"And the Ricks cast lots for The One True Morty, for they sought enlightenment in the most wicked of ways."
- Mortilations 1:13

...

—made for lovin' you baby, you were made for lovin' me—

Kssht

/—42-to-0 with the Tzhi'tums in the lead. They're really taking—/

Kssht

/—was last reported fleeing the Pavo-21 Cluster. Authorities warn—/

Rick's fingers danced over the radio controls, stubbornly switching between frequencies like an addict at the penny slots as he looked out through the cracked windshield. His knee steadying the steering wheel and one hand still flitting over the console, he flicked a glance at his coordinates. Good. He was making better time than he'd expected. He tapped a finger against the side of the portal gun on his thigh, still warm from his earlier escape, rapping out an unheard beat.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he muttered.

Kssht

/—ghablagha? Gag'habla gablaga—/

A planet of swirling orange and blue, large enough to fill the entire view from his right side window, drifted by as he hurtled through space at the limits of his ship's speed. The mishmash of junkyard parts convulsed under the strain, shaking its pilot in his seat, and metal grated on metal in the overheated engine space beneath Rick's feet.

Rick gave a tight-lipped grin and ran a thumb over the worn leather of the steering wheel. "Don't worry, girl. We're almost there. Y-you'll maAUGHke—make it just fine." Another shudder, and the bags on the seat beside him clinked and shifted to the seat's edge. "You've gotten me outta worse scrapes before."

Kssht

/—another crushing defeat for the Clot'os Razors in their 219th home game—/

Static licked at the edges of the sportscaster's commentary, a telltale sign that he was fast approaching the edge of the Protected Zone. After he cleared the Gamor Asteroid Belt, then it'd just be a matter of dimension-hopping to the Citadel of Ricks. He couldn't wait to see the look on those fuckers' faces when Rick Sanchez of Dimension X-280 showed up.

They wouldn't know what hit them.

Kssht

—just died in your arms tonight. It must've been some—

"Nah. Still not right." Directing his scowl at the radio, he silently cursed himself for letting that two-timing hustler sell him this piece of shit. Hell, he could've slapped something better together in his sleep. "Every station in the galaxy, my ass. C'mon. This seriously all you got?"

Kssht

/—a loss in the amount of 45 trillion uzom. Bank president told police—/

Kssht

—can't buy me love, love—

"No," he mumbled.

Kssht

/—the suspect is considered armed and dangerous—/

Kssht

—gonna give you up, never gonna let you down—

"No, no." He flicked impatiently between the stations, searching for the right tune, something to fit the mood. It needed to have energy, solid lyrics, and a sick beat. Music lay at the heart of any good party, and Rick had every reason to celebrate today.

Kssht

/—advised to keep watch for a class-C Rick leaving the Protected Zone—/

Kssht

—another one bites the dust—

Kssht

/—units left just hours ago in hot pursuit—/

"Whoa-ho! Back up there now!" Rick twisted the knob back to the previous channel in a flurry, his eyes lighting up. "That's more like it!" He laughed loudly in the cramped cockpit, made even more cramped by the mass of black duffel bags piled atop the passenger's seat.

With a flick of another switch, the twin amplifiers installed beneath the baseboards thrummed to life, their vibrations adding to the ship's already quaking frame. Rick relished the beat as it reverberated through him, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back. Yup. This was the perfect way to end the day. Considering all the shit he'd gone through? The months of preparation? The break-in? The death count? He'd even singed his favorite coat in the crossfire. Yeah. He'd earned this.

After all, no getaway was complete without a badass soundtrack.

"And another one gone, and another one gone. Another one bites the dust!" His gravelly voice sang in tandem to the alien cover artist, and he belted out the lyrics as the ship banked and pitched wildly, a dangerous mimicry of dance in the hands of the mad scientist. As the nose dipped sharply, one of the duffel bags tumbled forward onto the floor. Its zipper, already stretched by the contents within, finally gave, and a shower of uzom medallions clattered over the metal surface.

"I'm coming, you fuckers!" he shouted over the bass, tuning his portal gun's coordinates to Dimension α-001, to the Citadel.

