![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
May. 2nd, 2005 04:00 pmFourth Arrival at Milliways + 8 Days
Milliways
Whatever Dr. McCoy was doing to try and get Pete back, it almost certainly wasn't going to be anything that Ray could help much with. The best the engineer could do for his friend was be there and listen- two things which assumed too much. For the first, would Peter even notice Ray's presence in his altered mental state? And for the second, would Peter even talk? Ray's knowledge of the day to day psychology of the normal human mind wouldn't fill up more than a tablespoon measure from Williams-Sonoma. If it'd been a mental invasion by something eldritch- fine! Fine, he could deal with that. He could find a way to block it, or run home and find Egon and get him to come up with something. If it were the kind of dribbling insanity you got from exposure to the mysteries of Great Cthulhu, he might at least have an idea of how to proceed. But this. . . this was simple human failure in the face of something overwhelming, and nothing in Ray's experience had ever taught him to handle that.
"I thought we signed you up for a penpal club, Raymond. Why haven't there been more letters for you lately?"
"They all stopped writing to me months ago, Mom. I don't know why. There's just this one boy who keeps writing back."
"Have you tried contacting them again? The club, I mean?"
"None of the second set of addresses even wrote back."
"I don't understand it, Raymond. This keeps happening. You're a bright, cheerful young man. You're eleven years old, not five- why can't you keep a friend your own age?"
"I'm keeping one. . .sorta. . ."
"I suppose it's a start."
He blamed himself, of course. Why the Bar had brought Peter here, he didn't know, but he had a horrible feeling it had to do with him. If things had gone on much longer after the war with the Other, he'd probably have gone to pieces. Then Peter showed up, and things had been all right again, for a while.
"Oh my God. This place is HUGE."
"Yeah, isn't it? Lemme guess. You're Professor Rossum's kid, right?"
"Actually, no- I’m, um, I'm a freshman. . . uh. . ."
"You're kidding. You look what, fourteen?"
"Fifteen, thank you."
"Riiiight."
"Come October."
"Yeah, thought so. God, kid, you look like you're expecting somebody to haul you into a dark classroom and bite your head off or something. What's your name?"
"Um. Ray Stantz. . ."
"Peter Venkman. Good to meet you. You're really here for class?"
"Engineering 1102, yeah."
"Damn. Me too. I always did like trains."
". . . uh. . . I hate to break it to you, but-"
"That was a joke, Ray. Get used to it. I do that a lot."
Peter had known what to ask, and what to say. Ray had no idea of either. He'd grabbed the first person who'd seemed qualified, and that- that was all he knew how to do. If you don't know what the problem is, you look for someone who will. If you can't do it yourself, you find someone who can. If it's broken, fix it.
"Okay, Ray? I don't normally celebrate Christmas, but I know you do, so- here. Merry Christmas."
"Pete, you really didn't have to-"
"Yeah, I did. First of all, because I know you got me Mets season tickets-"
"You weren't supposed to be listening!"
"-and second, because. . . well, just because. Go on. Open it."
". . ."
"You okay there, Stantz?"
". . . forty shares of stock in the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Company??"
"Yep. Look, Ray, I know how you feel-"
"Somehow I don't think so."
"No, no, I do. You're as transparent as a sheet of glass. You're still kicking yourself because you tried to do what you thought was the most sensible course of action and it went all to hell. Your childhood icon came to life and stomped the crap out of midtown Manhattan, and you think it's all your fault. And unless I miss my guess, you've spent at least two or three nights a week since Gozer counting over the number of people who could've been killed or hurt and mentally adding them to the big guy's total. Am I right?"
". . . yes."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Ray, you gotta stop this, okay? It's not your fault. Gozer was going to find something in our heads to use to destroy New York. None of us could've held our minds down forever, except maybe Egon. Something would've come up. It just happened to come up in yours. You were as much a part of kicking Gozer's ass as any of us, so you're just as entitled to a good night's sleep as any of us."
"But this-"
"The last thing I need is for you to flinch every time you think of something that you used to enjoy the hell out of when you were a kid. This is an official reason for you to take an interest in Stay-Puft doing well. Consider it positive reinforcement to counteract all the negative stuff you've been heaping on your childhood memories for the past two and a half months."
"Geez, Pete. . ."
"No need to thank me."
If it's broken, fix it. Ray couldn't fix this.
He didn't know if anybody could.
He stayed up as long as he could that night, just in case, and saw to it that Venkman got to his rooms okay. When Dr. McCoy called him over he obediently listened and nodded and noted down what he was told. The last thing he heard was, "Try to get some rest, son. You can't help your friend if you're dead on your feet." Ha, thought Ray. Fat chance.
He stayed by Peter's bedside for as long as he could, but it only stirred up the same sort of memories that'd been running through his head since the. . . fracture. When he caught himself starting to nod off despite the chaos in his head, he knew he'd had enough, and headed down the stairs to the Bar proper. There wasn't going to be any positive counteracting this time. He knew that all too well. But there were other ways of blotting out whirling thoughts, and this place sure as hell provided those.
Just his luck that the alcohol didn't work either. With a sigh, he slumped in his seat, staring morosely at the table in front of him and trying to swat the flies of thought circling around the inside of his skull.
"'You may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may be half-blinded with terror of the things in the dark, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn!'."
"Thanks, Dad."
"It works for me, son. I'll bet you any money you like it works for you, too."
Eh. Why not. Ray fished his PDA out of his pocket, thought for a moment, and set it on the table. Then he pulled out his holocomputer and quietly instructed the one device to dump copies of all it had into the storage of the other.
Let's see if you're right, Dad, Ray thought. His head only swimming a little, he told the holocomputer to bring up the schematics for the proton pack.
