Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

   “That was so worth it,” BァD-2 Rick purred behind him as they entered the precinct. “Really- uh, really good to do good things, you know, checking up on that Morty brought URRP- peace- peace to my heart, man.”

   “Even if it turned out nothing was up, huh?” BァD-2’s friend threw an arm around Rick’s shoulders.

   “Well yeah, that's the peace part.”

   They laughed. Rick peeled the arm off him and the Rick lost his balance momentarily as if it suddenly was too heavy for him to handle alone.

   “M- Maybe I could go help an old man cross the street later.”

   “Oh, that's- perf-EURRGHct, ‘cause I'll need, I'll need SO much help crossing the street after I snort enough crystals I induce my own dementia and shit myself halfway to death.”

   “Fuck yeah, being a good Samaritan is so-OURGHH rewarding. I love, I- I love cleaning up shit! I love wiping people's asses!”

   “It’s exactly as cathartic as hugging little boys who’re beaten up by their grandpas,” BァD-2 cooed.

   “Tomato, tomahto. Shit, turd.”

   The two of them guffawed like donkeys.

   They didn't even check for Rick’s reaction, so they weren't mocking him as much as they were entertaining each other. They staggered past him in a laughing fit so intense it took the last of their (already compromised by drinking) coordination away, and when they disappeared into one of the offices ahead, Rick figured he'd have to be the one to write the report for that little trip they took nowhere.

   Fair enough – he was the one who dragged them there anyways.

   Rick got to his own desk, slammed a cup of coffee beside the keyboard and sagged into the seat, massaging the wrinkles on his forehead. None of the other Ricks in the room were acquainted enough with him to bother looking up from their own assignments, which he for one was thankful for, fully aware of how miserable he looked.

   He opened the follow-up incident report format to type out Rick S-9⟟Σ’s statement, his Morty’s corroborative claims and, he knew nobody would give a damn, but he added his own observations on the kid’s behavior under his personal assessment tab.

   Every time he’d open his mouth, the response would come out a little quicker and a little more defensive until the topic of safety came up, at which point he’d worked himself up to a panic attack. It was obvious he had some type of weird deep-rooted separation anxiety, more than he could manage – “Just let him go, please!” – and Rick frankly couldn’t tell if that was something to be concerned about seeing as the Rick clearly reciprocated his Morty’s affections. If a Morty was clinically clingy but his Rick didn’t fucking mind, then there wasn’t an issue. At least not one that Rick could legally butt into. There was no silent plea for rescue, “nothing to hide”.

   But, fuck, man. Fuck.

   There was still something rubbing him wrong.

   “I- I need my Rick.”

   The fingers that reached out and frayed his shirt collar as he pressed the heel of his hand into his sternum, the labored breathing, the hunch, the newly acquired limp. Morty dived for his Rick the second a breach just large enough to squeeze through opened in the doorway. Rick had to step aside or he’d get trampled.

   Rick leaned forward, resting his intertwined hands on his brow.

   He didn’t know what that meant.

   Maybe his Rick had implanted him with something that induced pain whenever he spent too long too far away, as a means of preconditioning his loyalty, pretty elementary stuff. He’d have a perfectly compliant Morty that depended on him like a drug and would never even consider ratting him out.

   Or maybe Rick pushed too hard. Maybe he scared the kid. Maybe he should’ve stopped as soon as the Morty first raised his voice. As soon as he started getting antsy, even. Why did he think he'd be equipped for something like that? Was it the fact he didn't know how to talk to a Morty or the fact he didn't even know what a regular, healthy Morty was supposed to talk like? God, he was so out of his depth there. He had no idea if Morty should've had more to say about his father, or if it was concerning that he either didn’t care or didn’t know if his mother and sister would be home later. Rick never lived there, he’d never had a proper interaction with any of those people—Morties included—he was only barely familiar with their personalities, family dynamics and schedules from a few articles he'd read during training.

   “What is that, you praying or something?” a Rick joked on his way past Rick’s desk. “Fo-OURRGH-For who? The president’s a Morty now.”

   Several Ricks laughed.

   Rick put his hands down so he could stare at the computer screen until the Rick gave up waiting for his response.

   The day went on without his permission, so he rolled with it. He handed the report in, created Rick S-9⟟Σ’s Morty’s files in the Morty Agency because he had a feeling S-9⟟Σ wouldn’t, completed a dozen tedious tasks tossed his way – that he definitely had no business with – and eventually the artificial sunlight outside started dimming. The trashcan near his desk was filled to the brim with used coffee cups, which was his sign to switch to decaf for the evening. The corridors got quieter as the end of the day shift neared, because it turns out Ricks do tire from exchanging obnoxious jokes and doing cocaine in the archives. By the time a janitor reminded Rick to clock out, the precinct was so peaceful he wished he could stay a little longer. Just while the night shift men didn't arrive.

   Alas, the janitor was a greedy greedy man who wanted the peace all for himself.

   So Rick was essentially kicked out the front door.

   “Bitch.”

   It was never too cold or too hot in the Citadel. He hadn’t been to his Earth in years—decades—but Bird World was similar enough in that sense, and he missed how the switch from the recycled carbon of a monotonous day spent indoors to the fresh night air would sharpen up your senses, make you forget everything that happened before nightfall, just for a bit. Suddenly it'd feel like you had an entire, secret day still ahead of you in the dark. It was so real and. Refreshing or something. Whatever. They didn’t get that here, everything was brutally synthetic, it didn't even get much darker at night than it was during the day.

   President Morty was working on integrating more vegetation in the Citadel's architecture though, that would be nice. You’d never imagine the Citadel could get homey.

   Not when these streets only ever seemed to get less welcoming.

   …God fucking damn it, he wanted to go back inside so bad.

   Precinct Janitor Rick glared warningly at him through the glass sliding doors when he tried turning back around.

   “Jeez, fine! I’m leaving!”

   When he started walking his route home, he noticed a line of Ricks and Morties forming in front of the building neighbor to the precinct. With his curiosity piqued, Rick approached the line only enough so he was at an angle where they could see the name of the new place.

   “Morty's”. The logo was June's face.

   “Oh, fuck,” Rick remembered K-9’s invite.

   He walked unassumingly to the windows of the diner and saw the typical Wendy's interior from the 80’s, with blue-cushioned yellow chairs, a salad bar, vintagey decoration and several colorful posters of crazy creative menu options. K-9 was sitting in a small table, still in his uniform, and Rick was surprised to find that the only other people in there were K-9 Morty and his Morty friends – Mole, Oatmeal, Spoon and the other one – chatting excitedly inside a booth. He was expecting to see the whole police station hogging the tables in there.

   Was the invite specifically for him?

   Uh. That was- That had to be weird. He wouldn't know, he'd never befriended an alternate version of himself before-- but if he were to, he probably wouldn't do it in a one-on-one after work.

   Jesus, what, was he intimidated right now? That guy trained alien dogs for a living.

   As he stood there feeling like a teen late to class on the first day of highschool, K-9 spotted him and waved him over. Rick hesitated, eyeing the hungry line still growing at the door, and K-9 yelled something that had June popping out from the kitchen.

   Every Morty inside the restaurant turned to face Rick at the same time.

   He felt his cybernetic heart defibrillate itself back from cardiac arrest.

   June first scrutinized him, then she saw whatever she wanted to find in his grimace and ran back into the kitchen, gesturing for him to meet her at the back. He was sweating and kind of nauseous, but he squeezed between the diner and the precinct to meet the kid at her back door because he was already way past the point of return. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast anyways. June was wearing a blue striped dress and white apron, the classical Wendy's costume. It made her look positively ridiculous, but Rick couldn't help smiling at how happy it made her. She was basically bouncing on her toes.

