Originally published in Just the Four of Us 3

With a horrified yelp, Peter Venkman backpedaled hastily as the entity he and Egon had been pursuing through the deserted hotel materialized about ten feet in front of him. It was humanoid in appearance, only bigger--a lot bigger--and its eyes were deep and wise--and full of appraisal. Peter stared in dismay into that knowing gaze and knew he was dead meat.

When the two Ghostbusters had arrived on the site in response to a panicked call from the hotel manager, they had believed the entity to be no more than a Class 5, easy enough to trap while Ray and Winston were away at a Star Trek Convention in Baltimore. No sooner had they arrived outside the hotel, pausing for Egon to take readings, than Spengler's meter had imploded in a puff of smoke and flames. Blowing on scorched fingertips, Egon remarked, "This is very bad, Peter. I believe the entity to be an elemental. The two of us have no hope of trapping it unassisted. Even with Ray and Winston, I'm not sure we could stop it, not without a plan." He glanced back at Ecto-1, assessing the equipment contained within, and shook his head.

"Come on, Spengs," Peter encouraged, gazing at the unrevealing facade of the hotel and the collection of shaken guests and staff who hovered, ready to run, on the other side of the street. "We have to find out what it is before we decide what to do. If anybody can figure it out, you can. Besides, just because whatever is in there is as powerful as Gozer doesn't mean he's got a tenth the brains you do. And he never met a fast-talker like me before. We'll handle it." He hoped his brave words didn't sound as much like whistling in a graveyard to Egon as they did to him.

He and Egon stared at each other in realization, knowing that they could not leave the entity free, yet that to die in pursuit of it would not help the city. Inside the building waited no easy answers. Most of the hotel guests had already been evacuated and, as the two Ghostbusters crossed the lobby, Egon gripping a backup meter that had been hastily readjusted to prevent another burn-out, a few stragglers raced for the door in a frantic scramble, panic on their faces. At least no one was hurt--yet.

"So, what do we do?" Peter persisted. "Run away as fast as we can and never look back?" He grinned wryly to show he didn't really mean it. They couldn't turn their backs on something so dangerous. If they looked over their shoulders, it would be sure to be back there, gaining on them, angry and hungry.

"Perhaps we could attempt to reason with it," Egon suggested. He had faced incredibly powerful entities in the past with a determined courage, and Peter knew that Egon would willingly give his life to save humanity from the threat they faced. He had made that choice before and would do so again. Peter would rather save humanity without the dying part, and he wasn't about to let Egon offer himself up if it came down to a choice between the two of them. They'd think of something. They always did. Until now.

They stood in the center of the lobby, gazing at each other in acknowledgment of danger, the risks they were about to take, and their determination to protect each other and the world, then Egon said, "It's that way," and pointed to the elevator.

The bust came down to a game of hide and seek all through the hotel. It toyed with them from the word go, tempting them, leading them astray, faking them out as if it could read their psyches and knew exactly what buttons to push. Somehow, without even realizing how it had happened, Peter found himself alone on the fifth floor, at the end of a deserted corridor, doors ajar on the various guest rooms to suggest the urgency with which the evacuation had been carried out. No amount of yelling evoked a reply from Egon, and Peter's heart oozed down into his feet. He knew from experience that one particle thrower couldn't take out anything as powerful as a Class 8--and he was scared silly that Egon had already met the entity--and his fate.

Okay, so it was up to him. He could do it.

"What are you saying, Venkman?" he muttered to himself, tightening his grip on his thrower.

That was when the creature appeared directly before him, blocking him off from any means of escape except the window at his back. Some option, when he was five floors up. The spirit was probably eight feet tall, big enough to make Michael Jordan look puny, and Peter had to crane his neck to meet its gaze. The minute he did, the entity whipped the hand that had been concealed behind his back around in front of him--and he held a struggling Egon effortlessly in his massive grip. Shaken and woozy, the physicist had lost his glasses and a smear of blood trickled down the side of his face from a cut in his left eyebrow. He'd tried to wipe it out of his eye, but he hadn't managed to do a very thorough job. It was still bleeding sluggishly, but the blond man was conscious and alert. He even had his P.K.E. meter but it looked like it was turned off.

Peter sucked in a panicked breath. "Egon!"

"This one matters to you?" the ghost asked Peter in a mild voice.

