Notes: Hey there everybody! YAY New Story! I've always had a big thing for pre-movie Megs, specifically looking at why he ended up the way he did. And then this plotbunny hopped out at me and forced me to start writing immediately! So here is the first chapter of a fic which I am entirely making up as I go along. I'll be doing a lot of experimenting with different narrative styles and challenging myself a bit in writing for this fic, so I hope it works out alright..
Warnings: This was supposed to be... funny and somewhat cute, maybe just a little bit sad. And well... it kind of found a mind of its own and suddenly became angsty, cripplingly sad, and at the end, creepy as all get-out. Only implied foul language, and some violence. This chapter has some splashes of 'Horror' and 'Angst' as one reader hinted for me! So be prepared for a little bit of nightmare fodder.
Disclaimer: 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by Dreamworks. I own nothing.
The small screen crackled and hissed with snowy static, the mesh of white and black pixels dancing shadows violently around the room. The noise was constant, grating and shrill. Until it cut out suddenly, the picture clarifying into the image of an empty room.
The screen swam with residual feedback; jumping lines of grey bisecting the images and travelling slowly up and down, as if the labour of offering a clear picture was almost too much. Finally, the tape seemed to warm up to the idea of fulfilling its purpose, showing a clear, if not aged image of a grey room. There were no windows. No natural light. It was small, little more than eight feet by ten. There was evidently a light source somewhere, because harsh illumination reflected off of a steel table directly in line of the video feed. The soft hum and flicker of a fluorescent bulb answered the question of where said light was coming from.
The video's point of view appeared to be anchored to the table itself, because the slick surface of the furniture seemed much too close, and much too small for the camera to be anywhere else. It was trained on a lone chair opposite, metal and rigid and unforgiving in its construction.
A click, scrape and soft slam could be heard to the left of the camera, followed by the shuffling of feet. A door had been opened and someone entered the room. The video suddenly shuffled wildly, muffled sounds of contact reached the audio until a face came into view, dark at first as the camera feed adjusted to being pointed upward, the harsh light at the individual's back. But soon, the screen focussed in on a rounded, harsh face, frowning down into the lens.
A man, perhaps in his late forties, glared into the screen, pausing a moment while balancing the camera in one hand, to push up the square, wire rimmed glasses perched atop his nose. A dark beard was shaved close and short to his jaw and he wet his lips with something like apprehension.
"My name is Dr. Arnold Stewart. I am working with the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted as the attending psychologist. Today I will be conducting the first of many interviews with... ah... with the subject," he explained, somewhat awkwardly into the camera, shifting it around again as he evidently took a seat in an unseen chair. Finished with his introduction, the camera swung violently once again, before eventually shaking back into its original position, as if placed on a mount aimed squarely at that still empty chair. The doctor, now off screen, could still be heard, shuffling in the chair that sat him directly to the right of the camera, the edges of his papers and a manila folder occasionally darting into view.
He cleared his throat loudly, and the same click, scrape and slam could be heard to the left, the door opening and closing. The shuffle of feet was louder, and a clink of metal accompanied it this time. There was a murmur of voices, and then, the empty chair was no longer empty.
A large blue head peeked over the shiny surface of the table, doe like green eyes wide and filled with a mix of apprehension, curiosity and fear. Two bodies, their heads out of frame, in blue and black guard uniforms stood to either side of the tiny being, whose small, chub nose could barely make it over the edge of the table once seated in the stiff chair. But the over-sized bald cranium was definitely in frame.
"Can you get something? It's too short," a voice mumbled out of frame, evidently the doctor, and one of the armed guards, his baton black and gleaming in the harsh overhead light moved off screen. The other remained stationary.
The first returned quickly, the second grabbing hold of the small subject and lifting him bodily by his arms, so what seemed like a stack of phone books could be placed on the seat. Once completed, the small being was dropped down again, now sitting in perfect view.
