Rick crashed to the floor of the garage in the Smith house on Earth after tumbling out of the portal. With a frail body getting paler by the second, he pushed himself up from the ground and stumbled across the room to where his workbench was, even though he wasn't sure how much good it would do.
Rick collapsed to his knees when he made it to the area, and he used a shaky hand to clasp the table and attempt to hoist himself up again, but his grip deteriorated in seconds and he slipped back to the cold floor of the garage.
Rick barely had the strength to turn himself over and stare at the light he left on before he went on the adventure with Morty. Holding his hand over his head was too much effort, so the scientist rested it on his sweaty forehead.
Rick's other hand was clutching his wound. It was large, so he curled his whole arm around it to try to stem the extravagant flow of blood, but to no avail. It burned a white hot pain, as if someone had pressed hot coals to his body. Even though the injury felt hot, Rick was shivering on the cold ground. He felt his heart flutter and pound in his chest, which made breathing more difficult, so he struggled to gulp oxygen from the atmosphere around him.
You were an idiot, Rick thought to himself. You overreacted to your grandson's behavior, and now look at you. He's gone, no portal gun or coordinates, and you're bleeding to death on the ground. Wonderful performance.
Rick's thoughts were starting to slur, his vision was blurring, and his eyelids were threatening to close. The light he was staring at hurt his eyes, but he no longer had the energy to even cover them.
Rick had no strength left to fight. He was so tired. He dragged a weak hand over his abdomen and fished out his flask. He focused his failing vision on the only silver thing in the bright light. After a few tries, he managed to nudge off the cap and brought it to his lips, expecting a slow stream of alcohol to invade his throat. What he got was a dry cough from the surprise. The flask was empty. Rick removed the container from his mouth and found blood on the spout.
Rick tried to set the flask down, but his hand didn't make it to the ground and he dropped it, the container landing with a clang.
This is it, Rick said to himself. This is how I die. He finally gave in to his blurred vision and conflicting temperatures by closing his eyes. He felt his breathing slow down and his heartbeat soothe itself at his remission. He stopped clutching his wound, letting the blood flow out unchecked, painting the garage floor in a sickening scarlet.
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Morty was in too much shock to further defy his captor's actions. He'd obeyed her out of both fear of sharing the fate of his grandfather and the numbness that came with the condition.
She'd pestered him back to the castle and inside through the back door to the dungeon in the catacombs of the luxurious building.
But even though the dungeon was still depressing cobblestone that was only illuminated by a candle attatched to the wall by Morty's cell, it was still very nice, with no visible cracks on the walls or floor, from what Morty could see.
The teen recovered from his shock while sitting cross legged on the dungeon floor, which felt unusually warm, the surprise helping coax Morty out of his numb state. He tried to focus on the sound of the harsh downpour pound against the ceiling, which didn't leak. His shock eventually wore off and he finally allowed himself to think about what just happened.
Morty was in a dungeon awaiting some punishment of unknown brutality, and he had no idea if his grandfather was even alive. He felt a block of hopelessness settle in his chest at his current situation.
Morty rapped his fingers against the hard floor in an attempt to relieve his anxiety, which didn't take effect. He thought about his options. If Rick was alive, the best case would be that he'd have found the planet's coordinates and come there in the car. But the coordinates were only on the portal gun, which was confiscated. Morty also had no clue what these royal strangers were going to do to him. They had talked about a hearing for his sentence, but he didn't know what that would entail.
He heard a wooden door creak open to reveal the princess. Without saying a word, she produced a key from the gold bracelet she was wearing, inserted it into the lock on Morty's cell door, and swung it open. "You are ready to be processed. Come with me." She grabbed his arm and yanked him up from his sitting position.
He dutifully followed her to wherever this sentence was going to happen, too scared to say anything else, and she let go of his arm. "By the way, you can call me Arta."
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
The hall where Arta herded him to was very regal, almost ostentatious in looks, with gold and silver ornaments lining the dark wood furniture. The whole room resembled a more flamboyant courtroom. However, sitting in a throne encrusted in precious stones, was a very young looking king, someone who couldn't have been older then 30. He had tan skin and small red horns just tall enough to peek out from his black hair, all an unexpected contrast to Arta's appearance.
"Father, I have brought the offender." Arta announced.
"What crime has he comitted?" The king asked in an authoritative voice.
"Theft on the palace grounds." Arta answered.
The king seemed to contemplate the information given. "I see. Squire, fetch the Book of Trials at once!"
In seconds, a tiny squirrel-esque creature scurried in front of the king and placed a large book with a worn red cover by his feet. After another few seconds, the king glared at his servant. "Why are you doing nothing? Do you expect me to do everything? Open up the book and read the oath, you idiot!"