Bracing himself on the balls of his feet in hopes of getting a clear shot, Peter glared up at the entity pugnaciously. "What's it to you if he does, bunky?"

"I have never visited this human realm before. I have been here a day now, studying the creatures who dwell here. I have seen unkindness, poverty, corruption, insensitivity. I am not sure your Earth deserves to exist. Prove to me that it does and I will free your friend and go away. Otherwise, I will do the universe a kindness and destroy it, and your friend along with it."

Egon forced his head up and met Venkman's gaze. "Peter, be very careful," he warned. "I think he will trick you if he can."

"You okay, Egon?" Peter called. Basics first. He needed to be sure of that before he went one step further.

"I have been better." He squinted nearsightedly down at Peter. "But I am reasonably intact, at least for now." Twisting his head around to face the entity, he asked, "What are your terms?"

"They are simple. Your friend has ten minutes to convince me this world is worthwhile. In order to do so, I will grant him one memory, something from his past, to use to help him."

"My past?" Peter echoed, disbelieving. "You've got my best friend there and you're gonna take out the world and we're gonna waste time digging around in my psyche? Come on!"

"If you fail, he will die first and you will witness it," the being said placidly. "You came here to challenge me, the two of you, so the responsibility falls upon you. Do you still wish to fight, to blast me with your weapons, rather than convince me? They will not work against me. I am not a ghost."

Peter had figured that out already. Hopes of overloading the entity with energy or even crossing the streams faded. "Look, you leave Egon alone and I'll do whatever you say!"

The being cocked his head and regarded Peter with faint surprise. "Altruism? Hmmm. Perhaps this will be more interesting than I thought. Go ahead. Talk to me of beautiful sunsets and the laughter of children. I hear that wherever I go. Boring. I want something new. I have witnessed you Ghostbusters and I admit I am interested in what you do. I have taken memories here and there, including from the mind of your friend," He nodded down at Egon, "and I have seen you four take a stand against powerful beings who could devour your souls, simply to save the world. This is promising, but it is not enough. From what I have seen of your world, a stranger will risk his life to save someone he has never met, but it is instinctive."

"Doesn't that give us points?" Peter challenged. "That we've got those kind of instincts? Says a lot for us as a species, I think."

"Perhaps. You would die for Egon?"

"Yeah, if I have to. I kinda like the idea of both of us living, though. What gives you the right to come in here and decide you're in charge of Earth's fate?"

"The fact that I can do it," the entity mused. "I have found the memory."

Peter made a hasty, time-out gesture. "Whoa--wait a minute. Don't I get to choose?"

"You did choose, Peter Venkman. You chose some years back." He put his hand on Peter's forehead and the world faded....

Peter was twelve years old and just coming home from school. The adult Peter hovered inside the child that he had been, knowing his younger version was unaware of him watching. Trudging up the steps to his apartment, the boy tucked his schoolbooks under his arm. It was the first day back to classes and he resented the homework that had been assigned. He wasn't even thinking of anything but that, well, other than Mary Beth Malone, whose desk in home room was right next to his. She'd given him the eye as he'd started home. This was going to be a great year. Peter grinned faintly at that memory. First year in junior high, and the world was before him.

At least until he put his hand on the doorknob of his apartment and heard his mother inside, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Peter froze, child and man reacting with a twist to the stomach. Trembling slightly, the boy leaned against the door to listen. Peter could feel the color sliding out of his face.

"It's going to be all right, Margaret," soothed Aunt Susan, his mother's best friend. She was no relative, but Peter had always called her that--he'd liked her. Peter the man could remember that she had lived in the next apartment for three years and always been there when his mom needed her. His dad had been away a lot more than usual that year and, looking back, Peter realized his mother must have suspected him of having an affair. That was probably what was wrong now. God, if the entity took information about Peter's dad out of his mind, they might as well close down the Earth on the spot. Not exactly the finest specimen of humanity going.

"How can it be all right?" Mom demanded, controlling her tears. "I don't know if Charlie will ever come back, and every year it's harder on Petey. He tries so hard to be a man, but he also covers up how much it hurts to have his dad gone the way he is, to have Charlie promise and promise he'll be here and then not show. I worry for him. If Charlie doesn't come back this time, I'm scared how he'll take it."

Peter could feel his younger self cringing at her words, his smaller hands clenching into fists. That had been a terrible moment for him. All thoughts of junior high glory drained away, leaving him limp and scared, feeling helpless, then angry because he hated being helpless.