It was a toddler, at first glance. Aged perhaps roughly three or four years. Baggy, oddly stitched orange clothing hung on its small frame and the collar practically swallowed its neck up to its ears. Chubby hands, just beginning to slim of baby fat clutched a clear globe nearly the size of its giant head. A fish, unlike any seen before, blinked out of the sphere of glass and water with brown eyes that seemed knowing, and at the moment, untrusting.
Aside from the blue skin, and the hairless tall scalp, the being's features were surprisingly human-like, pinkish lips pursed tightly together and shoulders hunched in its prison garb, modified for its small size.
"Let's begin," the doctor's voice began, drifting in from off screen, and the little boy, as it became obvious, gave a half startled jump, pudgy fingers squeezing hard on the globe in his lap. His little throat bobbed.
"How old are you?"
At first, the little boy didn't speak. Merely stared, wide eyed, shuffling on his improvised booster seat. The giant eyes shifted unsurely toward something off camera, before lowering his chin a fraction of an inch.
"How old are you?" the question was repeated.
"1189 days," was the mumbled answer, the voice soft and small, eyes still shifting though the toddler had straightened its spine a fraction in bravery.
There was a pause.
"In years."
"3.26 years. Round'd up," the boy responded, pausing only briefly to add the last bit as if in a hurry to clarify, perhaps based on the reaction he received from the number. He looked at once hopeful, and terrified.
"Do you know where you are?"
"...In a room?" the child asked, scrunching up his face in some sort of uncertainty, as if struggling to understand the meaning of the question. He spoke clearly, in full sentences, but his voice remained thin and childlike.
"Do you know where this room is?" The questions are asked in a flat voice. No emotion connected.
"Oh. Metrocity Prison for the Crim-in-ally Gifted," the toddler says, somewhat relieved.
"Metro City," the doctor corrects, dead pan.
"Yes," the boy responds, quietly, pink beginning to spread across his fat cheeks. He fixes his grip on the ball of glass, the creature within tilting its body so the large amber eyes are up toward the boy. The mouth seems to stretch in what can only be called a kind smile, if it were possible for a lower-life form to perform such an expression.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"'Cuz I landed here," is the simple response. Then the boy's face seems to shift, something like sad realization spreading over his features. He looks down. "Oh. Ya mean here," he elaborates, eyes half lidded while avoiding the gaze of both the camera and the man.
"I'm here 'cuz I'm diff'rent," he whispers more to the fish than anyone else in the room. He shifts on the thick books and hunches in on himself.
"We're going to do some tests now."
"Tests?" The boy dares to look toward the doctor now, unease on his small, knowing face. Far too much recognition is there to be normal, for a child his age.
"Yes. Tests. I want you to read these equation cards and tell me what the answer is."
What follows in the tape is an hour of flash cards; the cards are never seen, but the boy's attention is firmly on them where they are held off screen. He sits up straight, eyes riveted, flicking across numbers and answering with only a few seconds in between each shuffle of card stock that can be heard to the right.
"4. 6. 2. 10. 15. 0. 28. 91. 187. 312. 895. 5,762."
With each new question, the boy responds quickly. Never receiving any feedback about whether the answers are correct. His advanced diction of complex words is never questioned, rewarded, or commented on. But the boy doesn't seem to need the approval. His responses are said with confidence, never with a questioning lilt. He responds with certainty.
The questions appear to become more difficult as time moves on, the numbers growing, and sometimes his response time grows as well. But not nearly as much as his enthusiasm does.
He begins to smile, excitement making him bounce eagerly for each new question. By the end, he's leaned forward, hunger shining in his eyes, a smile dimpling his cheeks.
Then, the last question seems to take him more time than the others. His brow knits with concern and concentration. But then, a smile more brilliant than all the rest flies across his face and he opens his mouth, giddiness and delight shining in his eyes.
"That's enough for now," the voice cuts him off and evidently the cards disappear, and the joy drains from the boy's face, being replaced with dismay. He is never given an opportunity to answer. He slowly sinks back into his chair; gaze once again on the floor, shame clear in his features. The fish, if possible, glares toward the camera.
