Chapter Text
RICK: Morty?
MORTY: J-just a second.
RICK: Ew, I’ll come back later.
MORTY: What? No!
MORTY: Come on man. I’m just st-st--playing a game.
RICK: What kinda lame ass piece of shit game could even run on that fucking dinosaur--oh my god!
RICK: Morty, no! That’s a virus, you idiot!
MORTY: Aw, geeze.
MORTY: This feels really weird. W-what do I do?
RICK: No shit, MOorty. It’s not everyday your atoms get broken down into code and reprogrammed into alien spyware. That’s gotta feel pretty fucked up.
MORTY: Shit, I’m disappearing!
MORTY: Rick? You gotta help me!
RICK: That’s not a game, genius. It’s a rogue nanovirus bent on destroying basically everything it can get its grubby little digits on. Whatever asshat made this doesn’t have any idea what they’re doing. This poorly made piece of junk is proObably what that little green motherfucker in Andromeda wanted my purified obsidian core for.
MORTY: S-so you helped this guy make it? What the hell, Rick!?
RICK: No, I mistakenly assumed he wasn’t a complete moron and wanted to do his business as far away from home as possible. I didn’t think he’d use it here. What the fuck is an Irken doing on Earth? Whatever. I’m never taking Squanchy’s advice on intergalactic drug-trade ever again. Even if his shit is hella pure. Look, I can’t stop the process this far along.
MORTY: What!? Rick! You can’t just-you can’t--You’ve gotta stop this thing!
RICK: You’re just gonna have to wing it Morty. You can do it. I have faith in you Morty. You-you just gotta buckle down. I’ll contact you when I can. You got this. Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Or-or maybe longer. I vomited three times on the stairs Morty. I barely made it this far. I’m pretty fucking wasted here, okay? Your timing is real-real shit Morty. You could at least wait for me to sober up before you start fucking with alien technology this advanced.
MORTY: Fuck fuuck. My arm! Where’s my arm?!
RICK: Calm down. You’re fine. The program is installing you into the virus’ simulated reality in parts. It’s usually instantaneous but the piece of shit virus riddled dinosaur on your desk can’t handle the processing power so it’s taking longer than usual.
MORTY: W-well how long do I have?
RICK: Judging by the current rate I’d say about...five, ten seconds? Don’t trust anything you see, don’t talk to anyone, and don’t touch anything until I contact you.
MORTY: But, Rick!