The Damocles Solution 27

He had already begun some plans for a new and improved ionic destablizer, and adjusted half of the proton throwers to somewhat compensate for his current lack of use to the other men. He was, admittedly, a little miffed, as they had started taking Slimer along with them on busts just to have another pair of hands to throw traps. He had also shuffled some secretarial work, which consisted mostly of matching up the excused court cases with the summons they had already received…since they didn't have a…

…he shook his head, clearing the stinging train of thought out of his mind before completing it.

The current self-assigned project to allay his boredom was to check every trap in the building to make sure it was clean. He knew the other men would find no end of irritation if they discovered this project, which required him to go up and down the stairs more than a few times, but he had no other idea how to spend so many weeks incapacitated than to do such things. It was only four days into his recuperation period, and already he was getting a touch of positive domicile-stimulated temperature fluctuation…or, as he explained to the rest of the men, was commonly known as cabin fever.

He had, in fact, found one trap that had not been emptied, which caused him to eject a supercillious "a-ha!" before emptying. When the men would get in, he'd have to address this problem to Peter. Since, he was sure, it was his turn to do traps for whatever was in there, anyway.

Egon wiped his damp brow with a shirt sleeve, and eventually needed to steady himself by holding on to the wall of the containment unit, trying not to make the crutch fall in that annoying way it did when he forgot to hold on to it.

Despite his current extreme discomfort, it had been a relatively constructive day while the other men were out on a bust. He would have certainly been there with them if they had not chased him away with a proton gun under threat of all-day relentless sliming should he have gotten any closer to the vehicle. He had insisted that he was still of sound mind and could still contribute. However, "It's only been four days since you're back here!" they said. Und so weiter, und so weiter, und so weiter. And then, after they had to pick him up off the floor and plop him on the couch, he wisely thought better of it, and decided it was in his best interest to stay back.

Finished with the inspection, he arranged the pristinely cleaned traps, and placed them not too high, in neat piles. He would help allay the next day's boredom by bringing all them back up tomorrow.

He turned toward the exit…and looked up at the stairs. His head began to swim, and his vision almost blinded by greenish shadows. Those stairs were never an issue for him to climb before…but they seemed as tall as Mount Everest at this moment.

Perhaps if he took them slowly…

One, two, three, four steps he made upwards with the compeltely aggravating crutch. Why even use the extraneous thing? It was only a sprain, and not a break, and the support around it was well cushioned on the bottom. Oh well, doctor's orders were doctor's orders.

Reaching the landing, he turned, and had to steady himself again on the railing. The unfinished, intrusive thought about their now permanent lack of a secretary filled his mind, entirely against his will. This was all, in fact, her work he was doing…her work. Hers. Shaking his head and sighing, he made it up another two steps, when he had to pause for a moment, rocking back and forth unsteadily, and wincing.

Perhaps…if he sat down before tackling the last few steps.

So there he sat on a cold metal step, his back and head against the wall, and his eyes shut, waiting for his vision and head to clear. He sighed, then unconsciously reached under his dress shirt, which hung open, to grip his right side, miffed that his annoying ribs refusing to cooperate any time soon.

He had long gotten annoyed with trying to do every button on a shirt with one hand, and for now, just threw his dress shirts on and left them that way. Peter gave him a thumbs up every time he saw he was not wearing a tee, and Egon rolled his eyes upward every time Peter gave him a thumbs-up.

He waited. Four days since arriving here. Five days since seeing her.

Shaking his head again, and releasing a small sigh, he waited. Soon the greenish shadows would lighten, and the attack would pass, as he was starting to learn how to pace himself with the venom of a leviathan still raging mercilessly through his body. Well, not so much pace himself as take the few moments of clarity he had for all they were worth.

After contemplating the details necessary to build the new destabilizer, he felt the sickening need creeping upon him to support himself further. He removed his glasses, folded them and placed them in the pocket on his chest, then leaned forward in an effort to place his arm on the next stair or two up, and rest his head on it.

And that's when he realized he was not improving this time.

His head practically fell on his left forearm.

Immediately, there was no containment unit in the distance, there were no stairs, and there was no exit on the top of the stairs. Everything was bathed in the deepest veridian, and the fire had returned to every sinew in his body with a bloodthirsty vengeance.

