A long time later found the three Ghostbusters locked in a featureless,
windowless room sporting only a heavily barred door to break the monotony
of stone walls and floor. The men were no longer clad in their jumpsuits;
they had been methodically searched and stripped, allowed to retain only
the light pants and t-shirts they wore under their uniforms. A bucket in
the corner served as the only concession to the necessities, and there had
been no effort to provide either food or water since the capture.
In one corner, Ray Stantz lay asleep, huddled into a ball against the chill. He kept his arms curled tightly about himself and his face, normally childlike in repose, was pinched and drawn.
Against the other wall, Egon sat contemplating a spider spinning her intricate webbing. Scientific detachment is even harder to achieve when one is hungry and thirsty and cold and scared, but he was finally starting to come to terms with the emotion which continued to plague his thinking processes. It had begun to abate a few hours ago, allowing him to order his thoughts somewhat better than before.
"What time do you think it is?" Peter asked abruptly, pacing the cell like a great cat.
The physicist roused from his reverie, oddly not minding the interruption. "About noon, I'd say. Of course that's no more than a guess."
"Yeah. Scum took my watch, too." Peter threw himself down next to the physicist, crossing his bare feet under him. "We've been here maybe 25-30 hours and no one has paid us the slightest attention. Strange."
"Very strange. I wonder what they want?"
The darker man shrugged, rubbing his cold arms vigorously. "Got me. I would have liked to see the PKE reading on the things that got us. I'd bet they were more human than nether-entity. We...." He paused to cough as his dry throat closed up on him. "Sure wish we had some water."
Egon continued watching the busy spider, but when he spoke, his voice was hard. "You were right, Peter. We shouldn't have split up on this case. It was a trap."
"Yeah. And now I can die satisfied 'cause I was right." He stopped, sensing the withdraw of the other man, contrition softening his chisled features. "I didn't mean that against you, Egon. I'm just...." He threw his hands wide, a gesture of frustration.
"I understand." The blond pursed his full lips, then turned to stare Peter directly in the face. "You would have won your bet. I wasn't captured by an apparition."
Venkman cocked one dark brow. "No?"
"No. This..." Egon pointed to the bruise on the tip of his chin. "...was from a human fist. I remember that much before blacking out."
"Son of a...." Peter gave vent to a long, low whistle, green eyes sharpening with calculation. "So this could be a personal vendetta. No, wait a minute." He held up a hand. "I was captured by an N-E. No way that was a human being that grabbed me. Felt like one of those whatchamacallit's from Goizing dimensions."
"That's Goizim." Then it was Spengler's turn to shrug. "Humans are involved at any rate." He hesitated, staring at his long, white fingers folded across his thigh. "Peter, we've been together nearly fifteen years. We've fought before, but we've never..."
"...hated each other," Venkman finished for him. "I've been thinking about that, too." He stretched his legs, attempting to ease a cramp in his muscles. Egon watched him impassively, not moving at all until Peter rearranged his legs and fixed him with a clinical look. "How do you feel now, Egon?"
The older man frowned. "I feel ... on edge, irritable, angry -- though not nearly as bad as before. And scared," he added, ruthlessly honest.
Peter continued to regard the other with that professional detachment after which Egon had sought for days. "Your pupils are contracted, too."
"Conclusion?"
"I think we've been drugged." Peter smiled mirthlessly at the other's astonished expression. "Yeah, surprised me too. I've done extensive experimentation back at college with mood altering medication, and frankly, I can't think of anything else to account for what we've been through lately. We've all experienced identical elevations of stress, anger, loss of control, as well as having our own personal aggressions distended and distorted out of proportion. Winston's paranoia, for example, thinking that we were ganging up on him, or Ray's quickness to take offense."
"Or my conceit." Egon grinned ruefully, easing the sharp planes of his face with merry lines. "I never dreamed I was such an egotist."
