Hey, Folks! Ghost here, and after a long wait, too. Sorry about that...technically this story's still going to be updated very slowly but it's coming off of hiatus for a while. Rest assured, nothing will get abandoned without at the very least a "Hey, this croaked, sorry folks" warning on it.
Honestly, this story's still in that awkward stage I tend to struggle with - the first several chapters don't come easily and are a PitA to muddle through, but when the setup is over (usually 4-6 chapters in...?) it's a lot easier and updates are more common. In the mean time, thank you for reading, I hope to hear from ya, and hope everyone's had a good summer!
A quick disclaimer: Sonja rides a motorcycle and drives like a maniac, but MOST bikers DON'T drive like maniacs. Sonja's just a maniac. Don't be like Sonja.
This chapter dedicated to my Uncle H. for nurturing my fascination with classic cars before I could even tell the difference between an El Camino and a Ranchero - I miss ya, y'old hippie. Also dedicated to my father for being such a sport about adding dozens of makes, models, and builds to the classic 'punch-buggy' game...and for not getting pissy whenever his teenage daughter poked him every time a Mustang drove past.
Suggested Listening: David Bowie "Rebel Rebel,"
3: Calamity
To his surprise, the trap door Megamind's reluctant hostess swung open let them out in the middle of a large walk-in pantry off the kitchen. In the ruckus before, she shoved him through a trapdoor in the office into a long, narrow space, then later she approached him from a second trap door at the opposite end, then she led him through an ancient metal door into a much larger space renovated into a basement of sorts. Now she was leading him up yet another trap door into the kitchen! "How many hidden doors does this place have?" he asked dubiously, wondering if he should start checking for secret passages and two-way mirrors everywhere. She shrugged, carefully lowering the heavy door back to the floor by the iron handle.
"Technically, only two," she answered letting the handle fall back into its depression with a noisy clang. "I found the cellars after I bought the place - before I even put in carpet." She gave a sheepish smile. "Got a phone call that left me so pissed I was stompin' everywhere an' almost went through the office floor." She ducked into the office long enough to lock the shotgun back in its safe, then led him out the back door. "No one knew 'bout the cellars, not even the realtor. Apparently, there was a big-ass manor built here long ways back; after it burnt down, an' this place was built, things got hairy."
"Hairy?" he echoed dubiously as visions of giant rats and hordes of giant furry tarantulas skittered through his imagination. "How so?"
"Prohibition-type hairy, apparently," Sonja grinned waving him through the dog-run** gate. "When I got down there, that big cave was chock-full'a moonshine an' brewin' equipment, long abandoned. The owners must'a taken the secret with'em. The local historical society had a field day excavatin' that cellar."
"Then the cellars aren't a secret?!" His voice cracked from fear of discovery. "I—!"
"Chill, Pennywise,"* she interrupted shortly; the tease caught him off guard and left him blinking at her in surprise. "Plurals aren't just fer looks...only the bigger cellar's been leaked. Far as the society knows that door's been locked these past decades, there ain't no key, an' I'm too damn stubborn to let'em call a locksmith. Only three other people've known I got access to that place: my dad, my brother, an' my uncle…an' he's gone." She faltered at the phrase, clearly remembering something painful, then pasted on a wolfish grin. "Dad an' Jason ain't gonna say a word, either—They're too skeered'a me."
'Does she greet everyone with a shotgun to the face, then?' he wondered nervously. It would certainly explain some things. At that point, they reached the garage and any further thoughts fell silent as he crossed the threshold. The workshop was a mechanic's fondest dream—several racks of quality tools, workbenches, even a custom pit and vinyl-enclosed painting booth. Just inside the main door stood a half-assemble vehicle somewhat resembling an old fridge; in the painting booth, the flat stainless steel hood sat propped up on sawhorses, the first coat of grey primer curing.
"She's a DeLorean DMC-12," Sonja explained trailing her fingertips over one car's scuffed stainless steel gullwing door, up the bridge to the roof, then around the door's hinge. "Got a lotta cosmetic work left an' most'a the painting, but we'll manage—It's too late to get'er finished for the Detroit convention this year but I should have'er done by the one in Houston if she ain't a bitch about paintin'."
