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Mar. 10th, 2008 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gone_byebyeFriday, February 15, 2008
One Police Plaza
Manhattan
Late Night
The trouble with getting any kind of serious construction work done on certain buildings in New York City is that they're too important for work to proceed during the day. Renovation and new construction efforts have to be scheduled for off-hours or weekends. That gets expensive fast, since New York is one hell of a union town; time and a half adds up fast even under the best of circumstances.
Renovating One Police Plaza was anything but the best of circumstances. Probably pretty close to the opposite, in fact. The building had been rewired ages ago, and most of the piping had been replaced, but between one thing and another the aged structure's flaws had stacked one on top of another until the city had no choice but to order a massive overhaul. Ceilings were taken down and replaced. Carpets were pulled up to make way for new flooring. Load-bearing walls were strategically upgraded, one member at a time. Even the foundation of the building came under scrutiny, including the cornerstone, a ponderous grey block whose color and composition were at odds with the rest of the stone around it. It couldn't be removed, of course- such was the nature of cornerstones- but when careful examination proved it to be hollow, the city and the firm in charge of the renovation job sat down for a long discussion. There had been rumors in circulation for some time that there was a time capsule buried beneath One Police Plaza, but if such a thing existed, its location and age had long since been lost. Would it be worth breaching the cornerstone? Ought they to leave it be? Were there non-intrusive methods of finding out just what lay inside?
Such were the questions. And a little after midnight on Saturday, February 16th, 2008, a jackhammer slipped and made them all moot.
Saturday, February 16th
14 North Moore Street
Manhattan
"Ray." It was Venkman's voice, and probably his hand on Ray's shoulder, too. "Wake up, Ray. We have a problem."
"Gnrh." Ray tried to burrow further into his pillow; yesterday had been insanely busy. "Whazzat?"
"Ray, it's 1905."
His sleep-fogged mind considered this statement and made the only sensible response possible, namely: "You mean PM, right?"
"No, Ray, I mean AD," was the answer. "It's the year 1905 out there. Why is it 1905? What did you do??"
All right, that got him awake. "I didn't do anything," Ray protested, pushing himself upright. "Why do you- holy Heisenberg!"
Venkman was scowling at him. Or, rather, Venkman's mustache was scowling at him. The thing was impressive enough to have its own facial expressions entirely. Baleen whales would've paid good money to use that mustache as a substitute strainer. "What?" it snapped.
"Nothing! Nothing," Ray said hastily, and jerked his eyes away. Oh, God, were those gas fixtures?
"I'm almost certain this wasn't his fault, Peter," said Egon from the hallway. Ray took the opportunity to roll out of bed, away from Peter's glare. "For one thing, he's been asleep longer than any of us have. For another, I very much doubt either Romana or certain beings of his acquaintance with an affinity for angles would let him get away with anything that could possibly have this kind of effect."
"Well, this has to be somebody's fault!" Peter protested. "Who else do we know who has this kind of freaky luck with time?"
Ray looked up from his dresser and risked a glance over his shoulder; for one horrifying instant he was absolutely sure he was looking at Laszlo Spengler, fresh out of Miskatonic. Egon and his putative grandfather had distressingly similar tastes in clothing, right down to the suspenders. He shook his head rapidly and the illusion broke.
"I can think of several possible candidates, based on some of the papers that've been coming out of Stevens Institute of Technology lately," Egon said. "Now leave Ray alone and come help me assess the containment unit."
"What's this about the containment unit?" Ray said, the shirt he'd been about to pull on briefly forgotten. Egon hesitated, not quite willing to speak- but his eyes flickered upwards. A chill ran down Ray's spine as he realized that Egon was looking at the gaslights on the wall. "Oh, no. No, no, no-"
"It seems to be holding at the moment, but I haven't got the slightest idea of how," Egon answered. "Given that there doesn't appear to be any sort of electrical current being delivered to the building I can only assume our generators are in the basement somewhere and still functional. I think it behooves us to find out how long that situation's going to last."