"You're not." The psychologist returned the grin, more warmth in his expression than had been there all week. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, my friend. It was the drug which knocked it out of balance is all. It's obviously short acting," he went on after a minute. "The aggression is already starting to fade. Winston should be clear already."
"I would have liked to see Winston again," the physicist mused wistfully. "And Janine." He broke off at a soft sigh from across the room. Ray muttered something indistinct and turned toward his friends, still asleep. "Do you think Ray is all right?" he asked instead.
Peter bit his lip. "I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even ask. He picked up some collection of bruises though, didn't he?" The duo sat regarding their friend's swollen face and purpling arms silently, noting the discoloration on Ray's chest and stomach where the t-shirt had worked itself away from his pants. "Geez, between our hosts and me, we did a pretty good job painting him up."
One blond brow rose, disappearing into the disordered mat of hair. "You?"
"Yeah. Well..." Peter's lean cheeks colored. "We kind of mixed it up this morning ... yesterday morning, I mean." He rubbed absently at the contusions on his own throat. "I don't know who taught him to fight like that, but we nearly killed each other. I think his hand's broken," he added guiltily.
Egon nodded without comment, then rose gracefully and dropped to one knee beside the still figure. "Ray," he called, shaking his friend's shoulder.
Stantz came awake at once, brown eyes wide with alarm. "What is it?" he gasped, struggling to sit up.
The older man restrained him with a hand on his chest. "It's all right. Nothing's happened."
"Oh, boy." Stantz supported himself on one elbow, maintaining his half- upright position, turning his head in a quick scan of the barren room. "Hasn't anyone shown up at all?" He squirmed slightly under the steady stares directed his way. His eyes flashed, but his voice held nothing but exhaustion. "What's wrong?"
"Hey, designer clothes, three squares, luxurious accommodations," Peter quipped, grinning mischievously. "What could be wrong?"
A reluctant smile tugged at Ray's thin lips. "There's no TV," he pointed out in the same tone. "Or women."
Drawing himself up with a horrified gasp, the brown haired Ghostbuster regarded his youngest colleague with awe. "Oh, gee-whiz! He said the 'w'- word! I think our little boy is growing up!"
Ray laughed outright and even Egon had to smile. "You never change, do you?" the blond asked, shaking his head at the grinning psychologist. "A 30- something juvenile delinquent."
Peter tipped his head. "You forgot astonishingly good looking."
"Right." Still smiling, Egon turned back to Stantz. "How badly are you hurt, Ray?" he asked solicitously, laying a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder.
Smile fading, the engineer glanced away guiltily. "I'm fine."
Peter snorted. "Sure, Egon, didn't you know purple and swollen is the 'in' look this year?"
Stantz' eyes flashed again. "Since when do you care...?" He stopped and lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"We know." Egon gently shook the slumped shoulder he still gripped. "Peter thinks the reason we've been on edge so long is because we were drugged."
Ray looked up, immediately interested. "Drugged? Then that's why I tried to...."
"Yep." Peter nodded confirmation. "The effects seem to be cumulative, although it obviously passes quickly out of the body." He drew a pattern on the grimy floor. "I'd like to have a sample for analysis, though. There's no telling what, if any, long term effects we cold be dealing with." He looked up and winked at Ray. "Now, you want to be a good boy and let Egon check you out for warping, breakage or settling?"
Ray sighed, then met Egon's sharp blue eyes earnestly. "I'm really fine, Egon. Just bruised. ... I think."
Peter cast his glance to the heavens; Spengler only nodded. "I think so, too," he said, pushing Stantz down flat. "But I'd still like to check your ribs and stomach for internal injuries. And your hand, too, of course."
Ray blushed. "I lost my temper. I'm sorry. I ... seem to be saying that a lot lately."
"So am I." Egon yanked up the thin black t-shirt and gaped at the respectable collection of bruises and marks which ranged themselves across the young man's body. "My god, Raymond," he gasped, "did Peter do all of that?!"