"Tell me what these shapes are," the next command is issued, and the boy darts eyes towards the camera, but the enthusiasm is gone. His voice is a whisper, a half mumble out the side of his mouth.
"A square. Circle. Hexagon."
The room is grey. There is only a table, and a chair in view of the camera. There are no windows.
A door opens to the left, and there is shuffling. An orange and blue mass of colour drifts by as the camera struggles to focus, blurring the image briefly before finding the correct ratio.
It is the same boy, tall head, blue skin and hairless scalp staring at the camera. He fills out the orange jumpsuit better than before, but it continues to hang on his slim frame miserably. His eyes remain large and green, but less scared than the last. Age sees him grown, more comfortable, less fear shining on his gradually slimming face.
The fish is on his lap.
Chains are on his wrists.
"How old are you?"
"Five and a half," the child responds firmly, as if now accustomed to the question.
"Do you know where you are?"
"Metrocity Prison for the Criminally Gifted."
"Metro City."
"Yes."
"We are going to do some tests today."
"Alright."
More cue cards follow. More numbers. More shapes. The boy responds easily, saying no more, nor less than required. He sits primly, sternly, almost studious. There is little joy on his face. It's all business.
And then even more questions.
"Do you know the difference between good and bad?"
"Yes," the boy responds, tilting his head in a curious fashion, dark eyebrows drawn down unsurely, as if trying to decide whether the question was a trick or not.
"What is good?"
"Loyalty. Respect. Remembering where you came from. Fighting for what you believe in."
"And bad?"
"Disrespect. Betrayal. Punishing those who don't deserve it."
"Do you know someone who is bad?"
The boy thinks on this, frowns, and then glances to his left and right, at the uniformed bodies to either side of him. His frown grows stronger.
"I don't know," he manages slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. His expression reads the opposite. He knows, but does not say.
"How about the prisoners in this prison. Are they bad?"
"I. Don't. Know," the boy responds firmly in a clipped tone, almost aggressively, his frown tripled in effect and his eyes dark.
"Do you know someone who's good?"
"I don't know."
"Are you good or bad?"
He doesn't answer now, and simply continues to frown and glare.
"I don't like these tests anymore," he explains and starts to stand, but both of the guards move to hold him down. He stares a bit disbelievingly at the hands on his shoulders and finds himself forced down into his seat once again.
"You can't leave. There are still more tests. Now, I want you to look at these pictures and tell me what you see."
The boy is visibly upset now, a mix of anger and fear flashing across his face. He tries once more to stand, but this time is roughly pushed back into place so the chair rattles on its legs and the boy makes a small strangled noise akin to discomfort. The fish spins in its globe, agitated, the water frothing with bubbles. The boy clutches the creature closer, protectively, glaring around him before his eyes flicker toward the camera.
He does not try to stand again.
"...I see a bat," he responds, sullen, resigned, hunched in on himself.
The tape whirrs to life, cutting through static to the same room, the same table, the same chair.
The door clicks, and scrapes open like before, but there is no shuffling. There is stomping, a flurry of movement, and screams. Wild, angry, hateful, desperate screams. The noise is almost deafening until the camera adjusts.
The boy is dragged into frame, bodily, by two blue uniformed guards. Their faces flash momentarily into the low camera angle as they struggle to contain the blue youth. He is taller now, infinitely slim, and wild.
He kicks, screams, thrashes and bucks his body manically, arms pinned behind his back by the larger adults. They try to contain his madness, but he is fast, limber and crazed. They barely manage to bring him toward the table before he throws himself against it. The table rocks, tipping the camera from its podium so the image scrambles briefly from the impact. The image is now on its side, the table appearing vertical as the chair clatters to the ground from the guards violently trying to slam the boy down onto its seat.
"Give him back!" the boy is shrieking, emotion making his voice high. "You can't take him! Give him back!"
"Calm down!"
"You can't DO this!" the boy wails, tears streaming down his face, exertion and crying turning his once blue cheeks a mottled mess of flushed reds and purple.
"I said calm down or we'll have to use force!"