Hastily, Ray jerked his shirt on and started buttoning it up. "That does seem like the critical thing," he agreed. "How far does the phenomenon extend? Is there any kind of indication of where it's coming from or where it started or-" He blanched. "Oh God. Ecto..."
Venkman grimaced. "Uh, Ray, about that-"
Ray ignored him and ran for the nearest pole. Thankfully, those were in exactly the same places as always. "Ecto, kiddo, are you all right?" he shouted down to the garage.
"No!" The car's voice was oddly reedy-sounding. "Daddy, don't come down here!"
"Nonsense. Of course I'm coming."
"Daddy, please-"
He dropped to the floor and blinked a few times; the garage wasn't particularly well-lit at the moment, and fumbling for the light switch quite naturally didn't help. "Ecto?" he said, moving forward.
"I don't want anybody seeing me right now," the car's subdued voice protested. "I'm all wrong."
"Then I need to help you," Ray said firmly. "I don't care what you look like. Come on, kiddo, turn your lights on? Please?"
There was a long, hesitant silence.
"I don't seem to have headlights, Daddy," Ecto finally confessed. "And I can't open the garage because I'm afraid of what'll happen if I try and transform like this."
"It's okay, Ecto," said Winston, who had come down the same pole as Ray. "I'll handle it."
"Uncle Winston, don't-"
But Winston had already made his way past Ecto and unlocked the garage door. As he heaved it open, the sounds- and smells, oh, God, the smells- of a million utterly indignant New Yorkers amidst their suddenly unfamiliar surroundings started pouring in. There were cars out there, true, but the engines were all wrong, and more than cars there were horses, and the buildings across the way were all wrong...
None of it particularly mattered to Ray, though. What was important was the light... and the fact that Ecto appeared to have had most of her body parts swapped out for something resembling an old-time train car crossed with a tractor, a truck, or both. A white-and-red... train car-tractor-truck hybrid, with the Ghostbusters logo on the sides, and... rods and wheels and pistons and other moving parts pumping furiously on the other side of its windows...
Ray covered his mouth with one hand. "Told you, Daddy," Ecto said miserably.
Somewhere outside, a horse was neighing.
One Police Plaza
Manhattan
Late Night
The trouble with getting any kind of serious construction work done on certain buildings in New York City is that they're too important for work to proceed during the day. Renovation and new construction efforts have to be scheduled for off-hours or weekends. That gets expensive fast, since New York is one hell of a union town; time and a half adds up fast even under the best of circumstances.
Renovating One Police Plaza was anything but the best of circumstances. Probably pretty close to the opposite, in fact. The building had been rewired ages ago, and most of the piping had been replaced, but between one thing and another the aged structure's flaws had stacked one on top of another until the city had no choice but to order a massive overhaul. Ceilings were taken down and replaced. Carpets were pulled up to make way for new flooring. Load-bearing walls were strategically upgraded, one member at a time. Even the foundation of the building came under scrutiny, including the cornerstone, a ponderous grey block whose color and composition were at odds with the rest of the stone around it. It couldn't be removed, of course- such was the nature of cornerstones- but when careful examination proved it to be hollow, the city and the firm in charge of the renovation job sat down for a long discussion. There had been rumors in circulation for some time that there was a time capsule buried beneath One Police Plaza, but if such a thing existed, its location and age had long since been lost. Would it be worth breaching the cornerstone? Ought they to leave it be? Were there non-intrusive methods of finding out just what lay inside?
Such were the questions. And a little after midnight on Saturday, February 16th, 2008, a jackhammer slipped and made them all moot.
Saturday, February 16th
14 North Moore Street
Manhattan
"Ray." It was Venkman's voice, and probably his hand on Ray's shoulder, too. "Wake up, Ray. We have a problem."
"Gnrh." Ray tried to burrow further into his pillow; yesterday had been insanely busy. "Whazzat?"
"Ray, it's 1905."
His sleep-fogged mind considered this statement and made the only sensible response possible, namely: "You mean PM, right?"
"No, Ray, I mean AD," was the answer. "It's the year 1905 out there. Why is it 1905? What did you do??"
