Chapter 3

I hope someone gets the little easter egg in the beginning.

On a side note, I am friends with someone in real life who speaks just like Rick. The similarity is uncanny. This guy tends to say the name of the person he's speaking to frequently when he talks, and even though he's never watched Rick and Morty, he one time said to me, "that just sounds like _ with extra steps".

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"Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent."

-Carl Jung

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The number "23" burned a hole into Summer's retinas. That was the number of followers she had: twenty-three. The big, fat lines on the screen of her phone glared up at her, taunting Summer. There were only twenty-three people who cared to glance at her social media account, and she was pretty sure one of those people was Jerry, too.

She despondently switched over to someone else's feed, landing on the page of a popular girl who had hundreds of photos of parties, special outings, and awards. At the top of the feed, there was a large photo of a pink frosted cake, compete with the blue iced words "Happy Birthday Christina LaCroix" and a caption underneath from Christina that read "I'm so lucky to have such devoted friends who put together this amazing surprise party!" She jealously eyeballed the numbers "3425", which denoted the number of likes the photo got. Why did this "Christina LaCroix" girl have so many friends on Instapix, and why didn't Summer? Summer tried so hard. Every day without fail, she checked out what was trending and then posted a photo that corresponding to the current trend. She was on her phone all day so that she could respond to every text almost instantly (except for Nancy's texts—those weren't worth a response). What gave Christina the right to get popular so easily?

Summer could feel the pressure building up in her head; an angry, insecure feeling settled over her like fog on a humid morning. It just wasn't fair. Summer threw her phone angrily into the pillow on her bed, as if chucking the phone would somehow fix the unjustness of it all. She had wasted her life on trying to be popular on social media. She had given up so much, sacrificed so many breakfasts and conversations and adventures to keep up with her social media accounts.

All for what? Summer was miserably unpopular at school, especially after she had gotten tiny Rick expelled. And there would never, ever be a cute little pink cake wishing Summer a happy birthday—at least not from anyone who wasn't her mother, and Summer was quite sure that she never wanted cake from her mom again. The last time Beth (who was shit-faced drunk at the time) had tried to bake a cake for Summer's birthday, a larval Goolago ended up coming out of it and taking Morty hostage in its slimy terryfolds—Summer wasn't eager for a repeat of that birthday.

If only she could increase her follower count, even just a little bit. Summer was sure that if she got just enough followers, she would be happy. Followers meant friends, and if Summer only just had a few more friends, she was sure she'd have someone to celebrate her birthday, drive her late to school on picture day, and hang out with when Rick and Morty were out on adventures and Beth was too busy arguing with Jerry to make any interesting conversation.

Summer just felt so angry all the time. She was stuck in a cage of her own making—no one was forcing her to be on her phone all day, no one else was so obsessed with followers and likes and retweets. And yet, it mattered so much. Summer could never let her online account go because she had already spent so much of her life on it. Instead of going out, Summer often stayed home and agonized over the photos and messages she posted. Now, she had no real connections and no real friends (Nancy didn't count as a friend—she was more like an annoying younger sibling who tagged along uninvited to social gatherings).

Despite the meager 23 followers, despite the 12 likes she got on her last post, every number above zero was a major boost to Summer's ego. Every number imparted a small sense of accomplishment. That is, until Summer looked at Christina LaCroix's follower count. Bitterness surged through her—Summer's hard-won numbers seemed petty and small in comparison to Christina's. Summer balled her hands into fists, pressing her fingernails tight into the skin of her palm.

She really, really wanted to go shoot aliens with Rick right now.

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The pancakes wasted away on Summer's plate, the once delicious treats now drenched soggy with maple syrup. It was another regular morning, with her dad fiddling with his ePad, her mom occasionally making attempts at conversation, and Summer typing on her phone steadfastly ignoring the two. And, like many of Summer's other mornings, Rick suddenly burst in shouting something inaudible about technology, Morty in tow.

Rick grabbed Summer's arm. "I need you to shoot some guys for m-me. I would have M-M-Morty do it, but," Rick glared back at Morty, "he's too much of a pansy-ass to shoot a freaking gun straight."

Morty sheepishly stared back at Rick and began to protest: "They were j-just defending their homes, Rick! I-I don't think it's ethical to-"

"I don't care. So are you down to shoot some assholes or what, Summer?" Rick interrupted Morty.

It didn't take long for Summer to come up with her answer. "I'm so down. Give me cool gun though, the one with the lasers that turn the target inside out." Her trigger finger had really been itching recently, and Summer was eager for the chance to get out and shoot someone—evil or not.

"Summer!" Morty always found Summer's fascination with that one gun in particular strange. "Y-y-you know, we're th-the aggressors here. Like, those guys were j-j-just minding their own business and we popped in and s-stole the core of their…uhh, ship…thing."

Summer ignored him and jumped into the green portal from which Rick and Morty emerged. "I don't care. Let's kick some alien ass!" Rick whooped and ran into the portal behind her. Morty lagged behind, shaking his head and quietly complaining to himself about the two's aggression. He despondently stepped into the glowing, green void and disappeared, leaving everything quiet once again at the breakfast table. Jerry didn't even bother to look up from the virtual balloons he was popping on his ePad—it was just another normal morning for the Smith household.

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Now we're finally getting to the adventure part of the story. Is there too much introspection, too much telling instead of showing? I'll work on it. Hopefully the action next chapter will help out.