Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of city traffic and the distant wail of sirens murmured through the Citadel. A figure stood in the shadows, gripping a pair of binoculars. His breath was heavy, fogging up the eyepiece as he scanned the facade of an opulent townhouse.

A shape moved behind one of the windows. He adjusted the knobs, fine-tuning the focus. His breathing slowed.

A young Morty, who wore a red ninja costume, stood at the glass, clutching a small, likely plastic, katana. He spun suddenly, brandishing the sword as two more figures entered the frame. A woman, a Beth, draped in a witch’s robes. And a man, a Rick, dressed sharply in a well-tailored suit.

The little ninja lunged forward, “stabbing” the man in the chest. Rick collapsed in exaggerated defeat. Beth smiled, amused, and turned to speak to the boy. But Morty was already grabbing a pumpkin-shaped candy basket, eager to leave.

Rick called after them as they headed for the door. Morty hesitated, then rushed back, throwing his arms around the man. A moment later, he and Beth were gone, vanishing into the night.

Inside, Rick remained still. The playfulness in his expression faded. He sat up slowly, lost in thought.

Beyond the window, the figure watching him exhaled, his breath coming heavy again. His grip tightened around the binoculars as he panned upward, eyes locking onto a dimly lit room with a skylight.

An idea took shape.

_____

The flickering glow of the TV cast long, uneven shadows across the study. Rick Allen, handsome and distinguished even in solitude, stood with a glass of scotch in hand, watching the news. A bold chyron scrolled across the bottom of the screen:

“CITADEL PRESIDENTIAL RACE”

On-screen, a Rick newscaster cleared his throat before speaking.

“Just-released polls show incumbent President Rick Allen, Z-783, and challenger Morty Rougel, K-18, locked in a dead heat.” The newscaster squinted at a handwritten note on his desk. “Uh… yeah. Morty Rougel.” He chuckled dryly. “Things certainly got heated last night in their final debate before next Tuesday’s election.”

Rick Allen watched intently as a debate clip rolled. On the screen, a young, sharp-eyed Morty stood across from him on the debate stage, Morty Rougel, a force of nature, intelligent and unrelenting.

President Allen straightened his stance at the podium, clearing his throat.

“Now, my young opponent here wants to gut the Citadel’s Redevelopment Fund,” he began, measured but firm. “A program established by the first-ever female President, Beth Freeman, Alpha-750. That means cutting funding for critical projects like the wall protecting us from deep space’s vacuum, the safety net for those in need-”

“The Redevelopment Fund is broken!” Morty interrupted, raising a fist. His voice was charged with conviction. “The Citadel’s been ‘renewing and rebuilding’ for years, and look where it’s gotten us! Crime and violence are at record highs!”

President Allen threw him an offended look. “Now, wait a minute.”

“Murder and drug use are out of control! We have a serious problem, and it goes much deeper than just drug rings and homicide!”

Allen’s face darkened. “Under my administration, the Citadel’s PD has dealt major blows to organized crime and drug trafficking! The Sancheziminius case was the biggest bust in Citadel history.”

“And yet trafficking routes are still rampant! It’s worse than ever!”

Allen’s voice lowered to a practiced, steady tone. “I’m not saying there isn’t work to do, but listen. I have a beautiful daughter and a young grandson, okay? I will not rest until this Citadel is safe for them, and for all our people.”

The sound of a ringing phone jolted Allen back to reality. He turned sharply, exiting the figure’s view as he went to answer.

From his vantage point in the darkness, the figure shifted. He panned his binoculars toward the hallway beyond Allen’s study, where a framed headline caught the dim light:

“SANCHEZMINIUS DRUG AND TRAFFICKING BUST! PRESIDENT'S STING OPERATION HISTORIC”

The figure moved.

Silent. Precise. He vaulted across rooftops, climbing swiftly up the side of Allen’s townhouse. Through the skylight, he spotted a hatch and carefully pried it open. Below, Allen stood with the phone to his ear, one hand pressing against the opposite side of his head. His posture was tense.

The figure slipped inside.

Allen paced back and forth, his voice strained.

“H-Hey,” he muttered, reaching for the TV remote. The debate still played. He muted the sound.

A voice crackled through the phone.

“Yeah, I’m watching it now…”

The hooded figure’s head tracked his movements, slow and deliberate.

“Why is he still tied!?” Allen hissed into the phone. “I thought we were getting a bump in the new Post poll…? Okay, you know what? I can’t… I can’t watch this anymore. Call me in the morning.”

He hung up, agitated, and shut off the TV. The room plunged into darkness.

And the figure vanished into the black.

For a moment, Allen stood still, his breath heavy, drink in hand. He exhaled, lifting the glass to his lips.

Then the figure struck.

A shadow lunged from the darkness, tackling Allen to the ground. A violent scuffle erupted, both men grunting and thrashing against each other. Allen clawed at his attacker, but the figure was faster. From his jacket, he yanked out a jagged metal floorboard scraper, fumbling for a grip before-

CRACK.

He drove the weapon into Allen’s skull.

Allen screamed, his body jerking. Blood trickled down his face, but the figure didn’t stop. He gritted his teeth, raised the scraper, and slammed it down again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike caved deeper into bone, splitting, shattering—until the weapon sank straight through, puncturing brain matter. Blood spurted in thick, clotted streams, soaking into the carpet, the walls, the figure’s gloved hands.

Finally, he stopped.

Breath heaving, he lowered himself over the lifeless body. The weight of the kill settled over him like a heavy shroud.

Then, with mechanical efficiency, he unspooled a long strip of silver duct tape.

Grabbing a fistful of Allen’s hair, he wrenched the slackened head up and began wrapping the tape tightly around the ruined face.

______

Friday, October 31st, 2025.

Rick and Morty, both clad in police uniforms, followed a Morty in full S.E.A.L. gear down the narrow hallway of Allen’s townhouse. The air was thick with the weight of the crime scene, every step they took echoing down the silent corridor. As they passed a cluster of hushed cops, several turned, their eyes narrowing as they spotted the unfamiliar badge numbers.

Suddenly, a uniformed S.E.A.L. Rick stepped directly into their path. His eyes flicked over them with a sharpness that signaled immediate concern.

“Woah, woah, woah. Buddy, this is S.E.A.L. action only,” he said, holding up a hand and placing it firmly on Rick’s chest, halting both him and Morty in their tracks.

Rick’s glare intensified, his lips parting to fire off an insult, but before he could speak, the S.E.A.L. Morty moved in.

With a resigned sigh, he placed a hand over the other Morty’s arm. “They’re with me, Officer.”

The S.E.A.L. member blinked, clearly incredulous. “Are ya—are ya kiddin’ me, Miller? You’re gonna let them in here?”

Miller’s voice, usually calm, cut through the air with chilling finality. “Let them pass, Carter.” His tone was emotionless, almost robotic.

Rick looked at the scene in utter disbelief before stepping aside, muttering insults under his breath as they moved past.

As soon as they enter, multiple S.E.A.L. team Rick’s and Morty’s are searching the study. Some have cameras, taking photos of any sort of evidence. Blood, weapons, paperwork, etc.

Morty’s stomach churned as he spotted the body of Rick Allen, sitting stiffly in a chair. His face was wrapped in mummified duct tape, a scrawled message smeared across it: "NO MORE LIES"—written in jagged, red marker. The sight hit Morty like a punch to the gut, but he fought to maintain his composure. Rick, on the other hand, spoke first.

“Well, what do we know so far?” Rick asked, his voice sharp, his gaze unwavering on the corpse. The detective looks at him and Morty questioningly. Morty Miller clears his throat to get the detectives' attention.

“Detective.” He asks indignantly

“Ah - my bad, Lieutenant… Uh, well we’ve got…” He switches on a small flashlight. The beam is small and focused onto Allen’s head, his eyes switch from Allen’s head to the three. 

“Blunt-force trauma, lacerations on the head. He got hit alotta times, and hard.”

“All that blood’s from his head?” Miller asks incredulously, and the detective blinks before glancing back to Allen’s head. “Most of it’s from his hand,” he states, moving the focused beam of light to his hand. A bag is placed over it. The detective carefully removes it and lifts the cold hand of Allen to showcase to the three of them.

“Thumb was severed. The killer must’ve taken it as a trophy.” His voice was grim and cloy. Miller leaned in to view the hand. Rick has his arms crossed, he squints his eyes as he notices bruising around the wound.

Rick crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he examined the wound. “He was alive when it was severed.” His tone was detached, clinical. The detective looks at him. Glaring.

Unfazed, Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation edging his voice. “There’s ecchymosis around the fucking wound,” he muttered, clearly agitated.

The two S.E.A.L. officers exchanged uneasy glances before the detective snapped, “Watch your tone, jackass.”

The atmosphere thickened as Morty grew impatient, his eyes darting across the study. He moved away from the group, his footsteps light but deliberate.

“The Allens were out trick-or-treating,” the detective began, following Morty’s gaze to the skylight. “President was up here alone.” His eyes scanned the area before locking onto the ceiling. “Killer must’ve come through the skylight.”

Morty looks over, he sees a photographer flash multiple shots of a blood splatter which is sprayed on the framed Sancheziminius Trafficking Bust. A detail suddenly clicked in his mind. He turned back toward the group.

“You said there was a card, remember?” he asked, his voice urgent.

The HR’s turn to look at each other. Miller signals for the detective to hand it over. The detective shuffles through his uniform before grabbing and handing over an envelope. Miller pulls out a childish Halloween card. A skeleton smiles behind a wide-eyed owl, tapping the owl’s shoulder. Words are printed out on the front. Miller reads out loud to them;

“From a secret friend… Who?” He opens the card and continues reading the chicken scratch handwriting. “Haven’t a clue? Let’s play a game, just me and you…” He paused, noting the strange symbols scrawled across the card in black ink. The handwriting was erratic, almost manic. Morty peers over and sees it too.

Miller continued reading.

“What does a liar do when he’s dead?” Miller closes the card and pulls out a piece of paper from the envelope. More creepy symbols are written in perfect symmetry. “It’s a cipher. Any of this… Mean anything to you guys…?”

Miller pointedly shows the two the envelope. Rick stares in thought, Morty stares, struck. Before any of them can say anything, there's an alarmed voice.

“What’s goin’ on here?”

They all turn to see the lead commissioner, Zeta-Alpha Rick. He looks appalled at the sight of two non S.E.A.L. members. Especially when they weren’t showing up on the registered badge number list of the security.

“I asked them to come with me, Zet,” Miller states in a serious tone.

“This is a crime scene -- It’s fucking Allen for Chrissakes! I got press downstairs.” Zeta-Alpha stands close to the Morty, too close. His features darken. “Y’know, I cut you a lotta slack, kid, ‘cuz we got history, but this is way over the line!”

Miller hands him the card; Zeta reads in horror when he sees that the envelope is addressed:  “TO C-137”

“Wait, wait, wait—C-137 is involved in this? Did you fucking bring C-137 here—?”

Miller froze, panic flickering in his eyes. He scrambled for an explanation.

“No, no—they are not C-137, but they know a lot about—”

“How do you know?” Zeta-Alpha cut in sharply. “These nut-cases badge numbers aren’t even verified in my system! What if they are suspects? What are you doing to me, Miller? We used to be partners!”

Morty, now feeling the weight of the tension, moved back toward the body. His eyes locked onto the mummified face of Allen, the riddle repeating in his mind.

“Zet, we are just tracking a connection-”

“He lies still,” Morty muttered under his breath, staring intently at the face.

Zeta-Alpha froze, then turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

Miller glanced back at Morty, piecing it together in an instant.

“The riddle. ‘What does a liar do when he’s dead’...? He lies still.” Miller meets eyes with the commissioner. He’s visibly unnerved by all this. He looks bitterly towards Rick and Morty.

“Jesus fucking -- This…” He stops talking, clearly lost. An officer Morty appears in the doorway of the study.

“E-excuse me, Commissioner.” He stutters. The commissioner notices and turns his attention to him.

“The- uh, they’re ready for your statement…” And he quickly turns around walking off with documents in hand. The Commissioner puts his hands up and waves them down quickly, he sighs. The sound giving off agitation and fear. “I-I can’t do this right now.” He turns to Miller, dead serious.

“I want them outta here. Now.” And with that, he leaves the study. S.E.A.L. members glare at them as Miller starts to lead the two out. Morty stops though, he notices a bloody footprint on the polished wooden floorboards. It’s child sized. Miller notices Morty stopped and follows his gaze. He’s grim.

“Yeah, kid found him,” he states sadly. Morty looks up at him. Miller points to a room off to the side down the hall, the kids' bedroom. There's a younger looking Morty sat on the bed, he looks terrified -- staring down at his lap with his hands held together. He looked like he wanted to cry. Some cops surround him, probably interrogating him. The boy shook his head, in answer to a question. 

Morty stares, heart feeling heavy, empathetic. The younger Morty looks out in the hall. His eyes lock onto Morty’s. His face is red, there's snot coming out his nose and his eyes are puffy. Rick notices Morty and puts a hand on his shoulder. “We really gotta go, man…” he whispers. Morty nods, but stays a moment longer. There's an unspoken connection between the two Morty’s. 

He swallows hard. He recognises the feeling. That hollow, sinking weight pressing down on you, making it hard to think, to breathe. He wants to say something, console the kid -- but say what? Just casually bring up that he’s the son of Beth Freeman? He couldn’t.

A firm tug on his sleeve snaps him out of his thoughts again,

“Morty.” Rick’s voice is quieter this time. More serious.

Morty hesitates again before nodding and this time stepping away. As he follows Rick and Miller out, he risks one last glance over his shoulder. The kid stares back.

The night air hits them as they step outside, but it’s heavy, suffocating. Flashing red and blue lights paint the townhouse in flickering shadows, and beyond the barricades, reporters are already gathering. The hum of anticipation fills the air.

A voice crackles over a nearby radio.

“Commissioner’s on his way.”

Chapter Text

The flashing lights from the cameras beat against the night as Commissioner Zeta-Alpha steps up to the podium. The crowd falls into an uneasy silence, their eyes glued to the towering figure, waiting for the man who’s been called to bring justice in the wake of the chaos. The microphone screeches, and a few flashes of light crackle through the dark air.

Zeta-Alpha grips the edges of the stand tightly, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd. He’s grim, but his words are sharp and deliberate. "Tonight, a daughter lost a father," he says, his gaze flicking briefly to Beth Allen, standing behind him, a sob barely contained in her throat. Beside her, her son Morty stands frozen, eyes hollow, lost in a grief too heavy for him to carry. "A Morty lost a Rick, and I lost a friend. President Allen was a fighter for the Citadel and I will not rest until this piece of shit is found!"

The words sink into Morty’s bones like a cold wind. The TV’s volume drifts in and out of focus as his mind struggles to process the flood of memories. He had to force himself to remember why they were here, why they had come to this place, why everything had led them to this awful, endless spiral.

Their dimension, once home, overtaken by Cronenbergs. And so, they had moved, seeking refuge in the Citadel, always searching for a new dimension, a place to start over, a place to heal. But healing never seemed to come.

They had adopted new names, new identities. Freeman , instead of Smith , to avoid drawing attention to the infamous C-137s. Their dimension number had changed, too—from ‘C-137’ to ‘Alpha-750.’ And so it went, as they tried to blend in with the others, to bury the past and its ghosts beneath layers of lies.

Beth had made history here, becoming the first female President of the Citadel. But that came at a cost. She had tried so hard to make things work, not just for herself, but for Summer, who had been struggling too. Summer had lost everything. Her friends, her world, wiped out in one tragic night. And it had eaten away at her. Summer couldn’t talk to anyone but Beth, and even then, it was like a fragile thread that was always on the brink of snapping.

For a while, it had seemed like things were okay. The years passed. Morty turned eighteen, Summer turned twenty-one. They had dinner together sometimes, spent evenings watching movies or lying under the stars. Rick had even started giving gifts, those little moments that seemed so far removed from the chaos of their lives. Summer had received the necklace, the one that Beth had always worn, pearls mixed with Opal and Tourmaline, a gift that was tied to her mother’s memory. Morty, too, had received something from Rick. A ring with his birthstone, amethyst, set against ruby, Rick’s own birthstone. It was a symbol, a bond, a reminder that, despite everything, they were still together - 100 years.

But that bond had shattered when Beth was murdered. Rick had been a wreck, unable to stop, unable to find the truth. For two years, he searched, chasing shadows, trying to make sense of a world that was crumbling around them. No leads. Nothing. And the spiral began again—the spiral that had taken so much from him in the past. Now, they had one goal, one mission: 

Find the killer, and find the corruption.

But as Morty stands in front of the TV, the memories swirl, too much to bear. The murders, the trafficking, the lies, nothing adds up. None of it makes sense.

From behind him, Rick’s voice cuts through the silence. He’s hunched over the dining table in their tiny apartment, watching the footage through his special contact lenses, his gaze moving quickly from frame to frame. The rapid flicker of the screen fills the room with a red glare. It’s relentless. Morty looks at him, his grandfather’s exhaustion visible in the hunch of his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes.

Rick mumbles to himself, his focus laser-sharp on the footage, but Morty can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. “Jesus Christ,” Morty mutters, the image of President Allen’s corpse seared into his mind. It’s the same gruesome scene every time.

Then the cipher flashes across the screen. Those same eerie symbols from the Halloween card. Morty feels a chill race down his spine as Rick pauses the footage, printing out the image.

“Why would he leave this for us..?” Morty asks, voice low, trying to make sense of it. The address on the envelope from before lingers in his mind like a ghost.

Rick’s reply is cold, detached. "I don’t know."

Morty stares at the printout, his fingers running over the paper, but he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Rick continues, not even acknowledging him as he speeds through the footage again, each frame flashing by too fast to catch.

