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The Damocles Solution 15.
The limo pulled past the iron gates, and up to the long, curved path to the front door.
Morgan stepped out, and opened the door for Egon, who, in silence, straightened his jet black suit, picked up his briefcase, and made his way to the elaborate entrance. Morgan lagged behind, and went around the other side to seemingly get some things out of the car.
Egon observed the spacious grounds of Dolores Aracelli's grand home, which included a garden which seemed to need an entire payroll of groundskeepers itself. One of them was in the distance, cutting away at a shrub with a rather large set of garden shears, moving just out of sight, behind a corner of the house once in a while.
About ready to push the intercom button himself, Egon stiffened as he heard a voice behind him.
"Allow me, please."
Egon turned his head a bit, and, suddenly, there was Morgan. As Morgan pushed the intercom button and simply said "Assisstance, please," Egon's brow slightly contracted as he took another look back at the limo, parked rather far away from the front door. He thought it odd how Morgan could make the distance from car to door in such a short time, as he was a rather large, heavy man—just as tall as himself, but as opposed to having a rather heavyish runner's physique like his own, he was built more like Peter, stocky and firepluggish. However, Egon brushed it off as he knew he was steeping in fury over Peter breaking in to his briefcase, and fury always tends to bend time, occupying thoughts for much longer than estimated. He figured about ten, maybe twenty, or even potentially thirty years his life (or more) were lost already in fury with Peter.
There was the sound of the front door unlocking and opening, and Morgan gave a few words of business to the waitstaff, who were prepared to guide them inside.
Before he stepped over the threshold, Egon gave the gardens one last look, and gasped when looking down—there was the uniformed groundskeeper from before, right there next to the steps, looking up at him with a rather strange, intense expression. Or…was it the same man? He glanced across the lawn, and the man around the corner was not there…however, he really had been too far away to see any unique details, and the man was working on a spot blocked by a corner, so Egon assumed that there was more than one on duty. The grounds were rather large, and in some places the grass quite high, and it would only make sense to have more than one tender scheduled to finish the job more efficiently, particularly the topiaries. Egon continued into the house, which was the only thing that seemed could be done to break the stare from the gardener.
The physicist was given the offer from one of the staff to take his briefcase, which he politely refused. The waitstaff, finished with their greetings, dispersed again to their various stations inside the mansion. They seemed bright, professional, and capable…but before they parted, they also seemed to have been not just looking at him, but also subtley drinking up the sight of him as they waited for Morgan's directions.
Morgan grasped his hands behind his back, and bowed for a brief moment as he spoke. "Mrs. Aracelli will be with you in a brief moment. She wishes firstly to give you a tour of the mansion when she arrives, as she is sure there are many artifacts in her collection that would pique your curiosity."
Egon put his free hand in its pocket, and nodded silently to the assisstant. Any speaking he might do would immediately betray his burning urgence to discuss the most important subject at hand with the lady of the house, and his intense distaste for being taken on a housewarming tour instead. However, as he learned from his regular contact with the upper echelon of the scientific world, there was nothing more he could do in a meeting with peers other than patiently ride out their annoying pre-business informalities.
Now that he had an unfortunate spare moment, he took the opportunity to glance around Aracelli's entryway and parlor. There were, indeed, many bizarre artifacts here. Various lamps, sconces, and paintings lined the walls, accenting the rich, scarlet-red décor here and there. Various family pictures, most of them featuring young children, were hung in a neat line above the plush parlor furniture, facing the door. They were rather large for the room they were presented in, so it was almost as if they were hung right in one's face upon entering the house.
Moving along, he was drawn to a particularly curious item, only because he saw something like it before. He stepped over to it, recognizing the Jormungar artwork on the very tall, spear-like bronze brazier before him. It seemed remarkably similar to Aracelli's cane.
The brazier was taller than he was, because the tongue of the serpent teminated in a rather large, deadly-seeming arrow point. Down in the serpent'e eye was placed a large, brilliant sapphire-like jewel. The whole brazier was held up by a very heavy-looking base, around which the serpent's tail coiled.
Done with the curiosity inspection, he switched the briefcase into his right hand. He impatiently snapped up his wrist to glance at the time again, and returned the free hand to a pocket.
"Dr. Spengler. Welcome. I see you are eager to discuss Ragnarock."
Egon, raked out of his thoughts, started ever so slightly as he was so unexpectantly addressed by Aracelli. The woman was extremely observant, and also extremely silent, even when walking with a cane. Perhaps the plush carpeting underneath dampened the sound of her cane as she walked along.
