Monsters University

Ambrose Stirling (POV)

"We have received confirmation from Dildon regarding the post production of 'Fixer Upper'. He'll finish it in time to submit the final version to 'Toronto'. Now, Stephanie here," Higgs pointed at a brunette sitting at other end of the conference room, "-recommends we opt for a limited theatrical release at first. You know, keep it on the down low for a few week. Then we build on the nominations from 'Toronto' as a marketing push, you know, that way we can show a break-even result. We save on marketing, and if Dildon wins the 'People's Choice', we start talks of an exclusivity contract. For at least three releases." He proceeds to look around the table, before fixating on me.

Sigh, he's heavy handed at times sure, but no-one can deny. He's one loyal son of a bitch.

I clear my throat before speaking up, "That's all well and good Higgs. But we won't be the only ones after Dildon. Javier here," I pointed to my right, "got some chatter from a… let's say an anonymous source. You remember the beatdown we dished out to Miramax last winter? As it turns out, 'Weiner boy', is one stubborn little bastard. He's reached out to Dildon already. Now I'm not saying a contract is off the table, but exclusivity will be, let's say risky."

I tried to guess his thought process from his face. At this point, I might as well be a bona fide expert at it. What with all the practice I got from Ricky. I never could tell what was going on in that big ass brain of his. Not for years at least, and every time I started getting better at it, his face became more unreadable.

Now Higgs is good, but my boy will beat him any fucking day at poker, and you can take that to the damn bank. Oh wait, his left cheek twitched. He did that once when he had a 'three of a kind' up his sleeves. Well, let's hear his strategy then.

"You're right Mr. Stirling. Pulling off a non-compete will be next to impossible. That's why we are gonna leave some wiggle room. It'll a classic good cop, bad cop scenario. My real aim to come out of the room with a 'First Look' deal. Now Weinstein won't settle. You know that, the man loves to play hardball. He doesn't offer breathing room, to anyone. That list will soon enough include Dildon. Trust me, he'll stick with us." He finished with a smug grin on that mug of his.

Eh, no problem. He did earn it after all. I mean, fucking hell. The way things are gonna go, 'Weiner boy' will be busy playing 'Tag', not knowing he's against a fucking chess master. Now a 'First look' deal is essentially the holy grail of contracts with directors. It essentially means we pay him a little fee every now and then and in exchange, we get first choice on the next project he's working on. Before the rest of the studios know about it.

Then we, can choose whether we want to invest in his endeavor or not. Though I suppose that's a thought for the future.

"All right, well done Higgs. Make sure you send the report on "Fixer Upper". I want some solid box office projections. Plus, we're in talks with China. I have a feeling our international gross will exceed the last attempts… Anyways, we're done for now." I stood up and waved dismissively, "good going boys and girls, keep it up. I'll have Mary draw up a schedule for the next meeting."

After everyone exited the room, I finally sat down on my revolving arm-chair. Sigh, having a moment to myself here is hard. People here are so… upbeat.

It's disconcerting sometimes. And it's partly why I built my office the way I did. A 15 ft high penthouse suite with soundproof walls and two separate elevators leading to it. One of them situated next to the common elevator. So that the people can see their boss arriving bright and early for work. And the other one leading to a back entrance known only to the service staff. So, I can leave whenever the fuck I want, and people won't suspect a thing.

They'll just assume I am diligent. 'Oh! Mr. Stirling is so hard-working! It's 10 at night and he still hasn't left. My goodness!'

All the while I'm having a gourmet dinner in Beverly Hills with a doe-eyed young starlet.

Anyways, I really should get back to the 'treatment' Gillian left on my desk this afternoon. Fucking psycho wants a budget of 70 big ones.

70 million American dollars. For a god forsaken crime drama.

Even Scorsese only needed 25 for 'Goodfellas'. And what a treat that movie was. Absolutely fucking spectacular.

I sighed as I skimmed through the report. Inclusive of the script treatment, it was nearly 156 pages.

Jesus, this is gonna be one long ass night. I'll probably stay at the suite today. Hmm, I should call Wyatt, inform him of my plans. He'll tell Ricky.

This is probably for the best though. I wonder how pissed off my boy is right now? Is he screaming his lungs out? Does he want to rip out my heart and sacrifice it to a demon? Or has he decided to go for the 'silent treatment'?

Hmmm, he'll probably cool down by tomorrow. By then I wager, he'll have got past my little deception, though one can never be too sure with him. The kid can hold a grudge.

