Well, Folks, I could'a SWORN I'd already POSTED this one...OOPS. :S Well, here's the second chapter I've had ready but forgot to post; it takes care of that nasty cliffhanger I inadvertently left y'all, fills in some blanks, and asks a whole lot'a questions that will remain unanswered for a time. Life's been very...hectic, lately, and I've got too much on my mind for my pathetic excuse for an attention span, lol. Anyway, here ya go!

A couple notes: Firstly, I'm not exactly fluent in Texan; I'm basing Hugh Heckerman's accent on a less-intelligible emphasized version of my ex's from Texas. (There were three, but one was ACTUALLY from HAWAII, he just LIVED in Texas a while, so yeah.) I'm probably butchering it completely, lol! If I AM, and you can point me in the right direction, please do! In life, everyone's a noob. Secondly, I'm not really familiar with firearms beyond my 22 rifle. It MIGHT be bolt action, I don't know - frankly, I don't know the lingo, details, or any of the specifics, I just know the motions and how to completely destroy a supposedly indestructible target with one shot. I'm a crack shot for stationary objects up to fifty yards, but I'm still just a hobbyist and a novice. Thus, everything in this story regarding firearms is compiled from vague answers from someone who thinks he knows everything and a search engine that knows NOTHING. ;) Bing? I want my penny back.

This chapter dedicated to my lovely beta Lawren for her patience...and for not coming after me with a pitchfork for taking so long to update. Thanks, Hon!

Suggested Listening: Seether "See You At the Bottom," RUSH "One Little Victory"


2: Sonja

Somewhere along the line, Megamind screwed up. Maybe he should've gone around Branson instead of through it? Maybe he should've just started foraging instead of looking for civilization a little longer. Maybe he should've declined the odd woman's offer of a meal, and hightailed it out of there. No matter where he went wrong, though, Megamind now stared his own death in the face, brought by a woman whose only crime was to offer him kindness. He forced a swallow, scrambling for a way to get out alive.

"What'd ya do," she asked bluntly. The question startled him. She held a gun to his head, and for all intents and purposes, looked ready to put a massive, messy hole in his skull. For all she knew, he could be armed to the gills and willing to kill anyone who got in his way. "Answer," she snapped, her eyes narrowing angrily as she cocked the hammer.

"I…I seized control of Metrocity, Michigan, by dee-sposing of the hero who watched over it—"

"You killed him?" she interrupted skeptically, shooting him a hairy-eyeball stare. He shook his head frantically.

"No! I found him later on…he faked his death! He had everyone, me included, convinced I had killed him! Even when I begged him to come out of hiding, and prove that I wasn't a murderer, he ree-foosed!"

"So you've never killed anyone."

"No…I've robbed, stolen, caused all sorts of mayhem, chaos, and damage to public buildings and civil-yawn vehicles, but I've never intentionally hurt anyone, other than that lout…" he scoffed at the thought. "…and I was never even able to put a scratch on him, anyway. He is the in-soofer-able Metro Mahn, after all."

His host just stood in thought a moment, staring a hole in the table he cowered behind. Slowly, her eyes calmed, and she raised the gun to rest harmlessly on her shoulder, engaging the safety. At the sound of tires crawling up the gravel driveway, though, she stiffened. She whipped out a hand and covered his mouth with it. "Stay quiet," she whispered harshly. "I helped you. For your own sake, do exactly as I say and don't ask questions." He nodded fearfully. "Follow quickly, and stay low!"

His host hurried into the living room, shotgun over one shoulder; he followed her into what appeared to be a small office of sorts off the living room. She left the lights off, yanked the curtains shut, and hurried around behind the corner desk that divided the room, propping the firearm on the arms safe behind the desk. She planted her rear in the swiveling desk chair and kicked a warm blanket away from the foot-well of the desk, then pushed down on the carpeted floor. Two edges popped up, and she lifted them away, revealing that the carpet and blanket hid a split trap door. Below, a set of stone steps led down into a dark cavern beneath the house. "Get in! Make sure the door's locked, hide, an' douse the light — scram!"

Once his head cleared, she lowered the camouflaged doors back in place, and pressed down to reengage the latch. She hastily rearranged the blanket over it again, opened the laptop on the desk, and started booting Windows as she got comfortable in the task chair. When the first set of booming knocks sounded, her now bare feet were buried in the blanket under her desk and her screen displayed a blog discussing the pros and cons of specialty paint versus airbrushing. As the visitor rattled the front door again, she steeled her nerves, willing her captive to stay absolutely quiet.

"Be right there!" she hollered, taking as much time as she could to get to the front door; the fugitive in her cellar would need every moment he could get. Kilroy was pacing by the front door growling, his hackles raised and his teeth bared. Wonderful…That musclebound jackass had no idea how good his timing was…and he wouldn't find out. She swung open the front door, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingertips as she did. Let him think she had a headache…maybe he'd leave sooner. 'An' maybe I have Pennywise the Dancing Clown hiding out underneath my house,' she thought sarcastically.

