Hey, Y'all! Ghost here. If you enjoyed my one-shot "Ashes to Ashes,"be sure to keep an eye on this story. "A Match Made in Metal" is the backstory alluded to in A2A, the story of Megamind's sudden relocation from Metro City, Michigan to the backwoods of Missouri, and his subsequent relationship with Sonja Merlo. This story, like A2A, is set in an alternate universe so some things won't be canon. I hope you enjoy this story, and that everyone has a great week! This chapter dedicated to my lovely Megamind Beta Lawren Deer, for looking this over for me.
Suggested Listening: Coldplay "Viva la Vida," Alice Cooper, "Stolen Prayer"
1: On the Run
It's funny how the world works, thought the young man staring forlornly through a dirty windshield. He'd given everything he had to help protect the woman he'd loved, given his all to take out the monster he'd mistakenly created. Still, after all was said and done, the people of that city just couldn't see past his prior mistakes. As for Roxanne...the name brought a painful twist to his empty gut. Dear, lovely, spunky Roxanne Ritchie...
She may have loved him; he didn't really know. She'd given him a teary kiss goodbye, and let him sneak out of her loft via the fire escape, certain the sirens they'd heard moments before were heading her way. He'd almost refused to leave...almost committed himself to turning himself in and praying for a pardon. Then she'd turned to him with tears in her china blue eyes, and begged him to run, find somewhere he could live his life happily, and never look back. At that moment, the police had pounded on her front door, and he'd been left with no choice but to flee upward from the balcony, the words "I won't forget you" falling softly from his lips. She gave no answer, only pressed a thick envelope into his hands and turned to answer the door.
Megamind fled south that night, amidst a statewide manhunt. He hadn't had time to meet up with Minion before fleeing but had made plans to contact each other every few days until they reached their destination: the US-Mexico border. Neither stopped in populated areas longer than it took to find new guises for the holo-watches and scrounge up something to stave off the hunger they were now used to. Other than occasional brief communication by holo-watch the two friends were utterly alone, and the continued separation was heartbreaking.
Cutting through Indiana was less than memorable for Megamind. It was difficult to get a feeling for a place through hundreds of miles of back roads, most of which seemed all the same. Fortunately, he and Minion were set for at least a year or so….they had Roxanne to thank for that. He had no idea where she'd gotten the envelope of large bills from, and he didn't want to know. All that mattered anymore was survival.
Upon reaching Springfield, Illinois, Megamind sold the motorized bicycle he'd stolen in Michigan in a sleazy pawn shop and bought an inconspicuous used Chevy he'd seen in someone's driveway with a for sale sign on it. The sale was quick and impersonal, and he hadn't bothered registering the vehicle. A lone Kansas license plate he'd found in a salvage yard in Auburn was sufficient to detract attention, along with the backseat he'd packed with various items - a rolled up blanket and pillow he'd bought at a Carlinville Dollar General, a couple of cheaply made plastic coolers he'd found by the roadside in Alton, a few solid color plastic tubs he'd bought at a Dollar Tree in Florissant, Missouri to contain necessities — For all the other motorists knew, he could be living out of his car. Megamind did everything he could to avoid the big cities, and even more to avoid notice.
By the time he'd gotten to De Soto, Missouri, he'd finally begun to wonder if the authorities were still looking for him, and if they really were right on his tail, as he'd been so convinced. Upon reaching Salem, he began noticing the scenery around him more, almost enjoying it. As he passed near the Mark Twain National Forest, he began relaxing a little more, driving somewhat slower so he could admire the fall-clad woodlands and rolling fields of grain ready for harvest. As he left the densely crowded cities behind, the stores and shopping centers became few and far between.
Finally, almost to Branson, his stomach's growling became too much to bear. He pulled the car to a stop on the side of the road and rummaged through the coolers and food tote in the back seat. How was he out of food already, he wondered in dismay? He should still at least have a couple slices of bread and some sandwich meat left over from that mini-mart a couple days before…. He smacked his forehead in frustration. That's right. The meat had gone rancid when the ice melted away, and the bread had gotten moldy shortly after. He hadn't seen a store of any type in miles and didn't expect to see one anytime soon.
Scrambling for a solution, he wracked his brain for any memory of wild edibles he'd recognize. Persimmons grew in this area of the country, he remembered, and they were edible. So were many of the wild berries one would find here. It wasn't exactly sanitary to eat fruit right off the branch without washing it thoroughly, but he would have to make do. Promising himself that he'd start foraging if he didn't find any sign of civilization within an hour, he pulled back onto the road and continued his way.
