Chapter Text
Rick C-137 tapped the enter button on his keyboard over and over again, with more force than was absolutely necessary. The annoying clicking noise grated on Em’s ears. Mostly, because he knew that C-137 was being loud and obnoxious on purpose, to soothe his frustration that stemmed from the words that appeared after each click.
Device disconnected.
“I thought when you built something it worked?” Em quipped, not looking up from his own tablet.
“It does,” C-137 hissed out. He took another swig of vodka.
“Ahuh.”
“What are you even— urp —still doing here?” Rick snapped, “Didn’t you w-want Morty and me to eat shit and die?”
C-137’s words were coated in something sour and sarcastic, something Em chose not to read into.
“This isn’t about Morty, it’s about finding the other person with finite-to-infinite portal travel,” Em countered, lazily, “Morty just happens to be the person they kidnapped.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’s what it is.”
Em forced down a wave of irritation, and refocused on his work.
Em and C-137 scoured the area where they found the portal gun, and found absolutely nothing. No traces of intelligent life for lightyears. No blood or DNA from any useful creature other than Morty Prime. No clues to where Morty had gone, who had taken him, or why, which was almost impressive. Leaving absolutely no trace? Nothing? That required some powerful technology. But, of course the person they were tracking had access to good tech, they were among the only 3 people who could jump between the finite and infinite curves. And, technically, Em and C-137 did know where Morty was.
“Can't you just— urp —use your totally-not-creepy tracking device th-th-that told you Morty was in the infinite curve?” C-137 sneered.
“It can't track exact locations,” Em said, sifting through C-137's firewalls, “It's a warning system, not a find-my-Morty.”
“Sounds like one.”
Em ignored him. He finally found what he was looking for, rewinding C-137's security tapes and popping an earbud in.
C-137 was hell-bent on finding Morty Prime, forsaking careful investigation for simply barreling his way through. The man didn't stop to wonder why someone would take Morty in the first place, and didn't seem to care about what the boy had been doing before he got kidnapped. Currently, he was more concerned that every single body modification that Morty had was somehow inactive. Which, Em supposed, was concerning. It either meant that the person who took Morty knew exactly who they were taking and how to combat C-137’s various enhancements, or that Morty was…
(If he was dead the enhancements would still work. So, no, not dead.)
Em watched as the recording of Morty Prime climbed down a ladder, and carefully made his way over to the elevator which led deeper into the sub-basement. The timestamp was around five in the morning, so that at least explained why he was wearing pajamas.
The boy fidgeted with his hands and rubbed at his eyes in a way that was so inherently Morty that Em had to roll his own. Em had met many Morty's, so he was used to all their quirks. But this Morty, Prime Morty, was the Mortiest Morty of them all. Endlessly forgiving. Unbelievably insecure and anxious. Going along with whatever C-137 would throw at him. If someone had to create a Morty from memory, Prime Morty would undoubtedly be the end result.
(It was odd then, that Prime Morty lacked the same warm brown eyes that most Mortys had. It was odd that the Mortiest Morty, had the sharp blue eyes of a Rick.)
The elevator opened, and Em watched Morty hesitantly step out, eyes locked on the door in front of him. From switching to another feed, Em could make out the words, “DO NOT DISTURB.” Ah. He could see where this was going.
“Oh jeez,” Morty mumbled, shifting on his feet. His words were muffled and difficult to hear, but Em could always pick out his voice in a crowd. Grating, and high pitched, “This… this is stupid, isn't it?”
Em watched Morty take a step back. The boy glanced towards the elevator, and seemed to curl in on himself.
“No it's… it's probably fine,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek, “And a-a-all I need to do is j-just talk to him f-for a minute, then I'll be fine.”
Interesting.
Morty steeled himself, then pushed open the door. Em switched cameras again, and now Morty was walking into… a distillery, most likely, and C-137 seemed focused on pouring something into a vat. Morty cleared his throat.
“Uh… Rick?”
No response. Judging by the look on C-137's face, he probably didn't hear Morty. The boy shifted.
“Rick? Can you hear me?” Morty inched a little closer, “Are you ignoring me?”
Still nothing.
“I-I know the sign said not to come in I just… I thought I could ask you something,” Morty said, moving closer to one of the hot liquor tanks, “B-but, uh, maybe I could come back?”
