When the guys were out on a call, the old firehouse took on a depressingly
empty air, which Janine usually sought to fill with music. Eclectic in
taste, the hip New Yorker would work her way around the dial, occasionally
tapping her toes to the accompaniment of New Orleans jazz, other times be-
bopping to the sounds of the '50's. Today, she was feeling energetic and
New Pig suited her mood exactly. She perched on her chair, snapping her
fingers to the strains of a tortured guitar while daydreaming of a certain
blond scientist of her acquaintance.
Thus occupied, Janine nearly missed the jangle of the phone. Turning the radio down, she stuffed her gum into her jaw and cradled the instrument against her ear. "Ghostbusters. Two for one sale, this week only.... Oh, hi, Monica. ... Nah, it's awful quiet today. ... Egon? Ha! ... Sure, I'd be glad to meet your brother tonight. He's the podiatrist, right? Seven o'clock is fine. See you then."
She hung up, then pulled out a small mirror and began to examine her heart- shaped face critically. "Hmmm, if I'm going out tonight, this make-up is going to have to go. Blue never does green eyes justice, and this lipstick!" She shook her head. "No way. I want to look good when Egon 'accidentally' finds out that I'm going to the movies with someone else." Pleased with the mental image of his impending jealous rage, she gathered up her purse and retired to the bathroom on the second floor to make some repairs to her face.
The dark suited figure watched her go with relief. It had been patiently waiting for nearly an hour for the woman to leave her desk -- an hour during which the four male members of the team might have returned at any time. The figure stepped from its concealing corner to be revealed as a man, tall and well built, with a head full of dark blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache of that same shade. He listened at the foot of the steps, waiting until the bathroom door snicked shut before following the woman up.
He gained the second floor living quarters without incident, placing his expensive oxfords carefully so as to occasion no tell-tale creak which would alert Janine to his presence. His target was the kitchen, located just off the main staircase and well away from the occupied bathroom.
Flat blue eyes scanned the facilities briefly, finally settling on the innocent looking salt shaker on the counter. "Just what I need," the man muttered, removing the lid and adding a white power to the contents. He replaced the shaker lid and, for good measure, doctored the sugar bowl as well. Satisfied, he made his way out, as silent as he came.
When Janine returned to her desk some fifteen minutes later, there was no sign that the firehouse had ever been visited at all. Yawning, she turned back on her radio and pulled out a nail file. Another typical, boring day at Ghostbusters Central.
***
"But I'm telling you," Egon repeated for the seventh time over the dinner table that night, "a Class 2 is not that powerful!" He waved a forkful of potatoes under Peter's nose, oblivious to the other's pained wince. "A Class 2 is...."
"I know, already!" Venkman brushed the fork aside, then groaned, pressing two fingers to his temples. "I'd kill for another Anacin."
"You've already had four," Winston pointed out, chewing steadily. "Ray, you did a great job on this chicken! Yo' momma taught you how to cook like this?"
Ray nodded absently, fine lips forming a smile around a sip of cherry soda. "Sort of. She always kept cookbooks around -- said she didn't want her kids living on pizza and tuna fish after she was gone."
"She's got my thanks," Zeddemore beamed, hacking off another slice of bird and brandishing it approvingly. "Looks like we got enough leftovers for a couple of days, too. Pass the salt, please."
Roused from a semi-comatose state, Peter complied grumpily. "Man, Winston, I've never seen anyone use that much salt on their food. Where were you raised, anyway. The Dead Sea?" He shook his head then groaned again, realizing his mistake in moving at all. "Ouch."
"Pass the salt this way, please?" Ray requested with a hint of mischief.
Six-feet, three inches provided an imposing height even when the man was seated, this made even more so by the intricate curl of blond hair that crowned his head. Thus a commanding presence, Egon Spengler watched the interplay stoically, like a parent with unruly children. He waited until his comrades had seasoned their food to satisfaction, pushed his red framed glasses higher on his nose, and picked up on his discussion as though he'd not been interrupted at all. "I've checked and rechecked this meter; it's functioning perfectly, which leaves us with the question of how a Class 2 could possess enough power to challenge even a low energy proton stream."
Directly across the table, Ray chewed thoughtfully, amber colored eyes growing distant. "You know, I've been thinking about that, and I'm not so sure the entity was actually more powerful."
"You think there's something wrong with our packs?" Winston asked, darting to fetch the coffee pot from the kitchen counter.