   “Hi! Um, you are that cop, right? The nice one?” she asked, eyes flickering to the lab coat folded over his left arm. He fixed a wrinkle on it self-consciously. She took her phone out and checked something, likely his designation, which he’d left in his pager’s contact name. “76, uhhh sideways-T, T 74?”

   “Turnstile,” he provided. “Yeah, that's... That's me.”

   She typed something into her phone with an interested “huh” and let him in.

   “I'm gonna open in a sec! What’re you gonna get?”

   “Kid, I can't remember the last time I've been to a Wendy's. I have no idea what you have.”

   “Oh, um, the, the menu's on the table, yy- you could order something super quick! If you want– If you don't know what you want–wh- what to order, you should get the jalapeno ranch burger. It’s my favorite.”

   “I'll just have that, then.”

   June beamed.

   He tried not to meet the eyes of anybody in the line he'd skipped outside while making his way over to K-9.

   “Hey, cop Rick!” Mole Morty shouted from the Morties’ table, grinning. Oatmeal and Spoon waved while the grumpy one just stared, and K-9 Morty was shocked that they'd met before.

   “Uh, hey.”

   Rick hung his coat on the back of the free chair on K-9's table and sat down, dreading the moment where he would have to make eye contact with him. It came pretty much immediately of course, since they were facing each other. His coworker had his brow raised.

   “You know these kids?” he asked.

   “Met them at the School today. Thought I uh, thought I might go there and just. Check it out. Like you said.”

   K-9 smirked. “So what'd you decide?”

   To get severely sidetracked.

   Before Rick could answer, party poppers went off outside and June hopped up to the front doors, slamming them open.

   “Molcome to Morty's! The only dignified burger place in the Citadel!” she announced. “We’re the only ones who’ve got 100% real Earth beef, straight from cows, real life Earth cows that moo and eat real Earth grass instead of goop! You can tell it's real beef because we put them in square patties! Annnd, I'm gonna stop saying ‘real’ now before it gets suspicious.”

   The crowd outside roared.

   “God,” Rick mumbled. “She's doing a Wendy's persona?”

   “Amazing, right?” K-9 said.

   “She- Yes, she didn't even stutter!”

   “YURRP. She's been reading Wendy’s tweets to sleep.”

   They turned out to be more than the restaurant could seat, but June pulled out a retractable second floor with booths like the Morties’, that had cushioned benches instead of chairs and therefore fit exactly as many people as they could squeeze in. She took their orders with a bright smile and impressively clever cocky comments that the costumers ate the fuck up while waiting for their food. The food didn't take long though, and most of the Ricks there must think her Rick was the cook, but he'd seen the kitchen and knew it was a robot with several limbs and one grubby human guy in his twenties called Mark. To keep the Wendy's authenticity, he supposed.

   “Morties, Morties like her – Morties left alone for too long – they like picking up a role to stick to,” K-9 told him. Rick almost forgot why he'd brought that up. “It happens more than I'm comfortably aware of. Guess becoming a random stereotype is easier than trying to figure yourself out. A lot of them get into entertaining crowds of Ricks like that. Y- YoURRGH seen Lawyer Morty?”

   “What?”

   “Oh, yeah, ugh, nevermind. I think he died. But he was uh, he was a great example.”

   Rick’s first thought went back to the Cowboy Morty in that nightclub in Morty Town, cramping western slang into every sentence, and, well, Big Morty. The stereotypical mafia boss at age fourteen. He turned to watch June roast a Rick as per his own request, and there wasn't even a glint of the girl he'd met at the School in there. But there may have been glimpses of “Wendy” in June.

   “Do you seriously think Beth would name me Wendy?” he recalled her naturally deadpan.

   “You ever met her Rick?” he thought out loud.

   “Yup. Twice. He's a rare breed, total nutcase.”

   “Does he actually abandon her here to ‘acclimatize to space’? I thought that was some, some half-assed lie he made up so she wouldn't ask questions.”

   K-9 poured some of the drink in his flask into his soda cup, mixing it with the straw and downing half of it in one go. “It’s sssomething like that, URRP-I- I didn't get it either.”

   “What the fuck? Why did you let him go then?! We need to–”

   “Hey, he totally believes he's doing something he needs to do, it’s not just an excuse. It's weird, but he- he cares about her, so it's a non-issue.”

   He scrunched up his nose. “How can you know that?”

   Rick could think up a list of reasons why a teenager would have to spend months acclimatizing to space, and another list of reasons why he'd have to leave a teenager to live by themselves somewhere, both lists were technically endless. Space was weird. Maybe she’d developed a deadly allergic reaction to filtered oxygen and her body needed time to get used to it in a more open area, such as the Citadel, before she could travel on barely circulated air inside the tighter interior of a ship. Alright. In such cases, Rick would have moved into the Citadel with her, though. So maybe her Rick needed to rebuild their Earth from scratch, to spite God or something, and to achieve total concentration he figured he might leave his talking luggage, who has feelings and physical needs he doesn’t have time to deal with, in the Citadel. In these cases – in her Rick’s shoes – Rick would have had to not care about June.

   The reason they're two separate lists is because there is no real excuse for him to have June living alone for six months if he does care, those are two things that can't mix. Either you care about someone or you abandon them. It's so simple a toddler that doesn't even speak full phrases yet already has some sense of “love: stick together”. It's instinctual, because hey, love is a chemical. And that directly involves certain monkey behaviors that do not include leaving.

   “Scan her,” Rick K-09 said. Rick shot him a look and K-9 raised his arms. “Hey, you’re the only one making this weird, man, I- I’m not telling you to X-ray her panties, I’m telling you to check out her skeleton and shit. Go, go on, she's heading this way, scan her!”

    Rick looked around him to make sure none of the other Ricks and Morties were looking his way, especially not June's friends, and when she herself was turned away, he finally scanned her.

   “Your scanner’s in your thumb nail? Do you know how easy it is to lose your thumb?” K-9 judged. “Okay, whatever, pull up the foreign objects layer.”

   He laid the projection out on the table after a second contemplating his thumb nail.

   And. There was a lot.

   “Holy shit,” Rick hissed, scrolling through the pop-up identification tags of each different, tiny device tucked under June's skin, between her nerves or inside of her bones. “I understand the Wolverine claws, but are those nanobots built to turn her into a car? Sh- She couldn't have asked to be turned into Godzilla or something? Who wh- Who’d- Who would want to be a car?”

   “What? No, she didn't ask for that, Rookie,” he said like he didn't believe he had to say it in the first place, “we do it when they're asleep. Way less trouble that way.”

   Rick blinked. K-9 seemed surprised that Rick was surprised.

   “Oh yeah, y- you’ve never– See, look, picture this: you need a quick getaway, and boom, your Morty becomes literally whatever you need. He's always there anyways, might, might as well get useful. I got one of those on Morty that's supposed to turn him into a spaceship whenever we're launched into vacuum. And when that happens? Hh- He's gonna be too busy being glad we're both alive to get mad at me for putting nanobots in his blood.”

   Rick's jaw tightened.

   “…Why don’t you just ask first? Instead of gambling at how terrified he'll have to be not to, not to care.”

   “What, you think- Do you really think Morties would let us change their plasmatic composition if we asked nicely?!” he sputtered.

   “He’s fourteen! H- He'd trust you enough to do it if being turned into a spaceship wasn't fucking humiliating! Your plan’s to get inside of him and drive him around?!”

   “To save his life, yes!”

   “You could get him to turn into a fucking-- a mini Voltron, or a space dragon or something! You think he would've said no to that?!”

   “The point is for those implants to save my life too!”

   “Wh- Why don't you turn yourself into a spaceship?!”

   “Because that is humiliating!”

   Oh my fucking god.

   Rick slammed back into his chair, arms crossed, and the other Rick slammed his fists into the table. They glared at each other across the holograms.