"So you're a mechanic, then?" he asked, then forced his eyes back to the bench he was inspecting. His petite host was bent over the front bumper at the waist, buried up to the shoulders in the exposed guts of the engine compartment. Her mouth was a little much to get used to, but she certainly had a nice backside. He always appreciated a nice backside.
"More'n a mechanic," Sonja explained shooting him a cheeky grin he didn't see, then shrugged in disinterest; at least he wasn't staring at her. "Started out a mechanic an' it nearly cost me my leg. Moved onto customs work, own my own shop now. This bein' a tourist town, we don't get a lotta jobs durin' the off-seasons, an' restoration projects keep me from gettin' bored."
The conversation continued one-sided, Megamind losing focus on it. His eyes, after all, found something a bit more interesting than her long-winded explanation of why painting DeLoreans had to be approached differently than painting any other car.# Over in the far corner, a large shapeless lump was draped with a vinyl cover, a hint of black rubber and shining chrome peeking through underneath…wheels, and from the looks of it, three of them. Keeping one eye locked on Sonja, he crept over and eased the cover aside; with the first glimpse of navy and electric blue, the tug sharpened into a yank and the cover fluttered to the floor.
It was…oh, it was beautiful. His throat caught at the sight of the vehicle, a beautifully restored classic Harley Softail with a custom sidecar. The paint job was sweet—sleek metallic black airbrushed with vibrant blue flames—and— He froze, unable to believe what he was seeing and sure his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Completely oblivious to Sonja's continuing monologue, he reached out a trembling hand and wistfully traced an impossibly familiar decal—custom chrome lettering spanning the length of the sidecar, the name framed in stylized flames.
As though summoned by Megamind's disbelief, the sound of a stampeding buffalo thundered into the garage. Kilroy bolted toward the bike, nearly bowling him over, and launched himself into the sidecar; sitting upright on the seat set with canvas straps and metal clip hooks, the Dane mix grinned at Megamind, tongue lolling and eyes bright. The disguised alien stared, struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Behind him, Sonja was finally silent, her eyes locked on him in open suspicion. He couldn't explain himself—he turned to her, eyes wide and spine slack, but only managed to get out one simple phrase:
"It's you."
A few years before – Metro City, Michigan
Megamind just escaped from prison that morning; the last place he expected to find himself was the parking lot of a remote fast-food joint, alone, sitting on a curb trying to convince himself to return to the Evil Lair. Of course, he didn't walk there just for kicks—it was Minion's fault for suggesting maybe they should lay low for a while. The very memory irritated Megamind. As though the dimwitted creation of science could understand anything without it being explained to him first…Megamind's ongoing battle with Metro Man was far more pressing than the bruised ribs he sustained in the latest escape. They couldn't let something like this stop them, not when their final victory was so close at hand—so close he could practically taste it!
The near-deafening rumble of a well-maintained motorcycle split the air; moments after, a classic Harley decked in black and blue flames peeled into the parking lot. The rider wrenched off their open-face helmet—black airbrushed with matching blue flames—then their chunky goggles—chunky brassy frames and tinted glass lenses—and chucked both into the open sidecar. Megamind tore his eyes away, forcibly focusing on the grease-shiny pavement before him instead of the new arrival. Even clad in studded black leathers and thick-soled boots, her gender was obvious—as obvious as the neon blue, plum purple, and sleek black hair sticking out from under her skull-patterned hair scarf. She studied him a moment, seemingly considering approaching him, then ducked through the door of the restaurant leaving him to his thoughts…just as it should be, he considered with no small amount of bitterness.
A few minutes later, the bell over the door jingled again and a foreign pair of shoes entered his field of vision; by the time he recognized the chunky black boots, their owner gracelessly plopped down onto the curb beside him without a word. He looked up, aiming a glare at the biker but it was unreturned; instead, she held out a paper bag, already chowing down on a sizable burger from a larger bag. She waited a while for him to accept the smaller bag then shot him an incredulous glance. "What, ya vegan or somethin'?" she asked wiggling the bag at him. "Yer stomach's growlin', eat." Without another word, she returned to wolfing down her own meal, pausing only to pass him a foam cup of coffee when he reluctantly accepted the bag.