"Please," she continued, smiling placidly. "Let me show you the rest of the house. This is such an unpleasant reason to have a guest. I implore you, have some patience, and allow me to attempt to cast a better mood on your visit before we go over anything."
Egon looked back silently, and nodded. Internally, he was strangling the impatient voice inside him screaming that this was phenomenally ridiculous, and there were many, many more important things to discuss at this moment.
Peter and Ray were watching the trail of slime, which appeared here and there as they ran.
The redhead panted as he pumped his arms. "Well, it's easy keeping track of where he splatted into because he's so upset. What's hard is keeping up with 'im!"
They made their way, rounding corners and almost knocking walkers out of the way. Ray found himself apologizing again and again over his shoulder to many rather annoyed people.
Over the street to 5th Avenue they ran, and the slime trail lead them north along it. Peter made a quick stab at all the supposedly litigation-crazy business owners along the avenue.
Ray stopped short and pointed sternly, almost getting them ran over by a taxi. "There-there he is!"
Peter looked toward where Ray was pointing, and facepalmed. "Oh, nooooooooo."
Slimer was floating in front of a window of a shop.
A formal wear shop.
The two of them finally caught up to the ghost, who was gazing inside sadly. "Slimer? Buddy? Whatcha lookin' at there?"
The green ghost burst into ectoplasmic tears at Ray's concern. He pointed furiously at the shop.
"Wha? You wanna go in?" Ray asked.
Slimer nodded vigorously, babbling what sounded like "not a stomach".
Ray looked at Peter, and shrugged. Turning again to the little green ghost, he patted him on the head. "You want really wanna look at tails and cuff links? Uh, sure. I'll go in with ya."
Slimer nodded happily, his mood changing instantly.
Inside the store, Peter adjusted his baseball cap in an effort to cover his face. "Slimer," he whispered under the very low brim, "you better not touch anything in here. One piece of clothing could set us back a few weeks, yanno."
"Peter, this is all because you were just plain mean!" chastised Ray quietly, trying to ignore the many stares the patrons of the shop were giving the three of them. "I think he's here because he feels about as big as the size of the head of a pin right now, and wants to dress nicely to make up for it. You should apologize to him and at least buy him a top hat and cuffs or something! He feels bad enough now!"
Peter balked. "What? MOI, buy this floating digestive tract formal wear? Are you kidding?"
Ray returned his attention to the ghost. "Hey, Slimer. Go pick out one or two things you reeeeeeeallly like and we'll get 'em fer ya. And if Peter," he said punctuatedly, "doesn't agree, you have my permission to slime him right here and now in payback!"
Peter ground his teeth in disgust. "That's blackmail!" he hissed.
Slimer, now happy as a clam from Ray's support, nodded again, and floated off in search of something that interested him.
Slimer looked in the mirror, and elegantly threaded his little fingers together. He raised his eyebrows, admiring his new top hat and cuffs.
After a long, drawn out "ooooooooo!", Ray winked. "Lookin' flashy, Slimer!"
"Still a stomach…," grumbled a much poorer Peter miserably.
Ray glared at Peter for a moment, then returned to smiling at Slimer. "Awww, look at 'im, Peter. He's so cute!" Slimer elegantly batted his eyelashes. "Looka that. You can dress him up, and you can take him out anywhere you want!"
Peter suddenly headed toward the door. "That's it, then, I'm done takin' him out. We found 'im, we blew some money on 'im, we're going home and locking 'im in a lab chair."
Slimer and Ray followed Peter out the door, to the immense relief of the shop owner and patrons.
Rounding the corner and heading down the street, they noticed an immediate change in Slimer. He floated with an elegance now. A rather forced elegance, similar to that of driving the round peg into the square hole with a jackhammer, but nonetheless an elegance.
All three of them stopped when two neighborhood kids started running toward them. "Lookit that!" said one with a cocked baseball hat and rather oversized blue jeans. "That's Dr. V! And Dr. Stantz! They're my heroes! Let's go talk to 'em!"
"Well, I'm gonna get to 'em before you, Timmy!" said the other, a bit shorter of a boy with a shock of curly red hair.
"Oh, no you ain't!"
They ran right up to the two Ghostbusters. "Hey! What do we have here!" said Ray amicably. "You boys seen us on TV?"
