All right, so this isn't like how it is in the movies, Petunia noticed as the dust bunnies tickled her nose. Suppressing a sneeze, she pressed one of the scarves from the satchel to her face and continued scooting through the tunnel-like vent.
Getting down vertical shafts was the trickiest part. She had to summon all the muscle memory from her childhood gymnastics classes just to make her way down from one level to the next in one piece. Finally, and to her relief, she reached a horizontal shaft where the hum of familiar voices reverberated: a Southern female and a nasal male.
He's alive! she inwardly cheered, sending up a silent thank you, but she knew it was too soon to celebrate. She still had to get Larry-Boy out of this proverbial lobster trap.
As she followed the voices, they grew clearer until she could make out distinct words. Larry-Boy seemed to be charging Belle to let him go so that it would count in her favor when the judge sentenced her to prison. Belle's friendly voice remained patient.
"Sugar, if you think for one moment I'm going to wear those weeds they call prison uniforms, then you are more mixed up than a Canadian goose heading north for winter."
"Orange can be quite slimming, actually."
"Well, bless your heart!" She gave a mellifluous laugh.
"Why, thank you," Larry-Boy replied, surprised.
Petunia reached a vent illuminated by fluorescent lights, and she peeked inside to see the kind of lair which would have been quite at home in a comic book (yet incredibly chic, as far as villain's hideouts went).
It had the typical dais with a supercomputer and a comfortable yet imposing revolving chair, but it also had alternating black and white curtains hung up to divide the underground space into rooms, expensive ebony furniture forming what might have been a lounge area, a kitchenette nice enough to have been on a cooking show, pieces of postmodern art in colossal picture frames, and a long runway and a rack of designer clothes on one side. A table had been set up against one wall with some of the loot Belle had obtained thus far: jewelry, purses, wallets, mink coats and watches. Around the lair at different points, mirrors stood at attention, silently waiting for their creator's commands.
Right then, Belle Pepper — a yellow pepper with auburn hair and a half-mask which complimented her evening gown — stood in front of a cylindrical cage, where Larry-Boy frowned at her from within. The bars were too close together for him to shoot his plungers through.
Belle wore opera gloves on her hypothetical arms, and they were folded as she regarded the superhero with amiable eyes, which were far from unintelligent.
"By the way," she asked breezily, "who's Miss Petunia?"
Petunia froze. Larry-Boy jolted, eyes bulging, before he tried acting innocent.
"Petunia, who?"
"That was the person you called to when my mirror grabbed you," she reminded him. "Is she your sidekick? Or a girlfriend?"
She gave him a knowing wink, as though she were a gossipy, big sister wanting all the details. Larry-Boy tugged on his collar, looking like he had never expected to be asked that kind of question.
"I, uh, don't have either, to tell you the truth." His voice cracked.
"Well, my mirrors will find her if she's still in the area," Belle hummed, strolling toward the supercomputer. She keyed in a quick command, and the computer chirruped in the affirmative. "Loose ends can be just so pesky to keep track of, don't you think?"
"Petunia's smart enough to have gotten far away by now," Larry-Boy retorted stoutly. "She's probably already with the police!"
Petunia privately winced, but she stayed focused. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the fake knife and slipped it through the vent with nonexistent fingers, working the tip like a screwdriver on the exterior side.
"Oh, as if the police will have time to come storm my castle with all the surprises I've been saving up for them," Belle laughed. "I do declare! Pugglyville needs a superhero worse than a lonely puppy needs a snuggle."
"Then why attack defenseless people?" he challenged.
"Why not?" she replied with an easy grin. "Puggslyville is only the dress rehearsal before the real fashion show, sugarplum."
She sashayed and twirled toward the kitchenette, humming "Tennessee Waltz." She pulled something out of the pantry, along with a dish and a fork. After a couple of minutes, she returned to Larry-Boy, carrying a slice of pie.
"Here, honeysuckle, this is the best pecan pie you'll liketa taste in your life."
Larry-Boy studied the plate, dubious. "You're giving me food?"
"Why, of course!" she insisted. "Just because you broke into my home doesn't mean I'm going to be a rude hostess. It'd be un-Southern!"
She held the plate up to the bars, as pleasant as if Larry-Boy were her guest at a barbecue. Larry-Boy surveyed the plate, dubious, then gingerly accepted it, albeit unable to pull it through the bars. He cut a tiny taste with his fork to sniff, then sampled it, and at once he brightened. He took a larger bite.
