Chapter 3: Gears, Guns, Gadgets
AN: 1:06 6/4/20: At the time of this writing, this chapter only has 25 words. But when I suddenly realized what day it was in 4 days, I decided that weeks ago was the time to write this.
Happy 36th Anniversary, Ghostbusters
Parker and Phill's Oil Refinery, Around the same time...
Across on the other side of the river in Brooklyn, in the very same warehouse where Jack had blown up a puddle of slime in the name of science. Danny Smith was chest-deep into the engine bay of the Ecto-1A with a tool kit to his left and a light dangling down as he tried getting a somewhat rusty bolt out with a socket.
"Come on, you piece of shit move..." He gave a little more strength to the tool, trying to force it to loosen. He was more or less on the verge of bending the machine or striping the socket itself at the rate he was going.
"Come on... come to on-GAH!" the wrench slipped away from the bolt, sending his thumb into part of the engine at an odd angle as he smashed the top of it.
"Sonoffu-" He tried nursing the sudden jolt of the pain away by sticking it in his mouth. Though after a little taste of dirt and rust, he quickly went just to shake it to air cool.
While it was far from the first time he's smashed his thumb working on a car even as broken down as the Cadillac, it was the combination of it being still mostly kept together and being old that was making his life a nightmare.
Six months since they got this sixty-year-old shit wagon, in his personal opinion, was mostly devoted to him trying to get it anywhere into what Derek and Leo had envisioned it.
He and Ben, whenever they haven't pulled away for jobs or just to do something else as a bit of change, is pace; had pretty much stripped the car down to the basics. The doors were all taken off and placed in a corner covered by the hood, every window except for the windshield was stored in a two-foot tower of thick foam. The chrome was sitting in a box, and everything that was the actual interior save for the dashboard was now sitting in a dumpster somewhere.
The front was pretty much a giant hole where he stood with most of the engine and transmission already sitting about twelve feet to his right with a fine layer of dust and rust chips coating the floor. A box under a bench was filled with a spaghetti of wiring that he had ripped out of everything. The only thing that was overall left intact was everything that belonged on the roof with it all hitting on the rack in the corner next to the wheels.
Some of that stuff like the lights and the rack itself he knew Derek would want to keep and restore, but for everything like the prop sensors, the dish, and most of the car was being trashed.
If he had to guess, while he's on to try and save parts from easing up cost and time building things, they were probably getting rid of 70% of this vehicle. Eventually, when they had the money, the body itself will be chopped in dozens of places to make room for structural upgrades.
But that was the most significant issue Danny had for this, money.
Restoring the vehicle to just its movie function would easily be nearly 100k plus depending on what had to be bought and what could be saved. Doing the same and adding their actual equipment that Ecto-X has since it literally uses the same set up minus the vehicle could easily tack on another five thousand.
But this he felt was being done in a way that would easily double, and if what they were planning, triple the cost and time in getting this rust bucket even sitting on wheels again. Sure, a good chunk he could do; it helps when you work with your brother with your father that's a car junky for years. He could do the needed changes (though some he knew was currently way out of his league) if he had an actual place to work and not a damn warehouse.
Mulling over the thought, he looked back to the bolt that had just eaten roughly eight minutes of his life, "Alright, you little bastard. You asked for it."
Turning around, he headed towards his blow torch, fully intent on making the rusty bit of metal no longer be part of the vehicle.
Rodman's Neck Firing Range...
At a peninsula of land somewhere in the Bronx sat the 54-acre NYPD Firing Range that served as a training ground for the city's police, military, FBI and many more along with dealing with explosives at one area simply dubbed 'The Pit' to an area fitted to simulate an urban environment, the land is a hotbed where anyone nearby will quickly realize that any hope of trying to tone down the level of gunfire and explosions that place makes would be all in vain.
In one of the two hundred thirty different firing spots, Mike Dock stood at one stall with about twelve others with him. With a pair of earmuffs to help block out the heavy sound of gunfire around him, he held his hand above his holster that now housed his new Glock 19 Generation 4 sidearm with a fifteen round magazine inside and ready to go.
