Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That Wednesday was, without a doubt, the worst day in your fifteen-year-long life.

Around 9AM, first Ricks and their Mortys started to gather at the cemetery. The turbid cloud of fog enveloped all attenders, burying the distant tombstones in the milky mist, the humidity making your hair stick to your neck and your forehead.

Sitting you in the front row was—hands down—probably the worst idea the idiot who was filling the seating chart could’ve possibly had. From this spot, right next to the open casket, you had a perfect view on your father’s corpse.

You tried to not look, knowing what would stare back at you. The two gaping bullet wounds in his forehead, one right next to the other, and the deep, irregular crack in his torn skin and ripped muscle where his jaw was brutally broken.

The blood that gushed from the hole avulsed in his skull and stained his face and clothes was now nowhere to be seen. Whoever was preparing the body for the burial made sure that his jaw wrested from the hinges was set in place. From this angle, you almost couldn’t see the deep crevice in his cheek, a glimpse into the layer of meat hidden beneath the greyish skin.

At least his eyes were closed.

Against what the funeral director was insisting on, you decided you wouldn’t be dressing him in a suit. That’s not what your dad would’ve wanted. He lay in the coffin clad in his usual clothes—lab coat, washed-out pants and the blue long-sleeve.

By your request, there was no priest and no mass. The ceremony was quick and quiet; your dad’s best friend from the lab, one of the very few Ricks there who had the decency to at least change from their oil-stained, dirty clothes into something more civilised, gave a short speech.

You waited for everyone else to pay their respects and did it last. Staring down at your father’s lifeless body and peaceful, yet deeply damaged face felt surreal. You didn’t speak aloud, you didn’t even know what you would say. Your head was empty, your fingers cold and tingling, you couldn’t feel your own heartbeat.

For the entire rite, you somewhat expected him to just snap his eyes open, crawl out of the coffin unceremoniously, flip everyone off and demand to be opened a beer.

He didn’t.

At the very end, right before the lid of the casket was closed, you slipped the USB stick with all the data he’d ever collected into the inner pocket of his lab coat. His research died with him.

You counted nearly fifty people that gathered to say the last goodbyes to the lead research scientist of the Citadel. You also watched them all leave, nodding at you morosely and mumbling ‘condolences’ to you on their way out. Your dad’s best friend squeezed your shoulder reassuringly when he was leaving as the second-last person there, murmuring to you that everything would be fine.

You didn’t have the energy to respond. When the last portal closed with a loud pop, you realized you were all alone at the graveyard, surrounded by long forgotten corpses nobody visited and a ton of empty plastic chairs, sitting at the feet of your only family member. And then it hit you that you’d probably be alone for the rest of your life.

“Jesus fucking Christ, took l-long enough,” you heard a Rick belch behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder at the person who was approaching and frowned. You didn’t recognize the Rick and Morty who were getting closer to the freshly buried remains, but it did irk you a little that they were showing up only now.

The first few raindrops splashed on your head as you turned around to face them.

“The funeral just ended,” you informed flatly, shoulders slumped.

Morty was in the middle of opening his mouth, perhaps to say something irrelevant, but before his tongue could form a syllable the Rick standing right next to him whipped out a gun from the pocket of his lab coat.

You stared at the weapon with your eyes blown wide, a sudden realization knocking the wind out of your lungs. You’d recognize the gat anywhere. The same piece made your father’s brain matter splutter on the wall in front of him and stained his clothes scarlet.

“Don’t-don’t take it personally,” his defiance completely threw you off. He aimed right at your forehead. “You have something I want.”

Your lips parted in silent preparation to start screaming, but before the sound could escape your throat, you could hear a shot being fired. The last thing you saw was Morty’s petrified expression before everything went black.

Chapter Text

“Move her a bit to the left, Morty. L-left, for fuck’s sake! D-do you know where the fuck is left?”

The familiar, rough voice was the first thing you registered fully. Right after, every single one of your senses was evaded and your body protested, flinching.

“Rick! She’s a-awake!” Morty panicked, the sound of his footsteps suggesting he was circling you.

The second thing that got to you was the chimeric migraine that felt like someone took a solid swing and bashed your skull inwards with a hammer. The bitter, acidic taste of bile on your tongue made you wince, and when you tried to straighten up in your seat, you discovered you were tied to it with something that resembled a rope. You forced your eyes open, fighting to adjust your blurry vision.

Once you could tell the tall, lanky figure of a man apart from the wall behind him, you thrashed with enough strength for the chair to creak and move a few inches forward. The rope, however, didn’t budge.

“Woah, e-easy there,” Sanchez mumbled from his spot next to the workbench, sparing you a singular glance before his attention returned to whatever contraption was lying in front of him. “Don’t make me paralyse you.”

“What do you want?” you struggled to speak, the words coming out a bit slurred. However, the dronish nature of your speech didn’t prevent it from being laced with venom.

Morty, who stood right next to you, stared directly at you with his eyebrows quirked upwards and with the edge of his yellow shirt in his hands as he fidgeted with it restlessly. You shot him a glare that’d probably melt steel, making him leap to his feet and scramble towards his grandpa.

“I need you to answer a f-few questions,” Rick spun on his heel to face you, shoving a hand into the pocket of his lab coat to retrieve the metal flask.

“I’m not telling you shit,” your tone was sharp as a blade as you tugged on the tight knot tied behind your back again. “Go fuck yourself.”

He didn’t answer right away, busy sipping the liquor lazily and eyeing you across the garage as if he was watching a highly interesting exhibit on a display. Morty didn’t dare to look at you again—he mumbled something about needing to pee and quickly darted the hell out of there. You, on the other hand, looked around, taking in as many details as you could.

“L-look, I’m getting what I want, and it doesn’t matter if-if you think you have a ch-choice here,” he turned with his back to you, grabbed something from the workbench and turned back around. “You can e-either die fast, or you can serve as the fabric for my n-new jacket.”

Your gaze focused on the device he was holding while you tried to wrap your head around the situation you found yourself in. That man standing before you wore the face of your father, had the same posture and an identical voice, yet they couldn’t be more different.

