Chapter Text
EARTH, DIMENSION M-120
He curled up in the sofa when he'd done it. After having done it, after having washed his hands. The body was still in the kitchen along with the modified gun. The boy stared at his hands and fingers, looking closely for any red remnants under his nails.
He'd been to the federation once before, with Rick of course. The metal hallways abandoned him. He'd gotten lost in the basement, stumbling upon secret meetings and dubious contracts in the making. All kinds of filth, immoral acts. Yet still the conversations were halted as he approached. Not meant for him. Whatever shit they were planning he was still discarded, because he was a Morty. There were two kinds of people in the world; Ricks, and everyone else. A pastel Rick with sunglasses had grabbed his shoulder. “What's this Morty doing here?” He'd looked around. “Is anyone missing theirs?”
The boy's own Rick had come to pick him up eventually. When the scientist's lungs had been filled to the brim with the smoke of home-made cigarettes and his eyes were tired of seeing, he'd remembered his grandson.
“Shit Mort- EURP- Morty, come on, let's go. Enough with the dicking around.”
The cell they'd kept him in was more of a closet, and through the plaster walls he'd been able to hear each clink of the dainty glasses, the endless trampling of feet on the thick hallway carpet. Until that fateful week, the boy hadn't seen another Morty, or another Rick. The Mortys had gathered among themselves, like packs of rats huddling together for warmth. Comparing notes. Some Mortys had nice clothes, soft to the touch. Well-polished shoes. A sea of yellow sweaters. They, as a concept, idea, clearly had an affinity for yellow. The color of the sun. There was a Morty with utensils stuck to his hands. No one asked him about it. One after another new Mortys were dropped off. This was life, rolling into a finish. Wrapping up. And the Mortys were left to their own devices. A Morty was a Morty simply because he wasn't a Rick. Because he wasn't like them. Because he cared, because he had a heart, he had to be embarrassed. A lower tier in a world that was ultimately casteless. Rick made it that way.
The boy's Rick drank. He had to wade through bottles to get to the bed. During one of their travels, Beth had found someone new. They were living in Canada. Morty, choosing to stay, struggled to pick up the pieces that was left of his dad.
When his mom left, teary-eyed, holding him so tight, she'd begged him to come with. “There's still room in the car, it's not too late to change your mind.”
Morty shook his head. “I-I, it'll be alright. Plus, I think dad needs someone to look out for him.”
Two years ago. Beth called a lot, worrying. Her concern felt jaded. Muted. Mauled. Hadn't a real parent, a parent that loved their child, hadn't they stayed?
Rick had reverberated into his old self. Distant mocking. An uncaring drunkard. The family was split, Summer had chosen to go with Beth. What remained was three unfortunate generations living under the same roof.
Earlier that morning Jerry had stumbled to his car, not noticing that his socks were two different colors, or that he had a ketchup stain on his shirt. Morty didn't mention it. Rick wasn't home.
Morty waited for him, perched on the stairs to the upper floor, the quantum shotgun stashed in his lap. It was Rick's gun. He was the one who'd taught Morty how to use it on one of their adventures, in a back alley somewhere in the Horse shoe nebula. It left gruesome marks but then again, so did Rick. If Rick hadn't shown up, his parents probably still would have been arguing and yelling at each other in the same room. His home would have been his home and not just a place to put his bed.
At last, the green portal opened in the kitchen and Rick stepped out. From the sounds of it he rummaged around in the fridge. When he stepped out into the hallway Morty raised the gun, activating it by pressing his finger on the trigger. It whirred, shining blue.
The scientist almost dropped his drink. They laid eyes on each other. “You scared me, M-Morty.” Through the evidence suggested Rick hadn't been scared a single fucking day of his life.
Morty stood up, the cool black gun still in his steady hand.
Cocking his head to the side, Rick squinted. “I suspected as much, you little shit.”
Morty clicked the safety off.
Rick took a step backwards. “I noticed the platinum shell casings were gone. Thought y-you were gonna - EURP- gonna shoot some squirrels or whatever.” He stepped backwards, Morty followed, matching him step by step. They were in the kitchen because Rick had led them there.