Milliways
Whatever Dr. McCoy was doing to try and get Pete back, it almost certainly wasn't going to be anything that Ray could help much with. The best the engineer could do for his friend was be there and listen- two things which assumed too much. For the first, would Peter even notice Ray's presence in his altered mental state? And for the second, would Peter even talk? Ray's knowledge of the day to day psychology of the normal human mind wouldn't fill up more than a tablespoon measure from Williams-Sonoma. If it'd been a mental invasion by something eldritch- fine! Fine, he could deal with that. He could find a way to block it, or run home and find Egon and get him to come up with something. If it were the kind of dribbling insanity you got from exposure to the mysteries of Great Cthulhu, he might at least have an idea of how to proceed. But this. . . this was simple human failure in the face of something overwhelming, and nothing in Ray's experience had ever taught him to handle that.
"I thought we signed you up for a penpal club, Raymond. Why haven't there been more letters for you lately?"
"They all stopped writing to me months ago, Mom. I don't know why. There's just this one boy who keeps writing back."
"Have you tried contacting them again? The club, I mean?"
"None of the second set of addresses even wrote back."
"I don't understand it, Raymond. This keeps happening. You're a bright, cheerful young man. You're eleven years old, not five- why can't you keep a friend your own age?"
"I'm keeping one. . .sorta. . ."
"I suppose it's a start."
He blamed himself, of course. Why the Bar had brought Peter here, he didn't know, but he had a horrible feeling it had to do with him. If things had gone on much longer after the war with the Other, he'd probably have gone to pieces. Then Peter showed up, and things had been all right again, for a while.
"Oh my God. This place is HUGE."
"Yeah, isn't it? Lemme guess. You're Professor Rossum's kid, right?"
"Actually, no- I’m, um, I'm a freshman. . . uh. . ."
"You're kidding. You look what, fourteen?"
"Fifteen, thank you."
"Riiiight."
"Come October."
"Yeah, thought so. God, kid, you look like you're expecting somebody to haul you into a dark classroom and bite your head off or something. What's your name?"
"Um. Ray Stantz. . ."
"Peter Venkman. Good to meet you. You're really here for class?"
"Engineering 1102, yeah."
"Damn. Me too. I always did like trains."
". . . uh. . . I hate to break it to you, but-"
"That was a joke, Ray. Get used to it. I do that a lot."
Peter had known what to ask, and what to say. Ray had no idea of either. He'd grabbed the first person who'd seemed qualified, and that- that was all he knew how to do. If you don't know what the problem is, you look for someone who will. If you can't do it yourself, you find someone who can. If it's broken, fix it.
"Okay, Ray? I don't normally celebrate Christmas, but I know you do, so- here. Merry Christmas."
"Pete, you really didn't have to-"
"Yeah, I did. First of all, because I know you got me Mets season tickets-"
"You weren't supposed to be listening!"
"-and second, because. . . well, just because. Go on. Open it."
". . ."
"You okay there, Stantz?"
". . . forty shares of stock in the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Company??"
"Yep. Look, Ray, I know how you feel-"
"Somehow I don't think so."
"No, no, I do. You're as transparent as a sheet of glass. You're still kicking yourself because you tried to do what you thought was the most sensible course of action and it went all to hell. Your childhood icon came to life and stomped the crap out of midtown Manhattan, and you think it's all your fault. And unless I miss my guess, you've spent at least two or three nights a week since Gozer counting over the number of people who could've been killed or hurt and mentally adding them to the big guy's total. Am I right?"
". . . yes."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Ray, you gotta stop this, okay? It's not your fault. Gozer was going to find something in our heads to use to destroy New York. None of us could've held our minds down forever, except maybe Egon. Something would've come up. It just happened to come up in yours. You were as much a part of kicking Gozer's ass as any of us, so you're just as entitled to a good night's sleep as any of us."
"But this-"
"The last thing I need is for you to flinch every time you think of something that you used to enjoy the hell out of when you were a kid. This is an official reason for you to take an interest in Stay-Puft doing well. Consider it positive reinforcement to counteract all the negative stuff you've been heaping on your childhood memories for the past two and a half months."
"Geez, Pete. . ."
"No need to thank me."
If it's broken, fix it. Ray couldn't fix this.
He didn't know if anybody could.
He stayed up as long as he could that night, just in case, and saw to it that Venkman got to his rooms okay. When Dr. McCoy called him over he obediently listened and nodded and noted down what he was told. The last thing he heard was, "Try to get some rest, son. You can't help your friend if you're dead on your feet." Ha, thought Ray. Fat chance.
He stayed by Peter's bedside for as long as he could, but it only stirred up the same sort of memories that'd been running through his head since the. . . fracture. When he caught himself starting to nod off despite the chaos in his head, he knew he'd had enough, and headed down the stairs to the Bar proper. There wasn't going to be any positive counteracting this time. He knew that all too well. But there were other ways of blotting out whirling thoughts, and this place sure as hell provided those.
Just his luck that the alcohol didn't work either. With a sigh, he slumped in his seat, staring morosely at the table in front of him and trying to swat the flies of thought circling around the inside of his skull.
"'You may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may be half-blinded with terror of the things in the dark, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn!'."
"Thanks, Dad."
"It works for me, son. I'll bet you any money you like it works for you, too."
Eh. Why not. Ray fished his PDA out of his pocket, thought for a moment, and set it on the table. Then he pulled out his holocomputer and quietly instructed the one device to dump copies of all it had into the storage of the other.
Let's see if you're right, Dad, Ray thought. His head only swimming a little, he told the holocomputer to bring up the schematics for the proton pack.