"Oh, man, Ray, I'm sorry," Peter stammered, coming to peer over the blond's shoulder.
"Not your fault, Peter." Ray smiled, then winced when Egon pressed gently on one rib. "Ow! I fell down the stairs when I was captured. Most of this is from when I landed. I think."
"You're thinking again," the psychologist groaned, sinking down the wall beside his friends. He rested his hand on Ray's shoulder, while the younger man patiently endured Egon's swift but thorough exam.
When he was through, Spengler sat back, satisfied. "I think a couple of your ribs may be cracked," he pronounced at last, helping Stantz to sit up. "But other than that, you seem to be all right."
"Told you," Ray said, awkwardly tucking his shirt into place.
"Your hand is broken, though."
Stantz cradled his hand in his lap, staring at the swelling abstractedly. "Heck. My own fault. I can live with it."
"Oh, brother." Peter rolled his eyes again, but winked cheekily at the others. "With your permission, Dr. Stantz," he said, scooting over to lean against Ray's shoulder, "I'm freezing and you're one of the few sources of heat in this place. Not that you're much help," he added, giving the shivering man a poke.
"Conserving body heat is a good idea, Peter." Egon sank down on Ray's other side, sliding close. "Perhaps we can eliminate some measure of the discomfort that way."
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes, each drawing comfort from the others' nearness. Then Peter looked up and caught Ray's eyes on him -- or, more precisely, on his neck -- and there was regret in the clear, brown depths. Peter coughed self-consciously. "Ray," he began, simultaneously with Stantz', "Peter?"
They both stopped, then Ray cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," he said simply, laying his left hand on his friend's arm. "I don't really want to hurt you. Honest."
Peter captured the cold hand in his own and held tight, a warrior's clasp. "The only one I want to hurt, is the guy who did this to us," he growled.
"Dream on, pal."
This last was so unexpected, that the three Ghostbusters stared at each other for a long minute before realizing that the voice wasn't one of their own. As one, they rose and crowded around the iron-barred door. "Who are you?" Peter demanded of the behemoth that awaited them there.
"You can call me Ali." Ali was a shaven-headed negro, tall, and clothed in a full length black robe that had obviously come from a cheep Halloween supply store. Powerful muscles rippled under the thin cloth, dispelling any hint of femininity the robe might otherwise have instilled. "Like the duds?" he asked, lifting arms the size of moderate tree trunks. "The boss thought they might set the mood fer ya. He made the boys here wear 'em, too." Flanking the big man stood two other shapes, draped also in robes but with a difference: beneath the hooded folds of the cowl, there were no faces to be seen, and skeletal hands peeked out of each sleeve.
"Oooo-kay," Peter breathed. "That's some field crew you've got there. Dig 'em up yourself?"
The black chuckled. "Very funny, Dr. Venkman. For that, you get to come with me first." Peter glowered but said nothing, craving that one chance at freedom this might present. Ali, sensing this, chuckled again. "Don't try it, kid. The dudes behind me are more than capable of taking you out -- even if I wasn't." He produced a set of keys and unlocked the cell door. "If you'll come with me...."
"NOW!" Peter shouted, giving the door a shove that knocked Ali back against the wall. In a rush, both Egon and Ray were through the door, and it was as a unit the three rushed the two spectral figures, determination banishing the fatigue of 24 hours neglect. Unfortunately, in this instance determination was not enough.
It took Ali a mere second to free himself of the door's constraints. With the speed of a snake, he reached out, catching Peter by the collar of his shirt as he went by, and using the man's own momentum to slam the off- balance psychologist into the wall. He then set upon him with his fists, delivering two powerful body punches that sent Peter sliding to the floor, gasping for breath.