Looking down at his target, a big white sheet with a silhouette they call 'The Thug' with various targets marked on the body. He was quietly counting down from ten where once he reached three, he firmly grasped his gun, and upon entering one had it already pulled, leveled, and stared down the sight as he pulled the trigger.
*BANG**BANG**BANG*-
In rapid succession, Mike kept on the firing to where the area around the chest was quickly being given new holes that reveal a concrete wall behind it.
-*BANG**BANG**click*
Mike ceased his fire when all fifteen rounds were spent. Glancing at his watch, he let out a little smirk how he had shaved off nearly 1.3 seconds from his usual time.
Ejecting the spent clip, he reached down to the table in front of him to grab a fresh one before feeling nothing but the padding. A glance down revealed that instead of a ready to go clip to slap right back in he was met with six entirely empty magazines.
"Damn... really got into it again."
"You don't say." Sergeant Baxter came up to him with an equipment bag hung over his shoulder. "I feel that at this rate, you're gonna be the one that makes us have to give you or own little reserve." He chuckled.
Mike chuckled as well. It was hard for anyone to really argue against him on the firing range when it involved handheld weaponry. He excelled when he was first training to be an officer so much so that they felt he belonged more to the select units or even SWAT with how his aim was.
Some would joke that he was part Terminator with a computer to help him aim, some say that even recent events he was possessed by the spirit of a hunter like Ben Lilly or Teddy Roosevelt himself. Others compared him to Bert Gummer from the Tremors movies, and this was one that could agree more if he ever invited you to his home to fire a 'few' rounds.
"So hows life been after volunteering to work with self-made celebrities?" Baxter asked with curiosity. It wasn't every day that one of your co-workers/buddies suddenly go from average day (maybe above average) city cop to being part of a team that up until almost two years ago suddenly be one of their newest recruits.
Plus, it was a subject he did try to keep separate from this side of life. Thinking back to his encounter with Derek on the Brooklyn Bridge, he felt it was cliche to the highest levels that made him act like a dumbass in traffic. He wasn't going to let that go, oh no, but he tucked it away for now.
"To put it all in the simplest context, they're doomed." He bluntly said with a straight face.
Baxter wasn't that completely put off by Docks' answer. Him being this blunt usually meant that it was just more frustration to add to the plate.
"That bad, huh?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"Explain."
"Lack of function."
To some, this would be a bit confusing. To Mike, it perfectly summed up what his times with the team for the past four months had taught him. Derek was too young, even to be doing what he was doing. If he had just turned 19 this year and was a brand-spanking-new recruit to a pre-established team, he could accept that. But he acts like he was more or less obligated to do this no matter what.
Rachel and Leo, he felt, were a bit of a yin and yang. Rachel wanted to help people and was learning to be a doctor; Mike respected that. That was the kind of learning a team needed. Given their size, he could see how they even managed to finish high school while still being here though it was dragging her learning. Leo, on the other hand, seemed to be just fascinated by everything he and Derek could cook up. He was a planner, someone that looks into this as much as he could.
The Smiths, good god the Smiths... If they were even in police training, they would have failed the written test for just getting in the academy.
Roger, he felt, was more the air force equivalent of himself (though how he knew how to fly as he does at 23 startles him sometimes) and was more on the supportive role—looking more for a job that he enjoyed than something more practical. And Jack was a big turn around from what he was meeting them to now. Sure he was a bit active here and there, but it was clear how much toned down he had become. Mike was sure he was still working at the refinery as a technician, but from what he's heard, that's been an on and off experience now.
"In short, they all had their roles and purposes; they just lacked a solid foundation to operate in. They act more like friends getting together to do something when it comes to dealing with actual calls. Sure, you get those times when they truly work well, some just don't ping together right."
"You think if they went through actual training, it would help?"
Mike nodded, "Oh, it would extremely help them. The problem is how the hell do you train someone that acts both like a firefighter and FBI agent that hunts the paranormal."
Baxter looked to the ground pondering that thought. In all reality, how the hell do you train something like that? From what the movies showed, they just apparently knew how and did it. In some, they actually do train others on how to use it. But with this, they're most experienced already has close to two years under his belt and has pretty much taught them himself despite having no real training of any kind.
