Chapter 12
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Once in the morning and once at night before bed. That's the routine Morty works out. Never again at school because that's just too dangerous, but twice a day? That's nothing; no big deal at all. It's not even enough material to fill up a whole page in the notebook he's recording everything in. Twice a day and he doesn't make himself sick. The problem before had been a lack of moderation. You eat only two pieces of candy a day and it makes no difference, you get a sweet treat and have no need for worry of cavities or diabetes—eat a whole massive bag of candy though and you'll be curled up in a ball of misery and questioning all of your choices in life.
This is how drug addicts and alcoholics are born, he's sure, but he just can't find it in himself to care enough to stop. It's not a drug, it's a condition—and what does it matter anyway? It's not like it costs money. He won't be selling family heirlooms in the future, pawning off his dad's R2D2 coins just so he can get a quick fix. Just turn on the radio and this so-called 'high' is free.
And he's not hurting anyone either by doing this. Morty isn't even completely convinced he's hurting himself. When he keeps it to just two songs a day, there's no nausea, no headaches; there's a little wooziness, but it's brief—and afterwards he'd say he feels almost happy. Isn't it worth it for that alone?
Besides, life is so pointlessly miserable anyway, so what do the end results for this all even matter? When your future's completely sealed up and you're the only kid guaranteed to be Earth-bound for the rest of your life—under a kind of 'planet arrest' and being monitored by the Federation as a potential threat for an indefinite amount of time—you gotta take time to enjoy the little things in life, even if those little things involve purposely inducing seizure-like symptoms just to enjoy the unexplainable visions that follow.
This morning, Rick had taken him gem hunting. Not his Rick, of course—in the vision, neither of them had been human. Morty can't say for sure what they'd been, certainly something he's never seen before, but they'd had claws and scales and spines and long flexible bodies with angular, canine faces that kind of reminded Morty of a seal. In the vision, when he blinked, it'd been with a transparent second eyelid, and when they'd spoken to each other, it'd been in crackles and whirs that at the time somehow made sense.
It's probably one of the most alien visions he's ever had so far, and yet it had all felt so normal when he'd been enveloped in the experience. Rick had pried off the slate tiling of the planet's surface to expose an opening to the chaotic environment beneath, and after some quickly crackled instructions from Rick, the two dove down into the electric fields below to hunt down jewel encrusted cephalopods.
Morty scribbles out the last few sentences of his journal entry for that morning, describing how Rick had dug his claws into the squid-like creature, pinning it in place by jabbing all the right nerve-endings and giving Morty enough time to swim close and pry off several gems embedded in the creature's body. At the time, he'd been filled with this sense of how important the task was, but when he thinks back on it now, he can't really remember any specific reason why they'd needed the gems.
Mom knocks on his door, her second reminder that morning for him to hurry up and get ready for school. Morty closes his notebook and tucks it beneath his mattress. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he grabs a candy bar from the stockpile he put together in his desk drawer and stuffs it into his mouth on his way out the door.
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Second session, Federation Mandated Education—or how humanity's been doing everything wrong and the Galactic Federation has been doing everything right.
Today's extra special lesson is brought to you by the letter 'F' and the number 'seven-billion'—as in seven-billion people have been fucking everything up and need to sit down, shut up, and let the Glorious Fucking Federation take the wheel before we drive our species into a ditch.
Of course, it's not all explicitly stated like that, but the implications are there.
So Morty sits there and keeps quiet and draws mustaches and monocles onto all the insectoid faces pictured in his textbook, and he keeps his eyes down and pretends that there isn't a giant bug monster looming at the front of the classroom and lecturing them about the changes that have been made to the voting process and why it's so much better.
"Say you have two good apples and three bad apples on a tree," the instructor, Crux Ati'Bleen explains—like, yes, she's really using apples as an example as if they're fucking kindergarteners. "And say those three bad apples vote for the destruction of the tree, while the two good apples vote to save it. Well, despite those three apples having the majority vote, it just wouldn't make sense to let them poison the tree due to close-minded ignorance, now would it?" It's not a real question, it never really is, and she waves a claw elegantly in the air as she concludes, "That's why their votes are worth less than the good apples."
"So, wait," a girl from a couple rows over says, her brow furrowed in confusion, "Are we the bad apples in this scenario, or the good apples?"