"Not at all. I checked those packs myself before we left the firehouse and after we came back. They're in perfect working order." The youngest Ghostbuster pushed aside the empty soda glass and lifted his cup for Winston to fill it, then reached for the sugar bowl. "All of our PKE readings revealed a common Class 2 uni-migrator. According to all our research, it should have never been able to free itself from even a low power stream."
"Or split my skull," Peter grumbled, dropping his face into his hands. "Coffee, please, Winston?"
"Right. It wasn't actually more powerful...." Stantz paused in the act of adding his third teaspoon of sugar to his coffee, his eyes losing that far- away look he shared with Egon when their minds were occupied with some new problem. He set down the sugar bowl and stared at Venkman with a worried frown. "Are you really all right, Peter? The hospital's only a few miles away, and...."
"I'm fine." Venkman replied testily. He raised his head to shoot his younger colleague a brief smile. "Other than having the Yancy Street gang rumbling in my head, I'm just terrific."
Ray made to say something else, then changed his mind when Egon swatted him on the arm. "It wasn't actually more powerful...." the physicist prodded impatiently.
"Oh, right. I don't think it was so much more powerful as it was more substantial." He gestured toward Peter with his fork. "That ghost didn't burn Peter or shock him electrically."
"Hope you weren't too disappointed," Venkman interjected from the security of his fingers.
"It struck him. Physically," Stantz finished. He tasted his coffee, wrinkled his almost-snub nose and adding more sugar.
Egon knit his brows, deep in thought. "That would explain why our weapons had less effect then usual. The proton streams are designed to disrupt the magno-ionization range in which each paranormal entity operates. Substantiality would tend to immunize -- for want of a better word -- said entity against submolecular disruption." He paused. "There's only one thing wrong with that theory."
"I know." Ray stirred his potatoes until they resembled the consistency of warm ectoplasm then pushed them away with a sigh. "Something like that happening implies that natural laws are being distorted on a possibly cosmic scale."
"But what could accomplish something like that?" Winston asked in a hushed voice. "Besides God, that is."
"Nothing, Winston," Egon replied slowly. "Nothing that we know about ... yet."
***
"Oh, Peter, I want you -- I want you now!" She stretched out full length on the bed, golden mane playing about her face like a halo. "I'm yours, Peter," she purred, moistening full lips with the tip of her tongue. "Take me."
Peter stared down at the feminine perfection awaiting his pleasure, still not completely believing his good fortune. "Kim," he whispered breathlessly, bending to stroke one silken thigh. "Kim...."
"Peter...."
"Peter, wake up."
Venkman came to with a start, blinking when Kim Basinger's luscious curves wavered once and resolved into the ascetic and unlovely features of Egon Spengler. "Aw, geez, Egon," he groaned, sitting up. "You an' me, man, we're going to have to have a long talk about your timing."
"My timing?" Egon padded back to his own bed, and sat down, rummaging around his nightstand until he located his glasses. With a sigh, he perched them onto the bridge of his nose and looked around. "Do you realize what time it is, Peter?"
"Too blasted early by half," Venkman grumbled, catching a glimpse of the clock. Louder, "What's up?"
"We have a call -- three, actually." Egon ran a hand through his hair; the blond locks immediately sprang upright in all directions, looking as though they were attempting to escape entirely. "Funny they should all come in at the same time."
"Hilarious."
"Since we're scheduled for pack maintenance over the next forty-eight hours, Ray suggested we split up and handle all three cases this morning," the tall physicist remarked, his tone hinting acute disagreement. "As the first is a case of possession...."
"Ix-nay on that." Peter swung his feet to the floor and stood, stretching hugely. "After the trouble we had with the Class 2 yesterday, I think we should stick together for awhile. Take the possession case and schedule the rest for later on in the week." He looked around, noting the two unoccupied beds with a noticeable lack of surprise. "Ray and Winston are up already?"
"Hours ago."
"Figures." Venkman cocked his head, green eyes sparkling with amusement as they trailed to his friend's bony knees visible under the white nightshirt. "You realize you took me away from Kim Basinger to go chase some spook we could have handled this afternoon? Couldn't you have waited twenty minutes or so?"
"First things first," Spengler replied virtuously.
Peter regarded him with something akin to horror. "We've gotta have a long talk about your priorities, Spengs, baby."
"Right after we have one on my timing."