This Rick had furrows dug in his skin that were the testament of years of bitterness and worry, meanwhile the only wrinkles that decorated your father’s face were smile lines. Your dad’s voice was always hoarse from decades of the acrid cigarette smoke and alcohol burning a trail in his throat, yet his tone was always gentle. This Rick’s voice was harsh and cold, even when he was talking to his grandson. Something in the way he looked at you made you sure he’d have no problem eviscerating you clean and screwing your head down to a plank in order to hang it up in the living room. You’d seen many versions of Ricks like this before; cold, merciless, psychopathic. You’d studied their brains and performed operations on the unfortunate people who had enough misfortune to stand in their way.

A cold shiver ran down your spine, you squirmed in your seat again in a desperate hope that the knot would loosen up a bit.

“What do you even want to know, anyway?” you asked, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray the level of distress you were reaching. “You know you abducted the wrong person, right? I’m just a surgeon."

The pitiful smirk you received in return assured you he knew exactly who he’d kidnapped and why.

“Sure,” he drawled, taking a few slow, deliberate steps in your direction. “And you just happen to h-have access to all of Citadel’s re-research.”

“Ja pierdolę,” you mumbled to yourself, pulling at the rope again in case it’d magically untied itself. You stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, millions of thoughts racing through your mind. “Do you have any idea how many experiments and searches we conduct a month? Like, even a vague notion?”

“Ten b-branches,” he shrugged, walking over to a control panel on the wall and typing a few things into it. “A-a-and I’m interested in two.”

At this point, you weren’t even surprised he was correct, even though there were only three people who knew about it—your father, now dead; the founder of the Central Sanchez Labs who sat in the Council until last month when he’d been brutally killed, and you. You suspected he might’ve been the one who ripped Rick D-115 to shreds just to get the info out of him. And apparently, he didn’t, because otherwise you wouldn’t even be there in the first place.

A wave of sudden despair washed over you, but you shoved it into the darkest pits of your mind. Now was not the time.

“What branches?” you delved further, scanning him attentively.

He glanced at you blankly before a loud beep filled the air and something in the garage shifted. A machine you recognized damn well egressed from the concrete right next to the door, a few of its lights flashing red and blue, signaling it was ready to be used. You had never been this scared in your life, all blood drained from your face, for a moment you even forgot about the excruciating headache making you dizzy.

“I re-really liked that biomechatronic chip of yours,” he said casually, not even bothering to look your way when you surged forward on your chair with a deafening screech, honestly now just praying to whatever god that was willing to listen to loosen that damn rope. “The-the one you insert into Ricks’ brains to c-control them.”

You almost choked on air with how abruptly you sucked in a breath, struggling to figure out how on Earth he knew about that. It was your biggest secret—forcefully sending various Ricks into surgery under any excuse, luring them in with many promises, inserting a chip that connected their brains to one giant remotely-controlled database and downloading their brain contents onto one hard drive.

“I, hm, interviewed that o-one Rick. D-something, I th-think,” he mumbled right into the flask he brought to his lips, eyeing you premonitorily. “Bastard had n-no clue what you were doing down there, goddamn! And-and to think Morty’s just a year younger than you but so fucking stupid. A literal kid r-running the Citadel on her own. Those as-assholes, on a leash like dogs.”

When you didn’t respond, too terrified to be able to form a coherent sentence, he turned to face you fully. That begrudgingly respectful purse of lips could also be a sign of disgust.

“You devised the software for this on-on your own?” he whipped out one of your chips out of the pocket of his pants, turning it around in his fingers. The way it was covered in dried blood told you he dug it out from someone’s brain. “Or did-did your dad design it for you?”

You looked at him, and he apparently read your expression like an open book because he let out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head.

“Holy fucking hell, he-he had a chip like this in his brain, too, right?” this time, Rick genuinely seemed to be impressed. He came a bit closer to you, pulling out a knife that was tucked beneath his belt. “E-everyone in the fucking Citadel does. Holy-holy fuck.”

You dug your feet into the concrete and pushed yourself back on the chair the farthest you could from the blade, getting nauseous.

“Not… everyone,” you protested weakly, eyes locked on the shank reflecting the dim lights of the garage and casting glints on the floor. “The population of the Citadel is around three hundred million people. There’s… there’s a hundred and twelve million Ricks figuring in the database.”

“And how many people out of the three hundred million are Ricks?” his voice was low and dangerous. He was getting closer, flipping the blade like it was a ball. “Half?”

“A hundred and seventy million,” you whispered, barely hearing his voice over the hum of your own blood in your ears.

He stopped playing with the weapon and just studied you intently, and you could see in real time how gears were turning in his head, the moment of hesitation before he visibly changed his mind.

“So there’s-there’s only fifty-eight million of Ricks who weren’t brainwashed,” he summed up slowly.

“Yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed with amusement, the corners of his lips stretching into a smirk.

He passed by you and stood right behind you, you caught the glimpse of the rusty blade in the corner of your eye. You held your breath in preparation for getting your throat slit open, but instead, you could feel the tightness of the tied rope loosen, eventually slip away and hit the floor. You were free, but you didn’t dare to move yet.

“Do you have a-a separate database for Mortys?” he questioned, returning to your view.

You stared at your blueish, cold hands, trying to regain at least some feeling in them by bending your fingers. It almost felt illegal, not being strapped to your chair in some Rick’s garage. God knows where, too.

“No, not really,” you admitted quietly, hesitating if you should just reveal your deepest secrets to a random Rick. But then, you glanced at the machine standing a few feet away from you and you acknowledged bitterly that he would’ve gotten the info out of you one way or another. “There’s no need. Their occasional liberating bursts lead nowhere. They hate each other, especially the cop Mortys. They’d do anything to decapitate another version of themselves that had the audacity to jump the gun.”

“You only con-control Ricks, huh?” he seemed a bit surprised you didn’t immediately launch yourself at him the second he cut the rope, just remained seated in the middle of the garage.