"Wow!" Larry-Boy shoveled another forkful into his mouth. "You're gonna have to give my butler the recipe!"
"I'd just love to, sugar," Belle beamed. "It's simply a must-have for a downhome superhero funeral. Right up there with tomato aspic and fried chicken!"
Larry-Boy's masked eyes shot to her glowing face. Slowly, he laid his fork on his plate.
"Suddenly, I lost my appetite," he said in a strained voice. He held the slice out for Belle to take back, but she wagged a finger at him.
"I'd keep my strength up, if I were you," she advised, turning away with a flick of her auburn hair. "You don't know when your next meal will be."
Larry-Boy jolted in alarm.
Petunia, meanwhile, had successfully worked out three of the screws on the vent. Gently turning the screen so that it hung noiselessly on the last screw, she slipped into the room, unobserved. She ducked behind the nearest curtain, trying not to focus on the adrenaline pumping through her.
Belle, meanwhile, tutted her tongue at Larry-Boy's distressed mien. "Now, now. You ought to have known that was a risk before you tried to break in. Castle Doctrine, you know."
"Well, yeah," he admitted, "but wouldn't it be kinda rude to kill a superhero you're holding captive?"
"That is a bit of an etiquette dilemma, to be sure," Belle conceded, troubled. "Emily Post never covered this situation."
She leaned her cheek against her dainty palm, sighing as though realizing just minutes before her dinner guests were due to enter the dining room that she had forgotten to polish the silverware. Then she shook her head, squaring her fashionably adorned shoulders.
"But it would be even ruder of you if you stopped me in my mission, Larry-Boy. I simply must spread the truth through my mirrors. It'd be just horrible to let all those Puggslyville citizens continue believing in the lies which society tells them."
He narrowed his good eye. "You mentioned that before, about showing people the 'truth,' but all you're doing is making people feel bad about themselves. What's the deal with that?"
"The truth hurts. Why should they feel good about themselves?" Belle challenged.
"Nobody's perfect," Larry-Boy conceded, "but God wants us to be nice to each other anyway."
"Yet who actually is nice these days?"
"Lotsa people."
"You are certainly a gentleman to defend them, but I must respectfully disagree with you."
Belle turned smartly and crossed over to her computer, staring at footage on the screens.
Petunia took the chance to switch hiding spots, moving closer to Larry-Boy. She concealed herself behind a black sofa just in time. Belle spun again, addressing her prisoner.
"Back when I was a whole person," she said, "life was pretty good. I was one of the top students at Puggslyville Tech, using multiple scholarships to handle most of my tuition. I did a little modeling on the side for Veggie Beet Magazine, which covered most of the remaining bills, and I was pretty good at it, if I do say so myself, but my passion has always been for mechanics and computers."
She patted her computer, forming a maternal smile. "Some of my fondest memories are watching sci-fi films with my brothers and dreaming of making my own robot butlers to do all my chores so I could play outside."
"That does sound cool," Larry-Boy agreed, "and your mirrors are pretty effective, as far as mechanical muggers go."
"You're too kind," Belle replied with an appreciative laugh, before she sobered again. "But in the end, it's not enough, is it?"
"What do you mean?"
Belle tented her fingers, narrowing her eyes.
"To speak in complete modesty and in total honesty, Larry-Boy," she said, "in those old days, I was going places, and everyone knew it. Beauty, brains, a sparkling personality, a bright future, and I even volunteered my time at the animal shelter. I had friends, admirers, and a handsome fiancé who treated me like a princess. What could I possibly lack?"
Larry-Boy rolled his shoulders. "Why do I get the feeling we're reaching the tragic part of your Tragic Backstory?"
"How perspective you are, sugar." Belle uttered a dry laugh before her brow knitted. "I hope I'm not talking too much."
"No, no," he assured her. "Since this is your debut as a supervillain, you're entitled to one full monologue. It's like an unwritten rule."
"Oh, good!" Belle looked relieved. "There's nothing so dull as a hostess who only talks about herself."
"I don't mind," Larry-Boy replied cheerfully. "I like learning about people."
"I do declare! You are a gentleman from the ground up."
Belle strolled over to the supercomputer and began typing.
Petunia, still creeping, took the opportunity to dash closer to Larry-Boy's cage, diving behind another curtain. She peered out, and Larry-Boy glanced at her — and he did a double take.