"Yeah! On the news, a lot! I'm Timmy, and this is James. He's my little brother!" said the boy with the cap, pointing first to himself, then thumbing toward the redheaded boy unceremoniously.
"Nice to meet you two boys," said Peter with a smile.
James pointed to Slimer. "And we know exactly who that is too! That's Slimer. He's awesome!"
Slimer, already feeling like a million bucks, babbled happily, doing a somersault in the air. Peter winced watching him, assuming that the hat was so gummed up by ectoplasmic goo by now it acted as a sort of adhesive, and prevented the hat from falling off when he did so. Eeeewww.
The dark haired psychologist winked at James' statement. "It's a lot different when ya live with 'im, kiddo," he said, and Ray gave him a solid but discreet elbow to the chest.
A third voice was heard, coming closer. "You boys better not be bothering these gentlemen!" said a well-dressed, beautiful woman, who held the hand of a little girl clutching a teddy bear.
"Oh! Not bothering us at all, ma'am!" said Peter, suddenly eyeing her like a kid in a candy store.
"Oh…good," she said. "I'm Mrs. Justine Cosser. These are my boys, who I'm sure you've met," she added, rolling her eyes, "and this is my daughter, Madisonne Bryttnye. And this must be Slimer." She nodded reluctantly toward the green ghost.
Slimer grinned broadly, and made an excellent effort to bow and tip his hat toward the lady.
"Where the heck he learn that?" asked Peter, incredulously.
"Oh, probably some TV show or something," Ray replied with a laugh.
"Ooooooh!" said Timmy, looking like he suddenly got a brilliant idea. "Yanno how they made that movie about you guys? Well, maybe Slimer should get his own TV show!"
"We can call Slimer 'Smiler'!" said James, and both the boys and Ray laughed heartily. The spud ooooed, babbled, and cheered in approval…as formally as he could.
"Oh, you boys," said the mother long-sufferingly. "If there was any TV show about these fine gentlemen, it would have to be age-appropriate. It would have to have no shooting, no violence, and positively nothing at all really scary!"
The boys awwwwed in disappointment.
Mrs. Cosser shook a finger at the boys. "I'm having yet another word with your father about him taking you to that movie! He's created quite the little monsters himself!"
Peter raised his eyebrows. "Actually, ma'am, they've got a point. If I want any sort of authorized biography, I want my life shown for the sickening, dangerous, bizarre, dangeous, gross, and dangerous life it really is."
"Well, how about something loosely based on your work?" insisted Mrs. Cosser. "You gentlemen don't have to use your own names for it, I'm sure." She winked. "I'm in the legal business, so I know! You can call it 'Smiler! And…uh, oh yeah, Ralfie, Wally, Poncho and Edwin!' You can have your little ghost dressed in the top hat and cuffs, and condense your adventures into cute, child-appropriate fifteen-minute animated episodes! I'm sure the network executives would love the idea just as much as I do!" She winked again. "I know a few of them, so I've got that covered, too!"
"Poncho? PONCHO?" objected Peter quietly.
Ray winked at the boys. "I think an animated series starring us is a great idea, but we're gonna have to get it past Miss Melnitz first."
The boys blushed and smiled.
"Janine," said Mrs. Cosser's daughter shyly. She smiled adorably. "Janine fights off the ghosts, too!" she said, from behind the teddy bear's head.
"Now, now," said Mrs. Cosser. "I think you and other little girls need good role models."
Ray shot Peter a bristled look for the not-so-hidden offense of their secretary. Peter looked back with the same expression, and when both men turned their attention to Mrs. Cosser again, she seemed totally oblivious to their sudden ire.
Mrs. Cosser smiled broadly. "As a parent, I think it'll be a big hit if—um, Janine-can written as your good and wholesome mother hen!" She started to have a dreamy, far-away look about her face that made Peter and Ray look at each other and shrug. "She can fall in love with a dashing, down-home, earthy sort of man…maybe a schoolteacher-or an accountant!-who looks forward to having dozens of children!" She started gathering up her boys, and excused herself. "Have a good day, gentlemen! Pleased to have met you! Now let's leave these nice men and their, ah-ghost-alone!"
As she and her kids hurried down the street, Peter and Ray stood there, ruminating.
"Those kids are gonna be watching Romper Room reruns until they're 40," said Peter ascerbically as all three of them turned toward home. "And it doesn't take a psych degree to figure out that Janine'll positively trash the studio if she ever finds out she's been turned into a sorry animated attempt at a Stepford wife. She'll do it another two or three times if they refuse to mention her starry eyes for Dr. 'I'm Clueless-What-To-Do-Because-She-Likes-Me', 'Spores, Mold and Fungus' Spengler."
