3 Times Rick's Enemies Tried to Kidnap Morty and 1 Time They Succeeded

      Жизнь в Цитадели не сравнится с жизнью на Земле, но Морти не спешит искать минусы.       В особенно удачный день он почти благодарен Рику, в пьяном беспамятстве решившему взорвать луну. Хорошим это, конечно же, не закончилось: его семья погибла, и вся Земля оказалась разрушена  — но они с Риком вытворяли дерьмо намного хуже с чужими планетами, и Морти тяжело заставить себя скорбеть по собственной. Он почти чувствует себя психопатом, принимая всё как есть, но оплакивать судьбу человечества, отметая тот факт, что Морти сам однажды стал причиной массового исчезновения Флупнатов, пожав кому-то руку, кажется неправильным.       Оказавшись в Цитадели, Морти напугал Рика своим безразличием к случившемуся настолько, что первые дни тот предпочитал передвигаться на цыпочках — его Рик всегда отличался от остальных, находя в себе чуть больше сострадания, чем все те Рики, которых Морти не посчастливилось встретить, но, чёрт возьми, — Рик, и на цыпочках. Будто он ждал, что Морти не выдержит и кинется на колени, умоляя Рика вернуть его семью к жизни, а их самих назад, на Т-35 — вернуть ему дом, которого он лишился.       На пятый день Рик подступился к нему сам — с лицом кривым, словно проглотил лимон, — и дал знать, что Морти всегда может рассчитывать на его поддержку, реши он заговорить о случившемся.       Морти соврал бы, скажи он, что не нашёл сложившуюся ситуацию чертовски уморительной, но Рик, похоже, этого мнения не разделял, мрачно наблюдая за Морти, сжимающим бока и пытающимся сдержать рвущихся наружу хохот.       Морти почти почувствовал себя виновато на следующий день, когда Рик принёс домой нового Снаффлза, — но сделал это совершенно риковым путём: оставил собаку в переулке, мимо которого Морти обычно проходит по пути на работу, и великодушно разрешил ему приютить беднягу, найденную ошивающейся рядом с мусоропроводом. Провёрнуто это было мастерски, и он догадался лишь потому, что Заводчик Собак Морти — его регулярный посетитель, заглядывающий на огонёк каждую пятницу. Оказывается, продавать Снаффлзов Рикам задачка сложная — всё равно что выдёргивать себе зубы: никто из Риков не готов признать, что балует своего Морти. Кроме Майями Рика, разумеется; чёрт, ну и богат же этот тип.       Конечно же, было здорово вновь получить собаку, однако намерения Рика всё равно стали до смешного очевидными — неуместная попытка создать знакомую атмосферу в их нынешнем месте, служащем заменой дому. Трогательный сентимент, разве что в корне неверный.       Цитадель не стала заменой — цитадель стала освобождением.       Нет больше разочарованных взглядов от родителей за его спиной, переживаний о том, когда именно Рик заменит его более компетентной Саммер, или скудного планетарного склада ума: никто теперь не посмотрит на него, как на сумасшедшего, стоит Морти случайно использовать инопланетное словечко или упомянуть свои любимые игры в Блипс энд Читс. Ему не придётся больше выносить неловкие разговоры или стесняться своего заикания: не тогда, когда половина населения состоит из его двойников, а вторая — в состоянии придумать лишь около пяти новых оскорблений, будучи одним и тем же человеком.       Возможность покинуть Т-35 — лучшее, что когда-либо с ним случалось.       Разумеется, не все здесь складывается идеально. Здорово, конечно, что Морти больше не приходится беспокоиться о школе, а Рик может забрать его на приключение в любую свободную минуту, но теперь ему необходимо волноваться об умниках, считающих, что они способны вытянуть из него бесплатный алкоголь одним лишь взглядом, просто потому что он — Морти.       — Ещё выпивки за этот столик!       — Сейчас будет, — кричит Морти через плечо, жонглируя стаканами в руках и стараясь дотянуться до одной из пятидесяти одинаковых бутылок. Он бы порадовался склонности Риков заказывать одни и те же напитки, тем самым избавляя его от лишней работы, если бы ближе к середине ночи те не ввязывались в пьяные драки, почти снося друг другу головы. Когда ситуация начала выходить из-под контроля, его Рик поспешил подключить силовое поле, и вскоре такие выходки перестали представлять для Морти угрозу, продолжая, однако, играть ему на нервах.       — Мартини, ваш фирменный!       Мартини Морти, так теперь его зовут. Первый раз, когда-то кто-то обратился к нему этим именем вместо Т-35, он был не в силах подавить улыбку вплоть до самого возвращения домой.       Когда они впервые оказались в цитадели, Морти был лишь безвестным номером очередного измерения, подобно туристам или безымянным Рикам, лишившихся своих портальных пушек, и Морти, слоняющихся по Мортитауну. Но им не потребовалось много времени, чтобы освоиться на новом месте — Рик начал подрабатывать в баре, пока Морти натирал столы и вымывал пятна мочи в Кровавой луне — клубе, расположившемся между зажиточными и вовсю процветающими районами.       Морти не тешил себя надеждами: тогда работа в клубе была лишь способом убить появившееся свободное время, пока однажды ночью Рик не пустил его за барную стойку, позволяя сновать вокруг, пробовать экзотические смеси, не встречающиеся на Земле, и подавать их улыбающимся работникам Морти и скептично настроенным Рикам — тогда же Морти и осознал, что они с Риком готовили отменные коктейли.       Новое имя стало заключением.       Так что теперь они с Риком работают бок о бок, обмениваясь заказами и бокалами, скользящими вдоль барной стойки.       Время близится к четырём, разгоняя толпу, Сделав паузу, Морти замечает, что один из его двойников все еще шаркает в барном кресле, прислоняется к стойке, а затем садится прямо, настраивая ноги на крест и поперек. Его глаза пугливо оглядываются вокруг, но часто наклоняются, словно боятся смотреть кому-нибудь в глаза. Pausing, Morty notices one of his look-alikes still shuffling in a bar chair, leaning against the counter before sitting up straight, adjusting his feet to cross and uncross. His eyes dart around skittishly, but duck down every so often as if afraid of making eye-contact with anyone A newbie, then. «Hey, ” He says, tapping the counter in front of him. Newbie jumps, as if a bartender behind a bar was one of the greatest surprises. Or maybe he still hasn’t gotten used to everyone wearing the same face as him. «Me?» «Yeah, ” He says flatly, before smiling apologetically. Was this what he looked like his own first time on the citadel? «Did you want to order something?» He gestures to the Morty’s empty hands. «Hope y-y-you weren’t waiting too long. It’s hard to hear people in this place.» That was a lie. Volume was never an issue. Rick had made him a handy set of earbuds that dulled down the music blaring from the club’s heavy speakers, while amplifying voices and other effects, so Morty could always hear customers trying to get his attention. But the white lie serves its role and makes Newbie’s shoulders ease a little. «I–I-It’s okay.» Newbie fidgets with his fingers. «I just, um… I–I-I don’t know, what I should…» «Strawberry daiquiri? It’s a popular one with Mortys.» He offers, deciding to throw the poor guy a bone. Newbie nods eagerly, even though he probably has no idea what it is. With one last smile, he turns around to pull out one of the easier rums. After the first time, he’d quickly learnt not to confuse Morty alcohol with Rick alcohol. An elbow nudges him in the side. «Found another lost, baby duckling?» Morty half-mindedly shoves him with his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the smirk on Rick’s face. Morty tries to hit him a second time, but Rick manages to duck in and press a small peck to Morty’s lips before backing out of range. It would have been made Morty smile, if he didn’t know why Rick was doing it. «Fuck off, ” He says, swiping at Rick, who continues to laugh, but does relent and goes to take someone’s order at the end of the bar. When Morty turns around, Newbie’s face is red like one of those crappy, artificial cherries, his eyes staring wide at Morty’s face and jaw practically dropped to the floor. Morty sighs. Rick always teases the newbie Mortys with some PDA, earning Morty some frazzled customers, but usually they’ve seen it around the citadel before and are a little used to it, if not slightly off-put. Some are even relieved, if they’re that kind of Morty, but he’s never had a newbie that has never seen it at all, which, by the petrified state of Newbie, is the case today. He