Chapter Text
Summer and Morty weren’t very close growing up. At least, not close like they should’ve been.
Beth wasn’t a mother. Jerry wasn’t a father. They weren’t even really a family, as much as they were four people drowning in the same ocean.
Summer taught herself to swim. By the time Morty was old enough to take care of himself, Summer was already sick of him. She’d done her part, along with everyone else’s.
The window clicked open, snapping her out of her thoughts. Summer whipped around, her ponytail smacking her in the face.
It was just Morty. Her tension melted away, now replaced with mild annoyance.
”Hey.”
”H-hey.”
He climbed through the window onto the roof where she sat. He sat beside her.
”Is that…?”
”Yeah, Jamie’s just handing out crack rocks behind the school for a blowie.”
Morty’s eyes widened.
”It’s just weed, idiot.” She passed the blunt to him. Watched him turn it over in his hand hesitantly before pinching it and taking a drag.
He coughed, and she laughed at him.
“It burns.”
“Ugh, you smoke like a bitch.” Summer said, taking the blunt back. A long silence ensued.
Her eyes wander down to the graves in the backyard, shovel propped up beside them. He followed her gaze. Her expression is uncaring, but for a moment he could see her resolve waver.
“It’s funny. He told mom.”
”Huh?”
”When I started smoking weed, he told mom.” Summer said quietly. “She didn’t even pretend to care.”
Morty was quiet. Noticing. “I mean… w-was it an act of rebellion?”
She shrugged. ”It just feels good.”
”Yeah. That’s— Y-yeah, I get it.” Morty said.
The air was thick with the absence of conversation. She passed the blunt to him and he took a small drag before passing it back.
She took a long, meaningful drag. She always used to come up here, even when she was too young to smoke, looking up at the stars and wondering why she didn’t deserve parents who really cared, why it was always her responsibility to take care of her stupid brother.
Morty fidgeted nervously. ”Summer?”
She exhaled a long stream of thick smoke. ”Yeah.”
”I’m…I’m sorry your brother died.”
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to. She tucked her knees under her chin, flicking the end of the joint off the roof and into the backyard.
”Whatever. I didn’t even notice.”
There was an underlying guilt that cut through her words. Something quiet and writhing inside her that she’d have never faced. She did everything to keep him alive, and then he was just gone.
Not only gone, but replaced.
”It’s not your fault. We just… waltzed into your life a-and took their place.”
Summer looked away, a shaky hand reaching up to wipe her cheek.
“I-If you want me to go, I—”
“No,” She sniffled, grabbing his hand. “I don’t want you to.”
He wasn’t used to that reaction. Under ordinary circumstances, she’d have just thrown a pillow at him and yelled at him to leave her alone. “Oh…okay.”
He sat down, and she let go of his hand.
”Even though I lost my sister, I-I still feel like we’re really close, you know?” Morty scratched his arm anxiously. “It’s like she’s not really gone.”
”Yeah.”
She was quietly collecting herself.
He suddenly hugged her tightly.
”You-You’re my sister.”
”Yeah, duh.” She said dismissively.
He still tried. ”I-I love you, Summer. This version of you.”
She slowly hugs him back, her grip tightening gradually. They held each other for a moment, her eyes finally tearing away from the grave in the backyard haunting her. She closed her eyes, putting a gentle hand on the soft curls of his head. She took a deep breath. He smelled the same.
Which is to say, he smelled equally bad.
She smiled. ”Love you, bro.”
—
The sound is sickening.
Summer’s limp body slips out of Prime’s hands, sprawling out on the floor like a ragdoll. Her eyes are wide and ghoulish, lips parted. Her skin is already paling, a ghostly purple fading into her lips. Her mascara runs in a clump down her cheek, tears streaking the makeup like mud.
“S…Summer…?”
There’s a moment of stunned silence. Maybe more. It could have been a minute, it could have been a lifetime. Morty can’t bring himself to look away. It doesn’t feel real, and he tells himself he’ll wake up any second now.
He doubles over, puke spilling out from between his lips. It burns viciously on the way up and lands itself on his jeans and the floor.
“Aww, don’t be like that.” Prime coos.
