#vtpie

1 Investigate 11 Trap 21 Time 31 Full

2 Double 12 Stretch 22 Return

3 Behind 13 Strings 23 Pretend

4 Explode 14 Below 24 Create

5 Dimension 15 Collapse 25 Mother

6 Separate 16 Bury 26 Hold

7 Rift 17 Revive 27 Become

8 Blood 18 Underneath 28 Bruise

9 Scatter 19 Unique 29 Hollow

The night was dark and unforgiving, as the sand that blew through the wind dusted the air and tainted the oxygen. Not as if the oxygen wasn’t already toxic, though by now those whose lungs hadn’t adapted had been long dead and gone. One gets used to the constant scratchy feeling in the back of their throat, as breathing feels 5 pounds heavier than it once did in one’s memory.

A figure stood lonesome at the end of a street, the handkerchief wrapped around their face doing little to stop the coarse, dry feeling in their mouth, serving more as to disguise their identity. The only sound they dared utter was to clear their throat, a congested rumble that sounded almost painful if done too often. A knife remained in their hand, which rested actively at their side, the grip tight and unwavering. Their clothes hung loosely on their body – looking about as unkempt as anyone else did in this environment — with tattered fabric that was stained with different hues of brown and deep auburn.

Their breathing was shallow yet heavy at the same time as if every intake of oxygen was more exhaustive than the last. They stumbled forward, the grip on the blade in their hand tightening as each slow and calculated step was taken. Continuing down the road, they neglected to look at their surroundings as their eyes locked onto something down from the end of the road. The rest of the scenery was irrelevant anyways, as once you’ve seen the same dilapidated and burnt-out city buildings about a thousand times, it loses any luster one could possibly ever have held for it.

The road was missing chunks of asphalt and full of potholes. As the figure dragged his feet along the pavement, the being of interest began to rear its ugly head as it awoke from its slumber.

Under the figure’s handkerchief mask, an unseen grin parted the lips of the future assailant’s mouth, revealing the sharp, grotesque, and uncared-for teeth hidden under the forgiving fabric that covered their face. The angry whirring as the tripod scrambled up off the ground was music to the figure’s ears, as the creature’s gangly legs stomped and dug into the sand in order to support itself.  

The canon apparatus held under the abdomen of the tripod fired up, shooting rapidly at the figure's feet. This was a game to them, a tango to be danced as the figure gained speed towards the creature, running in a zig-zag motion to avoid the free fire of the attack quickly. Under the ear-bleeding vocalizations and ballistic shockwave that filled the areas was the eerie sound of the figure’s laugh. This was funny to them.

Oh, but the humorous part was yet to come, as once the figure had approached the tripod, they dashed to its left side, grabbing hold of its leg as they began to hoister themselves up. Making sure to avoid the sharp thorned parts of its limb, the person dodged the fire of the creature’s canon and ignored the loud howls of dismay erupted from the tripod. Hoisting themselves up, the figure positioned their feet strategically as they climbed up the long appendage, using the entirety of their upper body strength whilst doing so – somehow also managing to keep their knife in hand as well.

The tripod staggered from the weight of the human on its leg, its body moving in panicked ways as its canon fired in every direction with no particular target. This person knew what they were doing, easily overwhelming the simple alien as they were much easier to deal with when not only caught off guard but when on their lonesome.

Here came the tricky part – sliding off the leg and in a swift movement, the figure launched itself up onto the creature's “head”, their grip faltering for barely a moment before they were able to latch on. They held onto the tripod’s top, fingers having a tight grip on the underside of the hard carapace shell that protected the brain of the alien. Despite being about 40 feet in the air, the person had absolutely no fear, swinging forward using the momentum of the thrashing creature in order to pull themselves in front of the creature's head, hanging over the side of its exoskeleton.

