Archive of Our Own

"RICK, STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE AND LISTEN TO ME!"

"GET OUT, b-burp, OF HERE, MORTY!"

Morty stormed out of the garage, slamming the door behind him.

Great.

Just great.

Another argument that wasn't going to lead anywhere.

He should've known that arguing with Rick was a waste of time, but he always ended up doing the same thing. Maybe because, no matter how hard he tried to pretend he didn't care, he still hoped Rick would actually listen to him. That, just once, he'd consider the possibility that Morty might be right.

Yeah, sure. And maybe Jerry would finally manage to keep a job for more than six months.

He crossed the living room, passing the couch, the television, and the various objects scattered around that nobody in the house ever seemed willing to put away. The room was empty, just like the rest of the downstairs. At least he wouldn't have to deal with anyone else right now. Rick was already more than enough.

Although, now that he thought about it, Jerry would probably be sitting on the couch whining about something, convinced he was the most wronged person on the planet. Beth would be too busy with work to notice anything happening at home, and Summer would complain about everyone while acting exactly like the people she complained about. A wonderful family. Truly, a picture-perfect commercial.

Morty climbed the stairs, still stewing over the argument.

He had recently turned seventeen. Soon, he'd have to start thinking about college, choosing a major, and figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. That's what people his age did, right? They complained about tests, worried about college entrance exams, hung out with friends, and pretended they had some idea of what they were doing.

But that was for normal people.

He couldn't just choose a college and move on as if nothing had ever happened. Not after everything he'd seen, everything he'd done, and all the times he'd barely made it home.

How was he supposed to explain any of that in a job interview? "Oh, yeah, I have experience with interdimensional travel, I've killed a few horrible creatures, and I've helped my grandpa destroy reality a couple of times, but hey, I've also helped rebuild it." That probably wouldn't go over too well.

And even if he managed to find something he wanted to do, would he be able to handle it? He could barely imagine a life that didn't involve Rick in some way.

It was ridiculous.

He'd survived situations that would make any normal person lose their mind, but thinking about his own future was enough to leave him completely lost.

His relationship with Rick had improved, or at least that was what he kept telling himself. Now he even got one day off a week! An entire day when he didn't have to drop everything to accompany his grandpa on a potentially deadly adventure. Wow. Who needed a life of their own when they could get a few hours of rest as a reward?

Even so, they kept arguing about how to handle every unexpected situation.

Rick had an idea, Morty offered another, and in the end, Rick did whatever he wanted. Sometimes, it felt like he didn't even hear what Morty was saying. As if all that experience meant nothing, as if Morty were still the same stupid kid Rick had first met.

And the worst part was that Morty didn't know whether Rick genuinely thought he was incompetent or simply couldn't stand the idea of someone disagreeing with him. Maybe both. Not that asking would accomplish anything.

After all, by this point, Morty probably had more interdimensional experience than any living being except Rick himself. He'd learned to recognize danger, improvise solutions, and survive absurd situations. He'd seen plenty of things he wished he could forget, including the ones he'd managed to stop Rick from erasing.

And despite everything, he still tried to care about people.

He'd almost lost that ability a few years ago. Sometimes, he still wondered how much he'd changed since then and whether he'd ever be the way he used to be. He wasn't sure he even wanted to go back. That Morty no longer existed, and pretending otherwise wouldn't help anything.

But he was still trying. That had to count for something, didn't it?

Apparently, Rick didn't think so.

Morty walked past the family photographs hanging on the wall.

Everyone looked so happy in those pictures. It was almost funny, considering that the house could barely go a week without some kind of disaster. Maybe they should take a new family picture after the next interdimensional catastrophe. At least they'd have an excuse to replace those fake photos with pictures of their own dead counterparts.

No matter how much things had changed, deep down, they were still the same.

What if nothing ever really changed?

The thought came to him uninvited, and Morty tried to push it away. It wasn't as if he were trapped there. He could do something, right? Get a job, study, meet other people.

Maybe even move out of that house someday.

The problem was that whenever he tried to imagine his life without Rick, he couldn't get very far.

His future seemed to boil down to continuing to follow his grandpa on adventures, helping solve the problems Rick himself caused, and waiting for the next time Rick decided Morty's opinion didn't matter. And if he ever tried to leave, would he really be able to do it? Or would he end up coming back because he wouldn't know what to do on his own?

The thought made his chest tighten.

He hated it.

He hated not knowing what he wanted, hated feeling like he was falling behind, and hated the possibility of spending the rest of his life as nothing more than Rick's sidekick even more.

He wanted something of his own. Anything. An adventure that hadn't been decided by someone else, a project that wouldn't be destroyed before it even began, a life in which he didn't have to constantly prove that he was capable.

