Ray

The big black Ford rocketed north along Sixth Avenue, P deftly darting the monster in and out of gaps in traffic Ray knew the car couldn't possibly be fitting into. "How you holding up, newbie?" P asked.

Ray looked down at where his fingernails were cutting crescents into his palms with the effort of not grabbing for the over-the-door handle. "Fine," he said.

P laughed. "Neither you nor Rho ever could lie to save your ass," he said.

Ray swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said evenly, "I'm just used to being the one in the- GAH!- driver's seat. . ."

"I'll bet you've never even seen this speed at ground level."

"Actually, I did. Once." Ray flinched as they cut around a truck marked National Logistics Corp. "Two hundred and seventeen miles an hour."

P's eyebrows went up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Modified Trans Am at Floyd Bennett Field."

The driver whistled. "Okay, that takes work. You do the modding yourself or what?"

"No, it was- GAH!" The car swung hard to port. Forgetting himself, Ray grabbed at the handle. "Warn a guy!"

"Slowing down now. We're almost there anyway," P said, unperturbed.

And he was right. Ahead of them were several blocks' worth of unmoving traffic, unless one counted peeling off and turning around in the middle of Central Park South as 'moving'. The normally-common hansom drivers that clustered in the area were nowhere to be seen. P aimed the alarmingly large car for the pathetically tiny gaps between the huddling vehicles and slammed on the gas one last time; Ray closed his eyes and wondered just how badly the Knight cars would make fun of him if they found out.

SCREEEBLUNK.

"Leggo of the door and get out of the car, newbie."

"Qu'vatlh guy'cha b'aka!"

"Nice accent. Did you want your gun now or what?"

It was an eerily familiar sensation, Ray had to admit- running full tilt through the streets of New York, uniformed, energy weapon in hand, people scattering to get out of his way. But these people weren't cheering or booing, just fleeing- and the weight he'd come to take for granted wasn't there, either. The Strohl Munitions BH-209M ("I don't care what Zedd says, you're not touching a Deatomizer until you've had at least ten hours on the practice range") needed both hands, yeah, but it was cool and slick to the touch, heavy in all the wrong places, and built for different use entirely. The proton throwers were for confinement, capture, maybe disruption at need. This- this was a gun, pure and simple, and it was meant for putting a threat down once and for all. It wasn't a concept he was used to.

"Move it, Chuckles," P growled, pushing aside an art vendor who stood paralyzed with fear. "Yo! Newbie!" He jerked his chin. "There's our boy- Korilian with a death ray at two o'clock!"

Ray almost dropped the BH-209. The silver globe of the planet Earth that had been a Columbus Circle landmark for as long as Ray could remember was buckling under the weight of a vast, powder-blue thing with way too many arms. It bellowed, the tone rising and falling in a peculiarly arrhythmic fashion-

"P?" Ray asked, blinking. "Is it just me or is that thing-"

"Drunk? Yeah." P wrinkled his nose. "Got a gut full of diesel by the sound of it. Christ, I hate it when they're sloshed…" He glanced over the area. "NYPD's gotta start doing a better job of evacuating."

The point was underscored by a blast from a weapon cradled in two of the creature's arms. A bolt of- well, Ray didn't have a word for it, but it resembled nothing so much as a moving sinkhole for light- sliced through the air and reduced a hastily-abandoned taxicab to crumbling rebar.

"Um, you want me to get the civilians out of the way?" Ray asked, swallowing.

"No. I'll do that. You keep Schleppel here occupied," said P, ducking away before he even finished the sentence.

"But- I-"

"You'll do fine, newbie!" P called over his shoulder. "Excuse me! Officer! Federal agent- I want a word with you!"

Ray whimpered. The Korilian let out a rumbling roar before lowering its head, blinking down at the suddenly-alone figure in black. Well, some insanely cheerful part of Ray's brain thought, at least there's only one of it, right? And it's not like it's Gozer or anything…

"Sir!" he called out, flipping the BH-209's power-up switch off and stepping forward. The plasma cannon let out an ominous hum, which he did his best to ignore. "Or madam, or both or neither as the case may be!"

The Korilian's nostrils flared. "Oh, boy," it rumbled, belching a vast ball of petrol-smelling stomach gases. "Little Terra wants to play!"

"Little Terra requests- requires- that you cease and desist your antisocial, destructive, completely unwarranted and illegal activities at once and surrender your weapon, sir! You're acting in violation of at least three interplanetary treaties, not to mention four New York City public drunkenness laws that I know of."

The Korilian blinked.

"Put down the death ray and step away from the monument, sir!" Ray raised the BH-209 to eye level, taking aim at a lamp-post on the other side of the creature's bulk. P hadn't told him what it did, only that it had very little kickback, left a hell of a hole in the landscape, and was easily recognizable throughout the Orion Arm of the galaxy.

"Are you lishenning to yourself?" the sozzled alien demanded. "'m a Korilian!"

"I don't care!" Ray returned. "You're a public menace! Put down the death ray at once!"

It laughed, a hiccoughing, burping noise that sent more waves of diesel stench through the air. "Damn right I'm a menace!" it announced. "'m a Korilian! We eat planets like you for lunch! We make the Arquil.. Arq… the Empire look likea…" Another belch. "Kick their damn asses! We were stomping Bugs when you monkeys were figuring out fire!"

Ray's finger settled onto the trigger.

"Sir, as a representative of the sovereign planet of Earth, variously known as Terra and Sol III, I’m going to have to ask you to cease and desist the trash talk-"

"You have got to be kidding me!" the Korilian bellowed drunkenly. "What the frink are you? Some kind of god?"

Ray froze.

Ray's finger did not.

THOOOOM…