“Rick,” Morty says, his voice quiet but firm. He moves closer, placing a hand on Rick’s back. “You should shower. And rest. The guys from the PD are coming by for breakfast tomorrow.”

Rick glances up, his face a mask of exhaustion. “Here? Why?”

Morty sighs, trying to ease the tension in his voice. “I knew you wouldn’t go meet with them. They were persistent, so I told them to come by.”

Rick’s temper flares instantly. “I don’t have time for this shit, Morty!” His hands clutch his hair in frustration, and Morty sees the strain on his grandfather’s face. He knows the toll it’s taking on Rick, but he’s running on fumes now. They both are.

"Tell those jackasses to fuck off and reschedule,” Rick growls.

“This is getting serious, Rick. If we don’t do something soon, we’ll have nothing left. If this keeps going…”

Rick spins to face him, his eyes hard and furious. “I don’t give a fuck! About any of it!” His voice cracks with the weight of his words. “There IS no home , Morty! We don’t have a fucking functional dimension anymore!”

Morty flinches, but his voice is steady now, louder. “What about Summer? Do you even realize how staying here affects her? We have nothing , we have NOTHING left.”

Rick stands up, taking a step back, his face twisted with rage, but Morty stands firm. Then Rick snaps, his anger spilling over as he storms off down the hall of their apartment. “It’s YOUR fault we’re stuck here! All because you didn’t have the balls to go talk to some fucking chick who probably wasn’t even worth your time!”

Rick slams the bathroom door behind him, and Morty stands there, heart racing. He takes a deep breath, his eyes landing on the printed cipher again, the words from the card still echoing in his mind: “HE LIES STILL.” The puzzle deepens, and Morty knows, without a doubt, that this is probably just the beginning.

 - - -

At the end of the hallway, Rick emerges from the bathroom, steam curling out behind him like a ghostly presence. His wet hair clings to his forehead in dark greyish-blue strands, a rare sight—one of the few moments he looks less like the man everyone fears and more like someone burdened by the weight of his own existence. He pulls a shirt over his shoulders, the fabric clinging briefly to his damp skin before settling over the sharp ridges of his frame.

Morty glances up from where he’s sitting, his fingers idly gripping the edge of the cipher printout. Even in the dim light of the apartment, Rick’s body tells its own story—scars that crisscross his torso like old battle lines, bruises in varying stages of healing, muscles that, despite being lean, still carry the strength of someone who’s fought his way through hell more than once. He looks like a rockstar past his prime, a fighter who never knew when to quit.

Rick doesn’t say anything as he moves into the living room, his usual bravado dulled by exhaustion. He stands next to Morty, who watches from the corner of his eye as Rick leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, a pen twisting between his fingers. The tension in the air hasn’t faded, but it’s quieter now, settled into the unspoken understanding that neither of them has the energy to keep arguing.

Without looking up, Morty gestures toward the fruit bowl sitting in the center of the table. “Some fresh berries I bought from the market yesterday…”

It’s an offering — not much, but something. An attempt to ground them in something normal, something human, even in the middle of the chaos that’s swallowed them whole.

Rick squints, unaccustomed to the morning. He reaches for the bowl and grabs a couple berries. He watches what Morty’s doing, he’s working on the cipher. Rick’s interest breaks the ice.

“...What are you doing?”

Morty doesn’t take his eyes off it. “Just… Thinking about my days as a partner in crime. This makes me feel smart, I guess…”

Rick hums. He tilts his head while munching on berries, looking at the crossword look-a-like puzzle Morty is doing.

“Where’d you get the O’s?

“Well, the partial key is ‘He lies still’. Which only gives us H, E, L, I, S, and T -- So I’m just looking for any double symbols to start, trying letters, see where it leads.”

Rick’s lips curl into a smile, impressed. “Smart boy,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s a quiet pride there.

There's a silence that falls over them, it’s not as awkward as it sounds, Morty hums in acknowledgement to Rick’s praise. He thinks, scanning over the cipher text.

“...What if it’s not a partial key.” He says slowly. Rick looks at him, tilting his head. 

“What do you mean?” Rick questions, and he leans over, pushing the computer to face him instead. 

“I mean what if we’re looking at the whole key. Ignoring the symbols we don’t have letters for, use only the letters from ‘he lies still’, and leave the rest--”

“Blank, yes I understand,” Rick states as he’s already started deleting letters. “But that leaves most of the cipher unsolved… I don’t really see how that -- oh.” 

Morty turns his head to look up at him. Rick looks impressed almost. They both gaze at the laptop. The cipher is now mostly blank, the remaining letters line up like a connect the dots to form a single word that is displayed across the screen. 

‘D R I V E’

Rick exhales sharply, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he mutters, glancing at Morty, “you’re a lot smarter than I give you credit for.”

Morty doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the screen, DRIVE , the letters standing out ominously against the void of erased symbols. His stomach knots. This wasn’t just a random clue left behind. It was directive. A message, meant to be found.

Rick straightens his posture, rubbing his chin, eyes sharp with thought. “It’s not just a word,” he says, thinking aloud. “It’s a command. A location. Maybe both.” 

Morty swallows. He knows Rick is right. The word lingers in his head, looping over and over. Drive. Drive where? His fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

“Think it’s a dead drop?” Morty asks finally, his voice quieter now.

Rick shakes his head. “Could be. Could be a warning. Or a trail.” His gaze darkens. “Either way, someone wanted us to find this.”

A beat of silence stretches between them, tension coiling tighter. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy. This isn’t just about the cipher anymore. The pieces are starting to shift, falling into place in a way that neither of them fully understands yet.

Outside, the city stretches endlessly in neon-lit streets and towering skyscrapers, but here, inside this dimly lit apartment, it’s just the two of them, staring at a mystery that feels bigger than anything they’ve dealt with before.

The laptop beeps as he searches for Miller’s number.

Chapter Text

In the Citadel’s PD and CSD, dozens are in the command center. The room bustles with police and SEAL team codebreakers are all fixated on the same cipher. It projects onto a large screen dominating the front of the room. The air hums with quiet urgency as murmurs pass between the analyst's fingers flying across keyboards. One of the PD detectives from the crime scene finds Lieutenant Morty Miller and maneuvers through the crowd. 

He briefs him quietly.

“CSD says code could take weeks… If they can crack it at all.” His voice is low, edged with quiet frustration. Miller doesn’t answer, he just exhales sharply through his nose. He turns to the detective, opening his mouth to speak when his phone suddenly rings. Miller pulls out his phone with a huff, he looks at the screen.

NO CALLER ID. 

Miller’s brow lifts slightly. He smirks, already knowing who it is before he even answers. Lifting the phone to his ear, he greets the caller casually, as if this were any normal conversation.

“Hey.”

The voice on the other end is sharp and to the point.

“Did Allen have a car?” 

It’s Rick. His voice is calm but serious—too serious. Miller doesn’t react visibly, but his mind sharpens instantly. Next to him, the detective watches, his curiosity evident. Miller catches on quickly and puts on an easygoing facade, raising a hand slightly in dismissal.

“Uh, sorry—can you hold on, Summer?” he lies smoothly, keeping his voice light. Then, turning to the detective with an apologetic smile, he adds, “My sister.”

The detective nods, seemingly buying the excuse, and Miller steps away. He doesn’t go far—just enough to make sure no one overhears—but still keeps his voice low.

“A car?” he repeats, glancing back toward the command center before lowering his voice even more. “Yeah, I’m sure. Uh — why?”

The answer doesn’t come over the phone. Instead, it comes later, when Rick and Morty find themselves standing outside the towering estate of President Rick Allen.

It had taken a quick detour past the CSD to pick up some access credentials from Miller and, for good measure, a hefty toolbox. Now, the mansion looms before them, dark and foreboding, its towering silhouette cutting into the night sky.

Inside, the two move with quiet purpose, taking the elevator down to the lower levels. As they descend, a dim red light flickers from the panel overhead, casting their faces in shadow. The soft hum of the elevator fills the silence between them.

Morty, standing slightly behind Rick, studies him in the low light—the sharp edges of his profile, the tightness in his jaw. He can feel the tension radiating off him, something simmering just beneath the surface.

Rick notices. He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly, catching Morty’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. After a beat, he turns away.

The elevator dings softly as the doors slide open.

The underground garage stretches before them — a vast, pristine vault of luxury. Exotic cars line the space in neat, glistening rows, each more expensive than the last. Their polished surfaces reflect the dim overhead lights, creating a dizzying maze of chrome and steel.

Rick and Morty step forward, their footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. Their eyes scan the collection, each of them searching for anything specific.

“Fuck man, where do we even start?!” Morty whines as he eyes all the cars. “And you’re sure this isn’t a big leap we’re taking?”

“‘Drive’ can mean anything, Morty.” Rick taunts his name, Morty’s eyes are half-lidded, unimpressed. Rick turns to see his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a free hand. “You don’t trust me?”.

Morty’s eyebrows are furrowed together. His eyes scan the entire garage again. “Trust you? Rick, at this point, I am willing to believe you’re trying to just get into this Allen guys’ riches–” Until he notices something. A tire of an Aston DB11 convertible is flat, something metallic barely reflects the light coming from the roof. Morty runs over and Rick follows. Morty inspects the tire before kneeling, the metallic object is a pair of poultry shears. Morty yanks the shears out of the tire, it’s covered in dried blood.

Rick sees this, this has to be the car. Rick fumbles for the keys in his pants pocket and unlocks the doors of the front seat. He sets down the toolbox given by Miller on the seat in front of him and pulls out a UV light bar. He searches the car's console.

“What are we looking for?” Morty questions, he's gone around the other side of the car and opened the passenger side to view what Rick’s doing. He looks up at Morty before looking back down.

“USB port.” He says slowly, feeling around the console for a small button or lever. 

“USB…?” Morty looks lost. Rick finally finds it and the console pulls back, revealing said USB port.

“Oh jeez- Jesus man…” Rick squeezes his eyes shut. There's a face Morty can’t explain. Disgust? Anger? Fear? Rick stops, he's struck. He looks up at Morty, who can’t see. “What is it Rick?” 

He looks back inside the console and pulls out a key ring USB drive. Attached to it is the severed thumb from the President. “Boy, this guy's real funny, huh. Thumb, drive. Fucking – Ugh…”

“Jesus man...” Morty says sickly, looking down and shutting his eyes. He shakes his head in disbelief. Rick takes the thumb and climbs backwards out of the car and Morty follows. Rick sets up his laptop on the car's back, opening it before typing in a password and staring at the USB drive in his hand. 

“It’s encrypted.” He states. Morty looks at the drive, he grimaces before looking up to Rick’s gaze. 

“Try the thumb.” He says dumbly. Rick turns to see Morty pointing to the thumb that's attached to the USB’s keyring. Rick sighs, he takes it and shakes his head. He presses Allen’s severed thumb into the drive and it opens. “Hilarious.” Rick deadpans, visibly annoyed by this guy's irony.

As the laptop processes the contents inside the USB, it lights up before a bunch of surveillance photos flood the screen. Grainy, high-contrast images captured in the dead of night. 

It’s President Rick Allen exiting a nightclub with an older looking Summer who's fitted in clubwear, the two are headed for Allen’s Aston DB11. Summer has a visible black eye under her sunglasses, and behind them follow Rick’s who look like gangsters, they wear street-style striped tuxedos. 

Morty scans the Summer, he notices a necklace stringed around her neck.

He recognizes her immediately.

Summer .

Morty’s breath catches in his throat. His stomach lurches.

“R-Rick!” His voice wavers, cracking at the edges as he gestures toward the screen with shaking hands. “That’s Summer! OUR Summer! Look at her necklace!”

Rick squints at the screen, his face impassive at first, but then, his eyes widen.

His expression hardens, his grip tightening on the boot of the car.

“What the fuck.” The words slip out in a near whisper. His voice lacks its usual bravado, replaced by something raw and dangerous.

Morty barely hears him, his gaze locked onto the delicate chain resting against Summer’s collarbone. It was pearled with elegant gems mixed in with it. Opal and Tourmaline .

That necklace.

That exact necklace.

He remembers it. Beth’s necklace.

Summer had worn it everywhere after Beth was murdered. She never took it off. She swore she wouldn’t.

“Oh, god.” Morty’s hands clench into his hair as the full weight of the realization slams into him. “We never—We never fucking checked in on her. After Mum was murdered. We just—Fuck! We—”

Morty cuts himself off, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to hide the emotion threatening to spill over.

Rick stands motionless beside him, but Morty can hear the sharp, unsteady breaths coming from his grandfather. When Rick finally moves, it’s fast — his fingers flying across the keyboard, clicking through the series of photos. He’s scanning every detail, his sharp mind working overtime to process the horror in front of them.

Then, he sees him.

Riq IV. Also known as Hawk-Eye

A familiar Rick, standing in the background behind Summer and Allen.

Rick’s entire posture changes. His breath comes out in a seethe.

“Hawk-Eye,” Rick mutters darkly, his fist balls.

Morty follows his gaze, his own brows furrowing as he recognizes the man. “Hey, we know that fucking guy!”

Rick’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. He’s one of the Citadel’s top enforcers. Rick Prime’s right-hand man. But, uh. Rick Prime is known as Rick Falcon I guess.”

As if on cue, the laptop pings with a notification. Then another. And another. The screen fills up with hundreds of alerts.

“What was that?” Morty asks, his voice edged with unease.

Rick’s eyes flicker to the corner of the screen. 

“Shit, shit, shit!”

He lunges for the trackpad, clicking through open tabs in a frenzy. The worst is confirmed when he sees the email app flashing.

The images had been sent out.

“God fucking dammit!” Rick growls. His eyes scan the flood of alerts from news sites.

CITADEL POST, RICKZETTE, CDN.

Rick rubs a hand down his face, muttering a string of curses under his breath. “I’m gonna have to—FUCK, I’ll have to explain this before Miller gets his ass handed to him. Zet-Alpha is gonna hit the fucking roof.”

Morty, however, barely registers Rick’s frustration. His eyes flick back to the photos, zeroing in on Summer.

Then, Allen.

His corpse flashes through Morty’s mind.

“He lies still,” he whispers. Rick glances at him.

“…was he talking about Summer?” Morty mutters, more to himself than anyone.

Rick doesn’t answer. Instead, he zooms in on the background of the surveillance images. His eyes scan the bright neon green and red signage, the letters standing out drastically in the otherwise dark photo.

FINITE LOUNGE.

Rick stills.

“That’s the Finite Lounge,” he states darkly. “It’s under the Citadel’s waterline lofts. Where Falcon is holed up.”

“You mean Rick Prime?”

“Yeah...” Rick says unimpressed.

Morty’s head snaps toward Rick. His pulse spikes. “Wait, Miller mentioned that place before. We’d need a warrant if we wanted to get in.”

Rick smirks. “Morty, since when did I need permission from someone to get into a place?”

Morty swallows. He already knows exactly where this is going.

Chapter Text

The Finite Lounge Nightclub did not look like a club at all. From the outside, it was just a dead husk of a warehouse, abandoned and lifeless, blending into the shadows of the Citadel’s lower districts. A lone streetlamp flickered above a rusted, nondescript metal door, buzzing with half-hearted electricity, casting long, erratic shadows across the pavement. The only sign of life was an old, dust-covered plaque bolted beside the door, its letters barely visible in the dim glow—"FINITE WEAPONS CO."

Rick pulled the motorcycle into a dark corner, kicking the stand down as the hum of the engine faded into the eerie quiet. He adjusted the cuff of his suit, ensuring the hidden blade and harpoon grappler were still secure. Even in an expensive suit, he was armored for whatever the worst was.

As they approach, Morty casts Rick a glance. “You still got those weapons on you? In case things take a turn for the worse?”

Rick smirks, patting the inside of his jacket sleeve before tapping at his pants pocket.

“Morty,” he says, voice dripping with amusement.

“I always do.”

Without hesitation, Rick raised his fist and knocked harshly against the metal door. The impact echoed down the empty alleyway, making Morty flinch. For a moment, there was only silence, then the door swung open to reveal a bouncer clad in black, an earpiece hooked around his head. His face was void of expression, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.

Rick squared his shoulders. “Know who I am?”

The bouncer’s eyes flickered, scanning him up and down, then, unimpressed, he scoffed. “No.”

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose, biting back a chuckle. “I wanna see Hawk.”

The bouncer didn’t react, merely tilting his head. “Hawk? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, pal.”

Rick’s gaze darkened, and before he could reply, the door slammed shut.

A beat of silence. Morty shifted uneasily. Rick remained eerily still. Then, footsteps. The door creaked again, opening wider this time to reveal another figure—a second bouncer. Identical. The same slicked-back mess of hair, the same tailored black outfit, the same dead-eyed stare.

Twins.

Rick had seen a lot of strange things in the Citadel, but this? These two were a headache waiting to happen. He didn’t need to guess—they were trouble.

“What’s the problem?” the second bouncer asked, his voice a fraction lower than the first.

Rick caught a glimpse of the inside beyond them. The flashing lights, the pulsing music, the heavy scent of alcohol and desperation. Amongst the alien girls in clubwear, precariously balancing trays of sloshing drinks, his stomach twisted when his eyes landed on something far worse—Mortys.

Young Mortys. Dressed in tight, demeaning outfits, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Some stood in the corners, staring blankly into nothing, others were being led away by unfamiliar Ricks draped in expensive suits.

What kind of fucking place is this?

“Says he wants to see Hawk,” the first bouncer grunted, nodding toward Rick.

The second bouncer huffed. “Hawk? Ain’t no Hawk here.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him.”

The two turned their dead-eyed stares onto Rick and Morty.

“Get outta here, freak,” one of them sneered. “Or that suit of yours is gonna get all full of blood.”

Rick remained eerily quiet. Morty shifted beside him, scanning the alley, his pulse quickening.