About half-an-hour later, somewhere between Timberlake road, Sunset Inn road, and the very outskirts of Downtown Branson, he came upon a welcome sight. A large, well-kept stone cottage stood in a small clearing a short distance from the dead-end road. Just around the corner, stacked railroad ties hinted at a raised kitchen garden, no doubt packed with edibles ready for harvest. An oversized three car garage and shop looked out of place at the end of the private drive, the outside cleared of weeds and debris. Out back, just beyond the fenced dog-yard, a black walnut tree, an apple tree, and a healthy black cherry tree loomed over the top of the roof. The apples would be in season, he mused, as would the walnuts. If he couldn't find any windfall or low, laden branches, he could at least hope they had a store of the harvest in storage. He hated the idea of stealing to live what with the death sentence waiting for him but he wasn't exactly unused to it; he was running out of options, too.
He parked the car near the road, just beyond the mailbox and behind a screen of Black Locust trees. As he crept up to the cottage, he kept his eyes peeled while darting from tree to tree. The house was dark, still and empty; a light was on in the closed garage, which rang with Alice Cooper's "Stolen Prayer," racket from an old, rickety box fan, and what sounded like an air compressor. The occupant of the garage was nowhere in sight, and would likely be too distracted by their work to notice his presence. If they did notice him, he saw no indication of security cameras and no warning signs about trespassing; he could always claim ignorance. He stealthily crept around to the garden. To his painful disappointment, it appeared to have been ransacked by a wild animal; nothing had been left standing but empty wire supports and labeled wooden stakes. The worst hit, he could tell, were the bedraggled corn plants laying lifelessly by the fence. Further back, he scoped out the trees; all the harvest low enough to reach had been retrieved, and no windfall surrounded the walnut tree. He was screwed, royally.
Too tired and too hungry to care about getting caught trespassing, he sank to the ground, sitting on the edge of one of the raised garden beds. What was the point in going on? Why did he keep trying, keep pushing and pushing to escape the law? It would be so much easier to just give up the ghost and starve to death, and likely more pleasant, considering the beautiful countryside he found himself in. Maybe he should just contact Minion with the watch one last time, say goodbye, and find a nice, warm place to curl up and call it quits….
This train of thought was interrupted by what sounded like a stampede of buffalo heading his direction. Glancing up in confusion, he found himself face to face with the biggest dog he'd ever seen. With a fearful squawk, he fell to the dirt and crab-scrambled away from the drooling behemoth, noting the shredded left ear and the multitude of scars littering its brindle and white flesh. The dog pursued him, backed him up to another wall of ties and a bedraggled tomato plant, and sniffed him over. He cringed at how close it was to him, and silently prayed for his death to be quick.
His aggressor lashed his cheek with a tongue wet with drool.
Megamind winced at the cold slobber now coating his cheek and studied the grinning dog in curiosity. Maybe it wasn't going to kill him? Maybe it was just going to slime him and let him go? An abrupt whistle from the garage sent the oversized puppy dancing around and barking, and his blood went cold in fear; he hadn't noticed that the music had stopped.
"Hey, Killer!" called a young woman as she ambled awkwardly toward them, her hands, arms, and stained coveralls covered with swathes of tiny red, white, and blue paint specks. "Ya find that damn' 'coon what's been eatin' all the corn?" She slowed to a stop upon seeing that her dog had cornered a brown-haired man up against one of the ransacked garden beds, and was vying for attention from both his owner and the odd visitor. "Kilroy, heel." The dog whined and shuffled about but obeyed anyway, sitting on his haunches beside her, his tongue lolling out in a grin. "Ya lost, Mister?" she asked warily, noticing his oddly vibrant green eyes, the dirt that had gotten smeared all over him in his retreat, and his worn clothing. It seemed he was all skin and bones, she realized in pity. When had this man eaten last?
As the odd woman sized him up, Megamind examined her just as closely. She was rather short, even compared to him, and had been blessed with both childbearing hips and a generous bust. Her black hair was slicked to her neck and brow with sweat, but several thick navy and burgundy streaks shone brightly from the black shag. Her right ear bore a single steel stud in the lobe, but her left ear bore several piercings: a matching stud in the lobe, two steel hoops and three steel studs lining the edge upward, and an engraved steel cuff up at the top. The dirty navy cargo shorts she wore exposed a black tribal-style tattoo — a bird, possibly a raven — sprawling from her left knee almost to her ankle. She wiped her hands on her stained work shirt and bent to stare him in the eyes. She glanced silently from one eye to the other, then snorted and stood back up again; those eyes of hers were beautiful…intelligent, and surprisingly dark blue in color.
"A'right, you," she half-scolded. "Yer breathin', so ya ain't dead, and ya made eye contact, so ya didn't pass out with yer eyes open. Quit playin' possum a'ready, and c'mon inside afore ya catch your death out here. It gets cold quick this time of year, an' we' got rain movin' in." He considered his options for a moment, watching the dog warily. "Don' worry 'bout ol' Kilroy, here. He's jus' a big softy…too big a softy to catch that damn raccoon that keeps raidin' m' garden. If he ain't gonna chase off the 'Coon from Hell, then you ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. You got two choices here…You kin git into that kitchen and eat your fill, or you kin git the heck off'a my turf." He looked up at her, startled. She was offering to feed him? After finding him trespassing? She held out one callused, paint-spattered hand, expectantly. Warily, he accepted the hand up, and followed her, curious at her mild but noticeable limp.