"MINION! MINION WHERE ARE YOU?" the boy is screaming again, kicking madly at one officer while the other lifts him bodily from the ground by his twisted arms, the pressure of the lift making his small spine bend drastically. The pose looks agonizing. And the boy shouts his pain.
"This is your last warning! Stop struggling NOW!"
"You can't do this! You have to give him back! You can't take him!" is the only intelligent response hollered by the youth, as he continues to thrash before suddenly slamming his large head back against the officer behind him.
A spurt of blood, a wild curse and the crack of cartilage rings out right before the boy is slammed, hard against the table, his face in direct line with the camera. His gasp is loud and filled with pain, his eyes going wide and pupils dilating as he struggles to catch his wind again.
He is pinned by the two men, one with a broken nose who lays an arm across the back of the child's fragile neck, pinning him in place.
Once the air is back in his lungs, he continues to scream, wail and cry, struggling valiantly against his aggressors.
"Doc, hurry!"
"Alright, I'm here."
Hands enter the camera frame, pulling at the orange clothing to lift the back of the boy's shirt and pull one side of the bottoms down around his hip. He fights even more, fear flashing in his eyes as he struggles to see behind him.
"No! Don't! Please!" he begs, tears filling his eyes and spilling messily down his cheeks, smeared against the table when his face is pushed down hard once more into its surface. The rage is gone. Now only terror. Desperation.
A needle flashes in the light, striking home into the flesh of his lower hip. It is the only area on his skinny body where even a little fat resides.
He screams his rage and pain and misery into the camera, but is still held down until slowly, slowly, he calms. His wails become cries. Then sobs. Then whimpers. Then whispers. And finally a glazed look passes over his face. He is trembling as he lays, his breaths short and sniffling.
"Minion," he whines in the voice of an infant before he is lifted, slack muscled and bruised, out of frame. The camera shuts off quickly after.
"I'm going to look at a card now, and you tell me what shape I'm looking at," the doctor states as the camera comes to life mid-way through a session. The boy is aged again, perhaps ten years, or eleven. He sits taller at the table, the fish no longer on his lap but oddly enough sitting on the table to his left, in a modified coffee can. The top of the can holds the large orb, and the fish blinks silently from its depths. A trio of lights line the can just below the tank, yellow, green and red. There are holes in the can, one on each side, but there is nothing attached. Just holes. An officer stands off to the side, four pieces of hinged metal clutched in his hands. Two end in thin clamps, the others in primitive flat bends of metal, much like feet. They match the metal of the tin can.
The boy stares blankly at the doctor off screen after his command, barely contained confusion swimming over his thin face.
"What?"
"I will look at a card from this deck, and you will tell me what card I am looking at."
"But I can't see the card," he interjects, exchanging a troubled look with the fish, who bobs in the water in what can only be considered a shrug.
"Just try to tell what I'm thinking," is the response, to which the boy frowns.
"I'm not psychic."
"Just try."
"It won't work. I'm not psychic."
"What card am I looking at?"
A heaving sigh and the boy glares.
"I don't know. The Jack of Asses? I can't see the card, you idiot. I'm. Not. Psychic."
Silence now for a long time, as the camera focuses on the boy's un-amused expression.
Then it clicks off.
The youth is already there when the camera blinks to life. He is a teen now. Moderately short. Thin and wiry beneath the same orange uniform. His neck is long and slim, his limbs similar as he has his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the long blue arms. They are crossed over his chest and he is leaned back in the same chair, the shackles resting lazily on his stomach.
A trail of dark hair is beginning to show on a suddenly angular chin.
He is alone.
He glares at the camera.
"How old are you?"
No response.
"How old are you?"
Silence.
"I won't ask again."
"I won't ask again," the youth mimics, pulling a face and speaking in a high, reedy and mocking voice.
"I said, how old are you?" The question is now ground out between clenched teeth.
"I thought you said you wouldn't ask again." He smiles, a dark wicked grin of amusement.
"I'd suggest you cooperate."
"And I'd suggest you go suck a tail pipe." He is gleeful now, eyes vivid, green and laughing though his mouth remains curved in a motionless grin.
