Chapter Text
The clock on the lab wall read half past midnight, though Bunsen Honeydew hardly noticed. Muppet Labs was dark except for the harsh fluorescent glow above the main workbench, where unfinished prototypes and scorched instruction manuals lay scattered like autumn leaves.
“Ready, Beaker?” Bunsen asked, adjusting his safety goggles. His last effort to get their test to work before calling it a night.
“Meep meep,” Beaker replied, the syllables tight with nerves. His eyes darted toward the door, as if hoping someone else might walk in and say it was time to leave.
But there was no one else. Just them. There was always just them.
Bunsen cleared his throat, “Initiating test, ‘the Instantaneous Shrink and Grow Ray, Mark IV.” His fingers hovered over the blinking panel, then pressed the button.
For a heartbeat, it worked. The can of soda on the table shrank to the size of a thimble. Bunsen beamed.
Then the machine whined, a rising, electric keen that made Beaker stiffen.
“Wait-no, no-,” Bunsen scrambled for the emergency shutoff.
But the ray arced wildly, spitting sparks. The smell of burning plastic filled the lab. Beaker looked at Bunsen, eyes wide and fearful.
“Get down!” Bunsen shouted.
Beaker took a step backward, then another. But the machine exploded in a flash of white blue light that swallowed him whole.
For a moment, there was only ringing silence. Smoke curled from the ruined prototype. The shriveled can rolled off the table and hit the ground with a hollow clink.
Bunsen coughed, blinking hard from the smoke, “Beaker?”
There was no answer.
He stumbled forward, ignoring the hiss of hot metal, and peered through the smoke. Pieces of lab coat. Frayed orange felt. A single tuft of red hair, still smoldering.
“No,” Bunsen whispered, dropping to his knees. His hands hovered over the remnants, shaking so badly he couldn’t even try to gather them up. “Oh, Beaker, no…”
He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to steady himself. His goggles slipped askew, and he yanked them off and let them fall to the floor.
The absurdity of it threatened to crush him, all the catastrophes they’d survived, all the fires, the explosions, the falls from impossible heights. Every time, Beaker would get up, slightly singed but alive, and look at Bunsen with those hurt, bewildered eyes, as if asking why.
Now there would be no asking why. No “mee mee.” No wary little glances over coffee cups late at night.
He reached out and picked up the tuft of red hair. It was still warm.
“I’m so sorry,” Bunsen whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry…I should have never-“
But the lab was quiet now. Just the faint tick of the clock. The smell of burnt felt. And Bunsen, alone, on the cold linoleum floor, wishing with everything in him that he had just listened to Beaker’s concerns. Telling him it might have been a bad idea to perform this experiment.
He should’ve listened. Now he’s gone.
Bunsen didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. The harsh lights above the workbench buzzed faintly, flickering now and then, casting long shadows that swayed across the scorched floor.
His hands lay limp in his lap, smudged with soot and something that might have been melted felt. The tuft of Beaker’s red hair was still clutched between his fingers, the edges singed black.
He couldn’t bring himself to look away from it.
Every time he blinked, the moment replayed behind his eyes, Beaker’s startled flinch, the way he looked back at Bunsen, like he always did, trusting him, even when he was terrified. Then the light. Then nothing.
Bunsen’s chest ached, but it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. His breathing came shallow and automatic, as if his body hadn’t quite realized what his mind had seen.
He should move, he thought distantly. Call someone. Clean up. Do something. But his limbs felt heavy, rooted to the cold linoleum.
“Beaker, ready?” he heard himself saying, over and over in his mind.
And Beaker’s little sound in reply, soft, uncertain, but willing. Always willing, no matter how many times it went wrong.
Bunsen pressed his trembling hand to his mouth. His eyes burned, but the tears wouldn’t come. He just sat there, staring at the empty space where Beaker had been, replaying it again and again.
The clock on the wall ticked on. Minutes, maybe hours. He couldn’t tell.
Some part of him kept hoping, absurdly, that he’d hear the familiar “meep meep” behind him. That Beaker would emerge from behind the wrecked equipment, singed and rattled but alive, blinking at him with those worried eyes.
But the lab stayed silent.
Bunsen’s shoulders slumped further, and his head dropped until his chin nearly touched his chest. The quiet pressed against his ears until all he could hear was his own pulse, drumming fast and frightened.
He whispered Beaker’s name, just once, so quietly it felt like it barely left his lips. The sound of it made something inside him crack.
And still, he couldn’t move.
He could only sit there, alone in the wreckage, replaying the last few minutes with the only person who had ever really stayed.
