A Dish Served Cold
By: CindyR
(Revenge is a dish best served cold. -- old proverb)
The hush was deep, ponderous, a quality a very large building possesses only when totally devoid of human life. Nothing stirred, no sound to mar the absolute perfection of silence. Overhead, florescent bulbs burned unceasingly, shedding their harsh illumination on one of the greatest collections of object d'art the world had ever seen -- culture and history, paintings and sculpture, all blending into that harmonious microcosm New Yorkers call The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
"Wow, will you look at this stuff!" Peter Venkman picked his way cautiously through a row of artifacts which stood as tall as he. He paused to stare at a particularly ugly statue, then bent to read its identifying tag. "'Example of Ammonite god ... human sacrifices ... children fire....' Yuck!" He straightened and stepped back to give himself a better view of the hideous representation. "Those dudes were really hard-core serious about this sacrifice thing, weren't they, Winston?" he asked his companion, a muscular black man dressed in light blue.
"Sure were," the other replied, rechecking the detection device he carried. "That would be a statue of Molech, their chief god. Nasty dude; used to eat little babies for breakfast. Hmmm, definite presence; can't pinpoint it yet."
"Terrific." Peter wrinkled his nose. "Maybe our spook is one of those old Ammonites. They must have carried a load of bad karma when they went."
"Maybe." Winston carefully scanned the high ceiling, his particle thrower ready. "Remember, Pete, keep your stream as short as possible. We damage any of these exhibits and our butts are hung out to dry."
"Not to worry, m'man." Venkman patted his own weapon and resumed his careful search of the antiquities section. "The only gooper Egon could pick up on was one paltry little Class 2, and you know how harmless they are. We may end up a little sticky, but that's about it." A low breep came from the direction of his belt; he unhooked the communicator, thumbing it open in the same motion. "WGST radio, may I take your request, please?"
"Knock it off, Peter." The heavy bass rumbled through the airwaves almost distortion free despite the tiny size of the radio. "Ray and I have reached the Modern Wonders exhibit. That puts us approximately twenty yards to the north of your present position. We'll continue to work our way towards you. Keep me advised if you register any fluctuation on your auxiliary PKE meter. It could well signify a transitional visitation."
"Yo," Peter acknowledged, restoring the radio to his belt. "Professor Cool wants us to holler if ghosties go bye-bye," he told Winston Zeddemore by way of translation.
"Solid." Winston knelt to check under the sarcophagus of some ancient king, then raised up onto his toes to peer over the rim of a giant urn. It was dark inside and looked to be half filled with water, in which he saw reflected a dark-skinned figure with gleaming white teeth. Mildly embarrassed at his involuntary start, Winston smiled nervously at the figure and the figure smiled back. It took several seconds for Winston to realize that the reflection that was smiling at him was not his own.
"YEE-0WW!" He leaped backwards just as a nebulous mass detached itself from the interior of the urn and hurtled skyward, showering Winston with a sour, dark substance in passing. "Oh, yuck," the Ghostbuster groaned, wiping his face on his sleeve. "Gooper got me!" He sighted along his barrel, triggering it while bellowing, "PETER!"
"Yo, cuz." Venkman appeared at the unnerved black's shoulder, causing the man's first shot to go wild. It singed its way across the ceiling, transforming a ladies room sign into a mess of sparking wires and broken glass. "Ooops."
Winston depowered instantly. "Don't do that!" he told the widely grinning psychologist. "I could have had a heart attack or something!"
"Little jumpy today, are we?" Peter turned his attention to the dark shape swooping towards the exit, his wide grin not altering an iota. "Thar she blows!" He tracked his prey, calculating its trajectory with a marksman's eye. Automatically allowing it several feet lead, he opened up with his shortened proton stream, catching the figure like a fly in a web. "Easiest money we've made all week," he chortled, nodding an order at his companion. "Toss that trap, and ...." He broke off in open-mouthed astonishment as the 'paltry little Class 2' began to move. The proton gun leaped in Peter's hands as feedback warred with the originating energy source. Peter wrestled with his thrower, attempting to keep the stream centered on the struggling entity, almost losing control when a particle wave reversed back into his barrel. With a triumphant whoop, the entity swirled out of the field and disappeared through the wall.
"I don't believe it!" Peter turned off his weapon, staring at it with unfeigned surprise. "Even a shortened stream can hold a Class 2 indefinitely. Did you manage to get a reading?"
Winston pointed his meter to the room's four corners, studying the results intently. "Class 2," he confirmed. "Is there something wrong with your pack?" He ran an experienced eye over Venkman's equipment, but all dials and tell-tales were well into the safe zones. "Power levels are fine."