But where would he even start?

Morty let out a slow breath and kept walking. Maybe he was overthinking things. Maybe he just needed to calm down before doing something stupid. That's what Rick would say, anyway.

He stopped in front of his bedroom door.

Wait.

Had he locked the door before leaving?

Morty tried to remember. He was almost sure he had. Or at least he thought he had. The argument with Rick had been so irritating that he couldn't remember every little thing he'd done before going down to the garage.

Even so, the door was slightly ajar.

He frowned and stared at the gap for a few seconds. Maybe he'd forgotten to close it properly. It happened. It wasn't impossible.

Oh, right. Rick had promised he'd stop messing with his stuff.

"Come on, Rick," he muttered irritably. "Seriously?"

He slowly pushed the door open, already preparing a speech about privacy that probably wouldn't accomplish absolutely anything. Maybe he should install a new lock. A real one that Rick couldn't open with some ridiculous gadget he'd probably invented decades ago.

Then he noticed the window.

It was wide open.

Morty stopped.

Air blew into the room, making the curtains move. He looked at the window, then at the door, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Maybe he'd left it open before going downstairs. Maybe the wind had been strong enough to push it open. Maybe—

No. He remembered closing the window.

Well, he thought he remembered. He was sure he hadn't left it like that. Almost sure, at least.

His gaze swept across the room. The desk, the clothes, the objects on the shelves. Everything seemed to be in place, but something was wrong. He couldn't tell what, and that only made him more nervous.

Then he looked at the bed.

It was made.

Morty blinked, confused.

The bed was completely made.

He'd left the blankets in a heap and the pillows scattered when he'd gone downstairs. He remembered that. Or, at the very least, he remembered not making the bed. And there was no way Rick had done it of his own free will.

He took a step into the room, feeling increasingly uneasy. Maybe someone had come in. Maybe it was just some stupid prank. Maybe—

His gaze stopped at the nightstand.

There was a small yellow piece of paper on it.

Morty froze.

The note looked completely out of place. The golden letters in the center were far too elegant for an ordinary message, and he didn't remember seeing that paper before. He approached it slowly, even though part of him wanted to leave the room and call Rick.

No. Wait. What if it really was just a prank? He didn't want to go downstairs to the garage and give Rick another reason to call him paranoid.

He picked up the paper.

"I'm back."

Morty read the sentence once. Then again, as if the words would change if he stared at them long enough.

Then he saw the signature.

E. Morty.

For a moment, he couldn't understand what he was reading. His brain seemed to refuse to put those two things together: the note and the signature. It made no sense. It couldn't make sense.

It felt as though all the blood had drained from his body. His vision blurred, and his fingers tightened around the paper so hard that he nearly crumpled it.

No.

No, no, no.

He'd been imprisoned. He'd been locked up by a temporal institution. Morty didn't know where he was or what he was doing, but he'd believed he was nowhere near escaping. That, by some miracle, he might be able to continue with his own life without having to worry about him.

Maybe it had been stupid to believe that.

"That can't be," he whispered, looking at the signature again.

But the name was still there.

And for the first time in a long while, Morty had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do.

Morty kept staring at the note, trying to find an explanation that didn't involve that bastard coming back.

Okay. Calm down. He was panicking over a piece of paper. A piece of paper that could have been left by any of the countless psychopaths Rick had collected over the years. And considering how many enemies his grandpa managed to make, there were plenty of options.

Maybe it was some kind of prank. One of Rick's old enemies trying to scare him to get to Rick himself. That made sense, didn't it? Sort of. Maybe not really, but it was better than the main alternative.

He read the signature again.

E. Morty.

"No. No, no, no. You're not doing this to me."

He crumpled the paper slightly between his fingers, annoyed with himself for being so scared. That guy wasn't even there. Nobody was in the room except him. Probably.

Morty suddenly raised his head and began examining the room, this time looking for anything that might confirm his suspicions. He crouched to look under the bed, opened the closet and pushed some clothes aside, checked behind the curtains, and even looked into the narrow space between the desk and the wall.

Nothing.

That didn't mean much. Evil Morty was smart, and Morty knew very well that he shouldn't underestimate him. But he also couldn't just conclude that he was hiding in some corner simply because he'd left a creepy note.

He turned back to the desk and started looking for hidden devices. There were several. Sensors, small monitoring devices, some kind of camera he was certain hadn't been there the week before.

All Rick's.

Of course.

He removed the devices one by one, examining them before tossing them onto the desk. He didn't find anything unusual, nothing that looked as though it had recently been installed by someone else. Just his grandpa's usual gadgets, which Morty had removed so many times he'd lost count. And which somehow always came back.

Seriously, Rick needed a hobby.

Or therapy.