He stood up from his throne and hit the squire in the cheek, leaving a red mark. Morty gasped at the abuse towards the squirrel. He glanced over at Arta, who's face held a cold state ahead. "Y-Yes, your highness," the squirrel stuttered. He picked up the book, turned it a few pages, and cleared his throat. "By this oath that I shall see to that you know, you are at the mercy of the king's wishes, and must comply to whatever punishment that the royal highness sees fit. Failure to do so will result in immediate execution or another discplinary action the royal highness chooses."
"What's your name?" The king sneered.
"Uh, M-M,"
"You answer when the king asks you a question!" The aggresive princess yelled.
"Morty Smith!" Morty spat.
More silence for a few seconds. The squirrel cleared his throat again. "Do you, Morty Smith, agree to all of the terms the oath states?"
Afraid of what would happen if he didn't comply, Morty spoke. "I-I do."
"Excellent." The king said. "Now let's decide your punishment." He snatched the book from the servant and began leafing through the text. While he decided, Morty stared at the rain falling down from the black sky, which looked warped from the water sliding down the crystal clear window. He saw out of the corner of his eye Arta adjust her hair, which revealed a glimpse of tiny horns on her head similar to her father's, but more maroon colored.
The king flashed a sinister smile and stopped on a page in the book. "Morty Smith, for the act of thievery on palace grounds, you are sentenced to indentured servitude indefinitely." He slammed the book shut with the same hostility he did everything.
"Squire, cuff him and bring him to my room."
"Yes, your highness." The squirrel creeped up behind Morty and the teen felt the cold metal of the handcuffs touch his skin. The servant gestured Morty to follow him into an adjacent hallway, and he obeyed, dread filling Morty's body.
00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Out of all that Morty saw of the castle, the king's room was the most impressive. A massive bed sat in the middle coated with blood red sheets and gold laced white pillows. There was a dark wood dresser to the left of the bed with expensive looking trinkets on top of it and two red and gold chairs next to the dresser. The floor was a soft red carpet contrasting with off white walls and a large portrait of the king above his bed.
"Sit in one of those chairs," The servant said, pointing to the two seats Morty noticed earlier. "King Malvada will be with you when he is ready." The squire left, gently closing the door on the way out.
Morty, still handcuffed, padded over to one of the chairs and sat down, sinking into the luxurious red cushion. He looked to the left and noticed a door identical to the one the servant closed before he left. Curiosity overtaking fear, he rose from the chair and pushed the door open.
Morty stepped into the mysterious room, feeling the transition from soft carpet to shiny swirled coffee colored tile. His shoes softly clacked as the teen investigated after he found a light switch and flicked on an amber colored light.
The room was a bathroom. He felt the cool rim of the white sink, looked at all of the various soaps and cleansers lining the shelfs built into the wall by the tub, and even gazed at his reflection in both the mirror and the stainless steel faucet. All of the fixtures were enveloped by a wall painted a darker brown than the floor.
Morty heard footsteps come from the outside of the room, so he hurriedly shut off the light, closed the door, and dashed back to his seat, pretending to stare at the closet door across from him.
King Malvada entered the room, slammed the door behind him, and stood in front of Morty. "Hello, grub."
Remembering Arta's scolding, Morty took a shallow breath. "H-Hello."
"At least you have some manners," King Malvada muttered. He clapped his hands together and produced a fake smile before continuing. "Did Arta tell you about the 'extreme games'?"
"Um, maybe," Morty hesitantly replied.
"That's good," The king approached the other chair next to the teen and say down next to him. He retrieved a key from inside the black sport jacket he was wearing and gently unlocked the handcuffs and removed them from Morty's wrists. An uneasy feeling sprouted in his chest. He inched himself a negligible distance from the king to try to increase his own personal space.
"Tell me Morty," King Malvada said, draping his arm around Morty's shoulders. He tightened. "How do you feel? I want you to be comfortable here, so I would appreciate honesty."
"Uh, I-I f-feel," Morty gulped. He didn't know what this guy wanted from him, but he knew it couldn't be anything good. "Afraid."
Morty saw the king's yellow eyes transform into a concerned expression. "Is it because of what I did to that lazy rodent?" he asked. "Don't worry about that. I only punish the bad servants." He placed his other hand on Morty's lap. Morty recoiled, his previous anxiety blossoming into panic.
"But I trust you'll be good, right?" Morty bolted from his seat, or at least tried to, but King Malvada grabbed his wrist with his large and abnormally warm hand. Morty attempted to shake it off in vain. "G-Get the hell aw-way from me!" he cried.
"Stop it, you little brat!" the king whacked Morty the same way his squire earlier, but that didn't faze Morty. He wasn't going to let the same thing happen again.
Instead, the king pulled Morty toward him, blocked a punch from Morty, and walked the two of them into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.