“You’re a sick fuck.” Rick’s voice emerges, finally.
Morty’s mouth feels dry, his throat on fire. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it thudding in his chest. Each short breath only seems to leave him less and less satiated.
He’s hyperventilating and he can’t stop himself despite how pathetic it makes him feel. Prime’s delighted eyes bore into him as he ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut, desperately fumbling for a moment to just forget about this situation.
There’s no relief.
Get it together, he tells himself. You’re pathetic!
He figures if Rick isn’t as worried, then Summer must still be alive somewhere. A small part of him wonders if maybe Rick just can’t be bothered to care.
He takes a few steadying, wheezy breaths. By the time he’s come to, Prime is cracking his knuckles, rolling up his sleeves in a dramatic fashion.
“You’re gonna punch him? T-t-that’s just barbaric. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of cosmic Bill-Rick lovechild. This is low even for you.” Rick sneers.
”Oh, Rick. You’re still bound by your own standards.” Prime smiles simply. “Imagine what you could accomplish if you just stopped holding back.”
”Right. Punching a teenager is w-what I’ve been missing.” Rick mumbles.
”You still don’t get it.”
Prime winds up, landing a punch directly on Morty’s cheekbone. He cries out, the impact making a loud, dull sound.
“OW! Fuck you!” Morty retorts.
”These attachments hold you back.”
“Why do you care? He’s just a kid.”
“You and I both know he’s anything but just a kid.” Prime sneers. “You’ve subjected him to horrors no human should have to comprehend, let alone a ‘kid’.”
He punches Morty in the eye.
“Fuck!” Rick growls and kicks the communication device, eliciting a loud clank. He grabs at his hair, spinning around and planting both hands on the device. “Just put me in that chair! W-what the hell is the point of this?”
“This chair couldn’t contain you and you know it.”
Prime’s arm rears back and punches Morty in the cheek, eliciting a pained whimper.
“You’re not impressing anyone!” Rick’s voice rises unsteadily, and he hates how shrill he sounds when he’s panicked.
“I’m not here to impress anyone. Maybe I just want to see you hurt.”
“God, just kill me already!”
“Are you pleading with me, Rick?”
“In your dreams.”
“That’s what I thought.” Prime smiles, rearing back and delivering another blow square to Morty’s face. “Feels good to just use your hands, you know?” He drawls on, like he’s repairing a car or playing a sport.
“Y-You’re gonna be okay, buddy. Pain is temporary. You’ll—You’re gonna be fine. Grandpa’s here.” Rick stumbles clumsily through his words, trying to find it in himself to be reassuring in such a helpless situation. He hates how Prime feeds on his agony, sucking it out of him like a greedy little leech.
Prime turns Morty’s face in his hand, long slender fingers digging into his cheek, thumb steering the boy’s chin. A small stream of blood spawns from his nostril.
“So, grandpa didn’t bother giving you a cybernetic makeover? How sad.” Prime feigns pity. “Maybe I can help with that.”
Morty turns his head lethargically, before snapping forward and biting Prime’s thumb. There’s a spurt of blood as the taste of iron floods his mouth, the flesh stringy with firm muscle. Nauseatingly so, he manages to pull out a chunk, but gives up trying to rip it off as Prime tugs his hand away, laughing.
“He’s a biter!” Prime smiles veritably, cradling his hand as the fibers of his skin repair themselves. He holds his hand out in front of him, good as new, flexing his fingers one by one. “Boy, we oughta get a muzzle on this one.”
The degrading image of a muzzle spawns a modicum of shame in Morty’s stomach, but the feeling is quickly replaced by a flickering sense of pride. “You know what, fuck you! Tying me up and punching me is proving what exactly? I-I-I get bullied worse than this at school!”
Prime thinks for a moment.
“You’re right. This is boring.”
Prime wanders over to Rick’s workbench, opening random drawers till he finds something entertaining. His expression lights up as he pulls out a blue box. He places it on the table next to Morty and opens it.
It’s a surgical kit.
“R-Rick?”
“Morty. Listen to me. Stay calm.” Rick urges. “You’re smarter than he thinks.”
