Finally finished! Thanks for everyone's patience! Iv'e been a little depressed lately with a case of writer's block. A WARNING: Things are going to get a little graphic in this chapter. Bare with me here, the next two chapters are actually going to be happy! Yay, a break from the angst!

This ones for QuirkyRevelations :)

"He belives in God. He likes to think that maybe it is an angel.

But there are no angels on Edgecombe after dark."

Rick Bragg

In the Night

Sometimes when Morty was in the basement, he would push open the small rectangular basement window. It was much too small to crawl out of; only wide enough for Morty to shove his arm through. It was dirty, and only allowed the barest amount of sunlight to shine into the dark, decrepit pit. Morty liked to think that there was a God, even if he never gave him any help in the past. He had convinced himself that God didn't save him because he just couldn't see him down there. Morty had forced himself believe a lot of things.

For the first few weeks of captivity, Morty had opened the tiny window every time he heard Jerry's car leave the driveway. He would listen for the engine to start up, the wheels rolling down the pavement, and then he would scream. He would scream for help, for mercy, for anyone to come and save him. But nobody ever came... not until Rick, and that was years later.

After a while, he realized that it was the same as before. The only people who cared enough to notice him, were the ones who wanted to hurt him. But that was only people, and people weren't worth much in Morty's eyes. Humans were not to be trusted; animals on the other hand, were. It started with one dog, who barked back at Morty's cries.

Morty would scream for people who would never come, people who he knew had heard him. They never bothered to do anything, and it filled him with more despair than anger. As days passed, the only one who answered him was a lone dog. He would bark at Morty's cries, and his desperate mind would begin to associate the noises with words.

The dogs barks seemed to relay a message saying: "I know you're there. It's okay, I'm here! I'm here!" Even if the thought was completely unreasonable, Morty began to believe the animals were trying to talk to him. He began to howl back.

More time passed, and all the dogs in the neighborhood started to respond to Morty. Every day, when the agony was over, he would speak to the dogs. He would howl and they would howl back. It had become a routine, a twisted way for him to keep his sanity; while simultaneously slipping deeper into an animistic mindset.

It was a fact that Morty couldn't really speak to the dogs, - even if he swore that he could, when it was really a manifestation of his fractured psych – but he did learn to decipher the meanings behind their howls. He picked up on frequencies, each holding a different meaning. He learned which ones meant happy or sad or exited or scared! An amazing example of human perseverance.

Morty knew each dog, and connected with them personally. Even if he would never meet them, he knew who they were from their secret conversations. If only dogs could talk, they could have told their owners the tale of a forsaken boy living in a dungeon. Maybe it would have made the difference, or maybe they would have continued to ignore him. There were always a lot of 'maybes' and 'ifs' in Morty's world.

One day an angry man came to the basement. He looked down at Morty with disgust. Morty thought that the man should really be disgusted with himself for coming to harm a little boy, whose only sin was existing. But the man didn't hurt him, he just left a cup of soup on the dirty cement. Then he left, his boots shaking the wooden steps with the force of his stomps.

As soon as Morty heard the door slam shut, he scrambled forwards in the dark. All light had vanished, so Morty felt for the cup carefully. His fingers brushed the warm glass, he picked the cup up gingerly, pressing the rim to his lips. The steam gave off a magnificent meaty aroma, and Morty drank all of the hot liquid. It was his first real taste of food since he was ushered into the basement, he appreciated it with every fiber of his being.

Morty was more than a little disappointed when he finished the soup, dropping the cup to the floor with a glassy cling. It was an extremely odd development, and Morty realized much too late that he should have thought, before jumping into potential danger. There were also a lot of 'shoulds' in Morty's vocabulary.

Morty panicked when his entire body began to feel as if it was asleep. The tingling you get when sitting on your legs for a while and try to stand up. He tried to shake the numbing feeling from his limbs, but to no avail. Soon the tingling evolved, morphing into total paralysis. His body slumped to the floor, and he was unable to move. He wasn't tired or groggy from whatever drug spiked the soup, no he was completely aware of what was going on. Regret was quickly becoming a theme in his life.

He heard the basement door creak open, synthetic light beaming down the stairs. Morty felt icy fear pump through his veins and he became ill. He managed to catch a small glimpse of the angry man's boots before vomiting all over himself. For a few moments of utter trepidation, he couldn't breath; the sickness blocking his airways, unable to move from the drug.

Morty felt hands on his shoulders, shifting him to his knees so he wouldn't choke on his stomach contents. He heaved a few more times, effectively emptying the rest of his soup onto the floor. He felt dirty, but that was nothing new. After he was finished, events flashed by in a blur. The angry man lifted him from the floor and carried him up the steps. There was a brief exchange of money with his father, then he remembered being taken from the house.