wonders if Newbie’s Rick wanted to go clubbing and decided it would be smart to drop his Morty straight into the deep end, at a club where Ricks and Mortys commonly hooked up. Talk about a culture shock. «Sorry about him. He’s pretty handsy w-when work gets slow.» Morty chuckles nervously, then bites back a grimace when Newbie keeps staring at him, not even twitching at his words. Nice going, Rick. You broke him. «Y-Y-You’re…» Newbie stutters, «Together?» «Y-Yeah, ” Morty answers, then feeling a tad defensive, adds on, «Plenty of us are.» He turns around before Newbie can form a response, taking a little longer than necessary to shove all the daiquiri’s ingredients into a blender. He thought the noise might fill the silence, but somehow the awkwardness is powerful enough to sneak over the growling of the blender, making Morty shuffle on his feet as he feels Newbie’s eyes dig holes into his back. Evidently, Morty should not be head of the Welcome Wagon for Rick and Morty relationships. «How did you.?» Newbie trails off, confusion and curiosity in his voice. Morty relaxes. At least he’s not screaming bloody murder. «I–I just… told him, one day. And he had to be a dick about it, ‘cause he knew about my feelings before I did. He never thought I–I’d actually grow the balls to say anything.» «…And then?» New asks hesitantly. «We fucked.» Morty says, then feels a bit remorseful when Newbie starts spluttering. With almost morbid interest, he asks, «And does… Every Rick…?» «Not every Rick.» He means it as reassurance, but Newbie’s shoulders slump down in defeat, as if Morty had just crushes his hopes in one fist. «Oh, ” Morty realises, internally wincing. He sympathetically slides over the completed daiquiri with one hand. «Here, i-i-it’s on the—» Rick gives a pointed cough behind him. «What?» He mouths back, then rolls his eyes and goes over when Rick keeps sending him silent judgement. Poking him between the eyes, Rick not-so-quietly whispers, «Y-Y-You can’t just give out free drinks to every kicked puppy.» The cheap asshole. «Were you listening that entire time?» «Morty.» «Come on, Rick. Boss won’t care. Besides, look at him.» He glances back at Newbie, who morosely stirs the straw in his drink. He’s never seen someone stay sad after getting a cocktail umbrella in their glass. The umbrella always works. «Boo fucking hoo. Eighty percent of the people here need a pick-me-up. Y-You don’t see me going around throwing alcohol at — at anything that moves—» «But you—» «It was Ricktoberfest, Morty.» Sighing, Rick sets his hands on Morty’s shoulders and starts to push him aside. «Listen, I’ll go take care of it so you—you don’t have anything on your saintly conscience.» He shoves Rick back. «Fine, I–I’ll go get the damn cash.» «Oh, I insist.» «W-wait, ” Morty stops, blocking Rick’s path. «What’s wrong?» «What’s wrong is that you won’t charge a Morty for their fucking—» «Cut the crap, Rick, ” Morty says, finally taking in the alertness of the other man’s eyes, the way his body angles into Morty’s — protectively. Leaning in, he whispers, «Who is he?» «I don’t know, ” Rick murmurs back, eyes scanning the crowd. «I looked him up — he’s not there.» «So he doesn’t have a tab. He is new.» Morty points out, but starts to feel uneasy at the dangerous look in Rick’s eyes. The look he only gets when gearing up for a fight. «Not the tabs — on the ID scanner. He’s not showing up at all.» Rick says, brow furrowed. «He doesn’t have a dimension number.» «Well—» Morty starts, then stops. That was weird. «So, he’s a fugitive? How’d he even get past the door?» Frowning, Rick pushes forward again. «Doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of it.» «Wait, w-w-what—» He pushes against Rick’s chest with both hands, digging in his heels when he feels himself slide back. Newbie looks up from the counter at the commotion, and Morty gives him what he hopes is a disarming smile. Newbie returns it, looking a little confused, then back at his drink. «Rick, ” Morty pushes harder, then sighs when Rick leans back, crossing his arms and watching Morty with unamused eyes. «He hasn’t been any trouble. So what if it’s a little sketchy?» «He might not be trouble, but