“Mo-o-o-orty. We heard you’re failing science. How about an anatomy lesson?” Prime says, in Beth’s voice, clear as a bell. Morty shudders.
I’m dead. I’m so dead. Morty just repeats this mantra to himself, Rick’s words barely making their way through his crowded thoughts.
“Uh huh.” He responds automatically, tiredly, the same way he does when Rick’s on his drunken rambles. Completely dissociated.
“You listening, you—you little shit? Stay alive! G-grandpa’s coming!” Rick’s getting hysterical. Losing the thread. “You hear that? I'm gunning for you, motherfucker!”
“Don’t you worry, Rick. I wouldn’t want you to miss the finale. That’s why I’m here, after all.” Prime toys with the scalpel between his fingers. “I’m encouraging you to find your way out. When you do, we’ll be ready.” He smiles, picking up one of Morty’s hands and waving it at the monitor. The boy’s expression remains blank.
I don’t have time for this.
“Count on it.”
With that, the screen goes dark.
“That’s a shame.” Prime says, tying Morty’s arm back to the chair. “I put on this show for him, and now he isn’t even here to watch it.”
“Boo hoo, bitch!” Morty snaps. “Y-y-you’re a fucking piece of shit!”
“Ohoho! Feisty! That’s okay.” Prime’s expression darkens. “It’s really no fun if they don’t resist.”
Prime pins down Morty’s wrist against the arm of the chair. The boy tries wrestling out of his grip, but it’s no use. His fingers are like iron.
Prime’s hand clutches the blade, the tip of his index finger carefully guiding the sharp point. The scalpel brushes against his skin. He quiets, save for his shallow breaths as he leans away, a whimper resembling the plea ‘don’t’ crawling out of his throat.
“Let’s see what you’re made of.”
—
I’m dead.
I must be dead.
Why can I think when I’m dead? Is this…Valhalla?
There’s phantom hands around her neck, a sharp, painful sensation dancing at the tip of her spinal cord. When she opens her eyes, they’re smothered with the weight of water. No, some other kind of thin fluid. She’s in a glass tube.
She can’t breathe.
Panic floods her senses at this realization, and she presses her hands against the glass. The walls of the tube collapse and shatter as she hits her forehead against the surface, shards scattering below her as she meets the ground.
She begins coughing deep, loud coughs, heaving on the floor. Her spine curls violently as she folds over, fluid flying up her throat and out of her mouth. She wipes her face with one twitching hand, shaking the glass shards off of her palm and catching her fingers on a thin cable running into her forehead.
She rips the stickers off of her temples and reaches down to pluck them from her sides when she notices something is missing.
Where are my tits!?
As she scans further, her(?) stomach drops.
She is not in her own body.
Horrified, her eyes trail down the very exposed body of her grandfather. As soon as she sees a tuft of blue hair where she’d rather not, she shrieks, slapping her hand over her eyes and shakily getting to her feet.
What the fuck is going on?
Why am I grandpa Rick? No, I’m not Rick. If I was Rick, I would know what’s going on.
I’m…me. I’m Summer.
I’m alive.
She slowly garners the courage to face the reality of the situation, hands lowering from her eyes. Her eyes dart around till she spots Rick’s typical white lab-coat hanging on a hook in the wall, which she quickly grabs. She hurriedly wraps it around herself like a bathrobe, cringing at the image of her new vessel. She shakes her head a little, whipping droplets of vat fluid (she’s not really sure) around the room from the soaked tips of her spiky blue hair. There’s a bit of a draft on her new shiny bald spot.
An ominous beeping sound emits from the corner of the room. It takes her a moment to identify the source, eyes landing on what looks vaguely like a landline phone, but larger and with a lot more buttons and dials. It has a small, red LED, which is flashing rapidly.
She wanders over, still getting used to the height. In her mind she knows better than to touch Rick’s stuff, especially a Rick she doesn’t even know, but that’s never stopped her. She hesitantly pulls the receiver off of the wall.
“He—Ahem. H-Hello…” Her voice emerges shakily, now deep and aged by years of heavy drinking and chainsmoking. It’s unsettling to open her mouth and hear someone else’s voice.
“Sum-Sum? It’s grandpa.”