Peter narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but the physicist merely stared back, expression innocently blank. Peter gave up. "Dibbs on the shower," he called, strolling off.
Spengler waited until the younger man had disappeared through the door before allowing his lips to twitch into a smug smile. "Sucker," he chuckled, reaching for his pants.
***
Thus occupied, Janine nearly missed the jangle of the phone. Turning the radio down, she stuffed her gum into her jaw and cradled the instrument against her ear. "Ghostbusters. Two for one sale, this week only.... Oh, hi, Monica. ... Nah, it's awful quiet today. ... Egon? Ha! ... Sure, I'd be glad to meet your brother tonight. He's the podiatrist, right? Seven o'clock is fine. See you then."
She hung up, then pulled out a small mirror and began to examine her heart- shaped face critically. "Hmmm, if I'm going out tonight, this make-up is going to have to go. Blue never does green eyes justice, and this lipstick!" She shook her head. "No way. I want to look good when Egon 'accidentally' finds out that I'm going to the movies with someone else." Pleased with the mental image of his impending jealous rage, she gathered up her purse and retired to the bathroom on the second floor to make some repairs to her face.
The dark suited figure watched her go with relief. It had been patiently waiting for nearly an hour for the woman to leave her desk -- an hour during which the four male members of the team might have returned at any time. The figure stepped from its concealing corner to be revealed as a man, tall and well built, with a head full of dark blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache of that same shade. He listened at the foot of the steps, waiting until the bathroom door snicked shut before following the woman up.
He gained the second floor living quarters without incident, placing his expensive oxfords carefully so as to occasion no tell-tale creak which would alert Janine to his presence. His target was the kitchen, located just off the main staircase and well away from the occupied bathroom.
Flat blue eyes scanned the facilities briefly, finally settling on the innocent looking salt shaker on the counter. "Just what I need," the man muttered, removing the lid and adding a white power to the contents. He replaced the shaker lid and, for good measure, doctored the sugar bowl as well. Satisfied, he made his way out, as silent as he came.
When Janine returned to her desk some fifteen minutes later, there was no sign that the firehouse had ever been visited at all. Yawning, she turned back on her radio and pulled out a nail file. Another typical, boring day at Ghostbusters Central.
***
"But I'm telling you," Egon repeated for the seventh time over the dinner table that night, "a Class 2 is not that powerful!" He waved a forkful of potatoes under Peter's nose, oblivious to the other's pained wince. "A Class 2 is...."
"I know, already!" Venkman brushed the fork aside, then groaned, pressing two fingers to his temples. "I'd kill for another Anacin."
"You've already had four," Winston pointed out, chewing steadily. "Ray, you did a great job on this chicken! Yo' momma taught you how to cook like this?"
Ray nodded absently, fine lips forming a smile around a sip of cherry soda. "Sort of. She always kept cookbooks around -- said she didn't want her kids living on pizza and tuna fish after she was gone."
"She's got my thanks," Zeddemore beamed, hacking off another slice of bird and brandishing it approvingly. "Looks like we got enough leftovers for a couple of days, too. Pass the salt, please."
Roused from a semi-comatose state, Peter complied grumpily. "Man, Winston, I've never seen anyone use that much salt on their food. Where were you raised, anyway. The Dead Sea?" He shook his head then groaned again, realizing his mistake in moving at all. "Ouch."
"Pass the salt this way, please?" Ray requested with a hint of mischief.
Six-feet, three inches provided an imposing height even when the man was seated, this made even more so by the intricate curl of blond hair that crowned his head. Thus a commanding presence, Egon Spengler watched the interplay stoically, like a parent with unruly children. He waited until his comrades had seasoned their food to satisfaction, pushed his red framed glasses higher on his nose, and picked up on his discussion as though he'd not been interrupted at all. "I've checked and rechecked this meter; it's functioning perfectly, which leaves us with the question of how a Class 2 could possess enough power to challenge even a low energy proton stream."
Directly across the table, Ray chewed thoughtfully, amber colored eyes growing distant. "You know, I've been thinking about that, and I'm not so sure the entity was actually more powerful."
"You think there's something wrong with our packs?" Winston asked, darting to fetch the coffee pot from the kitchen counter.
"Not at all. I checked those packs myself before we left the firehouse and after we came back. They're in perfect working order." The youngest Ghostbuster pushed aside the empty soda glass and lifted his cup for Winston to fill it, then reached for the sugar bowl. "All of our PKE readings revealed a common Class 2 uni-migrator. According to all our research, it should have never been able to free itself from even a low power stream."
