Chapter Text
“This’ll be good for us.” Rick said. He was moving around boxes in the room. Morty nodded with a noncommittal hum. Rick sighed, there was no point in trying to say anything else. The apartment had two rooms, a bathroom and an everything else room. The two beds were in a bunk. Rick had already called dibs on the bottom since his knees wouldn’t be able to get up and down that ladder on a regular basis.
Rick could hear boxes being moved in the hallway. Thousands of Ricks and Mortys were moving in.
Morty sat down on his bed with a huff. The left side of Rick’s unibrow shot up. “What, you’re above unpacking?” He sneered.
Morty muttered, “Leave me alone.” His back faced Rick. His face stared at the wall the bunk was pressed up against. Rick shrugged and began to unpack. Most of it was his stuff anyways. He may not have a garage anymore, but inventing was still his thing.
Without something to keep his hands busy, he knew he’d quickly become depressed in this enclosed space.
Morty shivered, putting his arms around himself.
The apartment was the standard carbon copy all around the citadel. After what happened and the influx of Ricks and Mortys alike, they needed somewhere for them to live. So, a basic model of an apartment for a standard Rick and Morty, was copy and pasted all across the citadel to hopefully keep most Ricks and Mortys under some semblance of a roof.
Rick sighed, “Morty if-“
“I-I don’t wanna talk about it.” He said with finality. Rick backed off. Being C-137 already made him hated among Rick kind, so he didn’t need his and Morty’s arguing to leave a bad impression on their neighbors who were just across the paper thin walls of the apartment.
Rick could hear the buzzing of wings on the left side of the apartment. Fuck, they’d gotten slotted next to a bug Rick and Morty, hadn’t they? That’d become annoying.
As Rick was unpacking, he noticed a stuffed dog in the box. It wasn’t his, he knew that. It was brown with a black nose and clouded blue eyes. It was an average stuffed dog. And considering there were only two people in the apartment, he guessed who it belonged to. Rick picked up the stuffed thing and set it on the top bunk.
A peace offering. Morty looked over at the dog. He snatched it quickly, as if afraid Rick would take it back. Morty turned with his back to Rick, now curled around the stuffed dog. Rick sighed.
A sixth dimensional blackhole had opened up. Universes were quickly getting sucked in. The only safe haven was in the eye of the blackhole. Really, a perfect spot for the citadel and a few other miscellaneous ships to cower. So, Ricks and Mortys across the multiverse were teleported into the citadel. It was a last ditch effort to save as many Ricks and Mortys as possible. If a Rick had their Summer registered as their Morty, they were teleported in too.
The citadel didn’t have room really for extras. Shit, it could barely hold the Ricks and Mortys it had, let alone all the Beths, Jerrys, and unregistered Summers. It was a simple fact of the matter. Ricks and Mortys were insured, most Beths, Jerrys, and Summers weren’t. It was cruel, but as was way of the universe. Rick barely had time to pack. Morty scrambled to get his things in a box, sobbing, begging Rick to do something.
Rick and Morty were teleported into the citadel after thirty minutes of panicked waiting. Within the past week, the blackhole had destroyed ninety percent of all possible timelines.
In just a little while, all that would be left of the entire multiverse would be the citadel and the few other miscellaneous ships which were stationed in the eye of the storm. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. Ricks were working on trying to fix it, but to no avail. Sixth dimensional blackholes were made of chaos incarnate. It took knowns into unknowns, the opposite of how reality worked (pulling unknowns to knowns.)
Basically, anything close to the blackhole instantly got spun into atoms of nothingness that never existed. Regular blackholes were a piece of cake to dismantle for Ricks. If it’d been a regular blackhole, it would’ve been an average Tuesday for the citadel.
Rick hadn’t even heard of a sixth dimensional blackhole till now. And it was probably for a reason, since it seemed to be an unstoppable force.
Morty’s breath hitched. Rick blinked, broken out of his reverie. He glanced over at the top bunk to see Morty shuddering.
He was silently crying.
Rick quietly sighed and climbed up the ladder, even when his knees protested the movement. Rick placed a hand on Morty’s shoulder, silently. Morty’s cries picked up in volume, but Rick didn’t comment on it. The kid needed to let this out.
Rick couldn’t sleep that night. Of course he couldn’t. Some of the last surviving remnants of life were living on the Citadel of Ricks and C-137 was among them. Sure, everyone gave him dirty looks, but he was alive. Morty was okay and safe. The citadel dome was set to dark to keep the illusion of night. Fake stars twinkled on the surface of the glass dome. Rick rolled over in his bed, away from the window.
Rick and Morty cloning was a well known practice. So, technically, life would prosper. Life still existed. And who knows? Maybe in a thousand years, life will find a way to evolve inside of a sixth dimensional blackhole. Rick shouldn’t be concerned about the bigger picture.
And he wasn’t. He never truly was. He was worried about Morty.
Until further notice, they were confined to the citadel. For presumably the rest of their lives. A luxury once taken for granted, travel, was gone. Adventuring was almost impossible in a closed space like the citadel. The classic Rick and Morty dynamic didn’t… well, it didn’t exist anymore.
Sure, ‘adventuring’ didn’t require traveling millions of miles in space, but it did require a new environment. It required some place new and exciting and fun. Some place Morty might try to help but actually harm in the end and Rick would have to fix it because he cared too much for his grandson. That didn’t exist anymore.