To the start of everything.

...

"Do I hear 400?"

In the dim of the crowded lounge, a patron raised a tentative hand.

"400! 400 to the gentle-Rick in the back!" the auctioneer's voice boomed, cutting through the hum of muted conversations and clinking glasses. A beep emitted from his dossier, flashing a profile on its translucent screen, and he extrapolated the pertinent information with a cursory glance.

He's new. Only a few bids, no wins yet. Sticks to low-level items.

"400 credits from Rick E-998! Do I hear 450?" Auctioneer Rick's eyes scanned the mass of milling customers—the usual motley crowd of Ricks from every dimension on the central finite curve—before he leaned over the podium and thrust his gavel at the object up for bid on center stage. "Take a good look, fellas. This No Eye Morty is in fine condition. Note the smooth complexion of his face. Be the first Rick to take him home!" He paused for effect, framing one side of his mouth with a hand as though to hide the next comment from the Morty standing just a few feet from him. "Just make sure you hold his hand if you don't want him wandering off on you!"

Budum-tiss

Seated behind a set of drums, a Rick with a Cheshire cat grin held his drumsticks high in anticipation of the next sting.

A smattering of chuckles rippled through the drone of conversation in the smoky room. Some Ricks looked up briefly from the drinks they were nursing, while others toyed with a sleek black card in their hands, taking long draws from their cigarettes. The tips blazed like miniature suns in the dark. Obnoxious cackling erupted from a group of Ricks in one corner of the bar, who were acting for all the world like they couldn't be bothered with the auction being conducted at the front of the lounge.

Eight levels below the grand foyer of the Citadel of Ricks, Façade Lounge cocooned its patrons within plush, crimson walls and inky black tabletops, a stark contrast to the glassy, sterile planes of the space station's public areas. While silky jazz played overhead, muted lighting cast the bar-goers and bidders alike in a constant red haze where they sat or stood amid the tables radiating out from the curtained stage situated front and center. Nestled against the right side of the room, track lighting beneath the bar's counter shimmered over the assortment of liquor bottles on display atop the glass shelves, their contents glistening every color of the rainbow.

Most of the patrons kept their attention on their drinks or talked in low voices with other Ricks at their table as the auction went on. The bartending Rick, busy cleaning glasses, shot a sympathetic look to the Rick onstage.

A line of sweat beaded Auctioneer Rick's brow, and he knew it wasn't just the heat from the stage lights overhead. Jesus. Tough crowd. He glowered at the No Eye Morty as if it were his fault the bids were so low tonight. The Council was getting antsy since the quota hadn't been met last month, and Zeta Alpha Rick had personally promised him—how had he worded it again?—that he'd be pushing up daisies if he screwed the pooch? They'd been banking on this Morty Craze to stay strong at least through the end of the year, but they weren't even through the first quarter yet.

Clearly, they'd overestimated a Rick's attention span, the auctioneer mused before he cleared his throat and continued his act.

"400 going once...going twice..." He slammed the gavel down, garnering a satisfying crack. "Sold to Rick E-998! CongratulBRAUGHations, Brother!" He touched a finger to the screen, draining the winner's funds from his account, before ushering the somewhat dumbfounded Rick forward to claim his Morty.

The poor sap doesn't look like he knows what he's doing, Auctioneer Rick sneered down at him with disdain. He was a relatively low-tier Rick. It was no wonder he'd gone for a No Eye. No one in their right mind would want a No Eye when there were far better choices available. "Newb," he muttered under his breath.

Sheepishly taking the Morty's hand in his own, Rick E-998 gave his latest acquisition a quick up and down with a confused look on his face before glancing around at the now empty stage as if he were expecting something more. Before he could protest, however, a pair of Guard Ricks promptly escorted him through the group of Ricks around the stage and back out to the private elevator lobby that would take him to the Citadel's higher levels.

A string of exotic Mortys followed in short succession: A sulking Business Morty, Rabbit Morty, Mystic Morty—ooh! That brought in 850 credits!—Telekinetic Morty, and, finally, Biker Morty stood before the unimpressed throng, each auctioned off and dragged away by their new Rick with little fanfare.

