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May. 31st, 2005 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeAugust 31st, Sometime in the 1980's
Evening
Radio City Music Hall, Manhattan
For the second time in less than a fortnight, Ray found himself on the way to a formal event in formal clothes with a Class Six in a box on his lap. He wondered, a little, if it meant something. Probably not. The first time had been deliberate; this had just been cutting things close. They didn't have time to hit the firehouse before the start of the movie.
Oh, yes, the movie. This... was going to be interesting. They'd been to the Columbia Pictures property, they'd seen the script, they'd even stared at a full-scale outdoor replica of the Firehouse- all of that. Then some idiot had gone and awakened a sleeping ghost that'd been dozing under the building, and they'd had their hands full running around trying to corral the thing before it destroyed all the sets in the area. After that, well... Peter might've wanted to stick around, but the studio hadn't wanted to hear a word of it. 'Come to the premiere,' they'd said. 'Just don't come back.' Frankly, as far as Ray was concerned, those were perfectly acceptable terms. Seeing the faked Firehouse had been... eerie, to say the least; he'd gotten a good squint at it when no one was looking, and he'd found a chunk taken out of one of the bricks that he would've sworn was in the same place as a chunk he'd knocked off by mistake himself. It set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The idea of meeting the actors playing himself and his three friends didn't bear mentioning.
Right now, he really wished Egon's parts had arrived for the philotic portal.
Peter, of course, mistook the look on his face for something else. "Stage fright, huh?"
"If I say yes, will you promise not to ask me again?"
He laughed. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you can't deal with a little thing like a couple hundred people here and thousands upon thousands of people across the country all looking at somebody passing himself off as you."
"Thanks for making it easier, Pete. I'll remember that."
"Remember all you like. You're going home when this is over, remember? That doesn't leave a lot of opportunities for vengeance."
"I'll think of something."
"Quiet, you two," said Winston, rounding the corner onto Sixth Avenue. "We're here."
"That's, uh... that's a lot of people."
"Sure is," said Peter. "Absolutely perfect. Now get out there and smile!"
The next few minutes were all something of a blur for Ray- flashbulbs, bright lights, a reporter frothing at the mouth about their being late. He remembered pretty clearly saying something cheerful to the man, and he must've handed off the trap to somebody, because he had popcorn in his hands instead when they picked their way into the front row of seats. It wasn't until he sat down and looked up that he realized-
That's REAL.
That's not animated. That's REAL. That's photographic footage of Columbia- that's the actual- my GOD, that's the HALLWAYS-
THAT IS OUR OFFICE DOOR. With the graffiti and everything! Even Peter's stupid 'maid please make up this room card'! THAT'S OUR OFFICES!
"All right," said a voice Ray knew as well as he knew his own. "I'm going to turn over the next card. I want you to concentrate. I want you to tell me what it is..."
"Doesn't look a thing like me," hissed someone right next to him. Ray jerked his attention away from the screen- that was Peter, there, next to him.
"Huh?"
"I said this Murray guy doesn't-"
"Sssh!" hissed Winston and Egon together. Ray flinched; Peter smiled, and subsided.
"Don't worry, you only have seventy-five more to go...."
This isn't happening, I'm not seeing this, this isn't-
"You may as well get used to that. That's the kind of resentment that your ability is going to provoke in some people."
"Do you think I have it, Dr. Venkman?"
"You're no fluke, Jennifer."
On screen, the door flew open.
"This is it! This is definitely it! Did those UV lenses come in for the video camera? And that blank tape? I need it. The one you erased yesterday."
Ray's popcorn clattered to the floor.
Peter turned, frowning a little. "Ray? You all right there, buddy?"
No answer. He leaned over and waved a hand in front of Ray's face; Ray shuddered rapidly and looked up. "Huh? I'm- I'm sorry, Pete, what was that?"
"You look like someone hit you in the head with a baseball bat. You okay?"
"Yeah." Ray swallowed. "Yeah, I'm fine... I just didn't expect him to look like that."
Peter frowned and subsided into his seat. He didn't notice that Ray's lips were silently moving in perfect synchrony with the words coming from the screen:
"Peter, at 1:40 PM at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, ten people witnessed a free floating, full torso, vaporous apparition. It blew books off shelves from twenty feet away and scared the socks off some poor librarian!"
Exactly like me, he thought. EXACTLY like me.
The credits started to roll up the screen. Ray shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "'Scuse me, guys," he said. "I need to use the bathroom before-" He nodded back towards the cheering audience. "You know."
"Sure, go ahead," Peter said; Ray could just make out Winston and Egon nodding. "We'll cover for you."
"Thanks, Pete," Ray said gratefully. "You have no idea how much I-"
"Just go, willya? Or I might have to beat you there myself."
"Sorry."
He got up and darted for the nearest men's room, which by some miracle was still empty. That was fine, but it would've been fine if it'd been crowded, too. He needed the sink more than anything else. Cold water to the face would do him a world of good.
That was me. I'm inside a cartoon, and I just sat through two hours of me on screen... face, voice, walk, attitude, everything. This is just too weird for words. I mean, I can deal with being fictional to Barry, but me being fictional to me? That's way too freaky.
He looked up at the mirror and ran his fingers over his face. Nope. Still round, still soft-edged; still the wrong nose, the wrong eyes, the wrong hair. By now he knew that face as well as he knew his own, though he'd never be able to bring himself to call it his own. Especially not now.
Experimentally, he splashed a couple of handfuls of water on it- nope, didn't melt or wake up or anything, but at least he could breathe a little easier now. That was something. He grabbed for a handful of toweling and dried off. Wouldn't look right if he got out there and his face was dripping, after all.
Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and stepped out through the bathroom door.
*pop!*
Evening
Radio City Music Hall, Manhattan
For the second time in less than a fortnight, Ray found himself on the way to a formal event in formal clothes with a Class Six in a box on his lap. He wondered, a little, if it meant something. Probably not. The first time had been deliberate; this had just been cutting things close. They didn't have time to hit the firehouse before the start of the movie.
Oh, yes, the movie. This... was going to be interesting. They'd been to the Columbia Pictures property, they'd seen the script, they'd even stared at a full-scale outdoor replica of the Firehouse- all of that. Then some idiot had gone and awakened a sleeping ghost that'd been dozing under the building, and they'd had their hands full running around trying to corral the thing before it destroyed all the sets in the area. After that, well... Peter might've wanted to stick around, but the studio hadn't wanted to hear a word of it. 'Come to the premiere,' they'd said. 'Just don't come back.' Frankly, as far as Ray was concerned, those were perfectly acceptable terms. Seeing the faked Firehouse had been... eerie, to say the least; he'd gotten a good squint at it when no one was looking, and he'd found a chunk taken out of one of the bricks that he would've sworn was in the same place as a chunk he'd knocked off by mistake himself. It set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The idea of meeting the actors playing himself and his three friends didn't bear mentioning.
Right now, he really wished Egon's parts had arrived for the philotic portal.
Peter, of course, mistook the look on his face for something else. "Stage fright, huh?"
"If I say yes, will you promise not to ask me again?"
He laughed. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you can't deal with a little thing like a couple hundred people here and thousands upon thousands of people across the country all looking at somebody passing himself off as you."
"Thanks for making it easier, Pete. I'll remember that."
"Remember all you like. You're going home when this is over, remember? That doesn't leave a lot of opportunities for vengeance."
"I'll think of something."
"Quiet, you two," said Winston, rounding the corner onto Sixth Avenue. "We're here."
"That's, uh... that's a lot of people."
"Sure is," said Peter. "Absolutely perfect. Now get out there and smile!"
The next few minutes were all something of a blur for Ray- flashbulbs, bright lights, a reporter frothing at the mouth about their being late. He remembered pretty clearly saying something cheerful to the man, and he must've handed off the trap to somebody, because he had popcorn in his hands instead when they picked their way into the front row of seats. It wasn't until he sat down and looked up that he realized-
That's REAL.
That's not animated. That's REAL. That's photographic footage of Columbia- that's the actual- my GOD, that's the HALLWAYS-
THAT IS OUR OFFICE DOOR. With the graffiti and everything! Even Peter's stupid 'maid please make up this room card'! THAT'S OUR OFFICES!
"All right," said a voice Ray knew as well as he knew his own. "I'm going to turn over the next card. I want you to concentrate. I want you to tell me what it is..."
"Doesn't look a thing like me," hissed someone right next to him. Ray jerked his attention away from the screen- that was Peter, there, next to him.
"Huh?"
"I said this Murray guy doesn't-"
"Sssh!" hissed Winston and Egon together. Ray flinched; Peter smiled, and subsided.
"Don't worry, you only have seventy-five more to go...."
This isn't happening, I'm not seeing this, this isn't-
"You may as well get used to that. That's the kind of resentment that your ability is going to provoke in some people."
"Do you think I have it, Dr. Venkman?"
"You're no fluke, Jennifer."
On screen, the door flew open.
"This is it! This is definitely it! Did those UV lenses come in for the video camera? And that blank tape? I need it. The one you erased yesterday."
Ray's popcorn clattered to the floor.
Peter turned, frowning a little. "Ray? You all right there, buddy?"
No answer. He leaned over and waved a hand in front of Ray's face; Ray shuddered rapidly and looked up. "Huh? I'm- I'm sorry, Pete, what was that?"
"You look like someone hit you in the head with a baseball bat. You okay?"
"Yeah." Ray swallowed. "Yeah, I'm fine... I just didn't expect him to look like that."
Peter frowned and subsided into his seat. He didn't notice that Ray's lips were silently moving in perfect synchrony with the words coming from the screen:
"Peter, at 1:40 PM at the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, ten people witnessed a free floating, full torso, vaporous apparition. It blew books off shelves from twenty feet away and scared the socks off some poor librarian!"
Exactly like me, he thought. EXACTLY like me.
The credits started to roll up the screen. Ray shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "'Scuse me, guys," he said. "I need to use the bathroom before-" He nodded back towards the cheering audience. "You know."
"Sure, go ahead," Peter said; Ray could just make out Winston and Egon nodding. "We'll cover for you."
"Thanks, Pete," Ray said gratefully. "You have no idea how much I-"
"Just go, willya? Or I might have to beat you there myself."
"Sorry."
He got up and darted for the nearest men's room, which by some miracle was still empty. That was fine, but it would've been fine if it'd been crowded, too. He needed the sink more than anything else. Cold water to the face would do him a world of good.
That was me. I'm inside a cartoon, and I just sat through two hours of me on screen... face, voice, walk, attitude, everything. This is just too weird for words. I mean, I can deal with being fictional to Barry, but me being fictional to me? That's way too freaky.
He looked up at the mirror and ran his fingers over his face. Nope. Still round, still soft-edged; still the wrong nose, the wrong eyes, the wrong hair. By now he knew that face as well as he knew his own, though he'd never be able to bring himself to call it his own. Especially not now.
Experimentally, he splashed a couple of handfuls of water on it- nope, didn't melt or wake up or anything, but at least he could breathe a little easier now. That was something. He grabbed for a handful of toweling and dried off. Wouldn't look right if he got out there and his face was dripping, after all.
Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and stepped out through the bathroom door.
*pop!*