Rick almost didn’t know what to do with himself. Minutes of contemplation turned into hours. And soon, the fake citadel sun was rising. Rick yawned, knowing he wouldn’t be able to properly sleep for the first week on this hell ship. Morty seemed to have fared just as badly if not worse than Rick in the sleep department. The poor kid barely had the motor control to climb down the ladder.
Rick wrapped himself in his sheets tighter, shutting his eyes and willing away the artificial sunlight in his eyes.
Morty drawled, “What’re we having for breakfast?” His tone was tired and slurred. Rick groaned, realizing that yes, he had to actually do stuff. He couldn’t just give himself into oblivion every morning and actually start being productive at 3pm. Rick pulled himself out of bed and nudged Morty out of the small kitchenette.
Rick muttered, “Pancakes. Any objections for your refined tastes?” Rick said it with sarcastic overtone. Morty rolled his eyes and sat at the table. Rick assumed his silence meant he had no qualms.
So Rick made pancakes. Pancakes that did not look like saucers, they were just circular. (Now, a layman might assume those two shapes are the same, but they’re fucking not. A saucer pancake is filled with joy and syrup and the promise of adventure. A circular pancake was average and fucking normal and slightly capitalistic and depressing.)
There was a big difference.
They ate breakfast in relative silence. Rick always chewed loudly, as did Morty. Beth would always scold Morty for it, but he never could seem to break the habit. The ever present sound of buzzing wings came from the apartment to their left.
Morty groaned, “Fucking great.” Rick just put more syrup on his pancakes. Hoping, praying even, that something would make this bearable.
“Before you ask, no, we can’t switch rooms.” Rick explained. He’d tried, but it seemed the only way to switch was to trade with another Rick. And no one wanted to be next to a buzzing bug Rick and Morty. Maybe another bug Rick, like a ladybug Rick or something would appreciate it, but that would take finesse, convincing, and effort. Stuff Rick did not feel like conjuring to the forefront of his brain.
Rick said, “Before you bitch and moan over what I’m about to say, the citadel is requiring it, so unless you want us to become fugitives, you have to attend the Morty Academy.” Morty swallowed with a fury in his eyes.
“What?! You can’t make me! R-Rick that place is full of Mortys that I d-don’t like and-“ Morty rambled, getting interrupted by Rick.
“I can force you,” he stated, “and once you pass, you never have to go back. Stick it out and fucking forget about it. Or you can bitch and moan and spend twice as long there. Your choice.” Morty crossed his arms with a sigh. Mortys who flunked out of the Academy ended up in Mortytown. Not a famously nice place. Usually the Academy was meant for Mortys without Ricks, but the citadel wanted some semblance of order and that meant taking a page out of any government’s book ever.
Forcing children to attend school and pushing the promise of endless job opportunities and happiness if you finished it. Though, the Academy had a different promise than most schools.
Finish with good grades and you won’t end up dead in Mortytown with your intestines strung out like Christmas lights.
Fear and threats of violence are the best motivators, they say.
On the flip side, to afford an apartment and food on the citadel, they used Rick Bucks. (Normal people called them credits.) Rick had only a small amount because he hated the citadel, even now while he was living on it. So, that meant he had to get some semblance of a job. A fucking terrifying thought that he was rolling over and letting capitalism do whatever it wanted to him. That he was succumbing to the system with no way out, literally.
He took a job in Mortytown as a mechanic, because many places didn’t want to hire C-137.
Morty stabbed a pancake chunk quite forcefully. “When do you start working?”
“Tomorrow,” Rick replied, “Mechanic.” Better than working in a factory he supposed. At least he had the luxury of choosing a job he was somewhat interested in.
Morty hummed, as if not buying the story fully. As if he wanted Rick to just fucking spell it out, that yes, he was working in Mortytown. That no one else wanted to hire him. That he was a fucking hypocrite yada yada yada.
But Morty didn’t force it. He just kept eating.
“When do I start the Academy?” Morty asked quietly. His eyebrows relaxed from their tensed position into something more forlorn, almost vacant.
Rick said, “Two days. They’re giving everyone a chance to settle in.” Morty nodded, looking at the floor instead of his food. Rick did the same but with the ceiling. His appetite was gone.
“So, it’s our last day of freedom together.” Morty explained with a weak smile. Rick took his eyes off the ceiling and met Morty’s eyes. The left side of Rick’s unibrow shot up, as if to say ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’
Morty sighed and gesticulated wildly, trying to get his point across. “Let’s g-go have some fun! L-Like get ice cream or buy a bunch of stupid T-shirts o-or something.” Rick grabbed his and Morty’s plates and scraped off the food before dumping them in the sink for later.
Rick faintly smiled. “Whatever the fuck your pea brain wants, Morty.” Morty grinned and raced to put on his shoes. They didn’t have their ship anymore, meaning they had to walk. Rick hated walking. Morty had said that was part of the adventure, that Rick was just an impatient geriatric dick that hated fun. He denied these claims.
Besides, walking down the streets of the citadel weren’t so bad. It almost made it seem like a weird vacation. That just after a few weeks, it’d all go back to normal. Everything could be okay again, or at least normal. Summer, Beth, fuck even Jerry would be waiting at the house, annoyed for their disappearance. Morty would be mad about missing school but wouldn’t skip a beat.
He’d go back to thinking about Jessica and a bunch of other girls he liked. He’d read a bunch of dumb books he liked and ramble about them to Rick like a lunatic.