   “BINGO, MOTHERFUCKERS!” a Rick screamed from another table, standing up to showcase his hamburger. “I GOT A TOMATONATORRR!!”

   The restaurant burst with drunken cheers that had Rick flinching out of their staring contest to glare behind him instead. Good thing, too, his gaze had been about to falter and his eyes were starting to dry out. He should have gone home. Maybe he could just go. Get up and leave. He didn't know why this Rick had struck him as different before.

   “Ugh. Listen.” K-9 called for his attention again.

   Granted the only reason Rick was still seated in that chair was to figure this Rick out, he listened.

    K-9 sat back and looked away, tapping a finger on his arm repeatedly. “We Ricks have more cybernetic enhancements than body at this point. If it's okay to do it to yourself, why the fuck is it so bad to do it to the kid? I’m fine, he’s gonna realize he's fine too. M- Maybe I'd have asked him first if he trusted me about that, but he doesn't for no fucking reason, so he totally brought this onto himself.”

   Rick followed his line of sight to the Morties talking excitedly in their booth.

   June had apparently managed to catch a break, reaching over the table to steal fries off Oatmeal, who complained he had picked the spot at the farthest corner precisely so he’d be “safe from snatchers”, and even the fifth Morty was openly messing around like a normal teenager instead of glaring silently at the nearest Rick. Mole was leading the conversation, showing everyone something on his greasy phone, Spoon contributed to said grease by helpfully swipping a notification off the content with the same hand he used to.. also steal fries from Oatmeal.

   Morty K-09 was happily munching on his huge disgusting pretzel bacon cheeseburger. Oats sat dutifully between his feet, waiting for him to toss the occasional fry under the table. He had sauce on his nose and still hadn't noticed that the condensation on the soda cup he was holding to his thigh was creating a dark spot on his uniform pants, which his Rick would definitely tease him about when he stood up.

   He was alright. They all were. Every one of them likely had implants they didn't know about – and Rick wondered if something like that would even be scary to them anymore.

   No. No, getting drived around as a car without knowing you could turn into a car in the first place would fuck you up even if you've faced the freakiest corners of the galaxy. He knows these Morties learned way too much way too fast and were expected to be okay with everything. The consequences of that may not be immediate, but they are lurking, and Rick can't fathom why other Ricks ignore that. Young teenagers need something steady to cling to-- like being able to control their own bodies, for one.

   He'd go so far as to say that's common knowledge.

   “We know what we’re doing,” Rick K-09 continued, entirely incorrect. “So the body horror and consent issues are kind of a uh, kind of just– He- You know, he’ll manage.”

   He pursed his lips.

   “Why don't you tell him about this spaceship implant?”

   “Shit, I don't know, for the surprise effect?”

   “Bullshit. Just tell him about it. If you- If you really think he has no reason not to trust you.” Seeing K-9 immediately react as if attacked, Rick raised a hand to finish his point, “Teenagers are already impressionable, if you don’t give him a heads-up, he’ll be getting nightmares about you pressing buttons on him, or steering him around and- and that's, that’s fucked up. Tell him about the implant, show him how it works, and maybe when- m- maybe next time you get a great idea, ask and he’ll give you a go ahead.”

   “What, so you're a Morty expert now? Killed a couple Morties and suddenly you get a say in how I kill mine?!”

   K-9’s finger tapped faster now. He scowled at Rick’s stubbornly firm expression for a minute, then scoffed, uncrossing his arms to lean in a dog’s classic demonstration of amicability on the table. Rick's efforts to stay serious had to double down when K-9 proceeded to pick his hamburger between two fingers like a cigarette and take one larghissimo bite out of it, almost like he might be ashamed of himself for opening his mouth to do anything but stuff it. Maybe he was different from most Ricks. Because Rick had expected the cheap jab at the only emotional vulnerability Rick had, but the embarrassment afterwards was a surprise.

   “Fine,” he said eventually, “I’ll tell him, but it’s not because you begged – it’s just because it was never that big of a deal in the first place.”

   Rick raised his eyebrows.

   “Tha- That wasn't even where I was trying to get to! You distracted me. Click- Click on the thing in her neck.”

   “Uh.. okay.” Rick blinked hard. He returned to the diagrams and zoomed into the projection of June's neck. “Oh.”

   “Yeah. He's monitoring everything. Wherever the fuck he is, he's making sure she keeps hanging out with her friends, eating well, staying alive. And when she's in trouble, he's alerted. Kind of cute.”

   Humming, Rick observed the device. It wasn't a receiver, so despite its convenient spot at the base of June’s brain stem, it couldn't be used to control her. Just… keeping track of everything. It's funny. Because Rick had secretly put one of these things on his Beth, except it was lodged inside the foramen of her first lumbar vertebra instead of the first cervical. This one was definitely more efficient than Rick’s was, but Rick had always held back when it came to—you know—she was just so tiny.

   He frowned absently at the diagram.

   “Come on,” K-9 said, “you’ve gotta admit that settles it.”

   “It does,” he answered too quickly.

   His coworker raised an eyebrow, but took the win.

   “He gives her more than enough money to get by, too. Which–” He gestured to the restaurant. “–duh. Got her a pretty big doghouse and all.”

   Rick hummed again.

   “Still not buying his half-assed excuse.”

   “He's a Rick. Wha- Whatever it is, he's too far up his own ass to tell anybody. We can look after June until he's back, and that's it.”

   The “we” caught Rick's attention, but K-9 left his inquisitive gaze hanging in favor of whistling June over for a second order of cheese bacon fries. Rick scrambled to dismiss the holographic diagrams of her head hovering over their table.

   “Sooo, you went to the School and found out Morties have n-AURRGH-ightmares about the stuff we put them through?” K-9 joked, reopening the Morty adoption topic, “Is that why you don't want a Morty? Because they have feelings? That’s cold, bro.”

   Rick rolled his eyes, taking his time perfectly rounding out one corner of his burger before taking a proper bite. Which seemed to amuse K-9 into cloud nine.

   “I can't handle Morties,” he spoke, only because K-9 must have assumed he wouldn't.

   He snorted. “Yeah, they are insufferable, I’ll give you that.”

   “No, I– They’re so– I don’t know what to do with them. And they don’t need someone who doesn’t know how to help.”

   K-9 cackled. “Your IQ’s so high the government had to hide it from the public so Russia didn’t come knocking at the door, but you get awkward talking to teenagers?! What, you afraid they won’t think you’re cool?”

   “Th- They’re just confusing! Fuck!” Rick snapped, flustered. “At least when I see a Rick, I know the chance he's gonna be a massive dick! These kids – what are they?!”

   His coworker continued to laugh, so effusively the Morties had stopped doing whatever they were doing to watch them. Groaning, Rick rubbed his brow just so he could subtly hide his face.

   “They’re young!” K-9 said after a sip of his spiked soda, recovering from his fit. “Everything about them is a variable, they make weird unlikely choices all the time! It’s- Is that what’s scaring you?? Jesus, you are a rookie!”

   “Shut up,” he grumbled, genuinely hoping he would because the kids were still watching. “I got into a mess- a mess of a case today, over a Morty, and I fumbled it in every way imaginable. I'm not scared of their unpredictability, I’m- I’m sparing myself the fucking jigsaw. Feel like I’m always one wrong move away from—shit, I don't know.”

   The other Rick leaned in, smirking. “Ooh, tea from other sectors! Fill me in.”

   “That’s where you're caught up? I spilled my heart out here.”

   “I’m a Rick too, y- your problems aren't news to me, chump. Come on, I wanna hear how royally you flunked it!”

   “..It wasn't that bad.”

   “Right, because it- it can’t have been worse than your first day out in the field, that was—hoo!—something else, am I right?”