"I dunno, Peter," said Ray, Slimer now floating aside him. "I can see Janine pretty upset, but…going off the deep end that badly because the Powers That Be would wanna keep it squeaky clean?"
"Tex, you know she'll do it."
Ray looked thoughtful. "You think an idea like that is gonna be that bad?"
"Yup. This is how executive meddling works…next thing people like her'll wanna write in is Slimer as my bestest buddy." He winced at the thought. "I've seen it happen to good shows already, I don't want any part of it, and my dad would most likely have a hand in it if it ever happens!"
Ray looked forward again, and after few more moments of thought, had to nod in agreement.
Egon figured that Aracelli must have been particularily isolated without more members of her family around resulting in her present loquaciousness. She took him from room to room, telling him about various pieces of art that her husband had collected over the years before he passed away. She kept the pieces around because they reminded her of him, she said. "Others would find this home rather cluttered, however I call it cozy."
Deep within the home, she brought him into another room. "This is where my husband used to do much of his reading. You'll notice that it's rather dark compared to the other rooms…he absolutely loved relaxing in low lighting. I think the fluorescent lights at the office wore him down more than anything."
"Erm….interesting," he lied. He did notice, however, that there was yet another Jormungar brazier in the room. It was probably the third one he saw, which was, he had to admit to himself, interesting. He found it strange they were not all kept together; it would be much more logical to do that to display the pieces, he thought, even if they were placed outside somewhere.
The intercom buzzed. "Ma'am, there is a news reporter at the front door, he wishes to speak to you."
"Fine, Morgan. I will go there and see what he wishes to ask. I will be there when I can." She turned and looked far up to the tall physicist, as her head came past his elbow by a few spare inches. "If you will excuse me, I shall return shortly. Do feel comfortable enough to open a book and read if you wish, as my legs aren't what they used to be."
She left the room, and he knew he would be left alone for quite a while.
Having absolutely no desire to read, he settled for sitting in a plush chair. Something was indeed very odd about the staff here. He couldn't pinpoint what it was; they all seemed capable, professional, familiar with each other. But something still gnawed at him.
His mind kept returning to how quickly they seemed to move. Or did they?
While waiting for Aracelli to return, out of a combination of curiosity, annoyance, and boredom, he arose from his chair and set his briefcase on a table, unlocked it, took out the PKE meter, and turned the power knob.
The alarm rang, and its sensor arms rose high, far above parallel. His eyes widened in shock at the intensity of the signals on the meter. At least one class VII, very nearby, with multiple class IVs, and the odd Jormungar brazier in this room gave off an inconclusive, but powerful, pulsating reading. There were also echoes of what he couldn't tell were lower intensity entities, or energy that was located further away.
In short, the whole house was a haven for demonic energy.
The strong readings. Her rather laxadasical attitude toward the Ragnarock subject matter. The timely death of Jeremy Whittington. His and Tennent's invitations to a rather distant occasion. Her insistance on his visit-it was like an orchestration. It only took one reading for him to put it together…
"Aracelli! She-!"
He was cut short by a heavy slap on his right shoulder, then a horrible, burning sensation of short knives digging into it.
The pain and downward pressure continued; it forced him to drop the PKE meter to the ground, and himself, down to one knee.
Gritting his teeth, he reached around to grab the arm of his uknown assailant, and, kicking back, managed to throw the offender down to the floor. He stopped there on his knee for an instant, gratified that he paid more attention than Peter when Winston was giving the men self-defense pointers.
The assailant, also wearing a suit, straightened. He seemed at first rather stunned that his victim was able to defend himself so well. He resembled Morgan in features, but now, his face was covered in what looked like thick, greenish, snakeskin-like hide, and his fingers sported long, white claws, the claws on his right hand tinged bright red. "She told me to pay closssssssse attention and granted me full reign if you ever brought out one of your technical toys," he hissed, recovering all too quickly. He stomped heavily on the still ringing PKE meter, silencing its alarm.
Egon straightened also, and his eyes went wide seeing the assisstant so changed. He had to desperately grab his shoulder for a moment in a vain attempt to make it stop throbbing, and Morgan swung high, taking advantage of the distraction. Egon ducked it by a mile, but received another deep knife-like swipe on the other arm when Morgan followed up low.
