(no subject)

Thursday, February 14, 2008
Times Square, Manhattan
Morning

You know, thought Ray as he leaned back against a garishly grinning fiberglass mascot, if anyone had told me back when I was in college that one day I would be getting paid by the State Department to show a fish-man in a trenchcoat and Patriots hat around a six-story M&Ms store because the line for the Ferris wheel in Toys-R-Us was too long, I really do think I would've had just a little bit of difficulty suspending my sense of disbelief.

Aloud he said, "Z'so-ben'so, you doing okay over there?"

"Oh, yeah." The Deep One ambassador's nicitating membranes slid briefly over his eyes. "Sheez. You weren't kidding about this place. Can we do the Hershey's store next?"

"Are you guys even affected by theobromine?"

"Little bit." Z'so-ben'so wiggled one hand in midair. "I tried it a couple of times when I was getting to know Frances. It's not that much of a stimulant."

"I'm kind of impressed," Ray said. "Most non-human species I know of don't digest chocolate very well at all. Between the theobromine and the caffeine it's no good whatsoever for their digestive system."

"Yeah, well, most non-human species don't have the kind of gut residents we do," said Z'so-ben'so. "I have enough symbiotes down there to break down anything short of a synthetic hormone dump."

"Really?" Ray stood away from the statue. "That's kind of impressive. Are they any species I'd recognize?"

"Nah, probably not. We grew 'em ourselves."

"Seriously? I knew you guys were heavy on the organic technology, but I have to admit I never really thought along those lines."

Z'so-ben'so bobbed his head back and forth, a gesture Ray had learned by now was the Deep One equivalent of a badly suppressed laugh. "You kidding? We've been doing that longer than you landers've been hairless. Custom symbiotes're just about the easiest bio-modification there is, down below."

"Huh," said Ray thoughtfully. "Can you make anything like that to work in a human system?"

"I dunno if I'm allowed to answer that," said Z'so-ben'so. "Lemme get back to you on that one?"

"Sure, not a problem."

Anthony Wong's School of the Fighting Arts
145 Mott Street
Chinatown, Manhattan
Noon

"You're here early," said Mr. Wong, looking up from the rack of practice swords. "Didn't you have an appointment this morning?"

"The ambient humidity outside's too low for Ambassador Z'so-ben'so's tastes, so he went back to Brooklyn early," Ray said. "We're going back to midtown the next time it rains. I hope that's not a problem."

"No, it's fine." Mr. Wong brushed his hands fastidiously on the front of his shirt. "Give me a bit to get changed and I'll be right with you."

Ray nodded. "Take your time."

Fifteen minutes later the broadsword lesson was well under way when Mr. Wong said, in a carelessly cheerful tone, "So. About the current state of your soul."

Ray fought back a groan. "Tony, I told you-"

"Yes, you walked through a door in the course of your job and wound up in a dimension where some obscene number of years passed in the course of a single night, and you spent hours every day practicing with the local masters," said Wong, who was not above pressing his charges for conversation even in the middle of forms practice. "You've been saying that for some time."

Ray almost stumbled, but swiftly recovered. "That's because it's true!"

"Uh huh. Nobody develops muscle memory from a mind voyage, Ray. This isn't The Matrix."

"And if it wasn't a mind voyage?" Ray stopped, thought for a minute, and started the attack pattern again. "What if I was actually there physically and time just didn't affect me the same way it would here?"

"I call bullshit on that, Ray. This isn't a fairy tale."

"But you can believe that I sold my soul to the God of War."

"You're a Ghostbuster. You fight gods all the time," said Mr. Wong. "Maybe this time one of them bought you off."

Ray shook his head. "You are the weirdest civilian I've ever met," he said.

"Bah, I'm perfectly normal. You bring the weird with you and we all have to live with it. Now, let's see what you're doing there with your wrist..."

United States Coast Guard Regional Examination Center
212 Coast Guard Drive
Staten Island, NY
Afternoon

"Okay, Captain, fill me in here," said Venkman as Ray started setting up the instrumentation tripods. "You guys've been getting blitzed by-"

"Massive flocks of invisible seagulls, yes," said Captain Jervis. "Roughly every thirty to forty-five minutes or so. The cadets say they hear them coming about thirty seconds before the aerial assault starts."

"Huh. And this goes on for how long?"

"Five to seven minutes, depending on the number of cadets in the area," Captain Jervis said. "Generally it starts with the beak and wing attacks, and then the aerial bombardment begins."

"Bombardment with..."

"Exactly what you're thinking, Dr. Venkman," said Captain Jervis. "We are talking seagulls, after all."

"Interesting. Do the droppings remain invisible after leaving the birds' vicinity, or do you have any kind of visible residue remaining afterwards?" said Ray.

Captain Jervis turned his way. "The droppings themselves don't ever show up as such," she said, "but a few seconds after impact, small spreading pools of clear greenish slime appear on the target. Our laundries've been overwhelmed trying to clean up the residue."

"Venkman, stop cackling," said Ray. "It's one thing for-"

"That... wasn't me," said Venkman. "I think we have seagull sign."

Captain Jervis winced and swiftly pulled on a plastic rain poncho.

Ben's Kosher Deli
209 W. 38th St
Manhattan, NY
Evening

"You're late," said the ghost of Grandpa Maxim. "And why do you stink of peppermint?"

"Dr. Bronner's is the only soap on the market that stands even the slightest chance of getting ectoplasm out of my hair and clothes," Ray answered. "Things got messy at work today."

Maxim slanted an eyebrow at his grandson. "Should I ask?"

"Not unless you want to hear about invisible seagulls with a serious lack of intestinal fortitude."

"... you could just say no, Raymond," said Maxim. "Did the birds get your face, too?"

"No, that was the cinnamon bun earlier in the week," Ray said. "It had knives."

Maxim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gevalt," he muttered. "You're going to be a wreck come October, aren't you."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ray said, brightening at the prospect of some good news at last. "Not if the Secretary of Defense has anything to say about it."

"Really."

"Really," Ray confirmed. "Here, have a look..." He passed his grandfather a folder stamped with the Defense Department logo.

Maxim thumbed through the papers inside with a thoughtful expression. As he started to speak, another page caught his eye; he paled. "Raymond, am I seeing this properly?"

"The part where our first secondary unit's going to be re-using the name of the 369th Infantry Regiment from the First World War? Yes," Ray said. "They got permission from the widows-"

"Not that." Maxim waved a hand. "I meant-"

"Oh, the recruiting section? Yeah, it was pretty much decided across the board that Venkman was going to be in charge of that."

"No, not that either," said Maxim. "Raymond, a game show?"

"Oh! Who Wants To Be A Ghostbuster. Yes."

Maxim stared mutely at his grandson. Ray stared right back. It is very hard to out-stare a ghost, especially when a waitress arrives at your table to take your order, but Ray came close. As he finally looked away, Maxim said, “Exactly where is this travesty of the recruitment process going to be taking place?”

“Oh- Floyd Bennett Field,” said Ray. “Or, rather, at the Maxim Stantz Memorial Paranormal Responder Training Facility. The Defense Department bought it from the Parks- Grandpa Maxim, are you all right?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine,” said Maxim. “Just- something in my eye, I think…”

“Of course,” said Ray.