I’m not taking chances with his Rick.» He scowls, trying to shrug off Morty’s grip. «No, no, babe—» Morty clutches Rick’s arm, leaning in to whisper, «He’s like us. I–I-I think his Rick abandoned him.» Morty lets his shoulders ease when Rick sighs in defeat. «Fine. Y-Your little charity case can stay — but you’re paying for his drink.» «Are you still—» Rick dips his head into the crook of Morty’s neck and gives a slow lick up his jawline. «Not with money.» «Okay, ” Morty agrees faintly, a shiver running down his back when Rick chuckles low against his ear and nibbles the lobe gently. From a nearby table, a rowdy group whistles and hollers at them and Morty jumps back with red cheeks, even as Rick groans in protest. «No Morty should have reason to hide on the Citadel. Stay on your guard, ” Rick warns, before backing away. He hops over the bar with one arm and goes over to the table, joining in with other Ricks’ antics and doing that weird handshake thing that Morty’s fingers are too short for. Morty can’t help the fond smile that inches onto his face, even if Rick is slacking off. It turns into a frown, however, when he turns to Newbie’s seat and sees a Rick chatting him up, a familiar black tattoo creeping up his wrist. Newbie is sitting ramrod straight, his entire body leaning as far as possible to the right without falling off his stool. The Rick crowds against him with one arm resting on the bar, and it makes Morty grit his teeth. He wasn’t letting S-24 anywhere near a fresh Morty — especially one that possibly has a rocky relationship with his own Rick. He gets a cocky salute when he marches up to them. «The usual for me. And another for my Morty.» «I know he’s not your Morty, S-24,» Morty grinds out. «Aw, don’t—don’t get jealous, babe, ” S-24 winks at him. «I still think you’re cute.» Pointedly turning to Newbie, Morty asks, «Is he bothering you?» It’s obviously true, but he needs Newbie to confirm it to call security on S-24 with a valid excuse, or the bouncer Ricks would just make a few jabs at him and go back to whatever the hell they did. God, he wishes Buff Morty had a shift tonight. He would chuck any Rick out the door, no questions asked — sometimes he’d toss out a random Rick just for shits and giggles. Morty can’t blame him. If he was jacked up on steroids he’d probably do the same. «Uh, ” Newbie fumbles, but Morty takes it as authentication and gives S-24 a hard stare. «Fine, ” S-24 says amicably, making to slide off his bar stool—Morty tenses. Whatever he has planned can’t be good, which is definitely the case when S-24 casually throws out, «Your Rick really has a tight leash on you, huh?» Newbie straightens up. «What?» «Y-Y-You came out here to have fun, didn’t you?» S-24 asks, voice a low croon that sends a disgusted shiver down Morty’s spine. «It’s a shame your Rick won’t let you. It’s why I–I-I had to help you sneak in, right?» «My Rick doesn’t control me. I–I-I can do whatever the hell I want, ” Newbie argues, and Morty almost face-palms. Of course Newbie would fall for the bait. He opens his mouth, ready to placate Newbie, but S-24 cuts him off with a smirk, saying, «Then why don’t you indulge me? One drink.» For a second, Newbie pauses, as if realising what he just got himself into—and Morty dares to hope that he’ll back down— «Unless you can’t handle a little alcohol. Sure y-you don’t wanna call your Rick?» —And Newbie tilts his chin up and says, as if it were a rebellion, «Fine. Buy me a drink.» «Jesus christ, ” Morty mutters under his breath, as he turns to get the bottle that S-24 orders with a smug snap of his fingers. Mortys really were fucking idiots. He feels like one of those adults who grow up and realise how stupid teenagers are. A lot of Mortys were baited into getting shitfaced by Ricks — it happened all the time, with how pliable Mortys are, and how devious the Ricks are, but S-24 is dangerous. All Ricks are, but most had a line. Not a line of morals like normal people had, that divided good and bad, because that doesn’t work with Ricks. They’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want. Manipulation, theft, murder. Morally, Ricks have no line—they do however, have a line that