"You misunderstand me, child," Crux says, wings occasionally fluttering behind her, and then she tilts her head and says rather condescendingly, "It's okay. I shall explain further."
She begins slowly pacing up and down the aisles, claws folded behind her back with her head raised high, and when her wings flutter out, the breeze rustles the papers on everyone's desks.
"As you all know," she says, "it is now mandatory for every single human over the age of seventeen to vote on all the important matters that occur on your planet."
All the important matters that the Federation and the politicians they work with decide to even push forward for a planetary or country-specific vote. Yes, Morty's well aware. His parents are always receiving the informational packets in the mail on whatever subject they're required to drive over to the polls and vote on for that week. He skimmed through a couple of them the first few times they got them, but a lot of it went over his head as political mumbo-jumbo.
"However, not every human is qualified to have an even say, and thus a full vote, on every matter that passes through the polls," Crux says, and sounds very adamant about this fact. "Some of you are close-minded. Ignorant. It's not your fault, of course, as this is just how some of you were raised; a product of the environment you grew up in. Because of these shortcomings in certain subjects though, as a consequence, your vote will not be worth as much as someone with a full vote."
"And how do you decide that, huh?" a boy from the back row calls out, "How much my vote is worth?"
"Testing, of course," Crux says. "You will be asked questions on the matter. Your answers will determine how much your vote is worth, and it's all done digitally with our most advanced technology, so there will be no opportunity for someone to lie and cheat their way into a higher vote."
Morty bites down on his lip, and really, he does try to just sit there. He tries to keep his mouth shut, because as he's learned over the past several months, being vocal about such things gets you all the wrong kinds of attention, and in many cases, detention—but he just can't keep the words in, can't stop himself from saying, "Doesn't that just twist the results of—of the vote to whatever you w-want it to be?"
Crux turns to him, glides her way over to him with smooth steps and says, "Interesting theory, Mr. Smith. Would you care to explain further?"
And suddenly all eyes are on him, his classmates watching him like he's some kind of spectacle—a potential show about to happen, so grab your popcorn folks because Morty Smith is at it again—and he wonders why he always puts himself in these situations. If he's learned anything from the Harry Potter movies, it's that speaking out in Umbridge's class got the words I must not tell lies cut into the back of your hand.
"Uhhhh…I—I mean…" he trails off, but there's no turning back now. Crux has her full attention on him, wide eyes staring down at him unblinkingly. She won't back off until he's explained himself, and so, rather reluctantly, Morty goes on to say, "I mean, if you want th-the vote to turn out a—a certain way, couldn't you just lower the worth of the oppo-opposition's vote? Y'know, mmm-make it so the decision you want is guaranteed to win?"
Her claws click behind her back and her postures straightens, wings flicking out once as she says, "I suppose I see your point, but that sounds like a very human thing to do." She emphasizes the 'human' part with narrowed eyes, and then swiftly turns away from him, saying with a rather lofty tone, "Not the kind of corruption the Federation would be capable of."
"And we—we're just supposed to take your word for it?" Morty blurts out before he can stop himself, and when Crux turns back to him, he immediately wants to sink down and disappear into his desk.
"Yes," she says, voice cool, "that's what these classes are for, to show you that you can trust the Federation. We only want what's best for your planet and your species, Mr. Smith."
Their 'species,' like they're an exotic animal at the zoo, so fascinating and entertaining to watch—but then, maybe that's all most of them really are to the Federation, the ones who aren't of an 'elite intellect.'
Cautiously, because the atmosphere in the classroom has quite clearly grown tense, a girl sitting three seats over from Morty speaks up, saying, "Yeah, Morty, I mean—it doesn't sound all that bad. Why would I want some racist or bigot or misogynist having the same value to their vote as I have?" She clears her throat, looks over at Crux who's now watching them both, and asks the instructor a bit unsurely, "That's what this is about, right? Like, why let someone who doesn't believe in global warming get a real vote on how to handle global warming?"
"You are correct," Crux says, wings flicking out. "That is one of the main reasons the voting process has been changed."
"B-b-but there are so many things that we've—we've been wrong about in the past," Morty cuts in, hands fisting up on his textbook, "things that w-we didn't realize are wrong until later, an-and then through change and voting, we fixed it. W-what if there's something we're wrong about ri-right now and we don't even know it? How can we change things i-i-if not everyone has an equal vote?"
