Chapter Two

School is not for smart people. That's what Rick said so long ago, when all the wild adventures first started. Morty thinks he probably could have argued against the point at the time, but now, under Earth's new world order thanks to the Galactic Federation, and the changes they put forth to every country's education system, it's a simply stated fact. School is not for smart people. School is for all the average and below average rejects—which according to the Federation's standards, is most of the human population—to learn basic skills that will allow them to live out the rest of their mediocre, sheep-like lives.

Of course, they don't word it this way. Everything that comes out of those insectoid mouths is sugar-coated garbage, primped up to look appealing to the masses. A polished turd is still a turd though, and Morty's spent enough time in Rick's presence to see through all forms of bullshit.

Here's how it works.

IQ tests are given out regularly, each one tweaked to how old you are, and thus, what your intelligence level should be at. If you do well on that first test, you're given an even harder test, and a harder test after that if you continue to do well. Morty doesn't know how many tests you end up having to take, he's never made it past the first one, but at some point, the people who actually do well just sort of… vanish. One day they're three seats down from him, stressing about all the studying they've had to do for each test, and the next day they're gone—just stop showing up for school.

For higher education, the Federation says. Those among you who are of an elite intellect are entitled to benefits—to a specialized training that meets their specific needs and skills. They will go on to be your leaders, your doctors, inventors, the best of the best in every field. They will make your planet into a better place and better-connect Earth to the galaxy around it.

You should be happy for their success. This is a good thing, and will only benefit you and everyone around you in the long run.

It's happening all over the world, Morty knows. He's checked into various internet forums talking about the subject. People are being tested—high-schoolers, college students, graduates, anyone with a degree or otherwise who wants to throw their hat in the ring and stop by a testing facility—and if they do well enough by the Federation's standards, they're selected and then just… disappear.

No one quite knows what happens beyond that point, what 'higher education' entails. Sometimes a family member will claim that they heard from the person on the phone, and that they were quite happy. Other times, the Federation will release videos to the public of their 'specialized training facilities,' showing high-tech labs, classrooms, and workstations, all full of happy humans with their nose buried in a book or practicing some skill.

Morty's not sure if he buys it. It all seems too perfect and clean. Enough people believe in the cause though to keep trying, to keep going to those testing facilities.

As for the rest of them, well…

School is where the dumb go to learn now.

He can't say he knows how the college experience has been changed. Summer dropped out her first semester and wouldn't tell him about it. He hasn't cared to look more into it since then. As for high school though, the day is divided up into three sessions. With class starting at 8am every day, the first two hours cover every typical Earth subject squashed into one accelerated lesson; math, English, history, science and everything in-between.

After, everyone gets a ten-minute snack, then the next two hours are reserved for a Federation mandated lesson—or in other words, things the Federation believes it's important for you to know. Their laws, their monetary system, the hierarchy of their chain of command and government, their glorious history and all the good they've done for the galaxy.

Lunch comes next, usually something pasta-related. Because of this, Morty makes a habit to pack his own lunch now, as do most of his classmates. He just can't stomach the taste anymore.

The last three hours are where things turn a bit more 'cog in the machine learning its purpose.' A lot of his classmates just call it 'shop,' but, well, they tend to be the lucky ones who got assigned to something they actually like. Not Morty though, of course not Morty.

When that needle pierced his tongue, he hadn't even been aware of what the purpose of the test would be. Just a quick stab, and then the machine had buzzed and chimed and announced in monotone, "You will be a good… HORTICULTURIST."

"W-what?" He'd stuttered.

"It is another term for… GARDENER, or… FARMER," the machine had clarified, not understanding the reason for his disbelief. "You will be working with… PLANTS."

And just like that, his future had been decided, with not a single regard for his likes or dislikes, or even one question about the type of thing he might actually enjoy doing for a living.