This…this was new, the alien considered scrutinizing the contents of the bag and the seal of the cup lid. The food didn't appear tampered with and the coffee cup showed no signs of it either—it probably wasn't poisoned, despite his suspicions of just that. Turning the cup in shaky hands, he noted loopy black markings scribbled on the far side—a 'smiley face' and the words 'Bet you've got one, too!' written in permanent marker. Despite himself, he felt the corners of his lips tug upward at the silliness. Through it all, the biker said nothing, only munched her fries and watched him askance with implausibly deep blue eyes.
"Looks like you've had a rough while, huh?" The words, void of accusation, blame, or pity, came once Megamind gave in to the demands of his stomach. It caught him by surprise how hungry he really was, so hungry he found himself practically inhaling his meal, too. It hit him a little late that the biker spoke to him, and he gave a faint nod. "Wanna bitch about it? May help."
"Comb-plane-ing…won't accomplish anything," he countered quietly, idly turning the coffee cup in his hands. By now, he and Minion would normally be holed up in the Lair, plowing their way through a mountain of donuts and a river of bad coffee, brainstorming for their next big scheme. Normally, however, Megamind didn't get careless in his escape, get hurt as a result, and get obnoxious because Minion worried about him.
"I hurt someone," he admitted, already half-empty coffee cup hanging slack in his hands, "someone dear to me. I didn't mean to hurt him…he just…" His face scrunched up, again rankled over Minion's unnecessary worrying and lack of faith in him. "He doesn't trust me. I had everything under control, I always do, but he—" He cut himself off, physically shaking some sense into himself and reminding himself that this biker, though unexpectedly kind, was a stranger to him. "We arg-you-ed, I said some hurtful words. Now, here I am," he scoffed, one lanky arm swinging wide in a grandiose gesture to the grimy parking lot, "soolking at McDonald's." The biker gave a small smirk at the last, lifting her soda cup in a classic 'amen to that' gesture. "What about you?" He half-expected her to correct him—he knew he was mispronouncing words again, it always got worse when he was upset—but she said nothing of it.
"Meh," she shrugged fishing through her bag for another fry. "Just passin' through. Brought my assistant an' my pup up for a weekend; we've got a sweet lil' piece for the convention in Detroit, hopin' to sell'er for a pretty penny." It took a moment but she registered the horrified expression on her inhuman companion's face; it took even longer to realize he thought she brought an actual person up for sale. Chuckling at the idea, she set down her drink and fished through the inside pocket of her jacket, passing him a folded glossy flier. "She's a '70 Dodge Challenger are-an'-tee convertible with 'shaker' hood-scoop, Rallye wheels, an' custom after-market interior," she explained pointing out the 'after' photo at the top. It showed a gleaming, beautiful, and obviously expensive vintage muscle car that was just familiar enough for him to halfway recognize. "Got'er at auction torn to bits—that's'er 'obit' photo down there—took a good three years but she lives again." She gave a crooked smile and chuckle. "That is one sexy hunk'a metal, right?"
Megamind studied the photo, glanced warily at the strange biker, turned back the photo, and repeated the process. "It's a car," he deadpanned. "How's it sexy?" She made an unimpressed pfft noise.
"Just is," she answered as if the point was obvious. "Hell, if I hadn't kept this baby on home turf, my nutty receptionist would'a left stains on those seats—it's just that gorgeous an' Reena's just that nuts." Megamind's eyes warily rolled back to the photo.
"It's purple," he deadpanned, fixing a dubious cringe on her.
"Plum Crazy," the biker bragged. "Classic Challenger exterior coat, first model to ever wear it. Took months to find enough replacement paint, but the rich-bitches at auctions eat that stuff up like Doritos." Realizing a little belatedly that she was railroading the conversation, she cleared her throat, collected the flier and returned it to her pocket, and held out her bag of fries as a peace offering. "Sorry. Cars are my life, work, an' life's work. I run a customs shop down by the Bootheel." He accepted another handful of fries, and a relieved smirk split her lips. She might have a nice smile if she didn't look so smug, he considered facing the ground again.