It's not like he's trying to fight for all the racists assholes out there, he honestly couldn't care less about anyone like that, but there are just so many ways this could all be manipulated and warped into something terrible—and his classmates seem to just be eating it all up, nodding along in agreement.
"You're speaking of slavery, are you not?" Crux says. "And bigotry and racism and sexism?"
She has this look about her that Morty's beginning to recognize on all of the Federation officials he interacts with, the look of someone who's exasperated and irritated and tired of speaking to him, and Morty knows whatever she says next will be the end of this conversation.
"There is a flaw in your theory, Mr. Smith," she says. "You see, those are all human things you're talking about, not something that's really a factor in the Federation, and the Federation is here now to guide your species away from incorrect ways of thinking. I acknowledge and understand your concern," the words are spoken without a fraction of sympathy, some phrase she probably read in a human child psychology book, "but with the Federation's involvement, there's no more need to fear your society going down a 'wrong path.'"
'And what if we don't agree with all of your 'correct' ways of thinking?' he thinks but doesn't say, because she's already turned away from him, strolling back to the front of the classroom to continue the lesson.
'What if your ways of thinking don't turn out to be so correct at all?'
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When Morty steps into the greenhouse that afternoon, he finds three of his classmates hidden behind a rather large, furling red plant and sharing a thick slice of cake. Jenny, Kaylee, and Hanna. For a moment, they stare up at him with wide deer-in-headlights eyes, forks still sticking out of their mouths, and Morty thinks about just turning right back around leaving; pretend he never saw anything.
It's the start of third session and their instructors always give them about ten minutes of free time before they're all rounded up for the day's lesson. Morty tends to spend that time in the greenhouse, just taking a moment for himself to scrub whatever previous unpleasantness had occurred that day from his brain. He's sure he can find somewhere else in the shop to let his mind shut down for a few minutes though, no need to disturb his classmates—especially this particular trio. From what he's seen, they could be rather snarky and mean at times, mostly to other girls, but still.
Except as he goes to leave, Kaylee rolls her eyes and sighs out, "Oh, it's just Morty. Jeez, we thought you were a teacher."
"Well, come on," Hanna says, waving him down to sit with them, the other two shifting to the side to make room. "You're gonna give us away."
Morty's eyes dart over his shoulder back towards the door, though he's not really sure why. Maybe he's just checking to make sure an instructor isn't in fact coming, or maybe he's looking for an escape route—but the three girls are watching him quite intently now, and he's pretty sure that leaving at this point would somehow be more insulting, and therefore more detrimental to his day-to-day high school life, than just sticking around and maybe eating cake with them.
It's not a hard decision to make. He plops down on the ground next to them, and oddly enough as soon as he does, Jenny pops the fork out of her mouth, stabs off a piece of cake, and holds it out to him saying, "Hope you're not a germaphobe."
Morty stares down at the fork, the fork that had just been in her mouth, clears his throat and stammers out a quick, "No, uh, no." He takes the proffered fork, mumbles out a quick thanks and shoves the bite of cake into his mouth—chocolate and coffee flavored. Delicious, and very obviously pilfered from the culinary shop.
"H-how did you guys get cake?" he asks, passing the fork back over to Jenny.
The culinary arts shop runs a small bakery and restaurant that had been built directly outside of the cafeteria—all part of their food industry training—but only faculty and staff are allowed to eat there or purchase baked goods. Seniors sometimes get to eat at the restaurant, a reward for good behavior, but the school is otherwise very strict about not letting students buy from the bakery; something about encouraging healthy eating.
Hanna shrugs, says with a mysterious wave of her fork, "We have our ways."
Which most likely means they know someone in the culinary shop who snuck them a slice of cake, but Morty isn't about to pry for details.
The three girls have no such qualms themselves though about prying, and Morty nearly chokes on the next bite of cake he's offered when Kaylee asks him, "So what's with the bruises anyway?"
He swallows roughly, coughs into his arm and rasps out a quick, "W-what? My eye, you mean?"
But there are three pairs of eyes staring back at him, alight at the sign of potential gossip, and he knows right away that they're not just talking about his eye. There's blood in the water and they can smell it, sharks circling easy prey.