Morty waited a second, then when he got no response he turned his attention fully towards the machine next to him.
“Huh,” he said, tapping a pipe with his finger, “I wonder what—”
The pipe burst, and within less than thirty seconds every machine in the room came tumbling down, and even lit on fire. Morty somehow managed to be standing near one of the tanks of alcohol, and it spilled on top of him, making him gasp and shudder. Em's eyebrows shot up. Wow. That had to break a record of some kind. How did tapping one pipe even do that? Faulty design.
Oh. Yikes. It seemed C-137 noticed Morty now. They were going back and forth, arguing about something, but it was hard to hear over the sprinklers going off. Em adjusted the sound, then—
“—and look! There's no point on the chart where my joy intersects with your presence!”
“Then why hang out with me?!”
“I don't know!” Rick shouted, throwing his hands up in the air, “When I met you, you were bait. Maybe when I caught that fish, I should have cut the line! Because all I have now, is a worm!”
Em felt a sneer curl on his lip, but pushed the feeling aside.
Morty took a step back.
“You… you told me that wasn't true! Y-you're just trying to hurt me!”
(A completely normal, emotional response. Something any Morty would say, with that same kind of hurt and fear. But there was a twinge in Em's chest. He wasn't sure if he'd ever heard Morty sound so upset before. Not that it mattered, of course. They weren't friends.)
The boy ran off, and Em watched as he tried to muffle his sobs in the elevator, without much success. Em had also seen many Mortys cry, they were often prone to emotional outbursts. This really shouldn’t be much different.
It wasn’t different. Of course it wasn’t different. It wasn’t like Em cared, or anything. Because he didn’t. Why would he care about Prime Morty? The last time they saw each other in person, he’d literally slapped Em across the face.
Eventually, Morty’s sobs trickled into sniffles, and then his tear-stained face gave way to something else, something Em was more used to seeing; Anger. Rage. Annoyance.
Morty exited the elevator, and Em saw his eyes dart to the portal gun.
Interesting.
He watched as Morty grabbed the portal gun, input some coordinates, and disappear.
Em took his earbud out.
Well, that explained why C-137 didn’t want to tell Em what the pair had been up to. They'd gotten into a fight, and then Morty had stolen Rick's portal gun. Ballsy. Something… something that Em hadn't exactly been expecting.
“Are you done w-w-watching youtube shorts?” C-137 called out, and Em glanced up. The man had some random scraps in his hands, along with his mid-tier portal gun, “Good. You're gonna show me your Find-My-Mortal-Enemies tracker and— urp —I'm gonna fix it so it can find Morty.”
Em wrinkled his nose.
“You seriously think I'm taking you to my base?”
“Oh, I can get there w-with or without your permission, I ju—urp—st figured I'd let you know in advance.”
Rick then held up a newly outfitted portal gun, and shot it, walking through without a care in the world. Em's eye twitched.
Normally, he'd kick C-137's ass for even attempting to get to his home …but he needed him to find the new person who had access to finite-to-infinite portal travel. And, well, maybe there was more to this than a regular kidnapping. Maybe Morty hadn't been kidnapped at all. Maybe he'd finally come to his damn senses, and left the finite curve.
And, well, if that was the case…
(Or maybe the person was coming from the infinite curve. Maybe they hadn't been looking for Morty Prime at all, just, someone like him. Someone who actually lived on the infinite curve, and wore his face.)
Em opened his own portal, and stepped through.
***
Morty had stuffed himself under the bed. He faced the sliver of outside world that he could see, back towards the wall. It was cold, and uncomfortable, and his shoulders ached from how small the space was, but he refused to move.
He wasn’t sure when he’d snapped out of it. There was just a moment when his hands faltered, and his eyes welled up with tears— not tears of sadness, but of shock —and then all of the anger in him gave way to fear. To the same fear that always ate at him. To fear, and horror, and disgust at himself. And then he ran, tripping over his feet and finding his way back to the cell he’d found before and he darted under the bed, shoving himself further and further away from the outside. From his new room, and from Prime.
The boy flinched, curling in on himself.
He wanted to say that the anger scared him. That the adrenaline and the rage that poisoned his limbs made him want to puke, or be ashamed, but that wasn’t the reason why he was hiding. No, he was scared of Prime.