Morty was not able to lift his head, so it dangled uselessly, his view of the outdoors upside down. It was cold, snow blanketing the yard. White puffs of breath escaping his mouth as he was carried to an unmarked, silver van. Everything was hazy, his thoughts glazing over to try and estimate how long he was in the basement. It was starting to get cold the night when Moony died, barely even fall... it was winter now, so how long was that? Morty was snapped out of his stupor when the double doors of the van swung open, displaying a clean, lab-like setup.

He was traded off, lain on a shiny metal table. Around him were various tools of medical origin: sheets of knives and needles, vials of unknown medicines, IV bags connected to shiny, portable poles. The walls were a cool metal, the floor gleaming white with tiles. A built-in counter was to his left, atop it sat a misplaced jar of... dog treats?

Morty heard people talking outside the van, but everything was too fuzzy to decipher. His sense of time was distorted; hours seemed like minutes, seconds seemed like weeks. Reality and vacuity intermingling in an unnatural way. It finally ended when the van bounced with the weight of someone climbing into the back with him, the doors clapping shut.

Morty couldn't lift his head to see who it was, but caught a small peek of the newcomer out of the corner of his eyes. It was a skinny man, with brown shoulder-length hair. He wore an immaculate lab coat and a pair of frameless glasses. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties. He moved around the back ally office with a small, comforting smile on his face. He picked up a sterilized needle, a few glass vials, and some packets of alcohol wipes, before moving to Morty.

He was gentle, lifting Morty's limp arm and rubbing away the grime with the cleansing wipes. The smell of disinfectant was strong and made Morty's eyes water a bit. The doctor noticed it, and gave a sympathetic frown. He wiped away the tears with a damp cloth, shooting him a kind grin after. Morty was dumbfounded. This strange doctor was probably the one who drugged him and who most likely had some nefarious plans for him, but he was acting nice.

It was a welcome gesture, nonetheless. A few more moments of clattering around the van, and the doctor returned with the syringes. He gave Morty another comforting smile, before speaking in a soft voice. A voice you use when speaking to scared animals. He lifted Morty's arm to prick him with the needle.

"It's okay, I'll make it quick." He pulled the plunger, drawing blood. The doctor filled one vial and moved to draw more blood. He smiled. "See, just a few tiny jabs. You're owner wanted me to test you for some nasty diseases. Can't have you infecting his clients, can he? Hmm?" Morty was vaguely aware of what the man was saying, his mind sinking into animalistic ignorance. But he was smart enough to know that he didn't like the way the man spoke to him. Like a dog, like a lesser being, like he was stupid. No matter how nice it was, he wasn't bought over that easy.

The doctor filled another vial and continued, "Don't get me wrong, I'm not one for slavery, but I do believe that people can be considered property." He rolled his wrist, "Humans put way too much value in themselves, doncha' think?" The doctor looked down at Morty as if he was expecting an answer. Well, too bad Mr. Important. Morty sniffed, holding back a few tears. He didn't like where this conversation was going.

"Oh, no, no, no. Don't cry..." He appeared generally concerned, "I'll tell you what, how bout I promise not to sedate you next time we cross paths, hmm? I'll come visit you on my own time and give you a few treats, how's that sound?" Morty felt a stab of anger. He wasn't an animal, no matter how many times he was treated as one. The tingling was slowly ebbing away, but Morty remained still. He was smarter than the doctor thought, and was going to use whatever mobility he had when the time was right. He wasn't going to waste an opportunity as golden as this.

As soon as the doctor turned away, he threw himself off of the table, lunging at the doors. The gateway to his freedom. His calloused hand grappled with the handle, the doctor's supplies clattering as he rushed for Morty. To Morty the click of the latch releasing was deafening, the door swinging open to allow a gush of crisp wind inside.

Morty leaped into the freezing snow, and bolted. He didn't look back, he didn't listen to the man screaming after him.

Morty ran until his feet were numb from the cold. The snow was unforgiving, it burned the soles of his feet with every step. He only wore a threadbare t-shirt and some old underwear, and he was freezing. Morty eventually came across an alleyway and hunkered down in a dry corner. He should have thought this through. But then again, he was free, and he came to terms with this fate. He would die, forgotten in a corner. A nameless child, without love. He was okay with that.

At least the pain would stop.