None of that would happen though, would it? Rick knew that deep down, but maybe pretending was okay. It was their last day of freedom together and freedom meant adventuring, it meant home, and it meant Beth, Summer, and Jerry waiting for them to come back after their vacation.
They stopped at a local creamery Morty liked the look of. It was on a corner, with big windows out the front and white tables and tiled floors inside. The Rick behind the counter had three eyes and two fangs that hung out of his mouth.
He smiled as Rick and Morty came in. “What can I getcha’?” The Rick was toweling off a cup and had a thick southern accent. He set it down and smiled, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Rick A-308. Nice to meet cha’.” He said. Rick stuck out his hand for a handshake. A-308 Rick graciously accepted the handshake. Morty eyed all the ice cream flavors on display, already thinking about what he wanted.
Rick asked, “Are these Xezlo flavors? F-From planet Xezon 3-AC?” Rick noticed the menu was written in Xezloian and the flavors looked vaguely like ones he remembered.
“You betcha!” A-308 explained. “Little pieces of ma’ home right here.” Morty’s eyes lit up, as he scanned the ice cream buckets. Morty picked out the Xezloian equivalent of strawberry and Rick picked out XeeTri-123 ZZWo. (The Xezloian equivalent of Rocky Road.) A-308 smiled as Rick and Morty sat down and ate their ice cream.
Morty smiled. “M-Morty A-77 always told me Xezloian ice cream was b-better than Gloppy Drop ice cream, but I never believed him. And I should’ve!” Morty grinned, shoveling light pink ice cream into his mouth. Rick chuckled, slowly picking at his ice cream. He’d never given Morty Xezloian ice cream because then the kid would acquire a taste for expensive good tasting shit. It was better to keep him addicted to mid tier Gloppy Drop ice cream than expose him to expensive god tier shit.
With their new residence in the citadel, it seemed maybe Xelzoian ice cream could become a new treat for Morty. He could become addicted to the expensive shit Rick had tried to shield him from.
Rick looked over at A-308 and saw tears in his three eyes. A-308 looked at the menu and quietly cried.
Rick quickly looked away. He decided to give him a vague sense of privacy. Morty hadn’t noticed, too busy rambling and eating ice cream.
Next on the agenda, according to Morty, was buying shitty citadel merchandise. Apparently a long lost dream of Morty’s because even though Morty knew the citadel was a bag of shit, he still fell hook line and sinker for the marketing.
Rick took him to a store and Morty spent the next hour gawking at poorly designed Rick and Morty t-shirts. One t-shirt was bright yellow with a Rick and Morty imprinted on it, with the words “100 Years.” At the bottom. Morty looked at it with awe and stuffed it into the crook of his arm. Rick rolled his eyes and admired the flasks they had for sale. One was bright green and had a swirling pattern like a portal.
Maybe he would’ve bought it if the idea of a portal gun at the moment didn’t make him viscerally sick and distended. Employees who worked at the store all were Ricks with wide unnerving eyes and clearly were paid on commission because they made it their fucking mission to bolster every shitty product in that store to every customer who walked in. C-137’s glare and his status scared them away.
Morty grabbed a plushy of a hammerhead Morty with a giggle. Rick rolled his eyes again. Morty was 14, so it was almost excusable that he fell for the marketing, but Rick had explained it to him. Had explained it was all to make money and yet.
And yet here Morty was, buying all this shit. Maybe this is what Morty thought freedom was. Rick eyed a Rick plushie with three eyes and suddenly grabbed it. He hadn’t meant to. Not really.
Big fat tears, fangs, three eyes, Xelzoian ice cream.
Morty didn’t question it at checkout when Rick bought his own plushie. Morty almost seemed glad Rick was buying into his idea of freedom. Freedom meant buying dumb shit and not caring. Freedom meant gawking at marketing meant to make as much money as possible without thinking too much about it.
After buying a bunch of shitty citadel merchandise, Rick wanted to go home and sleep. Morty agreed, his lack of sleep catching up with him too. They both stumbled into their apartment, watching the sun slowly begin to set. Rick told himself he’d boycott the fake night and day system because it was stupid and the citadel was stupid, but even his brain couldn’t deny its vague usefulness. Even a fake sunset could make Rick sleepy.
Rick curled up in bed and only spent a few hours tossing and turning before his brain couldn’t take it anymore. He fell asleep.
3 AM. Rick woke in a cold sweat. He needed to vomit. He stumbled out of bed, his knees hitting the floor with a loud thwack. He barely made it to the toilet before everything he ate in the last 24 hours came barreling up his throat. It was stomach bile, pancake chunks, alcohol, and Rocky Road ice cream. It tasted terrible. Like hangover puke. He retched again, another wave forcing its way up.
Halfway through, a small hand rested on his back. Soft words were whispered in the dim bathroom, even if he couldn’t fully decipher them.
“shhhh. It’s alright.” Rick burped one last time. That was the last of it. Morty flushed it down the toilet. The smell was gone, but the bitter taste in his mouth stayed.
Morty whispered, “You..o-okay?” Rick sighed. He wiped his brow and scooted away from the toilet.
Rick sighed. “M’fine. J-just go back to bed M-mooourty. Okay?” Rick slurred. Morty sighed, wiping tears from his eyes and leaving the dim bathroom. Rick leaned against the bathroom wall, unable to think or do… anything. He just existed.
