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The bad thing about inventing things yourself is not having a handy list of side-effects at the ready, Megamind thinks to himself as he turns the disguise watch on again. Most of his inventions (barring Minion’s suit) have been solely for the betterment of evil, but they can be used in other ways, and the temptations catch him unprepared. Megamind doesn’t invent for fun; he does find it fun, but he doesn’t take his inventions out for a twirl for his own gain (joyrides with the invisible car are not unprecedented, but they usually end up policing the unsavory parts of the city anyway, so at best it’s mixing work with pleasure).
Megamind thrums his fingers on the wheel and checks his appearance in the side mirror. He’s not the expert at human species’ behavior but he thinks he checks out “straight white man” alright. While he could, of course, disguise himself as anyone, he figures that like this he’s the least likely to be suspected of not being an actual person.
He parks in front of the Metro City Mental Health Clinic and lets his thoughts race to catch up with the situation. He hadn’t planned this ahead, so he doesn’t have an appointment, but waiting lists are merely loose guidelines for a supervillain. Besides, Megamind is fairly certain he would’ve found an excuse not to go, were he not sitting in front of the clinic. It takes one --albeit weird, in the sense that the registrar wants to but doesn’t dare question his motivation for insisting on a live queue for their top therapist for the day-- call to exert his kind of order on the offices.
Megamind doesn’t like messing about like this. The waiting lists are very real to others, and he doesn’t want to disrupt the ones in need. He’s already using a service that isn’t meant for him (not to mention, he doesn’t even mostly pay taxes), and now he’s taking up someone else’s slot. And sure, everyone is equal, in the sense that everyone should have equal rights, but Megamind can’t be evaluated in the human way. His intelligence may leave humans behind in the dust, but by his species standards, he isn’t so extraordinarily bright. By his own standards, he’s just a burden to the people actually born on the planet. It may not be his fault he doesn’t know how to be anything else, but maybe he just… shouldn’t be anything, then.
Megamind has never learned how to share his story to anyone, ever. As he climbs out the car and stalks towards the building, he hopes he won’t fail too terribly.
“I’m afraid of not being liked. I’ve always craved others’ approval, but nobody thinks I can be good. They think I make a good vil— a likable bad guy, though.” His heartrate is double-timing for the latest near-slipup, but he continues looking at the constellations in the lovely painting visible from his seat. When no outbursts of outrage are forthcoming, he swallows and casts away at something to add. The stars serve as a focal point, reminding him of the mural above his bed, and of his well-trodden evening thoughts.
“The funny thing is, it’s not always easy to judge who the good people are. They must be ‘people who do good’. Deeds are counted as good when they improve the situation. But it’s not that easy to become a good person.
I fail at good deeds,” he whispers, a lump in his throat. “And when people see me fail, they mock me. They don’t trust me, and they won’t ever give me the benefit of the doubt to try something good. I can never be the same as,” Roxanne Ritchi, or the Warden, or even Minion, his mind supplies, but discards in fear of blowing his cover, so Megamind names some restaurant owners in the industrial area. And cleaners, and garbage collectors. “Hard-working people who don’t abuse others in their time off,” he concludes. “But the definition of a good person is narrower than that. They would have to get on with most everybody, know what to say and what to do when problems arise. I’ve never been very good at that – I can usually fix things, but never help people.” He clamps his mouth shut, rewinding the conversation to check he hadn’t crossed a line. The only noise in the room, a faint scratching, is messing with his concentration as the stars start blurring together.
A door opens, and a custodian wearing bulky headphones pushes their cart into the corridor. Their mop drags across the floor, and Megamind registers the change in the almost-scratches. With a shuddery breath, he rips his gaze away from the make-believe night sky and looks at the custodian, who’s sliding one ear free to ask him, “Alright there, mate?”
Megamind jerks his head up and down. He’d like to run away, but his legs feel rubbery, and the custodian has moved on with their cloud of distorted music, so he can get by without combusting. At least unless he thinks of how he just practiced out loud for his visit. But as his pulse slows, Megamind feels centered, surer of himself. When new footsteps start echoing down the corridor, Megamind pushes himself out of his chair and exits the waiting room, to arrange for an appointment in some nebulous near-future.