Another section from the story, Power Trip, that I thought I'd post. This one contains three sections that were either finished segments or ideas to go into a longer segment. They are in order, but were not going to link directly to each other. Just so you know why they don't seem to link.

I've put a very brief explanation before each one, and they're as originally written, a reminder to myself of the writing style I assumed ten years ago and was proud of, and as of now, am envious of... because I can't seem to think/write quite this way anymore.

And yes, I just stated that I am envious of myself... If that's not the epitome of throwing yourself flowers, I don't know what is... *head-desk*

Power Trip: Third Instalment

Sitting round the kitchen table discussing Peter's regular visits to his home away from home, the bar. Peter's POV.

"What's it called again. Kreuger's place?" Ray asked the question with a look of mock innocence on his face.

I rolled my eyes. "Fred's place."

"Close enough." Egon said flatly, as he fixed me with a raised eyebrow.

"So, where is it?" Ray asked.

I traced a finger around the rim of my coffee cup. "Well" I began, "You know that little book shop just a block from here?"

Ray looked thoughtfully at me, and a light donned in his eyes. "Oh, oh yeah."

I grinned. "Not there."

Ray's face dropped for a moment, then his expression soured. Egon raised his mug up and pretended to drink, but I could see the broad grin only partially hidden behind his coffee cup.

Ahhh. Score one for the Venkmeister

XXXXX

Egon awakes before sunrise to find Peter Venkman actually up. This is not in line with Peter's 'hang around in bed till noon' character. Note: This is my favorite of the three sections.

Peter, up this early. Pigs were flying past the windows. I was sure of it.

A hoard of insufferable locusts were about to descend on the city at any moment. I was sure of it.

A pan clanged noisily against the steel of a hot stove, and a sockless Venkman hovered over said stove, one hand wrapped around the plastic handle of the lightly smoking pan, the other prodding the grayish mass that, based on pure deduction, I was sure had, at one time, been scrambled eggs.

He was dressed in an old and thoroughly faded pair of gray sweats, one of his favorite pairs I believe. It was matched with a grayish green tee shirt, one that, in my opinion, had always looked particularly good against his emerald eyes. Deep brown hair, usually styled to perfection stood ragged and spiky against his pale features, the unruly curl... unruly to the Nth degree. A day's worth of dark, stubbled hair produced a dirty effect across his jawline.

I stood silently, centered in the doorway, and contemplated the Venkman-like atrocity.

He was rocking on his bare feet from heel to toe and back again on the cold lenolium floor. The fantastically clean, shiny floor, I noticed, which now glowed several shades lighter than I could even remember. It was as if the dirt, spilled food, and years of old slime had all been scrubbed clean away. That alarmed me.

Darkness still hung outside the window, only hinting of the sun's impending arrival.

"hmmmm, hm hm waaaterr…"

And he was humming something I felt I might have been able to place, had there been any resemblance to an actual song.

"….fire in the sky…"

That was enough of that. I had to put a stop to the horror that was Venkman's singing.

"Peter," I said quietly so as not to alarm him. He was after all, cooking.

"D-aah!"

The spatula he'd been using to torture the eggs, dropped from nerveless fingers to the stove, bounced once and fell to the floor beside his feet. His head whirled around, hand to chest, eyes wide, quickly assessing me.

He puffed out a sigh. "Oh. Spengs. Jeez, what are you trying to do me? Sneaking up on me like….."

The informal dressing down was lost in a wordless mumble as he turned away from me and bent down to retrieve the utensil… which I noticed with some disgust he placed directly back into the frying pan.

"You're cooking," I stated, trying to gauge his temperament. He'd been unpredictable, and less than agreeable at the best of times since being unceremoniously removed from active ghost busting duty. This early in the morning, who knew what to expect? In fifteen years, I'd had rare occasion to study the beast at this time of day.

"Something like that," he sing-songed. He turned back to me after pausing to finally give the utensil a brief rinse, and displayed a crooked grin.

"You're up." I stated the obvious again, still just as baffled.