In the distance, a church bell rang, the sound startling the strange biker; straining her ears, she silently counted out the tolls, the number triggering a wince. "Aw heck," she muttered slumping in her seat. "I told Alice I'd be a min, an' it's pushin' an hour…Killer's probably climbin' the walls. I better get goin'." She shoved the remainders of her fries into the second, larger paper bag and shakily lurched to her feet, grimacing as though in pain.
"I know right now things look pretty rough." The unexpected affirmation drew his attention back to her, and for the first time in years, he found himself speechless – not shocked or stunned, just lost for words. She was nothing like any of the women he was used to—nothing like Roxanne, from her sharp tongue and foul mouth to her rough and rugged style—he honestly wasn't sure whether this was a benefit to her or a fault, but little things caught his eyes. In the bright light and deep shadow of the grimy parking lot, the metal studs on her leather jacket shone like stars. Vibrantly dyed hair—plum purple, neon blue, and from the looks of it, a trace of hot pink paired with natural black—stuck out in stubborn cowlicks, tamed only by a skulls-and-paisley hair scarf. Just before he managed to tear his eyes away, a glint of silver caught his attention—several steel piercings lined the outside edge of her right ear, though what they were and what they numbered, he couldn't be sure. "Things'll get better in time," she reassured, breaking his concentration. "Just keep yer chin up an' keep on keepin' on, okay?"
"Now you're throwing known-sense at me?" Megamind demanded with a scowl he didn't completely feel. "What could possibly make you think my life will ever get easier? I'm stuck on this planet—your planet!—with no way home, no one in my coor-ner, no one but—" His rant cut short in a horrified gasp; the unimpressed biker stood before him, the black denim of her jeans yanked up to her left knee. Now he knew for certain she was cringing in pain before—the massive, messy, knotted scar tissue sprawling from just below her knee to just above the cuff of her boot blew that doubt out of the water. It was highly insensitive, he was sure, but the sight of that massive scar, all puffy pale streaks and dark lumpy pits, turned his stomach.
"How do I know things'll get better?" The question, tinged with a sort of wry humor, tore his eyes from her mutilated shin back up to her eyes—beautiful eyes, especially compared to the twisted flesh on her leg. "Few years back, this happened—jack failed, dropped a half-burnt half-rusted 'stang frame on me. I nearly lost my leg." She crouched a bit, easing the black denim back down and smoothing her pant-leg. "I didn't lose it—I healed. Yeah, it's fuckin' hideous, but it's mine an' I can walk on it." Her eyes softened as he stood, but his were drawn back to her leg, recalling vividly the damaged skin behind her clothing. He shuddered to consider how extensive the damage to her leg must have been if it resulted in scars like that.
"I spent a stupid-long time on crutches," she added when it became clear he had no words. "I had to go under the knife more times than I care to count, got too many stitches to remember, an' I still gotta suffer through physical therapy on a regular basis. Was a time I thought things'd never get better." Her lips quirked upward, her solemn expression replaced with a confident smirk. "They got better anyway. Jus' give it time an' yer problems'll get easier, too."
Megamind had no words—this being struck speechless was irritating, considering he always considered himself above-par when it came to banter. Even with all his skill, he could only think of one thing to say—one phrase, and it seemed horribly inadequate. "Thank you." The biker snorted in laughter taking the last steps over to her bike, tucked her bag of food and empty cup into the foot-well of the sidecar, and retrieving her helmet and goggles.
"Eh, it's nothin'," she remarked buckling the equipment in place with practiced ease. She swung her leg up over the saddle and got situated, preparing to take off; with her key in the ignition, she hesitated, frowning down at the stereo mounted to her steering column. Before he could get out a word, she turned to him again. "Ya need a ride anywhere? She seats three an' I've got time."
After a moment's consideration, he decided it was worth it. One look at the sidecar's interior, however, derailed his intent to crawl in—it stank of wet dog and there were heavy canvas straps set into the upholstery with metal clips sewn in. "Oh, right," the biker muttered sheepishly upon registering his incredulous expression. "That's Killer's seat. If the smell bothers ya, you can always just ride bitch."
"Ride…what?" Her answer was to jab her thumb at the seat behind her. Right – the bike was a two-seater. Embarrassed, he gingerly mounted the bike behind her, silently searching for somewhere to put his hands. As he awkwardly experimented with holding onto various parts of the bike within reach, she reached down into the sidecar, hoisted the seat forward, and fished something out of the small storage space behind it. The helmet she shoved at him threw him off.