While thinking this over, Baxter looked around as if the answer would somehow materialize. Strangely enough, his gaze fell upon Mike's to Mike's equipment bag was a black box that took up a good chunk of space.
"Whatcha got there?"
"Hehe, you're gonna love this." Docks sarcastically said as he raised the case out of his bag, "A 'training pack' from my oh so new team."
It was a carrying case similar to those you would expect a marching band to hold a mean piece of brass in but this was a bit different in how it had a much more aggressive look in how it was covered with more metal, a beefier lock, and had caution striping everywhere. With a quick pop of both latches, he opened the case to be greeted by a rather lovely set up of two proton pistol, both left, and right-handed units, along with four power cell batteries, a utility belt with holsters, and a pair of black ecto-goggles that looked brand new and were just awaiting paint tightly packed into a foam interior.
By now, several other officers that were in the range started to gather around and examine the weapons themselves. Many of them agree on how they literally looked like toy props you would find at comic cons for high prices. The only real difference being that these guns had clearly seen some fighting with how scratched up the paint was and how it was clear where some areas were newer than others.
Taking a grip of the right pistol, he pulled it out and went on to examine it much closer. Lacking the power cell that gave it any power he did, against any better judgment, take a little peek down the barrel into the interior before going on the rest of his inspection. He was given the basic run down and process of setting up the controls. Between the necessary powerup, safety, and trigger, he found that the top dial did sometimes throw a bit of a curveball in how it, along with a side dial, controlled how random or powerful the gun was.
Snatching a battery, he made sure to follow the yellow arrow and inject it into the handle much like he would any other handgun nowadays. There was a loud snap of it, locking in place and a quiet and quick hum before Mike flipped on the power.
The top vent suddenly flashed to life in bright white light as an orange hat light started flickering. It wasn't much of a display due to its size, but in Mike's hand, he could feel the gun softly vibrate for a moment after he threw the switch. Much like how a game controlled would tremble as a bit of a warm-up.
"She purrs." One commented on how the start-up seemed to last a bit longer till it faded.
Running his fingers across the grip, Mike turned at stood looking back down the firing range. A new paper target was already being moved into position as practically everyone in the room was now focused on him.
"Now, let's see her bite."
He got into his usual firing stance with the pistol in the same position his general firearm was and took in a deep breath. Silently counting to three until he whipped it back up, aimed at the target, and squeezed the trigger.
*SHZZZZAKKKK*
In a burst of orange light, a small proton stream erupted from the barrel. Mike had only held the trigger for possibly four times as long as he would for a gun, but that was simply because of how much time would be needed for an excellent stream to pop out, or it would just fizzle out.
What he got was a proton stream roughly six feet long end to end, flying through the air towards the center target. He knew that aiming for the head would be pointless, and given how the stream can be random in nature, it's better to go for the broad center of mass. Being a low yield resulted in the beam punching a hole big enough to fit your arm all the way to the should before dispersing across the wall behind it.
He was a bit taken by how the recoil seemed to be more like a stable force other than how semi or automatics jolt after each shot. Given its size and from what he could remember from the others was that this configuration was meant to be something more or less to pick off weak targets or get their attention. So it would stand as the negative force behind it was a bit different than his usual firearms.
In all honesty, it did feel like your average pistol if it had somehow been converted into a fully automatic handgun. The recoil was tamer than he thought (though he knew that with it connect to a pack, it would significantly increase).
With a little thought and hum, he placed the gun down and reached for the other one. Setting it up the same as the other as he moved to the stall to the right of him that had a complete target present. The feeling is fingers run over both pistols, Mike gave his usual count before drawing back the right gun and brought the left more forward. Doing the same as he did before with quick burst shots. Firing the left for just long enough to get an excellent beam out before quickly swapping back to the right and doing the same.
Without pausing, Mike fired back and forth from each gun, with one kicking on the very moment he retracted the other. The target itself at this point was gradually being shredded upwards until Mike had both raised and, in a bit of an odd move even for himself, brought both together and fired a continuous stream across the range that completely destroyed the target.
"Damn." Baxter said, impressed by the display, "I'm surprised they didn't give you a bigger gun. Knowing you and your collection."