Rick had seen enough. He scoffs. He tilts his head slightly - His voice is smooth and venomous, dripping with mock curiosity.

“Mine? Or yours?” 

There was a beat of eerie silence before one of the twins lurched at him. Rick struck first, driving his elbow into the guy’s nose with a sickening crunch. Blood spattered. The bouncer reeled back with a pained howl, gripping his face. Morty yelped at the sudden burst of violence, stepping back in alarm.

The second twin charged, rage twisting his features, but Rick was faster. His palm shot up like a viper, striking the man’s throat with the heel of his hand. The bouncer gagged, staggering back, choking on air. In the chaos, Rick grabbed Morty’s arm, dragging him inside.

“Move!” Rick barked.

They ran.

It swallowed them whole, suffocating them with blaring bass, flashing strobe lights, and a thick haze of perfume, sweat, and alcohol. Music thumped through the walls like a heartbeat. Neon pink and blue lights flickered erratically, casting everything in an otherworldly glow. 

They continued down the dark hallway, lights flashing as they pushed past different Ricks and other clubbers who shouted insults at them as the two passed with zero consideration.

Behind them, the twins roared, staggering to their feet. Alerting more who scramble and bulldoze through the writhing crowd. Rick and Morty make it to the main club area. The place is completely packed.

Strobe lights reveal glimpses of showgirls and showboys — Summers and Mortys — danced above them on platforms, their hollow expressions betraying their forced smiles. The club was a façade, a hunting ground masked in neon lights and music. Rick grabbed Morty by the collar and yelled over the noise. “Blend in! Follow a showboy Morty—ask him where the dressing rooms are! Something, just try and find something useful!”

Morty’s eyes went wide, but he got it. No time for noise or mistakes. If they were going to find anything in this place, they had to move like shadows. He gave a quick nod. That was all Rick needed. Without another word, Rick shoved Morty toward the side, vanishing into the strobe-lit madness.

Rick barely made it down a few steps before a rough hand clamped onto his shoulder, yanking him back. A bouncer was already mid-swing. Rick jerked his head to the side just in time and caught the guy’s wrist, driving his fist into the guy’s face. The bouncer stumbled, disoriented, but there was no time to even breathe as another one was rushing up the stairs.

Rick grabbed the first guy by the collar and hurled him straight into the oncoming bouncer. The two collided with a thud and collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Rick didn’t hesitate, and he kicked them down the stairs, watching them tumble.

Before Rick could take a step away, two more came from behind him. One lunged, arms wrapping tight around Rick’s waist like a linebacker in a football match. Rick struggled, forcing himself backward, only to slam into another bouncer waiting behind him. A punch cracked against his jaw, snapping his head back. Another blow landed hard in his gut.

He staggered, caught between the two who stood in front of him, when a third bouncer rushed in and grabbed him from behind, trying to hoist him over the stair railing. Rick twisted, slamming his foot against the rail and using the leverage to spin. He caught the third guy by the hair and yanked him down sharply.

The first bouncer came at him again, fist ready to strike. Rick ducked and drove a punch into the guy’s throat. He choked and stumbled back. But Rick didn’t miss a beat as he then slammed the third guy’s head into the railing with a sickening crack, then shoved him over the railings. 

First and third bouncers were dealt with, now just the second one.

Behind him, the second bouncer lunged, but Rick was faster. He spun, fist connecting cleanly with the guy’s face. The bouncer hit the floor, out cold.

Without hesitation, Rick leaped over the railing and landed on the platform below. But the two he’d kicked down earlier were already getting up, shaking it off, angry.

One of them came at him like something out of a kung fu movie.

As the two struggle, fists swinging. Rick barely dodged the first strike, feeling the wind of the punch graze his cheek. The second hit came faster. Rick caught the guy’s wrist, twisted it, and slammed his fist into the bouncer’s ribs. A painful wheeze escaped him. Another bouncer charged down the stairs, joining the fight. 

Rick grunted, grabbing the first guy by the collar and slamming his head into the second bouncer’s face. The sickening sound of skull meeting skull echoed over the music. Both men collapsed, unconscious.

Rick didn’t have time to celebrate. Another bouncer leapt down the stairs, brandishing an aluminum bat.

“Really?! A bat?!” Rick scoffed, rolling his shoulders.

The bouncer swung. Rick ducked. The bat whooshed past his head. Another swing, and Rick twisted away. On the third, he caught the end of the bat, yanking it forward and driving it back into the bouncer’s throat. The man doubled over with a choked gag. Rick kicked him square in the face, knocking him out cold.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the bat. Rick’s body was pumping with adrenaline, sweat slick on his forehead, and his heart hammering in his ears. He barely had time to breathe before another bouncer came charging in, this one armed, raising a pistol and barking over the pounding bassline.

“HEY! DROP THE BAT OR I’LL BLOW YOUR DAMN HEAD OFF!”

Rick didn’t hesitate. His eyes narrowed, calculating. He hurled the bat like a fastball.

The gun fired, a sharp, deafening BANG! But the bullet ricocheted clean off the flying bat with a sharp ping. The aluminum bat smashed into the bouncer’s face, knocking him back with a grunt and a splash of blood.

Before Rick could recover, another BANG! Ripped through the air. Louder and heavier. Lead flying past his arm, one bullet only barely grazing his forearm.

White-hot pain spread through his forearm. He hissed, twisting around. Two familiar faces emerged through the panicked crowd. It was the twins from the front door. Bruised, bloodied, and their eyes burning with vengeance. One of them held a shotgun, already pumping another round into the chamber.

Screams erupted around them as panic detonated across the dance floor. Showgirls and clubbers scattered, shoving and tripping over each other in a blind stampede. Strobe lights flashed like lightning.

Rick moved on instinct.

With a flick of his wrist, his sleeve snapped open. The compact harpoon gun dropped clean into his hand. He fired without aiming.

The harpoon flew through the air, threading perfectly between the shotgunner’s legs until it found stop in the foot of the other twin behind him.

With a whirr, the line retracted.

The second twin was ripped off his feet, dragged forward by the force. His body slammed into his brother’s back just as the shotgun fired. The blast hit the ceiling, showering them both in crumbling plaster and sparks.

They collapsed in a heap of limbs and curses.

The club descended into total chaos. 

Before Rick could react, someone stepped up behind him. Fast.

Rick spun on instinct, fists raised, ready to crack a skull.

“Woah, woah! Take it easy, sweetheart!” The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, his voice dripping with smugness. “You lookin’ for me?”

A Rick. This one had a misshapen nose, - probably from being broken one too many times - and was dressed in a white tuxedo with a deep blue bowtie. His neck and wrists were littered with golden chains and expensive looking jewlry. His grin was wide and easy, eyes gleaming with amusement under the strobe lights.

Riq IV.

Or as some called him—Hawk-Eye.

Rick slowly lowered the bat, though his grip remained tight. His eyes bore into the man before him.

Hawk-Eye’s grin widened. “See you met the twins. Boy, you sure are everything a Rick is, huh?” He flashed a golden tooth as he chuckled.

Rick said nothing, sizing him up.

“Guess you could say we both are.” Hawk-Eye tilted his head, his clubbed foot dragging slightly as he stepped forward. He extended a hand for a handshake. “Howya doin’? I’m Hawk.” 

Rick doesn’t return the gesture.

He narrowed his eyes at the man before him. Hawk-Eye’s smirk was unwavering, his golden tooth flashing under the erratic strobe lights. The club pulsed around them, a cacophony of neon chaos, but in that moment, it felt like they were the only two in the room.

Rick didn’t shake his hand.

Hawk-Eye let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, withdrawing his offer with an amused chuckle. “Yeah, I figured.” His gaze raked over Rick with something between amusement and curiosity. “So? What brings a hard-hittin’ prick like you all the way to my doorstep?”

Rick took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “I heard you might know something. A missing person.”

Hawk’s grin didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes — something cold and calculating. “Missing person? Shit, pal, you think I got time for that kinda stuff?” He gestured vaguely to the neon-drenched club around them, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m runnin’ a business here, chief. I keep things classy, y’know?”

Rick didn’t buy it for a second.

Before he could press further, Hawk suddenly turned, motioning for Rick to follow him. “C’mon, c’mon, you want answers? Let’s talk somewhere quieter.”

Rick hesitated for a fraction of a second before falling into step behind him.

Hawk led him through a back corridor, away from the pulsing lights and pounding bass. They moved past a heavy, velvet curtain and into a dimly lit backroom office. The air was thick with the scent of cigarettes and expensive cologne. It was cramped—racks of showgirl costumes lined the walls, shimmering in the low light. In the center of the room sat an ornate wooden desk, cluttered with scattered papers and a nearly full ashtray.

Rick lays out printed photos in front of Hawk — photos of Summer and Rick Allen.

Hawk, completely at ease, picked up one of the photos, studying it with lazy interest. Rick forced himself to stay calm. His entire body screamed at him to react, but instead, he played it cool.

He narrowed his eyes, Rick decides to take caution and pretends not to know the Summer in the photo. “Who is she?” Rick’s voice was measured, careful. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Hawk barely glanced up, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “I really don’t know, chief,” he mused, exhaling smoke as he tossed the photo back onto the desk. “I mighta been comin’ out at the same time, but I wasn’t rollin’ with ‘em.”

Rick studied him carefully, searching for cracks in the facade. Hawk was lying — or at the very least, withholding something.

Before Rick could press him further, movement caught his eye.

Through a gap in the hanging costumes, he saw a figure approaching.

His jaw clenched.

Thigh-highs. Latex. A showboy outfit.

Morty.

What the fuck?

Rick stayed perfectly still, his expression neutral, but internally, his mind was racing.

Morty looked streetwise—or at least, like he was trying to be. He walked with a forced confidence, but Rick could see the slight hesitation in his movements. Then their eyes met, and Morty froze.

A flicker of panic crossed his face before he quickly masked it.

Hawk, sensing the tension, leaned back in his chair, exhaling smoke through his nose. “No, no—it’s okay, baby.” His voice took on a sleazy, slow drawl, sending a wave of irritation through Rick. “You’re the new hire, ain’t ya? Neither I nor Mr. Fight Club over here bite.”

Rick barely held back a scoff.

Morty hesitated. His eyes flicked to Rick, silently asking if it was okay.

Rick gave a slow nod.

Playing along, Morty sauntered over, feigning nervousness. He shyly set down a drink tray on the desk.

Hawk’s hand immediately found Morty’s thigh.

Rick clenched his jaw. Pathetic .

Morty, ever the actor, brushed Hawk’s hand away with an innocent smile, his touch subtle but firm. Hawk rolled his eyes, clearly entertained by the pushback.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Hawk grabbed an envelope of cash from the desk, then lifted a rubber-banded cluster of small vials. Rick’s eyes narrowed. The vials were filled with a strange, glistening liquid. The nozzles attached to them looked eerily similar to eye-drop bottles.

Morty didn’t react. He simply took them and turned to leave but he stopped.

His eyes landed on the photo of Summer and Rick Allen.

Rick saw it immediately — the flicker of sadness. Then, shock.

Morty barely held his composure.

And then, just as fast as he came, he was gone.

Rick didn’t like that.

He turned back to Hawk, patience wearing dangerously thin. “I wanna know who she is, and what she has to do with Allen’s murder.” His voice was low, edged with venom.

Hawk blinked at him, then smirked. “Whose murder—?”

Rick’s eye twitched. “The President.”

Something shifted. For the briefest second, Hawk’s smirk faltered—a split-second reaction.

Then he covered it up with mock surprise.

“The — is that the President?” He let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh shit, it is, Lookit that!” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

It was the last straw.

Rick grabbed Hawk by the collar, yanking him up and slamming him into the long mirror behind him. The entire thing shook violently from the impact.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Rick’s voice was ice-cold, his grip unyielding.

Hawk let out a wheezy laugh, though there was an undeniable flicker of unease in his eyes. “You better watch it, pal…” His voice dropped dangerously low. “Y’know my reputation?”

Rick leaned in, his expression unreadable. Then, smoothly, he muttered, “Yeah, I do. Do you?”

For the first time, Hawk’s mask cracked.

Rick had struck a nerve.

A flash of anger sparked behind Hawk’s eyes. But, just as quickly, he buried it. Instead, he grinned, playing it off. “Look, I’m just a proprietor, alright? What people do here ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”

Rick’s eyes flicked to the mirror.

Morty was watching from the hallway.

Their gazes met for a split second—then Morty disappeared. Again.

Rick’s gut twisted.

“I’ll tell ya one thing…” Hawk muttered, adjusting his coat as he sat back down. He lifted the photos and handed them back to Rick.

Rick took them, glancing down.

Hawk’s smirk widened into something cruel.

“Whoever that new kid is, he’s got one hot body”.

Rick’s eyes snapped up, he should just kill this creep right here and now. Hawk only smiles cruelly.

“Why don’t you ask Allen’s daughter? Maybe she knows.” Rick only glares at him. 

“What? Too soon?” Hawk only chuckled. Squinting his eyes. Rick looks at the photo again. What did Morty see? Why did he look shocked?  

Until he spots the same outfit that Morty was fitted in. But the face of the person in the photo is in a shadow. 

Even then, there’s no mistaking it. 

The outfit is the exact same. Rick gets up quickly and moves for the empty doorway. 

“You let me know if there’s anything else I can do! Okay, sunshine?!” Hawk yells for him. 

Outside the office, he looks around for Morty anywhere. He’s gone. He needs to find Morty and ask him where or who he got that outfit from. They had to know where Summer might be. 

He catches a glimpse of a shadow running for the front doors, Morty. 

And Rick makes his way to the exit of the nightclub.

Rick burst out of the club’s front doors, his eyes scanning the bustling street. Morty was nowhere to be seen. His pulse quickened.

The neon-lit boulevard was alive with the usual vices—speeding hover-cars, street vendors haggling, scantily clad showgirls leaning into passing vehicles, flashing their synthetic smiles. Morty could be anywhere. But Rick wasn’t the kind of guy to waste time wondering.

Then he heard it.

A voice, farther down the sidewalk, breathless. Panicked.

“Wait! Please!”

Rick’s head snapped in the direction of the sound.

There at the edge of the curb, under the flickering street lamps, was Morty, who  was huffing for air, hands on his knees. He was chasing a woman—a tall alien girl in a long black fur coat. She wasn’t stopping.

“Morty?!” Rick barked, breaking into a fast stride toward him. “Why are you chasing that girl? Does she know something?”

“She’s the one who gave me the outfit, told me to take over her shift and go to Hawk, and I swear to God she knows Summer!” Morty’s voice cracked with desperation.

Rick’s mind went sharp. This was it. A thread. It doesn’t matter how small the chances are that she knows their Summer, but they need to take every chance they get.

“Where’d she go?”

Morty whirled back toward the street, his eyes locking onto the tail lights of the cab, barely visible in the sea of cars.

“She just got in! If we go now, we can still catch up!”

Rick was already moving.

“Bike. Now.”

They both bolted toward their motorcycle, parked just a few feet away. Rick swung a leg over the seat, already igniting the engine. The roar of the motor drowned out the city’s noise as Morty barely managed to scramble on behind him.

The night air whipped against their faces as Rick maneuvered sharply through the packed streets, weaving between slower-moving cars. Morty, gripping Rick’s waist, kept his eyes locked on the taxi ahead.

“There—there!” Morty yelled over the wind, pointing as the navy cab hit a stoplight.

Rick grinned. Perfect.

He slowed just enough to close the distance, coming up behind the cab, keeping them in its blind spot. They waited. Watched.

Inside, the alien girl was frantically checking her phone, her fingers drumming against her knee. Nervous. Restless. She glanced over her shoulder through the back window.

Rick and Morty ducked slightly. Had she seen them?

Then, the light turned green.

The cab lurched forward.

Rick twisted the throttle. The bike leapt ahead, keeping pace.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Morty muttered, his knee bouncing anxiously.

The taxi took a sudden left down a darker, rougher part of town. The flashing neon signs gave way to dimly lit alleyways and boarded-up storefronts. Graffiti covered every surface. This was east end territory—bad news, even for Rick.

“We’re losin’ her!” Morty called.

“Shut up!” Rick snapped, pressing the bike harder. “I got this, just keep an eye on the cab!”

The cab hit another turn, then slowed outside a run-down apartment complex.

Rick eased back, killing the bike’s headlights as they rolled to a stop across the street.

The alien girl threw cash at the driver and practically bolted from the car, disappearing into the building’s entrance.

Rick and Morty exchanged glances.

“This is it,” Rick muttered.

Morty swallowed hard. “You think Summer’s in there?”

Rick didn’t answer. He had a feeling.

Chapter Text

They parked the bike in a shadowy alley nearby and moved—quick and quiet—toward the fire escape of a building across from the girl’s apartment. A perfect vantage point.

Rick climbed first, his old joints protesting but never failing him. Morty scrambled up behind him.

Once perched on the metal grating of the fire escape, Rick dug into his suit’s inner pocket and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Through the apartment window, they watched.

The alien girl had just burst inside. The place was small, cluttered, the kitchen light buzzing dimly. She shrugged off her coat, tossing it over a chair, and hurried toward another figure sitting at the tiny kitchen table.

Rick’s breath hitched.

Summer.

She was hunched over, staring blankly at a TV screen. Her face was still bruised, pale, exhausted.

Rick’s gut twisted. What the hell happened to her?

On the TV—news footage. Images of her and President Rick Allen, side by side. The words prime suspect flashed across the bottom of the screen.

“Shit,” Rick muttered.

Summer gestured angrily at the screen, her voice rising. The alien girl looked worried—pleading. She rushed into the bathroom, snatched a pill bottle from the cabinet, and returned.

She knelt in front of Summer, pressing the pills into her hand, whispering something.

