While this is a continuation of "Larry-Boy and the Misleading Mirror," I strive to write sequels in such a way that you don't necessarily have to read the previous installment to understand it.
Chaos laid in the streets of Puggslyville. Burglar alarms rang at the shattering of shop windows by robotic arms, and a horde of marching mirrors poured into shop after shop, looting the contents of anything valuable — but only if it was fashionable, it seemed, for a few mirrors went pointedly past a shop with a sign advertising "The Eyesore Boutique — Find What Clashes Best for You!" Fortunately, there were no veggies outside in this part of the assaulted city. Police reports and news broadcasts had been warning citizens to stay off the streets and to avoid looking inside the mirrors, lest they fall prey to the strange mechanisms which made victims fall into a pit of self-pity.
The horde continued down Lisa Street, but one mirror paused outside the edge of an alley. A pearl earring laid on the asphalt, unaccountably overlooked by the other robots. Dutifully, the mirror started down the dimly lit street, stooping to grab the valuable item.
Out of the darkness, a plunger struck the brick wall above the machine. The mirror had barely a moment to look up before a masked cucumber in purple and yellow swooped down like an avenging pendulum, crashing right into the robot's back.
Knocked off its feet, the machine flailed its arms, trying to maintain its balance, but it fell flat on its front, followed by a nasty, crunching sound of broken glass. It shuddered once and went still.
The cucumber jerked his head, calling back the plunger into his purple, dented helmet, and he struck a triumphant pose.
"Now, that's what I call a smashing success," he quipped, looking up with his good eye at the nearby fire escape.
Above on a fire escape, the redhead rhubarb watching him formed a bemused smile at her friend. "Do you usually throw around one-liners after a win, Larry? ...Boy?"
"You gotta take joy in your job, Petunia," he chirped in that upbeat tone she had always found endearing. He promptly fired a plunger, striking the fire escape so that the ladder clattered down. Petunia quickly descended, and he caught her when she dropped from the last rung.
Petunia raised her eyes to meet his, noting his cheerful mien despite his blackened eye from an earlier fight, and she quickly made a flustered cough, stepping out of his invisible hold and straightening her evening gown. She hurried to collect her pearl earring, which she had loaned as bait.
Clearing his own throat, Larry-Boy returned his attention to the broken mirror, flipping it on its back. Brushing aside the damaged glass revealed an electronic device which must have been its computer. Larry-Boyfiddled with it, but he could not extract more than a microchip. He held the tiny chip up to the light, studying it.
"This might be useful," he suggested.
"Now, what?" Petunia asked.
Larry-Boy looked thoughtful.
"Well, if Alfred were here, he'd probably say something like, 'Master Larry, look into the pocket-dimensional storage container on the Larry-Belt, and use the whatchamacallit to track the mirror's radio signal to Belle's hideout,' and then I'd look, and…" He opened the belt buckle. and out popped a device which looked like a handheld radar. He brightened, bouncing a little. "Great job, Alfred! I knew you'd have something for me, even though you couldn't possibly predict all this."
Beaming, he held his device to the broken mirrors and pressed a few buttons. He nodded eagerly, watching the contraption begin to work.
"We should have our answers soon, Petunia," he declared.
Petunia shook her head in amazement (and no paucity of admiration). "It's amazing what just two guys have been able to do."
"Two guys, a family fortune, and lots of prayer, actually," Larry-Boy corrected cheerfully.
Petunia gazed at his bruised but indefatigable optimistic features. Was that really her lovable, silly friend, Larry the Cucumber, underneath the plunger-ear helmet? For years, she had admired both the eccentric cucumber philanthropist and the mysterious, benevolent superhero, and in her reporter days she had interviewed both, but not once had she ever expected the two icons of Bumblyburg to be the same man. Observing him up close, she could see a definite change came upon him when he donned his superhero costume: while still playful, Larry-Boy was more focused, more determined than his mild-mannered alter ego. He saw danger, calculated the risk, and decided to protect people anyway, even if he knew he might not make it out alive.
Petunia found herself more amazed — and more protective. When she had thought Larry had been missing, not realizing he had been stretched out on her couch as the unconscious Larry-Boy, she had been so frazzled with worry. Now he was voluntarily seeking out danger yet again, and she would have to let him.
It wouldn't be so bad if we had Alfred or another superhero to help, she inwardly sighed. Although Petunia had volunteered — well, insisted on coming with him, she was not sure if she could do anything to keep him safe.
The device at last beeped, and Larry-Boy let out a cheer.
"Found her! Let's go!"
Spinning, he took hold of Petunia's waist, but he paused, checking her face shyly. Petunia smiled and wrapped her invisible hold around his shoulders. Brightening, Larry-Boy recovered his prior determination and shot off a plunger, pulling them back up into the world above Puggslyville's rooftops.
Following the radio signal, they swung their way across the historical district of downtown. Below, the mirrors carried on their perilous pillaging. Those veggies who did not flee, screaming, from the robots fell under the influence of their painful reflections if they chanced to look within. Petunia could not look long without her blood boiling.
