Chapter Text
Pep, Peppi, Pino.
He's been called a mix of these nicknames before.
Now those are his names.
He's Peppino...but
He's...
...
Fake. That's what everyone else calls him.
Not in front of him, but behind closed doors when they think he couldn't hear them.
There's an ache in his chest every time he hears them talk about him that way.
Why doesn't anyone believe him when he says he's Peppino?
It's been a confusing couple of weeks since they got out of the crumbling building. For both of them.
Learning how to work with a copy of yourself is hard.
Especially since both of you have the exact same habits.
The amount of times they found themselves staring at each other as they're about to do the exact same thing is uncountable.
But eventually they do end up getting used to each other.
...
Waking up in his... well, technically it's not his, but it still feels like it. Sleeping at the pizzeria is weird.
It's something that he got used to since it's what he did back in... his old restaurant, but at the same time...
He remembers what his bed felt like: the old, lumpy mattress with springs that threatened to come out, a thin blanket that he's kept for years, pillows that weren't as soft as they used to, but still did the job when he needed rest after a long day's work.
At least some of his memories are returning. That's one of his memories... right?
He decides to not think about that for now. He still needs to prepare the kitchen for today.
So, he gets up from the chair he was sleeping on. Wipes away some of... the gooey parts that were left from him sleeping there and goes towards the kitchen.
It's a new day and pizza time never ends.
...
It's the lunch rush. He and the other Peppino were running around the kitchen making pizzas. He was cutting some salami while the other one's putting the pizzas in the oven.
He was going pretty fast and he was trying to keep up with orders and then–
He hears him scream. He turns and notices the shocked look on his face.
He looks down.
His fingers are cut off.
Oh no, why didn't he feel it? Why doesn't he feel anything right now? There should be something coming out of them too, right?
Maybe he could just–
He takes hold of his soft, dough-like fingers and puts them back on.
They fuse with his skin. He can feel little tingles as the feeling in his fingers returned. He wiggles them around. They all move!
The other one breathes a sigh of relief and continues on with his work.
But him?
He just... stares down at his hands.
Blood. That's what was supposed to come out. He just remembered it.
How could he even forget that?
He continues to work, now really aware about how he handles the knife.
...
Late at night, he still stays in the pizzeria even after everyone's gone home.
As he goes back onto the chair he's been sleeping on for the past few weeks, he just thinks.
He swears he knows where his house is. The memory just hasn't come back yet.
He closes his eyes. He can visualize it a little. He just needs to concentrate.
There's his bedroom again with the same old bed. There's a nightstand beside the bed with an old picture of him. There's a closet with a door which the hinges are close to falling off, but he hasn't had the time or energy to fix it.
When he opens the door to his bedroom there's...
Why can't he...
Maybe he just needs more sleep.
He adjusts his position on the table. Putting down his arms and using them as a makeshift pillow for his head.
He tries to sleep. He really does.
Yet he finds himself staring at his hands for most of the night.
...
Compared to yesterday, today is pretty slow. There's nothing much to do beyond sitting around and waiting for the next customer.
He grabs a bottle of disinfectant and a rag. Maybe he could at least make some of the tables cleaner, maybe even clean up some of the gunk underneath them.
So as he wipes down the nearest table his mind wanders.
Now that he thinks about it, a lot has changed about him.
He's been stuck in this weird gooey body for... well he doesn't exactly remember how long, but he knows that he's not supposed to be melty.
He's managed to control the whole melting thing, but it's still a bit uncomfortable feeling his body constantly shifting.
It shouldn't be. He knows that. He could see that. People don't melt. They don't have parts of their skin dripping off their bodies that he now has to clean off the table–
He sprays and wipes it off. How long has he been wiping the same spot?
He sighs and goes to clean the rest of the tables.
...
It's the middle of the night and he can't sleep.
Have you ever looked at your own hands for longer than you should?
Moving around your fingers, just staring down and watching them wiggle around.
Wondering why you're alive, why you're here. How are you feeling this?
When he touches his own skin it doesn't feel as solid as it should.
His skin feels wrong. Scratch that, his whole body feels wrong. If he remembers the word right, he would describe it as feeling like oobleck.