Or someone to stop him from turning his own grandson's bedroom into a branch office of an interdimensional spy agency.

Morty finished checking the desk and stepped back, looking around once more. There was no sign of a break-in beyond the open window, the made bed, and that damn note.

No sign of Evil Morty.

He didn't exactly relax, but he managed to breathe a little easier. Maybe he was overreacting. It wouldn't be the first time his imagination had taken him straight to the worst-case scenario. And if Evil Morty really were there, he probably would have done something by now.

Or maybe he was waiting.

Morty narrowed his eyes, annoyed at his own reasoning. Great. Now he was having a mental argument with someone he didn't even know was there.

Why was he doing this?

The question came back so forcefully that, for a few seconds, Morty felt his anger overpower his fear.

What else did that bastard want?

Wasn't everything he'd done enough? The Citadel, the Ricks, the Mortys, the ridiculous plan that had nearly destroyed everything? He'd gotten what he wanted. He'd escaped, disappeared, and left everyone behind. Why come back now? Why look for him specifically?

Was it psychological torture? Some particularly stupid kind of revenge? Because if that was the goal, congratulations. It was working.

Morty hated that guy.

It wasn't simple dislike, or the kind of irritation he felt when Rick treated him like a complete idiot. It was a deep anger, difficult to explain without remembering everything Evil Morty had done. The way he manipulated people, how he always seemed to be several steps ahead, and how he treated entire lives as disposable pieces.

And now he was here. Or he wanted Morty to believe he was.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Suddenly, a possibility occurred to him.

Oh.

Was Evil Morty still pissed off about the slap?

Morty stared at the note.

No. Wait. That was ridiculous.

Well, he had slapped that bastard, yes. And maybe it had been a little satisfying. Pretty damn satisfying, actually. The guy deserved a lot worse.

But he was far away.

Or he was supposed to be.

Rick had run every scanner available, checked every possibility, and performed God knew how many tests to make sure Evil Morty couldn't come back. Morty hadn't fully understood half of the procedures, but he trusted Rick knew what he was doing. At the time, at least, his grandpa had seemed pretty convinced the matter was settled.

And Evil Morty had disappeared. There'd been no sign of him, nor any indication that he'd survive the prison.

So why was that note in his bedroom?

Morty felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck.

Maybe Rick had made a mistake. It was possible. Rick made mistakes all the time, even if he preferred to call them unexpected consequences. But if Evil Morty really had come back, why hadn't he attacked Rick directly?

Unless he was messing with him.

The thought made his stomach tighten.

Of course. That psychopath was probably having fun, leaving clues just to see how long it would take Morty to realize he was being hunted. Maybe he wanted to scare him before making his move. Maybe he was watching Morty's every move at that very moment.

Morty looked at the open window.

Then at the door.

"Oh, jeez."

He should tell Rick. That was obvious. If Evil Morty was back, Rick needed to know immediately.

But what if he wasn't? What if this was just an attempt to make him panic? Rick would probably laugh in his face, tell him he was being paranoid, and go back to whatever he'd been doing. And Morty wasn't particularly interested in giving his grandpa yet another reason to treat him like a child.

On the other hand, if he was right, he might not have time to reach the garage.

They could both be dead before he even managed to explain what was happening.

Or maybe not.

Evil Morty seemed to like Rick, in a way. Not that Morty understood why. After everything that had happened between them, any kind of regard seemed absurd. But the guy had had countless opportunities to kill his grandpa and hadn't done it. Maybe he had some plan involving Rick. Maybe he wanted something from him.

The problem was that Morty had no idea what it could be.

"Great," he muttered. "Just great."

Suddenly, his body felt heavy.

At first, he thought it was just accumulated exhaustion. It had been a long day, the argument with Rick hadn't helped, and honestly, he was tired of having to worry about someone trying to kill him every time he walked into his own bedroom.

But this was different.

A chill ran down his spine, and his muscles began to feel strangely weak. Morty frowned, trying to understand what was happening. He blinked several times, but his vision didn't seem to keep up with his movements.

Wait.

What...?

He tried to take a step, but his legs didn't seem to respond properly. The note slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

No. No, no, no. This wasn't happening.

He tried to call for Rick, but no sound came out. His throat felt closed up, and his head grew too heavy to hold upright.

The room began to spin.

Morty took a step toward the bed, trying to grab something before his legs gave out. He just needed to sit down for a second. Catch his breath. Think.

One step.

Then the floor disappeared beneath his feet.

And Morty passed out.

Morty woke up suddenly, gasping for air as if he'd just surfaced from underwater.

He was in his own bed.

For a few seconds, he stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had happened. The room was exactly as it should be. The window was closed, the blankets were rumpled, and there was no yellow note on the nightstand.