So as he steps off the bus and follows the mass of his classmates walking in through the front doors—his head feeling clear for the first time that morning—he knows instantly that the reports he grabbed off his desk are not for any of the three sessions he'll be attending that day or the next. Worksheets are handed out for each session—or the papers stuffed in the folders he also grabbed that morning—but anything as strenuous as a report? No, instructors were encouraged not to put too much stress on students' minds so that they may better focus on what they needed to learn in shop.

Which means he has several reports he doesn't know the origins of, several reports that he's getting a sense he should maybe not show anyone. He'll have to read them over more closely later in the moderate privacy of his own home, see what they say. It could be nothing. It could be something Summer typed up that accidentally got put in his room.

Morty doubts it's anything he had typed up himself—while he doesn't think of himself as stupid, despite what so many people have said to him in the past (Rick especially), what he'd skimmed through that morning did sound a bit too… wordy and intellectual to have been written by him.

There's no time to dwell on it now though; the warning bell rings for the first session of the day.

He ditches his third session half-way through. He just feels too antsy to stand around in the greenhouse any longer and sift his hands through whatever slimy alien soil they'd been working with that day—from the QuAAzz-Zork system he thinks, he wasn't really paying attention during the lecture.

One upside to being branded as a moron and therefore part of the reject pile is that after the first few months, his teachers stopped caring so much about how hard he tries or if he goes wandering off somewhere. Of course, he can't be blatantly disobedient, and if his teacher is part of the Federation ('Bug-faces,' his classmates would whisper), he has to be extra careful.

Morty had noticed right from the start that Federation lackeys tended to keep a careful eye on him in-particular—compared to the general disregard they give the rest of his classmates. It's not hard to figure out why. Under Rick's guidance, Morty's done a number of illegal activities, including flat-out murder, and he's sure that every mark against him is reflected in his records. He thinks that the only thing really working in his favor is his age, that they see him as an impressionable young kid, taken advantage of by an elder relative. They don't seem to know of the things he did of his own volition. They watch him, sure, but that's all they do.

And the dumber he acts, the slower he talks, the less they watch him.

Third sessions are typically taught by the Federation—or at least his shop is, considering all the alien plants they work with—so usually it's not something he can skip. They have a sub teaching today though, and he (she? Morty can't really tell) doesn't seem to be much of a botanist. They also apparently hadn't been clued-in to Morty's previous history. He couldn't help but notice that those bug eyes didn't once wander his way, so a little over an hour into the session, he'd raised his dirt-caked hand and waved it wildly in the air, making up some excuse about needing to go water the plants in all the offices, halls, and classrooms.

"I-i-ii-if you don't w-wa-water them," he'd said, over-exaggerating his usual stutter, "th-they'll d-d-die."

One wide-eyed look later and all the faked emotions of an overly-concerned child, he was out of there with a hall pass in one hand and a watering can in the other.

He wanders the halls aimlessly at first, only stopping to pretend he's watering plants when he notices a bug-face watching him for a moment too long. The day's almost over with, and he's going to try and milk this for as long as he can. Eventually, he gets a moment's reprieve where the halls clear out and not a single eye is on him. He's quick to slip through a nearby door and down one of the less-traveled service halls.

That's another benefit of being in the reject pile. Because he's frequently sent out to do small menial tasks—watering plants, returning or fetching tools from other shops, delivering messages between teachers who are too busy to check their email—he's learned the layout of the school quite well, including all the places students shouldn't be going.

He passes through the back of Electrical because he knows that they have a lecture right now and no one will be in the workshop area—then through a back room where all the circuit breakers are, and out a back door that he knows isn't alarmed during the day because one of the teachers smokes. Once he's outside, it's easy from there. He's well-acquainted with every tree and shrub on school property now, and knows all the best ones that'll hide him from prying eyes staring out the school's windows.

With no real destination in mind, Morty circles the safest areas of the building, just taking the time to enjoy the sun and the air, this small sense of freedom. If he keeps his eyes mostly down and away from certain directions around the school, he won't even see the alien architecture that's been added on, just the grass and the plants around him. He thinks maybe the whole horticulture thing wouldn't be so bad if he'd actually been given a choice in the matter.

