Chapter 3 - That Sinking Feeling

All of a sudden, Rick felt a change in room temperature, and a small cold knot in his stomach formed. It was subtle, in a way that manifests only when you realize something isn't quite right with the world.

He removed his goggles and swiveled in his chair, taking in the garage. He expected Morty to be hovering over him, or standing around the shelf, or doing his homework, or fiddling with his phone, or talking to himself (well aware that he was being fully ignored). But no Morty lingered. Strange... Wasn't school out already? Wasn't it summer break, or something that lazy school officials declared? He vaguely recalled Morty glumly making sculptures at the dinner table. Was the little shit still moping about...whatever he was moping about?

Rick put away his tools and proceeded into the adjacent room, where Beth's half-wit husband was pacing back and forth before the sink. A frantic, bewildered aura shrouded Jerry's features, and when his gaze landed on his beloved sink, he sighed aloud and muttered under his breath, "I just don't understand!"

Rick smirked as he watched the poor man soliloquize melodramatically:

"She's perfect! Thirty pounds of beautiful, stainless steel!" Jerry caressed the cold, unfeeling metal. His features reflected the subtle glow of the afternoon light on its sleek surface. "And her intelligent faucet automation!" Here he placed his open palm under the tap, which turned on in response. "I don't know why Beth would even look at her and not fall in love."

"Nope," thought Rick, retreating as hastily and silently as he could.

But Jerry spotted him at the last moment. "Rick, you have to help me! You can do it! Just do your science-y thing, and make it, I don't know, at least look like the old one..."

"Why don't you go take your paraphilia elsewhere," groaned Rick, "and I'll look for someone who isn't having a mental breakdown." With that, he pushed past the teary-eyed man and went into the living room, or tried to.

"No! I'm not just going to accept this!" cried Jerry. He ran past Rick and blocked the hallway. Flustered and sweating, he pointed a rigid finger at him. "You have to help me!"

"I'll pass." Rick pushed past him, circled around the couch, and plopped himself next to Summer, who was flicking through channels uninterestedly.

Jerry followed into the living room sheepishly. "Summer?" he pleaded. "Help me talk to Beth?"

"Ask Morty. He'll appreciate the distraction." She waved the remote in the general direction of Morty's room upstairs.

Rick sighed in relief, his former uneasiness completely forgotten. He reached inside his lab coat for his flask and unscrewed the cap. He drank deep and waited as the heat spread from his burning throat to the ends of his fingers and toes. "Ahhhh," he sighed aloud, content.

"HELP!"

The pair at the couch nearly fell in surprise. The yell came from upstairs, caught midway between shock and downright anger. Rick had barely collected himself, but Jerry had flown into him, shook him by the lapels of his lab coat, and asked wildly, "It's Morty! He's not in his room!"

The cold, uneasy feeling came rushing back to Rick. His vision clouded slightly. Gah! And he had just finally gotten rid of that horrible hangover.

Jerry loosened his grip and fell to his knees. "This can't be happening. Now I'm going to be in trouble for two things!"

"Glad to see you're concerned about your son," Rick scoffed as he smoothed out his clothes.

"You're one to talk!" returned Jerry. "You're always involved when Morty gets into dangerous situations!"

"When has Morty been hurt under my care?" Rick whirled to face Jerry. He drew himself to his full height and growled, "When?"

Jerry's resolve fizzled out under Rick's intense glare, but he held his ground, despite the floor refusing to vanish from beneath his feet. His confusion gave way to doubt, and before he even processed the thought, he asked, "You didn't take him out last night, did you?"

"No. I'll have you know I spent a splendid evening at the edge of the universe. I didn't want to tell anyone, but I was on a date, with three aliens who specialize in... Well, no one who hasn't seen Backdoor Sluts 9 can begin to fathom what those three can do to a man and his genitals," explained Rick, and with a distant look he recalled the festivities of the evening before.

"I don't think I want to know," Jerry winced. He started to relax, now that Rick was no longer hostile. "But, you didn't take him anywhere?"

"No really, Je-Jerry, I have nothing to do with this," Rick asserted tiredly. "I didn't take him out; h-h-he's just being a-a pathetic teenager."