Rick frowned. He couldn’t make out the words, but the alien girl’s expression was clear—deep concern.

Summer shoved her away, face contorted with grief.

The girl hesitated, then stood abruptly, her face hardening.

Without another word, she stormed off to the bedroom.

Rick adjusted the binoculars.

The girl was stripping off her clubwear, moving with purpose. She pulled on a black leather bodysuit, zipping it up tight.

“Rick…” Morty whispered. “She’s suitin’ up for somethin’.”

Rick already knew.

The girl grabbed a mask, pulled it over her face, then slid open the bedroom window.

Smooth as a shadow, she climbed onto the fire escape, then dropped down onto the pavement below without a sound and disappeared into a small garage next to the apartments.

“She’s good,” Rick admitted.

Then — a motorbike engine roared.

Rick and Morty’s head snapped toward the alley. A black sports bike rolled out of a garage. The girl hopped on, gunned the throttle, and shot off into the night.

“Fuck—she’s getting away!” Morty panicked. “Rick, what about Summer?!”

Rick’s stomach clenched. He looked at her — his granddaughter, who was broken and terrified inside that apartment.

“I—” He swallowed. “We know where she is now. We’ll come back. Right now, we gotta catch that girl.”

Morty hesitated but nodded. He trusted Rick.

They scrambled down the fire escape, racing for their own bike.

Just as they reached it—

A blur of black streaked past them.

The girl’s sports bike ripped through the street, weaving through traffic.

Rick didn’t waste a second. He jumped on their bike, Morty clambering behind him.

The girl was fast. Too fast.

Rick gunned it, their bike roaring as they tore through the city streets.

The girl zipped between cars, cutting through red lights like they weren’t even there. She moved like a ghost, taking alleyway shortcuts, swerving past pedestrians.

“Holy shit, Rick—she’s insane!” Morty yelped as Rick barely avoided a delivery drone.

“Quit bitchin’ — hold on!” Rick twisted the throttle harder, pushing the engine to its limit. Ahead, the girl veered into an industrial district.

Rick’s gut told him one thing.

This wasn’t just some girl.

Whoever she was, she was connected to Hawk and Summer.

The President's mansion loomed against the early morning light, its grand architecture casting deep shadows under the pale moonlight. The girl crouched low on the rooftop, the night air crisp against her skin as she peered through the glass skylight. Below, the study was still, save for the occasional flicker of security lights outside reflecting on the polished wood floors.

She reached into her bag and retrieved a coil of sturdy black rope, securing one end around a metal hook embedded into the roof. With practiced ease, she swung her legs over the ledge, descending in slow, controlled movements until her feet made contact with the plush carpet below. She landed noiselessly, body tensed, senses sharp.

The study smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. Bookshelves lined the walls, their dusty spines untouched, save for a few sections where the leather-bound tomes had been displaced. A large oak desk stood in the center, its surface neat and orderly—too neat. The girl’s sharp eyes scanned the room until she spotted it: a hidden safe embedded in the wall behind a grand portrait of Rick Allen.

Her hand ghosted over the frame of a painting, pressing her gloved fingers along the edges, feeling for a pressure trigger or hidden button. 

A faint click under her fingertips confirmed her suspicion. She pressed down, and the portrait slid aside, revealing a steel safe nestled within the wall. She wasted no time. Pulling out a compact device from her bag, she methodically assembled it, screwing a precision scope into place before clamping it onto the safe. 

A small light flickered to life as she peered through the lens, her hand resting on the combination lock as she began bypassing the code.

“You’re pretty good at that,” a voice murmured from the shadows.

The girl froze. Her pulse spiked, fingers flexing instinctively toward the knife strapped to her thigh. She turned swiftly, eyes locking onto a figure partially shrouded in darkness.

Morty.

The latex of his stolen club uniform shimmered faintly under the dim glow of the study lamp. He stood with an air of wary confidence, arms crossed but body loose, like he expected a fight. She barely had a second to process before instinct took over.

In a flash, she grabbed something from the open safe and bolted toward the door. Morty was faster. He lunged, seizing her wrist in a firm grip.

The girl twisted violently, her leg snapping up in a lightning fast roundhouse. Morty barely managed to block it, bracing against the force of her strikes as she unleashed a flurry of kicks. She was good. Too good. Each blow was precise, fueled by raw, desperate energy.

Morty gritted his teeth, dodging and parrying, until he spotted an opening. Timing his move perfectly, he twisted to the side and caught her leg mid-kick. Off balance, she stumbled, and they both crashed into the heavy wooden desk. The impact sent papers fluttering to the floor.

Before she could recover, Morty snatched the item from her grasp. 

A Citadel passport.

He flipped it open, his breath hitching as he recognized the name.

Summer Freeman.

The girl snarled, reaching for it. Morty held it out of reach, his expression darkening.

“You fucking ass! You followed me?! Give me that!” she hissed, making another grab for it.

Morty stepped back, his grip tightening. “He hurt her?” His voice was deadly serious. “That’s why you killed him?”

The girl recoiled, eyes flashing. “What?! Oh, please—just give me the fucking—!” She lunged again, but Morty was quicker. He sidestepped and yanked her down behind the desk.

A beam of light swept across the room.

The girl stiffened. Morty held his breath.

Through the slight gap between the desk and the floor, they saw the silhouette of a security officer step into the study. The flashlight bobbed as he took a few lazy steps inside, his boots clunking against the wooden floor.

Morty could feel the girl’s ragged breaths close to his ear. She was tense, coiled like a spring. He silently prayed she wouldn’t make a move.

The guard exhaled, sweeping the light across the desk, the bookshelves, the open safe—but he was disinterested. After a moment, he turned on his heel and exited the study, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

The girl shoved Morty off her with a forceful grunt and stood, dusting herself off.

“Listen, honey,” she snapped, voice low but filled with restrained anger. “You got the wrong idea, alright? I didn’t kill anybody. I’m here for my friend. She’s tryna get the hell outta here, and these sons of bitches had her passport.” She gestured to the stolen document in Morty’s hands.

Morty hesitated, his mind spinning. “What happened to her? What does she know?” There was an edge of desperation in his voice now.

The girl sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Whatever it is, it’s got her so spooked she won’t even tell me.”

Morty felt a pit form in his stomach. “She did seem upset…” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Morty met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Back at your place.”

Morty can finally see the girl, how she looks. She’s got ice blue hair - her eyes matching. Her skin is a pale green and she almost looks like a Rick. But her femininity is very apparent.

The realization dawned on her face, quickly followed by fury. “You spied on me?!” she hissed.

Morty groaned, rubbing his temple. “I needed to talk to you! Look, I’ve been looking for her ever since she stopped answering my calls. I even tried visiting her, but she was never there!”

The girl’s anger wavered. “How do you know her?” she asked, suspicion lacing her voice.

Morty met her eyes, his own burning with intensity.

“Because she’s my sister.”

Silence stretched between them. The tension in the room shifted. The girl’s face softened, if only for a second. Morty held out the passport. “We need to go back. To talk to her.”

She hesitated but took it.

Outside, Rick leaned against the motorcycle, arms crossed. When Morty emerged, Rick immediately picked up on his tension. “You good?” Rick asked, frowning at the sight of his grandson’s disheveled state.

Morty nodded, but his hands still shook. “We have to go. Now. Summer was trying to leave the Citadel. That bastard Allen took her passport.”

Rick’s expression darkened. He pulled out the keys.

They were on the motorcycle in seconds. Rick slammed the throttle. They were going 100 km/h through the Citadel’s neon-lit streets. The city lights blurred past in streaks of color. They were a fleeting blur. Morty clung to Rick’s back, his heartbeat hammering.

When they reached the apartment complex, Morty’s eyes immediately darted upward.

His breath caught.

“H-Hey! The window’s broken!” His voice cracks, barely holding together.

The second Morty spots the broken window, something inside him snaps. His breath hitches, his stomach drops. The edges of his vision blur as the jagged hole in the glass warps and distorts, pulsing in his mind like an open wound. He stumbles back a step. Katya’s head jerks up toward the second-story apartment, her eyes locking onto the impact—a small, focused hole, spiderweb cracks radiating from it. A gunshot.

She doesn’t hesitate. She bolts up the fire escape with Morty practically on her heels, and Rick close behind, but Morty barely registers the sound of their feet pounding against the metal rungs. His mind is already spiraling, images flashing behind his eyes—Summer sitting by the kitchen counter, turning just as the shot rings out, terrified. No, no, no.

The alien girl shoves the window open and disappears inside. The second Morty’s feet hit the floor of the apartment, his heart stops.

The place is a disaster. A hurricane of violence and desperation has torn through it. The furniture is destroyed. Glass sprayed everywhere. Papers and torn fabric swirl in the air as if the chaos has only just settled. Bullet holes riddle the walls, ugly and gaping, like silent accusations. The TV screen is slightly cracked, its flickering glow casting eerie, fractured shadows across the floor.

“Summer, baby?!” The girl cries out. She runs through every room desperately.

She’s gone.

“No—No, no, no, no, no—”

It starts as a whisper, but it grows. Morty stumbles forward, his legs barely holding him. His hands reach out like they might grasp something, anything, that would change what he’s seeing. But all he finds are shattered remains. He sinks to his knees, his breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

Morty’s always understood that he has an infinite amount of sisters. That’s just how it was. But it wasn’t the same. Summer was Summer. Not even another version of her could ever be the same. The Summer he grew up with, the Summer who was there for him, who shared memories with him. 

This was his sister.

His fingers claw into his hair. He doubles over, forehead pressing to the cold tile of the floor. The static in his skull drowns out everything else.

“We could’ve gotten her,” he chokes, his voice raw. His throat burns. “We—We could’ve fucking gotten her! We knew where she was! We were right fucking here! And we left—” He gasps sharply, like he’s trying to suck in air but it won’t come. His chest feels like it’s caving in.

The alien girl comes back into the kitchen. She’s frozen, staring at the wreckage, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. She says nothing, her face locked in guilt.

“Fucking—God!” His whole body trembles as he grips his head tighter. His ribs feel like they’re crushing inward, like there’s not enough air in the room, like he’s suffocating under the weight of it. His vision tunnels. His fingers dig into the skin of his arms, nails scraping hard enough to leave marks.

Rick watches, his own face set in grim silence. He’s seen Morty scared before. Hell, he’s seen him cry, panic, even break down under pressure. But this—this is different. This isn’t fear. It’s guilt. And it’s ripping the kid apart from the inside out.

Rick exhales sharply through his nose before crouching down beside Morty. “Hey, hey, Morty-” His voice is softer than usual, rough around the edges, but steady. He grips Morty’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. Morty doesn’t respond.

“Baby, breathe.” Rick’s grip tightens. He glances at the kid’s chest, rising and falling way too fast, way too erratic. “Shit, okay, listen to me. Seriously, breathe, or you’re gonna hyperventilate and faceplant into a pile of broken glass, and I really don’t feel like scooping you up off the floor.”

Morty shakes his head frantically, squeezing his eyes shut. “I- She was right fucking here, Rick! I could’ve, we could’ve just—!” His words are scrambled between ragged gasps.

Rick lets out a long sigh and does something he rarely ever does—he pulls Morty forward, pressing a firm hand against the back of his head, forcing him to lean into his shoulder. “Stop. Just stop.” His voice is gruff, but it’s the closest thing to comfort Rick knows how to give. “I get it. You’re losing your shit, and yeah, maybe we fucked up, but this ain’t gonna help. You wanna find her? Then breathe. Summer will be okay, we’ll find her, we’ll save her. I promise, Junebug.”

Morty clutches onto Rick’s sleeve, his fingers shaking violently. His chest still heaves, but the solid presence of Rick keeps him from spiraling further into the void. The familiar smell of oil, booze, and faint chemicals grounds him just enough to pull him out of his own head.

Rick stays still, just for a few seconds, just long enough for Morty’s ragged breathing to slow, for his grip to loosen.

Only then does Rick pat Morty’s back awkwardly. “Alright, drama queen. You still with me?”

Morty sniffles sharply, nodding, but he doesn’t pull away yet. His face burns with shame, but the crushing weight of his own lungs suffocating him is finally easing up.

Rick pulls back slightly, hands still gripping Morty’s arms, making sure he won’t keel over. “We’re not done, Morty. We find her, and we find the fuckers who did this. But we can’t do shit if you fall apart on me, alright?”

Morty swallows hard. His eyes are red, but there’s something else there now—something sharper. Anger. Determination. He jerks his head in a nod and finally sits up.

Rick, satisfied, pushes himself to his feet. He turns toward the counter, scanning the wreckage. His eyes land on a single piece of paper amid the destruction. He picks it up, his face hardening.

A bill. Overdue. And at the top, a name: Katya Xotliskia.

Rick puts the paper down, his fingers tightening briefly around its edges before he lets it go. The weight of the name Katya Xotliskia still lingers in his mind, but something else catches his attention—Morty, frozen in place, his eyes locked onto the flickering glow of the television screen. His face is pale, his hands shaking at his sides.

Rick follows Morty’s gaze. The Citadel News channel blares through the room, casting an eerie glow over the destruction. The bold, red headline stretches across the bottom of the screen:

“SERIAL KILLER CLAIMS CREDIT FOR SECOND VICTIM IN TWO DAYS – CPD COMMISSIONER MURDERED –”

A chill settles over the room. The chaos of the ransacked apartment no longer seems important. The world outside is changing, twisting, turning into something far worse.

A shuffling noise from behind makes them turn. Katya stands in the doorway, her face drained of color, her hands twitching slightly at her sides. She looks as though she’s just seen a ghost. Or maybe, she’s the ghost herself—guilt etched deep into her features, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Fuck,” Morty breathes, voice unsteady. His body vibrates with barely contained fear. “What are they gonna do to her?”

Katya’s lips part slightly, but she says nothing at first. Her eyes dart to the window, then to her own trembling hands. “Now they know who I am too…” she whispers, her voice cracking. “They took my phone, everything.”

She drags her fingers through her hair, gripping at her scalp as though she’s trying to ground herself. A deep, exasperated breath escapes her lips. Her eyes flick to Rick—he hasn’t moved, his gaze still locked onto the screen.

The newscaster’s voice hums through the static:

“The killer posted the following message on social media. We should warn you, the following video is very disturbing.”

The TV screen flickers, turning an ominous shade of blue before transitioning into shaky, hand-held footage. The camera jerks, unfocused at first, before settling on a dark figure. He stands against a damp, concrete wall, shrouded in shadow, his identity masked behind a crude black hood. A symbol is painted in white across his chest—a scrawled, jagged question mark, surrounded by eerie crosshairs. The mark looks almost satanic, a brand burned into the very fabric of fear itself.

Then, the voice comes. It’s Distorted, and hollow. It Echoes:

“Hello, people of the Citadel.”

The voice drags in an unnatural, ghostly way, like it’s pulling itself apart in layers of static and whispers. It makes the hairs on the back of Morty’s neck stand up.

“This… well, I’m no one. But a Rogue.”

The camera shifts, the angle changing as the figure steps back. He’s short, the shape of him unmistakable beneath the dark hood. A Morty.

A sickening dread curdles in Morty’s stomach.

“On Halloween night, I killed your President – because he was not who he pretended to be. But I am not done…”

The Rogue Morty picks up the camera, turning it to follow his movements. The shot jolts and swings around wildly before settling on something else.

“Here… is another.”

A Rick. Whose naked and bound to a chair.

A thick, cage-like box is strapped over his head, crude iron bars locking him inside like a trapped animal. His body thrashes, struggling against the bindings that keep him in place. His muffled whimpering cut through the silence, raw and desperate. The glow from a single, overhead light casts deep shadows across the concrete floor, stretching like long, skeletal fingers.

Morty’s breath stutters as the camera zooms in on the man’s face. The realization hits like a freight train.

It’s Commissioner Zeta-Alpha.

Rogue Morty presses the camera closer to the cage. Inside, scuttling movements stir. Small, twisted shapes begin to emerge from the darkness. Rats.

The commissioner tries to recoil, his body jerking violently as the rodents circle him. His muffled cries rise in volume, pleading through the duct tape that smothers his mouth. There are words scrawled across it, jagged and bold, painted in a deep, wet red:

“NO MORE LIES.”

Rogue Morty speaks again, voice smooth, almost playful.

“Who will soon… be losing his face.”

A dry, choking sound catches in Morty’s throat.

Rogue’s masked face leans into the frame, his eyes crinkling at the corners—he’s smiling beneath the mask.

“I will kill again, and again, and again,” he continues, voice tilting into something almost giddy, “until our Day of Judgment. When the truth about this Citadel will finally be unmasked.”

He moves closer, his face filling the screen. His eyes gleam through the darkness.

“Goodbye.”

The feed cuts. A deafening silence takes place.

Katya’s breath hitches. She folds her arms tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Her head tilts toward the TV, one hand lifting slightly, a single finger pointing.

“…Holy shit,” she murmurs. “I’d seen that guy too. At the club.”

Rick, who had remained still up until this point, suddenly moves. He shifts toward her, watching her carefully. He doesn’t blink.

“At the Finite Lounge?”

Katya exhales sharply, shaking her head. “The De Jure Facto. Or the 245 Below” She presses her lips together, rubbing at her arms like a sudden chill has settled into her bones. “The club within the club. The real club.”

Rick frowns.

She sighs, looking away. “It’s a mob hangout…”

Rick’s gaze hardens. “That where you work, Katya?”

She stiffens at the use of her name, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she exhales and says flatly, “I work at the bar. Upstairs. But I see them come in.”

“Who?”

“Everybody,” she mutters. “Lotta guys who shouldn’t be there, I can tell you that. Your basic upstanding citizen types.”

Morty finally lifts his head, his cheeks streaked with dried tears. His fingers twitch at his sides. “Y-you gotta help us on this,” he says, voice trembling but firm. He steps closer. “For Summer . ”

Katya stares at him.

