Disappointment and righteous anger quickened Peter's stride, his long legs
eating up the corridor while allowing him scant time to actually examine
it's length. He cared little; his unpredictable temper was already
starting to bank, resentment and a hefty dose of self-pity combining to
blur his surroundings ever-so-subtly.
I could'a used a little sympathy from those bozos, he thought, wandering aimlessly along a secondary aisle formed by two lines of packing crates. You'd think somebody would care that the girl I'm in love with won't even talk to me. He raised his eyes heavenward, addressing the gray-black plaster twenty feet up. "Wouldn't you?" There was, predictably, no reply, and with a disgusted grunt, Peter resumed his search, this time stooping to poke into an open carton.
"Why couldn't she at least have listened?" he asked himself, hurriedly abandoning the carton after a waterbug strolled into view. "She was absolutely perfect -- that face ... those legs ... her money." He heaved a deep, appreciative sigh. If there was one thing Lynn Stacey possessed that was better than her legs, it was her bank account -- which was considerable. She was even willing to spend it. Yep, Lynn had been perfect; the woman he'd always dreamed of. And to think that it had only required one kiss from Slimer to destroy this budding romance -- and Peter's dreams -- before ever they'd had a chance to blossom.
Peter sighed again, the thought of the ghostly mascot returning some of the resentment. "If Slimer wasn't already a ghost," he growled, an angry flush touching his lean cheeks, "I would'a been glad to arranged it. Wonder whose idea that Peter clone was, anyway?" A tiny smile lifted his lips on one side, reluctant amusement lightening the shadows in his face. "Well, I'll give 'em credit, anyway -- it was kind of funny. Even if it didn't look a thing like me."
He turned into a little office against the outer wall; an abandoned filing cabinet lay overturned on the far side, surrounded by shards of what had once been a glass enclosure. Once inside, he paused, vacant stare fixed on the floor. But that still didn't give Slimer the right to use it on my date. And naturally Ray had to help him.... Oh, boy. Chagrin creased his features at that. Had he really accused Ray of helping to spoil his relationship with Lynn? But yes, Peter's near-photographic memory replayed the conversation for him with remorseless accuracy. You knew he was going to use it against me ... sit back and laugh while Slimer ruined my life....
Peter groaned aloud at that, self-pity evaporating in a cloud of regret. One of the first things Peter had learned during his early association with Ray Stantz, was that concealed beneath that buoyant, brilliant smile lay a personality badly damaged by childhood neglect. Intelligence that often rivaled Egon's mingled with an insecurity so deep that it had taken the practiced reassurances of both Peter and Egon nearly a decade to break through. Peter closed his eyes; an absolute readiness to accept blame -- to not only accept it but to embrace it as his own -- was one of the lingering scars of Ray's youth. If that wasn't already coming into play in the young engineer's thoughts then Peter had mis-read his Ray badly. The poor kid was going to be miserable for days over this.... "And all over a woman I haven't dated even once," Peter finished aloud.
Wearily he sank down on the tipped file cabinet, running a hand through his dark locks. A rat the size of a small alley cat, hearing the strange voice, emerged from its hole in the rotting wall, lifting up on its hind legs to study the man curiously. Peter, unafraid of a rat that wisely kept its distance, addressed the animal solemnly. "So what do I do?" he asked the rat. "I accuse Ray of ruining my entire life knowing full well that even Slimer didn't plan on spoiling things between Lynn and me. I mean, the spud might be a pain, but he wouldn't deliberately do me in. And it wouldn't even have occurred to Ray.
"Face it, Petey," he went on, returning the conversation to himself when the rat squealed its agreement and left, "you made a royal ass out of yourself." Deciding to make locating Stantz a priority, he rose and headed for the door, gracefully hopping over a pile of lumber en route.
A flight of stairs in the corner caught his attention and, after deliberating for less than a second, Venkman elected to try the second floor. "That reminds me," he finished, mind returning to the reason he was in this crumbling warehouse in the first place. "Wonder what happened to the gooper?"
***
Sternly ordering Slimer to remain with the car, Egon and Winston lost no time in following their younger comrades into the abandoned warehouse, their boots kicking up little clouds of dust on the filthy floor. Winston, still annoyed by the earlier altercation, kicked savagely at a broken- legged chair, reducing it instantly to sawdust. "We were all excited about taking down Boogaloo last night, but I should'a figured Pete was going to be in a mood today. One thing you don't want to do is mess with one of Pete's dates."
"I rarely do," Spengler returned haughtily, poking his head into a small cubbyhole that had once been a lavatory. "Few of Peter Venkman's brainless wonders are my type."
Winston nudged the taller man in the ribs. "Don't give me that, Dr. Spengler. I saw you making eyes at Monica Tate over dinner last month. And then Pete gearing into high." He chuckled. "Poor Monica got her headache awful fast that night, didn't she?"
Egon smiled sheepishly. "I never said there weren't exceptions."