Thank god that's over. Scrolling down the glowing screen, Auctioneer Rick confirmed he'd finished the last public auction for the night. About time. These public auctions were always a bore. Frankly, he found the whole thing beneath him—a complete waste of his talents. If it weren't for the final auction item made available once a week, he wouldn't even be doing this. A sly grin curled his lips as he read the name of the entry blinking at the bottom of his screen.

After the initial boom of the Morty Craze died down, the Council had devised the Morty Auction simply to keep the interest alive, marketing it as the new "upscale" way to get your Mortys. Why go running around in the wild for them when you could outbid a fellow Rick instead? They knew that no Rick would turn down the opportunity to gloat over another Rick, and the swanky allure of Façade helped lend to the image of prestige. Ricks fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, practically throwing their money at the Council for the chance to bask in self-assumed glory.

Word spread like wildfire, soon drawing the richest and most intelligent Ricks in the multiverse to flock to the Citadel for a chance to bid. Besides dumping their fortunes into the Citadel's treasury, those Ricks deemed worthy to occupy the Council's more exclusive echelon were branded as Elite. In return for their loyalty and service, they were granted an extra perk, something that only the Council's most devoted subjects were privy even to gaze upon. Because what few Ricks knew was that the auction held more than just No Eyes and colorful Shirt Mortys.

It was a prize like no other, something that left every Rick who experienced it in awe, forever changed. The rumors ran rampant throughout the galaxies, spoken in hushed tones over transdimensional cell phones and in dirty subway bathroom stalls.

Now things are gonna get good. Plastering on his trademark smile that would put Salesman Rick to shame, Auctioneer Rick addressed the audience with a flourish of his outstretched hands. He had no need for a mic as his crisp voice pierced the room.

"And that concludes tonight's public auction, folks! You all know the rules!" He clapped twice, like a teacher calling the attention of schoolchildren. "Only private members allowed from here on out! If you don't hold a membership, please kindly—URRAUGHP—get your ass outta here." His voice dropped a few pitches as he glared out across the lounge.

This was the moment that separated the men from the boys. Or, in this case, the Elite from the common-Rick.

A handful of Guard Ricks fanned out through the crowd, weaving between the tables and making short order of anyone who didn't carry the black card that marked them as Elite. Most of the non-Elite only grumbled halfheartedly before shuffling out to the lobby, while those who'd enjoyed their stay at the bar a little too long put up their hands in mock surrender and giggled drunkenly in their escorts' faces. With well-practiced motions, the drummer Rick quickly packed his drumsticks away and disappeared behind stage.

On his way to the exit, one particularly volatile drunk suddenly twisted himself free of the Guards' grasp, scrambling to the stage's edge and grabbing at the hem of the auctioneer's cloak. He held tight even as a pair of Guards seized him around the waist.

"W-what'vyou got up—hic!—up there, huh? Huh?!" Spittle flew from his chapped lips as he stared daggers at the auctioneer. "I know you've got sumfin! We all know it!"

Flinging a look of dismay at the pest, Auctioneer Rick wrenched the fabric free. He smoothed the planes of his cloak down, ignoring the screaming Rick who was dragged unceremoniously out of the room. The large cushioned doors swished quietly behind his struggling form, swallowing him whole.

You just earned yourself a one-way elevator ride up, Rick H-122. Auctioneer Rick jabbed a finger at an icon on the profile displayed on his screen, and a large X blinked over the Rick's face. The Council had delegated a fair amount of control to Auctioneer Rick, and he wasn't afraid to use it to put some pieces of shit in their place. The profile, now grayed out, slid over to his shit list of malcontents permanently barred from accessing the private elevator leading directly to Façade.

Rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck to the left and right, Auctioneer Rick steeled himself for the next act. Head down, he raised a single hand and snapped his fingers once. Immediately, the stage lights lowered to a soft glow from their former glare, hushing the spectators as if the very air had been sucked out of the room. The jazz playing from the speakers was replaced with a low synthetic beat, the strong bass sending tantalizing pulses through the remaining Ricks who watched with rapt attention. The energy of the lounge turned on a dime, conversations dying mid-sentence and every pair of eyes in the room fixed on the lone figure atop the stage.