Petunia raised her pink mask to let him recognize her, and his pupils shrunk. Petunia gave an apologetic smile, which only earned an anxious frown from him. He jerked his plunger, signaling her to retreat, but she shook her head.
Petunia! he mouthed, exasperated.
Trust me, she answered in equal silence.
"Ah! Here," said Belle suddenly, forcing Petunia to duck back. "I don't suppose all y'all in Bumblyburg hear much Puggslyville news, but this one should ring a bell."
Petunia risked glancing around the curtain. The enormous screen showed a newspaper headline: VEGGIE BEET MODEL DISFIGURED AT PHOTOSHOOT.
Larry-Boy looked at once sympathetic. "Did you fall off a poorly placed catwalk into an open vat of chemicals that goes against OSHA laws?"
"Close," Belle sighed, "but the details may be too grisly to mention in polite conversation. Let's just say it involved a photoshoot at a science lab, a jealous rival, and a beaker of chemicals which said jealous rival thought was just a prop."
"Whoa," Larry-Boy breathed.
In her hiding spot, Petunia paused, feeling her stomach twist. She recalled hearing a story of an injured model when she first started working as a reporter in Bumblyburg. She had not been assigned to that story, but she could vividly recall the harrowing photos released to the public. Petunia squeezed her eyes shut against the imagery, swallowing against a tightening throat.
But her mission was not done, so she took a deep breath and pressed on, inching along the wall behind the curtains.
"After the dust settled," Belle continued in a strained voice, "it was like I didn't matter anymore. Nothing on the inside had changed, but once the outside was damaged, everyone started avoiding me. I wasn't worthy of their time, their friendship, or even love. To quote my illustrious (and former) fiancé, 'Men are visual creatures, buttercup. You can't blame me if I lose interest.' And just like that, I was completely alone."
"I'm—I'm so sorry," Larry-Boy murmured.
Belle pulled her mink tighter around her. "So that's the truth I'm showing everyone, Larry-Boy. Everyone claims they only care about inner beauty, but what they really mean is that they only value inner beauty when it comes with outer beauty. And when someone holds a mirror up to them, they'll see they weren't hot stuff to begin with."
"But there's plenty of people who look on the inside," he gently countered. "God does, and He helps us to look past the outside, if we let Him."
Belle gave a humming chuckle. "Is your Petunia pretty?"
Petunia froze.
Larry-Boy cleared his throat. "Wh-Why do you ask?"
"That sounds like a definite 'yes,'" Belle winked, causing Larry-Boy to mumble something unintelligible. "Now, let me ask you this. If she wasn't pretty, would you have given her a second glance?"
"That's—That's an awfully personal question, Belle."
"Then I'll give you the answer," she replied calmly. "If she had been as ugly as me, you wouldn't have even noticed her, except in a friend-zoned way. Because people only want what's on the inside if the outside looks good first."
Larry-Boy raised his head, frowning. "That's not true."
"Keep lying to yourself, sweetie."
"It's not—" He broke off, gulping in embarrassment, then amended his flustered tone. "I mean, I would still… like… my friend, because she's one of the kindest people on the planet. She helps people through the power of fashion, and she helped me when I needed a friend. I wouldn't turn my back on her if something changed how she looked."
Petunia found herself smiling, but she brought herself back to earth and kept going. The controls to LarryBoy's cage were almost in reach.
Belle, meanwhile, clapped her hands, wearing a sarcastic smile. "Aren't you the gentleman! Well, well, I don't suppose you'd be against standing by your words if I just so happened to make your girlfriend look like me, would you?"
Larry-Boy staggered against the bars. "Don't even think about hurting—"
"Now, where did I put that cute lil' bottle of acid?" she hummed, spinning toward the lounge area.
Petunia made a break for it, jumping from her hiding place to the cage. LarryBoy whirled around, aghast, but she zeroed her focus on the controls. There was a button on the display screen that read RELEASE, which she tentatively pushed.
"PASSWORD, PLEASE," a computerized voice with a Houston drawl chirped, causing her to jump.
"Oh, no," LarryBoy groaned. "Run!"
But it was too late for that. Belle spun in place, surveying the two wide-eyed, frozen veggies. Petunia willed herself to move, but her stalk seemed to have taken root.
Belle placed her gloved hands on her hips, shaking her head.
"Oh, you poor sweet child!" she tutted. "Didn't your mama ever tell you that redheads shouldn't wear pink?"
The absurdity of hearing fashion advice in a villain's lair seemed to jog Petunia's stunned mind back in the general direction of reality, and she promptly found her voice.