Ray and Egon were faring no better. The Goizim nether-entities were every bit as powerful as Ali had claimed. One picked Ray clear off his feet, holding him aloft before slamming him to the ground; the youngest Ghostbuster hit with a dull thud and lay stunned, watching helplessly while the second creature handled Egon. This was a different technique, however, closer to the one used on Venkman earlier. Great lengths of flowing silk reared up of their own accord, wrapping Egon in its shimmering depths from ankle to neck. The blond struggled vainly, but was unable to free himself as the material tightened its hold, choking off his breath. "Help...." he managed, then went limp.
"Egon!" Ray forced himself into action once again, overcoming the pain of his abused body only by an act of will. He tore wildly at the restricting cloth, beating at the incorporeal captor with both fists to no avail. Egon continued to hang limply, face beginning to tinge with blue. Desperate, Ray turned to the laughing black man leaning against the wall. "Make them stop!"
"He does look a little peaked, don't he?" the negro observed, stepping lightly over Peter to peer into Egon's face. "Hmmm, I'd say he was dying -- if someone were to ask me, that is."
"Please...." Ray grasped the man's robe in a bunched fist. "Please make them stop! I'll do what you want...."
Ali's eyes narrowed. He grasped Ray's wrist in a fierce grip and twisted, freeing his robe. "Then beg," the negro ordered. "Beg me, and I might save him."
For Ray or any Ghostbuster, prioritizing companions over ego required no deliberation at all. He dropped to his knees, one hand raised in supplication. "Please," he asked humbly. "Don't let Egon die."
Ali regarded the upraised face with astonishment. "You're not even ashamed to do this," he said, unfulfilled by the man's capitulation. He tangled his fingers in the auburn hair, pulling Ray's head back and up. "Are you?"
"Egon...."
"Bah!" Ali brought his open palm across and backhanded Stantz to the ground, noting with far more satisfaction Peter's furious growl at the action. "Didn't like that, did you, Venkman?" he said, all smiles again. "Good. I'll remember that." He turned back to his minions. "Let blondie go and lock these two back up in the cell. Your master will want them later." He waited until the door had been secured before courteously helping Peter to his feet. "Shall we go, Dr. Venkman?" he asked, gesturing the Ghostbuster to proceed him. "You have an appointment with my boss."
***
In one corner, Ray Stantz lay asleep, huddled into a ball against the chill. He kept his arms curled tightly about himself and his face, normally childlike in repose, was pinched and drawn.
Against the other wall, Egon sat contemplating a spider spinning her intricate webbing. Scientific detachment is even harder to achieve when one is hungry and thirsty and cold and scared, but he was finally starting to come to terms with the emotion which continued to plague his thinking processes. It had begun to abate a few hours ago, allowing him to order his thoughts somewhat better than before.
"What time do you think it is?" Peter asked abruptly, pacing the cell like a great cat.
The physicist roused from his reverie, oddly not minding the interruption. "About noon, I'd say. Of course that's no more than a guess."
"Yeah. Scum took my watch, too." Peter threw himself down next to the physicist, crossing his bare feet under him. "We've been here maybe 25-30 hours and no one has paid us the slightest attention. Strange."
"Very strange. I wonder what they want?"
The darker man shrugged, rubbing his cold arms vigorously. "Got me. I would have liked to see the PKE reading on the things that got us. I'd bet they were more human than nether-entity. We...." He paused to cough as his dry throat closed up on him. "Sure wish we had some water."
Egon continued watching the busy spider, but when he spoke, his voice was hard. "You were right, Peter. We shouldn't have split up on this case. It was a trap."
"Yeah. And now I can die satisfied 'cause I was right." He stopped, sensing the withdraw of the other man, contrition softening his chisled features. "I didn't mean that against you, Egon. I'm just...." He threw his hands wide, a gesture of frustration.
"I understand." The blond pursed his full lips, then turned to stare Peter directly in the face. "You would have won your bet. I wasn't captured by an apparition."
Venkman cocked one dark brow. "No?"