What started as gasps, soon became screams that some strange, separated part of him couldn't believe he was the source of. Soon, even screams weren't enough to relieve or express the pain, and his voice eventually melted away into hoarse, ripped gasps and murmured cries. He had no idea for how long he allowed the deep green color to do whatever felt like-raking through every cell of his body and tearing every fiber of it to shreds.

Soon, he reached a point of utter exhaustion, and the sleeve of his shirt by now was wet, almost squeezeable, with sweat. Jormungar had did all it could to weaken him, now that it knew he was alone. It drank in his blood—it knew who to attack now, and when. It knew there was nothing else left now, and there was no one to help him. Or, better yet, stop him.

He turned his head slowly, and with the one eye not buried in his sleeve, swore he saw an outlined vision of Jormungar, green on green, grinning at him with a thousand red teeth, beckoning him.

He narrowed his eye, which now, if only he could see, was glowing and pulsing darkly with the same depthless veridian shade as the vision he beheld.

Secretary. The word stung, and it made him think again.

It occurred to him that so many things had been taken away, or voluntarily, but painfully, left behind in his life due to circumstances and hard decisions. The very few friends he made before being pushed through school so quickly he was graduating college in grade school. His family's approval…events since Uncle Cyrus's last visit proved that his uncle would only refrain from deriding his work, and would not, as he hoped, actively support it. Cyrus, after all, Egon knew, was still not wishing to fall out of favor with the rest of the powerful Spengler family. He thought about the dragon he had to put to sleep, though it broke his heart. And now, Ragnarock had taken…what he could only describe, as…his soul. No, it hadn't taken anything, he corrected himself, just like his family hadn't taken anything, just like the dragon wasn't taken…circumstances had made him give it all up. Ragnarock had made him give up his soul. His soul.

The leviathan beckoned him.

He gazed back at it with one darkened viridian eye, his body feeling like it was tearing into pieces.

"Just…take…me…," he breathed with resigned finality, his voice low, rasping, factual. Ragnarok had taken his soul, and in the only vengeance he could muster, he would make sure that Ragnarok would die with him, even though be it by Jormunger's slow-killing, poisonous claws. He shifted, and sighed slowly and deeply, for what he considered the last time, and his eye closed.

Resigned, Egon lay there, not feeling the coolness of the metal underneath anymore, but rather only the burning, roiling heat of the poison.

Jormunger laughed, the same laugh mirrored darkly in the little serpents that held him fast to the floor in Aracelli's prison.

His brow contracted in agony. His soul.

Just…take me…

Take…me…

Jormungar dove in, ready to claw at his throat, to claim more blood for itself—

...Egon never heard the door to the basement open. From the light pouring onto the metal steps, Ray appeared, already happily showered and changed like the rest of those that were now home from the bust were. Swinging a trap haphazardly in his hand, he planned to simply pop this hard-to-find, but easier-than-dirt-to-handle class II gooper in the unit and be done with it. He stopped immediately, annoyed at himself at doing something so stupid with a full trap. Peter's bad habits were wearing on him, mostly because Egon wasn't on a few busts now to give that stern look, reminding him not to do things like Peter does them.

Rounding the turn and taking his first step, he almost fell down the rest of the way when he saw the tall blonde sprawled out on the stairs. He shouted something into the nearby doorway.

Soon enough, many hands were desperately slapping at the unconscious physicist to wake up, then carrying him up the stairs, before finally placing him on his bed.

Leaving Egon in the bunkroom, Winston and Ray noticed that Peter looked absolutely distraught.

Earlier, when the psychologist lifted one of the blonde's eyelids, he shuddered when he saw the dark, blackish-green eye that sightlessly gazed out.

It had taken too long to get Egon to take a breath this time. And, when finally roused, all he repeated, in tortuous tones, over and over, was "All of you…let me go…".

Now, Peter's brow was furrowed. There was not one iota of irreverence in him now. That alone caused chills to run through Ray and Winston.

What he just saw was too terrifying. His friend was dying right in front of him, and what was worse, that friend didn't care. "Guys?" he began, his arms crossed, pacing back and forth. "It's time."

Winston put his hands on his hips. "Time…?"

Peter took a step back toward the bunkroom, cooly putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "For the psychological cowprod. C'mon Tex, Sureshot. We got a life to save, a relationship to salvage for two star-crossed lovebirds, and a willingly underpaid secretary to reinstate."

