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 several things won't be canon. I hope you enjoy this story, and that everyone has a great week! This chapter dedicated to 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. He gave everything he had to help protect the woman he loved, and gave his all to take out the monster he created. Still, after all was said and done, the people of that city just couldn't see past his prior mistakes. And Roxanne... The name brought a painful twist to his empty gut. Dear, lovely, spunky Roxanne Ritchie...
She may have loved him; he couldn't really know, and even if he did, it was too late now. The moment they heard the approaching sirens, she gave him a teary kiss goodbye and shooed him out of her loft via the fire escape. He almost refused to leave, committing himself to surrender and praying for a pardon. Then she turned to him with tears in her china blue eyes, and begged him to run, find somewhere he could live his life in peace, and never look back. At that moment, the police had pounded on her front door, and he was 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.
That was rough a week ago; amidst a statewide manhunt, he fled south alone. He and Minion made plans to contact each other every few days until they reached the US-Mexico border. Neither stopped in populated areas longer than it took to find new guises for the holo-watches, change transportation, and scrounge up something to stave off hunger. Other than occasional 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 was financially safe for a couple months, if he was frugal. He 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, and survival necessitated escape.
Upon reaching Springfield, Illinois, Megamind sold a stolen gremlin-crippled motorcycle in a sleazy pawn shop and bought an inconspicuous used Chevy from someone's driveway. A lone Kansas license plate from a salvage yard in Auburn was sufficient to detract attention, along with the fully (and cheaply) packed backseat. For all anyone 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, and every hint of red or blue lights made his skin crawl.
By the time he got to De Soto, Missouri, he finally began to wonder if the authorities were still looking for him, and if they really were right on his tail. 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; he drove slower, admiring the fall-clad woodlands and rolling fields of grain with one unnaturally tan arm draped along the open window. As the densely crowded cities faded in his rearview mirrors, the stores and shopping centers became few and far between replaced with towering walls of rough-hewn stone.
Finally, almost to the Arkansas border, 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 in dismay. How was he out of food already? He should still at least have a couple slices of bread and some bologna left over from that mini-mart a couple days before…. He smacked his forehead in frustration. That's right. The meat went rancid when the last of the ice melted, and the bread molded soon after. He hadn't seen a store of any type in at least an hour and, if the scarceness of houses was a sign, he might not see one anytime soon. Scrambling for a solution, he wracked his brain for any memory of wild edibles he'd recognize. It wasn't exactly sanitary to eat wild fruits and vegetables without washing them thoroughly, but he would have to make do; he needed to conserve the last of the water in case the car broke down again. 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 headed down the nearest highway. Salvation appeared in the form of white letters and an arrow on a green sign. Branson? Why did that name sound familiar…
About half-an-hour later, somewhere between Timberlake road, Sunset Inn road, and the very outskirts of Downtown, Megamind came upon a welcome sight: a large, well-kept stone cottage on a dead-end road. 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 but well-maintained. Three tall trees loomed just beyond the fenced yard, one bearing some manner of nuts, and the other two, fruit; his mouth watered, and he ran through the list of in-season fruits to compare the tree shapes in hope. If he couldn't find any windfall or low, laden branches, he could at least hope the owners had a store of the harvest in storage. He hated the idea of stealing to live with the death sentence waiting for him - why did that half-baked twit refuse to admit Megamind hadn't actually killed him, again? - but theft wasn't a new habit for him. He was running out of options, and if going unseen meant getting sticky fingers…
He parked the car down the road. As he crept up to the cottage, he kept his eyes peeled. The house was dark, still, and empty. The lit garage rang with Alice Cooper on a stereo, racket from an old 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 him. If they did notice him, he saw no indication of security cameras and no warning signs about trespassing; he could always claim to be lost and ask directions. He crept around to the garden.
Bare. His stomach lurched at the sight. Some wild animal must have ransacked it before he could; nothing was left standing but empty supports, torn soil, and mangled, withered husks of torn up plants. He looked to the trees in despair, and the realization of what he missed out on made his stomach hurt even more: ripe blushing apples, plump dark cherries, and walnuts. All the harvest low enough to reach had been retrieved, no windfall remained, and he was never any good at climbing trees. He was screwed.
Too tired and too hungry to care about getting caught trespassing, he sank onto 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…or maybe he should stop running. At least in prison, he would be fed.