With nothing but a smile, the figure took the knife held so tightly within their grip and raised it up in their arm, a guttural, inaudible laugh exiting their body as the weapon was slammed down into the exposed sensitive area of the tripod’s head, slicing right through any protective layers and splitting right into its brain. Yellow blood sprayed rapidly, splashing into the figure's face as they slammed the knife down a few more times for good measure. Afterward, they grabbed back hold of the carapace and pulled themselves back onto the hard area, keeping their body stable as the tripod screeched its ear-grating and painful final yelps.

The tripod’s three legs began to give out from under itself, shaking and bending in ways it was not developed for. They cracked and snapped like sticks and caused the entire body of the alien to shake before two of them fully broke off, causing the back side of the tripod to begin its fast plunge toward the unforgiving asphalt below.

In its dying moment, the guns of the monster fired like the last active neurons of a brain that have yet to fully give out. As the head of the beast fell through the air, the figure braced themselves for the eventual impact, the smile never leaving their face as they anticipated the familiar feeling – this was something they’d done countless times.

As the tripod hit the ground, sand rose around them in a storm cloud of dust, and the shock of the slam reverberated throughout the entire figure’s body and rattled their bones, sending a deep ache up their spinal cord and into their head.

The figure then flipped onto their back, breathing heavily as they relished in the feeling, allowing themselves to melt into the hard shell under their back. Yet, their ecstasy was short-lived, interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, followed directly by the cock of a gun.

“You’ve had your fun,” The figure didn’t even half to crane his neck up to know who was addressing them, the mature, grating, and whiney lisp-laced voice was enough to clue him in.

“Aww, five more minutes?” They whined in return, not even bothering to glance at the man as he stared dreamily up into the desolate sky.

Spencer was kind enough to walk into his field of vision, being even kinder and pointing a pistol right at him, the weapon rattling as it was directed at his forehead. “Enough, Ghost.”

Though addressing him directly, Spencer’s voice slightly wavered with the utterance of the name, as if he himself wasn’t entirely sure if that was who he was talking to.

“And if I don’t?” Ghost lifted his head, glaring sharply at the man above him.

Spencer scoffed, holding his gun steady as he used his free hand to rummage through the pockets of his thick brown trench coat, and once he located the item he was searching for, there was a moment of hesitation as he wrapped his fingers around said object, unbeknownst to Ghost.

“Don’t waste the only time you have left.”

It wasn’t the words themself that bothered Spencer, but the implications behind them.

For some reason unbeknownst to himself, the thought of everything being for nothing was something that hadn’t bothered him until now. ...now.

Perhaps it had been because he had basically no social contact for the past…ever. And so the only beliefs he ever lived with came from the unfaltering self-assured nonsense that spewed from his brain.

Guess a reality check from someone else was enough to spiral his entire thought process – a kind of spiraling that hadn’t ever affected him up until the war.

Sometimes he missed that miserable, self-confident son of a bitch that was his younger self.

The sun began to set around him as he made his way home and out of the city. The scenery around him was about as disheveled as he felt, but suppose it makes sense as we are all products of our environment. That deep feeling of hopelessness crawled at his stomach and tugged at him, making this walk far more of a hindrance than Spencer cared for. ...for.

Emotions like this did not serve him. They were a waste of energy and only proved to waste his time.

Okay, so he was wasting time by trying to save the universe. He was wasting time by feeling emotional about wasting time.

But what the hell is time if there is no future?

What even constitutes there being a future if you have no hope for one?

As he walked, he soaked in the sights of the city that he rarely ever saw. He wondered how many people once lived and used these buildings regularly, and even then, how many of them died in the carnage and now in death had nothing of remembrance to their prior existence. What a shitty way to go out – with no one to remember who you were, and no one to remember what you’ve done.

The totaled cars, the abandoned pieces of trash, and the faded shadows of those who once stood.

This was all proof that people were here. Proof that, despite how shitty the world even used to be, people lived. Lived in spite of themselves, in spite of their conditions – no matter how mundane they may seem even now. They were here because they were here. No rhyme, no reason.

Years ago, Spencer might've thought it was the end of the world when the internet cut out, yet it never truly deeply bothered him as much as he said or felt it did.