“I wouldn’t call it control per se,” you mumbled defensively, the adrenaline that fueled you when you’d seen him approach you with a knife slowly dying down. “More like… limited authority. They still keep some of their individuality, I just supervise everything.”

Rick was already halfway through forming a sentence when something dawned upon him. He stared at you as if he just saw a ghost, then let out a rough chuckle filled to the brim with disbelief.

“You’re n-not just some scientist,” he said slowly. Something flickered across his face for a second, and you caught it; it was scunner. “You-you’re a fucking hive mind.”

You ran a hand through your hair, brushing it away from your face as you exhaled deeply. He found your gaze and held your glare, eyeing you the same way a vendee assesses a product’s value on an auction.

“Congratulations on figuring it out,” you kept your voice level, resting your cold hands on your knees. “You’re the first one to add two to fucking two.”

He snickered, walking over to his workbench and picking up an oval device from it. You recognized it right away—it was a scanner commonly used to measure brain frequency. He turned it on, tilted it your way and stared at the screen. You were waiting for him to realize he wouldn’t be able to just get to your nervous system so easily.

“Who’s y-your mom, then?” he questioned, looking up at you from under the frown that formed on his face once the device announced an error.

“They were called V-9,” you responded after a short pause, crossing your legs. You would’ve stood up by now, but you didn’t trust your wobbly legs to hold up your whole body weight. “I wasn’t born or raised in the Citadel, you know.”

“Nobody was,” Rick pointed out soberly, attempting to scan you again. You couldn’t help the idiotic smirk that appeared on your lips. “Dumpster full of strays and fucking m-morons.” And then, after a second-lasting pause, “fucking shit. What fucking er-error?”

“You can’t scan me like that,” you decided to just enlighten him.

“Copper?” he immediately got suspicious.

You almost rolled your eyes. Did he seriously think you were this stupid?

“Mini Faraday cage,” you informed him in a cloying tone, smiling sweetly.

He glared at you, unimpressed before throwing the useless device back onto the workbench. You were about to ask him something when the door to the garage swung open. In the doorframe stood a blonde with a bag thrown over her shoulder, her perfectly symmetrical eyebrows knitted, a grimace of outrage on her face.

“Dad,” she started sharply, “Morty just told me you’re holding some girl hostage in here? What did I tell you about having some… weird space prisoners? You promised you wouldn’t pull shit like this anymore! I swear…”

“Beth,” Rick interrupted her offhandedly, gesturing with his head to your figure, still sitting on the chair in the middle of the garage. “L-look. She’s-she’s not even tied up. Chill out.”

Her eyes drifted in the pointed direction, meeting your gaze. You gave a ghost of a smile, watching the shock on her face replace the previous irritation. She set her bag on the floor with a loud thud and passed by her father, making her way to you. When she stopped right in front of the chair, you felt pressured enough to stand up as well.

“Who are you?” Beth’s tone was dripping with something bordering with pure fear as she stared at you with wide eyes.

“She-she’s the goddamn devil, sweetie,” Rick answered for you, grinning stupidly to himself with his arms folded on his chest. “Lucifer her-herself.”

The expression on the blonde’s face prompted that she truly had no clue if Sanchez was serious or not. You rolled your eyes, stretching out your freezing cold, still livid hand for her to shake.

You introduced yourself, squeezing her hand lightly once she gained enough courage to grab yours.

“Beth,” she returned the favor, her wary gaze still not leaving your face.

And then it clicked. You knew you very much looked like your father—blue hair, the same expressions, identical attitude. It must’ve been weird for her to see someone so similar to her dad.

Not letting go of your hand, she turned halfway to Rick and deadpanned, “dad? Is that your daughter?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“No,” you responded at the same time.

You and Rick exchanged telltale looks over Beth’s head as one of her eyebrows shot up.

“In a way,” he finally sighed, leaning against the workbench. He seemed casual, but the tension trapped in his shoulders betrayed his true concerns.

“I’m not dealing with this now,” she put her hands up in the air slightly in a gesture of defeat, retreating back to the house. She glanced at you briefly before disappearing in the kitchen, her voice speaking from a distance, “and I want to see you both at the table in ten minutes, sharp.”

Your gaze lingered in the spot where she stood just a moment before, then slid to Rick who turned out to be already looking at you. He cleared his throat, and you immediately understood what he was implying. Your expression hardened.

“And what will I get for letting you scan my brain?” you asked, crossing arms over your chest. The back of your legs was touching the edge of the chair, and it reminded you to not take any steps back.

“I won’t… I’ll try not t-to kill you,” he said in a ceremonial tone, and if you hadn’t heard the same shitty lie before you would’ve fallen for it.

“What if I say no?” you challenged, staring at him feistily.

Rick looked like he was waiting for you to say that. He snatched a sci-fi gun from his workbench and fired the shot at you right away, the garage filling with the deafening sound, a flash of blue lighting up your faces.

It took all of your willpower to not flinch. The laser bullet bounced off the protective field spread around your body, stopping it maybe two inches away from your face.

“Nice try, asshole,” you scoffed, picking up the shell from the floor and examining it closely. “Astatine and titanium? God, I know you have all the time in the world, but seriously? You wanted to fuck with this?”

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded closely to ‘fucking teenagers’ and ‘judgemental ass bitch’ before lowering the gun.

“How the fuck…? You-you didn’t have this shit on when I-I knocked you out!”

“This is an emergency setting,” you informed him dryly.

“Oh, so getting shot with a decoy bullet at a graveyard by a stranger isn’t an emergency?” you couldn’t help but snort at the completely pissed look on his face and hands curled up into fists. “You t-think this is funny?”

“I heard a shot,” a red mane peeked through the thin gap between the door and the frame first before Summer wedged into the garage, making both your heads turn her way.

Her eyes stuck to you like a bug to a flypaper, her face gradually gaining confusion. She rested her hands on her hips, gaze darting between your frame and Rick. You assumed she was comparing you two.

