
(It’s just one of those days)
Being cooped up in the firehouse is starting to take its toll. With the Door refusing to open and Stantz not actively looking for it, Ghostbusters Headquarters has become a very small space indeed. Not that Ryan can blame the man. Ray has other responsibilities, to his team mates (pack mates?), his work, his life and Ryan would react in much the same way were their positions reversed. Well, no, he’d be much more irritated about the whole thing, and he’s irritated enough as is. He wants to go home. He should count himself lucky that it’s Ray’s world he’s landed on, even if it is animated. It’s just he can’t seem to open a door without running into Spengler, Stantz, Venkman, or that bloody green miscreant of a ghost they allow to hang around. He swears, if he loses one more sandwich to Slimer…
(Where you don’t want to wake up)
“Is there someplace where I can run?” he asks politely of Zeddmore after biting back another snarling reprimand at the green spud. He keeps his eyes on the bridge of the man’s nose, teeth hidden behind a thin-lipped smile. He doesn’t know how far he can push these people yet, and still isn’t willing to risk his way home, or to being corporeal.
(Everything is fucked)
Winston looks up from his own sandwich, one Slimer hasn’t touched (probably because Ryan had three). “Central Park isn’t that far. It’s a huge natural looking open space-“
(Everybody sucks)
“Where?” Ryan cuts him off, looking earnest.
(You don’t really know why)
Winston gives him the directions, “But you don’t want to go now. It gets pretty nasty at night.”
(But you want to justify)
Ryan allows himself to meet Zeddmore’s eyes, teeth bared in a vague smile. “I’ll be fine.”
(Ripping someone’s head off)
***
(No human contact)
This feels fantastic. It’s been far, far too long since he last ran, and now he turns himself over to it, pounding out all the frustration and anxiety of the past week, nearly slamming his boots into the trail, and not noticing as he gets deeper and deeper into the park. Or perhaps not caring, at least until the wolf whistle comes from ahead.
(And if you interact)
That startles him alert – surely that’s not for him – and he slows, looking for the source. Standing at the single park lamp is a young man, perhaps Deitmar’s age, watching him. Ryan snorts and begins to pick up his pace again when a younger man, more a teenager, steps out further up, cutting off his path. This one already has a small knife in his hand and Ryan arches an unimpressed brow but stops. Nose twitching, he glances behind him to see a third, with an even longer blade. No guns, though, and no one else hiding in the bushes.
(Your life is on contract)
Decisions, decisions.
(Your best bet is to stay away, motherfucker)
“We was wondering if you could lend us some money,” Lamppost says with a smirk, confidently leaning against the metal behind him. Ryan is well aware there is more than one way to work off frustration, and who would miss three street punks? Still, killing them would leave a problem of disposal, since he can’t just leave the three bodies in the middle of the park. (Part of him wonders what animated blood looks like.) No, a simple disarming should work wonders, he thinks. Unless he spooks them, which he might with the wolfish grin appearing on his face.
(It’s just one of those days)
“I don’t have any,” Ryan answers, locking eyes with the man. There’s a sharp hyena-like laugh from the man behind him.
(It’s just one of those days)
“All them pockets, and you ain’t got a wallet? You think we stupid?”
(Feeling like a freight train)
“Illiterate, perhaps, but decidedly moronic,” Ryan answers dismissively, still looking at the man in front of him.
(First one to complain)
“That’s a pretty funny accent, mister,” Hyena snarls, stepping forward. “You ain’t from around here. We charge extra for that.”
(Leaves with the bloodstain)
“So how ‘bout you dig out that wallet now,” Lamppost adds, standing up from his slouch and showing his own knife.
(Damn right I’m a maniac)
“I told you, I don’t have one,” Ryan annunciates, voice sinking into a growl that continues even when the words don’t. He’s showing more teeth now, and the silent man glances uncertainly at Lamppost, but he and Ryan are still staring at each other.
(You better watch your back)
For a moment, the four are still, the only sound Ryan’s low growl, but Lamppost is unfazed and when the growl stops so Ryan can take a breath, the man darts forward, knife extended. Ryan snarls, even as he catches Lamppost’s wrist and snaps it, sending the knife whirling away into the dark. There’s a sharp cry of pain and a sudden scent dump of fear, but Ryan’s already spinning to deal with Hyena. The werewolf grabs the knife arm, twisting the man around and wrenching the limb until there’s a popping sound, leaving Hyena blubbering in pain. The youngest mugger is gone, leaving a cloud of fear and his friends behind.
(Cos I’m fucking up your program)
Ryan drops Hyena with a sound of disgust and the man wastes no time in fleeing. Ryan turns back to Lamppost, who’s kneeling on the path, hand cradled in his lap. He looks up to see Ryan stalk forward, all predator menace, and lets out a low moan as he tries to back away. The werewolf’s grin grows at that as he catches the man’s shirt, hoisting him to his feet, catching the good wrist in his other hand.
(And if you’re stuck up)
“Please, man, no more!” Lamppost whimpers as Ryan’s nostril’s flare.
(You just lucked up)
“I could kill you,” he says a little dreamily, expression not changing. Lamppost starts kicking then, and Ryan shakes him with a growl. “Listen carefully and you may yet live and learn. I’m going to use these trails, and when I do, I don’t want to be bothered, understood?” When there’s no answer, Ryan frowns, annoyed. “Is that understood?” he asks again, bending the good wrist.
(Next in line to get fucked up)
“Yeah! Yeah! I got it, man!”
(Your best bet is to stay away motherfucker)
“Good. Make sure everyone else understands as well.” Lamppost nods frantically and Ryan releases the shirt, dropping him to the ground. The man looks surprised and Ryan arches a brow. “Well? Off you go.” Lamppost bolts.
(It’s just one of those days)
***
The door opens to admit Ryan, a great deal less tense. “Any trouble?” Winston asks from the sofa where he’s stretched out reading a Holmes mystery. He glances up at the captain, who meets his gaze with a slightly toothy grin.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he answers before the teeth are masked and his eyes slide to the bridge of Zeddmore’s nose. The Ghostbuster watches him a moment, but when no further information is offered, he shrugs and returns to his book.
“Just be careful,” he cautions. He doesn’t see Ryan’s look turn smug.
“Duly noted.”