How did he get like this?
His memories are still mostly fuzzy, but he can recall being submerged somewhere...
Beyond that there's just static and loose memories of that run-down restaurant.
He doesn't want to remember his time there.
...
On the list of things he doesn't like about this body, this weird tail-like part would be high on that list.
He shouldn't have a tail. That's not a human thing to have. It wiggles around and makes it really easy to tell what he's feeling. As much as he hates actively shifting his body, he has to just so it would look like it's just a part of his "outfit".
That's also a weird thing. He has to concentrate on making his body be... human. At least, human enough.
Anyone who ends up looking through the window would see a human at least.
He doesn't really like leaving the kitchen that much.
Customers' eyes would linger far too long on him and he hates it.
So he continues his duties in the kitchen. Staying far from the kitchen door whenever he could.
...
He tries. He tries. He tries.
Every time he does, it doesn't last long.
He wills his form to change back into the one he remembers. The one that doesn't have a droopy eye that falls out of his eye socket, the one that actually has hair on his head and body, the one that he's grown to like after all those years...
His body ripples and compresses itself. It almost feels solid.
For a moment his face feels less of a mask and everything feels right.
It doesn't last.
Why won't it work?
He just wants to feel like himself again.
...
"Hey Pep, can you–"
"Is Peppi around? I could use his help with–"
"Psst- Pino, don't tell Peppino–"
After kicking out the noisy guy in the yellow costume for the third time this week, he tries to go back to kneading the dough.
Though he might've spent too much time on it because his mind was only focused on the last things he said.
Specifically, it's the names he used for him and the other him.
He usually doesn't mind the nicknames.
Usually.
He gets why people use them. It's pretty common to use them especially when there are two people with the same name.
But why is he the one that's stuck with them?
Everyone else calls the other Peppino by his name.
Every single time someone calls for Peppino, he looks too. Whatever hope he had that maybe someone wanted to see him is immediately crushed when they say something that's basically just, "Not you. Where's the human Peppino, the normal one. That's who I want to talk to."
He's Peppino!
He just can't...
They can't understand...
...
So maybe he doesn't talk as much as he used to, maybe he's a bit of a mute at times.
He tried to talk. He only heard backwards gibberish. He knows what words should sound like. He tries to. He tries so hard. Just open his mouth and have normal words come out. But nothing sounds right. It's his voice, but nothing makes sense.
He's trying.
"Si eman ym..."
He's trying.
"I... Pep..."
...He could always try writing it.
He knows he usually kept a notepad and a pen somewhere under the counter.
Found it! It's even at the spot where he remembered putting it.
Now... writing and words and letters...
Why does this feel complicated? It shouldn't be.
He has a tight grip on the pen. He needs to be able to write this. Just so he can tell someone or something because it's not like anyone can understand what he's saying!
He just needs to write a sentence.
He puts pen to paper.
Write.
It's just squiggles and shapes. It's not that hard.
The letters don't look right.
The little paper's getting filled with crossed out attempts.
The pen's going to run out of ink.
He doesn't want to waste paper.
He's running out of space.
He has to stop.
...Well, he tried.
It's not great. It looks like chicken scratches than letters, but he hasn't exactly written in a while, so this will have to do for now.
At the very least he could read what he wrote.
[I AM PEPPINO.]
...
He kept the notepad to himself for now. Storing it in his... pocket? He's not exactly wearing clothes and he is not going to think about the implications of that, so what does he even call this? Whatever, he just has the notepad with him.
He could practice writing at night. If he could remember if there's a pencil here maybe he could use that instead? Would save him from wasting more ink.
"–Pep!"
"Huh?" What does he want?
"We just got an order for a small cheese pizza," the other Peppino said, clearly annoyed by both his look and the tone he used. "Don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but could you at least pay attention to me?"
He is!
...oh.
Guess he's been... well, staring at the wall for too long.
He should get back to work.
...
He's been making progress on his handwriting! Found an old pencil while cleaning up and he's been practicing since they went away for the night. Just copying stuff off the menu.