Now, at the end of the world, the mundane was seldom, and living in spite of yourself was dying because death felt more alive than living itself.

Taking in a deep breath, Spencer stopped in his tracks, taking a moment to rest. He had a long way back anyways.

The question of “why” popped back into his head again.

Why was he doing all this if he had no one who cared for him? Did he have anything to live for, something to work for?

Why did it matter so much to him? It wasn’t as if he originally did much with his life.

Yeah, yeah, saving billions of lives for people who don’t know him, won’t notice, and won’t care.

Throughout the years, it had always been his dream to wake up from this nightmare, as if it was once again just a normal Tuesday, and the apocalypse was simply something idealized in movies. But would he save the world, would all this suffering be for nothing?

Stuck in his thoughts, it took Spencer a moment before he checked back into reality.

A booming, ear-bleeding metal droning suddenly bombarded his ears. As the sound hovered over him, upon instinct he ducked into the nearest building and slid down against the concrete wall, choosing to hide under what little ceiling was left. Rubble surrounded him, and as the sun set, there went his only source of light as it slowly faded from the broken cracks in the wall and ceiling.

Loud stomps from outside shook the ground around him, as he attempted to regain his composure. Go figure, a tripod. Most likely it was coming back for its friend that Ghost had far too much fun killing.

Though, what truly startled Spencer wasn’t the tripod.

It was what was inside the room with him. ...him.

His breath hitched as he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the spreading darkness, trying to analyze the danger level of his current situation.

There was a sound he could hear, barely audible over the loud yowls of the creature outside.

He finally got a good look around the room, and when he did, his heart dropped to his stomach.

Far in the corner, it sat, huddled up and shaking immensely with fear, soft sobs echoing from its form.

This was no creature…

“Huh?” Johnny Ghost pushed himself up off the back of the dead-tripods head, his entire demeanor different now. He absentmindedly wiped the blood off his face (at least any of the blood that hadn’t already soaked into his handkerchief mask, that is) as he focused his attention on the man in front of him.

 “What could you possibly have of mine?” He asked, making the safe assumption that Spencer was simply bluffing. 

Through the years this war had been dragging on, Ghost had lost, gained, and observed countless people. But it was strangest to see how the people he used to know had changed in such drastic ways. Spencer, the seventeen-year-old who used to live in the basement of the Acachalla house, who once would spend countless hours playing various computer games and always had some sort of sarcastic remark to make – was now a grown man threatening him with a gun. 

The absence of light in Spencer’s eyes told a story, as well as the large scar that decorated the left side of his face. Johnny couldn’t help but be curious as to how he got that. As well as how much it must’ve hurt.

Spencer finally slipped the item out of his pocket and weighed it in his palm, displaying it out to Ghost. 

Johnny skeptically looked forward at Spencer’s hand, eyebrows narrowing in confusion as he looked upon the item, before ultimately snatching it from him to examine himself.

It was an exact copy of the knife he currently had — the same one he had used to defeat the tripod just a few minutes ago. Now, this normally wouldn’t be such a big deal, y’know, mass-produced knives were a thing. Though that concept was more so a thing of the past and finding duplicates of items in this environment could be like winning the lottery twice in a row. It just didn’t make sense.

But as Ghost pulled out his knife in order to compare the two and it was evident that this other knife was exactly like his. It had the same scratch marks in all the right spots, and both of them had that crudely crossed-out P.I.E symbol that he had carved years beforehand. 

It was as if someone had cloned his knife or something, which was impossible since absolutely no one was to put hands on it other than him.

“Where the hell did you get this?” Ghost refocused his attention on Spencer, looking back up at him with an accusatory glare. “What…what is this?”

“A knife. Your knife to be exact,” Spencer said smugly as Ghost gave him an unamused look.

“I know that, dipshit.” Ghost grumbled through his teeth, before stepping forward to Spencer in a threatening way, gripping both knives in his hand and shaking them with emphasis. “Answer my question. How and where did you get this?” 