“She looks just like you, but like, super fucking pretty,” she ultimately delivered the final verdict, to which you reacted with a subtle smile. “Grandpa, stop shooting… whoever this is. Mom’s calling you both for dinner.”

“T-tell your mom that we-we’re busy, Sum-Sum.”

“Oh, I am coming alright,” you ignored him, crossing the garage as if it was your own. You hoped it wasn’t visible how badly your knees were shaking.

On the way to the doorframe, you lifted Beth’s bag from the floor.

Summer grinned at you, shutting the door behind you and cutting Rick off mid-sentence.

“I hope you realize getting invited to sit with us at dinner is, like, the highest honor,” she informed you, her ponytail swinging left to right when she made the funniest gesture you’d ever seen. You snorted. “I’m dead serious. Mom’s never asked any of grandpa’s friends to come eat with us, let alone a prisoner.”

“I’m not much of a prisoner,” you mumbled in response, eyeing Beth’s purse from an askance. You spotted something that caught your attention. “He doesn’t hold any power over me.”

The redhead’s eyebrows jerked up as you piqued her interest. You could hear the clutter of plates and silverware being set down on the table, a male voice scolding Morty over skipping history, the teenage boy firing back a savage response right away, Beth hushing them both.

“I’ll just stay for dinner, and then I’ll be on my way,” you decided with a long exhale, setting Beth’s purse on the kitchen counter.

“N-no the fuck you won’t,” you heard Rick grumble acrimoniously from behind your back. The subtle vibration and the barely audible noise of a slug hitting the floor below your feet let you know he tried shooting you again.

You twirled around with your eyebrows raised, scanning him from head to toe. So did Summer.

Rick shrugged, shoving the weapon back into his lab coat.

“I-I’d be an idiot if I didn’t try,” he squeezed past you both, disappearing in the dining room after gracing your presence with a middle finger pointed your way.

You sighed, then you both followed his steps into the other room.

Summer sat you between herself and Beth, who was seated on your right. In front of you was Morty who did absolutely everything in his power to not even brush over your face with his gaze, stubbornly staring down at the steaming plate in front of him. Next to Morty was Rick, sprawling in his chair, and judging by the face-splitting, shit-eating grin that beamed on his face he was taking up half of Jerry’s space just to piss him off. What, of course, appeared to work wonders, because his face quickly gained enough color to compete with a lobster.

You looked down at your plate, trying your best to figure out what, exactly, you were supposed to be eating. Beth must’ve noticed the uncertainty curving your eyebrows and the subtle purse of your lips, because she rushed with an explanation, successfully making Jerry shut up.

“Oh, this is, um, I tried something new today,” nervosity tinged her forcefully casual tone. “I didn’t know dad would invite someone over, it was supposed to be smoked salmon and a fancy version of mashed potatoes I saw online. I don’t know why it came out so gray.”

You looked at her, at the nervous expression and almost palpable regret and you offered a warm smile in return, hoping it wouldn’t cause the opposite effect to desired.
“It’s okay,” you reassured her, trying to get some of the grayish salmon onto your fork. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Silence fell for maybe ten seconds in total before Beth cleared her throat and, moving the food around her plate with greatest focus, kindly externalised the exact same question Jerry had written all over his face.

“Dad? Can you please tell us who that is?”

Your gaze wandered off from the blonde to Rick as you shoved the food into your mouth. He stared right back at you with his unibrow forming a V-shape and his knuckles turning white from how tightly he was gripping the fork.

Summer leaned your way and whispered in your ear, “twenty bucks he says something about needing you for research.” You gave a quick nod, your eyes never leaving his figure.

“That’s a psychopathic maniac from-from the Citadel,” he burped out, swirling the knife in the air. “I-I-I n-need her. For. Research.”

Beth’s face fell, Jerry’s eyes were darting between you and Rick as if he was trying to figure out if what he was saying was true.

“No, Beth, I’m not a psychopathic maniac. From the Citadel? Sure,” you corrected, raising an eyebrow at Sanchez while he pretended to scratch his nose with his middle finger. “Rick actually murdered my dad and then kidnapped me from the funeral. And now he’ll try to kill me, too.”

You returned to stuffing the food onto your fork peacefully while the blonde’s head took an abrupt turn in her father’s direction, who, in turn, was busy piercing a hole in your forehead with his ice cold glare.

“Is this true?” she turned to Morty, who looked incredibly guilty while avoiding her intrusive stare. “Morty? Is this true? Did you kill her dad?”

“Morty had nothing to d-do with it,” Rick grunted, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded on his chest.

“So you admit it. You killed her father.”

“It’s n-not my fault!” he protested, then when you pinned him into place with your scowl he quickly added, “he j-just… ran str-straight into my bullet. It’s-it’s basically h-his fault.”

“You sh-shot him! In the he-head! T-t-twice!” Morty’s shrill voice made you wince, but Beth couldn’t possibly look more furious.

“I di-didn’t know he had a kid, okay?” Rick rolled his eyes, his voice rising dangerously.

“She begged you for his life!” Morty cried out, face falling into his hands. “H-h-he pleaded to n-not kill her!”

You watched the chaos unfold, calmly eating your food despite your chest hurting while Jerry’s face was growing paler with each passing second, Summer was listening intently with her eyebrows raised so high that they were nearly touching her hairline, then finally Beth, who accomplished an impossible thing—she managed to show boundless fury and immense despair on her face at the same time.

“That’s what you do for fun now?” the volume of her voice was increasing with each word, even though it was obvious she tried to not shout. “Go around and murder teenage girls’ dads? For what, in the name of some shitty science project?”

“You don’t un-understand, Beth!” Rick jumped to his feet so rapidly that the chair he was sitting on just a second before fell to the floor with a thud. “She’s-she’s super valuable! There’s…”

“Right, because that’s the only thing you care about!” Beth genuinely looked like she was about to explode, also standing up from her seat and slapping her hands next to her plate. “Valuable! You deprived a girl of a dad because she was valuable? Do you even hear yourself? And what, you’re gonna dig her brain out of her skull and call it science?”

