Work Text:
The air in Metro City hangs crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the humid, bustling energy of summer. Today, however, the city's usual drone of traffic and distant sirens feels muted, swallowed by the strange quiet of a long-abandoned fortress. Megamind, his usually vibrant blue skin a little paler in the dim light, pushes open a massive, ornate door. It groans on heavy, un-oiled hinges, revealing a sprawling, circular lounging area. The very atmosphere within is a shrine, thick with the scent of aged leather and the metallic tang of forgotten glory.
Sunlight, weak and watery, filters through a grand, stained-glass dome above, illuminating a dizzying array of Metro Man relics. Each corner boasts a pristine mannequin, perfectly posed, displaying various versions of his iconic white-and-gold suit. Glass cases glitter with polished trophies, commendations, and keys to the city. A colossal, sculpted bust of Metro Man’s chiseled face dominates one wall, his perfectly coiffed hair catching a stray beam of light. Megamind’s eyes widen, taking it all in, a strange mix of awe and lingering resentment swirling within him.
“Wow! I can’t believe he kept all this stuff,” Megamind murmurs, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. He moves with an almost hesitant reverence, his gaze finally landing on a display. There, draped over a velvet stand, is a familiar, flowing cape, its golden lining still shimmering. Attached, a surprisingly plush, white neck rest, perfectly molded for powerful shoulders. A soft, involuntary sigh escapes him, a sound laden with years of rivalry, admiration, and something akin to longing. “I remember when he wore that.”
Roxanne Ritchi, ever the voice of reason, steps further into the room, her sensible boots making soft thuds on the marble floor. Her sharp and intelligent eyes scan the opulent display with a mixture of professional detachment and faint amusement. She gestures to the general chaos of forgotten heroism.
“Shouldn’t we try to stay focused here?” she prompts, her tone a gentle nudge back to their objective.
Megamind snaps out of his reverie. “Yes, of course, right, focused.” He tries to sound resolute, but a small, mischievous glint still dances in his eyes. He can’t help but be captivated by the sheer spectacle of it all.
“Hey! Come over and look at this.” Roxanne’s voice cuts through his distracted thoughts again, drawing him towards a smaller, less ostentatious corner near a large, leather armchair.
Megamind, unable to resist a sudden impulse, snatches the neck-rest cape from its stand. He drapes it around his own slighter frame, the heavy fabric pooling at his feet, and stumbles over, nearly tripping on the oversized garment. The neck rest, comically large for him, almost swallows his head. “What is it? What did you find?” he asks, his voice muffled slightly by the voluminous cape.
Roxanne points to a small, crystal glass resting on a mahogany side table. It’s an ordinary drinking glass, but inside, a few ice cubes float in a clear, undisturbed liquid. “Um. Look. This glass has ice cubes in it.”
Megamind peers at it, then at Roxanne, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Yes, that’s what happens when water gets cold.” His genius is undeniable, but sometimes, his grasp of the obvious completely eludes him.
A soft creak echoes from the far side of the room. Neither Roxanne nor Megamind registers it, too engrossed in their curious discovery. Metro Man, dressed in a surprisingly threadbare silk robe, its once vibrant gold now faded, stands partially hidden behind a towering display of his own action figures. A shaggy, unkempt beard now obscures his famously clean-shaven jawline. His blue eyes, usually blazing with heroic intensity, are wide with shock and a hint of panic. He looks utterly out of place, a relic amongst his own relics. Seeing them, his beloved partners, who still mourned his supposed death , he tries to back away slowly, quietly, hoping to melt into the shadows, a superhero ghost.
Roxanne’s analytical mind whirs. She ignores Megamind’s sarcastic retort. Her gaze is fixed on the ice. “No. What I’m saying is, don’t you think it’s a little odd that the ice hasn’t melted yet?” Her voice holds a note of genuine puzzlement, a keen journalist’s instinct sensing something amiss.
Megamind waves a dismissive hand, the cape swirling around him. “One of life’s great mysteries,” he quips, thoroughly unimpressed by her observation. He’s already mentally moving on to more interesting scientific quandaries.
But then, it happens. Metro Man, in his desperate attempt to retreat unseen, places his foot on a loose floorboard. A loud, unmistakable creak rips through the quiet, shattering the illusion of solitude. The sound freezes Roxanne and Megamind mid-conversation, mid-thought. Their heads, in perfect, terrifying synchronicity, slowly turn. Their eyes, wide and disbelieving, meet his. Time seems to stretch and distort, the reality of the situation slamming into them both.
“Hey.” Metro Man offers a weak, almost apologetic wave, his voice a quiet croak, completely lacking its usual booming confidence.
A beat of stunned silence. Then, a primal, guttural scream erupts from both Megamind and Roxanne, a perfectly harmonized shriek of pure shock.
Roxanne’s chest heaves, her voice raspy with disbelief. “You’re alive?”
Megamind, his blue face a mask of utter bewilderment, echoes her. “ You’re alive?”
Metro Man winces, rubs his beard, and offers another sheepish nod. “I’m alive.”
Roxanne takes a shaky step forward, her eyes narrowing. “But…but…but we…we saw your skeleton. You were dead.” Her mind races, trying to reconcile the impossible.
Megamind, ever the dramatic, leans forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Are you a ghost?”
Roxanne, regaining her composure slightly, plants her hands on her hips, her journalistic demand for truth overriding her terror. “There had better be an amazing explanation for this.”
Megamind, fully embracing the absurd, gestures grandly with his gloved hand, the neck-rest cape swishing. “Speak, apparition!”