He’d punched Prime in the face. He’d bit his arm, deep enough to draw blood and tear out wires. And the man hadn’t fought back, not once. He hadn’t hit Morty, only redirected him once or twice. He’d seen Prime fight before, he knew that all he had to do was snap his fingers and Morty would be a smear on the ground, but he hadn’t done anything. Just grinned, and waited patiently.
Morty was going to die. He knew he was going to die. He’d made a stupid, suicidal mistake, and now he was going to die. Prime was going to torture him, and it was going to be awful. Morty could almost imagine it. Imagine lasers cutting through his organs, and knives tearing at his skin, and fire licking at his hands. He’d been stupid again. Stupid, and emotional, making stupid dumb decisions.
Morty curled up tighter.
He hadn’t even tried to escape. He should have, but he just… What did he think was going to happen? Did he think that he was going to make it to that lab and fend Prime off with one of his gadgets? He was so stupid, he would just end up making everything worse, worse like he always did.
“Please,” Morty murmured, his voice hoarse, “Rick, please come save me.”
The alcohol smell was getting to his head now. It had gotten all over his head and shoulders, so in his current position that’s all he could smell. Something bitter, and sharp. It made him feel dizzy.
(In some ways it was comforting. In others it made him want to tear his skin off.)
“I’m sorry,” Morty whispered, “I’m sorry for e-e-everything. I’ll do better, I-I promise, just… please, help me.”
Of course nothing answered. Rick wasn’t god. He wasn’t all-seeing, or all-knowing. If he was, Morty wouldn’t be here. He would have known that Rick Prime was still alive, and he would have killed him. But Rick wasn’t god, and Morty was whispering prayers to someone who couldn’t hear him. A devoted follower of a god long dead.
Morty slid his hands into his hair, roughly pushing past tangles and crunchy sections. He tugged at the curls.
“Maybe it’s all better this w-way,” Morty muttered, “Maybe if I die, things will be better.”
Light spilled into the room, and Morty went rigid, body tensing. His door was open. He could see familiar metal boots, and could hear faint humming. The boots made their way into the room, then paused.
“Huh… okay, I was pretty sure that you were in here,” Prime mused. He heard the sound of something being set down. Then, silence.
A face appeared beside his bed, and Morty reeled back, letting out a very undignified screech. Prime grinned.
“Ah! Okay, there you are. Under the bed, should have expected that.”
Morty pressed his back into the wall, trying to put as much space between him and the man as possible, but it was really no use. All Prime had to do was reach an arm out and grab Morty by the scruff of his neck, and drag him out. And then he was going to kill him, or torture him, or force him to do something awful.
Morty squeezed his eyes shut, as if not seeing his demise would save him. But then seconds passed. Then a minute. And then another. When nothing happened after five minutes, Morty hesitantly opened his eyes.
The face was gone, but the boots were still here, and… was Prime sitting on the floor?
He was blocking Morty's way out, but he was definitely sitting down. Morty wasn't sure if he was even doing anything, he seemed to just be… waiting.
“W-w-what do you w-want?” Morty stammered, voice so quiet and pathetic. God, why couldn't he sound more self-assured?
“I brought dinner,” Prime said, cheerfully.
…okay, not really what Morty was expecting. That explained the sound of something being set down that he heard earlier, if Prime wasn’t lying. Morty shifted, pulling his knees closer to his chest.
“Why?”
“Uh, because you have to eat,” Prime said, like it was obvious, “I mean, I could probably take your stomach and intestines out, but that seems like more work.”
He paused.
“Unless, do you want your—”
“No,” Morty said, quickly, “No, I'll eat.”
Silence fell between the two of them. Morty made no move to get out from under the bed, and Prime made no move to leave. They were in a stalemate. Morty tugged on his hair again.
“Sooooooooo,” Prime drawled, startling Morty, “We're back to the whole, you think I'm gonna kill you, thing, right?”
Morty didn't answer. Prime tapped his finger against his boot.
“And this is the part where I tell you, again, that that's not happening?”
Still no response. Prime peered under the bed. Morty's grip on his curls tightened.
“You know, a conversation usually is more of a back and forth thing.”
“I-I-I—” Oh great, stuttering, that's a good way to start, “—I punched you.”
Prime blinked, then an easy grin slid on his face.
“Yeah, you did. Solid left hook little buddy, you probably busted your fingers up though.”