The scientist put his beer on the counter by the sink, then put his hands up. “Either shoot me or get th-that thing out of my face, Morty.”
Rick lunged for the cupboard and the sudden motion was an excuse to pull the trigger. Light, blaring bright, filled the kitchen. A millisecond later came the sound blast, a showmanship of murderous proportions. The gun gulped in Morty's hands, pushing him backwards.
Rick was on the floor, missing the top of his right shoulder. The left arm was in the opened kitchen cupboard, reaching for the gun that was duct taped to the wall. Blood had sprayed the cabinets, leaking over the floor, soaking through the dirty lab coat.
Morty dropped the gun, went to the sofa. Where to now?
EARTH, DIMENSION C-137
“Morty, sweetie, it's time for school.” Beth was leaning in through the door opening, letting in a scratch of light on the carpet.
Morty was in his bed, curled up under the covers. A disgusting pile of boy, sweat, a dread that clung to the sheets. “I'm not going.”
Beth sighed. “You have to go to school-”
It was a shitty world.
It was a shitty world without him.
“Leave me alone.”
-
The fans hummed above them, breathing air into their lungs that was fit for consumption.
“Six times nine?”
Blotches, in the ceiling. Tired gray squares. At some time there had been moist, perhaps a leak in the floor above.
“Anyone?”
The bell rang for lunch. Morty gathered up his things. He sat down at a table in the middle of the cafeteria, an unassuming corner of an unassuming room.
People, all around him, continuing to live and joke around, unaware that something precious had been taken. A blue-haired idiot had turned himself in. A genius scientist had turned himself in, had run out of ideas, of hope. That was the only solution. That he'd given up. Rick could solve everything. His grandfather, despite being more alcohol than man, could work things out. He could build a sun out of a black hole, he tinkered with neural scanners at the breakfast table, he could fix a satellite with stuff out of a shed. This, he hadn't even bothered with. He hadn't bothered with them. Rick hadn't bothered with him. If someone had asked Morty before, then he would have said that yes, his grandfather loved him. As improbable as it sounded. He would have said “yes”. Now though...
There was a gap in their home, a blank space that leaked silence, that kept on leaving gross reminders everywhere it went, everywhere it followed him.
Morty blinked hard. He blinked down on his apple pie and milk carton. The yellow plastic tray.
He had the heart of a dog.
Faithful. Loyal.
Defending Rick's name in the sporadic arguments that even now tended to blossom up between his parents regarding their roommate that had screwed over the entire earth. The worst thing wasn't the loss. It wasn't the bone-cracking realization that their adventures had come to an end. The worst part wasn't how every bite of food tasted like cardboard. The worst part wasn't the beating of his own fickle heart that kept beating despite that he wished it hadn't, because it hurt. The worst part was how the world continued on. How his family moved on, how the loss was covered up with music, wine, and work, respectively. The worst part was how they lived on. Reality strutted on, irregardless of disgusted it made him. The days shrugged, got on their bike, and pedaled off. They passed. Hours, minutes, streaming weeks. Time passed, and Rick was gone.
-
Six months had passed. Beth's breathing had hitched as she'd checked the calendar.
“Half a year-” she managed before clearing her throat, continuing on cheerfully smiling, talking through her teeth, “Morty, did you pack your shorts? I put them on your chair.”
Six months.
They had P.E. first thing in the morning, 9 am. Warm up, then dodge ball. He ducked lightly, his heart hardly in the game.
“Fucking hell, Morty, are you even trying-”
Next chance he got, Morty slung the red ball hard in the direction of his latest bully. It hit him in the head. “You're fucking dead, fucking nerd-”
Six months.
With a bit of planning he managed to avoid Steven until lunch, then until the bell rang a final time. He hurried home, taking the long way around the school yard, behind the bleachers and the gym.
Six months. Was this his life now? Avoiding bullies, sleeping through geography, striking out in baseball, all while staring up at the blue sky. Was this what life was supposed to be?
The house was silent, drained. He put his bag by the door. Summer was in school. Mom at work. Dad at work. Morty remained by the door.