"Morty was locked up in his room all night," piped Summer, recalling her brother's demeanor at the table last night. "He's probably just gone out for some air."

"Wh-what'd I tell ya? Pathetic." Rick shrugged. "Summer, call his phone to shut up your father."

Summer obliged eagerly. They watched her pull up her contacts list and press the entry with Morty's name and picture. She put the phone on loudspeaker; they listened to each ring with bated breath.

Another ring followed.

Then another.

One more—

An electronic voice cut through the static: "Sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unattended. Please try again later."

Jerry burst into panic again, cursing and grabbing his hair in fistfuls. Summer bit her lip and redialed the number. After fifteen seconds, the same message played.

"Please try again later."

They continued to stare at Summer's phone, wearing confused faces. Scenarios, good and bad, but mostly worrisome, invaded their thoughts.

Jerry broke the merciless silence. "Rick, could you go look for him? I still have to deal with Beth and the sink issue...I won't let her know about Morty until you give word."

Rick cast him a tired gaze. "Why do I gotta do everything around here? Just because you got your own problems? I got ninety-nine problems—" He bit his lip and suppressed the next phrase, "and Morty isn't one of them." He shook his head, wondering at the rattling ache in his chest.

"You two are idiots!" cried Summer. She threw her phone on the couch; it bounced off the pale blue leatherette and landed harmlessly on the soft carpet by the coffee table. She had already stomped off upstairs before it fell.

Rick emerged from his reverie. "Fine, I'll do it. And when I find your son, that'll be the last favor you get from me."

~o0O0o~

Summer walked back and forth past the plain white door in the middle of the second floor. She had never felt such trepidation before barging into the room beyond.

But today was different. Somehow, fog had filled her chest and it was hard to breathe. Why? Morty wasn't probably in danger, right? Rick had said so. And if he didn't take Morty out, then Morty was only capable of getting into normal trouble. If Rick didn't take Morty out...if Rick was to be trusted on that account. She had witnessed the man's repeated abuse of Morty. But that was just tough love, right? Rick loved Morty, right? (Rick could love, right?)

She shut her eyes tightly before pushing the door open.

The room was empty.

She exhaled; the relief that washed over her made her knees go weak. There was no body hanging from the ceiling, or the window ledge. She searched his bedside drawer briefly, then under his pillow. She pulled off the sheets.

No running-away letter, no suicide letter.

She didn't know why she was expecting the worst. Morty wasn't that stupid. She sat on the bed and tried to inhale deeply. The fog wasn't clearing; her chest was heavy with worry. "I guess I do have the feminine instinct. I just hope I'm wrong," she said to no one.

The door was still ajar. She saw Rick saunter past and call into the hallway, "Summer, I need you to come with—huh?" She heard his uneven footsteps zigzag toward Morty's room, watched him open the door with a similar trepidation as she had, and for that moment, she was relieved: relieved that Rick had half a heart about caring for Morty's safety.

"Yes", she replied before he repeated the question. "I'll help you find Morty."

~o0O0o~

Morty phased into and out of consciousness, borne partially of his hope that maybe someone had already noticed he wasn't at home. He wished he could track the time he had spent there already, but between the lethargic sun and his depleting energy, staying awake to even count the days became impossible.

How long had it been? Had he been withering here for days? Weeks? He looked up wearily, and the strain on his eyes to move into position electrified him with pain. The orange sun floated languidly over a gray sky tinged with green, but it was still not at his zenith. Not even a day on this wrathful planet. The colors made his head spin, and he blacked out again.

He felt like he was dying. His hunger had passed a lifetime ago, but his thirst was unbearable. He was sure he would have licked his sweat if he had known how dry the torpid days were, and he wished he could drink his own piss if there were any left.

Now he was starting to see things. A blue line—moving across the arid landscape. When he next awoke, the shape, dark against the harsh sunlight overhead, was leaning over him in apparent observation. When their eyes met, its gaze softened and its lips turned upward into what Morty dared to hope was a smile.

A/N: South Park reference! xD

Up Next: Is the blue creature friend or foe? Morty's gonna find out!