He distantly heard Morty crying, begging, sobbing. Rick hiccuped, but didn’t have the strength to stand up or even call out. He was helpless. A fly on the wall, watching two parents get divorced as their child watched in horror. He was like an insect stuck in amber, unable to escape, eventually being fossilized like a nasty mummy.
Rick whispered to himself. “M’sorry Morty.” Even if his voice wasn’t broken, he’s not sure he would’ve said it loud enough for Morty to hear anyways.
The next morning, Rick made his commute to Mortytown. He took a subway. Mortytown was ninety percent Mortys if he remembered correctly. After getting off at his stop, he entered Mortytown for himself for the first time in a long time.
Buildings crumbled left and right. Mortys fighting each other and others riding their bikes. Rick kept his hands in his pockets and kept his head down low. If a Morty gave him a weird side eye, he’d take a long drink of his flask and walk a little faster. It seemed to do the trick. Rick stopped at a dark garage building with a yellow faded sign out front.
In white faded letters it said: “Mort’s Mechanic Shop.” Rick nodded. Seemed to be the right place. Rick shuffled inside the dark garage to see four dissembled bikes and two cars smashed to pieces. Tools, headlights, and oil were strewn across the floor in dizzying piles. In the corner of the dark garage was a Morty.
He wore black coveralls and had a long greasy mullet. His cheeks were sunken in, like he had liver failure of some kind. His left ear was pierced.
He looked up and noticed Rick. The Morty smiled. “Aye, you must be C-137, eh?” The Morty had a thick New Yorker accent. He stuck his hand out for Rick to shake. Rick did so hesitantly.
“I’m Mort. Mort. C. If you’re fancy. I run da shop and everything I say goes.” Mort said with a chuckle. C-137 nodded, getting a scope of the layout.
Mort grabbed a long pair of black coveralls and threw them at Rick. “Go change. You’ll thank me later.” Rick nodded, silent.
Mort snorted. “What? You don’t talk?” Rick held the coveralls in his hands, unsure what to say.
“What? Want me to commentate on everything you say? Want me to narrate myself in third person so you know exactly what I’m doing at all times?” Rick sniped. Mort’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Good point, newbie,” he remarked, “seen but not heard. I like it. Keep it going.” Rick went to go change. Mort showed Rick the ropes and Rick stayed silent as he was told. It seemed most Mortys came in with broken bikes and usually just needed a quick repair. The occasional car or two were easy to fix.
Mort leaned against a wall and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one after a few tries. “The thing about Mortytown is…” he paused. “Keep your head down, eh? Most Ricks around here are trouble. Keep that in mind, newbie.” Rick nodded. Rick realistically knew he could fend himself if need be, but a) aggravating innocent Mortys wasn’t a past time of his b) most Ricks in Mortytown were trouble, so the Mortys were right to assume he had ulterior motives and c) Rick really needed this job.
So, he’d stay quiet and fix bikes. Mort finished smoking his cigarette. He walked towards the front of the garage, where the big garage doors were opened. He looked out at Mortytown. Mort’s eyes were wistful, especially so with the cigarette bud in his fingers. Rick looked out at Mortytown. The crumbling infrastructure and constant buzz of noise.
Mortys rode down the streets on their bikes. It all seemed normal, which Rick beat himself up for mentally, for assuming this place was always drowning in chaos. One Morty rode down the street with a blue t-shirt and gray sneakers. He looked in the garage and made eye contact with Rick. He didn’t look angry, more so surprised. It didn’t stop his biking stride. He kept moving.
Rick sighed and went back to working on a bike Mort had given him. At least he liked fixing stuff. Sure, working on a spaceship was way cooler, but Rick didn’t have many options. So, he was stuck, doing menial shit he’d force Morty to do usually.
An hour later, a Morty came in with a green hoodie and cloudy white eyes without pupils. He strolled in with his bike. It was a navy blue bike with stickers all over it. Rick motioned for the Morty to come closer with his hand. The Morty did so, hesitant.
“Moonflower Morty,” he chuckled weakly. “I think something’s wrong with my back tire.” Rick nodded and looked at it. Completely deflated, it seemed.
Rick grumbled, “I’ll just air it up.” He felt all around the tire, checking for holes. Moonflower Morty fumbled with his hands, looking around the dark garage. The next few minutes were quiet. The only noise was Mort chatting with another Morty on the other side of the garage.
After a few minutes, Moonflower Morty’s veins started to glow a dark purple. He chuckled, as if it was embarrassing. Rick didn’t mention it. Seen not heard, all that jazz. After his veins started pulsing bright purple, white flowers became to sprout across his face, and presumably the rest of his body. Though, Rick couldn’t see that since he was wearing a thick green hoodie. Moonflower Morty’s milky eyes refused to meet Rick’s, as if he was embarrassed by the turn of events.
“My wife loved moonflowers.” Rick muttered. He was still working on the bike, which kept his hands busy. Moonflower Morty cocked his head in confusion, maybe wondering if he misheard what Rick said. Rick definitely wasn’t going to say it again.
He chuckled, “Where I’m f-from…it’s nighttime all the time and in the d-dark w-we…” He gestured to himself. The kid was smiling, as if he guard was slowly crumbling. Rick smiled weakly, silently saying: you’re fine. I’ve seen weirder. The Morty rubbed his milky eyes, scrubbing away tears. Rick looked away, almost finished with the bike.
“Should be good to go.” Rick explained as he handed the bike back over. Moonflower Morty graciously accepted it and handed Mort a stack of crumbled credits. Once Moonflower Morty left the shade of the garage, all his flowers and purple hue disappeared. The petals all shriveled, falling to the ground.
