He waited – albeit with a good amount of impatience – for Ark to make the decision to let him tend to the injuries. Once he received the approval, he carefully, gently swabbed at the blood, folding the cloth over and dabbing again, repeating this gesture until the cloth was bright red and no longer of any use.
 
Stumbling to his feet, Megamind made his way back over to the sink to rinse the cloth, trying not to look at the blood running down the drain. The metallic scent was strong, though – it was unavoidable and it made his head spin and stomach reel once more, and he had to again fight the bile down in his throat.
 
This was his fault. All of it. Ark’s injuries, the cuts on Roxanne’s wrists, his own stumbling and still almost sedentary movements. Every part of this experience, every element of horror – his fault. He had created Ark, he had turned him into this monstrosity. He had made him into what he was, caused him to be so filled with hatred, hatred Megamind himself had kept buried deep, deep under the surface for years.
 
Why, indeed.
 
“Because…” He struggled to squeeze the excess water from the cloth, then staggered back to the bed to wipe the rest of the blood off. His fingertips lingered on an unbruised portion of Ark’s cheek.
 
“’Cause…you’re me. I’m you. Can’t…kill you without killing me, too.” Metaphorically speaking, anyway.