It took everything Bunsen had to force his body to move. His legs felt like they barely belonged to him, joints stiff from sitting too long on the cold floor. He pushed himself up, hands slipping on the soot slick linoleum.
Standing made the silence feel louder, the lab emptier. His gaze swept over the ruin, burnt wires, warped metal, the husks of test models that had seemed so promising only hours ago.
“Think, Bunsen,” he rasped to himself, voice sounding foreign, “Think.”
His hands moved on their own, rummaging through drawers, yanking open metal cabinets so hard the contents clattered to the floor. Crumpled blueprints were scattered like fallen leaves, their corners darkened by old coffee stains.
Shrink-and-Grow Ray, Mark II.
Instantaneous Teleportation Platform.
Temporal Displacement Tuning Fork.
His fingers trembled as he pulled each design free, scanning diagrams he’d drawn late at night with Beaker perched beside him, nervously fidgeting but never leaving.
None of them could bring someone back. He knew it, deep down, but denial burned too hot to let him stop.
Papers flew from his grip, some floating to the floor, others ripped in his haste. Shelves rattled as he tore through half finished schematics, prototype pieces clattering to the tiles. Glass cracked underfoot.
“Something…there must be something ,” he murmured, “I can’t…I can’t let it end like this.”
He saw it every time he closed his eyes, Beaker’s final look, trusting, scared, and then gone. The thought of telling the others clawed at his chest, the sorrow in Kermit’s eyes, Miss Piggy’s rage, and Fozzie’s helpless grief.
They’d blame him. Of course they would. Just like he blamed himself.
And maybe…maybe it would break them all apart.
His breath hitched, “I can’t…I can’t let that happen.”
Then his gaze landed on an old file folder shoved behind a cracked monitor, corners curled and dusty.
Project: Backup Beakers.
His chest tightened. The clone experiment had been a ridiculous insurance policy, to cover for sick days, double bookings, or ill fated demos that required “more than one Beaker.” They had always wandered off or quietly left, none quite as perfectly him.
A wild thought rooted itself in Bunsen’s grief numbed brain, curling tighter until it bloomed into something sharp, impossible, and inevitable.
What if one of them…what if one could take his place?
The idea was deranged. It would hurt. It wouldn’t bring the real Beaker back.
But maybe it would spare the others the pain.
Maybe it would keep the Muppets together.
Maybe, just maybe, it would keep him from having to face the emptiness Beaker left behind.
Bunsen’s breathing grew ragged. He swallowed, tasting smoke and panic. His mind screamed at him that it was wrong, cruel even, but the thought of doing nothing hurt worse.
Slowly, carefully, he gathered the folder to his chest, hugging it like a life raft. His glasses had slipped down his nose, but he didn’t bother fixing them.
He would find one of the clones.
He would ask, no, beg, them to come back, to be Beaker.
Even if it hurt him.
Even if it meant living every day beside a reminder that the real Beaker was gone.
Because living without any Beaker…Bunsen didn’t think he could survive that at all.
Bunsen barely remembered grabbing his coat. The lab door clanged shut behind him, echoing through the empty halls of Muppet Labs. His breath fogged in the night air as he stumbled down the steps, the file clutched so tightly against his chest that the edges bit into his palms.
The city beyond was quiet, bathed in the jaundiced glow of street lamps. It felt wrong that the world kept going, traffic signals blinking, a stray cat crossing the road, like nothing had happened.
Bunsen’s mind buzzed with feverish urgency. Every step echoed Beaker’s name in his head.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
He drove without thinking, the car rattling on potholed streets. At a red light, his shaking hands left smudges of soot on the steering wheel. He barely saw the road, barely felt the wheel in his grip, just that single impossible hope burning through the fog of his grief.
Outside town, the streetlights grew sparse, shadows swallowing the road between weathered wooden fences and fields gone silver under moonlight. The place was barely more than a rundown workshop, half hidden behind a collapsed shed and an overgrown garden.
Bunsen remembered this clone, Beaker Number Fourteen, had chosen to leave the city, too nervous for the chaos of Muppet Labs. He’d built a quiet life among tools, spare parts, and thrift store furniture.
Bunsen parked, engine ticking in the cold. He sat there, staring through the windshield, the silhouette of the workshop warped by cracked glass. His reflection looked alien, soot smeared lab coat, red rimmed eyes, glasses still slightly crooked.
Part of him whispered to turn back. To let the dead rest. To face what he’d done instead of trying to erase it.