Kilroy bounded ahead of them, and once the door was open, he took off for a large purple dog bed by the fireplace, circling and flopping into a comfortable sprawl. Megamind followed her to the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on the old TV in the living room; a commercial about football was playing, but he couldn't shake the feeling of dread the appliance evoked in him. He followed her into a room thick with the fragrance of oranges, apples, and spices, and to a lesser extent, roast beef.
In the tidy kitchen, she shooed him over to the small table in the corner and hustled to the slow-cooker beside a burner of simmering potpourri oil. "Lucky fer you, I had a hankerin' for pot roast this week," she smirked, pulling her hair back with a headband and scrubbing her hands and arms clean at the sink with Lava soap. She poked and scraped at the chunk of meat in the crock, stabbed a couple of potatoes, green beans, and carrots, then pronounced it finally done. "An' it only took a whole night's cookin'," she grinned, collecting bowls from a cabinet and serving up slices of beef with lots of veggies and broth.
"Thank you," he said quietly as he accepted the bowl. She grinned mischievously.
"He talks! I was startin' ta wonder if ya couldn't."
Megamind almost cried when he took his first bite of the garlic doused meat; it was awful. She'd used enough garlic to kill every bird in a five-mile radius! How had he not smelled it?! As hungry as he was, though, even leather would've passed as edible. How long had it been since he had a hot meal? Other than the time he decided to cook a carton of eggs on the dashboard of the car and ended up sick for a week, he couldn't remember.
The odd young woman watched him curiously as she poured him a large glass of chilled sweet tea and cut him a chunk of warm cornbread from the oven. "'pendin' on how long it's been since you ate a full meal, ya might oughta slow down a bit," she warned when she realized that he was scarfing down the meal as quickly as possible. "Don' wantcha to get sick or whatnot. That's never good." Her warning was sound, as was her logic, so he forced himself to slow down.
"Ya ain't from 'round here, are ya?" she continued, setting up a bowl of her own. He debated, then shook his head. "Didn't think so. Where ya from?" Trying to find a way to answer without revealing too much, he took his time chewing. Though the beef had been seasoned to death, the sweet cornbread was delightful.
"Up north. Long ways from here." She fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze.
"'Up north' as in 'St. Joe,' up north as in 'Iowa or Minnesota,' or up north as in 'we kin blame you for that knucklehead Bieber?'" He couldn't help chuckling at the snarky comment. To his surprise, she cringed as she took a bite of roast. "Ech. Hate garlic." Curious at the conflicting facts, he filed the response away for later.
"In the US, just a different state," he conceded. "I've been living on the road for a while, though. Just haven't found anywhere to grow roots yet."
"Missour-uh's a great place to grow roots, I gotta admit." He blinked at her pronunciation of the state's name but dug into his meal again. "No place quite like it anywhere. Once ya grow roots here, the rocky dirt ain't very willin' to let ya yank'em up again." He smiled at the joke, mopping up the last of the beef broth with the last of his cornbread. Her humor was refreshing, really. He'd gone so long without really talking with anyone unless it involved his trek to safety or provisions for said trek. He never thought it would happen, but he was lonely…he'd missed having someone to talk to. Even in the Prison, he'd at least had the guards and Warden to taunt and tease.
His unlikely host had finished her meal as well and slipped into the living room after putting their bowls in the dishwasher. "Been a big storm system movin' in for a while," she explained as she turned up the TV. "I'm really hopin' it waits till after the game, seein' as it's Rams and Chiefs; major rivalry, always makes things—" She fell silent at the breaking news report that had popped up yet again. It had been playing non-stop for a few months, now, and was getting old.
"If you see anyone wearing this watch," the announcer warned, "call your local police station or the FBI tipline. This watch belongs to a wanted man from Michigan and reportedly enables him to copy another's appearance and take it as his own. Do NOT approach this criminal, he is to be considered armed and dangerous."
Megamind hid in the corner of the kitchen, completely terrified. He'd overheard the broadcast…they hadn't given up on him…and now, the lovely, kind young woman who had brought him in, fed him a warm meal, and treated him as a neighbor…that young woman would be undoubtedly dialing the tip line on her phone, having recognized the watch. If he'd realized that the connection between the watch and his ability to change his appearance had been noted, he'd have covered it up, or worn it on his ankle or something. Now, it was too late.
The TV had switched to a Geico commercial in the midst of his panicking, and his attention was drawn to a loud click from the doorway. Upon turning fearfully to identify the sound, he found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.
A/N: Okay, I kinda feel bad for that cliffhanger, so you'll get the next chapter soon, maybe in a week or so. Stay tuned and thanks for reading!