“Which…grandpa?” She asks, still feeling rattled by the whole situation. Utterly helpless. She’s so tired of feeling helpless.
“Your grandpa. Let’s see… L-looks like you ended up in dimension P-138.” He shuffles on the other end of the line, vague typing and mechanical noises crackling through. “How’s it looking over there?”
It’s him, she’s sure it’s him. Who else would call her “Sum-Sum”?
The first emotion she feels is relief. Relief at the familiar sound of her grandpa’s voice, someone authoritative who can get her out of this mess. That feeling is quickly overshadowed by fury as she thinks back to how he acted just minutes ago while Prime’s hands wrung her neck out like a dish rag.
“Grandpa Rick…” She says shakily, voice swelling with anger and fear. “You let me believe I was about to die, and you didn’t even pretend to care!”
“I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction he’s looking for. That—That’s the only r-reason why he’s doing any of this, and I already gave him enough to work with. And no offense, Summer, you’re a little late to the party.” Rick says dismissively. “That’s like, season one level trauma, right there.”
“I had to face my own mortality alone. You and Morty always have each other,” Summer tries to make him understand, choking back a cry. It sounds so unnatural coming from his voice she’s leasing. “It’s one thing to see your own dead body, but it’s another entirely to have your neck snapped by your own grandpa!”
“He is not your grandpa.” Rick’s voice wavers.
She presses her lips together firmly, not that Rick can see. She looks down at her thin, greying hands. One reaches up, rubbing the back of her neck where her cervical vertebrae had been severed just moments ago, and she lets out a shuddering exhale.
“Look—W-w-w-we don’t have time to unpack this. Grandpa needs your help. Morty’s still with Prime, and w-w-w-who knows what that sick bastard’s doing to—to him.” Rick says, something unidentifiable gradually creeping up in his voice. “If he isn’t, uh, already dead.”
“Aren’t you, like, watching him torture Morty right now?” Summer asks.
“I-I redirected th-the—the signal to you so—so you can help me get the fuck out of here!” Rick says, flustered. “I-It’s not productive to just watch him curb stomp the kid, s-s…sitting here doing nothing.”
Huh. How about that? She thinks to herself.
“Wait, how did you know it was me?”
“It’s p-pretty obvious, Summer. Your clone vat is programmed to redirect your consciousness to a nearby Rick’s clone vat in the case that the original was de-uuurp-stroyed or damaged. I call it Operation Phoenix.” Rick explains, sounding a little proud of himself. “Just tracked which one activated around the same time he snapped your neck like a glowstick.”
“Why am I you?”
“Most Ricks don’t make clones of their Summers.” Rick says. The implications are a little unfortunate.
Well, isn’t that lucky.
“Prime isn’t going to kill Morty, not right away. And if he does, he’ll make sure Morty’s gone for good.” Rick explains. “Whatever he’s doing, he’s prolonging it. I need some time to find a way out of this pocket dimension. Y-you’ll have to help me on your end. Tell me what the lab looks like. I-i-is there a Rick there?”
Summer finally takes a moment to look around the lab, noticing the thin layer of dust coating everything. Cobwebs have formed in the corners, dead bugs and leaves littering the corners of the room. It even smells old.
She reaches for the button by the door, her fingertip leaving an impression in the dust. The garage door creaks open loudly, the outside greeting her with several skeletons laid out across the driveway. The streets are filled with trash and dead foliage. Most of the houses appear to be looted or destroyed.
“I…think I’m in some kind of post-apocalyptic dimension.” Summer says warily.
“The blast shields would have preserved most of the lab equipment.” Rick assesses. “Ask the garage AI to do a vitals scan. It should listen to you since you’re in a Rick body.”
”Garage, vital scan.” Summer repeats. A dusty hatch opens in the ceiling, a small device lowering from the ceiling and scanning Summer’s new vessel. The speaker in the corner crackles to life as a familiar voice comes through.
”Vital signs are regular. Body temperature is 96.5°F. Activating lab coat thermal regulation.”
The fabric of Rick’s lab coat around her starts to warm up gently.
“Okay,” Rick says. “Now, I just need to find a way out of here. Can you locate me on the RickTracker?”
