Commentary: 1,000-word one-shots for Megamind as inspired by bits of random vocabulary, because I love any excuse to write and any excuse to think about this movie for five more seconds. =) Hope you enjoy!

Want to see a word written? Let me know (PM/IM me!) and if I use yours, I will surely credit you and thank you kindly too.

This scribble is set post-film.

Disclaimer: I do not own this franchise.


COBALT

Word One: CHEF



"Your feeble human brain cannot begin to fathom my greatness."

So says Megamind as he takes a tray of not-quite-chocolate chip biscuits from the oven and deposits it, contents smoking faintly, on the stovetop. His cape flutters. His thin arm whips out in a grandiose, showy flourish.

"Behold, Miss Ritchi," he exults. His fingers give a spidery flex. "I have made you cookies."

Some of the chips on said cookies burst like little brown volcanoes.

"Uhm," allows Minion. He lifts a bulky finger. His mouth opens and his snaggly teeth flicker. "Sir, those look a little, err, toxic—"

"Nonsense, Minion," scoffs the city's protector. "Why would I want to poison Miss Ritchi?"

It's Roxanne's turn to talk and she does, her eyes lingering on the tray. "Vestiges of evil still lurking in you, maybe?" she ventures. "Dastardly doings on the agenda?" The cookies have a sooty, cedar kind of odor: not entirely unpleasant, but certainly unwelcome. She wrinkles her nose. Her kitchen smells like a woodchipper on its last legs.

Megamind seems both pleased and ruffled by her ponderings. "Rest assured that any evil left in me is not vestigial, but fully functional and wholly at my command," he half-sneers. His eyebrows pump. He's wearing eyeliner—damnit, probably her best kind—and his goatee is particularly groomed today, sharp on the blade of his chin. His sneer softens, though, into a smile, and Roxanne's heart flutters.

So does her stomach, just a bit. Eau de Woodchipper. It's in vogue.

"The only thing dastardly about this doing," Megamind insists, "is its temporal state. Soon"—he thrusts a fist skyward, but he's still got on an oven mitt and so the effect is diminished somewhat—"these cookies, these nuggets of deliciousness, will be devoured and you will find yourself bereft of their presence—"

"Bereft, oh no," Roxanne opines, deadpan.

"Such scorn!" Megamind chides her. "Such contempt!" He peels off the oven mitt and throws it aside onto the dinette. "Such, such!" And he settles for, "Such dubiosity!"

"That," Roxanne assures him, "is not a word."

"Never heard of it," Minion agrees. He is still examining the tray of cookies, his gills flared apprehensively, tendrils rippling in kelpy fear. He does not want his master's new girlfriend to suffer an early and untimely demise. "Sir, forgive my skepticism, but I think these are best thrown away. Far away. Mars might be a good start: you did build that intergalactic slingshot, sir—"

"Try one," Megamind suggests: not to Minion, but to Roxanne. He's ignoring the fish. His voice drops from the tone of an overlord to a peddler's suggestive, hopeful wheedle. He has the grace to tack on, a brief afterthought, "Please." And then, the killer: "They are for you."

Roxanne looks at the cookies. God, they're horrible: charred little discs that have filled her kitchen with their reek and a thin fog of white smoke. They are lumpy where cookies should not be lumpy: they are strange colors too, some of them nearly purple, others a weird glisten-y blueberry-black. Minion makes a small noise of revulsion. Roxanne feels the way that noise sounds.

But she looks at her boyfriend with his huge wet shining puppy eyes and his floury elbows and his quivering lip—oh God, it actually is quivering, an earthquake on his mouth—and her resolve gives a treacherous little wobble, not that it was terribly solid in the first place. It doesn't help that he's wearing an apron, her apron with all the hearts on it that her mother gave her for Christmas, and the way it hangs on his hips and bony butt is just, well—

"Irresistible," she accuses him. She is defeated. Roxanne Ritchi, reporting live: crushed like a bug under the heel of a bulbous-headed metrosexual wearing a woman's apron, ladies and gentlemen. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah.

She can't really mind, though. Megamind just looks so delighted that he isn't losing anymore, even a battle wherein the question is whether Roxanne will nibble the results of his culinary endeavors.

"Try one?" he echoes. He indicates his creations with a splayed hand, as proud of them as a new father is of his gurgling infant.

Minion winces as Roxanne agrees, "One." To the fish with the gorilla-robot avatar as a body, she poses the question, "Poison control. Do you have the number?"

"Hey!" That's Megamind, all indignance and feigned hurt.

"Ready to go," Minion affirms. He pointedly holds up her cordless phone and Megamind sets about calling the fish a disloyal traitorous sardine. Said sardine shoots Roxanne a look that is both apologetic and promising of a decent burial. White roses, maybe. Asiatic lilies at least.

Megamind's protests fall into silence as Roxanne Ritchi darts out her fingers and takes up one of the scorched chunks from the tray. It's hard and hot in her hand; it leaves a viscous dark smear on her thumb. She blows on it to cool it. She holds her breath next, mostly so she won't smell it, and draws it near to sink her teeth into its crispy, bulging, swollen middle.

Crumbs spray down her lips, her chin. The cookie fragments over her tongue and Megamind watches, his hands clasped. Minion presses the phone's 'talk' button. The dialtone lends the kitchen a low droning bzzzzzz.

Roxanne Ritchi chews.

Swallows.

"Huh," she allows after a moment, and licks her lips. She gives Megamind a startled, halfway suspicious look. "Do I taste… barbecue sauce?"

"I have been told that a chef never reveals his secrets," sniffs her boyfriend importantly.

"Villain once, hero now—sure. But chef," Roxanne reminds him, "you are never." She holds up the remainder of the cookie, brow arched.

Megamind considers this. Sweeping his cape up over his arm, he positions it such that it flares in a dramatic swoop.

"You taste," he hisses, "honey mesquite."

He wiggles his eyebrows.

"Huh," Roxanne says again. Lifting the cookie, she toasts Megamind, pronounces his handiwork, "Not bad!" and takes another bite.