"Officer Heckerman…" she half croaked, squinting at him through the screen door. "How's it you only visit on days 'at I got a migraine?" The deputy laughed at the comment; she winced for good measure. "'s there somethin' you need, or can I reschedule my weekly stalkin' for a later date?"

"You sure do have the weirdest sense of humor, So-in-ya!" he drawled, his usual overly-loud voice eliciting another faked wince. "Can't I just drop by to see my gal once in a while?" He punctuated the question by leaning on the doorframe, showing off his toned arms and torso. Sonja fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Hugh," she answered exasperatedly. "Fer the last time, I ain't your GAL."

"So-in-ya, my cruiser ain't never had no other gal's hands on its engine but yours…" he replied slyly. "That makes you my girl."

"No, dipshit, 'at makes me an idiot for agreeing to repair it for ya after ya wrecked it durin' an illegal street race, off duty. Ya still owe me five hun'red on that, ya know. Them parts ain't cheap."

"No, my dear," he leered. "They're not cheap…these parts of mine are solid gold, which'll make you the richest woman in town once you get your hands on'em." Sonja's eyes flashed in anger, and she stormed out onto the porch, making sure Kilroy couldn't slip out and chase the pest off. Knowing Hugh, he'd report that the dog had attacked without provocation, and needed to be euthanized immediately to protect those living nearby.

"You…" she snarled, backing the lewd idiot off her porch. "…are a disrespectful, disturbing, and DISGUSTING excuse for a human being! Git yer ass offa my turf, 'afore I call the cops on yah…again!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you…" he cautioned. "You see, I just passed an older model Shever-o-lay on my way here…parked just before your drive, and appearing abandoned. The tags are out of date, and so's the only plate. The vehicle was traced back to a Mr. Arthur Brown, in Illinois…but the plate's from Kansas."

'Shit,' she thought frantically.

"So seein' as there's an illegally parked vehicle with expired tags and an expired plate, likely stolen and ditched, I'm gonna have to investigate."

"Where's your warrant?" she glowered. "You won't find anything here, and this is the first I've heard of any Chevy POS parked on my land."

"You can let me do the search, Ms. Merlo," he warned darkly. "…or you can say goodbye to that blasted mongrel of yours." She paled at the familiar threat. "After all, he's a vicious brute; he's clearly a hazard to the neighboring community. What would happen if he got loose and mauled one of them little girls that live nearby…the Rogers' kids. Hm? Would you want that on your head?"

Sonja hated the smooth-talking Texan…and this was why. He wouldn't take no for an answer, and did everything he could to ensure he'd get his way, whether it was legal or not. The one time she turned him in for his crimes against her, she found Kilroy unconscious and bleeding in the driveway upon returning home from a run to the bank. Kilroy didn't have an aggressive bone in his body. He tended to overwhelm people with his excited demands for attention and was afraid of other dogs, so she'd usually left him in the fenced yard for errands. Kilroy was intentionally released from the dog run — and his attacker kicked, hit, and pepper-sprayed him, and repeatedly swiped at him with some sort of bladed weapon; tire tracks showed that the person also tried to run him over on their way out, but only succeeded in clipping him and leaving behind a loosened license plate.

While Killer recuperated in the veterinary hospital, Sonja confronted the owner of the plate; Hugh claimed that he'd been by to visit, caught the perpetrator in the act, pursued them in his cruiser, and lost track of them when dispatch called in orders. She knew he was lying…Killer's aggression toward him after recovering from his injuries was proof enough. Hugh tried to kill her dog because she lodged a complaint against him; she feared what might happen if she turned him in again.

With her heart in her throat, Sonja led Kilroy by the collar to the back door and locked him out on the screened in porch; as she slid the glass door shut, he watched her with hurt brown eyes and pitiful whimpers. As she'd expected, Hugh had already let himself in and was studying her home's layout with interest that hadn't faded after dozens of such illegal searches.

"Git on wi' it, Hugh," she spat irritably, no longer having to fake her headache. "I don't get much downtime durin' fall, an' you're wastin' my only day off this week." Hugh was already in the small kitchen, investigating the contents of the old crock pot.

"Smells dee-lightful," he grinned, inhaling the hearty aroma of the still warm beef and the sweet, spicy potpourri nearby; he snagged a fork from the dish drainer and reached in to skewer a potato and a loose curl of beef. Sonja narrowed her eyes at his audacity from the doorway, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. As he chewed the bite, however, the scowl she wore morphed into a malicious sneer. "This beef is marvelous, So-in-ya!" he raved, fishing around for another piece of said beef. "With talent like that, you should be a chef, not some no-name grease-monkey. What'd you season this with, anyway?" She wiped the sneer away just in time, instead adopting an expression of boredom and irritation.