Rick snorted, accidentally dropping his wrench with a clank. Another Morty in the garage gave him a weird side eye. He picked up the wrench and cleared his throat. Mort lit another cigarette, not even bothering to send Rick a warning glance.
Seen not heard. He remembered. Rick was almost mad about it, but then, he.. remembered why Mortytown existed. Why Mortys lived here and nowhere else. He was… for lack of a better term, the intruder. And especially now, with the citadel filled to the brim with new Ricks and Mortys, Mortytown was the target. Ricks would drunkenly come and piss off Mortys just because they could.
Rick’s shift ended a few hours later. Mort handed him a stack of crumbled credits from the register and sent him off. Rick took the subway back to his apartment. Morty wasn’t in his bed. Rick shrugged, assuming the kid wanted some fresh air. Or another taste of freedom before being forced to attend the Academy.
Rick groaned before taking off his dirty coveralls and all but collapsing in the shower to wash the dirt and grime off himself. He straightened out his wad of money and put it in a lockbox under his bed, for safe keeping.
(The Central Citadel Bank of Ricks was not to be trusted. Rick would rather put his money somewhere where he could see it, than in a bank known for getting robbed, destroyed, and corrupted.) Rick wondered if they had any banks for Mortys. He kept his shower short, remembering he had to pay the water bill.
He can almost hear Jerry saying: Money doesn’t grow on trees, Rick. Hot water costs money. Yada yada yada. Rick liked hot showers. But now, responsibility fell on him. He couldn’t snipe at himself like he could snipe at Jerry. This was reality now. He had to compromise.
And that meant taking a five minute shower with lukewarm water. He barely had enough time to wash everything, but he made it work. He pulled on a casual blue shirt and some sweats. He sat down on the sofa, turning on the TV. He almost wondered where all the interdimensional channels were, but quickly realized the citadel was all there was anymore. Besides a few other ships that had gotten lucky and all were in the eye of the blackhole, the citadel was everything the multiverse had to offer.
Rick sighed and turned on Rick’s Kitchen. (Rick being a synonym for hell.) Rick fell asleep to the sounds of another Rick shouting at another Rick over raw meat or something.
Morty wore his bright yellow t-shirt he’d bought yesterday with 100 Years written at the bottom. It was comfy with no itchy tags he had to cut off. He hated shirts with itchy tags. Rick was at work and that meant, he could do whatever he wanted for the day. He had one day to himself before the Academy would chew him up and spit him out.
Morty didn’t have many friends on the citadel, but he did know one Morty on the citadel who was fun to hang out with, even if he was a bit of a jerk. Morty locked the apartment behind him and left, heading to Rickingham Palace.
See, even the citadel had to have a puppet monarchy, mainly so they could have hour long ceremonies over dumb shit on TV. Easier than making good television for the citadel. Rick F-992 apparently was one of the first Rick’s to help build the citadel and called dibs on the monarch position. Once he died, his Morty would take his place. Or, better known as, Prince Mortimer Sanchez, F-992.
Again, Mortimer was a jerk and rich, but he was fun to hang around, mainly because he was rich. Apparently he “liked” C-137 and Morty would never turn down a relationship where he benefited from a rich kid. And Morty decided freedom meant spending frivolous money in frivolous ways. Morty walked up to the guards and stood tall, even as they drew their spears.
Morty gulped. “I’m here to s-see Prince Mortimer. Tell him I’m Morty C-137.” The guards both looked at each other. One left and entered Rickingham Palace to tell Prince Mortimer of the development. A few minutes later, Mortimer showed his face, coming out of the giant palace doors. Mortimer had a big smirk and a fancy prince outfit on. He wore a golden crown with blue gems embedded in it.
He held a golden goblet filled with some liquid. Probably some fancy wine from a planet he didn’t care about. Mortimer took a long gulp of his drink and grinned.
“Morty C-137! Nice to see you!” He bellowed. “I was worried you died during the… event.” Morty cringed, but kept his smile. Today was meant to be fun and free and full of spending gross amounts of money because Mortimer always had money to spare. Morty came forward to meet Mortimer.
Morty chuckled, “Y-Yeah. It was a s-strange thing. Haha.” Mortimer led him inside the palace, giving the guards a sideways glance. Poor guys, Morty almost felt bad for them. Imagine having to be bossed around by a rich, snooty Morty who drank your weight in expensive wine every day. Mortimer took a long gulp of the dark purple wine in his goblet.
Mortimer said, “Well, it’s good to see you. My fifteenth birthday party is coming up. You’re invited.” He said it with such finality. Morty didn’t want to object, but that way Mortimer said it… he’d never been told no in his life, had he? Morty guessed it made sense, especially with him living in such a beautiful palace full of fancy wine and food and indentured servants.
“Wow,” Morty chuckled, “big fifteen. That’s crazy.” Morty fumbled with his fingers. Mortimer slung an arm around his shoulders, leading him through a fancy carpeted hallway full of large windows lined with gold frames. The artificial sun of the citadel came blasting through the windows, blinding Morty a little.
Mortimer snorted, “I notice your… attire.” Morty looked down at his shirt. His cheeks instantly flushed red. Yeah, maybe meeting an esteemed prince while wearing shitty merchandise was not the way to go. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“S-Sorry I just…uh…ahah. Ha.” He chuckled again. God, this idea was stupid. He came here for what? To drink expensive wine and feel a taste of what his life could’ve been like if his Rick had just helped build the citadel and called dibs on the monarchial position? He didn’t even know his own motives.