He was drifting off into a final sleep when he heard the footsteps. He weakly raised his head, only to spot the doctor. There was no anger on his face, it was painted with concern, – fear. He inched closer, before crouching in front of him. Morty remembered that he whispered nonsense promises to him, like his sister had so many months ago. Before this hell.

How he lifted Morty from the icy cement, and how Morty shamelessly clung to the doctor for warmth. The man took him back to the basement, but not before wrapping him in a heavy blanket. Morty hugged the blanket around his body when the man had lain him down. A hand petted his head, then he was gone. The warmth and kindness taken with him.

Morty realized he wasn't ready to die.

The next few days were nothing short of pure hell. Apparently the doctor did not tell his father about his escape attempt, but things were still just as horrible. Beatings and sexual assault were a common occurrence. One or two 'clients' a day had him reeling for reprieve. His mind was a mess of contradictions, he was fighting with the issue of whether he wanted to live or die.

Some parts of his mind would regret allowing the doctor to save him, shaming him for his desperation. The other side had a determined will to live, to keep hoping for a better tomorrow. It all made his head hurt; a child of five shouldn't have these thoughts.

The only redeeming part of the past few days was when the dogs came to visit him. Morty would open his basement window, and he would call for his only friends in the world. They had howled back like usual, all of them sounded like they were doing well – with the exception of one dog wailing from boredom.

But this call ended differently, a dog had come right up to his window that morning. Excitement had swelled in Morty's chest, as the hound jammed his snout into the small opening. He shook as he touched the animal's muzzle, it snuffed and jerked back. A small ball of panic had formed in Morty's gut, a fear that he had done something to make the dog leave. Seconds later, the dog had rubbed it's flank against the window, begging to be petted.

Warmth blossomed in his heart, and he scratched the dog's flank for a long time. Occasionally, the dog would stuff it's nose back down the opening for a few licks, move back enough for Morty to see it's wagging tail, or it would give happy whines. The dog stayed for a long time, eventually laying down by the window. It kept him company until the evening came, and Morty bid it a tearful goodbye. It was a bittersweet meeting, that opened him up to many more.

As the days passed, the dog came back. When it couldn't come for unknown reasons, other dogs began to show in it's place. There was now a variety of mutts that would visit him in the day. It made things much less lonely, even if he only ever met some of the dogs once.

Morty figure that he was becoming more dog than human. He thought that humans were overrated anyways...

Morty awoke that night to a beam of light shining down from the basement stairs. He forced himself up to all fours, letting his blanket pile up on the floor. He waited a long while, but no one came down to hurt him. He decided to investigate, slinking to the base of the stairs. He glance up the high stairwell, his eyes settling on the young doctor.

The man was sitting at the top of the stairs, his head leaning on his hands. He was reading a thick book balanced on his lap, and had yet to notice Morty's presence. What was he doing here? Why was he just sitting there? It unnerved Morty, he did not like change. Routine gave him something to expect and odd actions meant bad things were probably coming his way. He wouldn't realize how right he was until it was much too late.

He crawled up the stairs, as painfully slow as possible. Morty saw the doctor stiffen, then continue to act as if he was engrossed in his book. Eventually Morty made it to the last few stairs, his hands supporting him a step away from the man's shiny, black shoes. The doctor shut his book carefully, making as little noise as possible. It seemed he was being cautious to keep the sound low, fearful he would scare the 'Dog Boy' away.

It made Morty feel powerful in a way because he held some knowledge over this man. He wasn't going to cower like an animal, but the man didn't know that. It made him smile. Control felt good.

The man slowly rose his head, a kind smile plastered on his face. "Why, hello!" He greeted cheerfully. Morty's previous confidence faltered, and he rocked a little on his haunches. Ready to run if things took a turn for the worst. "It's been awhile little guy, I had hoped you didn't forget me." He winked and it made Morty even more uneasy. "Your test results came out fine, no STDs of any kind."

Morty didn't understand the man's words, and made sure to keep his eyes glued to him. Something in the back of his mind told him that this man was very, very bad. He continued talking, "Did you know that we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other? Hmm?" Morty jolted a bit, he definitely understood that.

The man rose to his feet, patting some imaginary dust off of his pants, before looking back down to Morty. "You know, you're the perfect test subject... no family, no one to tell, no one to miss you..." The doctors eyes glazed over in a fantasy. "People are much better for my tests than stray mutts. Lucky for you, you'll be my first human subject! Isn't that grand!"

His smile morphed into something menacing. "I get free rein over you, in exchange for STD tests every few months. You're owner gave me permission to take you back to my lab for a few hours!"

The doctor bent to lift Morty into his arms, "By the way, my name is Dr. Gabriel Fletchinder. We're going to be spending a lot of time together."