"Oh, the usual," she answered mildly, ignoring the 'no-name grease-monkey' comment. Her shop brought in more in a week than he made in a year, even without back-to-back customs jobs. "Salt. Pepper. Rosemary…and Garlic." He choked on the bite of carrot, his skin blanching significantly. "Lots and lots of Garlic." Hugh finally realized that his suddenly stuffy nose was not because of the pungent potpourri, but because he ingested GARLIC.

"You Bitch!" he hollered, staggering for the front door. "I'm allergic to garlic! You know I'm allergic to it!"

"….an' YOU know it's bad manners to force your way into someone's home an' help yourself to their supper, Hugh," she drawled from the front porch, a scathing glare fastened on him. "Yet ya do it anyway. You' got yerself to blame for this, an' yerself alone—Now git yer ass to the hospital 'fore you start hyperventilatin' like last time." Hugh Heckerman fumbled in the console of his cruiser for the epinephrine kit he kept in there, only to remember he still hadn't picked the new prescription up from the pharmacy. Amidst an endless stream of profanities, he backed out onto the main road, clipping her battered mailbox on his way out.

Sonja glared after the vehicle till it disappeared in the tree line, then dug out her cell phone, dialing registration in the ER at the local hospital, where her friend Kathy worked. "Hey, Kath?" Sonja explained when the chipper blonde picked up. "Won't keep ya—just figured I'd give ya a head's up that Heckerman's barreling your way needing an epi-shot. Dug in without askin'; you know the rest. Yeah, yeah, slap 'im for me…and see if you can get Rick to write on his face with a permanent marker if he passes out—'lyin' douchebag' 'll work—have'im send me photos. Thanks, Sister…bye."

Frustration souring her stomach, Sonja let Kilroy in off the porch. Returning to the office, she retrieved her shotgun, then flipped a switch discreetly hidden behind the door. She locked up the office, creeping down the hallway into her bedroom. At the back of her closet lay another trap door, identical to the one in the office. Shotgun at the ready, she stealthily crept into the dim cavern she locked her green-eyed visitor in, Kilroy at her heels.


Down below the remote cabin, Megamind trembled in a dark, dusty nook beneath a dusty stone staircase. The cellar was pitch black now that the lantern was off, and, apparently, partly soundproofed - he couldn't hear anything from above other than the occasional footstep. Suddenly shouting echoed through the cabin. The surprise visitor stomped through the living room, and the front door slammed violently. All was silent, still; he held his breath, trying to filter out any suspicious sounds beneath the white noise around him. So many sounds broke the silence; was the cellar truly safe, as noisy as it was? A refrigerator buzzed nearby, accompanied by a humming water heater. Just overhead, Kilroy's claws clicked maddeningly on the hardwood floors.

Out of the blue, a series of fluorescent lights scattered along the crooked corridor buzzed to life, revealing what had been hidden; still crouched in the dusty nook under the steps, he glanced around curiously.

Directly across from him, the massive, ancient-looking iron door remained bolted shut, forbidding in its permanence. The walls along the corridor were lined with ceiling-height wooden shelves packed with a massive stockpile of provisions. Canned goods, jugs of water, dog food, ammunition, other necessities for survival...and if he wasn't mistaken, he'd just located two harvests' worth of apple sauce, dried apples, cherry jam, and roasted, shelled walnuts. With every glance, he saw more and more stockpiled provisions: batteries, first aid supplies, fuel, burlap bags of dried beans, corn, peanuts, rice...He shook his head in disbelief. Was she expecting the zombie apocalypse?!

As he settled in again, a glint of light caught his eye; the unnaturally bright light glinted eerily off visible portions of the rough stone walls and the even rougher carved steps.

Stone? Mesmerized, he crept from his hiding place over to the nearest bare wall, a patch above a bin of seasoned wood chips. Native granite, he decided; the house must have been built over a naturally occurring cave, and the builders finished the cavern as a sort of basement.

At his back, someone cleared their throat. He fully expected to find himself nose to nose with the shotgun again, confronted by his host and her unexpected guest. To his surprise, though, she was alone, the safety was still on, and she held the firearm securely over one shoulder. Nothing in her expression or bearing was threatening, though her eyes were embarrassed.

"Now that my shit-head stalker's out'a the way," she smiled wryly, scratching her dog behind the ears. "we can talk." He considered her a moment, struggling to wrap his head around what had just happened.

"Stalker?"

