Work Text:
When the Morty Collecting craze begins, Storage Rick doesn't question his new position. If anything, he resents it. He's been a loyal Rick for years, he should be in a position that interacts with Beths and Summers, not fucking babysitting. Still, he can be patient. He can wait for his time to come.
He stocks the Daycare with porn and ice cream, and then he waits for the Mortys to come pouring in. It's only later that he begins to question everything.
The Daycare's full of low-level Mortys, the kind that would barely last two hits in a fight. And maybe that's what begins to make Storage Rick go soft.
These Mortys, these versions of his grandson, they're just so... helpless, even by Morty standards. Storage Rick's always been a bit of a homebody for a Rick, but these Mortys sometimes make him want to wrap them in blankets and put on a Ball Fondlers marathon.
One evening, when he acts on his stupid whim, the Mortys seem to lean towards him like moths to a flame.
"Hey, Storage, do I have any rock type M-Mortys?" one of him clients says. Storage glances at his list, but he doesn't need to. He remembers that this Rick has a Hammer Morty.
"Sure - Sure thing, X-342," he mumbles, trying not to think about it.
Storage Rick usually ignores individual Mortys, preferring to think about them by their designation (Stray Cat Morty, Level 5; Hippie Morty, Level 3). But sometimes... sometimes the Mortys make it difficult.
"You know, you're r-r-really not all t-that bad, Storage Rick. For - For a Rick, I mean."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Morticia looks up at him trustingly. Idiot.
"I-I mean, you care about us. You give us ice cream and stay up late watching TV. M-Most Ricks wouldn't do that."
"Look, M-Morticia, I'm a Rick. If you think I give half a shit about Mortys, you're fucking deluded. The Council gave me this stupid job, that's all." Storage Rick takes a swig from his flask. From the way Morticia is looking at him, he can tell she doesn't believe him.
Storage Rick hates combining Mortys. They always look at him like he's betraying them as he ushers them into the machine, their screams always pierce right through the metal shell, and the Morty that comes out... well, it isn't one of his Mortys.
Fuck, Storage Rick needs a drink.
"Storage Rick, w-what'll happen to us, w-when Morty Collecting s-stops?" Storage Rick grimaces. Some Mortys he pays more mind to than others, and Scruffy Mortys are one of them. They're just - They're so fucking useless, they never get leveled up once a Rick has another rock type, they just stay in the daycare and get put in the combiner over and over and over again.
"I don't fucking know," Storage Rick says. "You - you Mortys will probably go to the Citadel, get repurposed or reprocessed or whatever the fuck they're calling it now." Tears start building in Scruffy Morty's eyes.
"Wh-wh-bu-" he stammers.
"Aw, don't look at me like that. Look, buddy, it's - it's not as bad as it-uRp-it sounds. You'll get put with a nice Smith family, you'll have a normal life, you won't have to deal with the Daycare or Ricks, not unless some Mortyless bastard decides he needs a Morty. You - You'll be fine."
"But I don't want to be fine, Rick," Scruffy Morty says. "I want to stay here with you."
"Well, then you're an even bigger moron than I thought," says Storage Rick, trying to ignore the way his stomach squirms when Scruffy Morty calls him Rick, just Rick.
Storage Rick decommissions the manipulator chip of every Morty he gets his hands on. Whatever the fucking Council says, those things are just begging to be abused, and Storage Rick isn't about to let that happen to any of his Mortys.
Going to the Morty Games is more of a lark than anything else, an excuse to get out of the Daycare and into the company of other Ricks. His job might be to look after his Mortys, but sometimes he wants to have a fucking intelligent conversation. Of course, the Morty Games aren't much better. Goddamn sadists.
He's hanging around in the lobby, drinking and trying to ignore the voices (his voices) urging the Morties on, when he hears it. A scream, like so many others but different in one significant way.
"Rick!" It's coming from the Morty bathroom, high and scared and somehow Storage Rick knows that this isn't normal, for whatever that word's worth in the Citadel.
"Fuck it," he mumbles, downing the last of his flask and bursting into the bathroom.
The sight that meets him is enough for Storage Rick to wish he had another flask. Either that or his gun. But he doesn't have anything but his fists, so he has to content himself with ripping the god damn rapist jelly bean off the Morty and slamming the bastard into the side of the stall.
"What the actual fuck are you doing?" Storage Rick snarls.
"N-Now come on, he's just a Morty. A pretty one, but still-" The bean's simpering words are cut off by Storage Rick slamming his head between the wall and the stall door.
"Let me get this st-straight with you, a-hole. You are fucking lucky that I don't have my gun with me. Next time, you won't be, so I'd suggest going far, far away as quickly as you can." One more slam, and he lets the jelly bean go, the asshole running out of the bathroom with his tail between his legs. With any luck, one of the other Ricks will figure out the obvious and finish what Storage Rick started.
"Th-That was - Th-That was-" Storage Rick turns around to see the Morty looking up at him with an expression of awe, almost worship. "Y-Y-You saved me."
"Where's your Rick, Morty?" The Morty flinches. "Okay, stupid question. I don't - uRp - suppose you know what dimension you're from?"
"N-No. I-I was - I was caught. I don't-"
"Okay, Morty, it's okay." Jesus, the last thing he needs is a hysterical Morty on his hands. "Look, I'm - I'm Storage Rick, I run the Daycare. We'll figure this out, Morty, we'll find you your Rick." The Morty shakes his head.
"C-Can't I just, you know, stay at the Daycare?" Storage Rick reaches for his flask only to remember that, yeah, fuck, it's empty.
"Look, Morty, that's not - that's not how things work here. You - you already have a Rick, I'm not-"
"You're better," Morty says fiercely, and Storage Rick blinks. "You're - You're one of the good ones. A good Rick." Storage Rick is blatently staring now, incapable of understanding how this Morty could possibly have gotten him so wrong. "I could be y-your Morty. I-I wouldn't even mind b-battling other Morties. P-Please-"
"Shut up, Morty," Storage Rick says, finally getting his voice back. "That's not the way it works."
There's something different about Rick C-137 and his Morty. Maybe it's the way that the Rick complains loudly about being forced to battle the Council until for his portal gun back. Maybe it's the way that the Morty only protests half-heartedly, seeming pretty much willing to go along for the ride.
Maybe it's the fact that this Rick only brings his Morties back stunned, never dead.
Whatever the reason, Storage Rick makes a decision. It isn't as though he has a lot of power here, he's just a babysitter after all, but if he were to, say, replace one of C-137's Hammer Morties with a stronger one or give him a little extra Turbulent Juice in the combiner, well, no one but him can tell the difference.
When the whole fad has well and truly ended, the Council gives him the option of a new assignment. It's a good one, better than his current place, more opportunities to interact with Beths and Summers. Storage Rick should be jumping for joy.
Instead, he quietly puts in his resignation and goes back to the Daycare. And, look, it's not like he's being self-sacrificing or good or whatever. In fact, he's being pretty fucking selfish. Having so many Morties with him, all the time? He'll never be found by the government, or anyone else for that matter. He's free.
And if his freedom means he's able to indulge in Ball Fondlers marathons and sooth nightmares rather than give over a Morty whenever the Council orders him to? Well, he just won't think about it.