His high school teachers and student body will concur. I still remember vividly. I got a call from the principal's office about how he was involved in a scuffle of sorts.

I won't lie, I nearly shat my pants hearing that. Oh, don't judge me! You would too if you heard your 12-year-old little boy was involved in a physical altercation with 17-year-olds.

I rushed to the school as fast as I could, expecting a subdues atmosphere. Suffice it to say, my expectations were thoroughly subverted.

Apparently, 3 delinquents were physically harassing a young girl, whistling, and rubbing shoulders, that sort of thing. The girl tried to rebuff them repeatedly, only to fail due to her diminutive stature and timid disposition.

My boy, ever the gentleman he is, decided to step in. The ruffians, tried to push him around a little.

Now that's where it got interesting. Within a minute, all three of them were sprawled out wide on the floor, and in no condition to continue. I was shocked. Obviously.

But more shocked were the parents of the three idiots. When the principal showed us the security footage, I am not ashamed to say I laughed. Out loud.

Now you would think Ricky, being as smart as he is, used some kinda super-secret martial arts technique or something, but no. He just sweeped their legs. Repeatedly. Every time they got back up; they were down before they knew it. He dodged their punches with impeccable precision and put them down for the count, like a boss.

I won't lie, I was proud of him that day. If I had been any prouder, I would've definitely thrown caution to the wind, said what the hell, and took him out for his first beer. Thankfully, common sense prevailed.

Anyways, he didn't stop there. Now officially, he didn't do anything. He always had an alibi, and evidence in his favour whenever he was called to the office. No-one could prove it, despite the repeated accusation of the boys.

But the kiddo, pranked the hell out of them. He admitted it to me on the car ride back home, but frankly speaking, I couldn't care less. He made the boys' life a living hell for all the shit they put others through. Things got so bad 3 weeks down the line, that two of the boys transferred schools. The third one on the other hand, cleaned up his act I was told. Not that I cared in the least. But when you chat with other parents, you tend to hear things from them.

Okay, that's enough reminiscing for today, I better get back to the report.

…

…

MC (POV)

After the interview, I spent the next few weeks preparing the logistics required for my college. That meant shopping. A shit ton of it. And, it wasn't just stationeries and books the whole time. Dad had Wyatt accompany me to Beverly Hills Rodeo Drive, one of the most posh and opulent shopping district in the world. All the latest fashion wear was here, from casual T-shirts, to formal blazers, from corduroy jeans to cotton shorts, they had it all.

And for some inane reason, an obscene amount of lingerie stores were around every damn corner. Not that I noticed. Or cared for in the slightest.

Hahaha, it's not like I could spot bombshells all dolled up in makeup and the latest fashion trends walking in and out of the stores knowing they had purchased panties and bras after trying them on less 20 meters from where I stood.

Shut up.

Puberty is a nasty ass bitch. Thankfully my wandering eyes never wavered below their necklines. I might be undergoing the most hormone infested time of my life, but that doesn't give me a pass to be a fucking pervert.

Plus, the moment my eyes landed on the lingerie store, Wyatt stared at my face, practically daring me to show a sign of being flustered.

Anyways, after some light shopping followed by a delectable lunch at one of Rodeo Drive's best eatery, 'The Hideaway'.

It wasn't my first time coming here, but I nevertheless enjoyed my lunch far more than what followed. Which was shopping for shoes.

Now, nothing wrong with shoes, I personally love a good pair of them, but Wyatt on the other hand-

"NO! No-nononono Ricky! What in the blazes is that?!? You think that colour scheme is good? Well take a look at the soles. PAPER THIN! Your feet will be worse than mine in less than a year! For god's sake pick a good pair!"

Apparently, he was really into shoes. He knew which ones were the best, and which ones sucked more than the masseuses in Thailand.

He was a goddamn fanboy. You know it feels really weird labelling a 60+ year old man a fan 'boy'. Feels like an oxymoron to be honest. But let's not deviate.

According to Wyatt's rant, I had displayed a shocking ignorance to my selection process of shoes. You see I had selected them, cause I thought they looked good. Big fucking mistake.

I might as well have gone to a Star Wars themed store and bought a lightsaber, all the while telling the salesman I wanted it as a night light for going to the washroom. The amount of sheer rage the salesman would have felt, was directly proportional to the amount of outrage Wyatt felt at my 'blasphemous' actions.

