit of his additional limbs. As quietly as he could, Randall padded his way upwards, ducking just below the small window. It was partially cracked at one side, a sliver really, with one side awkwardly jammed down, creating an oddly slanted angle that caused a snag and rattle against the window track. Try as he might, the window would not open. With a grimace, he raised a hand and waved it in her direction.
Rita got the message.
She did a triple take before crouch running over and scaling the side of the house like a seasoned pro. Which, in all fairness, she was. At least with this particular place. Randall might have been impressed had his current mood allowed for it. She gently shoved him to the side, testing the window for herself. No luck.
' Shit.' They communicated via unspoken glances.
Rita pulled the knife from her pocket and slipped it between the space, slowly easing it, shimmying it, wiggling and carefully breaking the lock with as much patience and precision as her anxiousness would allow. The mechanism popped out, making an unsavory snap sound. Both cringed at the noise and prayed the family inside were too far into the depths of sleep to notice. They waited in silence in locations just outside the window but heard no rustle.
Once satisfied the sound would not send anyone stirring, they poked their heads through the now open window to peek inside. Thankfully, the room looked exactly as she'd recalled; dark blue wallpaper, two white nightstands, an oak bookcase, a wall of art above an occupied twin bed, and an assortment of stuffed animals. Next to a navy painted chest of drawers sat the closet door. It was closed, the knotted light-blue carpet with splashes of darker hues. She watched as a pale glow illuminated a tiny square, rising to a soft peak at each side. There, in the center of it all sat a lump amidst sheets on his bed.
A sleeping child.
Randall gave a nod of approval and leaned in, whispering against her ear. "We wait."
Waiting, waiting, always waiting. That was his forte. Even if the results weren't the best, he learned his skill and patience over long nights of sitting and waiting in a kennel. He used that skill and patience now in a bid for returning home.
It didn't take long for the time to pass. Less than half an hour, perhaps more, and Randall's eyes flicked to what he had been waiting for. Curiosity outweighed caution as she joined him in staring in wide-eyed wonder at the closet door.
The faintest hiss of shifting air announced the change. A glow at the closet's edges, a ripple of subdued luminescence that stretched across the carpet like some eldritch nightlight. Rita's nails dug into the window ledge, heart pounding. Randall's breath caught in his throat, eyes trained on that wooden portal. Even in the dimness, she caught the tiny twitch of his fronds: coiled excitement, feral intent. Then, with all the quiet ceremony of a half-lost dream, the closet door creaked open.
A monster with four spindly legs stepped out. She wouldn't describe it as horrific but... interesting. An odd cross between a cyclops, a fruit bat, and a rather hairy spider with pastel pink and green fur. This would be the child's closet counterpart, right? The monster walked through, each step accompanied by a faint jingle of a rather large squeaky mallet. Its pastel fur shimmered in the gloom, big eye scanning the bedroom. A single beep sounded on a small device strapped to its wrist—a wristband, by the look of it—and then the light from the door receded back into darkness. The child in the bed twitched but didn't fully wake, a soft whimper escaping. The creature took another step and the child roused. The cyclops monster paused and Randall's muscles coiled, poised like a puma to spring.
The kid seemed to react with a hint of familiarity and gave a sleepy wave, giggling faintly with a tired murmur, as if... friends?
Randall was struck dumbfounded, slack-jawed for a heartbeat, unable to move as he tried to comprehend what his eyes saw before him. He blinked, eyes narrowing. Not the time, he could gawk and feel dumbfounded later. He eased over the windowsill, sliding to the carpet with barely a whisper of friction. Rita stayed perched on the ledge, swallowing the tightness in her throat. This was it—whatever plan they had hinged on that door.
Silent as smoke, he edged closer to his prize. Rita tracked Randall as best she could in the half-dark, trying and failing to shake the sick, spinning sensation in her stomach. Meanwhile, the fruit bat creature took the last remaining steps to the bed, nudging the boy.
Another giggle. Another amused mumble, and the bat monster started performing an odd one-man slapstick routine. Some real bastardized Charlie Chaplin stuff. The kid was giggling, thoroughly enjoying himself despite the very... unfunny act.
The show had barely started when an alarm beeped once, twice, three times. The monster stopped, went stiff as a statue. Its one wide eye darted around, looking down to its wrist. The screen flashed: Access denied. The monster pivoted abruptly. A pang of confusion flickered across its lone eye as it spotted Randall only a foot or two away from the closet. Randall didn't move, eyes burning, pupils thin and wicked.