The ache in your chest was slowly expanding, taking over every inch of your body. Beth was right. It was you who was meant to die that night, not your dad. You stared blankly at the food in front of you, losing all appetite. And the will to live.

“And you told me she was your daughter!”

“I said ‘in a way’, Beth!”

“Oh, because her dad was a version of you, yeah?” she scoffed, slamming her fist onto the table. Morty jumped. “How fucking convenient! Infinite daughters, but only when you feel like it! Where’s any sense in that?”

“You know… fucking… fuck, fine!” before you could react, a ray of bright light blinded you and you instantly lost contact with reality, your head falling limply right into the mashed potatoes and salmon.

Jerry nearly fell off his chair and Beth screamed in panic, covering her lips with both of her hands. Her eyes were wide, horrified, so were Summer’s.

“Did you just…?”

“No, for-for fuck’s sake!” Rick barked at his daughter, circling the table to pick your unconscious body up from the chair. “Erased her memory. Happy now?”

“How’s that gonna help?” Summer questioned, escorting Rick’s figure all the way to the garage door when he swayed on his legs in that direction with her wary gaze.

“She’s gonna think she was fucking born here,” he snapped, shooting all the remaining four a glare full of contempt. “You done did it, fucking mor-morons!”

The door shut after him with a loud thump, and the dining room was silent for a few seconds. Beth was the first one to speak, sinking down onto her chair in defeat.

“I’m not sure I understand what just happened.”

“Oh my god, mom, it’s super obvious,” the redhead let out a dramatic gasp. “Grandpa’s gonna plant new memories in her head so she thinks she’s from this dimension while in reality, she isn’t.”

A pause.

“But doesn’t that mean…” Beth trailed off, struggling to comprehend the foreign idea of just changing one’s memory. “...that he’d have to program her brain to think he’s her real father? If she’s going to believe her original one didn’t even exist?”

“Holy shit, you’re right,” a strange spark appeared in Summer’s eyes accompanied by a devilish smile. “Holy hell, and to think you only had to yell to make grandpa responsible.”

“And we’re just going to let an alien stay with us?” at the sound of Jerry’s voice Beth’s expression turned reluctant.

“Shut up, Jerry.”

“Wow, okay, Rick barges in with some god-only-knows-what space girl who might be carrying some space AIDS, but fuck me if I have questions,” he pouted. “You’re way too forgiving, Beth.”

“Shut up, dad,” Morty mumbled from his spot, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

“So what now?” Beth rubbed her shoulders, looking rather all-overish.

“I’ll-I’ll tell you what, fucking baboons,” Rick snarled from the kitchen, making his presence known, then proceeded to yank the drawers open by the sound of it. “You’re gon-gonna find her a place to sleep, then make pe-peace with the thought that she now li-lives with us.”

He fixed everyone with a glare on his way out. “You wanted it to make sense? There y-you go!”

“I’m not sure he knows it’s his problem now, too,” the redhead said pointedly, her eyes still locked on the closed garage door once he disappeared behind it.

“It’s called be-being petty, Summer,” Morty murmured, sticking his fork into the cold mashed potatoes over and over. “He knows. He’s just gonna make it ev-everyone else’s problem.”

“Real nice. Nice. Real nice,” Jerry huffed through his nose. “So nice. Real…”

“Goddamn it, dad, shut up!”

All four pairs of eyes drifted in the way of the garage when the first strange sounds started to reach the dining room.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

The quiet was beginning to irk him.

Rick’s eyes drifted away from one of the holographic screens to your unconscious body lying limply next to him, how you were curled up on the cold surface of the workbench he laid you on. He’d positioned you in a way that made it possible to attach the various wires to your brain, to connect you to the giant database he’d prepared specifically for this occasion.

You were cold, he could tell—the unusual paleness, rosy tips of your fingers, slight trembling of your body. The metallic surface you were lying on was cool too, and in no way helped to keep the last bits of warmth from evaporating.

He stared at you for a few more seconds before begrudgingly taking off his lab coat, shrouding you with it as if it was a blanket. It was big enough to cover you from the neck down, and he might’ve imagined it, but you looked more peaceful as soon as the fabric mantled you.

He turned back to the monitor, trying to decipher the stats presented before him.

After flipping everyone off and cursing the entire bloodline, he’d holed up in his lair—level ten was his target. He’d made sure nobody, not even Morty, could reach him and interrupt his creative process, then got to the shitwork he’d brought upon himself. The main lights were turned off, the only glow illuminating the darkness being the various screens and monitors; what he did turn on, however, was the soundproofing. As much as Rick truly was an asshole, he didn’t want your potential cries or screams to reach the garage, purely so he wouldn’t have to listen to any of the Smiths whining his ear off about not being able to sleep. Although it was unlikely, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Everything he knew about you was a lie.

Rick realized that twenty seconds into passing the contents of your memory into the external databank, watching the scraps of your life flicker across the glowing blueish screen before him.

He knew he shouldn’t pay any attention to the personal contents of your brain. It wouldn’t bring any benefits and he’d only waste his time going through the catalogue of your memories instead of focusing on installing the brand new backstory into your mind.

But curiosity got the better of him. He scooted a chair closer to the counter, downing the whiskey he’d poured himself a moment back, then pushed the glass away from one of the screens. With a double tap, he expanded it, pressed a few things and waited for the projection to load while lighting up a cig. The algorithm should display your core memories, the ones that shaped you as a person. He spaced out, staring somewhere next to the glass shoved closely to the wall.

After a few seconds, his attention was brought back to memory loading on the screen.

He saw himself. A version of himself, that is, towering over you. Judging by how unusually tall this Rick was, you were probably a child when this image was seared into your memory. At first, the scene playing out in front of his eyes was a little blurry and the sound was muffled.

Sanchez then realized you were bawling your eyes out, hence the dim shapes and the soft hum over which the other Rick’s voice was barely audible—the sound of your own blood singing in your ears. He tried his best to focus on the scraps of dialogue reaching his ears.