"I recognize concealer when I see it," Hanna says, pointing at his forehead and then gesturing at the rest of his face in general. "I mean, you did a good job, but we work close enough to you in shop to see the foundation powder when you're standing in direct sunlight."
Kaylee nods her head in agreement, and then leans over sideways to tug at the sleeve of his right arm, pulling it up just a bit to reveal the bandage hidden beneath, saying, "Yeah, and sometimes this peaks out. Looks pretty big for like, just a scrape or whatever."
Morty shifts his arm away from her, pulling his sleeve from her grasp and smoothing it back down over the bandage. The cut really isn't even that bad anymore. Mom's been helping him keep it clean. The only reason he even keeps the bandage on now is to hide the vivid red line from prying eyes.
"So what's the deal?" Jenny asks. "Have you been getting into fights? I've been hearing some of the other boys bragging to each other about fighting lately."
"No, no f-fighting," Morty says, shaking his head.
"Bullies?" Hanna prods.
"Your parents haven't been hitting you, have they?" Kaylee asks, a bit quietly.
"W-what?" Morty says, incredulous. "No!"
And then Jenny leans in close, asks in a near whisper, "It's not the Federation, is it? Like, someone in the school?"
She looks so absolutely serious when she says it, all three of them do, that the question gives Morty pause. In a way, some of his injuries were because of the Federation—that and his own stupid, reckless decisions—but it's clear that's not what she's asking here. She's asking about someone in the school, an instructor or one of the staff, and there's this muted look of fear and apprehension in the three pairs of eyes staring back at him.
"Come on, just tell us!" Kaylee hisses, also leaning in closer. "We want to know who to avoid."
"Nobody's hurt-hurting me," he insists, brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you guys t-talking about?"
"We all see the way they watch you, Morty," Jenny says, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. "It's creepy, and there are all these rumors floating around about what it could mean."
Hanna rests a hand on Jenny's back, an absentminded gesture, her attention not straying from Morty as she says, "Yeah, why do you think so many people avoid you or ignore you? No one wants to get caught between you and the Federation's line of sight."
And here he thought it was just because he was unpopular; makes him wonder what else people have been saying about him behind his back. Still, this would be a good opportunity to clear up some of those rumors. He obviously can't tell them the full truth of everything they're asking about, but a little bit of truth mixed in with some lies should be good enough for the high school grapevine.
"N-no one's hurting me," he tells them again, quite adamant about this point. "My eye—I-I-I've been passing out a lot. F-fell in the bathroom an-and hit the sink. Doctors say it's a—a blood sugar thing."
"Like you're diabetic?" Kaylee asks, looking a little doubtful.
"Th-they're still figuring it out," Morty says with a shrug, and leaves it at that.
Hanna crosses her arms over her chest, purses her lips, "So why hide it?"
"Like you s-said, Federation's w-watching me," Morty explains, and at least this is a half-truth. "Don't need to—to give them mo-more of a reason too."
And here, Morty pauses, considers the pros and cons of revealing this next half-truth. If he doesn't say anything, he can only imagine what sort of stories they might think up to explain why the Federation watches him so much. At the very least, he can guide the rumors in a direction he doesn't really mind.
Sighing, he finally tells them, "As for w-why they watch me, th-they don't like my grandpa. G-guess he was—was some kinda revolutionary b-back in the day. They… they probably think h-he'll try to contact me at some point."
"Wait, your Grandpa Rick, he left?" Jenny asks, and it doesn't surprise Morty that they all seem to know him, or at least know of him. Rick made an impression wherever he went, and he was always dropping by school to pull Morty out of class.
"Yeah," Morty says, looking away. "H-he's not coming back."
There's a pause, and then they pass the plate the cake over to him, tells him that he looks like he needs it more. Not much else is said after that.
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That night, before bed, Morty breaks his routine and ends up playing two songs. He figures it's alright, figures it doesn't really matter anyway if it turns out to not be alright.
Just three songs a day. Three songs a day and he'll be fine.
The ballade of an addict—another pill, another drink, or in his case, another song—just shoot it up, shoot it up, shoot it up. Aerosmith, Fall Out Boy, The Beatles, and Daft Punk. This is the playlist of his descent into madness and self-destruction.
He wonders what rock bottom will feel like.
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TBC