separates the wide, blank field of strangers and false friends, from those safe from his destructive path, relatively. Birdperson, Beth, etcetera. And by an unspoken agreement, other Ricks and Mortys, if only to avoid a full-blown interdimensional war. And atop a gilded throne, always, always their Morty. S-24 did not have a line, and Morty suspects it was erased the day S-24 Morty was on the list of deceased from the destruction of the first Citadel. He pours the shots with eyes fixed on Newbie, trying to send the message of Don’t do this, just wait for your Rick to come back and work things out, you don’t need to prove anything—but S-24 is keeping his attention with a hand stroking his wrist, another splayed on his thigh. Newbie stares down at where their fingers meet with half extreme discomfort and half fiery determination. Morty feels like he’s witnessing a particularly painful game of Gay Chicken— He needs to start cleaning up the bar. It’s almost closing time, and Rick never likes staying too late afterwards. He picks himself up off the ground and slides behind the bar, and begins to wipe down the bar for stray drops and cup marks. This night must have been pretty hard—there are Ricks and Mortys passed out on the floor—way more than usual—slowly picking themselves back up. Some make for the exit, but most carry on dancing or drinking, or whatever the hell they were up to, as if they hadn’t just blacked out two minutes ago. Well, go big or go home, right? Someone left a half-finished daiquiri. Fighting a scowl, Morty picks it up and rinses out the glass in the sink. Who didn’t finish a perfectly good daiquiri? «Rick, ” He murmurs into the comm with annoyance. «Can you come help me clean up now?» When he doesn’t get a response, he looks over at the table with an irritated sigh—it catches in his throat when he can’t see his Rick among them. He should be easy to pick out in his black and red uniform. He was definitely there a few minutes ago— —"Stay on your guard.» Groaning, Morty rubs his temple. This headache kills—He can’t wait for his shift to end. «Rick?» Morty says again, nervously. No response. Hopping over the counter, he marches over to where the Ricks are erupting with drunken laughter, swaying in their seats and cracking obscure science jokes that fly over Morty’s head. «Hey! Have you—» He’s about to make demands after his Rick when chaos erupts at the entrance to the club, people shouting and hollering—customers jump out of their seats and stumble over and Morty roll his eyes when he realises another fight’s broken out. He’s almost trampled when all the Ricks get up and blunder over, making non-sensical bets about who will win. He tries to make his way over too, but the crowd is too dense and all he can do is wince as he hears the grunts and punches thrown, the tipsy crowd cheering its approval every time. It’s unsettling, this entire thing, but it shouldn’t be. Fights are a regular occurrence. Nothing to worry about, but, this doesn’t feel regular, this feels like—like a distraction— «Rick, ” He whispers urgently into the comm once more, and he can’t even hear his own voice over the noise around him, loud and obnoxious cheering and laughter as whatever situation outside is dissolved with a clear winner. There’s a sudden jerk in the flow of the crowd, people losing interest and settling down. A few stragglers remain, slouched over tables and on the dance floor while the rest squeeze through to the exit as they leave with the night. He picks out his Rick coming towards him and lets out a relieved breath. «Have you had your fun?» Morty asks dryly, even as he brushes his hand against Rick’s to calm his own nerves. Rick indulges him, grabbing his hand and stroking his wrist with a soothing thumb. —He’s like us. I–I-I think his Rick abandoned him.» «Yeah, yeah, ” He sighs. «So sorry for leaving you at—at such a busy hour.» Rick only chuckles lightly when Morty slaps him on the arm. «Asshole. W-W-What happened anyway?» Snorting, Rick answers, «S-24 again. Tried to pick a fight with the bouncers — while drunk off his ass. Didn’t w-work out too well for him, but it was funny as shit to watch.» Morty feels his stomach