"Or split my skull," Peter grumbled, dropping his face into his hands. "Coffee, please, Winston?"
"Right. It wasn't actually more powerful...." Stantz paused in the act of adding his third teaspoon of sugar to his coffee, his eyes losing that far- away look he shared with Egon when their minds were occupied with some new problem. He set down the sugar bowl and stared at Venkman with a worried frown. "Are you really all right, Peter? The hospital's only a few miles away, and...."
"I'm fine." Venkman replied testily. He raised his head to shoot his younger colleague a brief smile. "Other than having the Yancy Street gang rumbling in my head, I'm just terrific."
Ray made to say something else, then changed his mind when Egon swatted him on the arm. "It wasn't actually more powerful...." the physicist prodded impatiently.
"Oh, right. I don't think it was so much more powerful as it was more substantial." He gestured toward Peter with his fork. "That ghost didn't burn Peter or shock him electrically."
"Hope you weren't too disappointed," Venkman interjected from the security of his fingers.
"It struck him. Physically," Stantz finished. He tasted his coffee, wrinkled his almost-snub nose and adding more sugar.
Egon knit his brows, deep in thought. "That would explain why our weapons had less effect then usual. The proton streams are designed to disrupt the magno-ionization range in which each paranormal entity operates. Substantiality would tend to immunize -- for want of a better word -- said entity against submolecular disruption." He paused. "There's only one thing wrong with that theory."
"I know." Ray stirred his potatoes until they resembled the consistency of warm ectoplasm then pushed them away with a sigh. "Something like that happening implies that natural laws are being distorted on a possibly cosmic scale."
"But what could accomplish something like that?" Winston asked in a hushed voice. "Besides God, that is."
"Nothing, Winston," Egon replied slowly. "Nothing that we know about ... yet."
***
"Oh, Peter, I want you -- I want you now!" She stretched out full length on the bed, golden mane playing about her face like a halo. "I'm yours, Peter," she purred, moistening full lips with the tip of her tongue. "Take me."
Peter stared down at the feminine perfection awaiting his pleasure, still not completely believing his good fortune. "Kim," he whispered breathlessly, bending to stroke one silken thigh. "Kim...."
"Peter...."
"Peter, wake up."
Venkman came to with a start, blinking when Kim Basinger's luscious curves wavered once and resolved into the ascetic and unlovely features of Egon Spengler. "Aw, geez, Egon," he groaned, sitting up. "You an' me, man, we're going to have to have a long talk about your timing."
"My timing?" Egon padded back to his own bed, and sat down, rummaging around his nightstand until he located his glasses. With a sigh, he perched them onto the bridge of his nose and looked around. "Do you realize what time it is, Peter?"
"Too blasted early by half," Venkman grumbled, catching a glimpse of the clock. Louder, "What's up?"
"We have a call -- three, actually." Egon ran a hand through his hair; the blond locks immediately sprang upright in all directions, looking as though they were attempting to escape entirely. "Funny they should all come in at the same time."
"Hilarious."
"Since we're scheduled for pack maintenance over the next forty-eight hours, Ray suggested we split up and handle all three cases this morning," the tall physicist remarked, his tone hinting acute disagreement. "As the first is a case of possession...."
"Ix-nay on that." Peter swung his feet to the floor and stood, stretching hugely. "After the trouble we had with the Class 2 yesterday, I think we should stick together for awhile. Take the possession case and schedule the rest for later on in the week." He looked around, noting the two unoccupied beds with a noticeable lack of surprise. "Ray and Winston are up already?"
"Hours ago."
"Figures." Venkman cocked his head, green eyes sparkling with amusement as they trailed to his friend's bony knees visible under the white nightshirt. "You realize you took me away from Kim Basinger to go chase some spook we could have handled this afternoon? Couldn't you have waited twenty minutes or so?"
"First things first," Spengler replied virtuously.
Peter regarded him with something akin to horror. "We've gotta have a long talk about your priorities, Spengs, baby."
"Right after we have one on my timing."
Peter narrowed his eyes, suspicious, but the physicist merely stared back, expression innocently blank. Peter gave up. "Dibbs on the shower," he called, strolling off.
Spengler waited until the younger man had disappeared through the door before allowing his lips to twitch into a smug smile. "Sucker," he chuckled, reaching for his pants.
***