"So's my thrower." Flipping the rifle-shaped weapon over, Peter checked his connections. "I'd better have Ray look it over when we get back to the firehouse." He pulled a radio from his uniform pocket, clicking it on while scanning the walls and ceiling against a possible attack. "Egon? Ray?"
"Spengler here," came the immediate response. "Have you located the entity yet?"
"Well, sort of." Peter exchanged a rueful look with his partner. "I had it, but it kind of got away."
The resonant bass roughened, coming from a slight distance as though its owner had drawn back to stare at the communication device in disbelief. "What do you mean 'kind of'?" Egon demanded.
Resuming their search, the two Ghostbusters wandered shoulder-to-shoulder down a side aisle; at the impatient tone, they exchanged a look, then Peter cleared his throat. "I had our paycheck ... I mean, the nether-entity snared, but it broke out of my stream and disappeared." A low murmur sounded through the radio. "What was that?" Peter asked, raising his voice a bit.
"Ray asked what your settings were," Egon translated.
"Oh." Again bringing his weapon up to eye level, Peter tossed a lock of rich brown hair off his forehead and squinted at the tell-tales, which glowed faintly in the dim light. "Stream at twelve feet, power levels at 24%, ionization full positive."
"It is impossible for a Class 2 to overcome even a 24% power setting," Egon pointed out, the radio masking not at all his disbelief.
Green eyes narrowed at the implied affront. "If it was a Class 2."
Disbelief metamorphosed into annoyance. "Of course it was a Class 2," the absent physicist rumbled, offended in return. "I took the initial readings personally."
"Guess that settles that," Winston commented, winking.
Attention divided between a wet-looking stain on the wall and the airwave discussion, Peter ignored his companion completely. "Look, Spengs, I hit the darned thing dead center, you should pardon the expression. After four years, I know enough to do that."
Egon Spengler must have caught the frosty note in the psychologist's voice, because his tone moderated at once. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...." He broke off abruptly. In the background, the excited yell of their fourth member combined with the high whine of a proton rifle being discharged, both clearly audible even without the transmitter. "We're two rooms straight ahead," Egon rapped hurriedly. "Join us." The radio went dead.
"You heard the man -- let's go!" Peter adjusted a dial, increasing the power output of his pack, then imitated Winston's lope down the center aisle. "Let's hope they can keep the dude from splitting before we get there."
The sounds of combat echoed eerily throughout the great halls, the crackle of energy mixing with moans and wails guaranteed to chill the most inured warrior. Peter and Winston burst through the double doors of the Modern Wonders exhibit and stopped short, eyes wide at the scene of carnage which awaited them. Dark burns scored the walls in a dozen places, and the floor was littered with broken crockery of every description and color. In the exact center of the devastation, taupe colored uniform and auburn hair powdered white by the plaster, Ray Stantz struggled to maintain a hold on his particle thrower. It bucked wildly as had Peter's, but he held on, his youthful face creased with determination.
Off to the left, Egon fumbled a trap from his belt webbing, large hands cradling the box-shaped device only seconds before he heaved it under the writhing creature held in Ray's stream. "Hold him!" he called, unholstering his own thrower in unison with Winston and Peter.
"I-I can't--" Stantz never finished. The heavy rifle twisted suddenly, tearing itself from his sweaty grip to catch him a solid thump in the solar plexus. He sat down hard, gasping for breath. Without an operator, the proton weapon sputtered and died.
Freed of its energy prison, the black entity soared upwards picking up speed. At the last minute, it turned and swooped, descending on a direct course for Peter Venkman's head. Unable to draw a bead on the rapidly moving target, Venkman raised one arm to protect his face from the expected sliming. Past experience had taught him that so amorphous a being as a Class 2 carried very little kinetic energy, but they usually managed to maintain sufficient substantiality to coat any target with enough ectoplasm to swim in.
Face twisted in a disgusted grimace, the psychologist dodged, managing to avoid the main mass by scant inches. He might have succeeded entirely had not the entity extended an arm-like appendage at the last minute. Expecting the barely tangible, Peter Venkman was unprepared for the sharp crack that caught him against the head and threw him several feet down the aisle. He hit the floor, suddenly losing all interest in the proceedings.
Reveling in its victory, the entity rose, a dark shadow against the white walls. It wailed, drawing a bead on its next victim and dove once more. Fortunately, Winston had seen what had happened to his colleagues and was prepared. His proton pack hummed full strength, the stream catching the far- too-substantial mass precisely dead center. Egon's stream joined the fray, entrapping the angry shade once more. It howled, struggling against the immobilizing radiation like a wild thing, but the increased power was too much for it to escape.