He settles in a bush right next to one of the loading docks. It's massive in size with dark red leaves and it hugs right up against the school's brick walls. He feels like he should know the name of the plant's species by now, but he never took the time to learn. Never cared to. All that matters to him is that the branches inside have grown into a kind of bowl shape that makes for a good seat, as he had discovered a few months back, and that its location next to the loading dock is super convenient. Maintenance never locks the doors during the day because shipments are always coming and going. One quick hop over a metal railing and he can be back inside the school in an instant.

There's not usually much activity at the docks during this time of day, so when the door slams open quite suddenly, Morty just about has a heart-attack. He crouches down lower in his hiding place, being especially careful not to move or make any noise. Federation insectoids have extremely good hearing.

But it's not someone from the Federation, it's another student. Slender but curvy, long red hair—

Jessica?

She's carrying a- a radio, it looks like. A weird alien one. There are faint dark smudges on her fingers and shirt, so out of contrast with how she usually looks—in fact, he doesn't think he's ever seen her look this angry before. Her hands shake, fingers gripping white-knuckled at the radio, and she lifts it high above her head.

Morty stumbles out of the bush, one arm stretched out, "J-Jessica, wait!"

It's not that he thinks it would be a big deal if she broke the radio, but—damaging school property—he just doesn't think he trusts the Federation enough, not even with something as small as this.

She startles back a step.

"Morty? What were you doing in that bush?" she asks, the radio now held in front of her like a shield. When it seems that she finally gets a good look at him though, she startles back again, "Oh my god, what did you do to your eye?"

"I-i-iit's fine. It's—I'm fine, just hurt it this morning," he says, shrugging, and sheepishly he adds, "Sorry for scaring you. I-I was just… hiding out, I guess. Seeing if I could mm-make it to the end of the last class—errr, session."

She seems to relax at that, says "Oh," like she completely understands. Seeing her with the radio, he thinks she probably does.

"W-what about you?" he asks. "Haven't—haven't seen you in a while. You're working with r-radios?"

She sighs, looking down at the boxy device in her hands, "Radio frequencies. Communications." She presses her lips into a thin line, "I'm a call girl."

Morty nearly falls over, has to catch himself against the railing, "Uhhh, I-I-I don't think that's what that means."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes. "I mean, I know, I'm not stupid, despite what the Federation thinks of me." She grumbles that last part. "I'm pretty much the space equivalent of a telephone repair guy, or- or one of those 1-800 operators if I want to go that route. 'Call girl' is just what those Federation jerks like to snicker at us when they don't think we can hear."

"Oh," he says, and as a weak consolation, offers up, "Th-they call us mud-brats."

It's probably not as bad as 'call girl,' but it's the only thing he can think to say.

Jessica gives him a curious look, "Mud-brats? What'd you get stuck with?"

"Plants," he says, scratching a nervous hand at the back of his neck. He makes a makes a random gesture in the air, "Growing stuff."

"So you have a green thumb."

"I guess," he says, "Th-that's what they tell me. Sooooo… what are you doing out here? S-since you know what I was doing out here."

She heaves out a frustrated sigh, turns narrowed eyes back down to the radio in her hands, "I'm was trying to get it to work right. Actually pick up a signal. When I asked if I could check other areas of the school, maybe pick up a stronger signal somewhere else, they just… laughed and let me leave."

"Well, I-I-I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out."

He wishes he could give her more advice than that, but he really doesn't know anything about radios himself.

Advice doesn't seem like something Jessica's really interested in hearing either way though, because she makes some non-committal noise at his comment and goes to kneel down on the loading dock, grumbling about how she'll figure it out right now as she sets the radio down rather forcefully and pries off the back of it.

Morty shifts in place, scratches at his arm. Watching her rearrange wires and pull tiny tools out of the purse she has slung over her back, he's not quite sure if he should stick around or just leave her to it. The conversation seems to be over, and substitute teacher or not, they've probably noticed that he's been gone for far too long now.