[Small, Medium, Large, Extra Large]
[Tomato Sauce, Pesto, Cheese, Pepperoni, Olive, Basil, Mushroom, Bell pepper, Onion, beef, ham, anchovy, pineapple]
He's still making mistakes, but most of it is pretty readable.
He puts the notepad and pencil back in his pocket. It's getting late. He should sleep.
...Does he really need to sleep or is he doing this out of habit?
He goes back to his usual table and sleeps.
...
It's been raining for most of the day. Not a lot of customers would go out of their way for a pizza in this weather, so it's just a slow day again.
He's been watching the rain in the dining area. He's done everything that he could do work-wise, so a little break wouldn't hurt.
It's just nice. Relaxing even. Looking at the little raindrops as they make their way down the window and sound of rain is just soothing. Honestly, he is this close to just falling asleep–
The sky flashes with light for a second; suddenly a boom came after.
He hears a gasp, the sounds of stuff being moved around, then a ripping noise, and a sigh of relief.
Huh, he hasn't seen lightning in a while and the storm must be really close if it's this loud.
He doesn't know why the other Peppino's so afraid of it. Is it the loudness of it? He doesn't remember any reason why he or a copy of him would be scared of loud noises.
Maybe something would jog his memory later.
...
There's a memory that's been bothering him ever since it came back. It's not that it's a bad memory, it's the opposite, but it just doesn't make sense.
He remembered the joy of finally seeing himself in the mirror for the first time.
But that feels wrong. He...can't.
He doesn't like looking in the mirror.
Why can't he?
But it's there, the memory is there.
It haunts him.
...
He's alone again. It's only for a day, but he hates it. Being alone in here brings back memories of rotting food and worn down walls.
He can't exactly go out. From the brief moments he got out of the kitchen to deal with certain pests, he has heard nothing but whispers, hushed questions, and barely held back gasps. He's seen shocked looks and kids close to tears.
He's heard them call him so many things...
Meanwhile the other Peppino gets to be outside and walk around, living the life that he's supposed to have!
...What did he even do back then? Obviously, he had a life outside of pizza making, but why couldn't he remember it?
He's got plenty of memories of being here in his pizzeria, but beyond his own bedroom and the restaurant he got trapped in... he doesn't actually remember any other places?
Which doesn't make sense! Where did he get the ingredients for his pizza? Or even just buying food for himself! Why can't he remember his own house? He knows he was born in Italy, but anywhere specific? He doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
Why can't he remember...
...
He spent the day half-melted and halfway towards a total breakdown.
There's so much... dough? slime? He doesn't know what this body's made of, but it's all over the floor.
He has to clean it up. Wouldn't want a mess in this place.
He manages to absorb some of the stuff, but the floor still feels sticky.
Where did they put the mop and bucket? It's not at the corner he left it in.
He's checked almost every room except...
Well, it's obvious now. Where else would you put them besides the restroom?
Just don't look at the left side and grab them.
He opens the door and stares down as he switches the light on. He grabs them as fast as possible and gets out of the room.
Time to clean up the mess he made.
...
It didn't even take long, a couple of trips to the kitchen to get water from the sink and the floor's clean.
He puts back the bucket and mop to where he usually puts them and was about to sleep when he noticed the light.
He didn't turn off the light in the restroom. He should've turned it off. That's a waste of energy. The bill's going to be higher.
So, he gets up and goes back to the restroom.
...The memory's just there again. Maybe it's significant. Maybe his mind is trying to tell him something.
Maybe he should look in the mirror.
...The door's open now and he doesn't want to go in.
Would it help? What would he really get from this? He has seen himself in little reflections from the corner of his eye. He doesn't want to focus on that.
But maybe getting a full look at himself is different? He doesn't know for sure, but if he could remember something from this maybe it would be worth it?
He crosses the door, his eyes are still closed. He turns right, facing the stalls. He's shaking and that tail keeps wrapping around his leg, but he's going to do it.
On the count of three, he would turn around and open his eyes.
One.
Two.
Three.
Something breaks.
But it's not the mirror.
He remembers the warmth of his mother's hug.
He remembers the cold test tube he came out of.
He remembers trying his first slice of pizza.
He remembers the screams of living cheese as he desperately ate them.