Still seated where he'd fallen, Ray watched the battle with dazed interest. Both Egon and Winston were hard pressed to maintain control of their captive; neither dared to remove even one hand from their throwers to toss a ghost trap.
"Ray!" Spengler yelled, recapturing a ghostly hand as the creature pulled loose.
Stantz rubbed his stomach muscles, panting slightly in an attempt to draw in enough oxygen to function. It took two tries before he could answer the summons. "I'm here."
"I think Peter's unconscious." Egon was barely audible over the screaming of the packs. "We need you to get the trap positioned."
With a pained expression, Stantz forced himself to his knees and made his way to the ghost trap Egon had been forced to drop earlier. Being very careful so as to remain clear of the crackling energy streams, he slithered on belly and toes until he could position the trap under the Class 2, shoving it the last few feet with the tips of his fingers. Retreating, he leaned on the activator, opening the doors and bathing his target in purest radiation. With a loud yell, the nether-creature vanished.
"That was far more difficult than I'd initially estimated," Egon remarked, shutting off his thrower. He bent to collect the trap; a blinking red light indicated its "full" status and, satisfied, he hooked it onto his belt. "We should not have had that much trouble with a Class 2."
"Tell him, not me," Winston groused, staring at the remains of a three thousand year old mosaic with dismay. "Boy, are we gonna be in dutch when the curator sees this mess."
"No problem. I'm sure our insurance will cover the damage. Raymond?" Egon offered the still-sitting Stantz a hand up, which the engineer summarily refused with a shake.
"No, thanks." He rubbed his stomach again, his gently rounded features taking on a greenish cast. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to just sit here a minute. I'm afraid I might ... uh...." There was no need for him to finish; one look at his desperate expression told them more than enough of what he might do if he stood up too quickly.
Egon nodded and knelt instead by Peter's still form, Winston at his side. The psychologist lay where he'd fallen, flat on his back, his arms asprawl. Egon shook him gently. "Peter?"
Venkman moaned then opened his eyes to peer up at his companions blearily. "Egon?"
"Yes, Peter?" replied that worthy, pulling out some paper.
"Spud gone?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Job over?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Egon?"
"Yes, Peter?"
"Can we go home now?"
"Yes, Peter," Egon agreed, beginning to figure out the bill.
***
By: CindyR
(Revenge is a dish best served cold. -- old proverb)
The hush was deep, ponderous, a quality a very large building possesses only when totally devoid of human life. Nothing stirred, no sound to mar the absolute perfection of silence. Overhead, florescent bulbs burned unceasingly, shedding their harsh illumination on one of the greatest collections of object d'art the world had ever seen -- culture and history, paintings and sculpture, all blending into that harmonious microcosm New Yorkers call The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
"Wow, will you look at this stuff!" Peter Venkman picked his way cautiously through a row of artifacts which stood as tall as he. He paused to stare at a particularly ugly statue, then bent to read its identifying tag. "'Example of Ammonite god ... human sacrifices ... children fire....' Yuck!" He straightened and stepped back to give himself a better view of the hideous representation. "Those dudes were really hard-core serious about this sacrifice thing, weren't they, Winston?" he asked his companion, a muscular black man dressed in light blue.
"Sure were," the other replied, rechecking the detection device he carried. "That would be a statue of Molech, their chief god. Nasty dude; used to eat little babies for breakfast. Hmmm, definite presence; can't pinpoint it yet."
"Terrific." Peter wrinkled his nose. "Maybe our spook is one of those old Ammonites. They must have carried a load of bad karma when they went."
"Maybe." Winston carefully scanned the high ceiling, his particle thrower ready. "Remember, Pete, keep your stream as short as possible. We damage any of these exhibits and our butts are hung out to dry."
"Not to worry, m'man." Venkman patted his own weapon and resumed his careful search of the antiquities section. "The only gooper Egon could pick up on was one paltry little Class 2, and you know how harmless they are. We may end up a little sticky, but that's about it." A low breep came from the direction of his belt; he unhooked the communicator, thumbing it open in the same motion. "WGST radio, may I take your request, please?"
"Knock it off, Peter." The heavy bass rumbled through the airwaves almost distortion free despite the tiny size of the radio. "Ray and I have reached the Modern Wonders exhibit. That puts us approximately twenty yards to the north of your present position. We'll continue to work our way towards you. Keep me advised if you register any fluctuation on your auxiliary PKE meter. It could well signify a transitional visitation."
"Yo," Peter acknowledged, restoring the radio to his belt. "Professor Cool wants us to holler if ghosties go bye-bye," he told Winston Zeddemore by way of translation.