“...then try fucking harder!” the Rick from your memory growled, and a familiar sound filled the air.

The current Rick frowned, confused. There was no way this was what he thought it was.
But, no, it in fact was exactly what it sounded like. He stared at the screen, dumbfounded, watching the other Rick whip out a standard plasmic gun and reload, staring at his own daughter with boundless disgust.

“No, dad, please, please put it down,” your plaintive voice begged as violent sobs escaped your throat. “I’ll try, I’ll try, I promise.”

It hit him that you really sounded like a little kid—high-pitched voice, softened vowels. Just like Beth when she was six. Barely older than a toddler, held at a gunpoint. He pretended he couldn’t feel his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Oh, it’s a little fucking late for trying, don’t you think?” his voice rose dangerously, making your breath catch up in your throat as you tried to step as far from him as possible. “You know there are consequences to our actions, don’t you, sweetie?”

The current Rick watched you nod as you tripped over your own feet while fighting to get out of the gun’s reach, but it already was too late. The sound of a fired shot pierced through the air, your head snapped down to your legs when you were thrown off balance and you hit the cold floor panels below your feet. He shot your knees. Twice.

The vividly red blood gushed out of the wounds as you squirmed in pain, ragged cries scratching their way out of your throat. Your small, trembling hands squeezed your thighs right above the inlet gash as you leaned forward, struggling to breathe.

“So, what do we do now?” your dad’s stone cold voice demanded, the plasmic gun still aimed your way.

“I’ll assimilate them,” you sobbed, your vision blurry again from the frightening amount of tears stinging your eyes. “I’ll do it. I-I promise, don’t hurt me again, dad, please. Please, I’ll do whatever you say, pl…”

Another shot, this time aimed at your ankle. That blood-curdling scream you let out made the current Rick nearly jump seven inches above his seat.

“Stop fucking talking,” he gritted out, his finger still resting on the trigger. “And get to work. I ain’t got the whole fucking day.”

The little you kept choking on your tears, your own blood staining the floor, your fingers and clothes scarlet. Your dad looked at you with contempt for the last time before pulling the trigger again seemingly pointed right at your forehead, and that was what the memory ended on.

Rick stared blankly at the dark screen, trying and failing to comprehend what he’d just seen. He, himself, was far from being a good father, but this was much worse than just being a drunk who disappeared one day and never came back. Your dad, the person who was supposed to protect you, immobilizing you with a plasmic fucking gun for an idiotic reason. Treating you like a rabid dog, even though Rick probably wouldn’t shoot a dog if he didn’t absolutely have to.

His gaze wandered off from the monitor to you, still unconscious, lying there exactly like he’d put you. Pale, restless, fingers curled up into tight fists. Only now, when your hair was funneled out messily on the workbench and revealed your forehead and temple, he noticed the faded bullet wound scars. Multiple, uneven criques, some deeper and more shagpile than others. He could only suspect how many of them carried the heavy memories of your own dad stuffing you with lead.

He turned back to the screen, swallowing the unease down his throat. His fingers flew across the control panel until a new memory began to load.

You were standing in front of a mirror, inspecting the fresh wound.

This time, you were a little older—not only taller, but also your face was now bereft of traits typical for kids. Your hands were shaky, uncertain as you gripped the bathroom sink, fighting to steady yourself. If he had to guess, he’d say you were probably around twelve, but the interminable void swallowing all the spark in your eyes told him you’d mentally aged twenty years since the last memory.

Your expression was devoid of any emotion, nose scrunched in absolute focus as you leaned a bit forward to get a better look on the wide cut on your face. It stretched from the curve of your left brow up to the right corner of your lips, splitting your cheek in half. The wound was deep, but the blood managed to form clots and clog the bleeding.

You reached into the pocket of your bloodied jeans to retrieve a strange device he quickly recognized as a medical laser. You slowly, but deliberately switched the setting to the most intense ray, took the protective cap off and positioned the laser exactly where the cut was beginning; on your brow bone.

Rick could physically feel the discomfort spreading in the pits of his stomach with an unsettling warmth. He already knew where this was going, but he couldn’t imagine it happening.

You pressed the turn-on button, the grotesque sound of burnt skin replaced the silence. You sunk your teeth in your lower lip, tearing through the thin layer of skin and drawing fresh blood. It dripped onto your chin and then down to the cold, white tiles below your feet. Keeping a straight face, your trembling hand slowly worked its way down, searing the wound closed. He could tell you were holding your breath. Even though someone was yelling your name from a distance, you didn’t let them distract you until the cut splitting your face in half morphed into a nasty, irregular scar.

Something in the way you didn’t flinch, scream or cry hinted it wasn’t the first time you’d done this.

There was also a massive bruise right under your right eye, it was definitely going to swell some. The blood vessels around the shiner popped, making your skin look like a spider web was weaved beneath it.

The door to the bathroom swung open unceremoniously.

Rick, your dad, just stood there for the first couple of seconds, staring at your reflection with disgust. Your eyes met his in the mirror as you wiped the blood off your chin with a dirty sleeve.

“Did I give you any fucking permission to go and fix yourself?” he barked at you, the boundless hatred slipping into his tone full of disdain.

“We have a press conference in an hour,” you said flatly, avoiding turning to him to face him fully. You turned on the faucet, staring absently at the cold water splashing on the sink. “I can’t show up there looking like this.”

“I don’t need you to show up. Anywhere,” he practically growled, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat. You caught the sight of a falcated blade in the corner of your eye. “And I don’t need you to fucking talk, either.”

He stepped closer to you, you instinctively tried to put some distance between you until your back met the white wall. There was nowhere to run.

Memory Rick’s hand whipped in your direction so fast that the current Rick barely had the time to blink. The knife flashed before your eyes, blood splashing onto your dad’s hand and face. He then swung again. And again, and again, until the red substance started streaming down from your forehead and brow bones into your eyes, blinding you. You were flinching every time, your back pressing onto the wall as if you wished you could melt into it. Your quivering hands slowly reached your face as you tried to wipe your own bodily fluids to have a chance to see something again.