drop. «S-24?» —Don’t get jealous, babe—I still think you’re cute.» «Yeah, ” Rick frowns. «The shitwad who always hits on you. Dragon tattoo on the wrist?» «But…» Morty denies with confusion. «S-24 is already here! He’s with—» «Found another lost, baby ducking?» Newbie. His head whips around to Newbie’s spot. Both seats are empty. «Baby, hey, ” Rick tilts Morty’s chin back to him, eyes glancing over his face with concern. «Don’t worry. I–I-I won’t let him take a fucking step near you.» «No!» Morty protests. «Are you sure it was S-24 out there? No one else, y-y-you’re confident?» «Morty, yes, I’m sure.» Rick answers, voice low as if trying to calm a spooked animal. Maybe that’s what he sounds like, Morty can’t tell, not over the anxiety building in every nerve of his body. Something’s happening, something’s wrong— If S-24 was out there, then who— «Morty, what’s wrong? What are you looking for—» «Newbie, did you see where Newbie went?» Morty asks desperately, head turning to scan every body in the crowd — but the night is ending and customers are stumbling out the exit in an indistinguishable mass. It’s impossible to pick out Newbie’s shy mannerisms among so many other Mortys. «What newbie? Oh, ” Rick wraps his arms around him, smiling reassuringly against his hair. «So you found another lost, baby duckling? Don’t worry so much, babe. I’m sure y-y-your newbie’ll find his way home just fine.» Pressing a chaste peck to his temple, Rick adds, «And next time, let me know when a newbie comes in. I wanted to fuck with ‘em.» But you already did, Morty wants to say. Instead, he forces himself to ease the grip on Rick’s hands—when had he even grabbed on—and smiles, a little unsteadily. «Sorry, I just, I–I-I guess I just, overreacted, huh?» «I–It’s an endearing quality, ” Rick reassures, but Morty feels like he’s hearing the words underwater, muffled and distant. «I’m gonna go to the bathroom, ” Morty says, «Just to clear my head.» «Don’t be too long, ” Rick says, giving up too easily — he would never gloss over a hiccup like this, he’s too paranoid, too smart, and he knows every trick conceived in this reality — time loops, identity fraud, memory manipulation— Someone did something to his Rick. He pushes through the flowing crowd, standing up on his toes and eyes alert. «Hey, ” He calls, seeing one of the bouncer Ricks idly watching the crowd from the side. Tank top Rick. He leans against the wall with arms crossed, defined muscles barely contained by the black shirt he wears. His eyes lazily follow Morty as he approaches. «I’m not helping clean up. I got shit to do.» «Did y-y-you see S-24 tonight?» Morty asks, insides buzzing unpleasantly. The Rick snorts. «Tried to sneak in five minutes ago. I tossed that fucker to the curb.» «And he didn’t get in? Are y-you sure he only showed up five minutes ago?» «Hmm, golly gee, I–I-I don’t know. I just said he failed to sneak in five minutes ago.» «Jesus, okay, ” Morty rolls his eyes, but can’t even muster up a hint of annoyance when his entire being is screaming at him— wrong, wrong, wrong— He’s at the back exit, he realises somewhere in the muddle of his mind. Morty drops his hand down. He had been one second from pushing it open. What the hell is he doing here—? He doesn’t even remember walking over— A sharp crash from outside. It could just be a couple drunks, screwing around with the dumpster. —But not tonight. Not after a no-name Morty and an imposter Rick. He pushes open the door, thankful from the bottom of his heart that Rick always sneaks him out here for quickies, because now he knows how to push the handle without the obnoxious clicking noise. Two voices are in a heated argument—which is a good thing, because they don’t notice the swell of the music as Morty slips through the door and gently closes it behind him. «—Do you have any idea how fucking stupid it was to come here? Can y-y-you register that inside your fucking peanut brain?» «I–I-I’m sorry, I thought you wouldn’t notice with how much you’ve been avoiding me—» «W-W-What so this was a fucking temper tantrum? ‘Cause grandpa hasn’t been paying attention to you? We are not on good terms with the citadel, Morty — they shouldn’t even know you exist! Y-Y-You’re damn lucky only one Rick realised who you were, or your head would be on a fucking stick.» «I–I-I can take care of myself, Rick! People try to kill me on a daily basis.» «You think a Rick would have been that merciful? News flash, Morty. He wasn’t going to kill you, he was gonna string you up and fucking torture you within an inch of your life! He would’ve fucking burned you alive!» Holding his breath, Morty starts to creep away from the door. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground and tip toes over the wrappers and glass shards littering the alley, keeping in the shadows until he can duck behind the dumpster. Peeking around, he sees the silhouettes of a Rick and Morty, their shadows creeping long across the ground like snakes. The Morty’s hands are clenched, his entire frame wound tight—and Morty just knows. This is Newbie. Newbie and his Rick. «Well I–I took him down, didn’t I?» «W-Wow, Morty. Y-You can throw a decent punch? I think what’s more impressive is how y-y-you rewrote his memories, and gave him a mild sedative, and sent him on his merry way without suspicion. I–I-I guess you were also the one who hacked into the Citadel databases to hide your identity, and blocked off our dimension so other Ricks can’t portal in on a fucking witch hunt, and wiped the memories of everyone in this shithole so no one would remember that the Morty from fucking C-137 dropped in.» C-137. Reeling back, Morty cowers deeper into the corner, suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of his breathing, his heart thudding against his ribcage, a chill soaking through his body as he realises just how dangerous a situation he was in right now. Holy shit. Holy shit. The Rogues were five meters away from him. «—Oh, w-w-wait a minute, that was me. You’re welcome. Now come on.» «I’m not going anywhere until y-y-you, you talk to me, Rick—We haven't been on an adventure since Xytar—y-y-you don’t hang out with me, hell—you don’t even look at me. Ever since… that night—» «Drop it, Morty.» «What did I do wrong?» «Y-Y-You assumed. That’s where you—you went wrong. You think one night and we’d get married? I–I-I’ve hooked up with aliens that outshine you like a fucking sun, Morty. I’ve invented interdimensional travel, I–I-I can move through time, I’ve conquered entire planets for fun —I–I-I’ve won every game someone plays against me — I own this whole fucking universe, Morty! Y-Y-You honestly think after all that, a moronic dipshit like you could hold any significance to me?» There’s a ringing, injured silence after words, as if they had cut through the air and left a deep and bloody wound across the alleyway. Morty waits for Newbie — C-137 Morty — to start tearing up at the harsh taunts, waits for the Rick to back-track his words and soothe his Morty, because when he and his Rick fight, that’s exactly what happens– But the silence drags on, and Morty is reminded that they are nothing like him and his Rick. Rogue Morty would never crumble in the path of his Rick’s fury, nor would this Rick apologize and coddle him. He’s not sure if he admires them or pities them. The warbling of a portal vibrates in the air, just for a split second as someone makes a hasty escape. Morty almost worries that C-137 Morty will be left stranded here, but— «Hey—I gave you that for emergencies, Morty! Not so you could fuck off w-when-whenever your feelings got hurt!» —And C-137 Rick and him are the only ones left in the alleyway. The silence is no longer charged with aggression. It’s turned still, and eerie. Then it’s pierced by the sharp shot of a bullet aimed next to Morty’s foot. «Shit!» He yelps, jumping back, then clamps a hand over his mouth to silence himself—but he knows the damage has already been done. Dread pooling in his stomach, he rises from his hiding place. The Rogue is standing there, gun loosely held in his hand. The lazy, self-assured posture that once looked so endearing on his own Rick, is worn by C-137 like tiger stripes—bold and threatening. A predator. The shadows of the night cast over his face, making it look like he has dark and empty sockets instead of eyes. He looks like a demon. «Don’t.» Rogue says