This was always Auctioneer Rick's favorite part.

"Gentle-Rick." He spread his arms wide, watching with satisfaction as his audience tracked his movements closely. "As members of the Elite, you are in the Council's good graces and have earned the very exclusive privilege of participating in Façade's, shall we say...after-hours auction." Ricks visibly shifted in their seats, a few of the newer members clutching their black cards with ill-concealed zeal. A trio of Ricks seated at a table near the front snorted at their brethren's blatant display of naïve optimism.

"I know you're anxious to get started. You've paid good money to be here, and you've been patient enough to wait for this moment. But before we begin, I'm obligated to lay out the—URRP—ground rules." This sent a ripple of grumbles through the room, a few voices rising in complaint. Auctioneer Rick raised a palm to his audience.

"Now, now. Most of you have probably heard these before, but remember that we have some new members among us." He winked at the haughty-looking Rick seated in the middle of the trio. He was plumper than his neighbors, and lavish diamonds glittered on his gold-clad fingers. "And, after all, we can't all be like Rick ψ-531 here. He's won the auction more times than I can count. But I'm sure we appreciate the formula for harnessing zero energy he thought up last time." Most of the room laughed, and the wealthy Rick tilted his head good-naturedly, a heavy golden necklace clinking around his thick neck.

The playful smile dropped from Auctioneer Rick's features as he began to recite his speech by rote. "Rule number one: The winner of the auction will be allowed a maximum of four hours to spend with his prize in the designated accommodations. First-time winners are allotted only one hour. This is merely a precauAURGHtionary measure.

"Rule number two: No personal effects will be permitted in the room." He raised his hands again to quell the mumble of questions from the audience. "We found out the hard way that some winners get a little carried away." When the muttering died down, he continued. "The winning Rick will have free use of the tools supplied by the Council instead." On cue, a Guard Rick rolled a pushcart out from behind the thick curtain, parking it within Auctioneer Rick's reach before retreating backstage again. Auctioneer Rick strutted around the cart, picking up various items from its surface as he continued.

"The tools are to be returned in working order." He paused to brandish a taser in front of the captive audience, a jolt of electricity sparking from its metal prongs. "And in the same condition as originally found...within reason." He skipped over a set of thin metal pins laid out on a velvet cloth like fine cutlery, electing instead to pick up a cat-o-nine-tails. "All devices are routinely sterilized after each use and are guaranteed to be hygienically safe.

"Rule number three: No permanent damage is allowed. This includes excessive scarring, burning, dismemberment—" He stopped to shoot a glare at a Rick who was seated in one of the booths, his legs spread lewdly wide, showing off the gaudy belt buckle just above his crotch. Ignoring the biting glare, the seated Rick only rolled his eyes like a petulant teenager, working a worn toothpick between his teeth.

Auctioneer Rick went on, "—disfigurement, or impairment. Leaving marks of any kind is generally discouraged, though permissible, provided it is done with the intention of achieving the desired results." He placed particular emphasis on the last two words, sharing a knowing look with the Ricks in the audience.

"Rule number four: All proprietary information about and relating to the auction is considered confidential, and no participating Rick may disclose said information to any third parties without express permission from the Council." He broke from script to chuckle. "Trust me, guys. You ain't ever gonna get it, so you might as well keep yer traps shut if you know what's good for you."

This helped to break the tension that had been building over the course of his introductory speech, uneasy chuckles filtering through the assembly. Ricks gave each other strained smiles as though they were all friendly neighbors rather than feral dogs vying for the same piece of meat.

"Lastly, rule number five: All intellectual property obtained during the designated session is and shall be the sole and exclusive property of the Council. The Rick will be granted an indefinite interdimensional license of said intellectual property and shall pay to the Council a 40% royalty fee of all net profits derived from the distribution, sale, and use of the license.

