(no subject)

They say that the first step is always the hardest, and in this particular case and at this particular time, it was true. In the transition between REM sleep and waking there lie many shades of dream, some of which leave very strong impressions upon the dreamer. When one of the more common impressions is the feeling of stepping onto an implicity trusted surface only to have it not be there at all- and when one has to step out the door in waking reality onto what ought to be an utterly trusted surface, consciously knowing that it's not going to be there- well, when that happens, sometimes the body doesn't want to do what the mind tells it to.

The step out the door of Milliways is quite possibly the hardest step Ray Stantz has ever taken in his life.

The second is easier. After all, there is nothing left to step off of.

He's seen universes boiling away into nothing and shaken hands with men out of legend in the past several days. He's had conversations with people that make it theoretically possible to restructure quantum physics from the absolute bottom up- but right now none of it means anything whatsoever because Central Park West is rushing up at him and the wind is screaming in his ears.

Bart, I really hope you're right about this thing working here.

He concentrates on the borrowed Legion flight ring, and on the prospect of 'up'.

There is a moment, a single moment, of absolute and utter shock from the laws of physics themselves. For just one fractional instant, gravity itself stands in total abeyance. Then he begins to rise, just as fast as he was falling-

But the thing about flying is that you've got to do it with your eyes open, and the thing about being Ray is that you don't always remember the details. And the thing about 55 Central Park West is that it's got ledges and parapets enough to make a Lego manufacturer cry.

"OW!"

The impact with the stone from above is not only physically stunning, but completely unexpected, and sends Ray wildly off course- ring or no. 'Up' is largely forgotten, but 'not down' is still in his thoughts, and so the ring complies, with predictably bruising results. Still not thinking to open his eyes he grabs at the first masonry he can get his hands on, hoping to at least gain some control, if nothing else.

"It's all right! Egon, I found him!" Winston? Yeah, that was his voice. "Over here!"

Not daring to open his eyes, no longer thinking of motion, only of not letting go, Ray grins. "Boy, am I glad to hear you," he says. The quip comes out more weakly than intended, an inevitable side effect of being bashed in the ribs by a large and angry building. "Could I get a hand up, here?"

"Yeah- hang on, they've got that thing distracted-" And Winston's familiar hand grabs Ray's wrist, pulling up hard enough that Ray only has to add a little bit of boost from the ring to get himself safely over the edge. He falls flat onto the rooftop, panting and wincing, in time to hear Winston growl- "Ray, when somebody asks you if you're a god-"

"You say 'yes,'" Ray obediently completes the sentence along with Winston. His voice sounds strange in his ears. "Yeah. I know. I know."

"Fine." A pause. "You okay?"

He opens his eyes, blinking fiercely as the brilliantly colored nightmare that was Dana Barrett's rooftop insists on swimming and spinning around him. As it settles, he says, "Think so. That last ledge clipped my head pretty bad, but I think I'm okay."

"Good, because Venkman and Spengler are getting killed over there. Come on."

He gets to his feet, following Winston to where he needs to be. And he does what he needs to do, and it all works out, even the part where Peter stares mournfully at what everyone assumes is Dana's last resting place until her hand pops out and she and Tully turn out to be alive after all.

It's only on the way downstairs, the air around him reeking horribly of scorched eldritch marshmallow, that he realizes the world is still practically shining with color.

That everything seems almost flat somehow, in a way he can't properly define.

That Egon is blond.

Ray stops in his tracks, picks up a piece of shattered glass fallen from God only knows which floor, and tilts it until he catches an entirely incorrect reflection in it. His entirely incorrect reflection.

"Oh, boy," he says with a grimace.

(no subject)

May 4, Sometime in the 1980's
14 North Moore Street, Manhattan

“... great. Come on, Slimer, let's see if there isn't something in the freezer, okay?”

“OHBOYOBOYOBOYOBOY!”

Winston watched Ray go, the Ghostbusters' ectoplasmic mascot trailing eagerly behind him. Hanging up his proton pack, he shook his head. “Hey, Peter,” he called. “Got a question for you.”

“All right, but make it snappy. These fries aren't gonna eat themselves, you know.” Venkman set the bag down on the nearest flat surface- Ecto-1's hood- and looked expectantly across the car at his friend. “You want some?”

He ignored the offer. “Does your doctor know you're back on the fast food?”

“No, and he's not gonna find out unless someone tells him. Is that all?”

Winston sighed. “That's not the question... Pete, is it just me or is Ray really acting strange lately?”

Venkman's expression sobered quickly. “You noticed it too, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Him and- well, I'd say him and Egon, but-”

“Egon doesn't count. Strange for Egon would be if he started acting like a normal human being.” He grimaced. “No, I know what you mean. He's been acting kinda weird ever since Gozer.”