Mike wanted to rebut about the last part of that comment but knew that with Baxter, that was a lost war.
"This feels more natural to me," he emphasized this by spinning the left gun around his thumb like a revolver. He gave it six spins before locking it back in a solid grip with a genuine grin forming over with thoughts on how this could really step up his game.
Back at the Roosevelt...
Upon the elevator dinging, the trio quickly hustled down the hallway towards their rooms. Arriving at the makeshift door that looked almost brand new now as the original sat leaning against the wall with a large hole in the center and scorch marks around the edges. Swiftly ripping the door open, they were greeted to the now-familiar sight of a cluttered, messy hallway and four doors wide open to rooms that had now almost equal levels of 'controlled' chaos.
What was called now the 'Spook Safe' was in somewhat better shape than it was when they started. Though if you took away the fact that 3 of the walls were now lined with shelves of trap cartridges filled to capacity looked away in metal containers heavily coated with positive slime to help contain any possible leaks. Where the bed once was was now a workbench with their original safe underneath that held an assortment of empty trap units waiting to get new cartridges.
Across the hall to their lab, the room, inputting into the mentality for ordinary people, was wrecked. They had now opted to altogether remove the beds that were previously there for more shelving that held parts and various pieces of equipment in different stages of development. The main room that had the computers and main work table was surrounded by parts, boxes, cables, papers strewn about or pinned to the wall, and so much more. The only part that looked fine was the bathroom, but looking inside, one would question the state of 3 jumpsuits hanging in the shower.
To them, it was more of an organized chaos situation. Most things were in places that if you didn't know where you had put it, it was lost forever if it was moved at all. Hell, asking for something as small as a paper clip, and someone could point to one on the floor next to the table leg.
At the said table was a downcasted Jackson staring at the obliterated remains of his test thrower. Where the 'cores' had initially been was nothing but a blown-out hole with the rear handle just barely holding onto the body. The second barrel was almost completely ripped off, having only be held on by a twist tie to the main stem with the side having been snapped open, revealing the internal wiring.
The thrower itself seemed like a complete loss, provided that they do buy third party parts consisting of strong aluminum throwers and pack shells that they modify to their needs; it was still expensive to get replacements.
Entering the room and seeing Jack like this, the team waited for any sign of him acknowledging their presence. Only just staring at the destroyed gun with disappointment, frustration, sadness, and a bit of curiosity thrown into that soup. He stared at the object as if trying to use his mind to suddenly tear it apart and put it back together after finally finding the solution.
But feeling as though that would only give him a headache Leo was the first to speak, "So-"
Jack held up a finger for silence. Closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath to collect his thoughts.
"Whatever we use for the electromagnets in the throwers are NOT, and I say this with all my heart and soul, designed to handle the double split output. The PPD," he held up a what looked like a destroyed oversized shotgun shell, but in fact, was the small unit that was usually connected to the side of the booster tube base. "Went out the moment Ben turned the damn thing one. It was like a dam that once it's open, it doesn't stop until something else does."
He then picked up a piece of the N-Filter that seemed to have been snapped off, "The oscillator in the filter, and by extension, the filter was on the brink of complete failure, and the negative-D side of the cyclotron didn't properly vent. The strike pad in the housing is shot, the hydrogen is practically gone, and that is just the basics of the laundry list of things that happened."
"That and it nearly made Ben go airborne," Roger piped in, leaning around from the doorway.
"The power output needed to sustain two streams, let alone two possible individual modes is something that this equipment isn't built for. The rifle and pistols are expectations because they have their units built as their design. But in modifying our existing throwers at the moment is nearly impossible."
"Is it salvageable?" Derek asked as Leo headed around to the workbench to examine the disassembled pack. Moving parts aside and checking the ends of wires and shaking his head.
"For the most part, yes. Depending on what else needs it. But from what I'm seeing, it's going to take some time, especially in getting the thrower back up."
"Thank god it didn't go into meltdown..." Jack muttered as he took a gulp from a water bottle.
"Now that I think about it, how did you get this nuclear stuff without the government knowing?" Roger's question suddenly made everyone pause for a moment to think it over, then turning to look at their leader.
