Chapter Text
Evil Morty, currently, laid in the bunk of his cell at Time Prison. By the standarts of a typical cosmic outlaw, he's fucked, destined to rot for an eternity with nothing and no one except the overwhelming prison gull.
But by his, it's another week, and he's already spent a plethora of time doing just what the prison made out a punishment on his own. Self-isolating, to be clear.
To him, it's another time getting fucked over by a Rick, of course, another time falling back into the rhythm of a Morty, another reason to not look back at the Curve once he decides he's served his sentence long enough and bails.
He'll get out whenever he wants to. The eyepatch— the thing containing most of his advantage to others— was registered by the cops as another piece of necessary clothing, that and his underwear. A pair of celled aliens even muttered and cackled about the 'stupid ass pirate ape' while EM was being walked to his spot beside them all.
..But if the cops were beyond the wit levels of floating testicles and tried inspecting him, Em had about fifty bodily mod's by now, opening him another safe route out of this. Not that safe, but he's sure they're just as lazy as Earth ones to not chase him to his oasis planet.
He can even just call his ship right now, as he's residing in his cell. Hop in when it finishes portaling through the walls, and leave the place with some stupid cardboard cut out the guards won't bother to check upon.
He won't, though, not until a good rest. Until his last bits of feeling stop sulking over his burnt base, his underlying dread of infinite existence with infinite pain stops whispering itself into his brain at night. And until he stops feeling the need for peace like the stupid fourteen year old dragged into an abuse helix he is, which sums up to a pretty long two weeks.
The lost strength of emotion slowly thumps back into his veins, cold as ice, he can't yet tell what provoked it. He'd compare it to the feeling of swimming during a rainstorm— the surrounding lake feels adequate to your body, but the drops that keep falling still bite frost at you.
In his numb rage, he pulls a tiny observer stone out of a compartment in his arm. It glows with dim light, center colorful as the inside of a jawbreaker, and is just the right size to fit into the palm of a hand. The Observers are a species beyond useful for information, but it's even better when they're quiet, obedient and willing to work for free with the help of a chip. Em reconnects his systems to the device as he presses down on the eyepatch.
"Show me the current state of Morty Smith C-34," he says, the observer buzzing instead of answering in an obnoxious voice. He presses once more, and a projection of the observed material appears in thin air above.
Prime, or C-34, and Rick C-137 ran from a giant spider-esque creature, the old man cursing at the teen all the while. Usual picture of an adventure, he thinks to himself. Em squints at the screen and registers the insect as an overgrown sympathid parasite.
Either it was Rick's clever, drunk memory that reminded him to extract it only now, or it was Morty, not telling gramps and effectively dooming whoever the sympathid feasted on. He almost thinks to switch the observer to something else, like he's sitting infront of an inter-dim cabled TV, but something about Prime's posture and face strikes him curious. He looks pissed, uniquely not in a pathetic way.
Em then sits up in amusement when Morty begins scolding C-137 back, even as he's saving both their asses.
It isn't a shocker that it was him whom got his empathy centers eaten, really, but it was beyond entertaining to watch his outburst become so extraordinarily malicious.
"—you dumb, dead-wife having bitch!"
Em actually grins, for the first time in months. He props his head on his hand, leaning in to better see the picture. A quiet laugh bubbles from him at the projection as Morty seems to only care about berating Rick, an officer of the planet they're escaping is even bleeding out with bullets shot by Prime and he isn't stopping. And he is absolutely immaculate at it, Em notes both about the wounds and his words. Each jab coming from him makes Em's chest puff with a dumb half-giggle. It's like the guy is pulling the joke straight out of C-137's insecure brain. He'd qualify to be better than a Fear Hole if he kept it up.
He likes this version of Prime. Of course, Em won't get to see it for more than an hour at best, the old bastard will most probably zap Morty with a healing ray then mindblow the memory. But this detached, independent teen shooting space guards in the balls would be a fantasy come true to most Morties.
He doesn't bother to follow much after that.
The 'Parmesan' dimension apparently had a serial-killer after Jerry, Rick got infested with the sympathid himself, they were all either surrounded or working with the police, and Summer was trying to steal barrels, of all things. While it should've been entertaining, in retrospect, Em just sighed out loud, specifically at Rick.
He'd spent the passing year trying to climb out of his reality of being oppressed by this man across infinity, just to get a final 'fuck you' after he'd secured the win. And made a fucking effort to protect the multiverse he had no business caring about. It annoyed him to watch that villain of the story now act like a sorry grandpa in the sad excuse of a movie they acted out.
..Morty started a monologue, he glances back to the screen. A really stupid and trivial one, he'd compare it to that same excuse of a movie, but it did manage to hit close to home. As much as it was cringy and cliché and 'friendship is magic'-esque.
It did sound like what a lot of Morties went through. They'd never get a hug unless they were put through enough of a hell first, unless they 'earned' it. And even then, the most Ricks managed to show came through when their Morties were either passed out or dead. That's how much of a shithole world all of them went through for affection, sometimes not even getting it.