sharply, and Morty forces himself to relax his muscles, wounded tight as he had prepared to sprint for the door. It was stupid anyway. He can’t outrun a bullet. «Please, ” He begs, backing away against the wall as the Rick steps closer, gun trained and steady. He’s not above begging for his life. He’s not a Rick, after all. There has to be something—even Rogue is still a Rick, surely there’s some way to appeal to him, even if he wasn’t Morty’s Rick— —And oh god, Rick—Morty can’t die here, Rick wouldn’t be able to handle it. In a sudden burst of courage, he ducks down and lunges at Rogue, charging him dead on and making a wide grab for the gun. He feels the surprise in Rogue’s frame, feels the sharp twist of pain when his arm is grabbed and bent too far— —Feels it in the air when the ground he’s gained falls beneath him, Rogue quickly re-asserting his balance and jabbing the gun into his side—a punishing shot going straight into his side— Nothing happens. Morty yanks himself back, tumbling to the ground—but unharmed. Where there should be a bleeding hole in his torso, a blue forcefield of light glows against his skin. «W-Well, aren’t you a pampered shit.» With trembling hands, Morty prods the buzzing light, remembering that summer day when Rick had called him into the garage. The garage door had been left just one-foot open so the breeze could drift in occasionally, the buzz of cicadas and the thrum of the neighbour’s lawnmower. Morty had spent eight hours whining and complaining to Rick as the scientist poked a needle into every cell he had as if giving him a full body tattoo. Rick had told him to shut up and suck it up, but when he had finished, the sun having already fallen and they sat with only the desk lamp for light and the sound of grass humming in the wind, he’d covered every inch of Morty’s body in tender kisses, leaving Morty breathless and pliant, and promised that he’d never let anyone hurt him. How could Morty have ever doubted him? «I–I-I’m assuming that’s the reason why this didn’t work either.» Morty looks up. Rogue is holding up a memory gun to the sparse light available, the two coils alight with blue. After staring at the gentler light of his own Rick’s invention, the harsh light of Rogue’s memory gun is almost too strong to look at, leaving dark imprints on Morty’s eyes— —It’s—It’s, Morty thinks, and remembers—Newbie leaving with S-24 through the back door and trying to follow them—and a portal opening dead-center in the building when the security should make that impossible—A Rick coming through and following after them, dropping a small, metal ball behind him. It had seeped red gas into the room, the doors had been locked, the ventilation turned off, and Morty remembers Rick holding him close, desperately, and pressing a wet cloth against his mouth and nose, murmuring a fast list of commands to a security system that never responded as one by one the bodies dropped— Then he woke up, everyone had woken up, and they’d all gone resumed their lives, oblivious. «Y-Y-You have a fancy, little chip in your skull, to protect you against shit like this.» Rogue says, waving around the memory gun. For a second, Morty’s surprised he’s bothering to explain it, but then he remembers that every Rick is used to spelling out stuff for a Morty. It’s wired into their habits, like instinct. Rogue comes closer, and Morty tries to back away once more but his back is already flat against the rough brick behind him. Rogue leans down, a foreign and metal gadget in his hand. Then quickly, his hand darts out, and he stabs it right behind Morty’s ear. Yelping at the prick of pain, like a needle—Morty reaches up to protectively cover the spot, but Rogue has already backed away, holding in his hand a slightly bloody, beeping chip. He drops it and crushes it under his shoe, as if the hard metal and wires were tinfoil. «You—You know, I counted on Ricks to have ‘em, but—a Morty? Your Rick is one w-whipped son of a bitch. Got it real bad.» «Does your Morty have one?» Morty asks, the words drawn from his throat even as he already knows the answer. «No, ” Rogue says, aiming the memory gun at Morty’s forehead. Ricks have always been shit liars.