The current Rick truly felt sick, almost forgetting it was just a memory he couldn’t alter. He watched you stare at your bloody, quaking hands, watched your tired eyes reflect in the mirror when you looked at yourself. Watched you hang your head low, close your eyes for a moment as blood dripped onto the sink, tinting the still running water red when you stepped closer to it.

Your father carved you up with equal brutality to a butcher slaughtering pigs. There was no mercy in his actions; no regret, no remorse. Pure hatred was what echoed.

When Rick thought the memory was about to end, your father grabbed your jaw, his nails digging into the exposed muscle his blade had just sunk into. You flinched, your hands wrapping around his wrist in an almost pleading gesture.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and the current Rick’s blood immediately ran cold. You shook your head. “Open your fucking mouth!”

He forced your lips open, shoved his cold fingers in between your teeth. For some odd reason, you didn’t fight, didn’t bite him or scream when the blade came into view. The only thing you did was let out a bone-chilling, almost animalistic whine when your dad ripped your tongue out of your mouth, garish blood splattering out of your lips onto his hands, spilling onto your hands below your face and your clothes. The sound and the view was obscene, grotesque, nearly surreal. So much blood, staining your skin and shirt, sprayed onto your father’s face.

Your vision lost its sharpness, you stumbled, your back hit the wall. Through the thickening fog now blocking your vision, you could barely see him say something, but the ringing in your ears made it impossible to understand a single word. Your legs gave way under your body and as soon as you fell onto the cold tiles, the memory was cut off.

Rick stared at the dark screen, struggling to swallow the bile pinching his tongue. He ran a hand over his face, honestly wishing he was a hell lot more drunk, because sitting through this projection even moderately sober was a challenge.

If he wasn’t the one to kill your father, he would think you finally had enough and shot a bullet through his abusive ass. You’d have every right to do it, hell, Sanchez himself would hand you the gun.

He looked over at you, somewhat to make sure you were still asleep. You were, the subtle blue glow of the various screens making you look ghostly pale. Ephemeral, fata morgana, appearing as if you would vanish into thin air any moment.

Exhaling deeply, he seriously debated whether he wanted to see any more of the heavy visions you carried beneath your skin. Promising himself it was the last one, he pressed something on the control panel, deep down hoping it wouldn’t be extreme abuse again.

What materialized itself on the screen seemed like a club with its neon flashing lights, the sea of Ricks for miles and miles, and the occasional women flashing by in brief clothes, leaving practically nothing for the imagination. It took Rick approximately three seconds to figure out it was the most popular strip club in the Citadel owned by the Sanchez Entertainment Company, by a snob he absolutely despised.

Five seconds into the vision he was already sure it was going to be a disaster. You were sitting in one of the luxury booths, visibly being on pins and needles, with your dad to your right and another Rick in front of you.

The memory you could barely make any sense of the words being spoken to your dad over the deafening music echoing in the club.

“...and there’s only so much we can do without her authorization,” Rick slouched across the small table slurred out, waving with his drink in the air, spilling some of the dark liquid onto his lab coat and pants. “So she better fucking step up and do this shit. We can’t wait forever for the-the endowment.”

Your gaze dropped down to your trembling hands as you played with the edge of your shirt. You weren’t exactly wearing a club-appropriate attire; a white tee with a pink bow printed onto it with cursive underneath it reading ‘little miss’ and a pink skirt with a white lace. It made you seem even more like a kid, even though you already were around twelve.

“You know nothing’s free, D-one-fifteen,” your father drawled, stirring his drink in the tall glass.

“State your terms,” the other man grumbled, leaning forward.

You could feel him ogling you, and you shifted uneasily, stubbornly not looking his way. Rick, watching the memory play, struggled to comprehend why on Earth would a legal guardian drag his child to such a nasty place as a strip club.

He quickly got his answer, and it made him nauseous.

“Access to the Council’s external memory banks,” your dad said firmly, keeping eye contact.

The other Rick pretended to ponder his question, his eyes still glued to you.

“A round with her and you get the entire fucking access tonight.”

Your head snapped upward as you stared at D-115 in nothing but sheer horror, then your gaze shifted to your father’s face. You prayed, you begged whatever god that was up there for mercy.

Unfortunately, there was no god, therefore nobody listened to your pleas.

“Deal.” Your Rick stood up from his seat and vanished into the crowd, leaving his drink on the table.

Tears stung your eyes as your nails dug deeply into the soft flesh of the palms of your hands. The other Rick grinned at you devilishly, launching himself at you in no time.

A terrified shriek left your lips, but it was quickly muffled when a much bigger, rough hand pressed onto your mouth. Panic flared up in your chest, you tried to kick and scream, scratch his eyes out. It was all fruitless.

Nobody around you seemed to notice or care. People glossed over the problem, not even looking your way.

At that moment, Rick frantically tried to turn off the projection. The screen started to load slowly, but it didn’t cut off the memory.

He watched another version of himself wrap his hand around your throat and press down with a sick satisfaction painted on his face, the purple lights really making him look like Satan. He slammed you onto the padding you were sitting on, shoving a knee between your legs. Rick managed to catch a glimpse of D-115 struggling to unzip his pants with one hand and the sound of your unimaginably horrified cry for help before the whole thing paused.

The silence rang in his ears, he genuinely felt sick. His face fell into his hands for a moment before he turned the screen off, stood up from his seat and decided he needed to walk this view off as soon as possible.

Circling around the whole space, he let curses spill out of his lips as they bounced off the walls and returned back to him. His eyes locked on the small curve of your back, at the wisps of your hair framing your face. The weight of what he’d just seen was heavy and seamy, and it hit him with enough force to make the void where his heart should be ache in an unexplainable way.

The Devil was real, and it was your father.

He went back to the workbench, frustrated enough to get to the bottom of this. He scanned the contents of your memory quickly. It wasn’t the only time D-115’s hands tore your clothes and stripped you of your innocence and dignity. It wasn’t only two times when your father would butcher you. It wasn’t exactly your choice to assimilate three fourths of the Citadel. It was a daily routine for you, with alcohol, heavyweight drugs and extreme self-harm included.