"Solid." Winston knelt to check under the sarcophagus of some ancient king, then raised up onto his toes to peer over the rim of a giant urn. It was dark inside and looked to be half filled with water, in which he saw reflected a dark-skinned figure with gleaming white teeth. Mildly embarrassed at his involuntary start, Winston smiled nervously at the figure and the figure smiled back. It took several seconds for Winston to realize that the reflection that was smiling at him was not his own.
"YEE-0WW!" He leaped backwards just as a nebulous mass detached itself from the interior of the urn and hurtled skyward, showering Winston with a sour, dark substance in passing. "Oh, yuck," the Ghostbuster groaned, wiping his face on his sleeve. "Gooper got me!" He sighted along his barrel, triggering it while bellowing, "PETER!"
"Yo, cuz." Venkman appeared at the unnerved black's shoulder, causing the man's first shot to go wild. It singed its way across the ceiling, transforming a ladies room sign into a mess of sparking wires and broken glass. "Ooops."
Winston depowered instantly. "Don't do that!" he told the widely grinning psychologist. "I could have had a heart attack or something!"
"Little jumpy today, are we?" Peter turned his attention to the dark shape swooping towards the exit, his wide grin not altering an iota. "Thar she blows!" He tracked his prey, calculating its trajectory with a marksman's eye. Automatically allowing it several feet lead, he opened up with his shortened proton stream, catching the figure like a fly in a web. "Easiest money we've made all week," he chortled, nodding an order at his companion. "Toss that trap, and ...." He broke off in open-mouthed astonishment as the 'paltry little Class 2' began to move. The proton gun leaped in Peter's hands as feedback warred with the originating energy source. Peter wrestled with his thrower, attempting to keep the stream centered on the struggling entity, almost losing control when a particle wave reversed back into his barrel. With a triumphant whoop, the entity swirled out of the field and disappeared through the wall.
"I don't believe it!" Peter turned off his weapon, staring at it with unfeigned surprise. "Even a shortened stream can hold a Class 2 indefinitely. Did you manage to get a reading?"
Winston pointed his meter to the room's four corners, studying the results intently. "Class 2," he confirmed. "Is there something wrong with your pack?" He ran an experienced eye over Venkman's equipment, but all dials and tell-tales were well into the safe zones. "Power levels are fine."
"So's my thrower." Flipping the rifle-shaped weapon over, Peter checked his connections. "I'd better have Ray look it over when we get back to the firehouse." He pulled a radio from his uniform pocket, clicking it on while scanning the walls and ceiling against a possible attack. "Egon? Ray?"
"Spengler here," came the immediate response. "Have you located the entity yet?"
"Well, sort of." Peter exchanged a rueful look with his partner. "I had it, but it kind of got away."
The resonant bass roughened, coming from a slight distance as though its owner had drawn back to stare at the communication device in disbelief. "What do you mean 'kind of'?" Egon demanded.
Resuming their search, the two Ghostbusters wandered shoulder-to-shoulder down a side aisle; at the impatient tone, they exchanged a look, then Peter cleared his throat. "I had our paycheck ... I mean, the nether-entity snared, but it broke out of my stream and disappeared." A low murmur sounded through the radio. "What was that?" Peter asked, raising his voice a bit.
"Ray asked what your settings were," Egon translated.
"Oh." Again bringing his weapon up to eye level, Peter tossed a lock of rich brown hair off his forehead and squinted at the tell-tales, which glowed faintly in the dim light. "Stream at twelve feet, power levels at 24%, ionization full positive."
"It is impossible for a Class 2 to overcome even a 24% power setting," Egon pointed out, the radio masking not at all his disbelief.
Green eyes narrowed at the implied affront. "If it was a Class 2."
Disbelief metamorphosed into annoyance. "Of course it was a Class 2," the absent physicist rumbled, offended in return. "I took the initial readings personally."
"Guess that settles that," Winston commented, winking.
Attention divided between a wet-looking stain on the wall and the airwave discussion, Peter ignored his companion completely. "Look, Spengs, I hit the darned thing dead center, you should pardon the expression. After four years, I know enough to do that."
Egon Spengler must have caught the frosty note in the psychologist's voice, because his tone moderated at once. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...." He broke off abruptly. In the background, the excited yell of their fourth member combined with the high whine of a proton rifle being discharged, both clearly audible even without the transmitter. "We're two rooms straight ahead," Egon rapped hurriedly. "Join us." The radio went dead.
"You heard the man -- let's go!" Peter adjusted a dial, increasing the power output of his pack, then imitated Winston's lope down the center aisle. "Let's hope they can keep the dude from splitting before we get there."
