Chapter One

Another Day at the Office

“YAAAAAHOOOOOOOO!”

 Ray Stantz’s enthusiastic bellow led his appearance into the vacant apartment, sliding on the ankle deep slime like a champion hockey player about to slam the puck into the net right through the goalie. That he was being dragged into the room at the back end of a full strength proton stream firmly attached to a seven foot long puke green Class 6, self-willed but restricted Netherentity, aka a summoned and bound demon normally known as Aztheti, seemed to have escaped his notice.

In Rayspeak, it was great!

A moment later he heard the thunder of cavalry coming up the stairs of the subdivided old Victorian house. So did the Class 6, and it quickly flung itself backwards over Ray’s head in a move nothing human could manage, breaking out of the stream.

Unfortunately, inertia being what it is and slime having a near zero co efficiency, the Ghostbuster kept going, barely managing to turn enough to take the sudden stop on his shoulder instead of his face. The impact knocked the air out of him with a woof! and Aztheti twisted again to take advantage of the human’s distraction.

“I don’t think so, slimeball,” Winston called out, sliding through the door with his thrower up. He nailed the Class 6 square in the back just before it could dive on Ray with its mouth full of teeth, jerking it to a halt.

An agonized screeched came from the green creature, and it spun in the grip of blazing white light, shedding great gobs of slime in all directions. Zeddemore held tight while the thrower bucked in his grasp. He winced against the ectoplasmic trails slung in his direction and managed to dodge the worst of them. Aztheti twisted in the stream, dragging the brilliant white tail with him in a tight flip that jerked the thrower in a move the Ghostbuster was unable to compensate for.

“Ray, down!” Winston yelled, gratified to see the younger man drop to the floor out of the corner of his eye. He yanked at the hose to reel his thrower back in while watching for the Six. The hum and crackle of Ray’s thrower hissed past his ear and he joined his colleague on the floor then rolled over to catch the demon from underneath barely arms length above him, frozen by Stantz in mid-dive at Winston’s back.

The sudden surge of power blew the demon back far enough for Zeddemore to squirm out from under him, even while he felt the tingling numbness associated with blowback from the streams start to creep over him. Winston knew he had probably less than a minute before the shakes would hit him and he’d be out of the game for at least four hours, maybe more.

As for himself, Ray grimaced and tried to drag the gooper away from Winston by shortening his stream and bracing his heels in the scarred hardwood flooring. He’d dropped and rolled when his partner yelled, saw Winston lose his grip on the thrower and even knowing the automatic safeties would lock in and shut down the stream he winced in anticipation. Ray rolled over with the fall and spotted the Six swoop in just in time to pin it in his own stream. Long seconds later Winston’s stream joined his, knocking the demon up and back from its victim.

Pinned between the two streams for the first time in the hour-long chase, Aztheti howled and writhed. Weakened by the lemurs it had shed to protect itself down below, still partially restricted by the bindings on it, the demon fought fate and howled its rage. And then a plan sprung fully formed into its brain; not certain, no, but a chance at freedom, at a return home.

“Wait!” it called, over the lightening that held it caged.

“Trap out!” a deep bass rumbled from the doorway at the same time.

“Truce! A truce, I would speak!” Aztheti rolled in its prison to see the last two of the foursome had finally made it up the stairs, evidence of a fierce battle with Aztheti’s lemurs plain on their bodies.

“Fat chance sucker, nobody, but NOBODY, messes with the hair and walks away,” a human in brown snarled from just behind the tall white haired man who hesitated over the controls to the ghost trap lying quiescent under the demon.

“Wait Peter,” the tall man said to the other who moved to stomp on the pedal. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

“No way, Egon. The gooper’s gotta go,” Peter said.

“Guys, you want to make a decision here?” Winston called from under the Six; the slight shakes were becoming stronger, warning him he was about to collapse.

“That’s it, decision made,” and Peter stomped down on the activator. The hinged doors swung open and a fan of soft white light feathered across the demon, who with a final denying wail slid into the trap, the doors swinging shut with a click and a soft bleep, the red blinking light of a full trap winking.

“Peter!” Egon and Ray both called, exasperated at their impulsive teammate, even while they understood what moved him. 

For his part, Venkman glared them into silence, and then slid across the floor to help Winston remove his pack and flop back on the floor.