Time stood still in that awful moment, with Randall glaring at the bat monster like he was willing it to vaporize. She felt her heart start up a drumroll in the pause. "W-What are you doing here?" the monster hissed in a feminine-sounding voice, brandishing the squeaky mallet like a useless shield. She snuck a glance at her wristband, an angry red LED blinking. "Who are you?"
Randall tore open the closet door but found only boxes and clothes inside. His gaze jumped wildly between the closet door, the kid, the bat monster, Rita, and then back to the monster as he realized his situation. Rita winced. He looked so much like a cornered wild animal, ready to lash out at anyone.
But he remained immobile, slinking into an attack position, calculating. Ready to do something stupid, no doubt, that he couldn't possibly expect to work out for the best. He tensed to pounce. His entire focus was on that device strapped around the monster's fluffy forearm. The child stirred, letting out a sharper whimper. A small sob rose from beneath the sheets. The bat monster panicked, trying to softly hush the kid, but Randall stepped in, looming, gritting his teeth in a snarl.
"Shut it," he hissed, voice low and dangerous. He'd spotted the text across the glowing band: Unauthorized Monster Detected—and an icon flicking from green to red, unlock to lock. So that's it, he realized with a grim spark. That thing is the key.
The bat monster turned and tried squaring up to Randall in retaliation. Her posture and height only towered a couple inches above Randall's. Even so, she held the squeaky mallet like a commander; tight at her side, ready to use it if needed.
A choked little sound came from her, the smell of her fear enough to make his nose wrinkle and scales itch. "I don't want to hurt you. Just... please leave. You're trespassing."
Randall lunged for the wristband and in a heartbeat, all hell broke loose.
A scream split the night, slicing past the windowpane and tearing its way into Rita's eardrums. Her nerves shattered as she stared helplessly into the room, legs frozen on the window ledge. Then Randall was pulling and shouting at the bat monster and then one of the nightstands fell over. Randall lunged upward, snarling with fangs bared, ripping the squeaky hammer out of the bat monster's claws as he could take no more of the obnoxious thing smacking insistently against his head, as he batted it away in a near-blind fury.
The bat monster flung herself away from him, squealing in fear. Randall went for her again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to haul the cyclops back. He went to pluck at her wristband when she hit him—full strength—in the side of the face. His head was knocked aside as she reeled back her elbow with another wailing cry, this time a sound of anger.
Randall's entire face throbbed, but he didn't allow it to stall him for long. In a flurry of kicks and punches, both monsters were soon rolling across the floor in an erratic dogpile of angry roars, sharp screeches, and furious curses. One particularly strong hit shoved the bat monster against the wall with a heavy thud, toppling the bat and the oak bookcase on top of her. The child was screaming and sobbing, and as if it couldn't get worse, the lights came on outside the bedroom door. Rita's stomach plummeted, and Randall seemed to pick up on her anxiety as he snatched up the wristband from the bat monster. A primal part of her mind pleaded: please, please no!
The door rattled, but the way was blocked by the bat monster crumpled underneath a rather heavy bookcase. A thunder of urgent voices rose behind the door. Someone slammed a fist against the wood, rattling the frame. The boy, Tanner, let out a fresh wail, shrinking deeper beneath his covers, tears streaming as he choked on terrified sobs. Beyond the threshold, three voices blurred into one frantic cacophony. His father, "Whoever's in there, I swear I'll kill you dead!" His mother, "Tanner, open the door! Are you okay? Oh god!" His grandmother, Mrs. Cormier, "The cops are on their way!"
All the while, the half-toppled dresser and the weighty bookcase formed a messy barricade. Rattling the knob did little good as the monstrous tumble had jammed furniture across the doorway. Tanner's tear-soaked face peeked from behind a pillow, eyes impossibly wide. His heart-wrenching whimpers felt like knives in Rita's ears. She hovered on the windowsill, paralyzed by the raw panic in the air—both inside and in her own pounding chest. She could not make out every word, but those she could made her stomach knot into itself, leaving a pit of nothing but acid in her abdomen. She backed away from the windowsill, torn between the urge to run and the urge to stay. But the danger was imminent. There was no safe route here.
In the center of the chaos, Randall stood—chest heaving, fronds twitching with raw adrenaline. He clutched the wristband tight—damaged or not. The father's voice thundered again from the hall, a violent promise of retribution:
"If you've hurt my son, I'll kill you."