He sat up quickly, rubbing his face with his hands.

What the hell had that been?

A dream?

A very strange dream, definitely. Apparently, his brain had decided to turn all his insecurities and the most irritating psychopath in the multiverse into a free horror experience. Thanks a lot, brain. Exactly what he needed.

Morty looked at the clock.

Oh.

It was his day off.

A small smile appeared on his face before he could stop it. Okay, there was no reason to keep dwelling on a nightmare. He was home, in one piece, and, for at least the next twenty-four hours, he didn't have to accompany Rick on any suicidal adventures.

So, what should he do first?

His gaze fell on the spellbook sitting on his desk.

Oh, right! It had been a while since he'd practiced. He'd learned some interesting things, but he never managed to set aside enough time to make any real progress. Maybe he could use the day to work on it.

Teleporting small objects. It shouldn't be that difficult, right? He'd already managed to do much more complicated things. He just needed to study the fundamentals, practice the symbols, and figure out where he was going wrong. It would probably take a few tries, but that was what a day off was for.

Yes. That was what he was going to do with those precious twenty-four hours.

Morty got out of bed with an energy he hadn't felt in a while. He picked up the book, placed some notes on his desk, and started gathering everything he'd need for the lesson.

His stomach growled.

He stopped, looked down at his belly, and let out a little laugh.

"Okay, okay. Breakfast first."

After all, trying to learn magic on an empty stomach seemed like a terrible idea. Not that he had much experience with magic, but he had enough experience with bad decisions to know when he didn't need another one.

He put the book away, straightened the things on his desk, and headed for the door.

As soon as he opened it, he felt inexplicably uneasy.

Morty frowned.

For a moment, he had the feeling that something was wrong. He couldn't say what. Maybe it was just the dream, still too fresh in his memory. He shook his head, trying to push the feeling away.

Then he smelled waffles.

Almost immediately, the rest of his thoughts disappeared.

Oh, man.

Waffles.

And they weren't ordinary waffles. From the smell, they seemed to be from that dimensional shop he liked so much. The one that sold waffles crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, with that topping he could never quite identify but had never bothered to question, not after the spaghetti incident.

Morty hurried down the stairs faster than he'd intended, hoping there would still be some left. Considering the family he lived with, that wasn't a particularly reasonable expectation.

"No need to run. Yours are on the plate on the counter."

Morty nearly tripped on the last step.

"Oh, th-thanks."

Wait.

Aw, that was surprisingly thoughtful of them. They'd bought his favorites? That was... unexpectedly nice. Maybe Beth had remembered. Or Summer. Or even Jerry, although the idea of Jerry paying attention to anything that didn't involve himself was a little hard to believe.

Morty reached the kitchen and saw the plate on the counter.

The waffles were right there, still warm.

He looked at them.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the voice.

Who had spoken?

The man sitting at the table raised his eyes to meet Morty's.

Brown hair, eyepatch, the same annoyingly calm expression.

And that smile.

Morty felt his heart stop for a moment.

"Who are you?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

The other man raised an eyebrow.

"Wow. Is that how you greet an old enemy?"

Morty didn't think. He grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it at him.

The chair didn't even come close.

It shattered against an invisible force field, scattering pieces across the kitchen floor.

Evil Morty didn't even move.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!"

The shout came out louder than Morty had intended. He backed away, bumping into the counter, and looked around for something he could use as a weapon. A knife, a frying pan, one of those ridiculous gadgets Rick had that would probably make everything explode.

Anything.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

What was he supposed to do now?

Evil Morty let out a dry little laugh, as if that reaction was exactly what he'd expected.

"I thought I'd pay my alternate self a little visit after spending all that time in prison."

Morty stared at him, trying to organize the words in his head.

"W-what? What are you talking about? It's only been three years, man!"

Evil Morty's smile widened slightly.

"Three years for you."

Morty felt his stomach tighten.

Oh, of course. Because apparently the situation wasn't horrible enough without the possibility that this lunatic had spent God knew how long planning something.

"Well, since I made the entire trip to your subconscious and discovered there really isn't anything interesting here, I'll do you the favor of explaining it in simple terms."

"Hey!"

"Time worked differently in prison. One day here was equivalent to one year there. So while you went on with your little life, this Morty here served the thousand-year sentence he owed."

Morty stared at him.

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. A thousand years? That guy had spent a thousand years in prison? The idea was so absurd that his brain seemed unable to decide whether it should be horrified or simply accept that the multiverse kept finding new ways to be a terrible place.

"Hm. Good for you."

Evil Morty tilted his head slightly.

"That's it?"

"What do you want me to do? Throw you a party? Congratulations on surviving a thousand years in prison, man. Want a balloon?"