"So, ummm," he starts to say, but then she snaps the lid back on, flips a couple switches and…

Static.

She frowns.

"That's… better than before, r-right?" Morty says slowly, unsure.

She shushes him, starts to reach for the dials—

And then the sound of one of the much larger docking bay doors starts to rumble to life, metal grinding on metal as it slowly rises up from the ground. Morty stutters out an 'Oh shit' and Jessica gasps, hugging the radio to her chest. They really shouldn't be out here, hall-passes or not.

He tugs on her arm, back towards the railing, "Come on!"

It's a joint effort between them both, but they manage to scramble over the railing together and practically dive into the bush before the bay door opens up all the way. Hand on her wrist, Morty leads them far enough back into the bush so that he knows they won't be seen; he lets her have the branch seat while he crouches on the ground.

It's just Maintenance, but Maintenance from the Federation, so they still would have been in trouble had they been caught out here. The large insectoid creatures are wheeling out large plastic bins full of… something. Morty squints, and his eye aches in reminder.

"More books," Jessica whispers into his ear, and he realizes that she's right. Text books, library books, just stacks and stacks of books piled high in the bins. They'd been disappearing in large quantities for months now, and not just at school, but everywhere around town too. It was all replaced later of course, but with Federation approved books instead.

Minutes later, a truck backs up against the loading dock, loud and beeping. The aliens set to work dumping the books into the truck, and Jessica turns her attention back to the radio. She pulls a pair of earbuds out of her purse and plugs them in, fits one bud into her ear and starts fiddling with the knob again. She doesn't appear to be at all worried about the aliens hearing them over all the noise.

Morty spares her a quick glance, but turns his attention back to the truck. The aliens aren't speaking English, so he doesn't know what they're saying. Crackling, screeching, rumbling, it's just all nonsense to him. It only takes them about ten minutes to fill the truck up, tossing all the books in like so much trash.

One of the aliens hops into the front seat of the truck with the driver and the others go back inside. The bay door rumbles closed behind them. As the truck slowly pulls away, book covers in the back are blown open, their pages fanning out in the wind as the truck speeds up.

"Where do you think it all goes?" Morty asks, watching the vehicle disappear around a corner.

"Dunno," Jessica says with an absentminded shrug. Morty turns back to her, watching the way her hands fan out over the different knobs, twisting and turning. He jumps when she suddenly exclaims, a happy triumphant noise, and before he has a chance to comprehend what that means, she stuffs her spare earbud into his ear and says, "Listen!"

It's music.

Huh, she fixed it.

.

They have to fix it. They can't just stand by and do nothing.

That's the attitude everyone goes in with when they decide to attend the protest.

Morty doesn't really understand much of what's going on. "I'm only this many years old," he'll say and hold out his hand when anyone asks. His antennae are only two inches tall after all and he still can't consciously blink his third eye yet, so it's understandable that the subject matter is a bit beyond his understanding. He knows his parents fight about it a lot; with each other, with the neighbors, with people at the grocery store. It seems like all everyone's doing these days is fighting.

Summer tried to explain it to him once, but her words started scaring him and his mom was quick to rush in; swoop him up in her arms and plop him down in front of the TV to watch cartoons.

They were letting him be a part of itnow though, whatever it actually is. There was, of course, another fight about it between his parents the night before; words like 'too dangerous' and 'peaceful protest' being tossed back and forth. Eventually though, they reached an agreement.

It was history in the making, after all, and he needed to see it, they said, needed to be a part of it so that it would never happen again.

"And we need to show all of them what we're fighting for," his mom had said, one hand ruffling through Morty's hair as she spoke to his dad, "We need to show them why this is important to us, why we won't back down."

He's handed a glowstick from some passerby when they arrive on the scene, and Morty concludes very quickly that whatever this protest-thing is, he likes it. There are colorful signs, loud chanting. The energy is high in the air. He can't believe he's lucky enough to stay up past his bedtime to be here.