He remembers opening his pizzeria for the first time.
He remembers where the closed down restaurant that he was trapped in was.
He remembers killing so many other clones to survive.
He remembers his last fight with Peppino.
...
This isn't a good day for him.
So... he was still in the restroom when they came in this morning. Hid in one of the stalls when he heard footsteps.
He heard them talking.
"Ugh, he left the lights on all night. Where did that clone go?"
"You mean Peppi?"
"You're still calling him by my old nickname?"
"Why not? He needs a name you know."
"You say that like he's a stray dog we got and not a weird melting mess of a clone of me."
"Come on Pep, give him a break, so what if he's been acting strange. The week's been stressful."
"He wasn't like this weeks ago! It was a lot more busy and he was a lot more helpful then than now!"
"Maybe we could talk to him?"
"Sure Gus, let's talk to him. Let's find out what's wrong with him by asking him, as if suddenly that Fake Peppino would–"
Fake.
He doesn't hear anything else.
Just fake.
Fake Peppino.
Because what else would explain why he's like this?
But why does it hurt?
Why is his chest hurting?
He places his hand on there to stop it. He doesn't feel anything there, but he knows there should be something there! A beat of some sorts that's going faster and faster.
He knows this feeling. He doesn't have a name for it, but he knows this.
He's melting again. His face is melting. His whole body is melting.
Nothing in this body feels right. Everything is just wrong.
Everything is just fake.
He wants to run. To hide. To be safe.
He remembers a safe place to hide.
He slips out from under the stall and goes to the spot he remembers.
He doesn't know what he is.
He doesn't know who he should be.
He's a clone.
A copy.
He's not...
But he is!
Who is he?
He's Peppino.
... Is he?
He wants to be.
Working with a copy of yourself is weird.
Look, don't get him wrong. He's used to him now, but sometimes he just does things that seem... odd.
He doesn't act like the other clones he's fought through the tower. Most of them were more... frog-like? Sure, they looked like him, but beyond that there wasn't much going around their minds.
This one though... he copies him a lot. That's expected, he's a clone of him. He was made to be him, probably even replace him if he didn't survive the tower.
But, he's too good at copying him.
It's like he knows exactly what he's thinking about.
There are times where they would find themselves staring at each other as they do the same thing or he would somehow know about stuff that only he would know.
He brushed it off at first. Surely these moments are just coincidences.
But lately he's been acting differently.
He's been zoning out more. He'll catch him just staring out in the distance or just stop in the middle of work.
He stays in the kitchen most of the time now. Refuses to go out when customers are around unless he has to.
He's been avoiding him lately. He doesn't know why and it feels like he's hiding something.
He doesn't know why some stuff has been moved around or missing, but he knows that he has something to do with it.
And then there's now.
He's just arrived this morning with Gustavo. He doesn't find him in the kitchen or sleeping at the table and there's a light that's been left on.
They were talking about him in the restroom and then in the corner of his eye, something slips under the door.
"I saw that!"
"...Saw what? I'm not exactly facing the door."
"That clone was in here!"
Was he spying on them?!
That's it. He's done with dealing with him. Where did he go?!
There's a trail of dough? slime? He has no idea what he's made of and he doesn't care right now. There's just a trail that leads into the kitchen.
He storms into the kitchen with Gus behind him trying to convince him to stop and he stops.
Both of them do.
They can hear it.
A distorted wailing coming from the storage room.
Whatever anger he was feeling at the moment got replaced with confusion.
...Is he crying?
Why?
He's never heard him like this before. Even in their fight he didn't do this.
What changed?
Gustavo's already going in the storage room. He was always the more kindhearted one.
So, he goes in the room and finds him kneeling near a familiar space.
Everything that he's seeing right now is so familiar that he might as well be reliving it.
Pep's distressed and he's hiding in the exact same spot he goes to whenever he gets overwhelmed. Even Gus is doing the exact same thing he does to him to try to calm him down.
What does he even do?
How do you comfort someone who's currently a pile of goop on the ground?
He lets Gus do it and leaves the room. He doesn't know if he could help or if he would make it worse.
As he tries to prep the kitchen for later, he can't help but wonder what's happening in the storage room.