His train of thought was interrupted by what sounded like a stampede of buffalo heading his direction, then his eyes landed on the culprit. With a yelp, he fell to the dirt and crab-scrambled away from the drooling brindle and white behemoth. The shredded left ear and countless scars were a testament to its ability to maul him; a twisted lip curled up over a prominent snaggletooth spoke to its urge to do just that. The dog pursued him, backed him up to another wall of ties and bedraggled plants, and sniffed him head to toe. Megamind cringed, closed his eyes to the muggy breathing in his face, 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 blinked at the grinning dog. 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 never noticed the music stop.
"Hey, Killer!" A young woman in work boots shuffled out of the garage, her hands, arms, and stained work shirt covered with swathes of tiny red, silver, and blue paint specks. "Ya find that damn' 'coon what's been eatin' all…the…" 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 before obeying, then sat on his haunches beside her with his tongue lolling out in a toothy grin. "Ya lost, Mister?"
As the odd woman sized him up, Megamind examined her just as closely. She was rather short, even compared to him, and had childbearing hips if not a bust to match. Her short black hair was slicked to her neck and brow with sweat and tied back with a folded black and white bandana; several thick navy and burgundy streaks shone brightly from the black shag. Her right ear had a single steel stud in the lobe, but her left ear had 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. Her dirty navy cargo shorts exposed a black tribal-style tattoo — a bird of prey, possibly a crow or raven — sprawling from her left knee almost to her ankle. She pulled a wrinkled shop-rag from her belt loop and wiped her paint-speckled hands, then bent to stare him in the eyes. She glanced silently from one bright green eye to the other, then snorted and stood back up again; her eyes were a surprisingly deep blue color, intelligent, and slightly softer than before.
"A'right, you." Her sarcastic tone was at odds with the sympathy in her eyes. "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 'fore ya catch your death out here. Gets cold quick this time of year, an' we' got rain movin' in." Megamind eyed the dog warily. "Don' worry 'bout ol' Kilroy, here. He's jus' a big softy. If he ain't gonna chase off the 'coon from Hell, then you ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. Git in that kitchen and eat your fill, or git the heck off'a my turf." He startled. She was…offering to feed him? After finding him trespassing? She reached out a callused hand and waited.
After a moment longer, he accepted the hand up and followed her. Now, he understood the reason for her noisy entrance; she had a noticeable limp. Kilroy trotted along at her side and once the door was open, he took off for a large purple dog bed by the fireplace, circling then flopping into a comfortable sprawl of gangly limbs. Megamind followed the unknown woman to the kitchen but kept a wary eye on the 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 dated kitchen, she shooed him over to the small table in the corner and hustled to the slow-cooker beside a burner of simmering potpourri. "Lucky fer you, I had a hankerin' for pot roast this week," she smirked, and set to scrubbing her hands and arms at the sink with Lava soap. After, she poked and scraped at the chunk of meat in the crock, stabbed a couple of vegetables, then pronounced it done. "An' it only took a whole night's cookin'," she grinned as she doled beef and veggies into bowls.
"Thank you," he said mumbled into the bowl she put in front of him. She grinned.
"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 used enough garlic to drop birds in a five-mile radius! How had he not smelled it?! As hungry as he was, though, even leather would pass as edible if it was available. How long had it been since he had a hot meal? Other than the time he gave himself food poisoning by cooking eggs in a truck-stop microwave, he couldn't recall.
The odd 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. "Ya might oughta slow down a bit," she warned when she realized that he was scarfing down the meal as quickly as possible. "I can see yer ribs. 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?" 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. A long way 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. "Ecgh. Hate garlic." He filed away the conflicting actions and response for later.
"I'm a different state," he conceded. "I've been on the road for a while." She nodded understanding, eyeing a curl of beef on her fork like she thought it might be saying nasty things about her.
"Mu-zurr-uh's a great place to grow roots." He blinked at her bizarre 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 don't like it when ya try yankin' em up again." Megamind mopped up the last of the beef broth with the last of his cornbread, and smiled. While she wasn't easy to understand, the company and humor was as refreshing as the meal. 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'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 finished her meal, put their bowls in the dishwasher, and lumbered into the living room to turn up the television. "Been a big storm system movin' in for a while," she explained. "Hopin' it waits 'til after the game, though - Rams an' Chiefs, the rivalry's—" She fell silent at the news report.
"— 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."
As the announcer handed off to the meteorologist, Megamind scrambled for ideas. Metro City 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 like a neighbor…that young woman would be undoubtedly dialing the tip line on her phone. If he'd realized that the connection between the watch and his ability to change his appearance had been noted, he would have covered it up or worn it on his ankle, but 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.