The physicist purposely went down, and gave a powerful kick to Morgan's knee, making him howl and knocking him on the floor.
Now back on his feet, Egon backed up, and took in hand the only thing in his immediate reach he saw that could temporarily assisst him in defending himself—the odd Jormungar brazier behind him.
He reared up the brazier, pointing at Morgan like a spear, then hurled it at him with a grunt.
Morgan already was recovering by the time Egon thrust the brazier point; sensing the incoming weapon, he grabbed a hold of the shaft an inch away from his face, and a power struggle began.
The pause gave Egon the opportunity to see a flash of horror on Morgan's face as it seemed the demon realized what weapon he was using to defend himself. Egon had absolutely no time to analyze it.
Morgan's strength was, sensibly, inhuman, and Egon couldn't resist Morgan's countering forward pull. The demon, though he should have been completely off balance due to the weight of the base, followed up with two immense direct hits; the flat, floor-side end of the brazierhit the right side of his chest with a force that made him yelp, and he could feel bones breaking as it hit him.
Another paranormally fast jab hit him on the left side; the communicator in his chest pocket absorbed damage from the direct blow, as he heard it crack, and felt it come to pieces, and the side underneath it begin to bruise also.
The blows knocked the wind out of him, and he fell back against the door to the room. He sunk to a knee, wrapping his left arm around himself; he was sure the communicator was beyond repair now, and also so out of range he'd have to wait for a half minute of time he didn't have for it to connect.
His only hope was to reach the front door and run…hopefully the reporter and his car were still there…if they were, in fact, really there at all.
He opened up the door to the hallway, and, gripping his right side, ran as fast as his body would allow him.
A loud hiss was heard on the intercom of the house, followed by a terrifyingly brutal "Assisstance, NOW! Entrance, second floor lounge hall!"
Were his body intact, he could have easily flown down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door; with a runner's long legs, he was always the first one to reach the destination when in a hurry with the rest of the men. However, now he was torn between being too injured to breathe, and gasping for air; his broken ribs now did nothing but slow him down immensely as he ran, and he saw now that he was purposely lured far into the home by Aracelli's senseless small talk to make his potential escape more than difficult.
It was, for a moment, too much, and he had no choice but to back up against a wall and catch his breath; that was an effort in futility also, because the more he did so, the more pain it revealed, and he found himself wincing, sliding down the wall again as he gripped his side.
He heard footsteps in the hallway approaching him from behind; no doubt the rest of the staff was demonic also, and Morgan now had them ready for him throughout the building. He had to keep moving.
Steeling himself to continue running, he grunted, and pushed himself away from the wall. He looked back for an instant…and berated his stupidity as he saw the large red streak, left behind from his shoulder, against the brilliant white wall. It marked his trail like a deer to a hunter.
He continued running, panting heavily, and each breath threatened to floor him. Rounding a turn that lead to a stairwell, he almost ran headlong into a group of three demonic waitstaff that appeared out of nowhere, just like Morgan had. They immediately grabbed hold wherever they could and tore in with their claws. Egon's adrenaline made him stubbornly wrestle their combined effort, and when he proved to be much for even the three of them, another two were called over, and soon enough he was surrounded, trapped like a prized animal. He saw all over again that look in their eyes he sensed when he first walked in…that look that send chills down his spine, the look of those desiring the capture of their hunted.
They wasted no time in negotiations, and dove in toward him at once.
A low, narrow table near the stairwell was cleared off, and each demon grabbed a limb; he was unsanctimoniously tossed on top like an offering, still vainly trying to wrest himself from their claws, letting loose a pained yelp everytime a shoulder or his side was involved. The demon holding his right wrist held on especially tightly, and when he struggled too much, it seemed to lose patience and gave it a jarring turn. He yelped again when he felt something in his wrist snap.
Held at bay by one demon holding onto each limb, another knelt down at his head. All the hands that gripped him seemed like iron locks, and another scaly, clawed hand held his mouth shut as his head hung over the edge of the table.
Morgan finally limped down the hall, and stopped next to the demon who covered his mouth. He leaned over his catch. "You obviously, at this point, are not interested in working with us, Dr. Spengler."
Egon growled, and tried using a foot on the edge of the table to prop him up, the hands around his limbs tightened, and he winced hard, fighting against the grip on his wrist with a muffled groan.
Morgan grinned. He looked calmly into Egon's upside-down, furiously and painfully narrowed, icy eyes. "So we shall have to seek ways of making you work…for us."