He had. His knuckles were bloody, and swollen, and ached when he clenched them.
“And you… you…”
Prime cocked an eyebrow, then his face lit up.
“Oh! Do you think I'm like, mad or something?” He blew a raspberry, “Nah, I don’t care. Everyone gets like that.”
Morty's jaw dropped.
He— it— huh????? HUH???????
“And I mean, come on kid, I'm basically immortal,” Prime added, “Don't flatter yourself, you punching me was like— I don't know— a mosquito bite.”
Wow. Okay. That hurt what little was left of Morty's ego. Prime pulled himself back up to a sitting position, so Morty couldn't see him.
“So yeah, don't worry about it, water under the bridge or whatever.”
Morty honestly didn't have a response for that. His jaw was still slack, head still reeling. He didn't care that Morty had literally leaped across a counter to punch him? It— what, didn't bother him? That made no fucking sense! If he'd done that to Rick he'd— he'd ground Morty for a billion years, or drop him on a planet and force him to live on the land for a week, or kick his ass!
“You're crazy.” The words slipped out before Morty could stop them. Prime just chuckled.
“Well, you know what they say about that whole thing with crazy versus genius,” he said, “I like to think you can't be one without the other.”
Comforting. Extremely comforting. Morty swallowed, trying to get a grip on his dumbfounded emotions and thoughts. Focus. He needed to focus. Rick was always telling him that he needed to focus.
“So… if you're not mad, w-why are you here?” Morty asked, carefully.
“Hmm? Oh, I don't know, probably because my grandson is wedged underneath a bed,” Prime said, casually.
Morty was about to respond with a, “why do you care?” when their previous conversation popped in his mind.
“In order to be bait he’d have to actually care about something.”
He couldn't actually want to try and be Morty's grandpa, right? I mean— Prime had made it very clear how little he cared about his family. He was literally going to sacrifice all of them into a device that wiped them off of the face of every universe. There was no way he just, suddenly changed. He must want something, Morty just wasn't smart enough to figure it out.
The boy shifted, moving his shoulder to a slightly more comfortable position.
But maybe he could, given time. Sure, Morty wasn't the smartest, but he was definitely good at adapting to extremely perilous situations, and he was pretty sure this counted as a perilous situation. So, if he just had some time, maybe all of the pieces would come together, like they did to Rick. Maybe he just needed more information.
“You know, I used to do that too.”
Morty glanced to the shoes, letting his death grip on his hair slacken.
“Laying under the bed,” Prime clarified, when Morty didn't say anything, “I liked how enclosed everything felt, and the fact that people couldn't see me so easily.”
Morty blinked.
That was… alarmingly similar to how Morty felt. Unlike most people, Morty actually liked being in small, dark places, just, only if he was the one putting himself there. It was like the walls were hugging him, and he could see and hear other people before they saw him. It was a really weird habit of his, something Summer and Rick had made fun of him for.
“Of course I actually built myself something comfortable under there, I didn’t just wedge myself between the floor and the bed frame,” Prime said, “I used to work on inventions there.”
“...you're lying.”
“Nope.” Prime shifted, slightly, “That'd be a weird fucking thing to lie about. It's just… interesting.”
“What?” Morty asked.
“How similar we are,” Prime answered easily. Morty stiffened up, then ducked his head down into his chest.
“W-w-we’re not.”
Prime hummed noncommittedly. Morty grabbed on his hair, and pulled.
They were not the same. They weren't.
“Well, I've got inventions to work on.” He stood, boots thumping softly against the ground, “There's a bathroom connected to this room, so maybe you should take a shower. Pretty sure you're still covered in space-vodka and blood.”
And then, as quickly as he came, Rick Prime vanished down the hall.
***
Prime hummed under his breath, carefully wiring the enhancement in the same sloppy, unoriginal way that C-137 had. He glanced up at the detailed schematic in front of him, and then back down.
To his side was a console showing the interior of his grandson's room. The boy had come out a while ago, and was just starting to eat something. He looked exhausted, but that was to be expected. Surgery tends to do that to a person. And a fist fight.
Prime grabbed another tracker, carefully slicing open the boy’s wrist.
“As paranoid as usual,” he murmured, carefully inserting it into the correct position, “Too bad that paranoia of yours won't pay off.”