"He's a good boy, Margaret," Susan reassured her gently. "I know he's got a temper and gets into fights sometimes, but don't you worry about that. He's just being a boy. They all do it; it's how they prove to themselves that they're men. I think there's a lot of good in him, a lot of potential. You're probably scared to death he'll turn out like Charlie, but he won't. He got his values from you, not his dad. He might pretend to be like Charlie, but that's all surface. You know that, really."

"I know, but it's such an impressionable age," Mom insisted. "When Charlie's here, he really does try. He loves Petey and he spends as much time with him as he can. But he's not reliable, and Petey knows that. I've seen how much it hurts him. Oh, god, Susan, what shall I do? If Charlie doesn't come back, I know how hard Peter will take it. I don't want it to make him bitter and suspicious."

The adult Peter realized what his younger self hadn't entirely understood, how unselfish and loving his mom had been to put her worry for him first when her own heart must be breaking. He hadn't always understood how lucky he'd been to have her, always in his corner, when he was growing up, but he did now. He could remember once, probably after this incident, how his mom had told him how lucky she was because she had him and she had a friend like Susan. "Someday, Petey, find yourself friends you can rely on," she'd insisted. "In the end, there isn't anything more important. Trust and love, Peter, they go hand in hand. Remember that."

He might not have always remembered the words, but he remembered the meaning. Mom had been right. There wasn't anything more important. All the other things, they were just surface, just fringe benefits. Knowing there was another human being you could trust down to the soul was what made everything worthwhile.

Inside the apartment, Susan's voice was gentle and soothing. "You'll make it, Margaret. You've got a lot of love to give and Peter needs you. You won't let him down. You aren't capable of it. And I'll be here whenever I can. You know that, too."

His mother gave a watery chuckle, and then she recited something that Peter didn't realize at the time was a poem, but he didn't forget it and, later on, he looked it up. He realized his younger self had partly understood, had grabbed onto the words as the hope of what might someday be. Friendship. That was what mattered, trusting somebody and being worthy of someone else's trust. When he'd first met Egon, he'd trusted him long before he could admit it to himself. About the time he realized that Egon considered him his friend and was prepared to rely on him, Peter decided that he could do the same. It had been one of the constants of his life ever since.

And now, unless he could convince the elemental the Earth was worth saving, he'd have to watch Egon die, and then he'd know that he'd screwed up and destroyed the whole world. It wasn't fair. But then nobody ever said life was fair. Peter had probably had more good in his life than most people already. But that didn't make the possibility of failure any easier to take.

The hotel came back around him--he realized he'd never really left--and Egon still hung in the elemental's grip. When he realized Peter was conscious of his surroundings, he heaved a sigh of relief, and Peter realized he must have looked like he'd gone into some kind of zone-out. Egon would have had no assurance the entity would keep his word. Peter gave him a hasty thumbs'-up sign.

Egon found a smile for Peter as if he had sublime faith in him. Behind the concern, behind the understanding and trust, was forgiveness in advance in case Peter screwed up and the spirit trashed the world. Seeing all that in his friend's face made Peter take a deep, shaken breath. He felt awed, humbled, energized--and scared as hell.

"I am waiting," the elemental said. "Convince me there is a reason to spare you and I will go away and trouble humanity no more."

Peter opened his mouth to spin a con, to do a hard sell, and then the words slid away unspoken. No. Not that. The whole thing had a theme, beginning with the entity's realization that Peter's friend mattered to him. This wasn't about a snow job, a con, or even about a long list of things that made the Planet Earth worthwhile. It was much simpler than that. It was about friendship.

Hoping his flash of intuition was right, Peter looked Egon right in the eye and called up from the depths of his memory the poem his mother had spoken to the friend who had been there when she needed her, substituting the name. It felt right. God, let this be right.

"'To own an...Egon of my own

Is in itself a Bliss -

Whatever Realm I forfeit, Lord,

Continue me in this.'" ⁽¹⁾

And then he just stood there, unable to tear his eyes away from Egon, even knowing that he had probably screwed it up royally, that the Earth wasn't dependent on his love of his friends; how could it be? Egon gazed back and Peter realized how moved he was. No matter the verdict, Peter had that.