   “Whuh- Who are you even talking to right now?!”

   K-9 snorted and sat back to sip on his flask, stretching his free arm out lazily above his head.

   Rick scowled, studying him. “…What?”

   He shrugged.

   “Is this some sort of- of reverse psychology? Where you pretend not to care, so I feel less pressured to tell you everything? I, I don't think it works like that. Mostly because I’m not six.”

   “I’m just transferring, hold on,” K-9 said.

   “Excuse me?”

   “Annnd here it is!” The other Rick put his hands back down on the table, projecting a panel of text in the air. Rick recoiled, cursing as he instantly recognized the format. “Alright, ‘follow-up incident report, officer–’ Jesus, you got paired with BァD-2 and his little buddy? Yikes. Chief's really treating you like a chew toy.”

   Rick sighed, failing to gather enough fucks to give. He laid his head in one hand and finished his hamburger while K-9 read through his report aloud mockingly. The amusement gradually faded from his expression though, and so did his voice as he sobered up, and by the time he reached the last few lines of the report under the observations section, his irises were moving like the pendulum of a grandfather clock as he skimmed through them over and over.

   “Do you have the footage on you?” he asked.

   His eyes widened at how serious he sounded – for once. “Of–” He cleared his throat. “Of the- the incident?”

   “Of the interrogation, Rookie.”

   Technically not, but it wasn't hard to retrieve it off-site and have it play on K-9's panel. Rick could watch it too from his side of the table, a flipped version, and K-9's infusive concentration was rubbing off on him. He found himself leaning in and listening closely to every word like he hadn't already witnessed everything the video would show.

   “Repeatedly bashing your Morty’s head against furniture mean anything to you?”

   “Motherfucker!”

   “What's all this?” K-9 paused the video to zoom into the pile of food, wine bottles, devices and a single gym bag kicked into the corner of the room. “Oh, shit. Did you ask about this stuff?”

   “No. I thought–”

   “Thought what, that the Smiths are hoarders?!”

   “Shit, yeah! Maybe! N- Nobody was saying anything!”

   “Because BァD-2 and K-Hole over there are fucking useless! Goddammit, Rookie, does this look normal to you?! They were obviously leaving!”

   Leaving?

   “Could mean nothing yet, ‘cause sometimes they leave like this because- be- because Beth and Jerry forbid the Morty from going on adventures with the Rick, and this could be the two of them reasonably crashing out,” K-9 said, resuming the video. “But fucking pay attention next time: this here is all of the valuable stuff in the house, minus the garage. URRP-And that bag’s Morty’s. Grandpa's probably taking him on a preeee-ty long vacation right now.”

   “..And you’ve done that before?”

   K-9 scoffed. “No. But I’ve busted a lotta Ricks on the run, and when they have Morties with them they- they like making a spectacle out of it. They make it look like they're doing something fun so their Morties don't act up.”

   “Jesus.”

   The other Rick made a chortling sound like his inexperience was fucking hilarious. Rick was hoping he'd look away from the panel to catch his death glare and die; K-9 stayed uncharacteristically focused however, even through the part where Rick had uselessly hovered over Morty while the kid struggled to breathe. The body cam, that was conveniently clipped over his pounding heart by the way, had captured the shakiness of his voice just factually better than the best seismograph they have back on Earth.

   And then – the words Rick kept thinking back to all afternoon – “I need my Rick,” the small voice between them said.

   K-9 frowned and shut the panel off just as they watched the Morty jump into his Rick's arms.

   “…Shit,” he said, “that was weird. What- What the actual fuck was that about?”

   “I… I kind of thought you would know. You were definitely acting like you did.”

   “Well, I don't and that's pissing me off.”

   Rick dropped his head in his hands. “Was that not normal Morty behavior?! Because I was counting on–”

   “No, that's the thing, it is. Not normal, but UURRP- common enough that it’s not a red flag. The context’s just throwing me off, the- The timing, I don't know!”

   “God fucking damn it.”

   “Why did neither of them mention the rubber body thing earlier? You thought about that, Rookie? It would have ended the interrogation right then and there, but–”

   “–he- he lifted his shirt, he knew where the rubber body was hit, which doesn't really track, but also doesn't fucking–”

   “–Yeah, it doesn't! It doesn't mean shit! And the way he–”

   “–crumpled in pain? Still doesn't mean shit. Could be–”

   “–yup, good ol’ anxiety aches, if–”

   “Uh,” a third voice piped in.

   Rick and K-9 swung their heads towards the mildly irritated Morty who'd been waiting awkwardly beside their table for who knows how long.

   “I- Is this how Ricks fuck? Am I interrupting something?”

   “Yes! Yes to both of these questions! You’re interrupting something BI-eUGHH-IIIG, bigger than whatever itty bitty, tiny little insignificant problem your whimpy ass could have right now!” K-9 yelled, close enough to his Morty's face that the boy had to wipe spit off his cheek. “What is it?!”

   Morty K-09 pouted – the real near-tears pout, one of those that dimple your chin – and bent his knees as if to lock himself in place so his grandfather couldn't scare him away. Rick side-eyed K-9.

   “It's time to go back, Rick!” the Morty jabbered. “W- Wwe- We’re already la- la– We’re late, and Oats- Um, I think Oats might’ve eaten something she wasn’t supposed to off the ground, she’s–”

   “Ohh, something she wasn’t supposed to, huh? Like your chili fries, Morty? Yeah, that’s right, I saw that! You know chili’s like, chili’s like poison to animals, right?! ‘That how much you love your dog, Morty?! Just ask me to shoot her next time, then at least we won’t have to clean up dog diarrhea!”

   “Rick!!”

   “What, have you ever seen me feed you straight poison, Morty?!”

   “Yes!”

   “Ohhh, so you- So now you think I’m the gURR-reatest example of a caring guardian?!” K-9 shot out of his chair to overshadow the boy, whose first instinct was to duck to his knees and cover his sickly dog. Some Ricks and Morties at nearby tables glanced over at the noise, but they didn’t seem interested on getting involved in a screaming match. Rick himself was itching to. “Little Morty here wants to be just like grandpa when he grows up! Awnnn! Well, go ahead, but good luck finding a replacement for a dog in the Citadel, Morty! Th- They're not as high-demand as Morties!”

   “Shht- Shut up! Shut up!!” Morty whimpered. “You don’t need to keep doing this!”

   “Oh, sorry, am I being too much of a, a co-AUGH-mmendable pa- parenting role model right now?!”

   “You're really not!”

   “Great breakthrough, but I wanted character development, Morty! You were a ff- a fucking idiot and now it's OVER for the two of you! It's over! Look at her, she's dying! And what are you doing about it?! You’re crying on the floor! And- And you peed your pants?! Have some–”

   “K-9, it was just some fucking chili,” Rick finally interrupted, standing up.

   Silence struck the Rick across him, who froze in his predatorily hunch over the boy that was crouched between them. His maddened expression didn't drop until K-9 Morty stood and left without another word, pulling Oats behind him by the harness.

   “Shit,” K-9 said.

   Rick narrowed his eyes, immediately moving to block his view of the exit as K-9 took one step after his Morty.

   “What the fuck?”

   “Right back at you,” Rick said, “Mr. Commendable Parenting Role Model.”

   “I panicked!”

   “You ‘panicked’?! Going all psycho on your grandson is panicking?! It's- It’s a dog! Y- You-- You can heal her accidentally in your fucking sleep!”

   “I know! Shhhit shit shit, I fucked up big-time.” He crooked his head to peek at the dog trainer Morty over Rick's shoulder just as the sliding doors closed behind him. He could push or – most likely – shoot Rick out of the way, and Rick was prepared for that, but K-9 respected his stance. “Ugh. I'm not gonna hurt him, Rookie! You, you know me better than that.”