"What?" the biker demanded with a smirk. "I'm unfiltered, not oblivious—it's illegal to ride without a helmet. Don't worry, this ain't the dog's, it's the spare." With a sheepish smile, he tried to squash the helmet onto his head; naturally, this didn't work too well, as helmets weren't made with his oversized skull in mind. Finally, he settled for prying out the foam removable foam padding and buckling it in place. "That's an awkward fit," the biker remarked, but shrugged it off and moved on.
The engine roared at the first turnover, a strong vibration sending chills up Megamind's spine. At the last moment, the stranger reached back, grabbed his hands, and planted them on her hips squeezing to encourage him to latch on. "Hang on tight back there," she grinned over her shoulder. "Calamity's got some real attitude!" He cringed, torn between nerves and embarrassment.
"Calamity?" In response, she reached down to the steering column, switched on the custom stereo, and flipped through the display. As the first notes of David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" started screaming out of the speakers, she kicked off and peeled out of the parking lot, laughing aloud at the panicked screeches from behind her.
By the time they hit the highway, Megamind's terror was fully transitioned into excitement. At first, all he could think of was how much danger they were in—how reckless it was to be tearing down the highway in the dark and how little effort the strange woman put into turns. Now he was noticing other things, more subtle things. The wind in his ears, the scent of motor oil and citrus from the woman whose backside he was fairly plastered to, the rumble of the engine and the singing of tires on asphalt – this was something he could definitely get used to.
With a sharp but well-executed turn, they veered off the interstate into the nearly vacant warehouse district. Adrenaline flooding his blood and a wide grin cracking at the corners of his lips, Megamind impulsively let out an excited whoop; before it faded, the biker replied with a rebel yell of her own, punching the air for effect. Seeing her hand leave the handlebars triggered another panicked screech, and she replied with laughter.
In moments like this, Megamind could see beyond all his struggles – he could see past Metrocity and how poorly the citizens treated him from the very start, and fool himself that life could someday get better. Moments like this made him feel grateful to be alive, no matter how horrible his life normally was – it made it worth living.
When they reached the corner of Eighth and Baker – not too close to the Lair, but close enough to make it home on foot without too much risk of discovery – the bike idled to a stop and its owner turned to help pry the helmet and goggles off his head. Even as he slid off the seat, landed on shaky legs and nearly fell flat on his rear, he couldn't stop grinning. "That's an impressive machine you've got here," he remarked, partly to detract attention from his leaning on the saddle to keep himself upright.
"Thanks," the stranger returned. She didn't miss the way the alien studied the custom paint job, almost wistfully tracing the airbrushed blue flames. "Her name's from Bowie," she added gesturing to the custom chrome decal along the sidecar. "Love Bowie—wish he was still touring regularly, ya know?" Megamind's fingers stilled on the decal, committing the words to memory – the name of the motorcycle, the appearance of its rider, and the wide, crooked grin she wore. When he looked up again, that grin faded.
"Well," she muttered tucking the helmet and goggles back into the storage compartment, "it's been real, but I've gotta get goin' – my assistant's waitin' on'er dinner an' Killer's prob'ly pouting. Not much sadder'n a sulking puppy, right?" Sobered, he nodded, carefully testing the steadiness of his legs; nope, he still felt like he was standing on noodles. The biker said nothing, studying their surroundings – crowded city, smoggy air, an oppressive stench of dirty exhaust and old factories—right before his eyes, she seemed older, wearier. "Listen, things should get better in time if yer patient," she promised, "but if ya find they're just gettin' worse up here, head down south. A fresh start might do ya some good, ya know?"
"In the whole time I've been on this planet," Megamind admitted in a mumble, "I've never been outside this city, let alone the state. Where could I go? Where could I be accepted if the people here won't accept me?"
"I dunno much about Michigan," the biker admitted with a wry smile, "but no two cities're alike. I don't know other places that well, but the city I call home has never let me down…I'm sure it'd do the same fer you." She patted his shoulder then dropped her hand feebly to her still-aching leg. "Ya ever find yerself in Missour-uh, head down to the Bootheel – there's a lil' tourist trap in the Ozark Mountains called Branson. Hit me up if ya ever need a pickup, m'kay?"