This was life.
This was life, as it turned out for him.
Life. Either this or nothing.
He went into the kitchen, got out the notepad, sitting down by the table and putting the pen to the paper.
I'm going to find Rick
As he wrote it down, he nodded. Reasonable. Perhaps he should provide some kind of explanation.
He would do the same thing for us
Looking at his scribbles, he crossed it out. No point in lying.
He would do the same thing for us
I'm sorry for worrying you
Crossed it out.
I'm sorry for leaving like this
Crossed it out.
I'm sorry
PEGASI INTERSTELLAR PRISON
Rick spat out a tooth, blood dribbling from his lips. “You-” He wiped off his mouth with a soggy sleeve. “You punch like a fucking Oort cloud.” With a groan he got up, holding his right side.
Guards had already gathered around them, dispersing the spectators from a safe distance, their automatic rifles doing all the heavy work.
“Again, Sanchez?” The guard closest to him frowned. “Get on your knees.”
The ugly, green puffy alien across from him licked his teeth. “Yeah Sanchez, get on your knees.” It had horns sticking out from his head, and carbon black eyes.
Rick huffed. “I thought that was your mom's job.” Another punch to the jaw, either from the guard or inmate 20-4B, and he was floored.
He awoke in the darkness. There was a slightly lighter part near the floor where a tiny bit of light trickled in from underneath the door. Cautiously touching his face, he stroked the swelling that made it difficult to close his right eye. There might be some blood in it as well. He felt his way to the ratty bed, and the stone bricks underneath it. His fingers traveled along the uneven surface, looking for the right indentation. As he found it he started digging, occasionally sweeping away small piles of dirt and dust. A brick came loose. Patting behind it, he found the metallic object.
-
His trial had been a poorly constructed excuse for throwing him in jail. No defense attorney, no jury, no nothing.
A judge that looked half salami, half snail, had delivered his sentence. Every time he'd moved there had been a slight puff of powder that circulated away in the crowded, oxygen-starved room. “The court has made a decision. The defendant, Rick Sanchez of Earth, dimension C-137, is found guilty on all charges. He is hereby sentenced to 141 790 years in prison.”
It was fairly evident that inmate Rick Sanchez wasn't going anywhere.
PASSENGER SHUTTLE EZEKIEL
Interstellar winds pushed against the windows, millions of molecules swept against his eyes. There was a crushing of his body as the main engines kicked in.
G-forces.
Needed to breathe.
Couldn't.
His eyes teared up as he fought to gasp.
And then. Bliss.
The shuttle had reached that crucial point where it could escape the earth's gravity field. Two-hundred passengers, compliant as one, participated in the casual jail-break. Together they shrugged out of the chains of the earth. Some were going home, ending a vacation, carrying small replicas of the statue of liberty, while others still were businessmen, asking the stewards for their third cup of coffee. With a snap of their wrists they unfolded fresh editions of The Milky Way Morning News. “Now in English!” it read under the title.
Morty tried pushing his seat back and was rewarded with a sharp kick to his back. The screen attached to the seat in front of him changed its image from a picture of earth to a blue information screen.
Estimated duration of flight: 11hrs 40 minutes
Current weather on Gliese 876 b: cloudless
Morty put his right hand on the bag, his mom's huge hiking bag. It was bulky and bore the typical 90's mark of blue and purple colors. His shoulders ached from having carried it to the station. Red marks had formed in his skin. The weight ate on him.
An alarm started ringing and he sat up, looking around. He swallowed, grabbing a tighter hold on the backpack. There hadn't been any age limits on purchasing a ticket, but who knew what kind of age restrictions there were in space? A stewardess hurried in his direction, running as fast as she could in the narrow space between the seats. Morty's face turned red. Anguish burned on his cheeks, at the corner of his eyes. Any second now, she'd grab a hold of his arm and whisk him back to Earth.
She was in her thirties, looking stern.
She came to his seat.
Continued past.
He took a deep breath.
It took another couple of seconds for her to reach her destination. “Sir! You cannot smoke in here.”