The other Morty let out a short laugh, showing no sign of being offended.

Morty hated how much that irritated him.

That guy had a special talent for looking amused even when someone was seconds away from losing their mind. And the worst part was that Morty never knew whether he genuinely found something funny or was simply waiting for the right moment to do something horrible.

Maybe both.

Morty glanced at the plate of waffles.

Well, since he was there, he wasn't going to let the food get cold.

He picked up a waffle and took a bite without taking Evil Morty completely out of his field of vision. The other man remained seated at the table, watching him with an expression Morty couldn't interpret.

He chewed, swallowed, and pointed the waffle at his visitor.

"Okay. Why are you here?"

Evil Morty didn't answer immediately.

"Curiosity."

Morty waited.

The other man remained silent.

"Oh, screw you. You don't break into someone's house, show up in their kitchen, and say you're here out of curiosity."

"Would you prefer I said I missed you?"

Morty nearly choked.

"WHAT— NO! EW! No, man! What kind of question is that?!"

Evil Morty looked genuinely pleased with the reaction.

"Then we're in agreement."

Morty squeezed the waffle between his fingers, resisting the urge to throw it in his face. Not because he wanted to waste food. Well, not only because of that.

"You still haven't answered."

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Yeah, usually because people don't just show up out of nowhere in my kitchen!"

"Perhaps you should meet better people."

"I'M SEVENTEEN! I DON'T GET TO CHOOSE WHO SHOWS UP IN MY KITCHEN!"

Evil Morty rested his elbow on the table.

"Fascinating observation."

Morty closed his eyes for a second.

He was going to kill him.

No, wait. Calm down. He wasn't. He probably couldn't even touch him, considering that ridiculous force field. But he could try. And honestly, the idea was getting more tempting by the second.

He took a deep breath and went back to eating, because at least the waffles were good.

After a few bites, he remembered something else.

"Wait. If you're here, why haven't you killed us yet?"

That question seemed to catch Evil Morty's interest. He finally leaned back in his chair, studying Morty as if he were deciding how much of the answer was worth revealing.

"You always get straight to the point, don't you?"

"Y-you broke into my house after pretending you were in prison. I think I deserve some a-answers."

"Pretending?"

"Oh, shut up!"

Evil Morty smiled.

Morty felt his anger rising again. That smile. That damn expression of someone who knew something he didn't. That was exactly why he hated him. Evil Morty didn't need to shout, threaten him, or even lift a finger. All he had to do was sit there and look at him, and Morty already felt as though he were losing something.

"You didn't answer," he insisted.

"Maybe I haven't decided what to do with you yet."

The waffle stopped halfway to Morty's mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"You heard me."

"No, I heard the words. I just don't understand why you think you can show up here and—"

"Would you prefer I leave?"

Morty opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

He looked at the kitchen window, then at the door leading to the garage. If he shouted for Rick, would he hear him? Probably. But what if Evil Morty was waiting for exactly that? What if that ridiculous force field wasn't the only thing he'd prepared?

He didn't know. And he hated not knowing.

"I'd prefer it if you'd never come back," he finally replied.

For a moment, Evil Morty's smile faded. It happened so quickly that Morty almost thought he'd imagined it.

"I already knew that."

"Then why—"

"Because you still don't understand what's going on."

Morty dropped the waffle onto the plate.

"Then explain it, damn it!"

Evil Morty tilted his head, silently assessing him.

"Are you sure you want that?"

"YES!"

The kitchen seemed to grow quieter.

Evil Morty stood up.

Morty immediately stepped back, his body reacting before he had time to think. The other man noticed. Of course he did. And judging by the way his eyes narrowed, he seemed to find Morty's reaction much more interesting than anything he could have said.

"You're still predictable."

"Oh, and you're still an arrogant psychopath!"

"Finally, some consistency."

Morty grabbed the plate and threw it at him.

The force field intercepted it before it could reach its target.

The plate shattered into several pieces.

Evil Morty looked at the shards on the floor, then at Morty.

"You know that isn't going to work."

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have time to prepare a strategy, you idiot!"

"I noticed."

Morty charged at him anyway.

It wasn't an intelligent decision. He knew that even as he did it. But he was tired of standing still, tired of being afraid, tired of Evil Morty acting as if he could decide what happened to everyone.

He punched the force field.

A sharp pain shot through his hand.

"OW, SHIT!"

Evil Morty let out a low laugh.

Morty looked at his aching hand, then at him.

Fine.

That was it.

He was going to take that bastard down.

It didn't matter if the force field was impenetrable. It didn't matter if Evil Morty was smarter, better prepared, or had spent a thousand years thinking of ways to make his life miserable.

Morty was in his own dream.

Wait.

The thought appeared so suddenly that he stopped in the middle of his movement.