"Do I need to call in the guards?"
"Now why would you go and do that?" the youth pouts, but his eyes remain teasing and mirthful. "That would spoil all the fun! Besides. I'm not doing anything wrong, am I Doctor? I'm not being uncommunicative at the moment. Aggressive. Belligerent. Isn't that what my file says? Displays psychotic behaviour, appears anti-social, potentially sociopathic?" He is smug now, joyful, still in the same leaning posture although he tilts his head to the side imperceptibly.
"... How did you get those files?"
"Do you really want to know?" he all but purrs.
"Those are confidential and restricted."
"Doc, it's a prison. Nothing here is ever confidential. 16," he adds the number at the end with a smile, which has nothing to do with being polite.
"What?"
"16. My age. You asked my age. My, you are forgetful. How long have you been a psychologist for? Maybe it's time to hang up the ol' clipboard Dr. Stewart. Can't have you running around forgetting client's names and things."
The jabbing comment is ignored, and the voice is now hard and bitter.
"Where is your fish?"
"What fish?" Innocence in his voice, but a knowing smile across blue lips.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I can't say I have a clue, Dr. Stewart. Have you ever heard of Alzheimer's? You might want to get tested."
There is a slapping pound of skin hitting the table, and the camera vibrates. The doctor's hand appears in the corner of the frame, flat against the table where he slammed it, and his voice is tight with anger.
"Where is your Minion? You escaped, and we found you. But where is he?"
"I am really at a loss for what you could be talking about Doc," the teen blinks, and spreads his hands as far as he can with the shackles connecting them. He is un-phased by the anger, and in fact he smiles a wide, white and bright grin towards the man, clearly amused.
"God damnit! Stop playing games! We know he's out there helping you, now where is he?"
"You know," the youth suddenly frowns and leans forward, motioning for the doctor to do the same. He knits his dark brow with some concern, but the false emotion never reaches his eyes which remain mischievous. "I can't help but feel like this is more of an interrogation than a therapy session. You're not being very objective. Bad practice for a psychologist."
"You son of a bitc-"
"Ah-ah-ah!" the blue individual chides, putting up one finger to forestall the man's words, waggling it back and forth. "Not very professional language Doctor. Maybe I should report you to your governing body. Can they take away PhD's? I should look into that." And he is thoughtful, tapping one finger against the growing goatee on his chin, and then he pouts toward the older man, his expressions animated and theatrical.
"Aww, don't look at me like that Doc! Oh, I know what will cheer you up! Did you want to do some ink blots again? Some good old Rorschach tests always brightens the mood! No? How about you do a risk assessment on me again? THAT was pretty fun, huh? I could pretend to be suicidal! Oh oh! I have an even BETTER idea! Shock therapy! How about a trans-orbital lobotomy! I heard bleeding practices were pretty popular back in the day too!" he exclaims gleefully and then begins to cackle with delight, leaning back in his chair and laughing heartily for such an extended time that the doctor's hand clenches and drifts off frame.
"We're done here," the older voice comments softly, but the youth doesn't seem to hear or care, as he is doubled up with laughter, clutching his stomach and guffawing heartily even as the tape clicks off.
He is a man now, sitting in the same chair, in the same room. Young, but an adult. He has gained height, his shoulders have widened, and the expression of his face speaks of hardened years. He fills out the orange jumpsuit better than in any other video, but he remains thin and lithe. The collar is flipped up high around his slender neck, the faint cording of strong musculature noticeable under the soft blue skin.
His hands aren't visible below the table, but as he shifts into a comfortable position, the jingle of chains and metal can be heard from around his wrists and feet.
But he is in an awful state. One eye is swollen shut with dark black and purple bruising. His lip is split, swollen and sliced with an angry red line. A set of butterfly stitches rests along a sizeable gash on his brow. He is battered, bruised and still.
Yet he grins. Constantly. A dark and villainous smile, eyes riveted on the camera, vibrant neon green under dark black lashes and brows.
"I am 23," he says suddenly, before a question can even be asked, and his smile only grows, despite the obvious pain it must cause his mouth.