No, no this can't be, was the thought that roared through his mind, reverberating against the walls of his skull. Everything had been falling into his favor. And now... He hissed low through clenched teeth and cursed his damn, damn luck.
The sirens began, followed by the distant blare and rumble of a car engine. He felt like a trapped wildcat. The bat monster coughed, blinking tears out of her big eye. "Please... they'll catch me."
He glanced down at the crumpled furry monster, her pink and green striped coat in disarray, stained with dark patches where cuts bled into view. Randall bared his teeth. "Should've thought of that before you came in here playing clown," he snarled, though the edge of his fury was tempered by the rapidly escalating chaos. Flashlight beams danced under the door as the mother fought to see into the room.
Rita, stiff with terror, finally found the strength to speak. "Randall—Randall, let's go! Please!" Her voice cracked. She couldn't bear the child's cries or the frantic pounding another second, and sirens already seemed to ring in her ears from the outside world. But it would all become reality once they left that room and she could not stand that thought. Randall made a final futile swipe at the closet door with the wristband, trying and failing to unlock it. No use. No use at all.
Randall's eyes cut to the window, then to the swirling lights on the wristband—useless in its current state. A thousand curses roiled behind his clenched jaw. The father's shoulder slammed the door once more, jostling the pile of furniture. Another inch, and the door might open enough for him to squeeze an arm through.
"Randall!" Rita hissed, voice raw.
He twisted on a heel, bounding back to the window. The child's sob cracked the air like a broken plea. Tension frothed in Randall's gut—whatever small sense of advantage had existed was gone, replaced by the suffocating realization that they were out of time.
The monster crouched at the window. In a swift move, he climbed out and scaled the porch roof. He'd only just crawled a few feet when Rita's fingers hooked around his arm and hauled him out with a force he did not expect. Randall wasn't sure what he expected from her: anger, silence, condemnation. Not this urgency in her eyes. The woman, no less terrified than himself, struggled to contain herself from shaking in panic. He thrust one look back into the room, one arm was through the child's door and the police could be there any minute. And as if some cosmic being was indeed watching and wanted to instill him further in utter defeat, sirens began wailing and getting louder the moment he saw a flicker of the closet door open and another monster, tall and bulky wearing a blue hardhat scrambled over to the bat monster in some kind of last ditch attempt to help. Randall snarled, the burning glow of his eyes shining in the darkness as he turned and fled with her, stumbling in his panic.
A precarious rush of movement followed. Rita led, half-sliding along the shingles until she found the gutter's edge. The yard below looked eerily calm in the moonlight, a harsh contrast to the bedroom's howling scene. Randall hopped down first, landing with a grunt. Rita, heart lurching, attempted the same—but in her haste, her foot missed the small overhang.
She tumbled the last few feet, hitting the lawn in a jarring impact that sent a spike of pain up her ankle. A gasp of agony erupted from her lips. She crumpled, near-collapsing against the dewy grass. Randall's instincts flared; he spun around, snarling a reflexive oath. Damn her clumsiness. Yet even in his rush, some internal thread yanked him, forcing him to help. Perhaps it was a sense of debt or the barest flicker of empathy.
"Get up," he snarled, darting to her side, hooking a hand under her elbow to support her. The wristband bit into his palm, but he refused to let go—this was his ticket, no matter how damaged.
She hissed in pain, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes, but she clung to him. Porch lights were already flaring on neighboring homes. A dog barked two lots over. They half-limped, half-ran across the yard, forging a jagged path through the shadows. Rita's mind buzzed with panic: 'We're going to get caught, going to jail… And that had been far too close a call. So, so stupidly, blindingly, close. And that kid… Oh that poor, poor kid.' She closed her eyes as he dragged her along, not daring a glimpse at him and instead forced her stare onto the darkness in front of her. The pain throbbing from her leg didn't register with her in the face of the overwhelming terror.
Half-assed preparation was no preparation. Randall snarled, dragging her alongside with a furious energy, feet racing faster and faster. Rita swallowed her whimpers as her injured ankle bore more and more of her weight. Inwardly, she was cursing everything: cursing Randall, herself, the night sky, the child... But she swallowed any whimper and tried to keep a pace that might at least make it easier for him. Her injury was unfortunate and perhaps a lesson in life. Still, in this moment she hoped he'd keep holding her because she feared without the grip that currently slowed them that she wouldn't have kept up.