What could have inspired Belle Pepper to make such horrible devices?
She had learned from Larry-Boy, when he had been briefly under Belle's sway, that the mirrors seemed to show the worst version of the victim, sending them into crippling depression which allowed the mirrors to rob them without resistance. Belle had claimed her mission was to show people the "truth," but she seemed to have little regard for those she hurt, despite her confusing friendliness.
After about fifteen minutes, they reached a half-destroyed street with shops squished close enough together that a veggie could have comfortably crossed the rooftops from one end to the other without seeing the ground beneath. Larry-Boy landed them on a corner building. After gently releasing Petunia, he took back the device to study.
"We must be almost on top of it," he told Petunia. "Belle's lair should be inside one of these shops."
After a quick glance, Petunia hopped to the edge of the roof, scanning the ransack street congested with the debris of broken windows, crumbled brick walls, and live, broken telephone wires dangling from their poles, and comprehension struck her when she noticed one building not like the others.
"It must be that costume shop," she deduced, nudging her head toward a brick building a little ways down, "on the other side of the street."
Larry-Boy looked up. "You think so?"
"It's the only building that hasn't been attacked," she pointed out.
They both broke into a run, reaching the rooftop opposite the pristine shop. Larry-Boy glanced at the screen again, nodding.
"You could've been a detective, Petunia." He sounded impressed.
"I wouldn't go that far," she said modestly.
They exchanged brief smiles before the weight of their circumstances settled again over them. Sobering, Larry-Boy pulled a two-way radio from his belt and quickly showed her a few of the controls.
"If you hit the yellow button twice, it calls 911," he explained. "Once I make sure this is Belle's hideout, go ahead and call the police."
"Roger," she nodded solemnly, gripping the radio as though it were a precious jewel.
Satisfied, he took a step toward the ledge, then turned back. His unblackened eye leveled with her gaze.
"And remember your promise," he charged her. "If I say 'Run,' you gotta run, no matter what happens to me."
She winced but forced a smile. "Hopefully, I won't need to keep that promise."
His expression remained grim. "I mean it, Petunia. If anything happened to you… I don't think I could… I mean…"
He tugged on his collar, gulping. Petunia smiled sadly and took a step to close the distance between them. Giving him a tender look which she hoped expressed adequately what was in her heart, she leaned and laid a kiss on his cheek, simple but sincere. She drew back, meeting his surprised stare.
"You stay safe, Larry the Cucumber," she urged him. Then, wanting to send off with a smile, she added, "Or I'll tell Alfred on you."
A mingling of resolve, fun and bashfulness played up his masked face.
"See you soon," he promised before he launched a plunger and swung toward the costume shop.
The backdoor wasn't even locked when Larry-Boy tried it; Belle Pepper must have figured there was no need — especially considering she had two mirrors guarding the entrance, which Larry-Boy only saw a split second after he stepped into the dark backroom.
Two fired plungers sent the two machines straight into each other, crumbling the glass on both.
"What was that?" Petunia's voice crackled in his ear.
"Just saying hello to the welcoming party," Larry-Boy cracked. "This is definitely the right place."
He leapt over the battered robots, stealing through the storeroom of costume pieces until he spotted an opened trap door near the interior wall.
"She must be in the basement," Larry-Boy relayed. "My radio might cut off down there."
"Come back, and we can call the police for backup," she charged him.
"No," he decided, "I need to secure the area, but you can call the police. They'll probably race over here to help."
"The police force is stretched even on a good day," Petunia warned. "Their response time could be more than twenty minutes. We should wait together."
"That's where vigilantism comes in," Larry-Boy reminded her. "I've fought scarier foes than Belle Pepper. A great reporter named Petunia Rhubarb used to do some stories on them."
"And she doesn't want to do a fashion column on the people who show up to your funeral," she warned. "Please, wait for backup."
"I'll take a look around," he told her. "Disarm any booby traps, and stuff like that. Then I'll be back tout de suite."
Petunia did not respond.
Larry-Boy forced a smile to make his voice as pleasant as possible. "Hey, this is me we're talking about, Petunia. They don't call me 'Green Machine' for nothing."
She sighed. "Okay, I'll call the police. Just… Please don't get hurt."
"See you soon," he said again before he continued toward the trap door. At the top step, however, he stopped, gazing into the yawning darkness, and took a moment to pray.
No matter what happens to me, he silently requested, please keep Petunia safe.
Adjusting his belt, he descended as quietly as he could. At the bottom of the steps, he removed a tiny flashlight from his belt and carefully shone it so as not to draw attention from any sentries. He seemed to be in a hallway full of doors, some marked with signs like, "Mirror Parts" and "Superweapon Experiment Room" and "Casserole Dishes." Nothing seemed useful, so he crept away from the staircase, putting distance between himself and his only known escape route.
He turned a corner — then another — then he found another staircase going down — then a new hallway with even more doors.
A crackle emitted in his ear.
"Larry, I just called the police," Petunia whispered, "but there was a lot of screaming on the dispatcher's end! I think some mirrors invaded the police station!"