Her eyes flicker with something unreadable. A storm brewing behind them.

Rick suddenly steps forward, grabbing Morty’s wrist. “Help us or not,” he says curtly, voice cool and detached. “But I’ll tell you—you’re not safe here.”

Katya clenches her jaw. “I can take care of myself.”

Rick and Morty are already gone.

Katya stands there, frozen, staring grimly at the television screen. The newscaster is still speaking, her voice distant and droning.

“…with two public figures now dead in just the last two nights, and only days before the election, police and Citadel officials are left searching for this killer, and hoping to find him before he kills again.”

The TV screen flickers, the image of Rogue Morty’s grinning mask still burned into the darkness.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, stark and unfeeling, casting a harsh glow over the cold, lifeless form stretched out before them. Morty and Miller stand over the body of Zeta-Alpha, the air between them heavy with silence. The sterile chill of the morgue is nothing compared to the weight pressing down on them now.

Miller swallows hard and looks away. Morty doesn’t. He watches Miller’s reaction with quiet resentment. 

“He waited for him,” Miller mutters, his voice thick with something close to regret. “At the gym. Zet always liked to work out late at night when nobody was around.”

Morty exhales through his nose, leaning in, scanning the body with the sharp, clinical eye of someone who’s seen too much death. His gaze lands on a small bruise at the base of Zet’s neck. Something catches the light, a tiny, almost imperceptible puncture wound at its center.

He points. “There’s a needle mark.”

Miller follows his line of sight, his face twisting as he puts the pieces together. His jaw clenches. “That son of a bitch injected him with arsenic.” His voice is low, barely above a growl.

“Rat poison,” Morty murmurs. The words hang between them, heavier than they should be.

Miller turns to him, his expression tightening. “That seems to be his theme here.” He shakes his head and steps away, jaw flexing as he fights the frustration threatening to boil over.

The room feels smaller now, suffocating under the weight of the crime they’re unraveling. The fluorescent glare reflects off the steel surfaces, making everything feel clinical, sanitized. But the brutality of what’s happened here taints the air itself.

Then Morty sees it.

On the evidence table, half-hidden beneath a stack of reports, something twisted and metallic catches his eye. He steps forward, reaching out, his fingers brushing over its cold, jagged edges. A hinged, cage-like contraption, intricate and cruel in its design.

It’s covered in dried blood.

Miller moves beside him, his voice barely above a whisper. “What the hell is that?”

Morty turns it over in his hands, following the pathways of tiny channels carved into the metal, a crude and grotesque maze.

His stomach twists. “It’s a maze…”

Miller stares into the contraption, horror creeping into his features. At its center is something even more disturbing, a cipher . Sloppily scrawled, ending in a question mark, a set of crosshairs beneath it.

“What kind of sicko does this to a person?” Miller mutters, but he already knows the answer.

Morty doesn’t respond. His fingers trail over a stack of glossy photographs, cold to the touch, the images just as chilling. He flips through them, his expression darkening.

In one, Commissioner Zeta-Alpha emerges from the Finite Lounge, shaking hands with a man who radiates the kind of sleazy power that stains everything it touches.

Miller leans in, jaw tightening. “That guy pushes drugs. East End.” His voice is laced with quiet fury.

Morty flips to another. Zeta-Alpha, stuffing a cash-filled envelope into his coat.

Miller’s breath catches. His entire body goes rigid. “I… I don’t understand.” His voice is unsteady, frayed at the edges. “Why would Zet get involved in this kind of stuff?”

Morty’s eyes don’t leave the picture. “Maybe he got greedy.”

Miller snaps his head toward him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Are you kidding? After everything we did to take down the Sancheziminius? We shut down their whole operation, and now you’re telling me he was part of it?”

Morty meets his gaze, voice measured, but there’s an edge to it. “Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.”

A long, heavy silence.

Miller stares at him now, his expression unreadable, but Morty doesn’t flinch.

“You make it sound like he had it coming,” Miller says finally, voice sharp.

Morty’s expression doesn’t change. “He was a cop. He crossed a line.”

Miller exhales, a slow, tired breath, as if the weight of the entire city is pressing down on him.

Something shifts in Morty’s periphery. His gaze drops back to the maze-like device, his fingers grazing the back of it. A small, crinkled envelope is taped to the underside.

He peels it off carefully, the adhesive resisting for only a second before it gives. His fingers tremble slightly as he flips it over.

It’s addressed:
“TO C-137”

Miller watches as Morty opens it.

Inside is a greeting card.

A cartoon scientist grins up at them, mixing colorful beakers, eyes wide with manic energy. The text is bright, cheerful, it’s sickeningly out of place.

“I’m MAD About You! Want To Know My Name? Just Look Inside And See…”

A sense of dread coils in Morty’s stomach. He opens the card.

Inside is a cartoonish explosion that takes up the entire space. Beneath it, a message, written in chicken-scratch handwriting:

“But, Wait. I Cannot Tell You -- It Might Spoil the CHEMISTRY!”

Morty’s breath catches. His fingers tighten around the paper.

Another line below it:

“Follow the maze till you find the rat. Bring him into the light, and you’ll find where I’m at.”

His voice is grim. Scared and serious. “The hell’s all that about? ‘Bring him into the light?’ ‘Find the rat?’” Miller’s voice is uneasy, his usual composure slipping.

Morty stares at the dimension number on the envelope.

C-137.

This psycho knows.

That alone isn’t the scariest part. The scariest part is how easy it is for people to find out, if they just dig deep enough.

Morty turns to Miller, his face pale.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights in the Citadel’s prison flickered, casting eerie shadows along the cracked tiles of the visitation cell. The air was thick with sterilized chemicals and something else, something rotten, lurking beneath the surface.

Rick stood motionless, arms crossed, towering over the sterile, lifeless room like he owned the place. The roll-up door groaned as it lifted, revealing only a sliver of the boy behind the glass.

A prisoner. A Morty.

A kid caught in the drug bust. A kid who knows way too much.

His pale hands rested idly on the metal table, fingers twitching slightly, like they were itching to do something devious. The orange jumpsuit hung loose around his small frame, but his face remained in the shadows. 

He didn’t need to be seen to be known.

Rick sighed, already tired of this. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit’s coat, pulled out a thick file, and shoved it into the partition drawer with a lazy push. 

Silence stretched between them. Then, finally, the voice came, amused, dripping with venom.

“A present?” The prisoner’s fingers skimmed the file’s cover, almost affectionate. “Almost our anniversary, isn’t it?”

Rick snorted. “Yeah, yeah, real romantic. Try not to swoon, Casanova. There’s a serial killer. I want your perspective.”

A soft chuckle, dry and mirthless. “First anniversary is paper.” A beat. “What makes you think I come so cheap?”

Rick leaned forward, unimpressed. “Because you’re sitting in a glass box wearing a jumpsuit that probably smells like ass.”

The fingers drummed against the file in a slow, mocking rhythm. “Oh, a little lurid reading. You think I get off on this stuff.”

Rick cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like your therapist? Read the damn thing.”

The voice turned coy. “Don’t you?”

Rick stared him down, unblinking.

A silence. A stalemate. Then, a dramatic sigh from the prisoner, as if Rick was the difficult one here. “Do you have pictures?”

Rick remained still. The little bastard was smiling, he could hear it in his voice. Then, finally, the file opened. A shuffle of papers. A quiet hum of approval.

“Oh, his violence is so... baroque.” A pause. “He likes to play with his food before he eats it, doesn’t he? So meticulous. It’s like he’s been planning this his whole life.” A chuckle, low, and knowing. 

“I know who he is.”

Rick’s shoulders tensed, but his voice stayed flat. “Who?”

The blurred face beyond the glass just stared.

Rick’s tone sharpened. “Who is he?”

A breath. A whisper. “He’s a nobody. Who wants to be somebody. The President. The commissioner. He’s got ambition. You could say he's... Evil ...”

“You think this 'Evil' Morty's motive’s political?”

“No,” the prisoner mused. “This is... very personal. He feels these people have wronged him. Probably goes way back. Unhealed wounds. Stolen lunch money.”

Rick scoffed. “Oh great, we got ourselves a serial-killing loser with a sob story. Tragic. Truly. You wanna write him a love letter or are you gonna be useful?”

The prisoner said nothing and Rick’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Why is he writing to me?”

The prisoner tilted his head, amused. “Maybe he’s a fan.” A pause. “Or maybe he has a grudge against you, too. Maybe you’re the main course.” He exhaled through his nose, the glass fogging slightly. 

Rick rolled his eyes. “You wanna get to the point or should I schedule a second date?”

A breath against the glass. “Any theories? I’m sure you have your own hypothesis.”

Rick hesitated. “Not yet.”

Another chuckle. “Really? You’re normally so ahead of the curve. But something’s different this time. This is... unsettling for you, isn’t it?”

Rick’s fists clenched. “Let’s get back to him.”

“Why?” The prisoner leaned in slightly, his presence pressing against the glass like a specter. “You’re so much more fun.”

Rick huffed. “Aw, you’re sweet. Maybe I’ll knit you a sweater when you rot in here.”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

A sigh, feigned disappointment. “Then what are you here to talk about?”

“I want to know how he thinks.”

“Oh, come on, you know exactly how he thinks.” The fingers dragged along the file’s edge. “Have you read this? Really read it?”

Rick’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. Almost imperceptible. But the prisoner saw. He always did.

A grin curled in the darkness. “You two... have so much in common. Hidden from view, under a name that doesn’t even exist in the Citadel’s files. But he’s even more righteous, isn’t he?” The voice dropped to a whisper, like it was sharing a secret. “Are you afraid he makes you look soft?”

Rick snorted. “Yeah, buddy, I’m pissing myself . You done jerking off, or...?”

He reached for the file as the prisoner erupted into laughter, a dry, gasping cackle that swelled, echoing through the room. Rick pressed the buzzer. The door lock clicked. He turned away, patience officially gone.

But the laughter didn’t stop. It shifted, lower, more controlled, curling into words that slithered through the air.

“Okay... okay... I’ll tell you what I really think...”

Rick’s foot hesitated mid-step. The camera above buzzed softly as it adjusted focus, closing in on the prisoner’s face as he lifted it toward the glass. The light caught his full face. A grin.

Rick didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge the revelation. The door unlocked fully, the grating sound cutting through the air. But the kid’s voice, soft and knowing, followed him like a shadow.

“I think you don’t care about his motives. Whether he loves you or hates you.” A breath. “I think... somewhere deep down... you’re just... terrified.”

Rick’s hand hovered over the door handle.

“Because you’re not sure he’s wrong.”

The heavy buzz of the lock released, slicing through the tension. Rick stepped forward, pushing into the hallway beyond. As the door slammed shut behind him, the final words seeped through the cracks like smoke.

“You think they deserved it, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

The cold sting of the night air bit at Morty's exposed skin as he shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop. Below him, the Finite Lounge pulsed like a living thing, its neon glow flickering across the rain-slicked pavement. The pounding bass from inside made the ground beneath his boots vibrate.

Rick was silent, absorbed in his work, fingers moving with precision over the portable surveillance rig. The blue light from the screen cast eerie shadows across his gaunt features, making him look more machine than man. Morty shifted uneasily, rubbing his arms.

The contact lenses clicked into place, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable. Morty winced, blinking rapidly.

"Ow! Man, I don’t know about these… they feel like they’re melting into my eyes," he muttered, squinting.

Rick barely glanced up, still focused on syncing the live feed. "I need eyes in there. Seems like this is his hunting ground."

Morty sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Why am I starting to feel like a fish on a hook? We came here to find Summer, not… not play detective!" His voice had a slight tremor beneath the forced bravado.

Rick remained unresponsive, his expression unreadable. He moved like he was running on autopilot, adjusting settings with mechanical efficiency. Morty scoffed, shaking his head.

"Boy, you're a reaaal sweetheart, Rick," he said bitterly. "You don’t care what happens to me in there tonight, do you?"

Rick’s hands stopped. He turned around to face Morty. 

“Morty, I do care - about you.” Then, suddenly, Rick stood up, making his way over to him. His voice dropped, lower now, almost... human.

"Look at me." He said softly. His hand gently moving to Morty’s chin, tilting it up slightly.

Morty hesitated, but when he finally met Rick’s gaze, it was like the world shrank around them. The noise of the Citadel, the bass from the club, it all faded. Rick’s expression was unreadable, but the weight of it settled over Morty like a stone.

Then Rick gave a single, approving nod.

"Looks good."

Without another word, he pressed a tiny earpiece into Morty's palm. Morty’s eyes went from calm, to confusion, then to annoyance. He scoffed, snatching the earpiece and shoving it into his ear with a glare.

“Sure.” Is all he said, storming off into the nightclub.

In the Finite Lounge, Morty strides through the packed club’s intensity as bass-y music blasts through the whole nightclub.

With his eye-contact lenses, Rick - who's on the other side watching through the laptop - works on getting a lock on Morty’s signal, the sound stutters and glitches as he watches Morty enter a darker space. The blasting music now muffled, and Rick finally gets a stable signal. 

He sees Morty pass the showgirls and boys who sit in front of dressing mirrors fixing their makeup or outfits. Some look at him as he passes by.

“Got you. Can you hear me?” Rick’s voice sounds through the earpiece.

“Yeah…” Morty says lowly, not thrilled. 

Rick stares at the laptop POV as Morty moves to Hawk’s backroom area. In the darkened VIP section, Hawk was already watching him. The man’s beady eyes gleamed from his seat, thick fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his glass. 

"Well. You look tense, kid. Did ya come here so I could help you release some of it?" He winks. His voice is lewd and low.

Rick, who is watching from the computer screen grimaces. 

“Jesus Christ…” Morty barely hears through the earpiece, he can picture Rick pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I wanna work downstairs tonight," Morty said smoothly, keeping his voice neutral.

Hawk’s smirk faded. "...Downstairs? Naw, you don’t wanna do that."

"I need the money."

"Kid, it’s a bunch of jackals down there. They’ll be all over you."

Morty forced a casual shrug. "I’ll be fine."

Hawk sighs, a deep sound that fills the room. He pulls out a wallet, flashing a few crisp bills before shoving it back into his pocket. “Look, what’s it gonna take to get you to listen to me, huh? I could make this a lot easier for you…”

"Riq," Morty said, voice firm.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed. "I’d do anything for you, honey. Don’t you know how I feel about you by now?"

Morty held his gaze, unmoving. After a long moment, Hawk’s expression darkened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a keycard, holding it just out of reach. Morty reached for it, but Hawk pulled back, his lips curling.

"I know you don’t see it yet, honey, nobody does. But Falcon - Rick Prime - ain’t gonna be around forever. One day, this city’s gonna be mine."

The words hang in the air, thick with the promise of something darker. Morty doesn’t respond. Finally, Hawk let the keycard slip from his fingers, Morty reached out to catch it but it fumbled onto the ground. 

His jaw clenched, but he crouched down, grabbing for it.

Before his fingers could close around it, a brutal force slammed into his back. Pain shoots through Morty’s ribs and face, a choked cry caught in his throat as Hawk’s boot presses into his spine, forcing the air from his lungs.

“Morty-!” Rick’s voice rings in his ear, sharp with panic.

Hawk leans in, a low chuckle bubbling from his chest. “How I’d pay to hear you gasp like that again.” The venom in his voice drips with malice.

“You better watch yourself. That tone of yours… I know you’re relatively new here so you don’t know the rules, kid. But you better learn soon, because trust me, you don’t wanna know what happens when you don’t learn your place.”

Rick can hear the guy smiling through the speakers of his laptop and Morty can hear him seething through the earpiece.

He clenched his teeth, his hands curling into fists against the floor. His confident facade was cracking, he could feel it slipping through his fingers like sand.

Finally, Hawk lifted his foot, and Morty sucked in a shaky breath. He weakly got up, snatching the keycard with more force than necessary. Without looking back, he pushed out of the room, his movements stiff and controlled, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Morty? You alright?” Rick’s voice is serious, but Morty can hear the slight slip of concern in it.

“It’s fine.” He mutters, approaching the elevator. The mustached bouncer who ominously guards it scowls at him, his face still bruised from their last encounter.

Morty held up the keycard, his expression hollow. "Hospitality," he muttered, more bite in his tone than he intended.

The bouncer eyed him, then the card. After a beat, he scanned it. The elevator doors slid open, and Morty stepped inside.

As the doors shut, he exhaled, pressing his fingers into his temples. "You sure no one can see these things in my eyes?" he asked, voice quiet.

Rick’s response was immediate, but softer this time. "Don’t worry. I’m watching you."

Morty swallowed. For some reason, that didn’t exactly comfort him.

The doors opened.

A different world awaited him in the De Jure Facto. The upstairs club had been chaos, but this… this was something else entirely. The energy here was darker, more depraved. A different kind of silence hung in the air, laced with fear. The Summers and Mortys here weren’t workers. They weren’t dancers. They were prisoners.

The music was softer here, more refined, like a heartbeat lurking under velvet shadows. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the scent of expensive whiskey and the faint metallic tang of something less pleasant.

A row of men turned as he walked through. Predatory gazes scanned him from head to toe, evaluating, considering.

Morty quickly averted his eyes, his breath quickening, trying to move past them.

"Don’t look away," Rick’s voice came through the earpiece, slightly sharper this time. "I need time to make IDs."

Morty swallowed hard and forced himself to meet their gazes. One by one, they leered at him, satisfied that he was just another piece of meat stepping into their world.

"Great," Morty muttered. His skin crawled as he pressed forward, past the showboys and showgirls with dead eyes, past these monsters disguised as men. Every step took him deeper into hell. He could feel their eyes still lingering on him. A chill crept up his spine, and he had the distinct, unsettling feeling that he’d just stepped into the wrong place.