A swirl of horrible memories assaulted Morty's subconscious. Injections of unknown drugs that made him hurt. Vomiting, seizures, hallucinations, the sensation of ants crawling under his skin. Some memories were overlapped with being tied to a cold table, blinding lights shining in his eyes. Uncharacteristic kindness, mocking sympathy, overwhelming agony. It all blurred together in one awful nightmare.

Being trapped in a building with rows of dog kennels. Suffering alongside the animals he loved so much. The boy who loved animals, slowly descending into the mindset of one. How the dogs cried and huddled in the corners of their cages. Horribly maimed for a sick scientific theory. A husky with it's eyes melted out by acid; all that was left consisted of two gaping holes. Grotesque uneven stitches littering some mutts, the smell of gangrene. Not bothered to keep their wounds from becoming infected. Dogs that flipped around in muscle spasms, too many experimental drugs poisoning them permanently. Pain, pain, pain. New dogs to replace the dead. The bodies loaded into garbage bags. No, no, no, they were more than trash.

We deserved more.

The flashbacks of experiments soon mixed with bouts of brutal rape and abuse. Hands grabbing him everywhere; hurting him, dirtying him. Taking away all the innocence. So filthy, so worthless.

Morty woke up, his body coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He frantically turned his head, giving a long sigh of relief when he recognized his room. It was dark, the lamp projecting serene blue stars onto the walls. The comforter was much too hot, so he sat up to push it to the side. He swung his legs off the edge of the mattress, his feet resting on the cool carpet. He felt dirty, the men's hands still lingering on his body. He needed a shower.

Morty shakily lifted himself off of the bed, his knees knocking together. He couldn't stop the violent tremors wracking his body. He used the wall as a support as he made his way to the adjoined bathroom. He felt along the wall, flipping the switch on. The light blue bathroom erupted in light, his eyes squinted as they took a few seconds to adjust.

His pajamas were soaked with sweat and Morty decided to let them dry while he bathed. It wasn't worth searching for another pair if day would be coming in a few hours. He left a towel beside the bath, his wet clothes piled on the toilet lid. His fingers shook as he adjusted the taps, the water spurted from the shower head.

Morty climbed in the tub, allowing the cold water to pelt his back. He sat in the bottom, his legs pulled to his chest. He didn't cry, he was much too numb to do so. He wondered if this was what Rick felt when he drank – numb, all the emotions snuffed out. He understood why his grandpa drank. He hurt like he did, but Morty wouldn't dare cross into that territory.

The flashback still whispered across his mind, though the memories were becoming vague. Morty remembered the old mantra he'd thought up during his time with the doctor:

Beware the angel of genocide,

The one who is not what he seems.

Kindness and hope go hand in hand,

With the evilest of schemes.

Dogs fear his gentle hands,

For they know of his wicked plans.

Ulterior motives are part of his game,

His young facade only lets slip a name;

Dr. Gabriel Fletchinder…

The angel of genocide.

Morty shivered at the thought. He guessed that he only knew the doctor for about a year, before he dissapeared completely. Morty didn't know what happened to him, and didn't really care. He was gone, and Morty was here. Here with his grandpa. Things were getting so much more complicated

Morty made his way to the living room. The room was bathed in an dark light, the product of a lamp that sat on the stereo. The only sound aside from his breathing, was the dull creaking of the rocking chair. Rick had his back to him, unaware of his presence. He was sitting alone in the dark, working on a device with half lidded eyes. He fiddled with a screwdriver, rocking idly.

Morty fidgeted and began to think of Ricks motives. How he had to have a hidden agenda like Dr. Fletchinder. He watched as Rick took a swig from a flask sitting on an end table, mumbling under his breath. He was still wearing a lab coat, just like the doctor had. It made him doubt everything he had come to know of the man.

He didn't realize that he'd walked to the front door, until his hand slid across the smooth surface. Morty was thinking about running away. It was ironic, considering how hard he tried the previous day to convince Rick of keeping him. He nearly laughed at that. Flashes of the dead dogs and of all the humans who'd let him down crossed his consciousness.

If he stayed, it meant that Rick had power over him. It meant that Rick could do whatever he wanted to him. The idea scared him a lot. Morty couldn't handle any more betrayal. He felt as if he were drowning in a sea of uncertainty. All he learned from the doctor was that people who were nice, always acted so because they wanted something.