"No. This..." Egon pointed to the bruise on the tip of his chin. "...was from a human fist. I remember that much before blacking out."
"Son of a...." Peter gave vent to a long, low whistle, green eyes sharpening with calculation. "So this could be a personal vendetta. No, wait a minute." He held up a hand. "I was captured by an N-E. No way that was a human being that grabbed me. Felt like one of those whatchamacallit's from Goizing dimensions."
"That's Goizim." Then it was Spengler's turn to shrug. "Humans are involved at any rate." He hesitated, staring at his long, white fingers folded across his thigh. "Peter, we've been together nearly fifteen years. We've fought before, but we've never..."
"...hated each other," Venkman finished for him. "I've been thinking about that, too." He stretched his legs, attempting to ease a cramp in his muscles. Egon watched him impassively, not moving at all until Peter rearranged his legs and fixed him with a clinical look. "How do you feel now, Egon?"
The older man frowned. "I feel ... on edge, irritable, angry -- though not nearly as bad as before. And scared," he added, ruthlessly honest.
Peter continued to regard the other with that professional detachment after which Egon had sought for days. "Your pupils are contracted, too."
"Conclusion?"
"I think we've been drugged." Peter smiled mirthlessly at the other's astonished expression. "Yeah, surprised me too. I've done extensive experimentation back at college with mood altering medication, and frankly, I can't think of anything else to account for what we've been through lately. We've all experienced identical elevations of stress, anger, loss of control, as well as having our own personal aggressions distended and distorted out of proportion. Winston's paranoia, for example, thinking that we were ganging up on him, or Ray's quickness to take offense."
"Or my conceit." Egon grinned ruefully, easing the sharp planes of his face with merry lines. "I never dreamed I was such an egotist."
"You're not." The psychologist returned the grin, more warmth in his expression than had been there all week. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, my friend. It was the drug which knocked it out of balance is all. It's obviously short acting," he went on after a minute. "The aggression is already starting to fade. Winston should be clear already."
"I would have liked to see Winston again," the physicist mused wistfully. "And Janine." He broke off at a soft sigh from across the room. Ray muttered something indistinct and turned toward his friends, still asleep. "Do you think Ray is all right?" he asked instead.
Peter bit his lip. "I'm ashamed to say, I didn't even ask. He picked up some collection of bruises though, didn't he?" The duo sat regarding their friend's swollen face and purpling arms silently, noting the discoloration on Ray's chest and stomach where the t-shirt had worked itself away from his pants. "Geez, between our hosts and me, we did a pretty good job painting him up."
One blond brow rose, disappearing into the disordered mat of hair. "You?"
"Yeah. Well..." Peter's lean cheeks colored. "We kind of mixed it up this morning ... yesterday morning, I mean." He rubbed absently at the contusions on his own throat. "I don't know who taught him to fight like that, but we nearly killed each other. I think his hand's broken," he added guiltily.
Egon nodded without comment, then rose gracefully and dropped to one knee beside the still figure. "Ray," he called, shaking his friend's shoulder.
Stantz came awake at once, brown eyes wide with alarm. "What is it?" he gasped, struggling to sit up.
The older man restrained him with a hand on his chest. "It's all right. Nothing's happened."
"Oh, boy." Stantz supported himself on one elbow, maintaining his half- upright position, turning his head in a quick scan of the barren room. "Hasn't anyone shown up at all?" He squirmed slightly under the steady stares directed his way. His eyes flashed, but his voice held nothing but exhaustion. "What's wrong?"
"Hey, designer clothes, three squares, luxurious accommodations," Peter quipped, grinning mischievously. "What could be wrong?"
A reluctant smile tugged at Ray's thin lips. "There's no TV," he pointed out in the same tone. "Or women."
Drawing himself up with a horrified gasp, the brown haired Ghostbuster regarded his youngest colleague with awe. "Oh, gee-whiz! He said the 'w'- word! I think our little boy is growing up!"