Rick’s voice crackled in his ear. He sighed. "Stay sharp. If we wanna find Summer, we gotta find out more about the assholes who took her. Anyone connected to Allen, Prime, Hawk. Just try and find people who look important. I promise Junebug, we’ll find her soon, she’ll be okay. Just try and calm down."

Morty sniffs quietly. “Okay…” Is all he says, his voice is stoic. Obviously trying to hold his composure.

Morty continued to walk through the crowd, doing his best to stay calm. It wasn’t easy, not with the weight of this whole thing hanging over him like a storm cloud. His mind was elsewhere, scanning the faces in the crowd while his body kept moving, keeping the facade intact.

Rick watched Morty’s POV through the laptop carefully, his eyes were glued to the screen as it flicked through the faces and bodies that filled the space. Every now and then, a name would pop up on his screen, identifying a person of interest. Morty passed by tables and groups of people, each glance feeling more like a calculated move in a high-stakes game.

“Guy up ahead’s a Citadel councilman,” Rick’s voice came through, too calm for the situation. “The guy he's talking to isn't though.”

Morty glanced in their direction, keeping his posture confident as he passed by the group. There were too many people here, too many connections, and everything felt like it could blow up at any moment. But he kept moving, closer to the heart of the De Jure Facto, where things got darker.

“There's the chairman of the Citadel First National,” Rick continued, identifying another figure in the room. Morty tried not to look too closely at the faces Rick was calling out, he wasn’t here to make small talk with the Citadel’s elite. But then, he caught sight of a lounge area, and that’s when he saw them.

Three Ricks in suits sat around a table with two alien hospitality girls. Their faces were glazed, their eyes heavy as they passed a paper straw from one person to the next, sharply inhaling drugs to numb the pain or, perhaps, fuel their delusions. Morty couldn't help but cringe.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, a wave of disgust washing over him. “I hate these drug-addicts.”

Rick’s voice came through, almost too flippant for the setting. “Really? ‘Cause when I first saw you come through into Hawk’s office, you looked like you were dealing for him.”

Morty clenched his jaw, the sting of the comment sharper than he cared to admit. He didn’t respond right away, forcing his legs to carry him forward. “You don’t know what you're talking about, Katya made me do that job for her,” he muttered. “C-Can we not do this now?” 

Just as Morty passed the table, one of the men turned, catching a glimpse of him. His eyes lit up, thunderstruck by Morty’s appearance. He quickly turns away, his stomach dropping. He recognised that look. 

“Wait, who was that?” Rick’s voice cut through, sharp and curious.

Morty kept walking, heat rising in his cheeks. “Oh, I saw him.” He deadpanned annoyed.

“Look back.”

Morty shook his head, forcing a smile for no one in particular. “If I look back, he’s not gonna get off my ass, Rick.”

“I need to see his face.”

There was a brief pause, just long enough for Morty’s pulse to stutter. Then he turned, looking over his shoulder slightly, he smiled as warmly as he could.

The man was already standing, moving toward him. His gaze locked onto Morty’s.

“And he’s coming over...” Morty muttered, rolling his eyes. “You happy?”

Morty turned around. The man’s smile was too broad, too easy. His eyes glinted, whether from the drug or something else, Morty wasn’t sure. “How you doin’?” His voice was warm, syrupy, like he expected Morty to melt right into it. “I’m Quantum.”

Rick’s voice was calm, calculating. “That’s the DA. Rick Quantum. Talk to him.”

Morty swallowed hard, smile still plastered in place. “Hey, aren’t you the DA?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, playing dumb. “Yeah!” Quantum beamed, clearly enjoying the attention. 

“Wow, I’ve seen you on TV!” Morty giggles, trying to sound interested. He smiles with his teeth gently.

“Haven’t seen you here before. Helluva time to be the new kid. People are all a little on edge.”

“Yeah, well,” Morty replied smoothly, shrugging. “I live on the edge.”

Quantum laughed, his eyes lighting up in approval. “Oh! I like that! You wanna join us? C’mon, don’t be shy.”

Quantum led Morty over to his table, where the men were still lounging lazily, barely noticing their new companion’s arrival. Morty didn’t miss the vibe in the air, tense, charged. It was a thin thread, ready to snap at any moment.

He was introduced to the others. “This is Maximums, Deja, and you know Jennie, here?”

Morty looked over, Jennie was slouched at the table, a catatonic smile stretched across her face. Her eyes were unfocused, staring into space, as she absentmindedly fiddled with a dropper in her hand. She had pink skin, brown hair, one cyclops eye that was a light blue. She looked nice, he could give her that.

“That’s half the D.A.’s office,” Rick commented through the earpiece. Just how deep did this corruption run?

Quantum pointed to the other hospitality girli, who was slumped in her chair, her eyes glazed over. “That’s Mei, don’t mind her,” he said dismissively. “She’s just taking a break. We’re drowning our sorrows. Wanna drop?”

Morty forced a smile, leaning into the role. “No, I’m good. But honey, you enjoy.”

Quantum chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. He leaned in a little too close, his voice dropping to something more personal. “I hope you don’t mind… I’ve got a lot of weight on my shoulders with that psycho running around.”

Rick’s voice, sharp and precise, cut through the moment. “He’s wasted.”

“No shit,” Morty laughed again. Smiling with his teeth. Answering to mostly Rick.

Quantum, however, took it as a compliment, thinking he was talking to him. “Right? I like this kid!” he laughed, as if he hadn’t just revealed how fragile he truly was.

"Hey, I like you too!" Morty replied smoothly, gently, a calculated move as he placed his hand lightly on Quantum’s. 

Quantum’s expression softened, his eyes widening in something like surprise. He seemed taken aback by the touch, disarmed in a way that Morty hadn't expected.

Quantum exhaled sharply, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I mean, you don’t understand,” he began, leaning closer, his voice lowering. “This Rogue guy’s going after the most powerful guys in the Citadel, and he knows so much…”

The others at the table shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances, clearly trying to ignore the awkwardness. Morty’s curiosity piqued, but he couldn’t let on how much this was affecting him.

“He doesn’t know shit, man,” Maximums muttered, cutting across Quantum’s rambling. “You need to slow down.”

Quantum, however, wasn’t so easily dismissed. “He does,” he insisted, his voice trembling. “What about all that creepy shit in the video? About the rat?!”

Deja, sitting next to him, leaned forward, his tone flat. “Hey, c’mon, Quantum, maybe you had a little too much...”

Rick’s voice came through the earpiece, a quiet command. “Wait. Ask about the rat.”

Morty’s throat tightened, but he leaned in, a chill running down his spine. “Hey, what’s this about a rat?” he asked as innocently as he could.

Quantum’s eyes flicked over to him, and for the first time, there was a sense of intimacy in his voice. It was like he was sharing a secret with Morty, one he wasn’t supposed to. “I mean there was a rat. We had an informant. We had big-time information on Sanchezminius! That’s how we got that bastard outta the drug trafficking business. But if this guy knows, and if it ever comes out who the rat is, the whole Citadel’ll come apart.”

The words hung in the air in a thick haze, the weight of them pressing in. Morty couldn’t breathe. His eyes darted to the others at the table, but no one else seemed to notice the gravity of the conversation.

Mei, the woman whose eyes never seemed to blink, stood up abruptly, breaking the heavy silence. “Hey!” she barked, her voice harsh, like a screeching halt to an out-of-control car. “I don’t wanna hear this! This is the kind of pillow talk that made that Summer girl disappear.”

Morty’s heart slammed against his ribs. “What do you know about that?” His tone is more desperate than he wanted it to be.

Mei’s expression didn’t shift. She shrugged, taking a long drag from her cigarette, and tossed the words out casually. “Anybody want a drink?”

The air felt colder. The questions were multiplying, but Morty wasn’t sure if the answers were worth it. He was deep in it now, and getting out wouldn’t be as easy as walking away.

The tension in the room shifted as Morty watched Mei cross to the bar. He knew there was something there, something that connected the dots he needed to uncover. He tried to keep his focus, but the question about Summer gnawed at him, every second that ticked by felt like another step further into the Citadel’s web of darkness.

"Keep him talking," Rick’s voice crackled through the earpiece, sharp and direct.

Morty didn’t hesitate. But then, in the middle of the conversation, something in him snapped. Morty stood abruptly, causing Quantum to glance up in confusion, but Morty was already moving, his eyes locked on Mei.

“Where you going?” Rick demanded, his tone a warning.

Morty didn’t turn back, his voice low as he spoke through clenched teeth, trying to suppress the rising urge to act on his own. “She knows Summer.”

“No,” Rick countered, his voice growing more insistent. “Stay on the D.A. She might not even know where Summer is!”

But Morty was already too far gone. His steps carried him through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the girl at the bar, and before Rick could protest again, Morty reached out and grabbed Mei’s arm with a swift, almost desperate motion. The world seemed to slow, and Morty could feel the adrenaline kick in, pushing him forward, even though his gut was telling him this was dangerous.

Mei’s eyes flicked nervously over her shoulder as she jerked her arm away, her voice low but sharp. “Outta my face! I don’t know you.”

Morty’s grip tightened, his voice quiet but firm, with an edge of urgency. “But you know her. Who took her, what have you heard? Is she okay?”

Mei’s face twisted with frustration, but then, she glanced around the room, a silent warning to keep it down. “Jesus. Keep your voice down! What do you got, a death wish?”

Before Morty could respond, an ominous voice cut through the tension, low and foreboding.

“What’s the problem..?”

The voice was familiar, cold and unsettling, and Morty felt his spine stiffen. He didn’t need to look to know what was coming. Mei’s expression immediately shifted to something more neutral, a thin mask of calm covering her fear.

“Oh, there’s no… no problem,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just... girl talk. We’re good.”

Morty’s gaze flicked upward to the source of the voice, and in the dim light, the shadow of a figure began to take form. Beside him, Hawk lingered, a sickly, smug grin playing on his face. But it wasn’t Hawk that Morty focused on, it was the man standing with him. The man’s silhouette was sharp, cutting through the low light like a predator.

Rick’s voice was tight through the earpiece as he analyzed the situation. The facial scan struggled to ID the man’s face, his features still hidden in the shadow of the dimly lit club. 

“Who is that?” Rick asked, his voice tight with suspicion.

Morty’s eyes narrowed as the man stepped closer, his features coming into focus. A striking face, a man in his seventies, with a sharp jaw and the kind of presence that commanded attention. Morty watched, almost frozen, as the man’s face lit up when he saw Morty.

The man’s smile was unmistakable, a twisted, too-familiar grin.

“Morty,” the man said, his voice smooth and seductive. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken his name, and the way he said it carried years of a dark history.

The air between them thickened. Morty could feel it, the ghosts of their pasts lingering between them. Morty’s voice dropped, almost in a whisper as he responded, his expression guarded. “Hey.”

Rick’s voice crackled in his ear, inaudible. 

“Been a long time since I saw you here, Kiddo. How ya been?”

His voice was quieter now, a veil of discomfort settling over him. He said nothing.

Morty watched, his stomach twisting as the man’s smile lingered too long. There was a suggestion there, something more than just casual flirtation, something dangerous.

The man scoffed, grinning. “Well, don’t be a stranger,” he said, his voice smooth and suggestive.

Morty looked away quickly, his body stiffening, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. His eyes never left the floor as he slowly moved away from the man. His eyes began watering.

But Morty wasn’t given much time to think about it. The earpiece crackled again, and Rick’s voice came through, quieter now, more intense.

“You know the Falcon?”

Morty’s attention snapped back to the mission at hand. He was trying to stay focused, trying not to let the words of the man hang. But the tension in the room was palpable. “Katya told you it’s a mob spot.” His voice breaking.

Rick’s voice became sharper. “Since when did you have a relationship with him?”

Morty’s eyes locked onto his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, his expression shaken, terrified. His body stiffened as he stared down at the sink, his fingers gripping the sides. He felt like he was going to cry.

“I don’t have a relationship with him!” He snapped, glaring up at his reflection. The anger, the frustration, everything was written on his face as he removed the contacts, his movements swift and deliberate.
“Woah, woah, woah - What are you doing?” The lenses came out, the laptop screen glitching.

“Morty?”

Everything went dark.

“Morty!” Rick’s voice cut through the static, the tension in his words sharp.

Chapter Text

The cold night air wrapped itself tightly around the Citadel, a cloak of darkness hanging over it like a heavy burden. Fog clung to the edges of the streets, a thick, suffocating mist that seemed to devour the distant sounds of the Citadel. The Finite Lounge stood as a bright, flickering beacon in the gloom, its neon lights sputtering against the dark, a stark contrast to the quiet emptiness that enveloped the streets outside. Inside, the night had wound down, but the tension hung thick, as if the walls themselves were waiting for something to break.

Morty bursts out from the club, his heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement. His steps unconfident and wobbly under the dim flicker of a lone streetlamp, his eyes scanning the shadows as if he could feel the eyes that watched him. The street was eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of a nearby car engine idling, its fogged windows hinting at something waiting in the darkness.

Suddenly, a figure appeared from the shadows. His breath misting in the cold night air. 

Quantum stumbled out of the club behind Morty. His face was flushed, the glow of the club still lingering on his skin, a cocktail of desire and intoxication clouding his judgment.

"Hey!" His voice called from behind him.

Morty turned slightly, already knowing who it was before he saw him.

Quantum stepped forward from the shadows, slightly out of breath. His tie was loosened, his shirt untucked, and his face still held the flush of someone who had spent the evening drinking and talking too much. He swayed slightly, blinking against the glare of the streetlamp above them.

"Lost you in there."

Morty glanced at him briefly, sniffling. "Yeah, I had to go."

Quantum shifted on his feet, awkward but hopeful. "Need a ride?"

A silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the occasional honk of a distant car. Quantum scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward his black SUV parked a few feet away. 

“That’s me just right there.” Quantum points with a slow hand. He hunches over slightly, huffing.

Right on cue, a cab pulled up to the curb. The vehicle’s tires hissed against the wet pavement. Morty shook his head. "No, I’m good."

He didn’t hesitate, reaching for the door handle, eager to leave.

Quantum hesitated before speaking again. "Well, I hope I-"

The cab door closed, cutting off the words. The vehicle pulled away, leaving Quantum standing alone on the dimly lit street. He sighed, fishing in his pocket for his key fob. A short beep sounded as he unlocked his SUV, parked just a few steps away.

A hooded figure, which had been lingering at the edge of the fog, stepped closer, its presence unsettling and quiet. Quantum, oblivious to the danger that was now closing in on him, watched the taillights of Morty’s cab fade into the distance. 

From behind, the hooded figure drifted closer, a shadow within the shadows. The faintest rustle of fabric against the wind was the only warning Quantum had before the figure’s presence became undeniable. Quantum’s gaze snapped to the SUV, and for the briefest moment, he considered heading in, perhaps to drive away from the night that had started to sour.

He turned toward the vehicle, his steps hesitant. And yet, the figure remained, just beyond his reach, watching him intently.

As he slid into the SUV, the faint creak of leather beneath him was the only sound. He fumbled with the seatbelt, the fog on the windshield making it difficult to see clearly. His hand moved mechanically, swiping at the glass in an attempt to clear the condensation, unaware of the figure rising slowly behind him.

The air in the car grew cold, suffocatingly so, as if the very essence of the night had come alive. Quantum leaned forward, his breath fogging up the glass even more. But as he straightened, something felt... wrong. There was a presence in the back seat, closer now than ever before.

Before he could react, the figure moved.

Quantum spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. A figure was already there, towering over him. The glint of metal flashed in the dim interior of the SUV. A metal tool, heavy and brutal, came down hard on Quantum’s skull, a sickening thud echoing in the silence. He slumped forward, his head hitting the steering wheel with a sickening crash, the car horn blaring out into the night, an unsettling sound that only seemed to amplify the terror unfolding within.

The figure wasted no time. A roll of duct tape was ripped free, the sound sharp and final as it tore through the air. Quantum groaned, regaining a sliver of consciousness, but the panic set in when the tape was pressed against his mouth, sealing him in a world of horror he couldn’t escape.

The figure’s breath was heavy, controlled, as the hands continued their work, lifting a crude clamp, positioning it around Quantum’s neck. His instincts kicked in, his body flailing in terror, but the clamp tightened, relentless and cold. The sound of metal clicking into place echoed in the SUV as Quantum’s cries turned into muffled gasps. The figure’s presence loomed large, suffocating in the small space, the rhythmic fogging of his aviator glasses betraying the dark figure’s every breath.

“Just hold still,” the figure’s voice came, low and distorted, as if the very words were drenched in malice.

Quantum’s vision blurred, his body failing him as the clamp dug into his skin, squeezing tighter, tighter, until all that remained was darkness.

Chapter Text

The pre-dawn light was creeping over the horizon, a pale wash of color against the oppressive gloom that held the Citadel in its grip. A police cruiser rolled past an old sign that read, "The Citadel’s Redevelopment Fund - For a Brighter Tomorrow." It was a bitter irony, given the rot that festered beneath the city’s surface.

Miller stepped out of the car, his boots clicking against the cold concrete as he made his way to an old construction site. The city’s skyline loomed in the distance, jagged and unfinished, just like the many broken promises that had been made to the Citadel’s people. The construction elevator creaked as it ascended, carrying him up to the highest unfinished floor.

Miller didn’t have time for sentiment. As the elevator doors opened, he stepped out into the cavernous expanse, his boots echoing off the steel girders as he made his way toward the center of the floor. He caught a glimpse of a small figure sitting on the edge of the tower. Miller didn’t know why Morty asked him to come out all the way here.

From where Morty was, his voice emerged. Low and grave.

“What do you know about a confidential informant in the Sancheziminius case?”

Miller froze. “Yeah, sure,” he responded, his voice steady despite the tension in his chest. “There’s a rat. Everyone knows that.”

