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Staying behind to bury Homesteader and Doc was something that had to be done, but Arcade knew deep down it was just another way to avoid the truth: He didn’t know where to go himself.
Arcade lifted his basket of laundry and hauled his meager stack of clothes toward the washing machine out behind the farm house. He set it in the dirt and lifted the lid as he did his chores.
The other clones all felt so easy to find places where they would live and thrive and grow into themselves.
He slammed the washing machine lid down after dropping in the powdered detergent and turned it on.
But Arcade? He’d been a general shop owner. He’d loved being a general shop owner. Without a Morty Town or a Citadel—awful though that was—who was going to let him run a store? To the rest of the universe he was a fourteen year old kid without parents.
Grabbing the empty basket with one hand, he dragged it inside and set it by the door. Arcade still needed to go into town and get the next crate of goods to sort from the old store. Moving from the ruined town into the farmhouse had been a slow process.
(Arcade had been dragging his feet.)
Going to live with a Smith family didn’t work either. Arcade had no idea what the situation was on the current earth, or if this place had a Rick and Morty pair he’d have to weasel his way into. He didn’t have a portal gun or Rick’s tech to go to another universe, or even narrow down which ones would let him take the place of a dead Morty.
The wind rustled the crops that surrounded the farm as Arcade tapped down the front steps of the house, a large backpack over his shoulder.
“Would you look at that?”
Arcade stopped and clutched the bag at his shoulder. Two Ricks in the standard lab coat ensemble stood in the front yard next to the graves, but both eyes were on him. One took a drink from his flask.
“Which Morty belonged to the dead Rick? The Doc or you?” the one drinking asked. “Because if you’ve got a Rick wandering around here, best to tell us now.”
Arcade put his bag on the porch behind him, letting it hit with a thick thud.
“That Rick didn’t have a Morty.” Arcade squared his shoulders best as he could despite his heart pounding in his chest. He hoped they got lost like that other Rick and Morty duo that had stopped by. “And I sure as fuck don’t have or need a Rick. There’s nothing here to raid. Get lost.”
“Nothing here to raid,” the drinking Rick cackled. He put his flask away and held his hand out. “A-are-are you stupid? You’re here!”
Arcade ran.
The Ricks laughed as he dove into the middle of the tall crops, but he could hear their footsteps pick up. Running felt pointless on some level. He wasn’t as fast. He didn’t have enhancements. The ship was too far. Arcade didn’t have a gun.
But it was the principal of the matter.
If he couldn’t escape, he could at least make it as annoying as possible.
Sticky leaves slapped against his face and clothes. Arcade's breath heaved as he ran as fast as possible.
(Would having a Rick before put him in better shape from adventures?)
Arcade's heart felt like it was going to burst as his feet dug in the soil.
“Got ya!” One of the Ricks shouted as he slid in front of Arcade with his arms open. He closed them around Arcade while he slid, trying to turn. Arcade elbowed Rick in the gut, but only hurt his own arm when it hit metal. “Cute, kid. Definitely believing you’re a Rickless bastard if you thought that would work.”
“Had to try,” Arcade grunted. The Rick carried Arcade under his arm, careful to keep his arms restrained. “It’s not like all Ricks have the same tech.”
The Rick burped. “I’ll give ya’ that.”
“That Morty’s the only one left,” said the Rick’s partner. He had a scanner out and hummed under his breath. He waved his hand at the ship parked behind the barn. “Checked that thing’s flight log, and it looks like it’s been all over this universe. Why-why-why’d you come back here kid if you’ve got a ship?”
“M-maybe I like working on a farm,” Arcade said. “You ever think that?”
“I think you’re a liar,” the Rick said. He dropped Arcade on the ground and grabbed the back of his shirt. The Rick smacked a small ball into his side and it expanded into a set of restraints that wrapped around Arcade’s chest and arms. “We got a Rick on our list that wants a liar?”
“B-889 maybe,” the other Rick said. He pressed a button, collapsing his scanning equipment into a briefcase. “He’s into serums and shit. Might want a test dummy for his truth drugs.”
Arcade’s legs stopped working; his arms shook.
The Rick dragged him along the dirt by the back of his restraints, chatting lightly with the other Rick as they walked to their own ship parked near the crops. They spoke about dimension numbers and Ricks desperate for new Mortys.
It wasn’t going to be like the Rick Raids from the ruins of the Citadel. They didn’t want little Morty servants to do their bidding or hang around like pets. Those Ricks needed and wanted their Mortys alive.
They were too precious a resource to do permanent damage.
The Ricks that dragged him ever closer to that ship were talking about Ricks that had had Mortys.
That had lost Mortys.
Due to death or carelessness and genuinely found them expendable. Replaceable and bought with underground money.
Arcade was going to die.
“Fuck!” Adrenaline brought him back to life and Arcade jerked to the side. His legs got under him and he dug into the dirt trying to get away. “Let me go! I got free of that shit! I’m not going back!”
He kicked and screamed and snarled, but the iron grip on his restraints didn’t budge. Arcade’s cheeks grew wet with tears that were born from anger and frustration and terror and every other ugly emotion bubbling in his chest.
The Ricks didn’t even laugh or mock him; they tossed him in the back seat and climbed into their chairs, taking off.
The one in the passenger seat leaned back and took a drink from his flask. He glanced at Arcade in the rearview. “You still crying?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Arcade hissed back. “The Citadel crashed. I found out I was a clone the hard way when I realized I was in the fucking wreckage when everyone else left to go home. We finally made a place to live and got raided by fucking Ricks and my best friend died and then the one nice Rick I’ve ever met in my life got killed. And when I finally—finally—had time to get my shit together, you two show up and kidnap me! I can cry if I fucking want to!”
His final shout filled the entire ship and the Rick twisted his cap on his flask.
“We should sell him to C-245,” the driver said. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “W-wasn’t-wasn’t he the one that wanted a Morty to spoil? Dress ‘em up in like doll clothes or something?”
“Ah, yeah,” passenger side Rick said. He looked over his shoulder at Arcade and shrugged. “This one does have nicer hair. It’d be good for that.”
“And what happened to his Morty?” Arcade asked, despite himself.
“Never had one,” one Rick said, looking at a floating hologram screen from his watch. “C-245’s Beth divorced her Jerry when his Summer was three. “C-245 gripes about them being on and off, but never having any more kids.”
The Rick closed the screen and stretched his hands over his head. “Not that I give a shit, but it sounds like you’ve had it rough, so I’ll graciously give-give you some advice: How well you behave is gonna decide if you go to some Rick who wants to play grandpa or one that’s looking for another lab rat. Get it?”
Arcade snarled. “Fuck you.”
“I’ll let that one slide.”
Both Ricks chuckled and Arcade dropped his forehead against the door and tried not to believe Doc and Homesteader were the lucky ones.