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Prototype Floyd

A Despicable Me Fanfic

Twenty years before he encountered the orphan sisterhood that would change his life, criminal mastermind Gru was doting over a different kind of parenthood; caring for a certain sinister GMO.

Rated T for some violence, language and colorful situations/themes.

Introduction:

Welp, this is my attempt at a minion-genesis story. Yes, I'm sticking with the old speculation that the minions are GMOs rather than the immortals that the upcoming 2014 movie is painting them up to be. Don't ask me why but I have some neurotic hang-ups about them being immortal/timeless/whatever you call it.

I hope that Gru doesn't seem too OOC with his swearing, but I figured a younger, less affluent and minionless Gru would have a lot less accountability with his words (his Mom probably being the biggest force to answer to). I also tried to back story in his relationship with Nefario, and why a more experienced evil engineer (w/a doctorate, no less!) would take the subordinate role in this partnership. I also apologize if he comes off as too parental in later chapters.

Due to the length of this writing, I will not be phonetically spelling out Eastern European accents. Nope, I ain't touching the British ones, either.

WARNING WARNING OC AHEAD ONE VERY SHORT LIVED OC WARNING WARNING

Legal caca: DM characters are Universal property, Gentech belongs to Gentech, Jurassic Park is c. 1990 Alfred A. Knopf and the estate of Michael Crichton, Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon is c. 1973 Pink Floyd and Harvest, Capitol Records. Everything else came out of yours truly. Just, remind me if I've overlooked, something, 'kay?

Chapter One: On the run.

Reno, Nevada, October 4th, 1990

Felonious Gru was out of his element. That was the euphonized version of it, anyway. He was lying low after a botched heist in San Francisco, nursing a broken leg that he had the honor of setting himself. The cast he made was a crude splint bound in duct tape, the morphine that he took to actually set the fracture was casting a dull, warm haze over his line of vision, but the pain was still present enough to give him a certain sobriety. At least he didn't take too much to function through it. His throat was still raw from the screams when he first heard that sickening crack and his lower leg shot out from under his knee. Still, he was impressed at how fast he could hop on one leg and how long he was able to keep it up before throwing himself into the old Mustang that he bought from a seedy used lot just for this heist. Gru was also impressed at how he was able to brake and accelerate with his left leg, and how his adrenaline allowed him to override the agony and get some evasive miles between the premises and himself.

While his right leg tore away at his nervous system, he was able to drive far enough to find a secluded spot to take the first dose and set it. The pain momentarily pushed him over the edge of consciousness and his first binding was flimsy, but it held until he was able to get out of California. He barely managed to pull his pant leg over the splint to hide the crude workmanship as he hobbled on a makeshift crutch to the motel's lobby. The makeup pallet he had under his coat covered up the colors and lines of distress on his face. All he had to do at that point was put on a poker face that belied his injury, or at least the recentness of it. Inside this filthy, pungent room, he bound it again and noted on the bruising and swelling that was setting in. Gru tried to remind himself that he at least had been spared a compound fracture and he was finally able to prop his leg up.

Muttering fatigued curses under his breath, he turned on the TV and tried to relax on a smelly, stained bed with crusty covers. The pixels that glowed from the screen seemed brighter and more prominent, even as he watched it from across the room. The audio seemed muddled as well and came in waves that seemed to rise and ebb in volume. He thought bitterly about the heist, not only how he screwed it up, but how stupid it was to go it alone (his disposition with his fellow villains didn't allow him to come into business partners easily) and how the scheme itself was out of his league.

Gru was a rocket builder; he engineered bombs and other projectile weapons. He didn't tweak at organic swabs in a Petri dish or breed mutant creatures. Biology just wasn't his shtick. The heist was supposed to be hustling operation, simply a stepping stone so he could sell his acquired target so he could apply the capital towards something more his forte. But that didn't happen. He couldn't get to the sample before he had to get out. He knew he had been spotted, but he wasn't sure if he had been identified, not that it mattered as far as law enforcement was concerned. The facility looked like an offshoot of Gentech, but that was just a front. It was venturing down roads that no pharmaceutical or military lab dared yet to tread. If he was identified, the cops would be the least of his worries. That offshoot investment bank of the Lehman Brothers that he had heard about through the villain grapevine was starting to sound very appealing.

Despite the pain that was bobbing into his consciousness like a buoyant chainsaw, sleep was threatening to pull him into the filthy mattress. He took a moment to pull the canister from the holster under his jacket. He had grabbed it as he ran out; knowing he had failed to steal what he was really after. It was a desperate grasp at a consolation prize. The cryptic markings told him very little, the most coherent labeling read: Multicelluar GMO Embryonic Prototype 001.

Embryonic. So it was probably still alive, which explained the battery pack built into it that vibrated and hummed softly in his hands. With his connections, it wouldn't be impossible to engineer a life support for the contents before the batteries ran out. He tried to carve this note into his mind before his eyes caved into exhaustion and his consciousness slipped into the night.

When the pain regained its momentum and shook him awake, he stared blankly at the TV that was still on before crawling across the dirty floor to the bathroom to take the most brutal piss of his life. There was no way he was going to stand over the rust stained toilet, so he straddled the rim of the bathtub with his bad leg resting on the edge and tried to aim for the center of the tub. He growled darkly as a few drops fell on his pants, but he knew an attempt to clean up in this dive would be worse than futile. Relative invisibility in these backwoods rarely came with five-star accommodations.

On his way out he looked in the speckled mirror. The makeup that he never washed off was smudging and highlighting his signs of stress rather than covering up. To complete the image, his dark brown hair was greasy and disheveled, making his aggressively receding hairline all the more obvious. The week before, he had just turned thirty. If his father was any indication, longevity would not be in his card deck. He slouched and sighed with resignation. Crawling back to the bed, Gru looked at the time on the nightstand; seven-thirty. That was late enough for someone on the lam, after another round of painkillers, of course. Before he left, he pulled out his pager and sent a message to an acquaintance that he had just made a few days before.

Yes, I like to think that Gru is a serious badass who can keep a straight face with a broken leg, I'm not sorry! I've been working on and off with this fic for a few months, and I know how it will end, but I'm still struggling with the middle, so if you wanna see this eventually completed, give me a few feedback bones, a'right?