Ray laughed outright and even Egon had to smile. "You never change, do you?" the blond asked, shaking his head at the grinning psychologist. "A 30- something juvenile delinquent."
Peter tipped his head. "You forgot astonishingly good looking."
"Right." Still smiling, Egon turned back to Stantz. "How badly are you hurt, Ray?" he asked solicitously, laying a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder.
Smile fading, the engineer glanced away guiltily. "I'm fine."
Peter snorted. "Sure, Egon, didn't you know purple and swollen is the 'in' look this year?"
Stantz' eyes flashed again. "Since when do you care...?" He stopped and lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"We know." Egon gently shook the slumped shoulder he still gripped. "Peter thinks the reason we've been on edge so long is because we were drugged."
Ray looked up, immediately interested. "Drugged? Then that's why I tried to...."
"Yep." Peter nodded confirmation. "The effects seem to be cumulative, although it obviously passes quickly out of the body." He drew a pattern on the grimy floor. "I'd like to have a sample for analysis, though. There's no telling what, if any, long term effects we cold be dealing with." He looked up and winked at Ray. "Now, you want to be a good boy and let Egon check you out for warping, breakage or settling?"
Ray sighed, then met Egon's sharp blue eyes earnestly. "I'm really fine, Egon. Just bruised. ... I think."
Peter cast his glance to the heavens; Spengler only nodded. "I think so, too," he said, pushing Stantz down flat. "But I'd still like to check your ribs and stomach for internal injuries. And your hand, too, of course."
Ray blushed. "I lost my temper. I'm sorry. I ... seem to be saying that a lot lately."
"So am I." Egon yanked up the thin black t-shirt and gaped at the respectable collection of bruises and marks which ranged themselves across the young man's body. "My god, Raymond," he gasped, "did Peter do all of that?!"
"Oh, man, Ray, I'm sorry," Peter stammered, coming to peer over the blond's shoulder.
"Not your fault, Peter." Ray smiled, then winced when Egon pressed gently on one rib. "Ow! I fell down the stairs when I was captured. Most of this is from when I landed. I think."
"You're thinking again," the psychologist groaned, sinking down the wall beside his friends. He rested his hand on Ray's shoulder, while the younger man patiently endured Egon's swift but thorough exam.
When he was through, Spengler sat back, satisfied. "I think a couple of your ribs may be cracked," he pronounced at last, helping Stantz to sit up. "But other than that, you seem to be all right."
"Told you," Ray said, awkwardly tucking his shirt into place.
"Your hand is broken, though."
Stantz cradled his hand in his lap, staring at the swelling abstractedly. "Heck. My own fault. I can live with it."
"Oh, brother." Peter rolled his eyes again, but winked cheekily at the others. "With your permission, Dr. Stantz," he said, scooting over to lean against Ray's shoulder, "I'm freezing and you're one of the few sources of heat in this place. Not that you're much help," he added, giving the shivering man a poke.
"Conserving body heat is a good idea, Peter." Egon sank down on Ray's other side, sliding close. "Perhaps we can eliminate some measure of the discomfort that way."
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes, each drawing comfort from the others' nearness. Then Peter looked up and caught Ray's eyes on him -- or, more precisely, on his neck -- and there was regret in the clear, brown depths. Peter coughed self-consciously. "Ray," he began, simultaneously with Stantz', "Peter?"
They both stopped, then Ray cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," he said simply, laying his left hand on his friend's arm. "I don't really want to hurt you. Honest."
Peter captured the cold hand in his own and held tight, a warrior's clasp. "The only one I want to hurt, is the guy who did this to us," he growled.
"Dream on, pal."
This last was so unexpected, that the three Ghostbusters stared at each other for a long minute before realizing that the voice wasn't one of their own. As one, they rose and crowded around the iron-barred door. "Who are you?" Peter demanded of the behemoth that awaited them there.