It was.. kind of admirable how honest he was with what he wanted and how it'd never come for free. Though it should, it definitely should for all of them. Em notes distantly that he's mirroring their first honest interaction, how Morty had remarked him being cool through admitting to his plans, even if they were shitty and ruined and lies made out of spite.
He tries to remember the look on his face when he destroyed the Citadel, how Morty wasn't even all that mad at him. It wasn't raised into, unreasoned and unexcused forgiveness that he came to despise. He saw the horrors Ricks created just to have a shoulder to cry on. He understood, really understood why EM had done it. And how Morty stared at him, just so unsure when he offered for them to escape this cycle together.
Em starts zoning out, taping the eyepatch to stop the observer, and lays back down.
The capability of a Morty like that. Of a him stripped of all the useless pity that chained him down to babying the 'smartest man in the universe', that wouldn't hesitate to kill or insult, but not inherently violent. Still a Morty, but not Rick's. He thinks that aspect would be more than enough to rebel against the scientist. If his judgement finally stopped being clouded by the learned over-the-top empathy, he'd see how much of a sick man resided in his grandpa.
He'd have the mind to figure it out, for sure, the plan left by Em's footsteps that'd lead to Prime finally taking the reigns over his own life. It was already easy enough to get a Rick to get blackout drunk, maybe not even get him to but wait until he does it himself. Now that C-137's whole goal, Rick Prime's death, was accomplished, how eager would he get to pass out on the floor and give his trusted Morty the perfect opportunity?
EM stares into the ceiling, his mind picturing more and more of Prime. Of a bird finally soaring the sky with its depraved wings.
His mind goes back to their fight, his and C-137's.
What if Morty had lost his empathy centers already, long before Em came along, and decided to stay in the 'Parmesan' dimension, the teen theorizes silently.
What if, instead of Rick, it were Prime whom he'd face after finding his base in shreds, and it were Prime who'd look at him in tired hatred?
God, it would've been so much more better. Em remarks, recognizing absently that there was blood rushing to his face.
Morty, locking eyes with him, his face a stoic, plain picture as Em rises from the ruins of a house. He wouldn't even hand him the courtesy of looking affected. And how he'd probably see straight through whatever cool act Em would try to pull, and ridicule him for it as they both freeze in a stand-still.
He wouldn't be as obnoxious as a Rick, he'd use the intergalactic tech they had effectively instead of oppressively. Prime would be able put up a good fight, Em deducts from what he's seen of him handling guns. He'd be fast and efficient, so cool that it'd blow every other Morty out of the water by a mile. Prime would be their badass fulfillment in the dark reality of being an eternal loser. Em's face twitches into a half smile again.
"Fucking dipshit," Prime would grit out while bleeding, not a smile or a frown on his face but just uncaringly frozen lips forced into a scowl from pain. Never from him. "Should I go get Rick? You really do need gramps more, baby."
Em flushes at the thought. Well, first, Morty is not and never will be good at saying 'baby' in a way that doesn't sound corny, but he's allowed to dream of the impossible. Second, he excuses, the word popped into his imagination by the end because Morty would chastise the childishness of Em trying to steal Rick after claiming to hate them. And that sounds convincing enough that he doesn't dwell on it further.
He's fully alone in the prison cell, and he's pretty damn sure there's at least a handful of prisoners jerking off while the lights are off, maybe even when they're on, but he can't shake off the embarassment of enjoying something as stupid as what he's doing right now.
The image of apathetic Prime bubbles back into his head, and he actually kicks at the bed out of shame. Damn. He should keep a sympathid container in his pocket, or something. He really needs to see whatever this Prime was capable of.
Well, obviously not beat him. Even with a Rick, the rickest Rick, mind you, the only way he'd won is through Em's stupid impulse making him do time exploits. Rick's tech didn't yet catch up to his ones, at least not weaponry (calling Em too confident while not even bothering to upgrade your own things, just wow), and even if Morty had been independent, he wouldn't have quite the time or motivation to learn all the physics, chemistry, mathematics and biology bullshit. Em had isolated himself for a few months just to get the eyepatch done, and he was practically just really good at tech and science if he were stripped of it.
But it'd feel pretty gratifying, or maybe opposingly frustrating, to go against someone who didn't entertain his whims.
Going up against a Rick meant just trying to kill him as soon as possible because all the fucker would ever bring were trouble and anguish. Every single time. Like killing a bunch of cockroaches, so they don't populate further and bother you, except they will.
Going up against a Morty, much more so one that'd actually make him feel things…
He flips onto his stomach with his face too hot for his liking, grasping at the pillow. He'd scream in it, if it was made of thicker material. It's still just teenage hormones. He'll grow out of it eventually.
And maybe Prime will grow out of pitying Rick, eventually. For now Em settles with spending the time waiting for that resting.. or until he wants to switch back to waiting on his planet, once he gets tired of the overly damp and gray room.