Morty’s words came next, clipped and purposeful. “That’s the rat we’re looking for. Somehow, that Rogue guy knows who he is. We find the rat, maybe that’ll lead us to him.”

Miller’s brow furrowed. “Where are you getting this from?”

“I…” He stutters. “...I have a source who spoke to the D.A. tonight. Quantum’s very nervous. He thinks the killer’s targeting people connected to the case.”

Miller’s stomach sank. “I worked that case too…”

Morty’s voice cut through the air again, quieter now, softer. “He’s not after you.”

Miller’s eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. “How do you know?”

“You’re not corrupt,” Morty replied simply, almost dismissively.

Miller hesitated, before asking, “Quantum’s dirty?”

Morty’s nod was all the confirmation Miller needed. 

“Well, maybe I go after Quantum, tell him to give up the rat,” Miller says.

“No, it’s too dangerous. Quantum said that there was a secret deal with this guy. Whatever it is, it’s huge. And who knows how many people it touches. Politicians, police, the courts. It could tear the Citadel apart.” 

The weight of the revelation hit him like a truck. “Jesus… this is a power keg,” he muttered under his breath.

“And Rogue’s the match,” Morty finished, his voice low, final, and filled with a foreboding certainty that made Miller’s blood run cold.

Morty looks out into the night sky. He sighs.

“I guess I should get back, to Rick. I think I’m going to make an appearance… As Freeman.”

Miller’s face stiffens. 

“Are you actually?”

“I think I should. Allen’s funeral is tomorrow, there might be something there. Especially anyone connected to the case.”

Miller sighs. He puts a hand on Morty’s shoulder.

“Alright, well. I guess I’ll see you and Rick tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Is all Morty says.

Morty stood in the dimly lit living room of their apartment, pacing anxiously. His mind was racing, his stomach twisted in knots. The city outside hummed with life. Sirens in the distance, muffled voices, the occasional honk, but inside, the tension was suffocating. He rubbed his hands together, trying to ground himself, but it wasn’t working.

Rick stomped in from the other room, lugging a stack of black armor. His usual half-lidded, disinterested expression flickered into something almost human when he saw Morty, for a split second, he actually cared, but just as quickly, he schooled his face back to neutral.

"Well, look at you, all suited up," Rick muttered, eyeing Morty’s uniform with mild disapproval. "You, uh, you actually going to that dumbass memorial?"

Morty shot him a look. "Yeah, Rick, I am. Someone connected to all this crap is gonna be there, and I… I need to be there to see it. Why aren’t you going? We - we need to take every shot we can at tracking these bastards down! They took Summer, remember? Or, or are you just fine letting that go?"

Rick snorted and dumped the armor onto the dining table with a loud clatter. "Oh, gee, Morty, thanks for the reminder! I totally forgot that my granddaughter was kidnapped by a bunch of fucking criminal douchebags !" 

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe not, uh, bright and early with the rest of the Citadel’s sheep, but I’ll be there. Goin’ undercover. Gonna try and, y’know, actually get something useful out of this circus. Serial killers love this kinda shit, watching people react to their work."

Morty exhaled sharply through his nose. He knew Rick had a plan. He always did. But that didn’t stop the anxiety clawing at his insides. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

Rick didn’t have to ask what was on Morty’s mind. He already knew.

The De Jure Facto. That name alone made Morty’s skin crawl. The guy had barely done anything to him directly, but the presence, the way he moved, the look in his eyes, it was enough to make Morty’s brain flash back to things he didn’t want to think about. He swallowed hard, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him like a film of grease.

Rick didn’t press. Instead, he casually changed the subject, breaking the tension with his usual nonchalance.

"Took the liberty of, uh, dicking around with that cipher some more. Y’know, from the cage around the Commissioner’s head."

Morty blinked, snapping out of his daze. "And?"

Rick grabbed a scrap of paper from the table and waved it around. "Dude’s Spanish is dogshit, but pretty sure it translates to ‘You are el rata alada.’"

Morty frowned. "El rata alada? The hell does that mean?"

Rick shrugged, dropping the paper onto the table. "A rat with wings. Citadel slang. Could be a pigeon. Could be a stool pigeon. Either way, someone’s snitching. Or, or someone’s about to get their ass handed to ‘em for knowing too much."

Morty groaned, rubbing his face. "Great. So we’re looking for… what? A traitor? A setup? Some poor bastard who doesn’t even realize they’re a target? That, that really narrows it down, Rick."

"Well, gee, Morty, sorry my decoding skills didn’t just hand you the guy on a silver platter." Rick rolled his eyes and went back to fiddling with the armor.

Morty glanced over at it again, curiosity flickering through his frustration. "Okay, but, uhm, what’s with the S.E.A.L. armor? And why’s it all black? Isn’t that, like, weird?"

Rick barely looked up. "Miller lent it to me. Said it’d help with the whole ‘blending in’ thing. Miller said that it’s armor from the old S.E.A.L. special elite. Discontinued it because there was nothing that ever required the SSE teams to go out, so he gave an armor set to me."

Morty snorted. "Does it even fit?"

Rick finally turned to look at him, face flat and unimpressed. "‘Does it even fit,’" he repeated mockingly, mimicking Morty’s voice. "Gee, Morty, why would I not make sure that this armor fits? What do you think, I just, just strapped on some random tactical gear and hoped for the best? God, you really think I’m that incompetent?"

Morty rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, jeez, just asking."

Rick strapped the last of the gear onto himself. The sleek black plating locked into place with precision, transforming him into something entirely different. He wasn’t just Rick anymore, he was something cold, something lethal. 

Morty had seen him suit up a hundred times before, but something about this, about the way the armor fit too perfectly, about the way Rick carried himself in it, made his skin prickle.

Then, finally, Rick grabbed the helmet. He slid it on and flicked a switch on the side. There was a soft mechanical hiss as a bulletproof visor snapped down, covering his face entirely.

Morty’s eyes widened slightly. "Did you… did you paint that?"

Rick tilted his head slightly. "Looks sick, don’t it, kiddo?” His voice spoke through a voice modulator, distorted and low. 

“Look, it even has night vision built into it." Rick fiddles with the side of his helmet again and finds a second button. He switches it on and two white, eye-shaped… lights? Switch on. Morty guesses it has something to do with high-visibility fabrics but either way, he can’t lie that Rick looks sick.

Morty huffed. "You look like a fucking wraith."

Rick smirked under the visor. "Good. That’s the point."

Morty turned away, arms crossed. His nerves were still frayed, but at least now, for a moment, they had something to focus on. Something they could chase. Something that might finally give them answers.

And maybe, just maybe, get them closer to finding Summer.

Chapter Text

The low purr of the engine vibrated through Morty’s hands as he gripped the steering wheel, his fingers idly brushing against the cool metal of his cufflinks. The city blurred past, its towering buildings and neon lights reflected in the windshield, but Morty’s focus was drawn to the throngs of mourners gathered outside the Citadel’s Hall. The streets were packed, candles flickered, homemade signs bobbed above heads, and a restless energy hummed through the crowd. His stomach clenched when he spotted them.

Among the mourners, a man in an olive-green hood stood motionless, holding up a weathered sign. A question mark was scrawled in the center, encircled by crude crosshairs. 

Just behind him, another hooded figure hoisted a placard: WHO ELSE DIES FOR THE CITADEL’S LIES?  

A third sign, painted in frantic strokes, read: OUR DAY OF JUDGEMENT.

Morty swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. He barely noticed the traffic officer who approached his car window. The cop hesitated, blinking in recognition, before offering a small nod and waving him through. Morty pulled into the designated area and cut the engine. The city noise rushed in, distant sirens, murmured conversations, camera shutters clicking like insect wings. As he stepped out, a valet was already reaching for the door handle.

Then, a voice cut through the noise.
“-Is that Morty Freeman?”

He froze. The moment the words left the onlooker’s lips, others caught on.

“Wait, that’s him!” 

“Mr. Freeman! Over here!”

Morty kept his head low, jaw tightening. The flashing lights of cameras popped in his periphery. He ignored them, pulling out his wallet to slip some cash to the valet when a voice, smooth and slow like oil over water, stopped him.

“Can I help ya, Mr. Prime?”

Morty turned sharply. His breath caught in his throat. A sleek black car had just rolled up, and from it emerged Prime himself, flanked by his usual muscle. But Morty’s eyes weren’t on Prime. They were on the girl stepping out behind him. She was clad in a sleek, high-slit dress, her features partially obscured beneath the brim of a veiled hat. There was something achingly familiar in the way she carried herself, in the way her gloved fingers grazed Falon’s arm. 

Morty’s gut twisted. Mei. The girl from the club.

He barely registered the valet waiting for his tip as he moved instinctively, pushing forward into the press of bodies. His pulse drummed against his ribs as he wove through the crowd, his eyes locked onto her figure. She was just ahead, slipping through Prime's security detail. If he could just-

A heavy hand slammed into his chest.

“Hey, hey! Watch the hell out, kid,” a gruff voice snapped.

Morty stumbled back, his eyes darting up. A tall, built-set man with a permanent scowl and an unmistakably broken nose stood in his path. Hawk. Prime's bodyguards had reacted immediately, gripping Morty’s arms before he could take another step.

“Let ‘im go,” Prime's voice called lazily. “You’re roughin’ up the prince of the city.”

The guards loosened their grip, but Morty barely noticed. His gaze darted past them, past the hulking silhouettes, searching for the woman. But she was gone.

His heart pounded against his ribs, frustration burning in his gut. He clenched his jaw as Prime finally turned to look at him, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Some event,” Prime commented, his voice a low drawl. “Brought out the one boy in the city more reclusive than me.”

Morty’s stomach churned, a wave of anxiety rising in his chest. He fought to keep his voice even, but it was a struggle. “I thought you never left the Shoreline,” he said, his words stiff, like a practiced act. “Aren’t you afraid someone’ll take a shot at you?”

Prime let out a dry chuckle, his eyes glinting with the weight of old memories. “Ya mean now that your mother ain't around?” he muttered. “Riq, you know Morty Freeman?”

“Riq.” – Hawk, standing nearby with a raised eyebrow – let out a whistle. “Seriously?”

Prime gestured toward Morty, his voice growing quieter but more personal. “His mother saved my life. I got shot in the chest, right here.” Prime pats his side, the memory still fresh. “The kid's mother was a surgeon.” He says, clearly leaving out the part she was a horse surgeon.

“Couldn’t go to no hospital, so we showed up on her doorstep. She took me in, operated right on her dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing.”

The words hang between them like a thick fog. “You don’t think that meant something, she did that?” Prime asks, his gaze sharpening.

Morty’s throat tightens, the old wound opening just a crack. He forces a smile, though it’s a little too tight around the edges. 

“Means she took the Hippocratic Oath,” he says, his voice cold, his fear masked behind the words.

“… Hippocratic Oath, right… that’s good…” Prime mutters, as if the words don’t quite register.

“Excuse me…” And without another word, Morty brushes past him, his focus narrowing as he steps into the crowd, his heart still hammering. He hears Prime laugh loudly behind him.

Morty glances back at him. The one whose glare could freeze a person in their tracks. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, lock with Morty’s for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange passing between them, thick with animosity. 

While Morty prowl’s he scans the crowd. As he peers up to the second story, he clocks lined rifled officers among the spectators above. He studies the crush of faces in the standing public gallery. Some people are in tears.

A P.A. Announcer sounds over the Hall’s loud speakers. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to today’s memorial for our beloved President, Rick Allen. Our program will begin shortly. As a reminder, the family asks that those wishing to honor the President's memory consider a donation to the cause most dear to his heart. The Citadel’s Redevelopment Fund. Our Citadel’s safety net-”

Morty sees cops stopping a suspicious guy as he tried to walk into the VIP section, suddenly an eerie voice comes from behind him. 

“What good’s a safety net if it doesn’t catch anybody…?” 

Morty turns, he comes face to face with a bitter Rick who wears a hooded work jacket. His angry, tired eyes on the VIPs as they file past.

“Didn’t help my grandson when he needed it, I can tell you that… Guy was just another rich scumsucker. He got what he deserved.” 

Finally, the Rick’s eyes move to meet Morty’s, his face sending chills down Morty’s spine. Morty studies the mans acne-scarred face. Suddenly, the Rick’s expression shifts, as if trying to place Morty.

“Hey… Don’t I know you?” The Rick asks. Morty looks at him empathetically.

“Morty Freeman?” Suddenly another voice sounds behind him. 

Startled, Morty spins around to see Morty Rougel coming towards him. Rougel has a look on his face that Morty can’t quite pinpoint.

“Why haven’t you called me back?” He asks, his voice is stern and gentle at the same time.

“Uh… I’m sorry-?”

“I’m Morty Rougel. I’m running for President. I wouldn’t be bothering you here, but I keep getting told that you’re unavailable. Will you walk with me?”

Rougel grabs Morty by his arm and leads him toward the front, the stark elegance of his stride mirroring the directness of his words. 

They move through the crowd, Morty’s gaze lingering on the boy, whose glare never wavers, even as they recede into the throng. Morty gazes behind him, trying to find the Rick who spoke to him. Then, like a shadow swallowed by the crowd, the Rick is gone.

“Mr. Freeman?” The voice of Rougel cuts through again. Morty whips his head around to face him.

“You know, you really could be doing more for the Citadel,” he says bluntly, his voice carrying the weight of someone who knows the game. 

“Your mother had a history of philanthropy, but as far as I can tell, you're not doing anything. If I'm elected, I want to change that.”

His words hang in the air, unrelenting. As they near the front, the soft, haunting notes of a 'For The Damaged Coda' float through the hall, emanating from a boy’s choir perched on the central steps. The song seems to underscore the heavy mood, a dirge for the city’s lost hopes. Rougel smiles disarmingly, as if nothing could be more natural than taking on the city’s wounds, one promise at a time.

“Will you wait for me?” he asks, turning to Morty as they reach the designated area. “I want to go pay my respects. My God… what a mess. His poor daughter and grandson…” He doesn’t wait for his response before slipping away, leaving Morty standing there, momentarily struck by his nerve and undeniable charisma.

As Rougel moves toward the two Allens, Morty’s eyes are drawn to the President's ten-year-old grandson. The boy turns, awkwardly meeting Morty’s gaze for just a heartbeat before looking away, lost in the weight of grief and confusion. It’s a sad, fleeting moment, one that Morty doesn’t have time to dwell on.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the somber atmosphere, hushed but familiar.

“'Scuse me, Chief? Can I talk to you...?”

Morty turns, his eyes locking a group of police. A detective stands a few rows back, flanked by officers, a tense exchange taking place with the seated Chief of Police. Miller’s fingers gently touch the Chief’s arm, his expression serious, focused.

“Rick Quantum is missing…” Miller’s words hang in the air, heavy with an unspoken urgency.

The Chief looks at him, his brow furrowing in disbelief. “What?”

“He hasn’t been heard from since last night,” Miller continues, his voice low, controlled, but there’s an undercurrent of unease that Morty can’t ignore.

One of the officers, Carter, notices Morty’s attention and smiles, surprised. “...Hey, Mr. Freeman!”

Miller’s gaze sharpens, falling on Morty with a wariness that’s unsettling. The two boys share a charged, unspoken understanding, their relationship strained by the secrets they both know.

The Chief, oblivious to the shift in mood, grumbles. “Christ, not again... You got people looking for him, Miller?”

“Sent some people to his house. Nothing.”

“What’d his daughter say?”

“She hadn’t-” Before Miller could finish his sentence, like a sudden crack of thunder, the ground shook.

A distant scream pierced the air. It was followed by the deafening growl of an engine revving to life, too loud. Then, the sickening thud of metal on concrete. Morty’s blood ran cold.

Panic erupts among the spectators, confusion and fear spreading like wildfire. Morty’s gaze darts to the second-floor landing, where people are scrambling to the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the source of the chaos. Then, the crowd parts as a silhouetted figure stands at the ledge, eerily calm, watching the unfolding disaster with chilling detachment. 

And then — BAM! — the main entrance explodes in a shower of glass and concrete. The D.A.’s SUV rips through the doors with brutal force, plowing through flowers and bodies in a blur of destruction. The crowd scatters in all directions, some tossed into the air by the force of the crash, others tripping over each other in a frantic scramble for safety. The vehicle barrels forward, slamming through the guardrails and heading straight into the seated area.

Morty reacts instinctively, spinning toward the President's grandson, who stands frozen in shock just a few feet away. Without thinking, Morty throws himself forward, tackling the boy out of harm’s way just as the SUV roars past them. The vehicle's momentum sends seats flying over their heads before it finally crashes into the central staircase, buckling under the impact. The grinding sound of the engine is deafening, its shriek finally cutting off in a sickening, final stop.

For a brief moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence. Then, the screams begin, louder, more frantic. 

The room erupts into chaos, but Morty’s focus remains sharp. He lifts his head from where he shielded the boy, scanning the wreckage, his eyes darting upward to the second floor. The figure is gone, vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The boy, still shaken, scrambles to his feet and runs straight into his mother’s waiting arms, and Morty watches them with an odd mix of relief and sorrow. The moment is fleeting, his attention shifts again, and he sees Miller, now surrounded by multiple officers, their guns drawn, all focused on the wreckage of the SUV.

“Get out of the car!” Miller screams. “Get out of the car and show your hands!”

The vehicle, battered and scarred, bears an ominous message, scratched into its body mockingly: “D.A. – D.O.A.?”

Morty edges closer through the fleeing mourners, his eyes narrowing as he studies the scene.

“Get out!” Miller’s voice sounds again.

Then, with a sudden and horrific clarity, the driver’s door creaks open. The sound echoes through the hall, building the tension in the room. 

“Get ‘em up! Get out- Show them!” another officer shouts.