Larry-Boy gulped, his heart hammering. "Oh, no…"
"Come back," she urged him. "You're going in there blind."
He hesitated, feeling on the verge of fleeing — but he tightened his jaw.
"If Belle is controlling her robots from her lair," he reasoned, "then we need to shut them down before they hurt anybody else. Just stay put for right now. If it gets too dangerous down here, I'll turn around and come back, and we'll try getting in touch with Alfred again."
Petunia reluctantly agreed, and Larry-Boy pushed on. After a few moments of only his own footsteps to break the silence, his ears picked up on new sounds. Listening, he realized that one of the noises was a woman singing. He switched off his light and quickened his pace, keeping his silhouette small in case any sentry mirrors turned the corner.
"I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee Waltz…" Belle's Southern voice hummed ahead with a bittersweet cheerfulness, guiding him toward his quarry.
With his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Larry-Boy soon detected faint hints of lights coming from the hallway ahead. A few more paces brought him to a corner, where he could see beams of fluorescent lights pouring out of an open door.
Readying his plunger, Larry-Boy advanced.
"I really should stock up on thank-you cards to send to all the folks who have surrendered their valuables," Belle was musing aloud. "I may be a villain, but that's no reason to act unladylike."
There was a tinkle, like jewelry being clinked against each other.
Larry-Boy risked a peek into the doorway. He managed to catch a glimpse of Belle pouring over her ill-gotten treasures before a creak behind him made him spin around.
His own gaping reflection stared back at him, and a mirror's mechanical hands grabbed hold of him, sending pain through his frame. He shot a plunger, but he couldn't turn his head to the right angle, and the suction cup barely bounced off the mirror's frame. He tried to twist free, but the mirror merely slammed him into the wall, causing him to see stars.
"Petunia!" he shouted, knowing he had mere seconds before he blacked out. "Run! If you can hear me, RUN!"
The radio nearly fell from her invisible grasp. She wanted to bolt into the shop, to find her dear friend, but the sheer desperation in Larry-Boy's final order jump started her common sense.
She turned and fled across the rooftops, making toward the corner building where the railing of a fire escape peeked over the edge.
Call the police again, she ordered herself, reaching for the radio which Larry-Boy had given her. She sprinted, hitting the yellow button twice, and the radio grumbled out a ringing.
She waited for the prompt click of an answered call, the voice of a dispatcher to ask her for her emergency — but the ringing continued.
Petunia halted at the edge of the fire escape and stared at the retro receiver.
No one answered.
The mirrors must have been successful.
Aghast, Petunia looked over her shoulder, gazing at the unperturbed costume shop. Slowly, she ended the call and returned the radio.
"I promised I'd run if he said so," she said softly, "but I did not promise I wouldn't come back for him."
She spun on her nonexistent heel and charged back.
The shattered glass of Larry-Boy's handiwork still covered the floor beneath the fallen mirrors. Belle Pepper evidently hadn't replaced her sentries — yet.
Petunia probably had mere minutes to act. She maneuvered around the broken shards, wishing she had thought to wear shoes.
God, what do I do? Petunia bit her lip, scanning the dark room. She noticed at once there was a kind of changing curtain to one side of the room. She dove behind it, relieved for a bit of cover.
She paused, holding her breath, ears pricked for the slightest sound. Fortunately, she did not hear any marching footsteps of mirrors, and in the relative safety of her hiding spot, she accessed her surroundings. The changing stall had a low bench, a hook with some kind of pink spandex suit, and — a vent!
She knelt, examining the shaft. Any self-respecting supervillain had several vents which led into their evil lairs (being holed up underground required a lot of ventilation to breathe comfortably). This vent would probably be a tight fit for a cucumber superhero, but a pea (or a slim rhubarb) could probably slip through them with ease.
Okay, I maybe have a way in, she told herself, but I also need a way out, and a way to protect myself if I get into trouble.
Still, this was a start.
She peeked around the curtain, taking reconnaissance of her resources. A lot of costumes hung on rolling racks between stacks of boxes, and a number of props and accessories littered tables. Evidently, Belle didn't put a lot of effort into organizing her front operation.
Petunia risked creeping out to examine her unexpected resources for anything useful. A satchel for some medieval costume laid with the flap open, which Petunia procured. She grabbed a few scarves, a plastic knife, and a real hammer (which had been left beside some unfinished DIY project). After a little more searching, Petunia had to concede the remaining items would not be of much use.
Hopefully, this will be enough, she thought, closing the flap.
She started back for the changing stall, when the pink spandex suit on the hook caught her attention. A scintillating domino mask rested against the collar, glittering in the light of the EXIT sign. She considered the ensemble for a second or two before she lifted it and held it against her chest. It might be a little loose, but it ought to do the trick.
Besides the impracticality of sneaking around a villain's lair in a satin evening gown, it would not do if Belle Pepper recognized Petunia Rhubarb, former TV reporter and current fashion columnist for Veggie Beet Magazine.