Is he alright? If he listens closely he could almost make out Gustavo... talking to him?
He befriended the giant rat in the tower. Of course he would just talk to him. Strike up a conversation with the creature that chased him out of that mockery of a building he called a restaurant.
He shouldn't have let Gus convince him to let him stay here. He was just tired. He didn't want to have another fight and the clone seemed... docile? curious? Acting a lot differently compared to how he was in the tower.
He doesn't know what to think of him! What is going on with–
The door opens and Gustavo goes out. Alone.
"Where's–"
"I think he wants to talk to you, Peppino."
"Me? Also, what do you mean by talk? What, did you manage to understand his gibberish too?"
"He kept writing your name when he calmed down."
Wait, he can write?!
"What?"
"He wrote–"
"No, I heard you the first time. What does he want?"
"I don't know, but I think only you could know what he wants."
He stares at the door. Well, guess he has no choice.
"I'll handle the prep, Brick's watching the front for customers. Just... talk to him."
He goes in.
Could he have asked for more of Gus' help on this? Maybe, but this conversation was long overdue.
He finds him, still mostly melted on the floor. He's barely forming a head, his eyes are fully focused on the notepad while the other parts of his face are either gone or are melting away, and he's writing with a half-formed hand that's gripping a pencil.
He was right about him taking some stuff, but since when did he know...
He could just ask him that.
"Well, I'm here. What do you want?"
Using his goopy hand, he writes down a couple of questions and some of them are... oddly specific.
[How did you get in my pizzeria?]
[What happened to the one with the pizza head?]
[Can you describe your bedroom?]
[Do you also get a weird feeling in your chest when you hear certain words?]
He could tell that he was... hesitating on writing the last two questions.
He's going to answer them, as strange as the last two are. It wouldn't hurt to answer his questions, besides he also has questions for him.
"Your... pizzeria? You mean the one in the tower? I entered a magical gate of some sort? I have no idea how that tower worked. As for Pizzahead... last time I saw him he got punched so hard he reached space and that's after I smashed his head into the tower's bricks."
He hears muffled giggling. Glad he's enjoying this too.
"Anyway, don't know why you want to know this, but the bed's pretty old, right next to it is a nightstand with a picture, and there's a closet–"
"segnih dlo htiw..."
"What did you say?"
There's a frustrated burble as he scribbles down what he said.
[With old hinges that need to be fixed?]
Ok, that's just creepy.
"How did you know that?"
[It's my bedroom.]
He has never been to his house. He knows this. He didn't get much sleep on the first nights after he stayed at his pizzeria. There's no way he would've known that.
Unless...
No, it couldn't be that that's impossible.
But it would explain why he knows about it and the whole doing what he's going to do as he does it.
At the same time though... how about the rest of them? Are the other copies also like him? He didn't even know they were sapient. He's...
Did he–
"Hey! Stop poking me with that pencil!"
He stops poking his leg and puts it on the notepad.
...How long was he thinking?
His clone's more closer to what he usually looks like now. Still dripping, but besides that he's just there sitting on the floor with his legs crossed.
He joins him.
[Are you okay?]
"I'm fine. Just thinking."
Does he really have his memories? If he does then that last question...
"What's with the last question? Did something happen?"
He answers. He keeps erasing and rewriting. Stuck on the one thing he wants to tell him. His hand melts and shakes as he writes.
Eventually, he wrote:
[I heard you. Even before this week, every single time I hear you or anyone else say it. Feels like a stab to the chest sometimes.]
Trying not to think about what he said to him, he decides that now is a good time to start asking questions, "Why were you there? What do you remember and why now?! You weren't like this when–"
He stops himself from continuing that last statement. If he had his memories then he wouldn't want a repeat of that.
He breathes in and out and then continues, "I don't know what's happening or what changed, but could you try to tell me?"
The only sounds were from his breathing and the scrape of pencil on paper.
Both of them have a lot on their mind.
[The memories started coming back slowly over the past week or so? There was a memory of a younger me? looking in the mirror and being happy. I tried looking in the mirror there, ended up remembering my first memory and other memories that don't match, but feel right?]