“And it's gotten worse,” Winston said. “At first I thought it was just shell-shock.”

“More like falling off of building shock.”

“You know what I mean, Pete. I've seen that happen to guys before.”

Peter nodded soberly. He knew what Winston meant, all right.

“Getting twitchy, acting all jumpy around his friends... I mean, he tries to hide it, but Ray's a terrible liar, you know?”

“I know. I won fifty dollars off him the last time we played poker, and I wasn't even trying.”

“I”m going to pretend I didn't hear you say that. Anyway, lately he's been ...I dunno. He hasn't been all spastic any more, but he's still not acting like the Ray I know, no matter how hard he tries. I think something's gotten under his skin, and he doesn't want to talk about it.”

Peter's eyes narrowed; he glanced over toward the kitchen and the sounds of an ecstatic ghost devouring a good two months' supply of ice cream. “I bet I could find out, if I really tried,” he mused.

“Would you? I'd appreciate it. I'm starting to worry about that boy.”

“Sure.”

“Only one thing, Pete?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Could you at least try and be tactful?”

“Tactful? Me? Tactful is my middle name.”

“I thought your middle name was 'trustworthy'.”

“Only when I need people to believe me.”

* * *

Psychologists learn early on in their careers that there will be times when their patients don't appear to want to talk about what's bothering them. There are courses of study devoted entirely to coaxing information out of patients who want to talk, but don't want to admit that they want to talk. They are complicated, deeply involved things, and have proved immensely useful in therapeutic applications.

Peter Venkman ignored all of that stuff and went straight to the metal box Ray kept in the back of the closet, behind the stack of comic books. There was a key somewhere, but he didn't waste time looking for it- they sold these boxes at K-mart for about twenty-five dollars a pop, and that told him all he needed to know. Mr. Lock, meet Mr. Straightened Paperclip.

Huh. There wasn't a notebook inside, just some family pictures, a couple of souvenirs, a battered old children's book with Ray's mother's name on the bookplate, an envelope with Ray's name on it-

Wait a sec. That was Ray's handwriting.

He'd re-seal the envelope later.

Dear Ray-

If you're reading this, it means you've just spent a span of time somewhere that I don't really know about and you want to know what's just happened to you. This probably isn't the first place you'd look-

No, thought Pete, just the first place I'd look. I know you well enough.

-but I know it's one that you'll eventually come back to. You're not going insane. At least, I hope you're not.

“Uh-huh. No offense, big guy, but right now you're not exactly Mr. Mental Health, are you?” Peter murmured. But he kept reading.

I'm you. A version of you, at least. From somewhere else, somewhere very much like here, but different in a lot of ways. And I owe you, this world's you, an explanation...

Peter stared for a while, and then read the rest of the letter through twice. Eventually he folded all six pages back up and tucked them back into the envelope. That explained a bit. More than he'd ever actually wanted explained, but it explained a bit. Assuming, of course, that there was proof. And there just might be, at that...

Ray wasn't in the kitchen; he'd gone downstairs to check on the containment unit. Egon was- well, he had no idea where Egon was, really. Winston was watching TV. So there was only Janine to notice as he casually wandered over to the lockers where they kept their jumpsuits. “Whaddya doin' Doctor Vee?”

Ordinarily he'd have discounted the entire letter. Even in this line of business, things didn't get that strange. Claiming to have experienced several days' time in a bar at the end of Time wasn't Ray's style; usually when the engineer had Little Moments they involved seizing up like a car engine with vapor lock on a Florida afternoon. Hallucinating an entire setting like that didn't sound right, either. Not unless it was something he'd seen in a comic book and taken too much to heart. That was possible, but there was something about Ray's letter to himself that didn't seem like a comic book. And there was one way of finding out, if page five wasn't just the product of post-traumatic stress.

“Oh, just breaking into my good buddy's personal belongings. Nothing serious.”

She rolled her eyes.

“It's all in the interests of science, you know.”

“I'm not listening to you, Doctor Vee. Not until you've got something worth hearing.”

He grinned. “That's my girl, Janine.” As she turned away, he opened Ray's locker and stuck a hand into his colleague's jumpsuit.

Pocket one: nothing. Pocket two: nothing. Pocket three...

Philotic Physics and the Ansible.

“Oh-kay,” Peter said, and started flipping through the pages. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Instinctively, he picked it up. It read:

If you're reading this, then put my book back right now, Peter. I know it was you.

He snorted, but put the book back where he'd found it, note and all.

This was going to be interesting.