Derek, feeling a bit taken back, just shrugged, "We lived near a massive junkyard that pretty much served as part of the town dump. You'd be surprised what you can find with just a Geiger counter and after winning the lottery."
"So, you basically went the same route as the nuclear boy scout?"
"Pretty much."
"So what the hell was the lightning for?"
"To get the system up to a sustainable charge. It takes a lot actually to keep the thing going."
There was a bit of a pause in the air as everyone just stared at him as he had only grown a second head. Leo even muttered and swore under his breath to make sure that the cores are sealed twice as tight as they are now and to make sure to get everyone test.
Feeling that the topic went further off track than expected, Jack returned to his previous statement, "As I said, with how everything is right now, I think we could achieve something like an actual multi-mode thrower. For the most part, right now, we can work with the Slime Blowers given how they just need power for the compressor, and the same could be said for the pistols since they have their own cells. But right now..."
"We just don't have the funding to really do anything except what we have been now." Leo summed it up to Jack's agreement.
"Thirty million for the whole block, another say, million or two for the demolition of the area and making sure the building is still standing. Upgrades and repairs alone are another seven-plus easily, not to mention foundation modifications and extensions. That all could easily run us up another forty easily. Roughly fourteen for the containment unit alone, couple thousand for furniture and food, another million to keep the names and logo, and about six million for our reach and development." Derek listed off each thing off his fingers, knowing there were several things he forgot to add.
"And our current finances...?" Rachel asked a bit drained at the hearing just how much this job would cost them.
"You ever heard of cash flow?" Leo asked back, to which she shrugged, "Well... ours is a glacier. A small glacier. And at the current rate, we're going; it'll take us easily eleven and a half years to even remotely cut away a third of that total amount. Depending on if anything else decides to come our way."
*sigh* "Given how that's the seventh time we've blown up this place from equipment failure, I feel that management is about to say screw it and give us the boot."
While getting out of the hotel was a high priority for their list, they really didn't have anywhere else to go. According to their financial records, they were just keeping themselves in the black at the current rate they've been bustling around New York. But in addition to having to make sure everyone was paid, maintenance, parts, fuel and food, the occasional payout when a property gets a bit more damage than they wish, and the firehouse were all factors trying to weigh down their ship.
The latter of which had Derek thinking back to his lofty purchase. Just like when he had first built this gear, he felt something was off but yet still felt the same. For the price he got for what was basically a whole 'block' in one of Manhattan's best areas for a start-up business, he felt it was still overwhelming that they got the original firehouse. Something that while would eventually solve their housing problem, he and everyone else knew that dream was still at this rate years away.
AN: 6/5/20 12:10 AM: So in the time between now and when I first started writing anything Ghostbusters, I was still trying to piece together how the hell the equipment worked. Years of looking didn't help.
Until literally back on April 28, the YouTuber Channels spirits released a very detailed and helpful video about how the pack works on the nuclear level. Some parts of it made me realize it wouldn't function with how the Game Pack works (such as the Booster Tube/Slime Resivoir actually being the fuel rod for the nuclear material to power the pack) but yet some parts seem straight forward for what can and can't function as both.
The same applies to both its thrower and another video regarding how the Ghost Trap works, so for here on out, I plan to hopefully maintain this as a consistent theme for the equipment for the future.
A reason this doesn't really have much ghostbusting at all is mostly because of my desire to make sure everything from all stories can be tied together as tightly as possible. To where the team is right now trying to figure out how to further their technology will play slowly in the future and so on.
6/7/20 2:13 AM: At the time of this note, I have just finished Danny's part. In of itself, it really only shows what he's been up to in recent times and just further adds to the overall situation the GB are falling into.
6/8/20 11:28 PM: Its Ghostbusters Day (despite it being technically postponed because the world being fucked) and I managed to get this done and out.
Mike, in all of the PGB, is one of the most experienced and the best shot in the team. His methods go more on the lines of how Winston in the comics uses the pistol over his main thrower, or sometimes as his primary. The techniques he used here is based on the same you do in the mobile game Into the Dead 2 with Duel Proton Pistols.