His own dream.

He'd woken up in bed. He'd decided to study magic. He'd gone downstairs for breakfast. And now Evil Morty was in the kitchen, exactly as he had been in the nightmare Morty had experienced before waking up.

This couldn't be real.

Could it?

Morty looked at his hands. Then at the kitchen. At the broken pieces of the plate scattered across the floor. At the window. At Evil Morty.

His heart was still racing, but for the first time since seeing his face, a different idea began to take shape.

What if he could control this?

What if, for once, he didn't have to simply react to whatever Evil Morty did?

"Oh," he murmured.

Evil Morty raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

Morty didn't answer. He focused on the force field, imagining it disappearing.

Nothing happened.

Evil Morty's smile returned.

"Are you trying something?"

"Shut up. I'm thinking."

"A dangerous activity for you."

Morty gritted his teeth. He concentrated again, this time imagining the force field shattering like glass. For a second, nothing changed.

Then a crack appeared in the air.

Evil Morty's smile disappeared.

Morty widened his eyes.

Oh.

Oh, that was new.

The crack spread, running across the invisible barrier. Evil Morty took a step back, and Morty felt such an intense rush of satisfaction that he almost forgot to breathe.

"Wait," Evil Morty said, his voice suddenly more urgent.

Morty smiled.

"Oh, now you want to talk?"

The barrier shattered.

Morty lunged without a second thought.

Evil Morty tried to dodge, but Morty hit him in the face before he could move away. The impact sent them both stumbling into the table, knocking over the chairs and scattering the remains of breakfast across the floor.

For a second, Morty was too surprised to react. He'd hit him. For real. There was no force field, no ridiculous gadget, no technological trick preventing his fist from reaching that bastard.

Then Evil Morty hit him back.

The punch landed in his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Morty doubled over and staggered backward, barely managing to raise his arms before Evil Morty grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the wall.

"Are you having fun?" Evil Morty asked irritably.

Morty let out a breathless laugh.

"A little, yeah!"

He raised his hand.

The wall behind Evil Morty suddenly warped, as if space itself had been crushed by an invisible force. The impact sent Evil Morty stumbling forward, and Morty took the opportunity to hit him again.

This time, Evil Morty fell.

Morty didn't wait for him to get back up. He rushed forward and hit him again, feeling years of pent-up anger finally find somewhere to go. Every time he'd been manipulated, every life that bastard had treated as disposable, every person who had nearly died because of his plans.

And, above all, that unbearable expression of someone who always knew more than everyone else.

"You think you can just show up here and do whatever you want?!"

Evil Morty blocked the next punch, grabbing his wrist.

"We're inside your head, Morty. Do you really think shouting is going to help?"

"I'M NOT SHOUTING!"

"Yes, you are."

Morty tried to hit him with his other hand. Evil Morty dodged and shoved him away, getting back to his feet.

"You have no idea what you're doing," he said, straightening his clothes.

"Oh, yeah? Then why do you look so worried?"

Evil Morty's expression hardened.

"That wasn't my objective."

Morty smiled, pleased that he'd finally found something capable of irritating him.

"Yeah. I figured you wouldn't like this."

He spread his fingers, imagining the floor opening beneath Evil Morty's feet.

The floor cracked.

Evil Morty jumped backward before the opening could swallow him, but Morty was already prepared. With an awkward gesture, he sent the table flying through the air toward him.

Evil Morty ducked. The table hit the wall and split in two.

"You're destroying your own mind," he observed.

"It's my family's kitchen!"

"Ah, of course. That makes everything much better."

"SCREW YOU!"

Morty tried to crush him against the ceiling.

For a moment, it worked. Evil Morty was lifted off the floor, his feet losing contact with the ground. The look of surprise on his face was so brief that Morty almost missed it, but it was enough to make him feel invincible.

Then Evil Morty twisted his body and broke free, landing on his knees.

Morty lost his concentration.

It was harder than he'd imagined. Controlling the dream wasn't like pressing a button. He had to think about what he wanted, keep the image in his mind, and pay attention to Evil Morty at the same time. And Evil Morty seemed determined not to give him a second to rest.

Evil Morty noticed his hesitation.

Of course he did.

He charged forward and punched Morty in the face. Morty's head snapped to the side, and he crashed against the counter, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

For a few seconds, all he could do was breathe.

"Are you done?" Evil Morty asked.

Morty looked up.

"Not... even close."

The answer came out quietly, but he forced himself to stand.

Evil Morty looked irritated now. Not exactly frightened, but irritated in a way Morty had never seen before. It wasn't the calm expression of someone who controlled every detail of the situation. It was the expression of someone whose plan had just gone wrong and who hadn't figured out how to fix it yet.