Peter leaned sideways against the edge of the stove and continued jerky, prodding motions towards the contents of the pan, which now sat on a cool portion of the stove. For one second, a myriad of emotions flashed across his face and then just a quickly disappeared. He was shutting me out, and I could not, would not let that happen. He looked and sounded… unstable, his bloodshot eyes too bright, movements erratic and jerky. I believe I even noticed his head twitch several times. He turned his head to face me completely, and cocked it slightly to one side.

"Never went to bed," he chirped.

I blinked against the words, then marched in four long strides across the clean floor and stopped just short of running into him. He didn't move, only stared past me blankly to where I had been standing before.

"You never went to bed?" I questioned firmly, disbelief clear in my normally controlled voice. Peter's nocturnal habits were normally of no particular concern to me. In fact, countless numbers of his dates ended with him creeping rather un-silently into the fire hall at all ungodly hours of the morning. That was just Peter. But it had been weeks now, and his sleep patterns had been far from whatever was normal for him.

His health and general well being, however, were always of particular concern to me. I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Peter, when exactly was the last time you slept?" I asked softly, studying his features. His eyes were underplayed with dark smudges, pupils dilated unusually large, skin pallid. White was replaced with broken red veins, and what was left of the usually sparkling green rim was only a dull shade of its former color. If I hadn't known this man like a brother, I would have said that he gave every appearance of being a drug addict. But I knew that was not the case, especially since getting him to take pain killers or sleep aids in the past had always been either an exercise in futility, or one that ended in threats.

He cast a glance downward, and shrugged a Venkman shrug, while quietly fidgeting with the spatula.

"Mm. Not sure… couple…couple days maybe." Then he suddenly brightened.

"Ahhh," he waved a hand at me. "Sleep's over rated Spengs. Gave it up, bad habit, steals your life away… that's what you always keep telling me when I sleep in la…."

I felt my composure slip just a little bit. I reached up to his shoulders and embraced them, giving the psychologist a firm but gentle shake until he looked up to meet my glare.

"Peter, let me help you."

He blinked at me once, then dropped his gaze, his eyes darting about in an almost desperate, panicked state, reflecting an internal struggle. If I hadn't been holding him, I'm almost sure he would have dropped the spatula and bolted. But, slowly the corner of his bottom lip began to quiver. I took that as my cue and pulled him into a hug. His mild resistance crumbled with finality and he threw himself fully against me, burying his head into my shoulder.

"Gawd Spengs… I'm…. so… tired." The words came muffled into the material of my shirt. But they were very clear to me. Peter, my friend, had finally asked for help. Now, maybe, I could finally help him.

XXXXX

In the lab upstairs. Peter has become agitated and restless, despite a growing lack of sleep. This might take place late afternoon, after he has managed to get some daytime sleep with Egon's help. Note: The samples Egon is looking at have nothing to do with Peter.

I paced back and forth behind Egon for several minutes, as he, hell bent on ignoring me for the moment, focused every ounce of his considerable brain power on the samples under the microscope. On my fifteenth lap, a hand caught my upper arm firmly, halting my progress, and I turned my head to face serious blue eyes.

"Peter? I would like to run some tests. Would you be amenable to that?"

Boy, would I? "Uh, let me think about that." I rubbed my stubbled chin with my free hand and pretended to think hard. You know, really mull it over. "Uhmm, I'm gonna go with… hmmm, let's say… mmm…No."

Spengler only raised his eyebrow at me, without amusement. But he didn't let go of my arm. And that was just about starting to bug me.

"Peter," he began. "This morning you were ready to address this situation."

"Ya well, that was thennnn. And this is now. See how that works?" I said in a condescending voice. Then I changed my tone to one with a hint of threat. "Now if you want to continue to be able to manipulate the controls of that microscope in front of you, you'll let go of my arm."

Egon said not one word, just looked at me consideringly for a full second, then dropped his arm. I turned and left the room, unaware of the hard contemplative stare that followed me out the door.

There you go. There might be two more sections that are in relatively postable condition. And I may stick them up today or very soon.

Junichiblue