Chapter Text
Surprising all of Passione, themselves especially, La Squadra Esecuzioni had the smoothest transition under Giorno’s regime change. Once Giorno and Risotto both agreed Diavolo was a piece of shit, they were mostly able to bury the hatchet and Passione had its hitmen back. Not that they were very useful. Giorno didn’t have anyone he needed out of the way, he was just too likeable. Diavolo made more targets for La Squadra Esecuzioni checking his e-mail than Giorno ever did. So they sat around practically every day in their nice non-dilapidated hideout. Well, they sat around in the mirror world specifically to make Illuso feel useful. And so Risotto could “make the righties understand his pain.”
They were there now, just kind of vibing. Sorbet and Gelato were conspicuously absent because they’re just always going to be, sorry. They’re having a good time though. Probably a better time than anyone else on the team.
Because everything was obviously reversed in the mirror world, their television options were lacking. Sound came out garbled and the subtitles were backwards. So La Squadra turned the channel to soccer football, where the commentary was already worthless, so it was fine if it came out as scrambled nonsense. Unfortunately, Napoli was losing to Genoa in what looked to be an upset. Also unfortunately, I had to Google Italian soccer football.
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Ghiaccio yelled as Genoa scored another goal. The rest of the team let out a series of groans.
“We don’t have a job today, right?” Formaggio asked.
“No,” Risotto answered.
“Good, then I’m day drinking.”
“We never get to do cool shit anymore,” Prosciutto complained, crossing his arms and leaning back on the couch.
“There’s more important things to worry about,” Formaggio said, pointing at the TV. He stood up and walked over to the mirror. “Hey, Illuso, let me out.”
“Hold on. Do you guys hear that?” Illuso asked.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen. Pesci fumbled with the backwards remote and tried to mute the TV. There was a faint, short ringing sound that sounded like it was underwater. Outside the mirror, then, which was why Illuso was the only one to notice. He was the only one of them who was used to the goddamn mirror world.
“It’s the doorbell,” Illuso said.
“Is it Giorno?” Prosciutto asked.
Risotto shook his head. “Giorno would have called.”
“Is it Diavolo?”
“Well time hasn’t skipped and it's been about two seconds since the doorbell rang. They're too patient to be Diavolo,” Risotto said, smirking. Instead it took about five seconds for the doorbell to ring again.
“What if that’s what he wants us to think?” Prosciutto asked.
“Bro’s right,” Pesci added, looking up from the backwards text he had been studying. He was trying his best to be helpful, since the TV was still not muted.
“No, Prosciutto isn’t right. Diavolo has no patience for us at all. That’s not changing no matter what he wants.”
“Well then who is it?” Prosciutto asked angrily.
Risotto contemplated this as the doorbell rang a third time. “Who do we even know?” he said finally.
“Well, if it’s not Giorno it’s not going to be anyone he cares about either,” Prosciutto said.
“And Murolo knows he’s not allowed over anymore since he cheated at poker,” Risotto said darkly. They probably shouldn’t have played poker with a guy whose Stand was made of playing cards, but hindsight is 20/20. “I think that’s everyone.”
“What about Rigatoni?”
“Who?”
“Can you answer the fucking door, please?” Ghiaccio shouted as the doorbell rang for a fourth time.
Risotto sighed. And then said in his deep, manly badass hitman voice, “Nose goes.”
Everyone practically slammed their hands into their faces, except Melone. He had been too focused on gaming, like he had been ever since he discovered Babyface could run Steam. When Melone felt everyone’s eyes on him, he looked up. “Wait, what’s happening? Why is everyone looking at me?” Melone asked.
“Go answer the door,” Risotto commanded.
“What? What if it’s an enemy? I’m practically defenseless!”
“Jesus Christ, just pause the game and go do it,” Prosciutto said, glaring.
“You can’t pause an online game, Prosciutto!” Melone cried.
“Fine, then take Formaggio with you,” Risotto said.
“What?” Formaggio said, despite the fact that he was waiting next to the mirror.
“You wanted out anyway. Just answer the door, the two of you, I can’t stop hearing the doorbell now and it’s driving me crazy,” Risotto said tersely.
“Fuck. Let us out, Illuso,” Formaggio said.
“Wait, wait, help me out,” Melone said. He grabbed Babyface by the handles and got up from the couch to run after Formaggio. When Formaggio turned to look at him, Melone thrust Babyface into Formaggio’s hands so his own were free to stay on the keyboard.
“What the fuck?” Formaggio sputtered, stumbling backwards from the weight of Melone’s Stand. Because yeah, Melone’s Stand gets to break every single Stand rule with barely any explanation. Formaggio stood halfway in and out of the mirror, trying to keep his balance.