"Any breach of the aforementioned rules will result in immediate suspension of the Rick's status as Elite, forfeiture of all licensed intellectual property, and possible permanent banishment from the Citadel."

His speech over, he loosened his shoulders, shrugging back on his persona as the wisecracking auctioneer. Clasping his hands smartly together, he added, "If there are no further questions..." A pause, but no one so much as burped. In the stock-still air, Auctioneer Rick let his voice drop to silky depths, knowing he already had each ear in the lounge hanging on his every word.

"Do you want to see him?"

Twirling back and letting his long cloak fan out behind him, Auctioneer Rick stuck out one hand to the curtain and bellowed, "Bring him out!" Pulleys curled back the curtain like a widening smile, and a lone Guard Rick walked out, pushing a small figure in front of him with gentle prods of his gloved hand.

It was a Morty, draped in a simple white cloth that wrapped around his slender waist and was slung loosely over one shoulder. His bare feet faltered during the short trek across the stage, and he kept his head bowed, blinking blearily as though even the dimmed lights were too bright for his sensitive eyes. Brown hair fell to the small of his back, and unlike the dreadlock quality of a Peace Morty, this Morty's hair had been meticulously brushed until it shone, arranged in a loose braid and tied off with a delicate, white ribbon. A rosy blush warmed his cheeks, and his plump lips glistened with a generous application of gloss. When he'd reached his mark by Auctioneer Rick's side, he teetered in place, not looking up from a spot on the floor.

A flurry of gasps and soft whispers rose from the lounge floor, the more curious Ricks in the back pressing closer to get a better look.

"So he's the one?"

"Is that the one everyone's been going on about?"

"I don't get it. This one doesn't look so special to me."

"You don't know—UOAGHRP—what you're talkin' about. He's the one."

"The one."

The one. The One.

The more experienced Ricks present knew the boy from the reputation that preceded him. Even though this Morty had never set foot outside Façade or his own chambers, it seemed like every Morty in the Citadel knew about him, though never by name. Auctioneer Rick had seen firsthand how the Mortys would stiffen around a Rick who had recently been in The One's company. Their young eyes would take on a glazed-over look, their lips working over the moniker as if chanting a mantra. The One. The One. The One. The effect would only last a moment, disappearing without the Morty ever knowing it'd happened. Whenever pressed by his Rick about it, the Morty would shrug and say he'd been daydreaming.

Standing so close to The One now, Auctioneer Rick felt a tickle run across his brain, making the hairs on his scalp stand on end as though electrocuted. His nose itched, and he blinked back the sudden wetness that pricked his eyes. He shook his head, trying to extricate the odd sensation that always overtook him when he was in close proximity to the kid. He sniffed the tickle away before launching into the next phase of the auction.

He turned and gave a curt nod to the Guard Rick who then swiftly kicked the Morty in the back of the legs, knocking him down. The boy cried out in pain as his knees smacked hard against the stage floor.

Instantly, the Ricks seated closest to the stage jerked their heads up, their nostrils flaring as if they'd caught the scent of some mouthwatering dish. A handful scrambled for the napkins at their table and began furiously jotting down notes over the elegant red letter F as they were struck by a flash of eureka. Those among them who were familiar with the routine only leered, licking their lips and husking out a low, "Yeah, baby. That's it."

The euphoric effect had no sooner died than another wave hit them as the Guard placed one foot on the Morty's shoulder and pinned him mercilessly to the floor. His next strangled cry got the attention of every Rick in the room, some getting up from their seats to stumble in awe toward the stage, drawn like magnets to the source of their sudden bout of clarity and acumen.

To anyone else, the commotion would have appeared strange, but Auctioneer Rick was accustomed to it. As a witness to countless auctions already, he knew full well the effect this Morty had on Ricks. Part of him sympathized with the audience's sudden loss of control, even missed it. The mandatory inhibitors he took, however, blocked the Morty's full impact on him. He waved impatiently at the Guard, signaling for him to back off The One and haul him to his feet, before turning to address the audience in full.