Ray leaned over in his loafers, looking at Egon rolling his head in pain in the bunkroom. He spread his hands. "He's going through another attack! He hardly even knows where is he is! Do you think it's a good time to do this? Shouldn't we wait until he's feeling, well, way better than he is now, so he can defend himself?"

Peter frowned. "We gotta do this now, Tex. If we don't, he's gonna cater to whatever that crap is running through him. He was half-dead, again, when we found him just now. He's not gonna have another two months if we don't do something. And even if we did wait, and he 'defends himself', you'll know it would take six of us to hold 'im down when you hear what I'm gonna say to'im." He looked at each of them resolutely. "So I'm telling ya. Let's do this. Now."

Ray shuffled uncomfortably, and Winston pushed up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, blowing out a strong puff of air in worry.

Peter reached in his pocket. He brought out a communicator, and switched it on. "Hey. Hey! Ya there?" he spoke into it.

"Yeah, Dr. V. I'm here," he heard Janine's voice say. "I'm at the store, whaddayawant?"

Peter held up a finger. "I want you…to listen. Just listen. Put your communicator on mute, don't ever take it off, and don't say one single word no matter what you're gonna hear from anyone." He paused for a moment. "Including… me," he added darkly.

"Uh…okay…"

The psychologist, indeed, looked intensely disturbed. "I mean it, Janine. It's not gonna be pretty."

"Awright! Awright! I get it!"

Replacing the communicator in his pocket, Peter, Ray, and Winston made their way in the room, and there was Egon, wincing and straining, clutching his right arm.

Ray sat in the bed next to Egon, desperately wishing he could take it all away. Egon looked like he was in just as much agony as when they took him to the med center on finding him four days ago. Ray put a hand to his damp forehead. "He's burning up again, Peter…I don't know.…"

"Hey, Spengs. Sooooo...whadayathink you're doin'?"

Coming back to consciousness, Egon opened his blackish-green eyes, and slowly made his way to sitting up again.

"Ya really screwed up today, Spengs. Decided to do a little too much work, huh?"

"I was…merely trying to keep myself preoccupied and…useful—" with a grunt, he leaned forward hard onto his hands.

"So..whatchabeen doin'?"

"Cleaned…traps out," he began, pushing himself backward toward the headboard in an effort to lean against it. "Did some routine checks…organized court summons…"

"Gee, think you might want to take up stenography and brush up on your shorthand sometime while you're at it?"

Egon glared at him, annoyed, though his head was spinning around as if he were dizzy. "My shorthand is…perfectly fine. Stenography would be…a valuable skill also…I would be making myself useful these few weeks by doing the regular checks and paperwork." He strained to say the next few words as the sweat began to roll down his face again. "Since…our…secretary-"

"—has been reinstated." Peter leaned close to him, taking the golden opportunity while he had it. This was the first time he had mentioned anything at all about having a secretary in the past four days.

Egon's eyes went wide.

"Yeah. I heard. And I got news for ya, Spengs. She's staying. It's not often you'll find a secretary who's willing to work for peanuts like she does."

"Peter," Egon began, a flash of terror in his eyes. "she can't…she—"

"Oh? She can't? Did you give her a pink slip for too many typing errors?"

"No…Peter…She can't be here!" He was starting to get an increasingly hostile flash to his eyes. "I demand you call her and tell her she can't come back!"

"Nope, got news for ya," said Peter, signaling for Ray to go around to sit his right, and having Winston standing closely by on his left. "Next time I call her, it's to pick up some chili power and a few more Post-It note packages."

Egon made an instinctive start for the psychologist, and Ray and Winston leaned in, and sat on the bed next to him to restrain his arms. "What are the two of you doing? This is nonsense! Peter, as a full partner in this business, I have every right to make decisions as to who is charged with managing our internal and financial matters as you! Relinquish you position and—!"

"—Spengs, you manage making the new toys, you manage most of the battle plans, and you manage what that green stuff is in the back of the fridge. I will manage who answers the phone, and who knows where the checks are. That was always my contribution, and it's worked for years. Stick to your own side of the fence and it'll be smooth sailing, like it always was."

"Peter, you are not understanding me! Ray, Winston, please release me. This is an imporant matter and I should be as free to move as he is!"

"They're not going anywhere. So…what I'm understanding from you is that you seem to think no one's good enough for ya. Amirite?"