The two-mile hike between the Cormier residence and the RV was the longest, most grueling hike of either's life. Time slipped between her grasping fingers as they hobbled away in near silence, the wail of distant sirens snapping at their heels. Lungs burned, throats ached. Pounding legs quivered and threatened to seize in an uncontrollable tremor, knees aching fiercely. They tore into a tiny field of trees and brush, tearing past and narrowly avoiding collisions with low, twisting branches. Until finally, they'd gotten back to the RV with an exhausted, breathless halt. She tried to catch a breath, tried to quell the agonized tears from the burning and bleeding grazes from tree limbs and branches they'd burst through.
Her hands shook too fiercely to unlock the RV but Randall tore them from her hands and did so himself. He shoved her roughly inside with barely a glance at her sorry state before climbing in himself and slamming the door shut. Not the most comforting thing given her own terror, but he seemed so scared himself and angry at everything. So she didn't say a word as he glared down at the damaged wristband. He didn't acknowledge the tears threatening to fall. Didn't ask why or how she was feeling and she wouldn't have spoken a word if he'd bothered to look her way and inquire, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't glance at her again.
Blondie would have interjected by now. But the dog could only peer at them from around the corner with perked ears and stiff tail. Even he could tell it was best to let whatever was about to happen play out.
For a moment, Rita just stood there, frozen by the intensity in his eyes—dilated, electric. Randall glowered at the broken device in his curled fist. A ragged breath escaped him, snarl and a sob cut short. "This," he spat, shaking the half-ruined band, "was all I had." Each syllable burned with condemnation. "Do you have any idea what I went through in there? This was supposed to bring me home. All that risk and for what! Some busted hunk of junk!"
Rita began leaning on the RV's small countertop for support, tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "Randall." she began, but he cut her off with a raised hand, palm outward. His glare pinned her like a bug under glass.
"What?" he hissed. "You what? You didn't think this through! You didn't realize sneaking into a house with a half-baked plan could explode like that? You left me in a cage for two months, then wave a carrot of false hope in my face, and this is the big result? Nothing!" He flung the wristband onto the floor, where it clattered amidst the grit of the night's desperate failures.
Her heart hammered, shame gnawing at her. She opened her mouth—maybe to say sorry, maybe to protest that she hadn't forced him into that fiasco. "Don't put all the blame on me! I didn't force you to attack another monster in front of that poor kid! God, Randall, you went berserk. You think I planned for any of that? I. was. just. trying. to. help!" Each word punctuated.
"You led me to that child!" he roared, tail snapping the side of the booth. She flinched, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. "You practically shoved me into a dead-end! Useless, every step worthless. Everything wasted. And now the cops are out there, a new storm of trouble we don't need."
A million retorts buzzed behind her eyes. She wanted to remind him that she was going in blind, she didn't know how to handle any of this! But the sob in her chest took hold before reason could break free. She bit it back with a grimace, pressing her palm to the side of her throbbing ankle. "Don't put all that on me! You wanted a child's scream. You lunged at that monster like a rabid dog the second you saw a wristband. Are you insane? Resorting to violence the moment something blocked your path? You can't blame me for your meltdown!" Her voice faltered, the last words broken up by the urge to cry. An urge she despised as her natural reaction to yelling, to anger, to this.
He sneered at her. "Go on, cry! Cry about how you're the victim in all this. Good job on that ankle, by the way—perfect sabotage for an already doomed plan." He kicked the wristband aside, letting it skitter further under the table. "I should've known. Should've known from the start that trusting a human to handle any of this was a fool's errand."
Tears slipped down her cheek in hot trails. "I just wanted to help," she retorted, anger and despair lacing through her, hot in her veins. "You wanted a closet, I knew a place… I didn't do this for me!"
"Then you should've done it right!" His voice clapped back. "My life is on the line. My entire home, my future. You wanted no part of this except to quell your pathetic guilt. Don't pretend it was for me. You just wanted to stroke your hero complex!"
A hot, shaky laugh tore from her throat, half-sob, half-scoff. "Don't you dare label me like that. I took a risk for you, Randall! I helped break into that house, could've gotten arrested, I hurt my ankle. Probably scarred that kid for life because of my stupid choices! I messed up, yeah. But you can't admit you messed up too!"
Randall's eyes narrowed, pupils contracting into slits. "I messed up by trusting you. All of this—" He gestured in a furious arc around the RV. "I should've gone it alone from the start."
Rita ignored the complaint and went on, "Maybe if you'd bothered to clue me in—like, oh, I don't know—why you keep raving about scaring kids or who exactly you are—this entire operation wouldn't have gone to hell. But no, you'd rather keep me in the dark and then scream at me for not being perfect!"