Yep, he used that word.

At the end of the day, I bought a nice pair, and that's what truly matters. Not the fact that Wyatt spent 15 minutes, inspecting and scrutinizing every aspect of the shoes, or the salesgirl who had nearly been reduced to tears by his endless tirade of questions. As far as I'm concerned, other than me and Wyatt, everyone else in the store was an NPC.

So, fuck them.

Oh, one last thing. I had also purchased a pager. For those of you who don't what the fuck that is, it's essentially a cell phone, without most of its functions. It tells the time, receives text and audio messages, and with internet, can send back messages as well.

Apparently, cell phones had hardly been invented by this year. There were only a select few in the market and they were bigger in size than my landline.

I mean, there was no way in hell I was carrying one in my pocket, not that it would fit inside in the first place.

I guess I'll probably buy a blackberry down the line, before the smartphones render it defunct. Though at this point, I don't even know whether there is a 'Blackberry' company in this world.

Anyways, I was all set for my campus life to begin really, before an unexpected curveball struck me smack dab in the middle of my stupid face.

The issue of living. Now as much as I love my dear old dad, this was college. I wanted to live on the campus damn it. The amount of fun I would miss out on if I lived off campus… the very thought filled me with dread.

My father on the other hand –

"Nope, no-no. Hell no. Ricky you're 13. You are barely a teen! And what, you want to live on campus? With kids over 18? No. Just nope. I'm not allowing this." He said shaking his head, his determination slowly crumbling away as I made extremely valid arguments in my favour.

"This is not about the other kids, is it? You're not worried about me. You know damn well I can handle myself just fine." I pressed on, intent on snapping him out of his denial, "This is about you. You don't want me to stay away from you."

He kept on shaking his head, though realization shone through in his eyes. I could see how much it pained him to acknowledge my point, and I wasn't exactly thrilled to do this. I didn't want to hurt him in the least. It was an unfortunate by-product of growing up, I guess. I mean, even he had to know I was gonna move out someday. He just did not think it would be this early.

After nearly an hour of back and forth, we finally reached a consensus.

I'll live on campus, but special allowances will be made in my favour which will provide me with a room of my own till I'm 16. Only then will I have to bunk with other students. And every weekend, Benjamin the driver, will fetch me to have dinner at home on Saturday. He'll drive me back on Sunday.

There were a few other terms and conditions, but let's not get into those. I get to stay on campus, and that's a win for me as far as I'm concerned.

Sigh… the things I do for my loved ones.

…

…

USC has a variety of dormitories and housing accommodations which differ through preferences. Some dormitories are traditional, with communal bathrooms and shared rooms, while others are suite-style or apartment-style, offering more privacy and amenities.

Most of these facilities are modern and relatively well-maintained, something which became apparent as I opened the door to my suite. A living room with a sofa, a spacious bedroom with a small balcony as an attaché, a kitchen, a bathroom equipped with all necessary amenities including a washer and dryer unit, and a study table. It was sparse, and spacious for a college dorm room.

Of course, it didn't hold a candlestick to my room back at the Stirling Estate. Nope sir, I'm afraid my luxuries and privilege will no longer be accessible to me for a few years.

It'll be subtle at first, but will quickly and increasingly become more prominent. For example, I'll have to make my own food and coffee, or go to the one of the several cafes or dining facilities strewn across the large campus. Wyatt will no longer be available to hand-deliver me stuff on a silver platter. And frankly, I've missed this feeling.

In this life, I was protected, sheltered, and spoiled from a young age, while in my other life, I was far more independent than I had ever been here. Back then, I was from a middle-class family, well off financially, but not rich enough to spend carelessly on mansions, sports cars, and butlers.

I've significantly enjoyed the perks of my current lifestyle, but the world at large is a cruel unforgiving place. If my plans come to fruit, I'll be accosted by reporters on a daily basis, and all of my actions will be scrutinized to no end, in the vain hope of publishing some sensational bullshit.

I suppose a little discipline and a go-getter attitude will go a long way in combating the invasions of privacy that I'll undoubtedly suffer going forward.

Hmm, maybe I should also take this opportunity to cultivate a humble persona? You know, like every now and then, I carry some old lady's bags, or help a blind man cross the street? Well, that's a thought for the future.

I look back and there he is. Benji, huffing and puffing, grunting as he drags two large bags full of clothes and other amenities on the floor.