"You can call me Ali." Ali was a shaven-headed negro, tall, and clothed in a full length black robe that had obviously come from a cheep Halloween supply store. Powerful muscles rippled under the thin cloth, dispelling any hint of femininity the robe might otherwise have instilled. "Like the duds?" he asked, lifting arms the size of moderate tree trunks. "The boss thought they might set the mood fer ya. He made the boys here wear 'em, too." Flanking the big man stood two other shapes, draped also in robes but with a difference: beneath the hooded folds of the cowl, there were no faces to be seen, and skeletal hands peeked out of each sleeve.
"Oooo-kay," Peter breathed. "That's some field crew you've got there. Dig 'em up yourself?"
The black chuckled. "Very funny, Dr. Venkman. For that, you get to come with me first." Peter glowered but said nothing, craving that one chance at freedom this might present. Ali, sensing this, chuckled again. "Don't try it, kid. The dudes behind me are more than capable of taking you out -- even if I wasn't." He produced a set of keys and unlocked the cell door. "If you'll come with me...."
"NOW!" Peter shouted, giving the door a shove that knocked Ali back against the wall. In a rush, both Egon and Ray were through the door, and it was as a unit the three rushed the two spectral figures, determination banishing the fatigue of 24 hours neglect. Unfortunately, in this instance determination was not enough.
It took Ali a mere second to free himself of the door's constraints. With the speed of a snake, he reached out, catching Peter by the collar of his shirt as he went by, and using the man's own momentum to slam the off- balance psychologist into the wall. He then set upon him with his fists, delivering two powerful body punches that sent Peter sliding to the floor, gasping for breath.
Ray and Egon were faring no better. The Goizim nether-entities were every bit as powerful as Ali had claimed. One picked Ray clear off his feet, holding him aloft before slamming him to the ground; the youngest Ghostbuster hit with a dull thud and lay stunned, watching helplessly while the second creature handled Egon. This was a different technique, however, closer to the one used on Venkman earlier. Great lengths of flowing silk reared up of their own accord, wrapping Egon in its shimmering depths from ankle to neck. The blond struggled vainly, but was unable to free himself as the material tightened its hold, choking off his breath. "Help...." he managed, then went limp.
"Egon!" Ray forced himself into action once again, overcoming the pain of his abused body only by an act of will. He tore wildly at the restricting cloth, beating at the incorporeal captor with both fists to no avail. Egon continued to hang limply, face beginning to tinge with blue. Desperate, Ray turned to the laughing black man leaning against the wall. "Make them stop!"
"He does look a little peaked, don't he?" the negro observed, stepping lightly over Peter to peer into Egon's face. "Hmmm, I'd say he was dying -- if someone were to ask me, that is."
"Please...." Ray grasped the man's robe in a bunched fist. "Please make them stop! I'll do what you want...."
Ali's eyes narrowed. He grasped Ray's wrist in a fierce grip and twisted, freeing his robe. "Then beg," the negro ordered. "Beg me, and I might save him."
For Ray or any Ghostbuster, prioritizing companions over ego required no deliberation at all. He dropped to his knees, one hand raised in supplication. "Please," he asked humbly. "Don't let Egon die."
Ali regarded the upraised face with astonishment. "You're not even ashamed to do this," he said, unfulfilled by the man's capitulation. He tangled his fingers in the auburn hair, pulling Ray's head back and up. "Are you?"
"Egon...."
"Bah!" Ali brought his open palm across and backhanded Stantz to the ground, noting with far more satisfaction Peter's furious growl at the action. "Didn't like that, did you, Venkman?" he said, all smiles again. "Good. I'll remember that." He turned back to his minions. "Let blondie go and lock these two back up in the cell. Your master will want them later." He waited until the door had been secured before courteously helping Peter to his feet. "Shall we go, Dr. Venkman?" he asked, gesturing the Ghostbuster to proceed him. "You have an appointment with my boss."
***