His tail lashed against the wall, the dull thud startling her into silence for half a heartbeat. "Don't twist this into my fault," he hissed. "You think I owe you some grand explanation, just because you fumbled around with a half-baked plan? I told you I needed a kid's closet. Period. Maybe if you had two brain cells to rub together, you'd have realized the stakes."
"Guess the joke's on me, because I actually thought you might appreciate the help. Because I thought you could use the help." She scoffed, then laughed, shaking her head. "God, I'm such an idiot."
He opened his mouth to retort—teeth bared, fronds bristling with fury—but no words emerged, only a savage growl. The tension in his posture made it clear he stood at the edge of reason, and any further push might send him over. Yet her accusations still rattled in his mind.
Rita's pulse hammered, her ankle throbbing with each beat, tears threatening to overrun her cheeks again. "Well? Are we done here?" she spat. "Or do you wanna keep telling me how I wrecked your entire life?"
A muscle in Randall's jaw twitched. His gaze flicked to the battered remains of the wristband on the floor, then back to her. For a moment, it looked like he might hurl one last insult. Instead, he spun on his heel, tail sweeping out behind him like a whip. "I'm done," he growled. "Should've been done the second I realized how clueless you really are."
His words stabbed like needles, but she refused to let him see the fresh tears welling at the corners of her eyes again. Knuckles clenched white against the counter, she forced herself to remain silent as he stormed to the door. He wrenched it open, letting the stifling night air surge in—and then he was gone, swallowed by the Louisiana darkness, leaving behind only the echo of his rage in the slam of the door and her strangled sobs in the stagnant hush. Only after she had her breakdown of the night's failure and the immense guilt did she eventually pass out into a miserable, restless sleep that lingered into the following morning. Not even the typical joy that permeated Blondie could subdue her misery
In her wake, the damage settled on its new roots. What the next course of action was, she couldn't say. As far as she knew, it meant doing things on their own. They'd never agreed to stick together, or rely on each other or be companions or allies. Even though they'd planned that night's events together, ultimately they were a duo that didn't depend on each other for anything. Rita slammed her fist down hard and stared out the window, wondering just what the fuck she was going to do. But one thing was obvious, she wouldn't wait for the venomous serpent's return. Whatever might be next, would be done at her pace, and without him.
She'd set herself into motion the moment she awoke—despite her bruised ankle that still twinged with each step—and mentally listed what she'd need by day's end: food, gas, perhaps some half-decent rest before she left. Beyond that, it didn't matter. Or so she told herself.
Rita had picked up the broken wristband before sitting down on the steps of the Winnebago, letting Blondie out to do his nature and snuffle around as he pleased. Her fingertips traced its curves and edges. How in the world could something like this have such immense power? It looked like a chunky wristwatch with a broken strap and cracked digital face. Glitching pixels flashed across the surface, each blink spewing static that washed away the numbers and replaced them with corrupted fragments. Whatever secrets it might have held seemed long lost under the impact of the two monsters. How strange that such a seemingly normal object could have done this... What else might such a technology hold? What other secrets might it have been privy to, things she could have uncovered, been amazed by if only she had a tech-savvy mind? Plus, wouldn't Randall need this...? Maybe he had a better understanding of this than she.
Either way, she resolved to hold onto it and put the strange thoughts that followed her thoughts of him from her mind. There was only her and the list of tasks in her mind: food, gas, rest, road. And the gnawing doubt on the back burner that lingered on Randall. Was he even safe? Would he be okay? Where was he even going?
All I wanted was to help, she reminded herself, voice echoing in her own head. She traced the digital face one last time, feeling the faint buzz of glitching pixels beneath her touch. Such a deceptively simple gadget to hold so much power. She pictured Randall's expression if she returned it to him—wary relief, maybe. Or maybe just another snarky comment.
At least he'd be alive to make that comment.
One final sigh and she tucked the wristband into her pants pocket. Letting her shoulders slump, Rita whistled for Blondie but the dog didn't relent in whatever interested him so in the underbrush.
"Blondie?" Her calls went unanswered.
Only to hear not-so-distant curious whimpers. And at the other end...
"Get off me, mutt!"
Her heart raced, catching onto his voice immediately. Randall.