“Just walk backwards, it’s fine. Unlike Napoli, I’m winning and I want to keep it that way.”
Formaggio sighed and started shuffling backwards awkwardly. Melone followed him, not able to see where he was going either as he was too focused on his game.
“Yeah, ‘nice save’ to you too, bastard!” Melone shouted at Babyface’s screen as the two of them emerged on the other side.
“I think you should stop hanging out with Ghiaccio so much, man.”
“I think my teammates should learn how to play.”
“Whatever. Open your pockets,” Formaggio said, shoving Babyface back into Melone’s arms.
“Why?” Melone asked, queuing for another game.
“If it really is an enemy, it’s better that I get the jump on them, dumbass.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m a little distracted,” Melone said, opening his pockets. Wherever they are is up to you, I mean, have you seen his outfit? You tell me where the pockets go on that thing.
“I noticed,” Formaggio squeaked from the floor, his voice like nine octaves higher now that he was Polly Pocket sized.
“Hold on, wait, you just, jump into my hand or something. I don’t want to step on you,” Melone said, slowly crouching down and placing Babyface on his knees. He held out his hand and Formaggio did jump on and Melone scooped him into his pockets. The doorbell rang for the tenth time. Melone stood up and walked over to the door. He shifted Babyface’s bulk to his hip and looked through the peephole.
Tooru was at the door.
“Are you kidding me?” Melone asked, opening the door with his free hand. “What do you want?”
“Oh, this is lucky. You were the person I wanted to see,” Tooru said politely. “Give me your Stand. I need it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me your Stand,” Tooru repeated.
“No? Why would I do that?” Melone asked incredulously.
“I’m taking it no matter what. But if you don’t give it to me, you’re going to get hurt,” Tooru explained. When he finished talking, he quickly lunged for one of Babyface’s handles and hung on.
“What the fuck?! Hey, hey Formaggio! Do something!” Melone yelled, tugging Babyface’s other handle. Like tongues, Melone and Tooru battled for dominance.
“Okay, you see, now you’re pursuing me. So good luck,” Tooru said. With a sharp pull, he took a step back and dragged Melone out of the house.
“Let go! Fuck off!” Melone shouted. The two of them looked up as the roof started creaking. A few screws fell off and tumbled at Melone’s feet.
“You’ve got one more chance to let go, Melone.”
“That’s my Stand! You can’t just take it!”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The rain gutter rattled, and now loose, it swung at Melone and hit him in the side. Melone took a sharp breath and doubled over, letting go of Babyface and clutching his side. Tooru stabilized Babyface with his other arm. “What?” Melone sputtered hoarsely.
“Thank you,” Tooru said. Then he spun on his heel and started walking away.
Melone fell to his knees, slowly regaining his breath. He looked at his exposed side, where bruises were already forming. “Shit. I’m gonna have to put everything on backwards for a week so I don’t ruin the aesthetic,” he said. Melone snapped his head forward. “Oh my God, I was AFK the whole time. They’re going to report me. And what if Tooru looks at my Steam library? Goddamnit!” Melone dug through his pockets and grabbed Formaggio and took him out. “Hey, asshole. Thanks for the help,” he said.
“What?” Formaggio asked, yawning. “Sorry, it was warm in there. I fell asleep.”
“You- no, I don’t have time for that.” Melone looked up. Tooru had stopped a few dozen feet away and was fumbling with Babyface, looking for something. “You’re going to help now, at least. Okay, Formaggio? Don’t think about anything for a second, that shouldn’t be hard.” Melone stood up, still clutching Formaggio, King Kong style, in his hand.
“Wait, Melone, I don’t like this. What are you doing?” Formaggio asked, suddenly awake.
“I’m not doing anything. You’re just going over there for no reason,” Melone said, bending his knees and getting ready to throw.
Formaggio started screaming as Melone pulled his arm back and snapped it forward. He kept screaming as he was hurled towards Tooru. In midair, he scrambled, flailing his limbs for any purchase. His hand caught onto Tooru’s shoulder teddy bear and Formaggio hung on for dear life, breathing heavily. Tooru’s head snapped up. Formaggio had whooshed quite loudly. Tooru shrugged, jostling Formaggio as he finally grabbed on with all his limbs and almost throwing him off. Formaggio stayed on, gripping as hard as he could. Tooru pulled out a CD from his shirt pocket, muttering something about thanking Wonder of U for keeping bird shit off of him. He slid his other hand along Babyface’s side, hooking his finger into the disc drive. Tooru inserted the disc and started walking again. Formaggio’s eyes flicked over to Babyface’s screen as it lit up.
It read, “Extracting Wes_Blumarine_Memories.zip…”