   “I don’t know you.”

   “Ouch.”

   Turning his head only slightly, Rick looked at the Morties' booth, where four Morties who did know K-9 were frowning in their direction. They didn't seem surprised, so K-9 blowing up on his Morty wasn't news. But they didn’t seem too concerned either, just disapproving, which meant things never escalated further than this. He was starting to understand what the concept of a “nice Rick” was around here, as the kids put it – it was an asshole who cared and didn’t show it – the Morties could sense the difference between a shitty grandpa who over-or-underreacts if you get hurt and a shitty grandpa who gets off on it. K-9 was self-aware. They all seemed to draw the line at physical aggression, yet not necessarily physical abuse as a whole, not as long as the secret implants were a thing. That was both physical and abuse. Rick himself would draw the line a lot closer than that.

   But he had stopped expecting any Rick in this colony to even have a line, so the place where K-9 stood was good enough. Rick didn't feel like losing his first friend so quickly anyways.

   So he stepped aside.

   K-9 immediately moved: he tossed a 300% tip on the table and copied the interrogation footage still open on his panel into his save-files before shutting everything down, then shoved the rest of his fries in his mouth to swallow them down with a few repulsive-sounding gulps off his flask.

   “Could still be nothing serious, but I'm gonna try to have Chief review this s- so we can go track this Rick down. A- Also- Also, Rookie, you- You sUURR-ck at comforting Morties. Wasn’t gonna say anything, but I can't leave without retaining some of my dignity. What was that awkward ass hug?”

   He huffed. “I don’t think I’m listening to your Morty advice while yours is waiting outside.”

   “I’ve removed raccoons from the trash more tenderly than that! You gotta, gotta hug them like they're about to die, they like the real mushy stuff. Reminds them of the womb or something.”

   “The last Mo- Th- The last Morty I hugged stabbed me on the shoulder. You just lost your damn mind at yours about chili, so maybe you should consider–”

   “Fine! Jesus. I'll go. Literally never bring this up again or I will kill you.”

   “Fine,” Rick agreed, feeling the corner of his mouth curl. “Then we’re at an impasse.”

   K-9 barked out a laugh, and slipped away.

   Rick sat back down.

   Chatter continued around him.

   The K-09s must do the 24 on, 48 off shift. A little tough on a teenager, but none of the other options were as predictable or stable. Well, no shit, this was a grown-up’s job for a reason.

   He paused.

   Shit, when was June clocking out? It was almost eleven.

   He waited until she was free before waving her over to ask for a cold brew – it was the largest cup of coffee she had on the menu.

   She raised her eyebrows in amusement, whistling. “Wow. Okay, I’ll tell you a secret: when somebody tells you to ‘treat’ your insomnia, this is not what they mean.”

   Oh. She was in character.

   “When’re you closing up?”

   “At midnight, which is in just one hour, by the way. Any coffee ordered at this time of the day, we call it the Deadlines Special, and you’re at least thirty years too old for that. Go to sleep, gramps.”

   “Don’t worry, I’ll- I’ll stay and help you clean up after, so uh, just- just leave the coffee grinder to me.”

   “What do you think this is, Starbucks?! Our cold brew isn’t just hot coffee on ice, it’s sophisticated, slow steeped for more than 12 hours in cold water! That's why we only do the breakfast menu items at breakfast. Double the flavor, double the caffeine, double the dirt on my enemies.”

   “Alright.” He snorted. “I’ll just take two regular hot coffees then.”

   “Your commitment to clean my coffee grinder is getting suspicious.”

   “What, wh- What do you want me to say? That I wanna stick my dick in your espresso machine? I’m– L- Look, it’s late,” he said before she could snipe another clever remark his way, “I’m not letting you close up by yourself, June.”

   She jumped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.

   “Aw jeez!! I'm so sorry!”

   Rick was equally startled.

   “I- I'm- Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you, like, at all! I’m sorry, aw jeez, that's so embarrassing! I- I think I got lost in character? I was just so- I swear I–” she blabbered, then stopped to look around like she'd forgotten where she was. Rick frowned. “Whuh- Where's, where’s K-9's Rick?”

   “…He just left.”

   June glanced at the her friends to see K-9 Morty's spot empty. “Oh.” She then squinted, blinking rapidly as if searching for something at the back of her mind. “Did you… What did you say? Before–”

   “I’m helping you clean up after you close.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah, bud.”

   She shrugged, bashful. “I guess since the K-9s left, I- I could use the help, yeah. Ff- Forgot they work all day.”

   “Forgot” huh.

   He grinded his left canine teeth together. That girl was the same Morty who recognized him in a blink seeing him without his uniform for the first time. Not to mention he was the only Rick in the restaurant who wasn’t wearing his coat – he had bought the average Rick outfit when he moved into the Citadel so he wouldn’t stick out as a newbie to conmen, but Rick felt so stupid wearing it he ended up just using it as a purse on his time off – and she had noticed that curiously before he came in.

   Now she didn’t recognize him because she got “lost in character”? The way she forgot or didn't register something he’d just said didn’t sound so good either.

   “He left me here uhh, four months ago,” a flash of their conversation earlier at the School came to him. Mole had corrected her and she carried on as if two extra months were something easy to forget where you put, like your keys, your glasses, that second sock. At first Rick thought nothing of it. This was a teenager outside of school after all – though most of her friends were enrolled – no real reason to remember what month it is when you don't have an assignment due, and it wasn't like seasons changed in the Citadel, they didn’t get pregnant neighbors, everyone grows at the same pace as you. Nothing helps you keep track of the time in here. But now when she'd said, lightly, “Oh. Six months ago.” it sounded off-putting.

   “Y- You gonna work all day too?”

   “Um, we’re gonna open at 6, but- I think I’m only gonna come around at 12. Mark can handle it with the, with the kitchen robot in the morning, I wanna hang out with the guys at the School.”

   “So you’re gonna work twelve to twelve? That’s a nurse’s shift in hell. Tu- Trust me.”

   “Well, I’m the only—y- you know...”

   Rick hummed in acknowledgement when she gestured to her dress. There were other girl Morties out there, theorically about 1.5% of them, which funnily enough is the global percentage of redheads on Earth, but in the Citadel it would be easier to find a male Morty who didn’t mind putting on a Wendy’s costume than a female Morty who would; and even then, he doubts anybody could match June’s talent for the role.

   Another Rick somewhere called for June – “Hey, Wendy!” – and June was gone, in more than just one sense of the word.

   She did get him the two hot coffees. He wasn't sure June would remember, but “Wendy” did. Gave him a condom for the coffee machine too.

   Every client lingered long after eating just to hear June snark. She never hesitated, never got her words mixed up, and didn’t back down when someone actually got mad, so it was one heck of a show to watch. Rick was using the time to work on a little something though.

   When midnight came around, most of the costumers had left except for a Rick and Morty who had come in late and a Morty who ate his burger as slow as physically possible just so he had an excuse to stay inside staring at June. June’s friends had to leave or they'd get demerits for disrespecting curfew at the School dorms, and that was Rick's sign to get moving.

   “Let’s wrap this up,” he told the last customers. “E- Everybody take the rest of your food to go.”

   Mark and Rick cleaned the kitchen, June the tables and floors.

   Rick called June over when they were done.

   Once she'd dumped the dirty mop water down the drain, she approached him almost warily – she stunk like any teenager would after three straight hours of doing stand-up comedy while memorizing orders and handing off food trays, and she was visibly aware of that. Rick reached a hand for her wrist, she complied, letting him stick the device he'd been working on around it before she realized what was happening.

   “Hey–”

   “When you clock in tomorrow, turn the- t- turn this on. It's basically a mocap suit.”

   June clutched the wrist to her chest, rubbing the device like it hurt. “Wh- What..?”