"No—no, Peter," panted Egon, a sense of sheer panic building as Peter mercilessly pressed him. "Just listen. She cannot be here…"

"You know what? I think it is pretty personal with you."

Egon stopped struggling and narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"

"Personal. You know, personal. Afraid that she doesn't have enough capital to contribute to the Good of Science? Afraid that if you go within ten feet of her when she's at her desk you'll start forgetting squares on the Periodic table? Want her to apply to MENSA before you'll approve of any vacation time?"

"How can you say that? That is a blatantly asinine statement!"

"And it's blatantly asinine to tell her not to come back here," Peter growled, getting up from the bed, a note of true anger in his words.

"No! It's not!" shot Egon back desperately, bucking hard against Winston and Ray's grip. "Ray, Winston, release me this instant! This is outrageous!" Turning again to Peter, he pleaded again. "Peter, how many times have we done things that I had a sudden inexplicable intuition to follow on, and it didn't turn into something—something disastrous? This is no different Peter, this is absolutely no-!"

Peter snarled. "Nah, you're full of it. Betcha she's throwin' herself at the next sugar daddy she probably already found, huh? Maybe she's having a dinner date with that Smart fella again? She can get anything she wants, yanno, if she wears a short enough skirt."

Nothing but pure rage was burning in the physicts's eyes. "I would usually accuse you vehemently of trying to practice on your associates," he growled, "but considering the usage of language such as this, this is not what seems to be your intention in this conversation—!"

"The intent of this conversation is to get our voluntarily underpaid secretary back in the door at 8AM where she belongs!"

Knowing his decision was in the minority of the group was enraging the physicist, and he began raising his own voice in frustration. "I will not stand to be interrogated like this!"

"Because you're just starting to realize she's just after your old man's money, right? Kinda worried about Spengler Labs being used for nail polish and gaudy jewelry in the future or something?"

Practically in tears, Egon tried desperately again to free himself from Ray's and Winston's grasps, and Ray had to hold on hard due to Egon's rising strength in his rage.

By now, Egon looked like his only intention in being released was to strike Peter right in the jaw. "No! It's—it's Ragnarok! It'll kill her! I'll kill her! She can't be here! She can't!"

Ray sniffed, trying to hold on to the enaged physicist, saddened that his two friends were going at it like pit bulls. They had their times of bickering and annoying one another, Egon mostly in retribution of Peter's stupid antics, but this was different.

Egon struggled as tears started to fall from his eyes. "Ray! Winston! It's inconceiveable how the two of you…just sit there and…restrain me…while listening to this disgusting litany of false charges!" He glared back at Peter. "Listen to me, Peter, it will kill her! I will kill her!"

Proud as a peacock, Peter grinned wickedly, and pointed his finger, shaking it cooly, as if he had just found the key to some outragoues mastermind scheme. "Nah, Spengs. You can't fool me. You can admit that she's just a little money-hungry, that's all."

Egon found he didn't have words to use anymore to argue with Peter. Even in his sickness, he bared his teeth so viciously, and glared at Peter so ravenoulsy, Winston and Ray swore he'd break his hold any second and kill him with his bare hands.

The psychologist whispered, savagely, hurtfully. "You probably attract every kind of gold digger…don't ya?"

Winston and Ray could feel Egon oddly shifting his weight, and before they knew it, lightning fast, the blonde man delivered such a swift roundhouse kick to Peter's cheek, Peter had no time to recover before receiving another straight kick, right to his stomach, that sent him flying almost across the room.

Peter fell on the floor with a solid thud. He lay there crumpled and moaning while Egon breathed hard enough to send his side into spasms, and the pain drove his head down almost to the bed.

Winston and Ray, still having a tight lock on his arms, looked at each other, wide-eyed. Ray couldn't help mouthing a long "wow" to the dark man restraining the physicist's other arm. They stared down at Peter, who was desperately trying to shake off the hits he took, cursing himself for making the stupid mistake of not restraining Egon's long legs. "I..thought I was far enough away!" Peter commented, his head rolling for a moment. "Guess I wasn—"

"-you disgust me, Doctor Venkman!" growled Egon with a hatred and venom that the other two have never heard coming out of him before, as tears fell on the bed inches below his face.

Silent tension, and, soon enough Egon's gasped sobs, filled the bunkroom of the firehouse.