"Yeah..." She lumbered over to the heavy iron door, favoring her tattooed leg even more than earlier. The deadbolt squealed in protest as she unlocked the door, inviting him into what turned out to be a much larger, well-appointed living space. Ducking around a large folding table, a couple bins of nuts and apples from the tree out back, and stacked bags of ice-melt, potting soil, and dog kibble, she carefully lowered herself to the faded futon couch. She cringed as she propped her left leg on a scuffed vinyl footstool, but gestured for him to sit anywhere.

"His name's Hugh Heckerman," she explained tiredly, rubbing the massive scar her raven tattoo hid. "He's a deputy - supposedly first in line when chief Walker retires - and he's as crooked as the day is long. I made the mistake of coverin' for him, once - he told me the damage to his cruiser was from an on-duty accident and the shop on call was swamped. Long story short, I rebuilt his engine, only to find out he'd wrecked it off duty, in an illegal street race, an' instead of turnin' his lyin' ass in, I let it go." She cringed suddenly, digging her fingertips in deeper, trying to massage away a muscle spasm; she really hadn't needed stairs today.

"Well," she continued. "'bout that time, he decided I was hot stuff, an' tried convincin' me to date him – after all, payin' for parts an' labor ain't somethin' 'couples' do. No amount'a no's has gotten through to'im, but at least I figured out his weakness." Her grin was halfway between devious and sadistic - his heart fluttered as his pulse went through the roof. "He's allergic to garlic - VERY allergic - but he still thinks he can just invite himself in, bully my dog, an' eat my food without a fight. He's probably at the hospital now, gettin' an epi." Despite the precarious situation, Megamind laughed.

"You poisoned him?" he almost cackled.

"Nope," she grinned shamelessly. "I didn't do a damn thing...he poisoned himself. I just didn't tell'im it had garlic in it 'till his third bite…and hid the garlic stank with an oil burner…oh, an' I tol'im yesterday I was out'a garlic…but that's it, really."

"You are truly evil – You must tell me your secret!" His smile faltered. "Still...you had an officer here - a member of law enforcement - and you didn't turn me in. Why?" She avoided his eyes, inviting her dog up into the sagging sofa beside her; as she petted him, Kilroy stared up from her knee with adoring brown eyes.

"I've kinda lost my faith in the system, really," she admitted quietly. "Every time I've counted on the law, it's let me down. I broke a guy's nose for tryin' to mug me and got stuck with assault charges. Some drunk bitch rammed my truck an' I was blamed 'cause I was tired. I've reported Heckerman, too..." She reflexively held the dog tightly, her eyes dark. "Killer nearly died for it, an' the chief believes that bastard over me. Can ya blame me for bein' wary of the cops?" She glanced sharply at him.

"Not really," he answered wryly. "But if I'm caught — if the law finds out you knowingly sheltered me, you'll be arrested—slapped with obstruction of justice charges at the least!"

"…And if Peckerhead found ya here," she shot back, "that'd be one more thing he had against me. If I turn his ass in again, he'll take me an' Killer down with'im! If he finds ya here," She scowled darkly, rhythmically clenching her fingertips into her calf out of frustration. "it'll jus' add to the blackmail I'm already fightin'. Trust me, I ain't gonna turn ya out, but it ain't jus' for you…I'm savin' my own ass, too." As vehement as she'd been, Megamind finally gave in; horrible as it sounded, she stood to lose if he were caught as well, and so was less likely to turn him in. He felt rather bitter about the whole deal, but at least he was safe.

"Well," he admitted softly. "Act of mercy or no, I thank you...for hiding me, and feeding me." She shrugged but grinned wolfishly.

"Don't mention it...the roast'll go away faster with two people...an' it REALLY needs to go away." She laughed aloud despite herself; it was a sad fate for roast beef. Heaving herself to her feet, she smacked her thigh to call the dog, leading Megamind to the flight of bricked stairs in the far corner. "He'll spend seven to ten days nursin' his bruised ego, then he'll get stupid again. Till then we eat GOOD food an' plot our next move. By the way…name's Sonja—Sonja Meliora Merlo."

"That's a mouthful," he remarked with a grin; she smirked back at him.

"Thank my Uncle Jack…he insisted I needed a middle name that wasn't totally bogus, said it means 'always improving.' Ma wanted to name me 'Sonja Angela Merlo' to ward off 'bad juju.' She's nuckin'-futz. So what's your name?" He winced slightly.

"Megamind," he admitted quietly; though she said nothing, she grinned at his answer.

'Some ego he's got,' she thought, fighting a laugh. 'All those brains, an' he thought I'd turn'im in.'

Megs never planned on staying anywhere long—he planned to barrel right through until he hit the border, then find a way to safety. Of course, the best-laid plans can wind up going awry. No matter what happened, no matter what it took, he had to keep trying…and he had to find Minion, come Hell or high water.


So...hopefully that didn't totally suck and was worth the (unintentional) wait. Hope y'all're havin' a great summer an' take care!