   “It'll record the way you move and speak for a full shift. Except it’ll, it’ll also recreate it in a real-size hologram that'll cover for you whenever you're not around.”

   “Gosh, I don't- I- I mean, thanks for helping today, but I- I don't wanna lie to my costumers, you know? A hologram? They’ll- They’ll be able to tell, they’re Ricks!”

   “June, you're not gonna make it through a week of 12-hour shifts. I have 12-hour shifts, but we get four days off every four days in.”

   She shifted, lowering her head to poorly hide a conflicted look on her face.

   “Wear the thing, turn it on tomorrow, and the day after that you clock in at 2 and go home at 8,” he told her slowly. “You're not gonna get more than six hours of work a day. You’re fourteen. And, a- and I'm a cop who can shut this all down if you get overworked.”

   “What! I spent months planning this! It’s the first Morty owned place in this part of the town! What if the fucking president comes around?! Y- You can't just–”

   “I’ll try not to. But you need to play- play uh, play Honkers with your friends more than you need ..this. More than-- More than spending an entire day making Ricks laugh. Go make your friends laugh, laugh with them about tits or, whatever that game's about.”

   June’s mouth shaped a straight line. She let her hands drop to her sides.

   “It is about tits,” she mumbled.

   “Come on, you raging lesbian.” Rick turned the kitchen lights off. “Let’s get you home.”

   She hesitated, mumbling something else before following him outside.

   “Bye, Mark… Thanks um.. thanks for the burgers.”

   Mark mooed from the dark as they closed the doors.

   Once again, stepping into the night was underwhelming. June had thrown a coat on only so passersby didn't oggle her dress. She didn’t make conversation during their walk, so he didn’t either.

   A pretty good apartment complex came into view, and the teenager leading him forward stopped at the front door to fidget with the bracelet he gave her.

   “You wanna take it off?” he asked. Her head stayed lowered. “Press on the sides.”

   She tried the trick. The bracelet fell to her palm, where it continued to be fiddled with for a minute while June stood there like she was working out whether to go in or sleep outside in the sidewalk.

   “Put it back on tomorrow though, I wasn’t kidding about shutting the place down if your boss doesn’t cut you some slack.”

   It wasn't a good joke, he was grasping at straws here, but he wasn't expecting to hear a hiccup. A small, repressed sound that sent a chill up his spine. She turned away fast, yet he could still see her reflection on the front door, wiping tears and sweat off her face on both of her sleeves.

   Fuck.

   “I- I'm gonna be honest, I'm not calling bluff on this,” he tried, stepping back into her line of sight. “But if you don't want the hologram idea, I can– We can find something else. Okay?” And then he was hovering again. God. Fuck fuck fuck. “J- Just thought, yunno, I just thought a clone would be overkill. If you’re worried about those Ricks finding out though–”

   June suddenly wrapped herself like a slap bracelet around his waist, burying her face in his stomach. He lifted his arms out of the way.

   “June?”

   She had a Rick. He wasn't supposed to be this close to her without his permission.

   Something told him the guy wouldn’t show up to kill him any time soon though.

   He lowered his hands to her shoulders. What did K-9 say? You gotta hug them like they're about to die – die of what? Rick would hug a kid dying from cancer a lot differently than he'd hug one bleeding out.

   Cautiously, Rick crouched to one knee and pulled her properly into his chest, tight. Firm. He was putting his bets on the bleeding out option. She froze for just an instant, then crumbled, so his odds were good.

   A few minutes dragged as she whined against his shoulder, shaking with the force of her own hiccups while he tried to soothe them away rubbing a hand up and down her back. Her arms never loosened around him, which only confirmed K-9 meant Morties seek pressure, and Rick readily provided it until she trusted herself to speak,

   “Ss- Sorry.”

   “Jesus, kid. Never apologize during or directly after hugging me, you, you know how well that plays out in movies.”

   It took her a second to get it, but she gave him a half-hearted, wet chuckle.

   “Sorry.. Uh! Sorry! Fuck, I mean–” She fumbled. “Aw jeez, I just- I- i just wanted to say the hologram’s nice, I don’t mind it, it’s, it’s fine. Th- Thank you, um, I don’t know why you’re–” her voice cracked, “–doing this, but. It’s nice... so I don’t care.”

   “Yeah?” Nailed it.

   She nodded, pulling away to wipe her face again, and Rick used the distance to take a breath he was desperately missing.

   He stayed crouched right where he was. Great angle to watch her pretend not to have noticed her sleeve was full of snot while she rubbed it on her other sleeve, probably hoping it’d just seem like a nervous habit. She was avoiding his eyes out of shame, but avoiding her own eyes on the reflective doors behind him with an intensity that had Rick wondering if she'd actually rather sleep in the sidewalk than go in. She might be waiting for him to leave first, uncomfortable with the risk he might go in after her. Maybe she was planning to bolt as soon as he turned away because she'd purposely led him to the wrong building. Smart. That’d get her points for respecting stranger danger, even though Rick was a cop. Double points. But he was inclined to believe this wasn't about trust.

   She was just beating around the bush.

   “I know how it is. I cry about things I don’t care all the, all the time, I cried during Titanic because it was just that fucking boring.” Rick pushed himself back to his feet so he could casually stretch out for the effect. “B- Bawled my eyes out today when someone called emergencies about a Morty that ate a cherry out the fruit stand without paying. They wanted to charge him half a shmeckle.”

   June startled herself with a laugh. “I meant it like- th- that I don't care if you–” She bit down on her smile. “Like, if you're only being nice because y- you're friends with K-9's Rick and he's nice to us. Or if it's just because you're a cop? I don't care. I don't wanna know.”

   God, that statement was loaded.

   As Rick thought of what to say, she added,

   “I- I–I lied to you, back when– Um, you asked if I started wearing my hair like this befs- before or after the Wendy thing? I said before, but- I started wearing it like this after. I lied. I dunno why.”

   “Lying isn't that big of a first reaction to being approached by the police.”

   “No, um, I mean I was mad that you asked, but.. I don't know why I was. I really like being Wendy. I'm proud of myself for her a- and it’s so awesome when I'm on a roll, I feel like–” She lowered her voice, healthily aware of how concerning this sounded, but her eyes still sparkled with passion, “–I, I- I could do it the whole day through. And night. You have no idea!”

   “The idea I am getting is that you are a little angry I cut your hours.”

   “Well- Yeah, but I'm saying you were right. I- I wouldn't last a week. It's really hard to stop once I get going, and when I do stop, I kind of just want to go back.”

   “D– ..Does that scare you?” When June took too long to decide whether or not she should be offended, he reworded, “You worried Wendy could end up being uh, bec- becoming your whole life?”

   “…Sometimes I wish she was. I guess that's scary.”

   He frowned.

   The tired teenager rubbed her eyes.

   “Go to bed, June.”

   “Y- Yeah, sorry. I'm going.”

   “Just so you know though, Wendy was amazing today, but June cracked me up when she stole fries off Oatmeal too.”

   She gave him a lopsided smile.

   “Thanks.. Turnstile.”

   “What?”

   “Turn-stile?”

   “No, I heard you the first time. Why the fuck are you calling me Turnstile?”

   “You- You said you were called Turnstile! When you–”

   “I was just telling you what the ‘sideways T’ was called!”

   “Oh man! I- I already told everyone to call you Turnstile!”

   An incredulous, sharp burst of laughter ripped through him, startling her pale for a second before she beamed too. He tried to keep it down because it was shitfuck AM. And while they both shook with barely stifled laughter, she told him,

   “K-9 said you don't have a Morty yet, but– Um, but wh- when you get one? I think he’s gonna be the luckiest Morty ever, man.”

   His laughter dried out.

   Rick didn't sleep that night, partially due to the two coffees. But there were always sleep replacement pills for that.