Morty felt an almost childish sense of satisfaction.

Finally.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate. He didn't need to control every object in the kitchen. He didn't need to beat Evil Morty in a fair fight. This was a dream. Things didn't have to follow the rules of the real world.

He just needed to decide what happened.

When he opened his eyes, the floor beneath Evil Morty disappeared.

The other man fell, but managed to grab the edge before dropping into the void that had opened beneath him. Morty approached, breathing hard, and watched Evil Morty try to find something to hold on to.

"You know what your problem is?" Morty asked.

Evil Morty raised his face but didn't answer.

"You think everyone is as predictable as you are."

Morty made a gesture.

Evil Morty's fingers slipped from the edge.

For a moment, Morty felt a wave of triumph. The other man fell, disappearing into the darkness beneath the kitchen.

Then Morty realized there was no floor beneath his own feet.

"Wait, what?"

The world turned upside down.

The kitchen came apart around him, the walls stretching and twisting until they no longer looked like walls. Morty tried to regain control, but his concentration shattered. He didn't know whether this was Evil Morty's doing, a consequence of the dream itself, or simply his brain deciding he'd suffered enough for one night.

He fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Until a hand grabbed his arm.

Morty screamed and tried to pull away, but Evil Morty was there, suspended in the void with him. His hair was a mess, his face was bruised, and he looked far less amused than before.

"Are you trying to kill us?" Evil Morty asked.

"YOU SHOWED UP INSIDE MY HEAD!"

"I noticed."

"YOU ATTACKED ME!"

"You started it."

"YOU BROKE INTO MY HOUSE!"

"Are we going back to that part?"

Morty tried to hit him, but Evil Morty grabbed his wrist. They struggled in the void, each trying to get away from the other, until Morty managed to hit him in the face again.

Evil Morty released his arm.

For a moment, they hung apart, falling in opposite directions.

Morty tried to think of something. Anything. A staircase, a door, the floor of his bedroom. He needed to wake up. He needed to get out of there before that lunatic found another way to turn the situation against him.

But when he tried to picture his bed, all he saw was Evil Morty's face.

The eyepatch. The smile. Those eyes fixed on him.

Evil Morty raised one hand, and the space between them suddenly contracted. Morty was pulled toward him, crashing into him with force.

"You're not understanding," Evil Morty said, grabbing his shirt. "You have no idea what you're doing."

"Then let me wake up!"

"It's not that simple."

"I DON'T CARE!"

Morty tried to push him away, but Evil Morty held him more tightly. The anger returned, hot and immediate. He didn't want to hear explanations. He didn't want to know why that bastard was there or what he intended to do to him.

He just wanted it to stop.

He wanted Evil Morty to disappear once and for all.

Morty focused everything he could still control on the hand gripping the other man's shirt. He imagined Evil Morty being thrown away. Not merely pushed back, but expelled from that place, ripped out of the dream as if he'd never belonged there.

The space around them trembled.

Evil Morty finally seemed to understand what was about to happen.

"Morty, wait—"

Morty threw him away.

The force was much greater than he'd expected. Evil Morty's body disappeared into the darkness, and the entire void seemed to close around him. For a moment, Morty felt as though he could keep going. He could do it again, make sure Evil Morty never came back, end everything before he had the chance to hurt anyone.

Then he saw the other man reappear right in front of him.

Evil Morty's face was twisted with rage.

"You idiot!"

He grabbed Morty by the throat.

Morty tried to break free, but the fingers tightened around his neck. Panic overwhelmed him, and all the concentration he'd gathered fell apart. He tried to push Evil Morty away, tried to make anything happen, but his mind was too full of fear to think clearly.

Evil Morty stared at him for a few seconds, as if wondering how things had escalated so far and how he'd allowed it to happen.

Then Morty managed to touch his arm.

He didn't know exactly what he did. There was no plan, no conscious decision. He just thought about pushing him away, escaping, not dying there.

Evil Morty was hurled away.

Morty dropped to his knees against an invisible barrier, coughing as the edge of the void began to collapse around them. Fragments of the kitchen, the living room, and places he didn't recognize appeared and disappeared, like broken images of things Morty couldn't remember.

Evil Morty tried to approach him again, but the space between them warped with every movement.

"Morty! Seriously, cut that shit out! I need to talk to you. It was hard enough getting into that empty head of yours!"

For the first time, his voice didn't sound mocking.

Morty raised his head, startled. He didn't know if this was another trick or if something was genuinely going wrong. The only thing he knew was that he needed to get out of there.

"Go to hell!" he shouted.

The world exploded into light.

Morty woke with a start, falling out of bed and hitting his shoulder against the floor.