Rita hobbled to her feet and whistled again. To her surprise, the bushes parted. In the resulting opening emerged the golden retriever, pulling with all his might against a rather haphazard-looking sheet of fabric, torn in places and stained with leaves and mud. What's more, attached was no ordinary load. Squirming along and fighting for freedom were none other than Randall himself. Blondie gave another enthusiastic yank at the fabric as it tore with an audible rip, and the reptilian was hauled across the wet grass.
"Mutt!" Randall grumbled.
"Blondie!" Rita yelled.
She and the dog looked at each other with wild wonder. But Blondie ignored her stare, continuing to tug at the scrap of cloth, ignoring Randall's growling complaints and his threats. He staggered to his feet, still half-tangled in the remnants of that tattered fabric, leaves and wet grass clinging to his scales. Blondie was very pleased with himself and finally let go, trotting in a circle before plopping down, tail thumping the earth.
Rita hobbled closer, "You okay?" she asked, doing a poor attempt to steady herself on her bum ankle.
Randall glared, wiping what stuck to him to the ground. "I'd be better if your mutt didn't think I was a chew toy." Despite the complaint, his voice came out more exhausted than angry, and his fronds drooped rather than flared.
"He is called a retriever for a reason," she shot back, a poor attempt at a joke. They shared an awkward moment of eye contact. Yesterday's tension still hung between them like a kind of static. It was charged, but subdued.
"About last night—" Randall started.
"Yeah," Rita interrupted, not sure what she wanted to say. "You... I... we.. were dicks.." She trailed off. "Look, I'm too worn out for another fight."
Randall dipped his head, tail flicking weakly. "Me too." There was a tired resignation in his eyes, and she finally noticed the mottled bruise across his cheek, a purplish blotch darker than his usual hue. He winced when he caught her staring. "Guess I took more of a beating than I realized."
A pang of guilt twisted in her gut. "Uh, sorry," she murmured, unsure if she was apologizing for the bruise, or for the argument, or everything in between.
He gave a slight shrug, letting silence settle until Blondie sneezed. "So…" Randall shifted on his feet. "You're still here."
"Not for long. I have to leave the state soon. Family stuff." Her throat constricted briefly, thinking of her grandmother. "I can't hang around Louisiana hunting down more closet leads or kids with an active door. Not right now."
Randall suddenly took an interest in the damp ground. "You gotta do what you gotta do."
"I do," Rita agreed, forcing her voice to stay neutral, but her emotions were still in a twist. "But… if you need help, you can come with me. Maybe we can find a new angle where my grandmother lives, or circle back later." She exhaled hard and shook her head. "No promises, but the door's open if you want to tag along."
He paused, conflict swimming in his eyes. "I—guess that might be better than wandering around alone. Especially if there's a chance to find another door."
"Great. But we need ground rules if we're cooped up in my RV." She held up a finger. "Honesty. You tell me the basics—where you come from, how all this door stuff really works, so we don't end up in a fiasco again."
Randall rubbed the back of his neck. "What else?"
"Second," she continued, "you help out. Gas money's on me, but I want you to… I don't know, keep the place cleaned up if you're sticking around, maybe help with errands. We'll... figure it out."
He gave a weary nod. "I can manage that."
"Lastly, no more biting each other's heads off," she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "We don't have to be friends, but… a truce. Deal?"
For a moment, Randall hesitated. Then he extended a hand—still muddy, but offered in genuine acceptance. "Deal," he said softly. Rita reached her hand out and took his in her own, shaking. It was an awkward handshake, ignoring the clammy feeling of swamp residue. She smiled. "All right, then. I gotta see what I've got for supplies, maybe clean up this absolute mess. Then I'm hitting the store for food, gas, and a quick bite. I'll need some rest before a long drive north."
"Long way from here?"
"Yep, give or take 1300 miles." Rita nodded. "But if you're in, I'll make space for you in the RV. It's cramped, but better than out in the swamp."
She half expected a scathing remark, but his tired eyes roved over her and then to the RV. "Appreciate it," he said at last.
Rita nodded. A strange, tentative calm settled over them, the echo of last night's chaos replaced by this fragile willingness to cooperate. Blondie trotted back over, tail wagging at full speed, blissfully unaware of the tension that had existed mere moments ago.
"All right, Blondie," Rita said, scratching the dog's ears. "Let's get packed up." Then she shot Randall a measured look, softened by a hint of relief. "Guess we both have some things to fix."
Randall merely inclined his head in agreement, a quiet acceptance passing between them. For now, a truce. A battered, hesitant one, but maybe enough to carry them down the road.