"A common misconception," she stated, more out of a habit developed from a hundred conversations at her job. "With the right shades and know-how, a ginger gal can pull off any look she wants."
"I stand corrected," said the pepper, sounding genuinely apologetic. "As a fashionista, I should've remembered the power of a good palette. And let's not forget the wonders which a strategic accessory can produce. I have a teal scarf that would set off that ensemble to perfection."
"Thanks," Petunia answered, reaching for her satchel, "but I'll just take the cucumber home, if it's all the same."
The visible part of Belle's yellow visage slowly brightened.
"Oh! Are you that Miss Petunia who Larry-Boy was worried about?" Belle shot the cucumber a knowing look, causing him to duck his head with a groan. "I'm sure he'll be glad for the company in his final moments."
Petunia jerked upright, trying to imitate one of Larry-Boy's dramatic poses.
"I'm, uh" — she scoured her mind for a quick alias, wishing she had come up with something while she had rummaged through the shop upstairs — "I'm, uh, the Fashionista—no, uh, Vogue— I'm Vogue."
She lifted her head, hoping she looked confident enough. Belle laid a hand over her heart, wearing a sympathetic, almost motherly smile.
"Well, bless your heart, sweet child," she trilled, before she snapped her fingers. "Mirrors, get her."
The silent sentries scattered around the lair at once jerked to life and spun toward Vogue. Emotionlessly, the mirrors advanced, their robotic steps echoing through the cavernous lair.
Vogue had only seconds to act. She grabbed her satchel, scanning the contents — her heart leapt to see the hammer — and she pulled it out, ready to swing it at the cage's controls.
But the first mirror reached her. She jumped back, attempting to brandish the hammer at its glass, but the robotic arm rose and knocked it from her intangible grip, sending it flying across the floor towards the cage, out of Vogue's reach.
Larry-Boy pressed his side against the bars, attempting to wiggle his right plunger through the narrow gap, but it would clearly take him awhile.
Vogue had to act for both of them in the meantime.
The other mirrors joined the first, all reaching for their prey. Vogue dodged, ducking and weaving through the reaching arms. She had little time to think — she had to just act.
The nearest mirror lunged — she sprang to the side, nearly landing in a second mirror's waiting grasp — but she twisted herself just in time. The first lunged again, but — almost accidentally — Vogue jumped away just in time, and the first crashed into the second — but now she was right in the middle of the rest of the looking-glass horde.
Snatches of instructions from her self-defense instructors and old gymnastics coaches fleeted through her mind — muscle memory helped her to make up for her top-heavy figure when she made a no-hands cartwheel, barely avoiding a snatching hand.
But there was a big difference between a controlled self-defense class — where your attacker was actually the instructor's younger brother who was getting paid $20 to make scary faces and who gently grabbed you to avoid a potential lawsuit — and facing down machines who likely didn't feel pain. Each time she tried to grab something useful from her satchel, she had to spring away from an oncoming threat or dodge a foot stuck out to make her trip.
She managed to whip out a scarf — she slipped it around a robotic elbow and twisted the fabric — swinging and leaning back, she used her body's momentum to hurtle the mirror into another, breaking both planes of glass. The robots shuddered, then went still.
But more were coming, and she had lost a scarf.
She did the same thing with the next scarf and the next, but as hard as Vogue worked, she couldn't fend all the mirrors off indefinitely.
One grabbed her shoulders, and another grabbed her leg, and though she thrashed, then made her body dead weight, the machines carried her over toward Belle.
The pepper broke into a calm, approving applause.
"Well, well," Belle smiled delightedly, "I never expected to face two superheroes so soon after I launched my career! It's like y'all gave me a stamp of authenticity as a supervillain, and that deserves a thank-you card to be sure. Unfortunately" — and she snapped her fingers again — "this is where it gets unpleasant."
"Let her go!" LarryBoy yelled, thrashing against the bars. "You can do what you want with me, but let her go!"
The mirror holding Vogue's leg released her, and the other righted her as though she were only a large doll. Meanwhile, a third mirror scurried forward, planting itself directly in front of Vogue. Realization hit her, and she quickly closed her eyes.
"Oh, don't be like that, Missy," Belle admonished. "It's like ripping off a bandaid. Better to just get it over with, quick like."
Mechanical hands clasped Vogue's masked face, and metal fingers forced her eyelids open.
"Vogue, no!" Larry-Boy screamed, but his voice had already started to sound like it was far away.