Mortimer shook off his disgust. “It’s fine, companion. My grandpa understands the struggles of the working class, I assure you.” He took another swig of his goblet, his eyelids becoming droopy.
“Why’re you here, my esteemed friend?” Mortimer asked. His arm around Morty’s shoulder tightened. Not in a threatening way but a more… friendly but too friendly way.
Morty gulped. “O-Oh. Just thought we’d hang out. I start the Academy tomorrow.” Mortimer would probably get the luxury of a private tutor and not having to worry about getting thrown into Mortytown.
Mortimer hummed. “Academy, yes. That is quite troubling, my dear friend.” Morty gulped, fumbling with his fingers again. Mortimer led them into another big room. This one had a giant pool and marble floors and expensive fountains.
“Y-Yes…what you said.” Morty replied. His feet touched the wet floor. Without skipping a beat, Mortimer stripped down, only leaving his crown. Morty grimaced. Mortimer had explained in great detail before how he bathed in this giant pool. Morty quickly realized Mortimer was expecting him to do the same.
Morty did so hesitantly, setting his clothes on a nearby bench. He quickly entered the water to hide his body under a blanket of bubbles. Mortimer dived in like a swan, barely making a splash. He resurfaced with his hair perfectly shiny and his crown still on his head. How did he do that?
The bathing room was loud due to all the rushing water and spewing fountains. The steam felt nice. Without skipping a beat, Mortimer handed him a goblet full of wine.
Mortimer leaned against the edge of the pool. “I know, it’s not Fervitian wine, but we’re in low supply. My grandpa is paying people to synthesize more. Until then… we have to drink Cinxia wine. It has such a sweet aftertaste, my, my.” Mortimer complained. Morty nodded with a chuckle and took a small sip. It definitely was sweet and way less bitter than whatever Rick drank.
(Morty had only ever taken one swig out of Rick’s flask. Rick was being an asshole and Morty wanted revenge in that hot moment. He’d grabbed Rick’s flask, planning to chug the whole thing, forcing him to refill it. Morty got one gulp down before his mouth was burning and he felt sick. He had down three gulps before Rick pulled it from his hands and had this weird look in his eyes.
His face was all screwed up. And then, he started crying. He screamed and yelled. And told Morty if he ever drank alcohol again Rick would personally smash each and every one of his appendages himself. And he’d let Morty sit in the agony of it for days before finally fixing his appendages and breaking them again, to really make sure he got the lesson. And then he’d turn Morty’s spin inside out and operate on his kidneys without anesthetic. The list of horrific punishments went on.
Morty assumed that meant not to touch Rick’s flask. Rick’s flask was sacrosanct. Pretty simple rule Morty had to follow. Don’t touch Rick’s alcohol.)
Morty took another sip of the wine. Cinxia wine was pretty good. He wasn’t sure what earth brand Beth drank but he betted it didn’t taste this good! Usually Mortimer didn’t let him drink his wine, probably because it was his expensive Fervitian shit, but now he was allowed to drink to his heart’s content.
Morty refilled his goblet four times. Hours passed in long seconds. Mortimer had servants bring them food and soap to create more bubbles in the pool. Morty hiccuped and giggled. Mortimer called him a lightweight. The sun began to set over the citadel. The windows in the bathing room weren’t as bright.
Morty drunkenly giggled, “G-God Morti-“ he burped, laughing at himself for a second. “Mortimer, y-you really are a f-fun guy.” Mortimer let out a barking laugh, as if to say: yes, I am quite fun.
“Maybe we should rename you plebeian Morty.” Mortimer laughed. “This is just scratching the surface of fun.” Morty shook his head. He wasn’t plebeian Morty. That was definitely not his name.
(Not like it mattered. But Morty was drunk and everything mattered in those moments, to him.)
Morty shook his head, swinging his goblet around wildly. “Nuh-uhhh. I-I-“ another hiccup. “I’m t-the Mortyest Morty. M-My Rick told m-me so.” He burped again. Mortimer’s face screwed up from that rich kid facade to something more sinister.
“I believe that title belongs to me, my esteemed friend.” He explained in that stupid fucking snooty voice of his. “A Morty is prim and proper and a true side piece to what the real matter is, Rick. My grandfather built this place. I merely exist within it.” Morty loudly burped, barely holding back the urge to vomit.
Morty shook his head. “I’m t-the M-Mortyest M-Morty, I belong-g with C-1…C-137. He’s my RrrrRick.” Morty’s voice slurred, all his constants turning into soft mushy gibberish. Mortimer gasped and crossed his arms over his naked chest.
“Oh god, you don’t know, do you?” Mortimer spat venomously. Morty sniffled, what was he talking about?
Mortimer chuckled, all sinister, the nice guy act gone. “There is no… Morty C-137. Your Rick’s a liar! You’re most likely a clone from the citadel. Or some random Morty he stole and registered under himself!” Mortimer’s words were loud and angry and suddenly Morty felt sick. Because no, Rick wouldn’t do something like that. He was C-137! He was! He was the Mortyest Morty, he very much was.
Rick lied about trivial stuff all the time, but he wouldn’t lie about this, would he?
Morty didn’t mean to swing. But he did. Mortimer’s two front teeth went flying into the pool, making a small splash of their own. Next came the streaming blood from Mortimer’s mouth. Prince Mortimer screamed.