You deprived yourself of sleep every night. You studied. You worked until you collapsed. You went to meetings, you held press conferences, you performed surgeries. You inserted chips, scanned brains, downloaded data, meddled in prototypes in your free time. You cut yourself up, swallowed shattered glass, put out cigarettes on your arms, smashed your head against the wall in your room, cried until you’d throw up. You stuffed yourself with a terrifying mixture of k-lax, coke and crushed death crystals, then washed down at least three painkillers with an alien liquor. Eighty percent alc. Straight up ethanol. Every day, for at least two years.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

You were just a child. You were still just a child. A kid thrown around like a rag doll, twisted and turned around in all those Ricks’ grasping hands, used, raped, heavily abused. A young hive mind controlling an entire multimillion society while barely having any grasp of your own needs and emotions. A non-survivable amount of responsibility on your shoulders.

At that second, exactly in that moment, Rick promised himself to gift a happy childhood to you. He swore to himself he’d give you memories nothing short of blissful, he’d erase all the mental scars your father overmarked you with. You would be fine, you’d be a normal teenage girl.

He looked at you again, this time with almost palpable determination to make it right. That exact brief glance at your face was when the final decision was made. Bombs away. You were his daughter now.

Even for a moment, the thought of turning back didn’t cross his mind.

He’d misjudged you so terribly.

His attention shifted to the screen again. Skimming over your memories, he’d stop at the ones catching his attention for whatever reason.

The first chip you’d ever inserted into someone else’s brain. Your father hewing your legs away from the knee down. The sight of your mother’s body hanging from the ceiling by their neck. First ever public speech. Injecting yourself with a mixture that meant instant death, the golden shot. A miscarriage. Your thirteenth birthday spent in the lab. Finally coming up with a serum that smoothened the scars on your… everything. Talking to a Morty who got shot in the head, his blood spraying on your face, getting into your mouth. The database growing, expanding, almost resembling a living thing. Stabbing yourself with a kitchen knife. Empty liquor bottles rattling under your bed. Coke and k-lax instead of any breakfast.

Every nerve in Rick’s body was buzzing and zipping with unbounded anger at everyone who’d ever failed you. It was an odd sensation, he hadn’t felt this kind of sense of injustice ever since his Beth was little and she’d gotten wrongly accused.

Beth was an adult, she didn’t need his assistance, help nor guidance. But you did. You would. He knew that when you’d wake up with brand new backstory, convinced you’d lived here since you were born, he’d have to jog his own memories a little to remember how to parent. Or more accurately, to learn how to parent a teenager. He’d never gotten to this part before.

But Rick was sure of himself and his skills. Fueled by nothing but pure spite, he promised himself he’d be a thousand times better than the pathetic excuse of a man who ruined you.

There was only one rule to this game: a father protects. He wasn’t going to let you down.

He then got to work. By three in the morning, the new, fabricated memories were ready. He’d sorted them out chronologically and made sure the most traumatic events were wiped out from your mind for good.

One problem appeared, however. He erased the part where you were addicted, but the habit stayed. There wasn’t really a way to eradicate it, so he decided to ignore it—he wouldn’t let you anywhere near coke or k-lax anyway.

A hive mind’s brain worked differently than a standard person’s, and Rick wasn’t entirely sure if what he’d done would work. It was going to be a process of trial and error, he supposed, checking for any glitches for the fifth time. Of course, he’d rather it was an immediate success, but he’d have to be an idiot to believe not damaging the connection you had with the assimilated while trying to breed out a drug addiction was possible. He left it as it was. Your control over the millions of pricks from the Citadel could come in handy.

He’d also downloaded the whole process of making your chips onto a separate hard drive. It was also going to be useful in making the hive mind repellent, which he decided to start working on right after your memories would get installed within your mind.

While it was getting done, he also found out he wouldn’t be able to construct or control the chips on his own—your abilities were still needed, much to his irritation. The plan consisted of notes in a language he couldn’t understand despite his greatest efforts, with odd theorems he’d never seen before. Not to mention, it was a factor from your DNA that made it possible to assimilate people through that inconspicuous chip.

The watch on his wrist struck four twenty-eight in the morning when your eyes fluttered open, right after everything had been passed onto your brain seamlessly. He watched you warily, waiting for you to say something first.

You sat up rapidly, staring at him first then at the lab coat you were covered with second. He could quite literally see the brief hesitation in your eyes before your face lit up with a sheepish smile.

“When did I even fall asleep?” you questioned, slipping from the workbench down to the floor. You stretched your hand in his direction with the lab coat. “Weren’t we working on the brain chips? The prototypes?”

“We were,” he confirmed lightly, still keeping an eye on you, taking the lab coat from your hand. There was no guarantee the standard procedure would work on a hive mind, but for now, everything seemed to be fine. “You-you fell asleep with your h-head on the workbench, sweets.”

The last word felt foreign in his mouth. He’d just have to get used to it.

“You should’ve woken me up, dad,” you gave a subtle headshake, coming up closer to him to look over his shoulder at the screen. You took note of the hour. “I assume you haven’t taken a single break since I fell asleep? Maybe we could grab a quick coffee?”

It was a perfect opportunity to test your brand new knowledge, see if it lasted and got transferred correctly. And so, Rick gave a sharp nod, pulling the lab coat on. He turned around, reached for his portal gun and shot one of them into the empty space surrounding you two.

“I’ll be there in-in a sec, alright?”

“Sure,” you offered a quick smile, casually stepping through the green vortex, even though the version of you from a few hours earlier would sooner dig your heels into the concrete before you’d voluntarily go through his portal.

Silence fell for a few seconds when the portal closed with a loud pop. He got his phone out of the pocket of his pants, texted Beth a quick ‘We r at Shoney’s’ and took a swig from his flask.

With a weird feeling bubbling in his stomach, he opened another portal and stepped through it, joining you on the other side.