"Zoinks!"
Things had gone completely out of control again. As usual.
Every time the team set out to investigate a new mystery, Wilma swore that this time was going to be different. This time, she was going to say something when Rickey suggested they split up and look for clues. This time, she was going to put her foot down when Bongo went off to look for something to eat in the commissary of the 'haunted museum' and left her alone with just the gang's science project for company. (Admittedly, Bingo the Robot was probably smarter than at least half of Wilma's friends, and that was being generous to Rickey. But still.) This time, she was going to get one of those straps they sold at the drugstore to keep her glasses from getting knocked off by an overenthusiastic Bingo. This time, she was going to sit and wait for help when the world around her descended into a hazy blur of random shapes, instead of groping around and stumbling into yet another secret passage. This time, she was not, repeat not, going to succumb to her curiosity when she found a hidden floor full of mysterious Roman artifacts that matched the ones left behind after the appearances of the Spectral Centurion.
Needless to say, that hadn't happened. Wilma stumbled to her feet, pale fingers groping along the wall in the gloom for some kind of light switch to give her at least a fighting chance at seeing where the heck she was going. Bingo trundled along behind her, burbling cheerfully in its synthetic voice as it searched for clues. The glowing viewscreen that passed for its face gave Wilma just enough illumination to see that the passage went along straight for a little ways before... well, before fading into silent shadows that could contain anything from a hole in the floor to a whole legion of ghostly Roman soldiers.
Not that Wilma really expected it to be an actual ghost behind all this. "We're not falling for that one again, are we?" she murmured softly, as much to herself as to Bingo. It seemed like they'd investigated dozens of supernatural occurrences on behalf of Rickey's eccentric uncle, and every single one of them had turned out to be an invention of the old caretaker or the groundskeeper or a disgruntled former employee or a disinherited relative looking to spook their old man into changing the will. Wilma had become an expert at spotting the telltale signs of fake blood, luminous paint, and latex trickery by now, and even though she hadn't yet seen this Spectral Centurion, she was sure that he wasn't going to be any different from--
"Ahhh!" Wilma's train of thought was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a pair of glasses bumping against her foot and skidding across the linoleum floor. She froze, terrified to take another step lest she accidentally crush them under her chunky, steel-toed shoes. They must have taken the same tumble down the secret trapdoor that she did, and slid down the hallway further due to their light weight. "Hold still, Bingo," she said, desperate to make sure that the robot didn't accidentally break them either. She didn't have a spare pair on her (another thing she swore she was going to do next time) and couldn't see a thing without them.
Carefully, Wilma sank down to her hands and knees in a posture that had become depressingly familiar to her. She hitched up her skirt to keep it out of the way and began feeling around for her glasses on the dusty floor. For once, she was grateful for the solitude and poor lighting; traveling the countryside in Rickey's van had its disadvantages, and one of them was definitely a lack of reliable laundromats. Wilma's thick, baggy sweaters and sensible tweed skirts were pretty easy to keep clean, but anyone standing behind her when she bent over like this was bound to notice that her supply of clean panties had pretty much dried up three days ago. (And it wasn't exactly like she could borrow from Laurel, either. Wilma wasn't judgy, but how a woman could wear a skirt that short without anything under it but a pair of thigh-high stockings was beyond her.)
She felt a momentary surge of triumph when her fingers brushed against something plastic, but just then Bingo squealed, "A-HA!" and launched itself forward excitably. Wilma's heart sank. Just once, just freaking once, she wished that the stupid robot she and Rickey designed together wasn't quite so desperately enthusiastic about providing assistance. She'd tried everything she could think of to balance its artificial intelligence with a little bit of calm wisdom and common sense to offset its drive to help the team solve mysteries, or at least to make it a little bit more graceful and better coordinated, but it was no good. Bingo remained a gawky, galumphing liability 90% of the time.
If it wasn't for the one time in ten that it absolutely saved the day, Wilma probably would have junked it by now, no matter what Rickey said. But the little wheeled cylindrical robot with the spindly multi-purpose arms continued to function just well enough to tantalize Wilma into trying to improve its performance... instead of just finding the nearest antique Roman gladius and dismembering the damn thing for knocking her glasses clear into the next room in its efforts to 'help'. With a sigh of frustration, she crawled carefully after them, her round thighs awkwardly rubbing against one another as she scooted her hands and knees across the cold tiles.
When she reached the threshold, though, Wilma heard something that made her think twice about crawling in front of the open doorway. She fumbled for Bingo, pushing it behind her before it could peer around the corner and give away her position with its lighted face. Someone was speaking, their low, husky voice echoing sepulchrally in the silence of the abandoned wing of the museum. "Watch the gold coin sway and dance," they said, "and you will fall into a trance." The smooth, menacing confidence in those resonant tones chilled Wilma to the bone... but it was nothing compared to what she heard next.
"Watch the gold coin sway and dance," Laurel said, her voice unmistakable even with all of the emotion drained out of it into a sleepy monotone, "and I will fall... into a trance." Wilma forced back a groan of frustration. Of course she'd gotten separated from Rickey. And of course she'd stumbled into the same hidden wing of the museum. And of course she'd bumped into the Spectral Centurion. And of course, of absolute freaking course he was hypnotizing her. Because what else was Laurel good for if not to be hypnotized by every single wicked caretaker or sinister groundskeeper they ran into?
And of course when it heard Laurel's voice, Bingo was bound to chirrup in excited resolve and attempt to charge into the room to rescue her, smacking square into Wilma's plump buttocks as if it didn't even notice she was there. Wilma sprawled forward, landing on the floor with a thud that was thankfully absorbed by her thick orange sweater. "Who's there?" she cried, hoping to make enough of a commotion to rouse Laurel from her dazed slumber.