The sounds of combat echoed eerily throughout the great halls, the crackle of energy mixing with moans and wails guaranteed to chill the most inured warrior. Peter and Winston burst through the double doors of the Modern Wonders exhibit and stopped short, eyes wide at the scene of carnage which awaited them. Dark burns scored the walls in a dozen places, and the floor was littered with broken crockery of every description and color. In the exact center of the devastation, taupe colored uniform and auburn hair powdered white by the plaster, Ray Stantz struggled to maintain a hold on his particle thrower. It bucked wildly as had Peter's, but he held on, his youthful face creased with determination.
Off to the left, Egon fumbled a trap from his belt webbing, large hands cradling the box-shaped device only seconds before he heaved it under the writhing creature held in Ray's stream. "Hold him!" he called, unholstering his own thrower in unison with Winston and Peter.
"I-I can't--" Stantz never finished. The heavy rifle twisted suddenly, tearing itself from his sweaty grip to catch him a solid thump in the solar plexus. He sat down hard, gasping for breath. Without an operator, the proton weapon sputtered and died.
Freed of its energy prison, the black entity soared upwards picking up speed. At the last minute, it turned and swooped, descending on a direct course for Peter Venkman's head. Unable to draw a bead on the rapidly moving target, Venkman raised one arm to protect his face from the expected sliming. Past experience had taught him that so amorphous a being as a Class 2 carried very little kinetic energy, but they usually managed to maintain sufficient substantiality to coat any target with enough ectoplasm to swim in.
Face twisted in a disgusted grimace, the psychologist dodged, managing to avoid the main mass by scant inches. He might have succeeded entirely had not the entity extended an arm-like appendage at the last minute. Expecting the barely tangible, Peter Venkman was unprepared for the sharp crack that caught him against the head and threw him several feet down the aisle. He hit the floor, suddenly losing all interest in the proceedings.
Reveling in its victory, the entity rose, a dark shadow against the white walls. It wailed, drawing a bead on its next victim and dove once more. Fortunately, Winston had seen what had happened to his colleagues and was prepared. His proton pack hummed full strength, the stream catching the far- too-substantial mass precisely dead center. Egon's stream joined the fray, entrapping the angry shade once more. It howled, struggling against the immobilizing radiation like a wild thing, but the increased power was too much for it to escape.
Still seated where he'd fallen, Ray watched the battle with dazed interest. Both Egon and Winston were hard pressed to maintain control of their captive; neither dared to remove even one hand from their throwers to toss a ghost trap.
"Ray!" Spengler yelled, recapturing a ghostly hand as the creature pulled loose.
Stantz rubbed his stomach muscles, panting slightly in an attempt to draw in enough oxygen to function. It took two tries before he could answer the summons. "I'm here."
"I think Peter's unconscious." Egon was barely audible over the screaming of the packs. "We need you to get the trap positioned."
With a pained expression, Stantz forced himself to his knees and made his way to the ghost trap Egon had been forced to drop earlier. Being very careful so as to remain clear of the crackling energy streams, he slithered on belly and toes until he could position the trap under the Class 2, shoving it the last few feet with the tips of his fingers. Retreating, he leaned on the activator, opening the doors and bathing his target in purest radiation. With a loud yell, the nether-creature vanished.
"That was far more difficult than I'd initially estimated," Egon remarked, shutting off his thrower. He bent to collect the trap; a blinking red light indicated its "full" status and, satisfied, he hooked it onto his belt. "We should not have had that much trouble with a Class 2."
"Tell him, not me," Winston groused, staring at the remains of a three thousand year old mosaic with dismay. "Boy, are we gonna be in dutch when the curator sees this mess."
"No problem. I'm sure our insurance will cover the damage. Raymond?" Egon offered the still-sitting Stantz a hand up, which the engineer summarily refused with a shake.
"No, thanks." He rubbed his stomach again, his gently rounded features taking on a greenish cast. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to just sit here a minute. I'm afraid I might ... uh...." There was no need for him to finish; one look at his desperate expression told them more than enough of what he might do if he stood up too quickly.
Egon nodded and knelt instead by Peter's still form, Winston at his side. The psychologist lay where he'd fallen, flat on his back, his arms asprawl. Egon shook him gently. "Peter?"
Venkman moaned then opened his eyes to peer up at his companions blearily. "Egon?"
"Yes, Peter?" replied that worthy, pulling out some paper.
"Spud gone?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Job over?"
"Yes, Peter."
"Egon?"
"Yes, Peter?"
"Can we go home now?"
"Yes, Peter," Egon agreed, beginning to figure out the bill.
***