But the silence beside him, where Beaker should have been, screamed louder.
He stepped out. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he crossed the yard. Rusted wind chimes knocked gently together in the breeze. His breath quickened, chest tight with dread and hope.
At the door, his hand hovered. Then, driven by something raw and desperate, he knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, harder.
A faint shuffling inside. A light flicked on. The door creaked open, and there he was, nearly identical. Same red hair sticking up in cowlicks, same wide eyes that blinked at Bunsen in sleepy confusion. But there was something slightly different, a softer posture, a cautious calm where the real Beaker would’ve flinched.
“…Meep?” the clone murmured, voice gentler, less strained.
Bunsen opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The words lodged in his throat like broken glass. His vision blurred.
“Please,” he finally rasped, voice cracking under the weight of grief and guilt, “I…I need your help. It’s Beaker. He’s…he’s gone. I can’t…I can’t lose him. I need you to come back. To be him. Just for a while. Please.”
The file trembled in his hands as he held it out, as if the brittle papers inside could explain everything he couldn’t say.
The clone’s eyes widened, a flicker of sorrow and confusion crossing his face. Slowly, almost fearfully, he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting Bunsen in out of the cold.
Bunsen swallowed hard, his heart pounding in shame and relief.
Even if it hurt him. Even if it was wrong.
He couldn’t go back alone.
And so he stepped inside, haunted by loss, grief, and the impossible hope that something of Beaker might live again.
Inside, the workshop smelled faintly of old wood shavings and machine oil. A small lamp cast a circle of warm light over a cluttered table. The clone, Beaker Number Fourteen, hovered near a stool, watching Bunsen with wide, worried eyes.
Bunsen didn’t sit. He couldn’t. His legs felt too shaky, and the words in his chest pressed so painfully against his ribs he thought they might break through.
“I-It was late,” Bunsen began, voice catching. His hands twisted the edge of the file so hard that the paper creased. “We were…it was supposed to be quick, a small test, nothing dangerous, really, I thought-“
He swallowed, breath coming in ragged pulls. His gaze darted to the clone’s face, then skittered away, settling on a cracked mug on the table, then the floor, anywhere but those eyes so painfully like his.
“There was a spark,” Bunsen rushed on, words tumbling out faster now. “And the machine-the prototype, it-it wasn’t stable, and he…he was right there, I should’ve shut it down sooner, but I didn’t, and then there was just-“ His voice cracked into something raw, “Light. And then nothing.”
The clone flinched, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. The gentle “meep?” that escaped him was almost a gasp, thin and horrified.
Bunsen looked at the floor, his vision swimming. “I stayed there. I don’t know how long. Just…sitting with what was left. I kept thinking he’d…get back up. Like always. He didn’t.”
His throat bobbed. “I-” He tried to steady his breathing, but the words kept falling over each other. “I thought of telling the others. They’ll blame me, and they’d be right. It might…it might tear everything apart. The show, the crew, everything we built together. I can’t-“ His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “I can’t watch them lose him too.”
The clone’s hands had begun to tremble. His eyes shone, and he shook his head, like he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing.
Bunsen still couldn’t look at him. His gaze kept catching on the familiar shape of the red hair, the slightly different tilt of the head. Close enough to break his heart.
“I know it’s…it’s monstrous to ask,” Bunsen forced out, each word scraped raw with guilt, “But if you came back. If you were him. Just for a while. Maybe forever. Maybe it would save them. Maybe it would…save me.” His breath hitched, “I don’t…”
Silence spread between them, thick and heavy. The clone’s expression twisted, horror and sorrow warring on his felt features. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then slowly, painfully, he lowered his hand.
After a long moment, he nodded, small, reluctant.
Bunsen’s shoulders sagged with relief so sharp it felt like a wound opening. He kept his eyes on the floor, afraid that if he looked, he’d see what was missing, or worse, let himself believe it was truly him.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice so thin it barely made a sound.
The clone stepped closer, hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on Bunsen’s sleeve. It was softer, calmer than Beaker’s usual nervous flinches, just different enough to make Bunsen’s heart seize.
He still couldn’t bring himself to look up. But he didn’t pull away. And in that dim, cluttered workshop, they stood quietly together, both knowing this was wrong, but needing it all the same.
The sun hadn’t quite risen when they returned to Muppet Labs. The sky outside the tall windows was a pale, bruised gray, hints of orange bleeding through the horizon.
Inside, the lab still smelled like burnt and it made Bunsen feel nauseous. The broken prototype lay scattered in blackened pieces across the workbench, wires dangling like snapped veins.