For a few seconds, he lay on his side, struggling to breathe. The room was dark, silent, and perfectly normal. No void, no destroyed kitchen, no Evil Morty trying to strangle him.

Just him, the floor, and a very real pain in his shoulder.

Morty put a hand to his neck.

Nothing.

He ran his fingers over his face, checking for injuries. Nothing there, either. There was no blood in his mouth and no marks on his arms. His body seemed intact, although his heart was beating so fast he was sure it was about to jump out of his throat.

"Jeez," he whispered.

He sat on the floor for a while, staring at the bed.

It had been a dream.

A really, really bad dream.

But there was one thing he couldn't get out of his head: for a few moments, he'd controlled everything. He'd broken Evil Morty's force field, changed the environment, and nearly destroyed him without even hearing what he'd wanted to say at the end.

Morty swallowed hard.

He didn't know what it meant. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the dream. Maybe his mind had found a way to give him some control over a situation in which he wouldn't have had any in real life.

Or maybe something stranger was happening.

He didn't want to think about it right now.

He got up carefully, returned to bed, and pulled the blankets up to his chin. After a few seconds, he reached out and turned on the bedside lamp.

The room was still empty.

Morty looked at the closed window, the desk, and the door. Everything was in place.

Even so, he couldn't relax.

Because, in the end, there was a difference between dreaming that Evil Morty had returned and feeling as though he'd actually been there.

And Morty wasn't sure which of the two possibilities frightened him more.

Morty remained sitting on the bed, clutching the blankets against his chest and staring at the door.

Several minutes had passed since he woke up, but his heart still hadn't returned to its normal rhythm. The sensation of Evil Morty's fingers around his throat remained so vivid that he had to touch his neck again to convince himself he was okay.

Great. Now even sleeping wasn't safe.

He exhaled and rubbed his face with both hands.

The worst part hadn't been the fight. Well, it had been horrible, obviously. He didn't usually dream about beating people up, much less about almost getting strangled by them. But there was something else that kept bothering him.

Evil Morty had said he wanted to explain what was going on.

And then he hadn't explained a damn thing.

Morty frowned.

What had he meant by that? Why had he appeared specifically in Morty's subconscious? And if it was only a dream, why had Evil Morty seemed so determined to stop him from waking up?

Maybe that last part was just his imagination. After all, dreams didn't have to make sense. He'd dreamed about much more absurd things before, and none of them had meant the multiverse was about to end.

Although, considering his life, that wasn't exactly an absurd possibility.

Morty looked at the clock. There was still plenty of time before sunrise.

Great. Perfect. Now he had hours to lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, and think about the psychopath who'd just nearly killed him in a dream.

"Why can't you just stay away?" he muttered.

The question hung in the air, begging for an answer.

Morty turned onto his side and pulled his pillow closer. He tried to think about something else. The spellbook, his day off, the waffles that probably hadn't even existed. Anything that didn't involve that damn eyepatch.

It didn't work.

Because the more he thought about it, the more one thing bothered him: Evil Morty had had the chance to explain what he wanted. Instead, he'd provoked Morty, fought him, and tried to keep him there.

Maybe he wanted information. Maybe he was trying to find something out about Morty. Or maybe it was just another one of those stupid mind games Evil Morty seemed to love.

But if that was the case, why hadn't he finished what he'd started?

Morty pressed his lips together.

He hated to admit it, but he was curious.

Not that he wanted to see Evil Morty again. Of course not. Wanting that guy to come back after everything that had happened would be completely stupid. Morty wasn't a masochist.

He just wanted answers.

That was different.

At least, that's what he told himself.

He settled against the pillow and looked at the door one more time. Part of him hoped it had all been just a nightmare, without any meaning beyond his mind trying to scare him.

Another part, however, remembered the moment he'd broken the force field. The surprise on Evil Morty's face. The way he'd seemed to lose control of the situation for the first time.

Morty had never managed to do that in real life. He'd never had the chance to face Evil Morty on anything even remotely resembling equal terms.

And for a few seconds, in that dream, he'd managed it.

A small smile appeared on his face before he could stop it.

"I almost took you down, you bastard," he whispered.

The satisfaction didn't last long. It was soon replaced by the memory of Evil Morty disappearing into the void and the question that still had no answer.

What did he really want?

Morty closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that it didn't matter. If Evil Morty had genuinely returned, Rick would find out. And if he hadn't, there was no reason to keep worrying.

It was simple.

He repeated that to himself a few times.

Then he turned onto his other side, adjusted the blankets, and tried to fall asleep again.

Even so, just before drifting off, an inconvenient thought crossed his mind.

If he shows up again, maybe I can make him talk.

Morty opened his eyes.

"...Damn it."

He didn't want Evil Morty to come back.

Definitely not.

But if he did, Morty intended to be ready.