There is what can only be called shocked silence from the other side of the room, so he continues, conversationally but with a voice like ice. Overly friendly. Cruel. Mocking.
"How rude of me. I've never asked you. How old are you, Arnold?"
"It's Dr. Stewart."
"My apologies. Dr. Stewart. Do you know my name, Dr. Stewart?" He is deadly calm. Smiling. Always smiling.
"Yes..." is the timid response, shuffling fills the audio.
"Say it." It's not a request. It's a command.
"...What?"
"Say it." The grin grows a fraction more, showing his back teeth. His lip bleeds slightly.
"I don't see how-"
"Megamind," the blue male says strongly, ever grinning, and then leans forward, raising his hands to tap on a piece of paper set on the table. "M-E-G-A-M-I-N-D. All one word. Make sure to write that down."
"Do you want to talk about your injuries?" the doctor asks instead.
"Builds my fear of what's out there," he replies softly, that grin bemused.
"What?" the doctor asks again, confusion in his voice.
"Cannot breathe the open air. Whisper things into my brain, assuring me that I'm insane," he continues on undeterred, staring forward, his voice rising as he speaks. "They think our heads are in their hands."
"I don't... what are you talking about?" the older man's voice is fearful, the fingers on the table trembling as they shuffle papers around. The anxiety is palpable.
He's still grinning.
"But violent use brings violent plans," Megamind sing songs, tilting his head and smiling wide. Then he raises his hands, jangling the restraints around his wrist. "Keep him tied, it makes him well. He's getting better, can't you tell?"
"... Guards? GUARDS?" the doctor calls frantically.
And now his companion is singing, louder and louder with each passing moment, looking for the entire world gleeful.
"No more can they keep us in! Listen, damnit! We will win! They see it right, they see it well, but they think this saves us from our hell!" He's doing quite a performance at this point, singing loudly and happily. He sways from side to side with the beat of the song, hitting his hands rhythmically against the table top while nodding his head.
"Sanitarium!" Slap slap-slap-slap-slap slap goes his fingertips on the table. "Leave me be! Sanitarium, just leave me alone. Sanitarium!"
And now it's time for the big guitar solo. He's up on his feet, swinging his arms as much as the shackles will allow on an invisible instrument, feverishly animating guitar licks with a concentrated look on his face. His head bobs in rapid succession and he's noisily imitating the instrument notes.
His sudden movements send the doctor scattering, evidenced by the slap of papers on the floor, and the clatter of both their chairs hitting the floor.
The camera picks up the noise of the door slamming open, and a batch of blue uniformed officers scramble into the room. The singer is oblivious. Even as they jump onto him, grabbing him by his arms and trying to contain his exaggerated movements, he's singing.
"Just leave me alone!" he bellows musically, laughing as he disappears off of camera, and there's a solid grunting thud of a body hitting a hard surface. Again and again, there are groans, the solid pounding of flesh into flesh. He's humming. Singing between blows, gasping and laughing and yelling all at once, delirious.
"Fear of –UGH!- living on, natives getting restless now! HAH! Oof-! Mu-.. mutiny in the air, got some death to do hehehe! Ah! Mirror stares back hard," he screams, his voice hitching with effort, breath heavy and panting, pain seeping into the tone. But you can almost hear the smile on his face.
Shadows move rapidly through the room as the scuffle continues and suddenly the camera is full of only his battered face, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth. His face is pressed hard into the table, a hand on the back of his large head holding him down. He continues to struggle wincing as he is detained.
But he grins.
"Kill is such a friendly word," he whispers in a soft melodic way out the corner of his mouth, staring into the camera. "Seems the only way for reaching out again." His wound is reopened, blood brilliant against his blue bruised skin as it slides down his brow, dribbling slowly across his vision. Sweat beads on his flesh and as he stares straight forward, his eyes are cloudy, his breath coming in raspy heaves. The table gleams red.
"Shut it off. Shut off the camera!"a voice hisses off screen.
He still smiles.
The screen goes black.