"And if you'd seen Lynn Stacey...." Winston whistled long and low, the sound swallowed by the wood, metal and garbage piled in all directions. "Man, talk about a looker! I don't blame Pete for being pissed over this one!" Reminded, he rolled his eyes. "I can't say I'm looking forward to catching up with him; he'll probably be in a foul temper for days."
"Actually," Spengler returned, his planed features betraying more than a trace of virtuous smugness, "right now Peter is ashamed of himself and contrite. I calculate that mood will last -- for the both of us, at any rate -- through tomorrow morning."
Several heartbeats passed while Winston tried to make sense of that prophetic statement. "How do you figure that? Last time he was this upset, he was a bear for weeks."
"Ray." Egon uttered the name sadly, with no small degree of empathy. "By now Peter has comprehended the fact that he accused Ray of helping Slimer destroy his relationship with Miss Stacey. That's not something he would have done had be been thinking clearly."
Zeddemore groaned his understanding. "And the boy is gonna take it as gospel. You're right, Peter probably is feeling like crap right about now."
"Not to mention how poor Ray is feeling," Egon added. "That means Peter will be spending the next couple of days trying to cheer Ray up ..."
"... while you an' me spend the next couple of days trying to stay out of Pete's way," the black man finished glumly. "Swell."
"Unfortunate, but true." Stopping midpoint between two passages, Egon plied the PKE meter, frowning prodigiously at the result. "That's odd."
Zeddemore, close at his side, shot him a look. "What's odd, m'man? Isn't it working?"
Egon didn't answer for a long moment, his brow furrowing even deeper. "There's no malfunction in the equipment, but I'm still not reading our surroundings accurately. Either that or...."
"Or what?" Winston prodded impatiently some seconds later. "Man, I hate it when you do that."
"Or ..." Spengler continued, waving the meter in a slow arc before them. The indicator wobbled madly. "... there are at least three separate sources of psychokinetic energy. Two of them are registering as Class 5's; one is a fluctuating energy source of variable PKE potential."
"Bottom line, Doctor," Winston demanded, adding under his breath, "Where's our translator when you really need him?"
"I hope he's not in the vicinity of those Class 5's," Spengler returned, answering the second part first. "The energy source could be a rather large dimensional nexus; if so, there's no telling what form of entity has come through -- or might yet."
Gripping his thrower tightly in both hands, Winston peered around the large room in which they found themselves, eyes alert, every muscle tensed. "And neither he nor Peter have a communicator. Can you tell where they are?"
Adjusting several dials produced nothing more than a high-pitched squeal from the gauge; full lips pursed, Egon shook his head. "There's a lot of interference from the nexus and the river making the scanning equipment unreliable from here. We'll have to search for them physically.
Winston nodded grimly, striding off down one corridor in what would become a practiced search pattern of the first floor. "And hope we're not too late."
***
I could'a used a little sympathy from those bozos, he thought, wandering aimlessly along a secondary aisle formed by two lines of packing crates. You'd think somebody would care that the girl I'm in love with won't even talk to me. He raised his eyes heavenward, addressing the gray-black plaster twenty feet up. "Wouldn't you?" There was, predictably, no reply, and with a disgusted grunt, Peter resumed his search, this time stooping to poke into an open carton.
"Why couldn't she at least have listened?" he asked himself, hurriedly abandoning the carton after a waterbug strolled into view. "She was absolutely perfect -- that face ... those legs ... her money." He heaved a deep, appreciative sigh. If there was one thing Lynn Stacey possessed that was better than her legs, it was her bank account -- which was considerable. She was even willing to spend it. Yep, Lynn had been perfect; the woman he'd always dreamed of. And to think that it had only required one kiss from Slimer to destroy this budding romance -- and Peter's dreams -- before ever they'd had a chance to blossom.
Peter sighed again, the thought of the ghostly mascot returning some of the resentment. "If Slimer wasn't already a ghost," he growled, an angry flush touching his lean cheeks, "I would'a been glad to arranged it. Wonder whose idea that Peter clone was, anyway?" A tiny smile lifted his lips on one side, reluctant amusement lightening the shadows in his face. "Well, I'll give 'em credit, anyway -- it was kind of funny. Even if it didn't look a thing like me."
He turned into a little office against the outer wall; an abandoned filing cabinet lay overturned on the far side, surrounded by shards of what had once been a glass enclosure. Once inside, he paused, vacant stare fixed on the floor. But that still didn't give Slimer the right to use it on my date. And naturally Ray had to help him.... Oh, boy. Chagrin creased his features at that. Had he really accused Ray of helping to spoil his relationship with Lynn? But yes, Peter's near-photographic memory replayed the conversation for him with remorseless accuracy. You knew he was going to use it against me ... sit back and laugh while Slimer ruined my life....
Peter groaned aloud at that, self-pity evaporating in a cloud of regret. One of the first things Peter had learned during his early association with Ray Stantz, was that concealed beneath that buoyant, brilliant smile lay a personality badly damaged by childhood neglect. Intelligence that often rivaled Egon's mingled with an insecurity so deep that it had taken the practiced reassurances of both Peter and Egon nearly a decade to break through. Peter closed his eyes; an absolute readiness to accept blame -- to not only accept it but to embrace it as his own -- was one of the lingering scars of Ray's youth. If that wasn't already coming into play in the young engineer's thoughts then Peter had mis-read his Ray badly. The poor kid was going to be miserable for days over this.... "And all over a woman I haven't dated even once," Peter finished aloud.