He flips the notepad. The writing there has more eraser marks and rushed writing.
[I don't know and I don't remember anything else right now. I just KNOW I'm supposed to be human and I'm NOT! You are! I'm an imperfect copy of YOU!]
What did he get himself into?
How is this his life right now?
He did not expect to deal with the fact that his clone not only has his memories, but that he has his own set of problems. How do you live with a clone of yourself? How do you deal with someone that's so close to being you, but also isn't.
"I-I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry."
They sit in silence for a while before Peppino asks something.
"What exactly did I say to make you feel that way?"
[I don't want to write it.]
"What? Do you want me to guess?"
He shrugs instead of writing an answer.
He has said a lot of things about him, mostly about his discomfort with the whole weird clone thing.
"...Was it being told he's a clone? A copy? A fake–"
He hears a wet slap hitting something.
Looking up, he sees him. His hand's at his chest and he's panicking; the other hand's desperately trying to stop himself from completely melting apart. The tail end of his apron is wrapping around his body to help keep it together.
He didn't mean to say it out loud!
"Siht ekil I ma yhw?"
"Yaw siht gnileef I ma yhw?"
"Si gnileef siht tahw wonk t'nod I."
"Wonk uoy od?"
"Ti pots I od woh?!"
He fucked up!
He's not good at handling this! Gustavo is! He's never been the one calming down other people! He could barely do it to himself! Now he has to literally do it to himself! Or someone that's close to himself? He can think about that later!
Pull yourself together, Spaghetti! He needs your help right now!
How did Gus handle this?
"Hey, I know what this is," he remembers now. His voice isn't as calm as Gus', but it'll have to do. "Focus on me, follow what I'm doing ok?"
He takes in a deep breath, holds it for a couple of seconds, and breathes out. He watches him do the same,"That's it. You're doing great. Just keep doing it."
They both continue to just... breathe. After some time, Peppino explains what the feeling is and gives a bit of advice on dealing with it.
Now that they've both calmed down. Well... he knew exactly what he felt at that moment. It's just a word, but it just bites and latches on to your heart and it won't let go.
Some words stay dead for a reason.
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
[Okay. Thanks for helping me.]
"It's the least I could do, after how I treated you."
[I don't blame you for that. I remember a little bit of how we fought before. Of course you would be wary of me. A lot of people would be freaked out by someone like me.]
"You didn't deserve that."
[...What?]
"I shouldn't have treated you that way. You were nothing but helpful after we got out of the tower and I still treated you like you were just some monster."
[... Am I not one? I've heard... a lot from other people. I've seen how they look at me. I don't think that others see me as human.]
This... What he wrote there... Hit too close to home.
"Can I ask you something?"
[Okay? What is it?]
"Could you just...tell me what do you think you are and who you are?"
He writes his answer down, but before he shows it to him. He gives him a look. Top to bottom. Almost as if he's studying every detail of his body.
His body suddenly ripples and compresses itself. Molding into a form that's the most solid he's seen of him. He might as well been looking into a mirror. The notepad is given to him.
Of course what's written is exactly what he expected him to write:
[I think of myself as you. I'm a person. I'm Peppino.]
But the moment his hold on his form breaks, his doughy hand flips the paper.
[But everything else about me is wrong. This whole body feels wrong and I don't like it.]
He was about to ask why he didn't tell anyone when he found a way to communicate, but if he's really being honest with himself he has done the same thing too.
Can't blame him, not a lot of people were that accepting back then.
[I don't know... how to fix this. How to fix me.]
What can he even do? What can he even say to that?
Well, maybe he has no idea how to fix this or where to even try to find a solution.
But...
In a way, it's almost like he's looking at his past self.
Someone who was trying to figure out who they were. Someone who needed love and support, but didn't have it at the time.
So, he gives it to him.
He wraps his arms around him. Gives him the most comforting hug he could give him. His arms sometimes sink through his doughy skin making them sticky, but he doesn't care.
He tells him in all sincerity and with the most gentle voice that he could do:
"Don't worry, Peppino. We'll figure it out together."
There was a moment of silence before he hugs him back, half-melting and sobbing.
So, there's two Peppinos now.
And that's okay.