Bunsen didn’t hesitate. The moment they stepped through the door, he dropped the file onto a table and started to move, gathering twisted metal, sweeping ash into a dented dustpan, shoving half burnt papers into a bin. His motions were jerky, driven more by panic than purpose.
“We’ll need to…you’ll need to wear the same coat,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking over the mess but never toward the clone, “And the same safety goggles. I think there’s a spare set in the storage locker, third drawer on the left. Well…we’ll fix your hair, just slightly. And your ID badge, it’s…it’s outdated, I’ll print a new one-“
His words tumbled out in a nervous staccato, like if he kept talking, he could drown out the truth screaming at the edges of his mind.
The clone stood by the doorway, shoulders hunched, eyes wide as he took in the ruin. His gaze settled on the scorch marks near the center of the floor, the place where Beaker had been.
“Meep…” the sound broke halfway out of his throat, thin and aching.
Bunsen’s hands froze on a pile of broken circuit boards. His back stiffened. For a moment, the silence pressed in so heavily it felt like the walls themselves were listening.
Then he forced himself to keep moving, clattering parts into a box, “I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice cracking, “I know this is…it’s asking too much. But if we act quickly, before the others arrive, maybe no one will notice.”
The clone took a hesitant step forward, fingers curling around the doorframe. His reflection in the blackened glass looked just like Beaker, just off enough that Bunsen had to look away.
He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but his throat felt thick, words sticking behind felt lips. His heart pounded so loudly he thought it might drown everything out.
Bunsen kept his head down, shoving debris into a box with trembling hands, “You’ll need to…to react the same. The same sounds, same way of moving. They’ll expect it. And I…”his voice dropped to something raw, I don’t know if I can do this if it’s too different.”
His shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out for a breath.
The clone swallowed, guilt and fear tangling inside him. But slowly, almost instinctively, he stepped closer, drawn by Bunsen’s desperation.
Bunsen bent over the bin, breath coming sharp and ragged. His glasses slid halfway down his nose. He didn’t push them back up. His eyes stayed locked on the broken scraps, too afraid to meet the clone’s gaze, afraid of what he’d see there.
“We’ll say it was a late night test run,” Bunsen murmured, as if reciting a plan could keep his hands steady, “Just a bit of an accident, nothing serious. That’s all. And no one will…no one will have to know.”
His fingers tightened around a bent piece of metal until his knuckles whitened.
The clone watched him, chest tight with pity, sorrow, and something almost like dread. His reflection in the cracked glass stared back, a ghost wearing someone else’s face.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the hum of dying lab lights and the scrape of Bunsen’s shaking hands moving wreckage.
Then the clone swallowed hard, forcing down the ache in his throat. “Meep,” he said softly, a sound so familiar yet not quite the same.
Bunsen flinched. His breath caught, shoulders jerking. But still, he didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
And together, in the cold, broken dawn, they kept moving, one trying to pretend nothing had changed, the other trying to become someone who was already gone.
By the time the sun rose fully over the city skyline, the worst of the mess had been swept away. The scorch marks still ghosted the floor, and the air still smelled, Bunsen tried a couple of cleaning supplies, hoping the strong chemical would cover the smell, but the wreckage was hidden, broken pieces shoved into bins, blueprints stacked hastily on shelves, and the ruined prototype buried under a stained canvas sheet.
Bunsen slumped into the nearest chair, his body heavy with bone deep exhaustion. His lab coat hung askew, smudged with ash and dust. Behind him, the clone lowered himself cautiously onto a stool, hands clasped together in his lap so tightly his knuckles showed pale even through felt.
The silence between them was thick and hollow. Bunsen’s eyes traced the edges of the room, searching for anything to say, anything to fix. But there was nothing left to clean, nothing left to repair.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Bunsen’s heart seized. He straightened abruptly, forcing his shoulders back and tugging at his soot stained collar, willing his voice into something calm and even.
The door swung open.
“Morning, Bunsen, Beaker,” Kermit said, stepping inside. His gentle voice was tinted with concern, his eyes scanning the room, “Everything all right? You two look like you’ve been here all night.”
Bunsen swallowed, feeling the edge of panic claw at his throat. His gaze flickered past Kermit, catching sight of the clone beside him the familiar shock of red hair, the worried expression. Too familiar. Not familiar enough.
“Oh! Uh, good morning, Kermit!” Bunsen chirped, the false cheer sharp around the edges. His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going, “Yes, yes! Just, ah, a bit of overnight troubleshooting. You know how it is!”