Eventually, more protestors come. They're all dressed in black. They have buggy red eyes, only two of them, but their antennae are just like his.

His mom picks him up, which is nice because he can see better now.

Morty pops one end of the glowstick into his mouth for safe-keeping. With his hand free, he waves at the new protestors.

The people at the front of the crowd walk up to greet the newcomers.

And then their heads are blow away in the wind like red dandelion fluff.

He only sees it for a second before he's jerked away, his mom turning and running. Screaming rings out behind him—except loud and fearful, not at all like the organized chanting from before.

His dad is running beside them, Summer clutched tightly in the man's arms. She's crying, sobs shaking her small frame as she buries her head in his shoulder. Tears begin to well up in Morty's eyes, but he doesn't understand why. More flecks of red blow by them, all around them, more people's heads wisp away in a mist.

Someone slams into his dad and knocks him back, the crowd flooding around them until Morty can't see the man anymore, can't hear Summer's cries. His mom pauses, hesitates. She twists in place and looks all around them, calling out for dad, for Summer.

Her head snaps to the side, and a red mist caresses the side of Morty's face.

They fall.

He hits the ground hard, his mother a heavy weight on top of him. She's not moving, and he can't get up. People race by them, stepping on his arm, his hand. Eventually, someone trips over them and his mother is knocked away. He turns to her, reaches out to her, his arms stretched across the ground, but half of her face is missing, and she's not getting up.

He cries as he runs away.

The night grows muted after that, screams fading into the distance. He makes it a full two blocks on his own before one of the bad protestors—who he now knows are monster in green and black—corners him by a set of dumpsters. It approaches him leisurely, its red eyes completely indifferent as it raises its weapon.

A crack of green energy strikes it in the head, blasting straight through in a shower of black oil. The monster drops to the ground, pincer arms just inches away from Morty, but still and unmoving, just like his mom.

The oil black pools under the creature's body. He can't look away.

Bony thin arms wrap around him; an old man with wild hair and long, crooked antenna. He has dark, shadowed bags under all three eyes and a sour scent to his breath. He picks Morty up and holds him tight.

"Sssssoookay, Morty," the man says. "S'okay, your grandpa Rick is here."

Morty doesn't know the man, can hardly understand what's going on, but he finds himself clinging on to him, small fingers digging in to the man's stained white jacket.

"I'mmm—Mmm' ssooorry I didn't come back sooner, Morty… So sorry…"

.

Morty shuffles back quick, earbud yanked free. His arms flail out and grab at nearby branches, snapping one free from the bush. Jessica flinches back from him, drops the radio on the ground.

Heels digging into dirt and mulch, Morty's back hits the side of the school and he slumps against it, panting. His head throbs in protest, a brief spike of pain before it fades away, and he can't help but pat at his forehead, feeling for a third eye that isn't there.

"What was that?" Jessica asks, quick and fearful. "Did you just have like, some kind of seizure?"

"I-I don't know," he says.

He really doesn't know. The memories, visions, whatever they are, he doesn't know what it is, why it's happening.

"Was I shaking?" he asks.

"A little," Jessica says, "But not really. You just kind of zoned out for a minute there." She creeps closer, "That could still be a seizure though. You should see a doctor."

She sounds very adamant on this point, but Morty shakes his head, some feeling inside of him screaming no. No, no, no, no—

"No," he says.

Reassure, reassure quick.

"I-I-I'll be fine. It's—my mom knows about it," he lies, "We're taking care of it. It's fine."

She doesn't look convinced.

Morty swallows thickly.

"Please don't tell anyone."

Jessica purses her lips. Once upon a time, Morty would be gone on her just from that little move alone, the fact that she's giving his so much attention, but now his thoughts are too flooded with questions about what's happening to him, too distracted by everything going on in the world around him. He has no time, no energy left for things like romance and high school crushes.

She promises not to tell.

It's only a small relief in the grand scheme of things.

.


TBC