All right, that got him awake. "I didn't do anything," Ray protested, pushing himself upright. "Why do you- holy Heisenberg!"
Venkman was scowling at him. Or, rather, Venkman's mustache was scowling at him. The thing was impressive enough to have its own facial expressions entirely. Baleen whales would've paid good money to use that mustache as a substitute strainer. "What?" it snapped.
"Nothing! Nothing," Ray said hastily, and jerked his eyes away. Oh, God, were those gas fixtures?
"I'm almost certain this wasn't his fault, Peter," said Egon from the hallway. Ray took the opportunity to roll out of bed, away from Peter's glare. "For one thing, he's been asleep longer than any of us have. For another, I very much doubt either Romana or certain beings of his acquaintance with an affinity for angles would let him get away with anything that could possibly have this kind of effect."
"Well, this has to be somebody's fault!" Peter protested. "Who else do we know who has this kind of freaky luck with time?"
Ray looked up from his dresser and risked a glance over his shoulder; for one horrifying instant he was absolutely sure he was looking at Laszlo Spengler, fresh out of Miskatonic. Egon and his putative grandfather had distressingly similar tastes in clothing, right down to the suspenders. He shook his head rapidly and the illusion broke.
"I can think of several possible candidates, based on some of the papers that've been coming out of Stevens Institute of Technology lately," Egon said. "Now leave Ray alone and come help me assess the containment unit."
"What's this about the containment unit?" Ray said, the shirt he'd been about to pull on briefly forgotten. Egon hesitated, not quite willing to speak- but his eyes flickered upwards. A chill ran down Ray's spine as he realized that Egon was looking at the gaslights on the wall. "Oh, no. No, no, no-"
"It seems to be holding at the moment, but I haven't got the slightest idea of how," Egon answered. "Given that there doesn't appear to be any sort of electrical current being delivered to the building I can only assume our generators are in the basement somewhere and still functional. I think it behooves us to find out how long that situation's going to last."
Hastily, Ray jerked his shirt on and started buttoning it up. "That does seem like the critical thing," he agreed. "How far does the phenomenon extend? Is there any kind of indication of where it's coming from or where it started or-" He blanched. "Oh God. Ecto..."
Venkman grimaced. "Uh, Ray, about that-"
Ray ignored him and ran for the nearest pole. Thankfully, those were in exactly the same places as always. "Ecto, kiddo, are you all right?" he shouted down to the garage.
"No!" The car's voice was oddly reedy-sounding. "Daddy, don't come down here!"
"Nonsense. Of course I'm coming."
"Daddy, please-"
He dropped to the floor and blinked a few times; the garage wasn't particularly well-lit at the moment, and fumbling for the light switch quite naturally didn't help. "Ecto?" he said, moving forward.
"I don't want anybody seeing me right now," the car's subdued voice protested. "I'm all wrong."
"Then I need to help you," Ray said firmly. "I don't care what you look like. Come on, kiddo, turn your lights on? Please?"
There was a long, hesitant silence.
"I don't seem to have headlights, Daddy," Ecto finally confessed. "And I can't open the garage because I'm afraid of what'll happen if I try and transform like this."
"It's okay, Ecto," said Winston, who had come down the same pole as Ray. "I'll handle it."
"Uncle Winston, don't-"
But Winston had already made his way past Ecto and unlocked the garage door. As he heaved it open, the sounds- and smells, oh, God, the smells- of a million utterly indignant New Yorkers amidst their suddenly unfamiliar surroundings started pouring in. There were cars out there, true, but the engines were all wrong, and more than cars there were horses, and the buildings across the way were all wrong...
None of it particularly mattered to Ray, though. What was important was the light... and the fact that Ecto appeared to have had most of her body parts swapped out for something resembling an old-time train car crossed with a tractor, a truck, or both. A white-and-red... train car-tractor-truck hybrid, with the Ghostbusters logo on the sides, and... rods and wheels and pistons and other moving parts pumping furiously on the other side of its windows...
Ray covered his mouth with one hand. "Told you, Daddy," Ecto said miserably.
Somewhere outside, a horse was neighing.