He gestured vaguely at the covered table, “Bit of a hiccup, but nothing to worry about! Beaker here was a tremendous help, as always.”
The clone flinched slightly at the name but nodded quickly, forcing out a soft “Meep,” It was close enough that it settled the air, though it still caught oddly in his throat.
Kermit’s brow creased, his felt fingers drumming against his clipboard. “You both look…well, a little rough,” he offered gently, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes! Perfectly!” Bunsen insisted, too quickly. His forced smile stretched tight, refusing to fade. “Just need, perhaps a pot of coffee. Or three.”
The clone bobbed his head in agreement, eyes wide, staying silent except for another small “Mee,” a fragile echo of the voice they all knew.
Kermit studied them both for a moment longer. The room felt too quiet, the smell of burnt plastic still hanging in the corners. But finally, he nodded, “All right, take it easy today, okay? If you two need anything, just let me know.”
“Of course! Of course,” Bunsen replied, the words spilling out breathlessly.
Kermit turned to go, his footsteps fading down the hall.
The moment the door clicked shut, Bunsen sagged, the tension draining from his shoulders all at once. His hands trembled faintly on the edge of the table.
Beside him, the clone exhaled, his chest shaking with relief and dread. His first task, to be him , had passed, at least for now.
They exchanged a glance, brief, raw, and wordless. Bunsen quickly looked away, unable to bear it.
And outside, the morning settled in, the day moving forward as if nothing had changed, except for the two of them, sitting in a quiet lab, sharing a secret too heavy for either to carry alone.
The lab settled into a fragile hush after Kermit left, dust motes floating in the pale morning light.
The clone, Beaker Number Fourteen, sat on the edge of a stool, his fingers curled tight around each other in his lap. His gaze roamed the room, the cracks in the floor tiles, the faint burn scars on the workbench, the familiar tangle of wires and half finished inventions that had always seemed oddly comforting before.
He had never felt self conscious about what he was. A copy. A spare. Just another “Beaker” who’d quietly chosen to leave, to live small and unnoticed, content to fix radios and watch the seasons change outside his window. It hadn’t felt strange. It was enough.
Until now.
Now, every part of him felt heavy with borrowed weight, with someone else’s life, someone else’s laughter, fear, and trust. Someone Bunsen had cared about deeply, though he’d never said it.
Fourteen glanced at Bunsen. The scientist was hunched over the cluttered worktable, pretending to sort through papers that no longer mattered. His lips moved silently, as if reciting a list only he could hear. Anything to keep from looking up. Anything to keep from saying the words neither of them could face.
The clone swallowed hard. His chest felt tight, a quiet ache curling under felt and stuffing.
He had always known, in the abstract, that the original Beaker could die. They all knew the risks, even if they never said them aloud. But the idea of becoming him, slipping into that space so seamlessly that no one noticed he was gone, felt so much bigger, stranger, and lonelier than he’d imagined.
He had Beaker’s face, Beaker’s voice, Beaker’s nervous habits. But he had never been him. He had never stood at Bunsen’s side through a hundred disastrous demos. He had never felt Bunsen’s quiet glances late at night, or the unspoken bond that only two people who’d burned together again and again could share.
Now he was about to pretend he had.
And yet, when Bunsen had asked, voice cracking, hands trembling, eyes wet with a grief he couldn’t name, the clone couldn’t say no.
Not because he wanted to be Beaker. But because he saw the raw terror behind Bunsen’s denial, the man couldn’t face losing him, and keep breathing. And because he thought of the others, the strange and gentle family that might crumble under the truth.
His chest tightened further. He realized, painfully, that the life he had made for himself, quiet, small, his own, might be over the moment he’d nodded.
Slowly, he drew in a breath. The air tasted of cold metal and faint smoke. “Meep,” he whispered under his breath, so softly it barely formed.
Bunsen’s head twitched at the sound, but he didn’t look up. His fingers just gripped the papers tighter, knuckles white.
He was still pretending this would be enough. That if the clone played the part perfectly, he wouldn’t have to grieve at all.
The clone’s gaze dropped to his hands. They looked just like Beaker’s, long, orange felted fingers, forever trembling.
For the first time, he wondered if being a copy meant never truly belonging to himself at all.
And though guilt burned deep under his stuffing, he forced himself to nod, as if to some silent promise.
If this is what keeps them whole…
Outside, the morning light brightened, casting sharp shadows across the lab floor. And in that heavy silence, they both kept breathing, Bunsen clinging to denial, and the clone trying not to forget who he really was.