”What’s a RickTracker?”
”It’s self-explanatory, Summer. Every Rick has a RickTracker. Think of it like an app for meeting other Ricks. For…uh, b-business and stuff.” He says awkwardly.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, ho. You can’t just portal out?”
”D-d-don’t you think I would’ve tried that, Summer? Fuckin’…asking me stupid shit…” He mutters.
”Alright, sorry! Geez, I just wanted to check.” She mumbles, pulling up RickTracker on the holographic monitor on the desk. She types ‘C-137’ into the search bar.
”Nothing’s popping up. I think you’re off-grid.”
”Alright, I-I-I’m gonna send out an energy signal. I want you to use a galactic map to find a concentrated energy spike in an isolated part of space.”
“...I still don’t see anything.”
Rick quiets for a moment. “Okay. So it’s an artificially created pocket dimension. I’m sealed in.”
Summer listens as he shuffles around. “Is there literally nothing in there?”
“Not nothing. We just need two uncharged conductive plates in a vacuum on your end, placed a few nanometers apart. This will create Casimir pressure, and create negative mass to prop open a very small wormhole. I’ll need to find a way to generate energy from the pocket dimension in order to complete the pathway and wriggle through.” Rick explains.
He exclaims in pain as a horrible ripping sound emerges from the receiver. There’s a loud, wet snap.
“Grandpa? What’s wrong?”
A soft growl emerges. “I’m using my…implants.” Rick says, gritting his teeth. “That prick has generously stripped this world of most of its resources and transformed it into one big hamster cage. So, uh, gotta get cre-uurp-ative with my resources.”
“Gnarly.” Summer says. “Are…you gonna be okay?”
”Eyes on the prize, Summer.” Rick chides. “You need to find two sterile, flat copper plates.”
She wanders around for a few minutes, digging through this Rick’s stuff. He has all sorts of weirdly nautical-themed gadgets. This dimension just gets weirder by the minute.
Eventually she finds all the parts on Rick’s tiring laundry list. Saving ‘Rick and Morty’ is a lot more boring after the adrenaline of being murdered wears off.
“Ugh, this is like school if they didn’t spend their budget on Principal Vagina’s therapy.” Summer mutters, screwing in a panel with a switch on it.
Ignoring her, “Don’t flip the switch yet.” Rick says, through the receiver. “You’ll wait for my go-ahead, and then we’ll only have a few seconds to execute. The receiver has a slight delay so you need to act fast. The wormhole will only be open for a second.”
”How are you gonna generate enough energy on your end?”
—
The mud below is reddened with the pigment of his blood.
It’s a grisly scene. Rick drags himself across the ground, grabbing clumps of mud and packing the open wound with mud. A cocktail of liquor and adrenaline are keeping him going through the pain. He tries not to focus on the obvious throbbing sensation in his thigh, the phantom sensation of his leg in pain where it used to be.
He picks up his amputated leg, stripping off the fabric of his pants and digging his nails into the synthetic skin. He peels it back, using a small plasma blade embedded in his wrist to cut the metal panels open and reveal his mechanical insides.
He plunges a hand in and rips out a long copper rod with a sick crunch, the way you’d strip a rotisserie chicken of its bones. It’s not a clean process. Blood stains his hands. He mindlessly wipes it away on his coat.
He digs a deep hole in the soil with his hands. He shoves the protective metal plates he cut from the leg in the hole. He braids heavy-duty cables of aluminum, wrapping them around the copper rod and placing the tip of the cable on the plate in the hole. He shoves mud in, packing it tightly and sealing off his makeshift contraption.
While he is tall, he’s not tall enough. He stands on the communication device, balancing on one leg and holding up his makeshift lightning rod. He digs his flask out of his coat pocket, chugging the remaining liquor before tossing it off of the makeshift podium into the grass below.
”Lightning, Summer. The dumb bastard left billions of joules of energy just waiting to strike, purely for dramatic effect.”
Rick looks up, eyes narrow with focus. Dark clouds roll in above him. The rain beats down on him heavily, slicking back his hair flat against his skin. He’d be cold if his blood wasn’t boiling.
“Now, we wait.”