A/N: I think the feeling that I'm going off of is the one from "Close Rick-counters of the Rick Kind", where Mortys were made to feel completely worthless. While there were a couple, certainly more depressing episodes, that one seems to tackle C-137 Rick and Morty's relationship subtly but nicely. Regardless, Rick is still pretty irresponsible sometimes, and something like this story seems quite plausible (to me at least). Please be aware that there may be some OOC moments, and if you see them, please feel free to point them out to me! Rick is so complex a character to write, but I can't help but want to dive into this story.
Disclaimer: "Rick and Morty" is a genius show created by amazing people, Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland. I have no affiliation with the creators/producers/etc and make no profit off of this story whatsoever.
Setting: Set at some point before the events in "The Wedding Squanchers". Think of this as a separate "episode" without that much continuity.
Rated M for language and some mentions of sex, but there is nothing graphic in here. (Rick is an adult though, and he can do what he pleases.)
Cover Image: Unfortunately, this site hates hyperlinks. BOO. But you can find the full-res image in my deviantArt gallery; my username there is Cezille07 too.
ALRIGHT, let's get started, please enjoy!
Chapter 1 - Fail
Morty quietly molded his mashed potatoes in the shape of Jessica's face, or at least he tried: the goop it was earlier was still merely a bad outline of a coconut. The piece was turning out to be more abstract art than anything, the longer he probed and prodded at his dinner. Around him, the clink of silverware on glass chimed steadily for a quarter hour, with hushed, but heated, chatter between Beth and Jerry about something accentuated by Rick's scoffing, until one by one, his family finished their food, and he was left pondering how he didn't really have any appetite. He picked up his plate and dumped its contents into the garbage.
Morty headed to his room to try to catch up on some reading. Well, back-reading. He had to face it. No matter how much Rick disregarded school, it was a necessary evil that Morty had to undergo if he ever wanted to have a job in the future. He had to finish high school somehow, enter a decent college somehow, write up a thesis which he'd understand none of, somehow, oh, and find some normal friends—maybe, well, he had to—while juggling his time with his mad-scientist grandfather. School was the last thread of normalcy he was hanging onto.
But he had the last semester pretty badly, and earlier today, his teachers spoke to him in the faculty room, advising, well, practically pleading, him to get his act together.
It all came down to Rick and his impulsive needs, his streaks of madness, and his vague possessiveness of Morty's time. There had to be a limit somewhere, some form of line Morty can draw to stand up for himself. Thus slapping himself, Morty proceeded back downstairs and straight to the open garage to confront Rick.
"Rick! I need to talk to you," Morty said as he entered. He felt his blood pressure drop with exhilaration, for the respite so close at hand.
Rick continued going about the shelves—collecting fragments of machines, vials full of colorful liquids, rags, clothes—and tossed those items into a duffel bag on the desk. Morty cleared his throat; he was overlooked. He cleared his throat louder; he remained disregarded like the webs collecting on the ceiling.
"HEY!" he cried, stepping forward. He observed the winding steps his grandfather took. Barely nine o'clock and already inebriated. Tsk! "Rick, for real, I need to talk to you."
Rick sang an unintelligible ditty repeatedly as he went on packing. "Ooooooh Paris, mon amour, Paris j'adore..."
Morty stomped his foot against the nearest shelf. The fragile devices within its metal and wooden confines rattled, safely, but ominously enough for the scientist to take notice.
"Heyheyheyhey, Mortyyyy," sang Rick. "You came at a bad time. If you were planning to cash in your adventure coupons, y-you'll have to wait 'til next Monday." Rick tried to close the zipper on his bag, but it didn't budge. It overflowed with the assortment of articles he'd squeezed there. He shrugged, not really caring if it was open and absorbed the dank smell in his ship. He hauled it off the desk, and it fell heavily to the floor, startling Morty.
"But-but-bu, but I didn't want to go on an adventure, I actually just need to, ne-need it to stop," Morty protested, circling around Rick, who was now dragging the bag across the littered floor to the parked space ship outside. "All of it," he whispered.
"We can go visit a nice pocket of space-time faaaaaaaaar away from here, and we-we-we'll have ah, a good time, a good time, Morty," Rick added, not really hearing his grandson's words. "But next time. I got a date with mah ladies up in Treicel." Then Rick turned seriously to Morty, or where he thought Morty was standing. "It's a secret, Morty!" he whispered urgently to the lamp post, "Gotta, gotta be real quiet about this. Secret-like, covert, you know. Dangerous."
"A-a-a date?" Morty crossed his arms. "I'm having a crisis here, Rick, please listen to me," he said, his eyes downcast.
Rick slung an arm around the same lamp post and said sang some more of his song.
Morty had had enough of this. "Fine," he muttered. He climbed aboard the ship, tumbled across the front seat holding the messy bag, and plopped to the floor under the backseat, nestled in empty bottles of Rick's misery. He listened as Rick got in and finally fastened his seatbelt after the sixth try.
The skies were clear that night, and the stars became even brighter and vivid as they escaped the Earth's atmosphere. Morty was already used to the sight, not that he didn't find it fascinating anymore—rather, he just didn't feel like it was that pretty just then, with his life down in the dumps, literally like he was right now. He felt lucky for having brought his phone, but less so that he had forgotten his earphones. Something about Rick's singing was getting on his nerves. Morty wished he could block out the offending noise easily without Rick noticing. He resigned to playing one of his offline games on silent mode.