"How?" he asked weakly. "Even if I do end up there, how could I find you?" The biker smirked at him, preparing to take off.
"It's easy," she promised. "Jus' find the Blue Fire in Ol' Downtown – I'll be there. Good luck, Blue – keep on keepin' on." Without another word and without looking back she took off, throwing him a backwards lazy-wave on the way. Confused as ever but a little more confident, he watched the shape of her vanish into the distance. He still wasn't sure how he could ever manage to improve his life, not without defeating his nemesis and forcing the public to accept him, but he at least felt a little less alone now.
From the day he landed in the prison yard everyone treated him like a pariah, certain he was nothing but trouble; how ironic that a loud, reckless, unfiltered biker would break that pattern. It wasn't until hours later that he realized he never got her name.
Present Day, Sonja's garage
It's you. The words made no sense to Sonja, but the somber, tired expression her guest wore now made even less sense. "Me?" she asked slowly making her way over to the motorcycle. "What, did I cut ya off or something? I get a lil' crazy on Calamity, but—" He scoffed, turning back to the bike again, eyes taking in the custom chrome lettering along the sidecar. Calamity's Child – a name straight out of David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" and a name he never forgot after the first time reading it. "Yer spookin' me, Megs. What'd I miss?"
Megamind wasn't sure what to say – how could he put it into words? How could he tell her what he realized when it was so improbable, so impossible, that he couldn't wrap his brain around it? The odds of them ever meeting again, especially on accident, were mind-boggling! Finally, his decision made, he met her eyes again in determination. With a twist of his watch, his falsely human appearance fizzled out, leaving behind the real him.
Mid-step, Sonja stumbled, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. For a moment, she said nothing—she just soaked in the sight of him, the alien from Michigan, and searched for words that could adequately express her surprise at running into him again. Only one word came to mind, and that one word finally spewed from her lips in a near-shriek, followed by an even more shrill demand:
"MOTHER-FUCKER! YOU?!"
NOTES:
*Pennywise – Recall that in chapter 2 Sonja snarked to herself about having 'Pennywise the dancing clown' in her cellar. Also recall that this chapter shows the first time she's actually SEEN Megamind, so naturally she didn't recognize him.
*Dog-Run – this term is uncommon and somewhat obsolete, but has several possible meanings. If referring to an outdoor feature, it's a fenced area yard built as an exercise pen for dogs. In architecture, it refers to a style of structure notable for two or four large rooms or units opposing each other with an open-air hallway running between them; this hallway is NOT enclosed by walls or doors and allows outside air to flow through, thus helping cool the occupants. In THIS case, Sonja fenced off her back yard and split that yard in two, designating the larger side 'yard' and the smaller one 'dog-run;' the dog-run is between the house and garage and accessible directly from the back porch, while the yard is on the other side and gated off. This gives Killer ample room to run around like a maniac while lessening the likelihood of stepping in a Killer bomb on the way to the grill.
#Painting a DeLorean – When they first came out, DeLoreans were produced with stainless steel paneling instead of the typical molded and painted metal or fiberglass. Stainless steel, alas, does NOT take paint well, and painting it is a great deal different than painting regular auto bodies. In order for Sonja to accomplish her goal here – airbrushing a design onto the DeLorean's body – she'd need to evenly scuff the metal, apply sufficient primer, apply a base coat (if using a basecoat) airbrush the design, then apply a protective topcoat. It's more common to find DeLoreans painted nowadays than ever before because the stainless steel doesn't hide repairs very well – the panels were made to be replaced, not repaired, and paint can hide repairs. That said, some of the most delightful finishes I've ever seen on cars were on DeLoreans, especially in the case of owners opting for 'Candy' coats and clear metallic. The one time I saw a Chocolate Candy coat on a DeLorean (picture a warm, rich brown about the same shade as molten chocolate, partly sheer with a bright metallic glimmer underneath) I literally cried. It was so beautiful it broke my poor little heart…then I saw a fully restored Opel GT in classic Khaki next to it and my heart gave up the ghost. Not much'll twang my heartstrings like an obscure foreign classic.