   In the morning, he headed straight for the sub labs. He needed to know if K-9 had gotten Chief's greenlight to reopen investigation on Rick S-9⟟Σ.

   The lab basked in the light coming from the holographic room, but everything else was switched off, and in the triangular prism of darkness extended between the ground and the window, in the only uncluttered corner, Morty K-09 lay curled up with Oats under his Rick's lab coat. Oats looked up when Rick came in; Morty didn't. Inside the holographic room, K-9 was talking with their superior and another guy, most likely from K-9's own sector. There were two tapurees in there with them, though there weren't any training programs running, which led Rick to assume K-9 insisted they talked there only so as not to bother Morty.

   “Hey, girl,” Rick whispered. “How you feelin’?”

   Oats licked her nose politely, wagging her tail.. which bat at Morty's knees. Rick’s unibrow jumped.

   “Fuck, stop that, y- you’ll wake him up!”

   Morty sighed in his sleep and buried his face into Oats’s fur. Rick was ready to relax again before Morty spoke, in a groggy voice,

   “I- I’m already awake.”

   Rick clicked his tongue. “Sorry.”

   His head snapped back to shoot Rick a look. For the next few seconds, an array of emotions alternated custody of the frown on his face – embarrassment, confusion, anger, so much anger – until he settled into the familiar constipated expression Rick had come to expect from him. It wasn't personal. He'd seen this Morty smile at his friends—and dogs—but at any other direction he was guarded. Not nervous per se, just uncomfortable, generally uneasy. Compared to his friends, his Morty.. earnestness was marginally watered down.

   He brought a hand up to scratch behind Oats's ear and watched the motion intensely.

   “M- My friends told me that– They told me what you- that you went to the School and talked to them about some stuff,” he said. “That's kinda creepy.”

   “E’yeahhh, I uh, I'm aware. Wish I could say I didn't pick them specifically because I spotted June, but– she really–”

   Morty dismissed him, “Yeah.”

   Rick pressed his lips shut.

   “They… They think you're cool, you know. You are a suspiciously nice Rick.”

   “Also aware of that. Don't know what to tell you, buddy.”

   Morty scoffed. And he still hadn't looked away from Oats, but his eye bags were suddenly very visible. “T- Tell me why.”

   “…Why?”

   “D- Does- Does it make you feel better about your Beth dying when you're nice to Morties?”

   “What–”

   “Does it hurt when you look at me?” He finally looked up, eyes boring straight into Rick's own, through his skull and into his brain.

   Rick had to blink the odd sensation of literal eye contact away to answer,

   “C- Christ, kid! What the fuck? What are you, psychoanalyzing me?”

   “I'm trying to figure out how fucking hard it was for you to say sorry just now.”

   “It was easy! Fuck- I came in and woke you up, I'm sorry and I would've been more careful if I knew you were that bad of a morning grump!”

   As the boy pouted the same teary pout he got when K-9 yelled at him yesterday, Rick was brutally reminded that none of this was about him. Hey – like grandpa, like grandson. He rubbed a hand down his face and crouched near Morty.

   This caused Oats to spring to her feet between them though, away from Morty's arms, either because she was protective or wanted pets, and that didn't work to his favor.

   “Uh–” He grimaced, watching Morty glare as he readjusted his Rick's coat around him to compensate for the loss of warmth. His instinct was to apologize for that too, but he was already on thin ice. “Shit... Did- Did you have a rough night out here?”

   Morty understood his question.

   “It wasn't the chili that was making her sick. I knew that, because June’s chili isn't spicy. Oats ate- Oats ate some Morty’s koosh ball and Rick had to fish it out of her fucking stomach and it still took him another four hours to say sorry. B- Because he was wrong. Not because he was a fucking asshole.”

   “Is he like that a lot?”

   Objectively speaking, most Ricks were “like that” a lot. Ricks lashed out, they degraded their Morties until their egos were satisfied, didn't bother apologizing because Morties were supposedly extremely forgiving, and the cycle repeated. And K-9 was already worked up from the bullshit case Rick had shared.

   The thing was that K-9 had immediately regretted taking it out on his Morty; and Rick had seen them interact before that too, there was a reason K-9 had struck him as different after all. K-9 rambled and barely watched his words, he drank, he was obnoxious, but the way he regarded his Morty had been oddly gentle (for a Rick, at least). So lashing out just felt unprompted. Out of character even.

   “Only about Oats. He- He loves pretending he hates her.”

   Then he sighed, thumbing one sleeve of K-9's coat, and his frown drooped into something that deeply resembled regret. Over saying all that, if he had to guess, because he seemed to be clamming himself back up. It would probably be useless for Rick to ask a follow-up question. He tried anyways just to convince himself he'd read him right,

   “You got any idea why?”

   “F- F-Forget it.” There it was. “S- Sorry I brought up your dead daughter ‘n stuff.”

   “It’s a old scar already, buddy. Doesn't, doesn't hurt when you salt it.”

   He glanced at the window to the training room.

   Still had some time to salvage this.

   “And, and for the record,” he dawdled, “even if- even if you do remind me of her, I'm nice to you because this is an entire space settlement of Me’s and they all live with You’s, and while other Me’s make you live and work for yourselves l- like we’re in the 19th century – major backslide for a bunch of geniuses, by the way – I'll be leading charities. When the Mortypocalypse comes, you'll spare me. It's like saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to robots s- so you- so you survive the AI takeover later.”

   Morty frowned widely at him.

   “Really?! Mortypoca-- Y- You think we're gonna turn on you?! Th- That's why you're nice?! ”

   “No, you fucking dumbass.”

   The teenager sputtered, sitting up.

   “We- We could do it!”

   “I’m sure you could.” Rick sat down properly, leaning onto the wall perpendicular to the one Morty was set against. “Now that I'm thinking about it, you, you're gonna be in your twenties when we get to our seventies. Th- The moment we start getting dementia is the same moment you get taller and stronger than us. Ehh, maybe just stronger.”

   “Jeez… Y- You think yyou're gonna get dementia? Are Ricks even capable of getting dementia?”

   “I dunno. Either way, you're gonna be the spring chickens running around doing crazy stuff pretty- pretty soon. Dragging your Ricks around while they whine about their creaky bones.”

   Morty considered this.

   “..I.. I've never thought that- th- that far ahead before. I mean, I didn't– I never imagined what the Citadel's gonna look like in five years.” He blinked. “I can't even imagine what it's gonna be like in one year. It- It feels like I've been fourteen forever.”

   Rick eyed him and did his best to pretend it was normal for a teenager to be unable to picture himself one year older,

   “Yeah. The Citadel will do that to you.”

   A tiny frown tugged at Morty's lips, as subtly as it could. Oats squeezed into the comfy spot between the two of them and settled against Morty and he ruffled the fur on her neck in thanks.

   “I.. I don't want to live here for the rest of my life.”

   “Can't say I'm surprised. Where do you wanna go?”

   “Anywhere? I- I don't really know… I just realized that.”

   He hummed. “You could just take over the whole galaxy. Spread out the Mortypocalypse. Beat the, beat the Federation, become every distant planet’s worst nightmare or- or try for intergalactical peace – whatever floats your boat.”

   The boy snorted, honoring Rick with his first, warranted smile.

   “You know, I think I would spare you.”

   “ROOKIE!” Rick's superior belched, shoving K-9 out of the way as they left the training room. “Just the- Just the guy I wanted to see!”

   “Oh, shit.” Rick scrambled to his feet. “What f- Wh- What for?”

   “Dawg’s project is officially launched!”

   He, K-9 and that third Rick whooped.

   Rick, very confused, found himself getting pushed out of the lab and only had one second to glance at K-9, who stayed behind with Morty. K-9 just shrugged.