~o0O0o~
Morty gasped awake. The air-conditioning was off. The ship absolutely reeked of stale liquor, and what air he took into his lungs didn't refresh him. He brushed off the bottles that had rolled on top of him as he slept. He reached for the switch that would open the side door so he could finally breathe.
He fell on all fours, focusing only on the sweet, wintry air that blew gently around him. Once he regained his senses, he dusted himself off and took a look around:
It was hard to, though. The surrounding area was dark and flat, like a cold desert, harboring no visible life as far as he could discern. The blowing gray dust also made visibility quite low, even with a pale white moon hanging directly overhead.
Behind him stood a squat, off-white edifice whose front sign shone too brightly to be looked at directly. Morty could hear the pulsing bass inside, and he guessed that this was the place where Rick had intended for his "date". Morty highly doubted it was any decent date; if he were to guess, it was a rendezvous for sex, and Morty wanted no part in it.
"Oh man," he grumbled. There was little he could do besides wait, as he didn't want to exactly tag along on this escapade. "But maybe I could at least ask for water?"
Happy with this flash of inspiration, he went around the building, which was bigger than he initially gave it credit for. The walls, though short, were so broad it took half a minute to round the corner. Spaced evenly at intervals were large, glass windows that were heavily tinted; some were even wrapped with a dark cellophane-like material from the inside. "Huh", Morty pondered, then hurriedly changed his train of thought.
Posted at the front was a burly humanoid alien, with six arms and silver, plastic skin. Morty gulped hard as he approached.
"State your business," the alien said in a gurgling voice, eyeing Morty stonily.
Morty blinked. "Y-y-y-you speak my language?"
"We were taught by our best customer, the infamous Rick Sanchez. We treat humans, or those they bring with them, with care," the bouncer replied. He began to frisk Morty for weapons.
Morty crossed his arms in defense. Was it wise to be known as the criminal's grandson? He bit his cheek. "Don't know him. But I'd like to enter please."
"You got nothing on you, not even a wallet." Despite that, the bouncer stepped aside to let Morty in out of the cold.
But as soon as the bouncer closed the door behind him, Morty's head began to swim. Or was it the loud electronic music that shook his brain within his skull? Or the sweet, colorful aroma that penetrated his nostrils, filling his head with vivid illusions that made every passing alien's face look like Jessica's? And he hadn't even had a drink yet! Even water suddenly seemed like a bad idea.
"Just the bathroom then," he decided.
He stayed close to the walls, hoping that it was close to the exit so he wouldn't get lost on the way out. Around him, many different species of weird and unexplainable mashed into each other like mechanical love puppets. He passed an area covered with curtains, and he heard it—a woman sensually repeating Rick's name amidst the hushed grunting within. He felt bile rising in his throat. New plan: cover ears, piss, puke, then run the fuck away.
After what felt like an eternity of dizzying torture inside that hellish club, he emerged from the front door. He hiked back to where the ship was parked neatly beside the wall, among hundreds of others.
The stars were suddenly capable of holding his attention. He thought he could see the Big Dipper and Orion's Belt. Was that...a constellation spelling his name? Those weren't still the effects of the nauseating smoke inside, right? Nevertheless, his knees felt too stiff from standing guard by the ship for so long, and his eyes too heavy. No other patrons arrived, and the lot was mostly empty. It must be very late; it had been late to begin with. But as for sleeping inside the ship, it was out of the question, even if Morty could open the door. Rick had the key, and the engine (and therefore, the air-conditioner, which partially numbed his nose and dampened the odor) wouldn't start. With a grunt, Morty settled beside the wall, on the softest spot of ground which he hoped wasn't a sinkhole, nor toxic, nor dangerous in any way, aside from assaulting his nose (albeit much less than the inside of the ship).
~o0O0o~
When Morty awoke this time, his body ached all over. The sun had barely broken through the horizon, but it felt like a long time since he had been asleep. Odd. Morty propped himself up on the wall next to him, and his hand landed on a large plastic bag of garbage. "Aww, man!" He had settled a few paces from the dump, but someone had laid trash bags beside him. "Am I like trash?!" He raised his fists at the unknown alien who had deemed him worthless. "Jerks!" he mumbled, and went on mentally badmouthing the alien as he stood up and stretched his arms and legs. When he looked ahead, he realized how wide the parking lot really was.
And that the ship was nowhere in sight.
Morty's stomach dropped, and his heart followed suit. "OH JEEZ!"
He sprinted past the corner (ten seconds) to the entrance of the club. The doors were bolted with heavy chains, and the windows were also locked. The bouncer was gone too.
Morty kicked the ground. "Stupid Rick, where the hell did he go...?" he asked the empty air. "He-he-he knew I was here, didn't he? Didn't he?" Morty tried to remember the last conversation with Rick. Well, Rick had stoutly rejected him, with the warning to "keep it a secret" while singing that pathetic song. Likely, Rick was completely unaware that Morty had stowed away. Which had been the plan.
"I'm so stupid," he said, hanging his head.
The big orange sun rose slowly over the gray horizon. The comfortable coolness of the night was slowing fading to welcome a long, long day.
~-TO BE CONTINUED-~