“Easy buddy,” Peter crooned softly, propping up the older man’s shoulders while checking for injuries. Having been hit more times than anybody else on the team he considered himself somewhat of an expert on proton blowback and glancing shots. He noted the faint chill of shock in Winston hands, the lack of response when Peter dug a thumb into Zeddemore’s thigh that indicated a minor short circuit of his nervous system. Fortunately his breathing and heart rate were steady, if a little shallow, indicating minimal exposure.

Satisfied that Winston would be okay, Peter blew out a breath. “Well Zed, the good news is you’ll live to play the violin again.”

On the edge of consciousness, Winston felt himself choke on a laugh. “What’s the bad news, Pete?” he asked reflexively.

“We have to listen to you practice.”

And then blessed darkness fell over the trembling man, smoothing away his bodily pain like the twinkling green eyes above eased his mind.

It was a very, very tired group of Ghostbusters that pulled into Ghostbuster Central at a handful of minutes before midnight. In the dim light from the garage floor overhead and the small desk lamp from Janine’s corner of the office even Ecto seemed to give a weary sigh, like any other faithful steed that had finally made it back to the barn after a long wet ride. In the silence after her engine shut off she ticked quietly for a few minutes, then settled down to sleep, willing to wait until morning for any kind of grooming.

It was several long minutes after that before there was any sign that the old hearse hadn’t just made her way back to the firehouse on her own. Finally Egon pulled himself up from the steering wheel and started to pry himself out of the driver’s seat, which seemed to be the signal for the other doors to open and begin disgorging passengers, although the door behind Egon remained stubbornly shut.

“Peeeterrrr,” Ray chided the slit-eyed psychologist in the back seat. “Come on, you’ll be more comfortable in bed, you know it.”

“No.”

Ray tried again. “You know in another couple of hours it’ll be freezing down here.”

“Don’t care. Zed’ll keep m’warm, won’t you Zed,” the words were somewhere between a mumble and a pout, aimed at the tired man currently using Peter’s thigh as a pillow. The sliver of green disappeared behind tightly closed lids.

“Snore,” was the only response Peter got, then Winston’s arm appeared and pulled the wool emergency blanket over his head.

“Oh for a tape recorder,” Egon said softly from his spot leaning in the car. He exchanged a quick if tired grin with Ray, then raised his voice. “Come now, Peter, you know the doctor said Winston needed rest, and that he meant in a more comfortable spot than Ecto’s back seat, even if you do make an exemplary pillow.”

One eye opened completely in a well-intentioned if half-hearted glare. “I heard that Spengler.”

“Of course, Peter. You were supposed to.” Egon’s now bland expression hid his own amusement. “What would the point be, otherwise?”

Appealed to properly, Peter Venkman was as easily manipulated as any other heat reactive plasticine substance under the influence of a skilled craftsman. Egon had years of experience at his fingertips.

Still grumbling, Venkman helped his groggy teammate out the opposite door into Ray’s arms, then scrabbled out and threw an arm around Winston’s waist. A moment later Egon’s own arm went around Peter’s back. “What,” Peter blurted, his head whipping around, eyes wide and startled. His arm fell from Winston’s back.

Egon tilted his head and met the green eyes, his own showing only mild amusement. “Well really, Peter, I wouldn’t want exhaustion to overtake you on the stairs. Should you fall you’d be certain to take at least Winston, and possibly Ray with you.”

Venkman glared up at him, looking past the humor to the shadow of concern that still lingered. “Egon, there’s no way we’re all going to fit up the stairs like this,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “Besides, I thought you were going to tank the gooper.” He pointed at the trap hanging coiled in Spengler’s other hand.

“I’m going to put it in the portable unit in the lab. With Ray’s help I’d like to question it and see what it thought it could trade us for its freedom.”

“Ray?” Peter asked the more mobile half of the pair nearly to the stairs.

“In the morning, Peter,” Ray called back, and then nearly cracked his jaw yawning.

Suddenly energized by the idea of Ray and Egon questioning a demon without supervision Venkman freed himself from Spengler’s grasp and jogged after them. He had a vision of the pair questioning the Class Six, the gooper pinned to a lounge chair with the rewired colander on its head. “I mean it Stantz, neither of you go near that thing without me and Winston, got that?”

“Yes, Peter. In the morning, Peter. Good night, Peter.” Ray waved vaguely back at the man running up the stairs to the second floor, while he and Winston disappeared around the bend to the third.

Egon smiled up at his teammates. Not that Ray had any difficulty finding his own ways to motivate the esteemed Dr. Venkman. Pushing up his glasses Dr. Spengler started for the third floor lab to secure the trap and its contents for the night.