The silence when he finished speaking seemed a year long. Peter drew in a shaken breath and squelched the childish urge to cross his fingers. Then the elemental set Egon down in front of Peter and dusted him off. A wave of his hand produced Egon's glasses, and he put them into the blond's hand.

"Very well," the elemental said as Egon settled his glasses into place. "That will do."

"That's it?" Peter screeched, flabbergasted. "That's all you need?" He had been right, after all.

"Honest caring from the soul displays your race's potential. If one of your species has it, others will possess it as well. I will go away and come back in a millennium to see how your race has developed. In the end, attempting to destroy me, an obvious threat, or protecting yourself was not as important to you as the salvation of your friend. When you spoke of him thus, I dipped into your mind and found the moment when you consciously decided friendship was desirable and that was why made you relive the memory I did. What you made of it was up to you. I am...pleased." He beamed at Peter, patted Egon on the head as if he were a good toddler, and blinked out of existence with a faint popping sound. The meter in Egon's hand stopped shrilling and Peter had to swallow hard to ease the pressure change in his ears. Distant street sounds that he'd stopped noticing came filtering back.

Egon and Peter stood there in the corridor catching their breath, realizing they were alive and likely to stay that way. Then Egon arched his uncut eyebrow at Peter. "What was that quote?" he demanded.

"Uh..." Now that it was over, Peter was a little embarrassed at what he had done and said. "It was a...poem," he confessed in a slightly mortified voice.

Amusement warred with affection in the physicist's face. "The entire world was in jeopardy, Peter, and you recited a poem? I didn't realize you knew any poems other than lecherous limericks and Casey at the Bat."

"My mom liked that one," Peter explained, his voice softening as it always did when he spoke of his mother. "Mr. Elemental dumped me back when I was twelve--at least he made me feel like I was there--for the memory he wanted me to relive, and Mom was all broken up because Dad had been away a long time and she didn't know if he was ever coming back. I was scared that he'd take all my bad memories about Pop and write us off, but I guess that wasn't what he was thinking. I was just coming home from school and heard her sounding off to her friend Susan. I called her 'Aunt Susan'," he remembered with a crooked grin. "Mom said the poem to Susan for being there and helping her. Mom liked poetry; she even used to read me some when I was really little. It's really 'Susan' in the poem, not 'Egon'," he explained unnecessarily. "That's probably why she remembered it."

"That," replied Egon, eyes twinkling, "does not surprise me. There seem to be extremely few poems with an Egon theme." He shook his head. "Peter, you amaze me."

"Yeah, I'm a pretty amazing guy," Peter replied, then he grabbed Egon and hugged him hard, quivering with a bad case of delayed reaction. Egon's arms closed around him and for a long moment, they just held on. Okay, so he'd saved the world. But he hadn't done it with his thrower. He'd done it with an old memory, for his oldest friend's sake. Weird. All he knew was that he was alive, Egon was alive, and everything was going to be just fine. When they let go, he started giggling and couldn't stop.

Egon caught him by the shoulders, alarmed. "Peter? Are you all right?"

"Omigod, Egon," Peter sputtered, the giggles turning into uncontrollable laughter. "Emily Dickinson and my mom just saved the world. This has got to be one for the record books."

Egon's face crumpled into a diverted smile. "You quoted Emily Dickinson, Peter? I didn't recognize the poem. I must say that's one of the last authors I'd ever expect you to quote."

"Yeah, me, too," Peter admitted, finally controlling the laughter, though he couldn't help the urge to laugh out loud. He felt silly but he also felt free and safe, and Egon was safe, too, even if his face was smeared with blood. "Hey, Egon, let's get you to the ER to get cleaned up. Ray and Winston are gonna get on my case for letting you get munched on by an elemental, even if I get brownie points for chasing it away with poetry." He slung his arm around Egon's shoulders above his proton pack and steered him down the corridor.

The elemental was gone, and Peter was secure in his friendships, in his very life. "You know, Spengs," he said with a big, contented grin, "on a scale of one to ten, I think this moment rates a three hundred."

"I am inclined to agree with you," Egon replied. "I doubt we'll be given such an opportunity to save the world a second time. I am looking forward to studying these unusual readings. Did you know, Peter, that his readings were far higher than an actual Class 8. I can't wait to research him...." He draped his arm around Peter's shoulders and they went down the corridor to the elevator, grinning like idiots, their steps matching perfectly.

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1. Poem #1401, Emily Dickinson, 1877