Spencer remained still, unbothered by Ghost’s sporadic movement. “Simple. I got it from you.” He spoke without emotion, and yet it only confused and frustrated Johnny more.

The knives once in Ghost’s palms clattered to the ground as he advanced and grabbed Spencer by the sides of his jacket, grasping the fabric tightly in his hands as he roughly pulled the man forward. 

The two now face to face, Spencer was able to get a good look at Johnny. He had only one eye, and as Spencer could previously remember a distinct brownish-hazel to his eyes, what now remained was more of a reddish hue, which piqued his curiosity. The missing eye was covered by a makeshift eye patch, and peaking out from under the fabric was a slanted scar that was assumed to be the cause of removal. 

“If you don’t quit with your bullshit and give me a straight fucking answer, I’m gonna find a way to get it out of you myself.” Ghost’s breath was heavy, and from the sound of it, Spencer could assume there was a smile on his face. 

This was strange for Ghost — not necessarily the threatening aspect but the fact that him being overly aggressive was something he was finding joy in. Though he found it odd, there were plenty of other things Spencer could care more about, and that did not concern him as of right now.

“I was getting to that part,” Spencer shoved Ghost off, and upon doing so successfully he re-adjusted his jacket and remained his composed self. “To make a long story short, you are not the only you currently in this universe.”

Upon being shoved off, Ghost picked the knives up from the ground, and quietly hesitated when looking for whichever one was his, before ultimately just shoving one in his pocket and hoping it was right. He let out a half-amused scoff in return. “Is that all…? So you came all this way just to point a gun at me and waste my time?” “Do your ears only work 50% of the time or are you just choosing not to listen?” Spencer himself grew irritated, yet his body language remained calm. “There is another you in this universe. Do you not understand the possible repercussions of that?” He stressed, squeezing the pistol in his hand as he stepped closer to Ghost. “No, no, I heard you,” Johnny scowled, “I just don’t care. What do you say I do about it? The world is burning, half the members of the P.I.E. army are dead, aliens have taken over the planet and there’s no hope for humanity and everything is just a ticking time bomb till everyone is dead.” 

His eyebrows tightly knitted together as he exasperated his point, the rest of his face curling into sarcastic amusement as he tilted his head to Spencer. “Everything is for nothing, Spencer, so what matters if there's another me running around?”

Spencer paused, half astonished at how Johnny was acting. He was used to the typically melancholic sarcasm that was par for the course when it came to Ghost, but he supposed that he had miscalculated truly how difficult the task at hand would be. Somehow he had gotten so used to everything that he neglected to remember that some people just didn’t have that push for survival anymore. But to be quite frank, this wasn’t living, and it didn’t take a genius to point that out. 

It made Spencer question – just for a moment – why the hell he was doing this. Why he was spending the possible last years of his life fighting for a cause that seems so frankly impossible? To have someone verbalize that unspoken, deep-rooted fear that he had in the back of his mind all this time of isolation was such a slap in the face it brought him to silence. If everything is for nothing, then what matters?

His cause was so much bigger than Ghost. It was bigger than himself, as well. But he didn’t have time to dwell on things that didn’t help his cause. If he did, he’d just be wasting time. Though, that didn't eliminate the anxious thoughts from occupying his brain.

After a pause, Spencer sighed and lowered his gun, a dejected look in his eyes and a sour taste in his mouth. “Things don’t have to be this way, you know that.” “Listen,” Ghost dropped his expression in trade for one of accepted hopelessness, one that Spencer saw in survivors so commonly. “I don’t care for what ‘could be’, alright? Things are this way. They’ve been this way. They’ll stay this way. That’s just how life is.”

“But-” Spencer opened his mouth, just to be interrupted. “Shut up,” Ghost barked, the tension getting to him. “Toast has spent all these years to no avail trying to pull the same shit you are. It’s gotten him nowhere. As smart as you think you are, whatever universe or time bull-shit you’re trying to get yourself into is gonna be all for nothing.”