Morty's eyes shifted back to Rick, still rocking quietly in the next room. Was all the stuff that happened fake? The bath, the adventure, the food, the long talks, every single touch? It couldn't be... Rick came back for him and didn't hurt him. He could've beat him after running away from the beast. He could have touched him during his bath. He comforted him after he'd hurt himself throughout the week. He needed Rick. What would he do if he went away. He'd die, he couldn't do it. You couldn't give someone so hurt something so wonderful and snatch it all away.

Morty decided that he couldn't leave. Rick was so much like him... maybe that was why he was here. He needed someone like Morty needed someone. Maybe they could be alone together? The revelation comforted Morty. Someone who understood what it was like to hurt. It was almost too good to be true. He hoped that it wasn't.

Rick tried to concentrate on his invention, tried to take his mind off of the fact that they were out of food. The reality of everything that had happened yesterday. It turned out this Morty was special; he was a genius. Beyond that of any other human but himself. A sick part of his mind reveled in the truth that his Morty really being better than all the others. He almost rejoiced at the thought of rubbing it in every other Counsel Rick's face. He was in fact, the best Rick after all.

He ended up dropping the device on the side table, swapping it for his flask of alien alcohol. Rick took a long swig, the substance burning his throat. He was surprised it hadn't burned a hole through his trachea or liver yet. He placed the flask in his coat and got out of the chair, his back popping as he stretched for the first time in hours.

After they returned, Rick had given Morty a cold bowl of leftover oatmeal and sent him to bed. The day had been mentally taxing on Rick. Hell, he cried. He never cried. He shook the though from his head and went to turn the lamp off before making his way to bed. Just as he was about to shut the light off, he heard a muffled thump, followed by the sound of a car peeling out in the street.

Curiosity peeked, Rick made his way to the front door. He hadn't spoke to Morty since the confrontation earlier that day, and wanted to keep it that way for a while. At least until tomorrow. A few emotions slipped past his drunkenness, and he took a swig from his flask to calm them down. That shit could wait, not tonight. Just not tonight.

Rick opened the front door, at his feet was a package. What could this be? Rick crouched to pick it up, scanning it with a device to make sure it wasn't an explosive. He'd made a staggering amount of enemies over the years. When it was deemed safe, he tore the tan envelope open. He pulled a large wad of money from the package and narrowed his eyes.

He dropped the envelope to the stoop, fingering the bills. Rick counted five grand. He immediately knew where it came from. Jerry was bribing him. He snorted and looked up and down the street, before closing the front door. Relief seeped into his chest. He and Morty had food money. Right now it didn't matter where it came from or why. All that was important was that he could feed his grandson.

Rick's pride told him to track Jerry down and make him suffer for eternity, but his fondness for Morty was overriding it. For now they needed to eat and stay sheltered. Even if it meant that Rick had to swallow his pride. It was a big step, putting someone above his own self interests. His own desires. But he had a kid to think about now, what was best for Morty.

Rick would go shopping in the morning, when he got over the blow to his self-esteem. He was shuffling to his bedroom when his eyes settled on Morty. The boy was standing at the basement door, staring down into the dark depths. His eyes were wide and terrified, paralyzed at the top step. He couldn't begin to even fathom what the boy was thinking. The horrors that the dungeon brought to the kid's mind. Rick had alcohol to numb away the pain, but Morty had nothing. It made him feel weak.

"Morty, it, it's time to go to bed little buddy." Rick wasn't sure what he was supposed to say in this situation. He was slow to approach Morty, procrastinating the inevitable confrontation. "I, it's okay Morty. I, imma not gonna let anything happen to ya." As he got closer he saw the dark spot on Morty's pajama pants and a puddle beneath his feet. The kid had wet himself.

Morty sniffled, holding back tears. His eyes locked with Rick's. Fear and desperation and shame. In the back of Rick's mind he knew that all the traumatizing things that happened to his grandson wouldn't just go away, but he still tried to pretend that they would. "I, I'm sorry this happened to ya Morty." He rubbed the back of his head. "I thought that I could fix it all. But I, I can't, and I'm sorry." Rick never apologized, he was a man without fault, – at least he though he was – but this situation shook him to his core. It was something he couldn't fix. Rick, the most brilliant mind in the universe, in multiple dimensions, couldn't mend a little boy's broken mind.

He could destroy universes and create them with minimal effort, invent a gun that turned people into snakes, move through separate dimensions, and so much more. But he couldn't help anyone, not even himself.

Morty had been cleaned up and put to bed. It was silent between the two during the entirety of the motions. Rick laid in his twin bed, thinking. His mind was just as twisted as Morty's, but he needed booze to cope. He stared at the flask sitting on his dresser. Maybe he could cut back a little, for the kid. He would fix this, even if it killed him.

They could be better together.