Wearily he sank down on the tipped file cabinet, running a hand through his dark locks. A rat the size of a small alley cat, hearing the strange voice, emerged from its hole in the rotting wall, lifting up on its hind legs to study the man curiously. Peter, unafraid of a rat that wisely kept its distance, addressed the animal solemnly. "So what do I do?" he asked the rat. "I accuse Ray of ruining my entire life knowing full well that even Slimer didn't plan on spoiling things between Lynn and me. I mean, the spud might be a pain, but he wouldn't deliberately do me in. And it wouldn't even have occurred to Ray.
"Face it, Petey," he went on, returning the conversation to himself when the rat squealed its agreement and left, "you made a royal ass out of yourself." Deciding to make locating Stantz a priority, he rose and headed for the door, gracefully hopping over a pile of lumber en route.
A flight of stairs in the corner caught his attention and, after deliberating for less than a second, Venkman elected to try the second floor. "That reminds me," he finished, mind returning to the reason he was in this crumbling warehouse in the first place. "Wonder what happened to the gooper?"
***
Sternly ordering Slimer to remain with the car, Egon and Winston lost no time in following their younger comrades into the abandoned warehouse, their boots kicking up little clouds of dust on the filthy floor. Winston, still annoyed by the earlier altercation, kicked savagely at a broken- legged chair, reducing it instantly to sawdust. "We were all excited about taking down Boogaloo last night, but I should'a figured Pete was going to be in a mood today. One thing you don't want to do is mess with one of Pete's dates."
"I rarely do," Spengler returned haughtily, poking his head into a small cubbyhole that had once been a lavatory. "Few of Peter Venkman's brainless wonders are my type."
Winston nudged the taller man in the ribs. "Don't give me that, Dr. Spengler. I saw you making eyes at Monica Tate over dinner last month. And then Pete gearing into high." He chuckled. "Poor Monica got her headache awful fast that night, didn't she?"
Egon smiled sheepishly. "I never said there weren't exceptions."
"And if you'd seen Lynn Stacey...." Winston whistled long and low, the sound swallowed by the wood, metal and garbage piled in all directions. "Man, talk about a looker! I don't blame Pete for being pissed over this one!" Reminded, he rolled his eyes. "I can't say I'm looking forward to catching up with him; he'll probably be in a foul temper for days."
"Actually," Spengler returned, his planed features betraying more than a trace of virtuous smugness, "right now Peter is ashamed of himself and contrite. I calculate that mood will last -- for the both of us, at any rate -- through tomorrow morning."
Several heartbeats passed while Winston tried to make sense of that prophetic statement. "How do you figure that? Last time he was this upset, he was a bear for weeks."
"Ray." Egon uttered the name sadly, with no small degree of empathy. "By now Peter has comprehended the fact that he accused Ray of helping Slimer destroy his relationship with Miss Stacey. That's not something he would have done had be been thinking clearly."
Zeddemore groaned his understanding. "And the boy is gonna take it as gospel. You're right, Peter probably is feeling like crap right about now."
"Not to mention how poor Ray is feeling," Egon added. "That means Peter will be spending the next couple of days trying to cheer Ray up ..."
"... while you an' me spend the next couple of days trying to stay out of Pete's way," the black man finished glumly. "Swell."
"Unfortunate, but true." Stopping midpoint between two passages, Egon plied the PKE meter, frowning prodigiously at the result. "That's odd."
Zeddemore, close at his side, shot him a look. "What's odd, m'man? Isn't it working?"
Egon didn't answer for a long moment, his brow furrowing even deeper. "There's no malfunction in the equipment, but I'm still not reading our surroundings accurately. Either that or...."
"Or what?" Winston prodded impatiently some seconds later. "Man, I hate it when you do that."
"Or ..." Spengler continued, waving the meter in a slow arc before them. The indicator wobbled madly. "... there are at least three separate sources of psychokinetic energy. Two of them are registering as Class 5's; one is a fluctuating energy source of variable PKE potential."
"Bottom line, Doctor," Winston demanded, adding under his breath, "Where's our translator when you really need him?"
"I hope he's not in the vicinity of those Class 5's," Spengler returned, answering the second part first. "The energy source could be a rather large dimensional nexus; if so, there's no telling what form of entity has come through -- or might yet."
Gripping his thrower tightly in both hands, Winston peered around the large room in which they found themselves, eyes alert, every muscle tensed. "And neither he nor Peter have a communicator. Can you tell where they are?"
Adjusting several dials produced nothing more than a high-pitched squeal from the gauge; full lips pursed, Egon shook his head. "There's a lot of interference from the nexus and the river making the scanning equipment unreliable from here. We'll have to search for them physically.
Winston nodded grimly, striding off down one corridor in what would become a practiced search pattern of the first floor. "And hope we're not too late."
***