Egon picked his head up and glared daggers at Peter, who was trying to sit up.

He suddenly went limp in their arms, and tears fell furiously, as Peter coughed and hacked away on he floor, bracing his stomach. "You-just…money. Money!…You disgust me!" he shouted. "I told her to resign. I told her…" his voice softened, and Winston and Ray listened with rapt attention. "I told her, and I had to listen to her cry when I did!" he said, glaring murderously at Peter.

Falling forwad, he continued. "Because…I love her. She's beautiful, and I love her. I want her here. I want her near me constantly so badly. I want her," he hissed through his teeth. He paused, sobbing. "I WANT HER!" he barked. "I…I know I need her. But I can't let her near me!" He struggled a bit, and Ray and Winston held him fast, cautiously. "Oh, God., why?" he cried, falling forward again. "One more thing…I can't…permit…"

Ray sniffed. One more thing he won't, or feels he can't, allow himself to have, he thought.

"Ragnarock will kill her because of me. It'll kill her! I'll kill her…I love her!" he roared. He looked up again at Peter, who was now making his way to his feet.

Tears trailed heavily down the usually stoic scientist's red cheeks. After coughing and wincing in agony, he continued, softly, but not any more composed. "I…I'm terrified. I've always loved her. I'm…" his voice trailed off, and his expression softened. "Help…help me…"

Peter by now sat himself on the bed again, after slowly and painfully grunting every step of the way there.

He smiled. His eyes are bluish now. He's gonna make it. He raised a hand…and with a cocky grin, reached up, and firmly patted, almost lightly slapped, Egon's reddened, damp cheek. "I know, Spengs. I know," he whispered, while e looked up at him, so much more by now looking like a confused, six-foot-six-plus child rather than a world-class scientist.

He reached into his shirt pocket, and brought out an active communicator. "The three of us know. And I betcha she knows. But it was high time she heard it herself by your own mouth." He wiggled the device, and winked. "Don't you think?"

Egon stared wide-eyed at the communicator, terrified out of his wits. He grew another impossible shade paler.

It was so silent in the rfirehouse, Ray could swear the heard Egon's heart pounding against his chest.

Peter gripped the communicator tightly. "You can hate me all ya want for saying what I did, but I had to," he said in a slow, hushed whisper. "Because YOU keep forgetting that you're never in this alone." He narrowed his eyes to slits, and practically hissed. "Whoever's gonna be after you from now on is gonna get to her over our dead, cold, slime-covered bodies." Winston and Ray nodded immediately in agreement.

A brief wash of such intense pleasured relief, and simultaneously such unmitigated terror poured over Egon's face at that moment, Peter thought he couldn't even comprehend the level of catharsis-or terror-his friend was experiencing.

The two men holding Egon's arms at bay could feel his resistance to their restraint weakening quickly, and sure enough, he fell totally limp. He had passed out.

"Atta boy, Spengs," grunted Peter, straightening…sort of, and ruffling his friend's damp, unruly blonde hair. "Get some sleep."

"Great way to get 'im to rest, Peter," said Winston sarcastically as Ray carefully tipped Egon's head far back, and guided it as he and Winston gently laid him back down. "Why not just drive a Mack truck over 'im next time?"

"Yeah, I know," he said, strained, holding his stomach. "Then he can use a jackhammer on my face and guts, and we'll be nice and even." He gave the other two men a wicked wink.

He spoke firmly into the communicator. "Get that, Janine? You're gonna start again tomorrow morning, 8AM sharp. Don't be late or you'll get a dock in pay so nasty, you won't be able to afford ramen noodles!"

Curious, concerned people watched the pretty readheaded girl in the middle of the frozen aisle. A few passersby knelt down next to her, asking her what was wrong, and offering her wads of soft tissues, with no response. She seemed to not even be aware of them.

Janine sat, curled up on the floor of the supermarket, crying and sobbing furiously. She was haphazardly propped up by a freezer, her face half-covered. Mascara ran liberally through the fingers of one hand, the other five digits gently pulling at the firey locks at the top of her forehead. A little black box sat next to her, hissing with static, and now featuring a cocky-sounding man's voice talking about something like a dock in pay coming out of it.

"Oh, Egon! Oh, my God, Egon!…oh, Egon…" was all she could wail in between racked sobs, crumpling lower and lower down to the tiled floor. Over. And over. And over…