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Sep. 14th, 2005 04:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeFriday, October 5, 2002
Columbia University, Manhattan
Basement
Eventually someone was going to come around to ask him what he'd wanted with that many smoke detectors. Ray knew how it worked. Sooner or later a hardware store owner would realize that nobody bought twenty of the things in a single day, and they'd mention it to someone else, and they'd say there'd been a weirdo in their store buying them too. There would be questions at Hosokawa Micron Powder Systems, at Roditi International, at Electron Hut- all kinds of places. Nobody bought that many chemicals or prefab parts, at one go. The police would get involved. Maybe the FBI. Possibly- hah- possibly the EPA, given what some of the power cell components could do if they got dropped in the wrong place by mistake.
On the other hand, none of those people were here, so it didn't really matter and he wasn't about to let it matter. He had work to do.
He'd finished two packs already. The third was- mm- looked like five-eighths of the way done. No hydrogen fuel cells to work from here, since the city clean-bus initiative didn't seem to exist, but he'd found an alternative going through the physics department's discards. (Another source of questions, maybe, but maybe not- you never really knew around here.) Some surprisingly advanced collider elements had turned up on the Net; the supplier had been located in Queens, so he'd lost no time at all there. It was just a matter of putting the whole thing together without setting it off-
Oh, who was he kidding? Three packs required three wearers, and Peter wasn't going to do it. He'd gone through the phone books and the Internet alike looking for Winston and the man was nowhere to be found- Ray had a sinking feeling that this world's Winston Zeddemore had never left the military. Tully, maybe, might be able to do it, or even Dana, but his stomach clenched every time he considered the prospect of either one. Part of him was wondering if it might not be worthwhile to check a certain mental institution in Albany- who knew? Maybe this world's Mike Draverhaven wasn't as screwed up, or had gotten better, or something.
None of the speculating was slowing him down, mind. Fretting had very little effect on his ability to get actual work done. He'd built enough proton packs in the animated continuum, and at Milliways, and at home. His hands knew what had to be done, even if his brain was elsewhere. He had his parts, he had his tools, he had his procedure, he just didn't have his people. And all New York was going to pay, no matter how fast he worked or what else he did. . .
"Ray?"
"Go away, Peter," Ray said evenly, not looking up. "I'm right in the middle of routing a particularly tricky plasma circuit and the presence of someone telling me I'm out of my mind isn't going to make it any easier."
"That's not what I'm here for."
Inhaling deeply, Ray closed his eyes. He set his tools down on the counter. "You aren't helping, you know," he said quietly. "I'm trying to work here." It was easier to be angry at Peter than the world. At least if he was angry at Peter, it might change something.
Peter didn't say anything.
"Thank you," Ray said, and reached for the tools again.
"Ray, I-"
He spun around on one heel, soldering iron in his hand. "Out," he said to a wide-eyed, shocked Peter. "Right now. I don't care if you're here to call me insane again or not by this point but I don't need the interruption, okay? So unless the building is on fire-"
"Not this building," Peter said.
". . . oh, no."
"Yeah," Peter said dully. "The, uh, the sky sort of. . . apparently has this gigantic rip in it over the-"
Whatever he was going to say would never be heard. Ray swore and grabbed one of the completed packs, thrusting it at Peter. "Here! Take this and find Spengler! We haven't got time to explain- we've got to get down there yesterday!"
Columbia University, Manhattan
Basement
Eventually someone was going to come around to ask him what he'd wanted with that many smoke detectors. Ray knew how it worked. Sooner or later a hardware store owner would realize that nobody bought twenty of the things in a single day, and they'd mention it to someone else, and they'd say there'd been a weirdo in their store buying them too. There would be questions at Hosokawa Micron Powder Systems, at Roditi International, at Electron Hut- all kinds of places. Nobody bought that many chemicals or prefab parts, at one go. The police would get involved. Maybe the FBI. Possibly- hah- possibly the EPA, given what some of the power cell components could do if they got dropped in the wrong place by mistake.
On the other hand, none of those people were here, so it didn't really matter and he wasn't about to let it matter. He had work to do.
He'd finished two packs already. The third was- mm- looked like five-eighths of the way done. No hydrogen fuel cells to work from here, since the city clean-bus initiative didn't seem to exist, but he'd found an alternative going through the physics department's discards. (Another source of questions, maybe, but maybe not- you never really knew around here.) Some surprisingly advanced collider elements had turned up on the Net; the supplier had been located in Queens, so he'd lost no time at all there. It was just a matter of putting the whole thing together without setting it off-
Oh, who was he kidding? Three packs required three wearers, and Peter wasn't going to do it. He'd gone through the phone books and the Internet alike looking for Winston and the man was nowhere to be found- Ray had a sinking feeling that this world's Winston Zeddemore had never left the military. Tully, maybe, might be able to do it, or even Dana, but his stomach clenched every time he considered the prospect of either one. Part of him was wondering if it might not be worthwhile to check a certain mental institution in Albany- who knew? Maybe this world's Mike Draverhaven wasn't as screwed up, or had gotten better, or something.
None of the speculating was slowing him down, mind. Fretting had very little effect on his ability to get actual work done. He'd built enough proton packs in the animated continuum, and at Milliways, and at home. His hands knew what had to be done, even if his brain was elsewhere. He had his parts, he had his tools, he had his procedure, he just didn't have his people. And all New York was going to pay, no matter how fast he worked or what else he did. . .
"Ray?"
"Go away, Peter," Ray said evenly, not looking up. "I'm right in the middle of routing a particularly tricky plasma circuit and the presence of someone telling me I'm out of my mind isn't going to make it any easier."
"That's not what I'm here for."
Inhaling deeply, Ray closed his eyes. He set his tools down on the counter. "You aren't helping, you know," he said quietly. "I'm trying to work here." It was easier to be angry at Peter than the world. At least if he was angry at Peter, it might change something.
Peter didn't say anything.
"Thank you," Ray said, and reached for the tools again.
"Ray, I-"
He spun around on one heel, soldering iron in his hand. "Out," he said to a wide-eyed, shocked Peter. "Right now. I don't care if you're here to call me insane again or not by this point but I don't need the interruption, okay? So unless the building is on fire-"
"Not this building," Peter said.
". . . oh, no."
"Yeah," Peter said dully. "The, uh, the sky sort of. . . apparently has this gigantic rip in it over the-"
Whatever he was going to say would never be heard. Ray swore and grabbed one of the completed packs, thrusting it at Peter. "Here! Take this and find Spengler! We haven't got time to explain- we've got to get down there yesterday!"