   They would have to talk some other time.

   “H- Here's the, here's the deal– URRP,” his superior explained after a few sips off his flask. “These dogs are gonna be in every police station in the Citadel, with the- the uh…”

   “The scent of every Rick that's been banished from the Citadel,” the other Rick supplied. “Th- They always just find a new way to come in, it makes us look stupid.”

   “Yeah! But with the dogs, it doesn't fucking matter how they coOUUGHme in, we’ll know the second they step a foot on our ground! Now, listen, there’s one, one Rick we’re only banishing today.” Once upstairs, he rummaged aimlessly through a mess of papers in a desk. Another Rick passed by them and handed him what he was looking for, which he passed over to Rick. “Here, this guy. You ever heard of him?”

   The stack of files in his hands was heavy, with several pictures clipped or taped between the pages too. His designation was P지13 and an ever present smirk made all of his mugshots look like billionaires’ selfies. Skimming through the files, he found a picture that showed P지13’s full body; he wore a Miami Vice type of outfit – a pink linen suit, blue henley, espadrilles – and rimless mirrored sunglasses.

   “Don't think I have.”

   “Figured. T’sss, uhh, sort of a hush-hush topic, but everyone who's lived in the Citadel long enough knows about him. We call him Miami Rick, URRGH, c- ‘cause... ‘cause he lives in Miami Beach.”

   “What the–” Rick squinted at the few last pages. “These- These are from years ago! Why the fuck are we only banishing this guy now?!”

   The two Ricks pursed their lips.

   The Rick from K-9's sector lolled his head. “Let's just say that since he's the Citadel's proclaimed drug lord, nobody really wants him to leave. Can't keep him contained either, he bails himself out as soon as he opens his mouth. It's- It's like talking to a fucking genie with that dude. Anything you want–” He ignored the obnoxious, almost lewd sounds his superior made slurping at his flask. “–he's got it. And he's gonna offer it to ya for a fucking cent. It's- It's–It’s impossible to ignore.”

   “Except to you two, of course,” the sergeant said, patting Rick on the back. “I- I pi–EEURGH-cked you because- because you're a massive killjoy, Rookie. I know you're not gonna give him the light of the day.” He threw a thumb at the other Rick. “And Fisheye over here's from a dimension where people literally, like—biologically,—can't get distracted. He's gonna do the talking. You're the backup.”

   Rick raised an eyebrow at Fisheye, curious.

   “I pity you scatter-brained people,” Fisheye told him.

   “I- I would too. Wait, what are you going to do?” Rick asked his superior.

   “I'm ah, I’m going with to make sure you stay on track. I'm not even gonna look his way. D- Don't- Don’t worry about me.”

   Uncomfortably real sunshine slapped him on the face when they crossed the portal to Dimension P지13. Being swallowed whole by a giant parrot, which Rick had experienced exactly once in the past thirty years of his life, was the last time he recalled being completely enveloped by humid heat like this. 93 degrees Fahrenheit at 10-something in the morning. As his pupils readjusted, the trans flag covering his vision translated into bright blue skies, white buildings and pink sidewalks; Miami’s iconic Art Deco-ish architecture was a sight for his non-figuratively sore eyes. Pastel colors, palm trees, people wearing anything but gray. Even a surprising number of the cars in the hellish traffic were colorful – blue, red and yellow, plus the orange taxis.

   Rick whistled, then let his head fall back, opening his arms wide to enjoy the sunlight. Sweat prickled all over his skin. It sucked, in a good way. He was glad the sergeant had decided to portal them out in the street instead of directly inside the, uh…

   He squinted at the huge building behind him.

   “MIRAME” the pink letters above the storefront said, unhelpfully.

   There were a dozen tables outside under pink parasols, but the place was too big to be just a restaurant, so maybe a hotel. All the way up there, they had a penthouse apartment too; that was at least two floors worth of luxury.

   “Goal’s to negotiate a way for him to keep selling us the good stuff, but the hell away from the Citadel. HhURRRP-he’s not gonna be happy. Don’t let him get into your head,” the sergeant told him and Fisheye. “Let’s go.”

   The familiar chorus of “la lala lah lah”s from the end of Head Over Heels played as they walked in, then the next song started, another goodie from the 80’s.

Every breath you take

   Diane used to love this one. She thought it sounded psychopathic.

And every move you make

   Rick wondered if the whole 80’s throwback going on had anything to do with Miami Rick's own nostalgia for his time married.

Every bond you break, every step you take

   The place was like a palace. They walked past the restaurant and bar area searching for Miami, and a large ballroom space opened, crossed in the middle by a T-shaped runway that branched all the way from the thrust stage on the far end of the room, where a band played surrounded by a dozen more tables.

   “This shit gets packed after dinner time,” his superior told him.

   Rick eyed the runway. “They got strippers here?”

   “They got a lot mo-AURRRGH-re than that, Rookie. Miami knows how to throw a good show.”

   Not just a fancy hotel then. He should probably have expected that.

I'll be watching you

   Suddenly, a chill crawled up his spine, and Rick yelped, having barely turned around in time to see Miami Rick throw himself over his and his superior's shoulders with a big friendly greeting,

   “I knew I recognized these bald spots from somewhere! Rick, Rick and Rick! My old- My old pals! It’s always the same with you guys, showing up unannounced! But hey, make yourselves at home!”

   Rick immediately tried to pull away, and when Miami's grip on him turned out to be a lot firmer than the casual hug it seemed, he reached for his gun. The sergeant quickly patted him on the chest, signaling for him to stand down and for Fisheye to stand up.

   “W- We gotta talk, Miami,” Fisheye said. “We got a new president, things are changing in the Citadel. There’s–”

   “Ub-ub-ub!” Miami interrupted. “Why doesn't the cop with the coolest badge talk to me?”

   “You don't get to pick, bro.”

   “…Alright. Let's at least talk somewhere more comfortable, yeah? The music's too loud down here.”

   He led them to the penthouse, where he wasted no time flopping right in the middle of his arc sofa, bringing his crossed legs to rest on the coffee table. The couch was large enough for all of them with plenty of wiggle room in between, but since he'd taken the middle seat and spread his arms over the rest, they headed for the smaller sofa across from his.

   Off to their left, there was a woman facing away from them, sitting horizontally in an armchair that topped off Miami's fancy little lounge set. Her legs swung from one of the arm rests, and her blonde, very puffy curly hair hung off the other. He couldn't tell if she was wearing anything besides a cheetah fur jacket.

   His superior grinned at the sight of her as they sat down. Miami grinned at the sight of his grin.

   Rick frowned.

   “Candy, that, that how you greet Grandpa's guests?” Miami asked his slut.

   She turned away from her phone to see them, twisting her torso like a stretching cat, and when her eyes landed on them—no, on the sergeant specifically—the listlessness that was briefly on her face poofed away.

   “Whatchu doing back here, Officer? Haven’t I been a good boy?”

   “I know you've been, baby,” he responded, and Rick choked.

   That was a Morty.

   An exceptionally tall, tanned as fuck Morty, same baby face, same voice cracks. Flirting with his superior,

   who was flirting back.

   “Sir,” Rick bit out.

   “Oh yeah,” the sergeant said. “Fi- Fisheye, go ahead.” And while Fisheye talked to Miami, he leaned closer to Rick and whispered, “That's Miami Morty. Eye candy, isn't he? Morties like him are a fucking delicacy.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “Half of the Citadel can only dream of being in our place right now.”

   “H- He's fourteen! And he came out of your daughter's vagina!”

   “Jeez, you really are a bummer. Fine, keep- k-eEURP it in your pants if you want. I actually only came here to get a bite and that is what I'm getting.”

   The Rick patted his knee. With growing horror, Rick watched the kid obediently slip out of his armchair, headed towards them.