Morty was sitting on a cold bench with handcuffs around his wrists. Apparently a felony to hit the prince of the citadel. A Rick had given him a pill that took away all his drunkenness. Now everything was much clearer, but still foggy. He was in a police station, in a room by himself.
He was so screwed. Rick had briefed him over what the C-137 title meant. To be C-137 was to be an outcast, a loner, and a man with radical notions. C-137 despised the citadel and all it stood for. He was a radicalist, a person who went against the grain. And unfortunately, that was all gone. He was stuck here in the very place he hated. Rick C-137 had to swallow his morals and live in the citadel or die.
And he chose life, because of course he did. Rick wasn’t that prideful. And here Morty was, tarnishing Rick’s already “radical” reputation. He could already see the headlines…
‘C-137’s Feral Morty attacks Prince Mortimer to send a message.’
Morty sniffled. He’d really fucked stuff up, hadn’t he? And Rick was going to be so mad. And it wasn’t like Morty could storm off and collect his thoughts, they were confined to that fucking two room apartment! Nowhere else in the citadel was safe! He’d have to sit in the same room as Rick for the rest of his life, no matter how angry and depressed Rick became.
And all because Mortimer had told a lie about him being from the C-137 dimension. What a cruel joke. And of course the police would believe Mortimer over him! He was the prince of the citadel for god’s sake! Morty was fucked.
The door to his room opened. A Cop Rick and his Rick came into the room. Rick’s eyes lit up. He was wearing what looked to be pajamas?
Cop Rick clicked his tongue. “The King isn’t pressing any charges. He said it was his fault he let a feral Morty into the palace.” Cop Rick leaned against a nearby wall with a bored expression. Rick sat next to Morty, his eyes vacantly staring forward. His hair was ruffled into disarray. His eyes were bloodshot.
“This is your warning. And C-137…” Cop Rick looked to C-137 with a gleam in his eye. This Cop Rick had long flowing hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail. He had a blue five o’clock shadow.
“C-137, get your fucking Morty’s dimension registered. Papers are at the front.” He finished. Rick nodded, as if he was commanded to do so. Cop Rick left the room and slammed the door shut.
Morty sniffled. “W-Why…. what does he mean?” He wanted to wipe his eyes, but his hands were cuffed. God, getting caught for crimes was annoying.
Rick laughed, devoid of any humor. “I don’t wanna hear a word out of your f-fucking mouth Morty! I get a call that my Morty is..is drunk as hell, a-and fighting the prince of the citadel. Jesus, Morty, pick your fucking battles!” Rick had his hands in his hair, grabbing tight fistfuls of it in anguish. Morty shrunk back.
“And do you wanna know a secret, Moourty?” Green spit flew in Morty’s face as Rick angled himself closer. “Wanna know why grampa’s sooooo miserable? Wanna f-fucking know why?! Because he drinks his problems away! Because alcohol is the only thing that makes him happy M-Morty! Why would you subject yourself to that shit?!”
“Huh?!” Rick shouted when Morty didn’t respond. “Do you want to turn out like me?! I mean, fucking seriously Morty!” His voice was dry and scratchy, as if he’d been yelling for a long time, even before this. He cleared his throat.
He sat down and whispered, “Wanna know why everyone on this citadel is miserable?” Morty nodded.
“No one wants to feel anything.” Rick replied softly. Morty nodded slowly.
Morty looked down at his cuffed hands. “I’m s-sorry Rick. I didn’t mean to. I promise it won’t happen again.” Rick nodded, with tears in his eyes. He scrubbed them away, as if they hadn’t existed.
“Am I not…” Morty cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. “Am I not from your dimension?” He finished uncertainly. He had to know, even if he didn’t like the answer. Sometimes knowing was the right thing and living in bliss was the wrong thing.
Rick snorted. He’d probably been briefed on what started the fight. Mortimer probably boasted about how he finally revealed to Morty that he wasn’t C-137 but a fake.
Morty whispered, “You aren’t denying it.” Rick sighed, taking his hands out of his hair.
“Nope… you’re Morty A-1. Prime Dimension.” He said. Morty nodded. At least he wasn’t a clone from the citadel. At least his whole life wasn’t a lie. Morty had a million questions, but didn’t voice them. Rick seemed to understand Morty’s most burning one…
Why?
It seemed Rick’s emotional bullshit meter was getting full fast, because his walls momentarily broke. He didn’t have the energy to keep fighting the truth. Two days on the citadel had already beaten them both down.
“Your Rick killed my family. And I…” The unspoken truth was laid bare. Morty was taken aback. Ricks killing other Ricks and killing their families wasn’t uncommon. Ricks did love their revenge.
“Is he?” Morty drawled… he wanted to know if…
Rick shook his head. “He’s gone. He wasn’t teleported here and the blackhole took everything else. He’s gone.” The words were said with such an aching emptiness. He was gone. Along with everything else not on the citadel. It all was flushed down the drain. Gone. Away. Forever.
Morty chuckled, “Well, good riddance am I right?” Rick looked over with a horrified look on his face. Morty stopped laughing, suddenly feeling too hot.
“Y-You’re not mad? Not mad I’m a fr-fraud or—“ Rick rambled, but Morty put up a hand to silence him.
Morty sighed. “My Rick sounds like a real jerk. B-Besides, you stuck around. You c-cared. Even after we destroyed A-1… you stayed.” After the earth had been overrun by Cronenbergs. Rick had never replaced him. Never truly cashed in that Morty Coupon he had stashed in his wallet.