"How did you all enjoy that little sample? Consider it on the house. But if you want the full experience, get ready to open your wallets." He rubbed his hands together appreciatively. "Shall we begin the bidding at 100,000?"

The cacophony of voices that swelled from the audience drowned out the tail-end of his speech as the participants surged eagerly to the stage, each trying to be heard in the fray. The black cards they waved wildly in their hands streamed their bids straight to Auctioneer Rick's tablet, sparing him the need to call for higher bids as they piled one on top of the other in a fierce skirmish. 100,000 grew in just a few moments to 225,000, then a cool 300,000. A line of Guard Ricks placed before the stage kept the more overzealous bidders at bay, their rifles an effective deterrent. Unwilling to back down completely, several Ricks settled for pacing in a tight switchback like caged animals, never taking their eyes off the prize onstage.

460,000. 500,000.

Auctioneer Rick kept his eyes on his screen as the digits whirred by in a blur. The bidding Rick's profile appeared and disappeared just as quickly alongside the figure, each higher amount pushing the newest loser lower on the list. The crowd mirrored the same as the more domineering Ricks knocked black cards out of their competitors' hands or bodily forced them down with underhanded jabs to the gut and well-placed kicks. Soon the entire room was on the brink of an all-out brawl.

Safe behind the podium, Auctioneer Rick watched the display of savagery like a ruler looking down on his peasants from on high. Though he knew he too was merely a cog in the system, he couldn't help but feel a sense of power in his position. Unlike the tediousness of the public auctions, this was where he really shone. He was completely in his element, the fuckin' master of ceremonies, and he reveled in the energy of the stage.

The only bitter truth was that not all the attention was actually directed at him.

Leaving the Guards to handle crowd control, he glanced over at the object of everyone's mad desire—the unassuming little boy in his little bedsheet. Poor Rick-ful bastard, Auctioneer Rick sneered.

The Morty seemed completely unaffected by the storm of chaos around him. In stark contrast to the heaving mass of bodies before him, he stood as still as a statue, either entirely unaware of or indifferent to the fact that he was the very cause of the bedlam. The sedatives administered to him earlier made his eyes wet with moisture, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. He didn't even stir when the cloth on his shoulder slipped slovenly to reveal pale skin marked by week-old bruises.

600,000.

More than half of the Ricks had already backed out of the bidding war, turning their attention to the bar or exchanging consoling words with their fellow losers, promising that they'd save up enough to win someday. Others were already negotiating how they could pool their earnings and split the profits, but who did they think they were kidding? A Rick knew better than to trust a Rick.

630,000. 650,000.

The outpouring of bids had stymied to a trickle as more Ricks reached the limits of their funds. Those who'd been outbid moodily crossed their arms over their chests or distracted themselves with a hard drink. While some tried to stretch their budget, blatant overdraft bids were swiftly dismissed as the system cross-checked them against the funds listed within their profile, leaving only a small handful of bidders left, and even that number was quickly dwindling. ψ-531 still sat comfortably at his table, lazily flashing his card to squash any feeble attempts to outbid him. If Auctioneer Rick recalled correctly, this was his first visit in several weeks. He was eager for another Epiphany to pad his wallet, no doubt.

Two more Ricks dropped out of the running, and when the final figure—675,000—held for a few uninterrupted seconds, Auctioneer Rick raised his gavel to announce the end of the auction. As a courtesy to tradition, he began the countdown.

"675 going once. Going twice..."

Just as he began his downward swing, a voice interrupted his speech.

"Hold up! Coming through! M-move it, buddy." A fissure split through the crowd as Rick of Dimension X-280 barged his way through from the back. Dragging a pair of matching black bags across the floor in one hand, he swaggered to the space in front of the stage, stepping on more than a few toes and earning hisses and curses from the corridor of Ricks that framed him.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry I'm late. We still doing this bidding thing o-or what?" He propped his hands on his hips and scrunched his nose as he squinted up at the Morty on the lit stage. A cryptic grin crossed his lips before he nodded to himself, looked over at Auctioneer Rick, and nodded again.

"All right, Brother. I'm in."