Sigh, I have two conflicting angles to this. In my previous life, due to the social mannerisms drilled into me at an early age, and the need to be seen in a positive light by anyone and everyone, I would've rushed to help him with a bag, no matter how much of a physical strain it would put on me. And if I couldn't, then at the very least, I would ensure my face would light up with concern for him, as I bring him a glass of water and ask him whether he's okay.

And then my current life. I've become so used to seeing other people do grunt work for me and my family, that I've low-key become desensitized to their plight. My current persona would see them as a different class of people, a lower class of people, who should be obligated to do this work as they're being paid for it. And the money they earn would go a long way in their livelihood.

Damn it, I really gotta consolidate my conflicting personas. At the very least I'm aware of the flaws present in my psyche. Kudos to my WIS stat btw. This way, I can use my alone time and newfound privacy to exhibit a mental change in my perception, now that I'll be able to analyze the effects of my privilege in a larger context and setting. Namely, this university. This walking talking mix pot of rich assholes, and social class scholarship students, the trustees with their silver spoons stuck up their arses, and the hardworking professors who have attained their position on their own merits.

It'll be interesting I bet.

I look towards the door, as I view Ben going back to the car, no doubt to bring up my duffel bag full of sports paraphernalia, and my bicycle.

Yep, that's right. My bicycle. At first, I thought I could just walk or jog across the campus to my classes whenever I had to. But then I happened to glance at a map.

The USC campus, also known as the University Park Campus occupies 226 acres of land. Now just to put it into perspective, the Stirling Estate is 4.9 acres. My big ass house, with a three-storey mansion, a swimming pool, a soccer turf, a driveway and garage, and a huge garden up front, is 46 times smaller than USC.

Now due to me being 13, I could not ride a motorcycle, or drive a car really. So, a bike is what I get. It'll still take me several minutes to travel from one end of the campus to another.

Sigh, I guess my cycling skills will at the very least be maxed out by the time I'm done here. By the time I'm 18, I should have enough skill and power to win the Tour De France solo. Lance Armstrong will have nothing on me. I should be able to parkour with my cycle, jumping from one wall to another, while people watch from below like the plebs they are! Mwahahahahaha!

Yesss! I did it! It took me weeks of practice but I did it. Behold citizens of earth, my evil laughter has finally been perfected.

THERE'S NOTHING THAT CAN STOP ME!

And I promptly start day dreaming about creating the Illuminati for real, all over again.

Benjamin (POV)

AGH! HNGHH!

I grunt as I carry the bicycle up the stairs. Why Ricky wants it in his flat while there's a perfectly good parking space out front, I'll never know.

But then again, it's not exactly my place to question his decisions. I do as I'm told. For all I know, this is some convoluted plan of his that'll revolutionize the parking system, or, just one of his whims. You never know with these genius types, especially little Ricky.

The boy is starting college at 13 for god's sake! When my daughter was 13, she was failing math in middle school. Thankfully it all worked out in the end, but still.

The boy really screws with people's expectations.

As I deposit the cycle outside his room, I enter to inform him of my departure.

Just as I'm about to call out to him, he notices me.

"AH, Benji! All done then?" He says with a charming little smile. Sigh, he's cute as hell and I've a feeling it'll only get worse as he gets older.

"Yes, I've put the bags there-" I spoke, pointing to a corner in the room, "-anything else you want done?"

And that's when it happened. His eyes swiveled around to meet mine, as he stared for a few seconds, before he got up.

"Wait here for a sec." He said as he left the living room to got to the… kitchen?

Few seconds later, he comes out with a glass of water and holds it out to me.

"Here." He says, not quite meeting my eyes this time, rather looking down towards his feet as he shuffled around.

I was stunned, for the lack of a better word. What in the hell?

Ricky? Offering me a glass of water?

Has he ever in his life, offered anyone, except maybe his father, a glass of water?

I put my hand forward hesitantly, before bringing the glass to my lips, taking long sips to relieve my dry throat. As I finish the water, I start walking towards the kitchen before a hand stops me abruptly.

"Leave it, it's fine." He said, his lips curling up a little, "I'll take it back."

I met his eyes again. And there I could see it clear as day. Kindness. And not a shred of ulterior motive.

Bloody hell.

I didn't even know what to feel right now. Except to get to the car ASAP to escape this awkwardness.

And so that's what I proceed to do, after wishing him good luck.

I'll be meeting him next week anyways. Let's hope he's forgotten about it by then.

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