Morty sighed. “Anger takes effort. And this is what my English teacher would call spilt milk.” Morty chuckled, remembering when his English teacher said that shit all the time. He never understood what she meant by it till he Googled it one day.
Morty fumbled with his hands. “I mean my Rick must’ve been a r-real jerk. He didn’t care about me or even my mom or Summer or anything. He didn’t even notice once his home planet was destroyed. He left… like most Ricks do. A-And you still suck, like a lot, like you’re a real bitch—“
“Morty, you’re flattering me too much here, really.” Rick sarcastically drawled.
Morty shook his head. “But you did the opposite. You stayed. You went back. S-Sure you wanted to see if he’d come back but… you cared for me. I-In your own stupid Rick way.” He finished. Morty had heard Rick’s drunken rants about how much he missed his wife and his daughter, so Morty had eventually put two and two together that maybe he loved Diane a lot (his grandmother).
Morty had just guessed Rick was bad at showing his emotions and that’s what led to the divorce. Not that he was from another dimension and his original family got killed. Morty guessed there was a lot he didn’t know about Rick.
Morty took in a deep breath. “S-Since this is our future… f-for the time being, we have to learn to tolerate each other. A-And that means telling each other this stuff. Because eventually… it’ll come out.” Morty surmised. It seemed fair to assume all secrets eventually became public knowledge, especially when Ricks and Mortys were involved.
Rick said, “Well, I just revealed my traumatic backstory. So, cough up shithead.” Rick looked over with a wicked smile on his face. Morty rolled his eyes in a distinctly fond way.
Morty tried to itch at his handcuffs. “I went back to the Cronenberg dimension o-or…I guess A-1. A few weeks after you came back from space prison. A-And it was when you were asleep and I… begged them to take me back. My original family.” Rick stayed silent, just listening.
Morty gulped, trying to keep all his emotions out of his voice. “They wouldn’t take me back. S-Said I smelled of R-Rick a-and—“ he thickly sniffled. His eyes filled with tears. Goddamnit, Rick made this look so easy!
His shoulders slumped in defeat, as if he didn’t know how the story ended. “They didn’t take me back. I went home and cried. W-Wishing I was with an…original family that didn’t exist anymore.” He said the last part with a huffy quality, as if it were mere annoyance as opposed to an existential tragedy.
Morty chuckled wetly. “I g-guess I don’t have any f-family except for you.” Tears fell from his eyes in thick ugly waterfalls. Rick gingerly wrapped his hands around Morty. His muscles were stiff. Morty leaned into it anyways. Rick just needed practice hugging. Maybe during their time at the citadel it’d get better.
The door opened again. The same Cop Rick from before strode in. “King of the citadel wants to talk to you, C-137.” Rick stood up, his hands drawing away from Morty as if burned. Morty sniffled like a lost puppy. He watched helplessly as Rick left, stumbling in an almost drunken manor. Though, to Morty’s knowledge, he seemed to be the most sober he’d been in weeks.
Morty heard arguing. He knew his grandpa didn’t care for stupid conventions like kings and monarchs. Rick F-992 meant nothing to him. So, arguing was inbound. Morty couldn’t hear all of it, the walls were too thick, but he heard the last bits of the conversation.
His Rick spat, “F-Fuck right off! Cinxia wine? That shit is worse than vodka.” He was angry, hot, aggressive. Morty had heard that tone of voice before from Rick. Sometimes directed at him for messing up some stupid adventure or invention.
“Keep your feral, unregistered Morty off of royal grounds!” His voice was loud. He heard murmurs of cops trying to get them to calm down.
The King sighed, “Rick, I see no time in my schedule for pressing charges. You’d find a way to weasel out of it… you always do. So, it is now…royal law Mortys without a registered dimension cannot stand on royal grounds.” The room went silent. Rick huffed as if to say: ‘fine by me.’
“I’ll have you know life on the citadel can quickly become hell for you if you don’t cooperate.” F-992 hissed. “Keep to your lane and we will not have problems. Do I make myself clear?” Silence.
The door opened. Rick and a different Cop Rick came in. Morty was unlocked from his cuffs. Rick slung a stiff arm around Morty’s shoulders, herding him out into the hallway. The King leveled Morty was a hissing glare. Mortimer looked distraught. Morty shrugged. Morty looked like a mess and he still felt sick from all that Cinxia wine.
Mortimer mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Morty did the same. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but it made him feel a little better inside to know Mortimer forgave him. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. He’d never be allowed back inside of Rickingham Palace. Whatever Mortimer thought of him now was irrelevant. Rick steered Morty out of the police station. He didn’t take the registration papers from the front that the other Rick told him to take.
Morty whispered, “You k-know my dimension. You can register me.” Cloned Mortys would have a way harder time with something like that, but Rick knew his dimension.
Rick sighed. “M-Morty, remember when I said the C-137 title holds baggage?” Morty nodded. “Well, the A-1 title holds three times as much baggage. We benefit from not letting anyone know… alright?” Morty nodded. He guessed that made sense.
“W-Will you explain the baggage to me one day?” Morty asked softly. They were outside of the police station now, waiting for a bus to pick them up. It was the dead of night and he started the Academy tomorrow. Rick looked over at Morty with an unreadable expression.
Rick rubbed Morty’s shoulder. “One day, Junebug. One day.”