Morty’s breath catches as a figure stumbles out, hands raised in surrender, blood dripping from his face.

Miller’s voice cuts through the thickening fog of dread. “Christ, it’s Quantum.”

The D.A., his face mangled and barely recognizable, staggers forward, tape over his mouth, the words “NO MORE LIES” scrawled across it. A twisted clamp is fastened around his neck, its menacing presence sparking instant panic among the officers.

A cop’s voice rings out, sharp with horror. “There’s a bomb around his neck!”

The room is on the verge of chaos again. Morty’s pulse quickens as he takes a step closer, his mind racing. 

There was a sudden beeping that echoed through the halls, a sharp, insistent sound that clawed at the nerves of everyone in the room. 

RING-RING-RING

It was rhythmic, a countdown. A time bomb’s taunting signal. Panic rippled through the crowd, but the D.A. stood unmoving, his face bruised and swollen, as though the chaos swirling around him couldn’t touch him. He raised a trembling hand, almost sheepishly, revealing a cell phone taped to his palm. 

RING-RING-RING  

The noise kept going, louder now, rattling the fragile calm in the room.

A chorus of shouts rang out, voices filled with urgency. “Clear the room! Get everyone out now!”

Miller’s voice cut through the madness, sharp and commanding. Officers rushed in every direction, ushering people out of the room, but Morty stayed still. His eyes were locked on the D.A., a sharp, calculating gaze that didn’t falter for a second.

And then, he noticed it.

Taped to the D.A.’s chest, half-hidden under the wreck of his shirt, was a greeting card. The paper was wrinkled, stained with the remnants of blood, but the words stood clear. 

"To C-137" was written in a disturbingly manic script.

Morty’s pulse quickened, his fingers twitching at his side. He needs Rick to show up. Now.

The phone continued to beep, its sound now a constant presence, deafening in its intensity. 

RING-RING-RING

Morty’s eyes flickered, then, without a word, he turned and ran out of the building.

Outside, the world was already in chaos. Emergency vehicles filled the streets, their sirens blaring as they rushed toward the city hall. Police, S.E.A.L teams, and news crews swarmed the area like a tidal wave. People were shouting, scrambling in every direction, but Morty moved through them all, his movements precise, deliberate, a man in full control of the chaos. His gaze never wavered from the front doors of the building, where the destruction was still unfolding.

Back inside, the tension was palpable. The CCD’s trailer was a frenzy of activity, police techs shouting commands, officers arguing over jurisdiction. But amidst it all, Miller stood, staring in disbelief at the monitors.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, barely audible over the din. He was a man used to chaos, but this, this felt different.

In the hall, Officer Carter was pacing, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors. “They’re fightin' over jurisdiction,” he grumbled, frustration and worry lining his voice. “And that poor bastard’s gonna blow.”

The D.A. sat alone, a figure of hopelessness in the distance, the phone still taped to his hand, ringing like an executioner’s drum. The S.E.A.L. team watching from the doors and the monitor in the back of the CCD truck.

RING-RING-RING

Quantum, the D.A., lifted his head slowly, as though the weight of the world was finally too much for him to bear. His face was bruised, barely recognizable, and his eyes were empty. His breath came in shallow gasps, like a man already resigned to whatever fate awaited him.

A small, whirring police robot rolled to a stop in front of him. The metallic feet clacked across the floor as it approached, a camera extending from its body, zooming in toward Quantum’s face. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t react. It was as though he was waiting for the end to come.

Back at the command trailer, a voice broke through the tension.

“We got video surveillance!” the tech called out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The screen flickered to life. Quantum’s face filled the monitor, bloodied and bruised, but still alive. The phone on his palm beeped louder.

Miller turned away, his jaw clenched, trying to mask the rising panic in his chest. “We need to act now,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Outside, the world had turned into a storm of flashing lights and frantic voices. Emergency vehicles flooded the streets, their sirens deafening as they arrived at the scene. Police officers moved with grim determination, setting up perimeters, clearing people out of the way. 

Morty slipped through the crowd, a duffle bag still in his grip, moving toward the building with purpose.

The beeping was louder now, relentless, and his heart raced in time with it. 

RING-RING-RING

It wasn’t just a countdown. It was a message.

Rick better get here in time.

Chapter Text

The tension in the room grew unbearable. The leads, usually so composed, found themselves frozen in place as they crowded around the monitor. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the feed, the image of Rick Quantum staring blankly into the robot camera. But then, suddenly, his expression shifted. A jolt of shock flickered across his face.

Chief Richard Bodack, standing at the front of the group, furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What’s he lookin’ at?" he asked, his voice tight with uncertainty.

Inside the Citadel’s Hall, Quantum sat motionless, his fear clear on his face as heavy footsteps echoed slowly from a dark hallway. Quantum kept his gaze on the hallway. The clinking of boots on marble getting louder. 

Then, from the shadows, someone emerged. Silent and imposing, his figure cut through the dimly lit room as he moved slowly across the floor toward Quantum. A SSE team member cursed under his breath.

"Holy shit… An SSE?"

Chief Richard Bodack’s eyes widened in disbelief as Rick appeared on the robot’s cameras, an unsettling presence in the middle of all this chaos.

"Are you kiddin' me?!" Bodack barked. "What the hell's this guy doing...?!" He spun around to Miller, whose face was etched with growing concern as he watched the screen.

"Who the hell is that?!" Bodack shouted, but Miller didn’t flinch. He was too focused on the unfolding scene.

Inside the hall, Rick stopped just a few feet away from Quantum, his newly ominous form looming over the terrified prosecutor. Quantum sat, shaking, his hands trembling as Rick reached over to rip the tape off Quantum’s mouth.

RING-RING-RING

"He made me do it, I’m so sorry!" Quantum pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Said if I didn’t do exactly what he said, he’d kill me... Please! Can't somebody get this thing off?!"

Rick’s gaze hardened. His voice was low, steady, without a trace of emotion.

"Looks like a combination lock."

Quantum’s eyes widened in panic.

"Can’t you cut it off?!" he begged, his voice rising in terror.

Rick’s fingers brushed against a thick snarl of trip wires, his eyes narrowing.

"Sure. If you don’t mind losing your head for it." Rick replied, his voice cold and unyielding.

With a swift motion, Rick ripped the greeting card off Quantum’s chest. The front was cartoonish, an old phone ringing off the hook, the caption reading, "In These Trying Times, Never Forget..." Rick opened the card, revealing a second message scrawled beneath the illustration: "... I'm Just A Phone Call Away" which was followed by angry, jagged writing: "ANSWER."

RING-RING-RING

Rick’s finger hovered over the ringing cell phone as it vibrated in Quantum’s hand. Quantum hesitated, but the weight of the situation was unbearable.

"Wait, wait, NO!" Quantum protested. "What if it’s connected to the-"

The phone rang once more before cutting off and the screen flickered to life. A split-screen appeared, showing Rogue on one side, Rick and Quantum on the other. Rogue’s face was partially obscured by the hood, his expression unreadable, as he stared back at Rick with eerie calm.

"You..." Rogue’s voice slithered through the phone, steady and almost... amused.

Rick’s tone didn’t change. "Yeah? And you are?"

Rogue leaned in slightly, his words almost a whisper. "Me? I’m... nobody. I’m just... an instrument... Here to reveal the truth about this cesspool we call a Citadel..."

Rick’s gaze sharpened. "Reveal...?"

Rogue’s tone grew even colder, if that was possible. "Yes... let’s do it together, okay? I’ve been trying to reach you... You’re part of this too..."

Rick’s expression remained unreadable. "Cute. And how exactly do I fit into your little psycho manifesto?"

Rogue didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the screen, his fingers drumming lightly against the side of his phone. "You’ll see," he replied cryptically.

Meanwhile, at the CCD, chaos had erupted. The techs gathered around another monitor, watching in horror as the live feed from Rogue’s phone broadcasted across social media. The headline flashed across the screen: "UNKNOWN SSE MEMBER TALKS TO KILLER LIVE." The reactions were immediate, everyone crowding around the screens in disbelief.

"Can you trace the goddamn call?!" Chief Bodack barked, panic creeping into his voice.

One of the techs threw his hands up in frustration. "It’s... it’s not a call, Chief... it’s a... a stream."

Back inside the Citadel’s Hall, Rogue’s voice came through again, cutting through the air like a knife.

"At the moment... the man across from you, Mr. Quantum, is dead." Rogue talks to an unknown crowd

Quantum’s face twisted in fear, and he sputtered, "Jesus CHRIST—"

"Wait a minute..." Rogue’s voice was suddenly far more calm, almost disturbingly so. 

“Can we PLEASE get somebody OVER HERE?!” Quantum begged.

"Shut up-" 

“THIS PSYCHO’S GONNA KILL-”

“SHUT UP! SHUUT UPPP!” Rogue roared. "You DESERVE to be dead after what you did! YOUU, HEEARR, MEE?!"

Quantum flinched, shrinking into himself as the words cut him deep. Rogue’s outburst hung in the air, suffocating the room with its intensity.

Then, just as quickly, Rogue’s voice softened again, chilling in its calm.

"I’m giving you a chance. No one... ever... gave me a chance..." he said, his voice almost nostalgic. 

Rick’s gaze sharpened. "Oh, great. A speech. Just what I needed."

"Now... ever since I was a child, I’ve always loved little games. For me, they’re... a retreat from the horrors of this Citadel. Maybe they can bring some comfort to you too, Mr. Quantum."

Quantum was visibly shaken, his voice shaking as he whispered, "You... want me to do... games..?"

Rick pinches the bridge of his nose through the helmet. “Oh brother…” He sighs, irritated.

Rogue’s grin, unseen but undoubtedly there, stretched wide. "Yes. How about something cliche? THREE, riddles. In TWO minutes. You give me the answers, and I’ll give you the code for the lock. Do you... understand?"

Quantum nodded, his mind racing. "Uh, okay, yeah- so you just... want me to..?"

Before Quantum could finish, a sharp beep sounded from the collar around his neck. The countdown clock flashed on the screen: 2:00 MINUTES.

“BOOP!” He yelled childishly. And just like that, Rogue began. 

"Number one: It can be cruel, poetic, or blind, but when it’s denied, it’s violence you may find."

Quantum stuttered in confusion, his mind struggling to catch up. "W-wait! Can you repeat that? I didn’t- cruel... poetic...?"

Rick’s voice, low and certain, answered from beside him.

"Justice."

Quantum blinked “Huh?” 

“The answer’s ‘Justice’.” Rick repeats again. 

“J-Justice!” Quantum practically screams.

"YEES! Justice!” Rogue squeals in mock excitement. Relief washes over Quantum as the first one was solved.

“And YOU were supposed to be an arm of justice in this Citadel, along with the late President and police commissioner, WERE YOU NOT, MR. QUANTUM?"

Quantum swallowed, his throat dry. "Yes! Yes, of course- We-"

"NUMBER TWO! If you are justice, please do not lie. What is the price for your blind eye?"

Quantum’s face paled, panic creeping back in as the seconds ticked away. He could barely breathe, but the answer surfaced from the depths of his conscience.

“Bribes.” Rick states flatly.

"O-oh God, bribes?!" he cried, barely able to force the words out. 

Rick nodded grimly. "He’s asking how much it costs for you to turn your back."

Quantum hesitated. His mind screamed for him to say anything but the truth, but the clock was ticking. Quantum wheezed, he was practically crying.

“FIFTY-EIGHT SECONDS!” Rogue shouts. Impatient.

“How much.” Rick’s voice grows cold.

“N-nothing-!”

“HOW MUCH!” Rick roars. Quantum flinches, hard, he stumbles for words, panicked.

"Ten- ten grand! Ten Gs a month, I get a monthly payment just to not prosecute certain cases!" he confessed, his voice was quick and trembling - breaking, he was barely able to look Rick in the eye. 

Rick’s gaze on him darkened. "What cases?"

Quantum’s voice faltered. "He didn’t ask me that! C’mon, ten grand! T-that’s your answer!"

Rogue, seemingly amused, laughed loudly before he responded. "Okay! Okay, don’t lose your head, Mr. Quantum! Just one more to go... Before your time... runs... out."

Quantum’s heart raced in his chest, the sweat beading on his forehead as Rogue posed the final riddle.

"LAST ONE: Since your justice is sooo, select , please tell us, which vermin you're paid to protect..."

Quantum’s mind reeled. "...Which vermin?" he asked, his voice shaking.

Rick’s voice was razor-sharp. "The rat. The informant you all protect from the Sanchezminius case."

Quantum’s eyes widened. "How do you know about that..?" he spoke softly.

Rick’s voice grew impatient. "What’s his name."

“Twenty seconds!” Rogue taunted, giggling. Dangerously close to madness.

Quantum recoiled, shaking his head violently. "No... no-no-no-no-no... You don’t understand!"

Rick’s hand gripped Quantum’s shoulder with iron force. "He’s gonna kill you."

Quantum’s body trembled, the weight of the situation crashing down on him.

"I’m a dead man either way!" he screamed. "You’re talking to a dead man, OKAY?! If I go out this way, it’s just ME!” Quantum began, panic rising in his chest. 

“But if I give over that NAME, I’ve got FAMILY, PEOPLE I LOVE! He’ll kill them too!" Quantum sobs.

Rick’s eyes narrowed, the weight of the situation pressing in on him. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady, cutting through the rising tension.

"What are you talking about? Who will?"

Quantum's face twisted, his mind unraveling. His gaze darted nervously to the walls, the cameras, the shadows that surrounded them. 

"People are WATCHING," he breathed, almost desperate to be understood.

Rick pressed, his patience thinning. "What people?”

Quantum’s face contorted in agony as he screamed his warning.

"LISTEN TO ME, GODDAMMIT!"

But just as quickly, Rogue’s voice crackled through the phone, an eerie calm that cut through the chaos. Quantum lashed forward at Rick, glaring at him straight in his face. “It’s so much bigger than you could ever imagine.” He stated darkly. “It’s the WHOLE. SYSTEM!”

“FIVE…! FOUR…! THREE-!”

“Oh, God! Have mercy on me-!” Quantum begged.

“GOOOODBYYYEE!”

Before Rick could react, the countdown reached zero.

Quantum’s screams were swallowed by the ear-piercing BOOM! 

The blast tore through the room with devastating force. Rick instinctively turned, shielding himself with his arms as the explosion sent shockwaves through the building. His armor taking on most of the force, the heat licking at his skin as he was hurled backward, crashing to the floor with a violent thud.

Smoke billowed in the wake of the blast, swallowing the room in darkness. A high-pitched ringing filled the air, drowning out all other sounds as the force of the explosion left Rick disoriented and dazed.

He struggled to lift his head, his vision swimming. The world around him was a blur of movement. Cops rushing forward, their guns drawn, their voices a cacophony of confusion and fear. Some were gathered around the remains of Quantum, others rushing to Rick’s side.

Miller’s voice was among the loudest, filled with urgency as he tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him. "Get him out of here!"

Rick’s blurred vision flickered between the figures surrounding him. He could feel the heat of the flames, the pain from the blast, but none of it mattered anymore. His focus shifted to the sound of voices and shouting, the blur of movement, before his eyes finally closed.

The darkness took him.

Chapter Text

Rick came to with a sharp inhale, his senses clawing back to the surface like drowning hands breaking through ice. His head pounded, his ribs ached, and a bright, unrelenting light stabbed into his pupils, forcing a sharp squint. A blurry figure leaned over him. 

A tactical medic, probably, muttering something about a concussion. His mind was still rebooting, fragmented memories clicking into place like a distorted simulation.

The voices in the room were sharp, edged with suspicion.

He wasn’t alone.

Heavy bootfalls. The rustle of police gear. Low murmurs carrying the weight of contempt. The air reeked of stale coffee and synthetic fabric, the signature stench of cops, who had been sitting in the same office chairs for way too long.

Miller’s voice cut through the haze. Low and firm, somewhere nearby. "Just back off."

Rick blinked hard, adjusting to the scene. Cops were everywhere, looming over him like vultures, their gazes drilling into him, their muttered arguments barely restrained. They wanted a piece of him. Bad.

“I wanna see his face,” the officer, Carter, muttered.

"Take it easy," Miller said, voice steady.

Carter’s fingers reached for the edge of Rick’s mask.

“What’s he got in his eyes?” one of the medics murmured.

Another medic squinted at Rick’s armor. "SSE tech? Where’d he get that?"

"Who cares? I wanna see his face ."

“Check his dimension number,” someone else muttered.

"The hell does it matter?"

"Just scan his face with the CTDR, see if he even belongs here."

"The dimension reader? Are you serious?"

"What else?!"

Rick exhaled, his patience already on life support. "Oh wow, look at you guys. Just real top-tier detective work happening here. Real Sherlock Holmes energy. Next, maybe you can check my dental records and tell me if I floss regularly."

Carter’s fingers twitched, before diving for Rick’s helmet, barely grazing the material.

Rick’s hand shot up in a blur, clamping onto the officer’s wrist with a grip like a hydraulic press. The movement was pure instinct, a reflex honed through a lifetime of brawls. The room erupted with noise, chairs scraped, hands went to weapons, and voices overlapped in an escalating chorus of " HEY! "

Rick pushed himself upright, muscles coiled, every fiber of his being ready to throw down if necessary.

Chief Bodack, who looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a decade, crossed his arms and scowled.

"HEY! RELAX, GODDAMN IT!" Miller roared, shoving himself between them.

The room teetered on the edge of violence, everyone waiting for the first spark to set the whole place ablaze.

"You protecting this guy, Millie?" Carter snapped, rubbing his wrist. "This freak interfered in an active hostage situation. Quantum’s blood is on his hands!"

Rick let out a dry chuckle, his tone almost bored . "Oh sure, yeah, that’s definitely what happened. Not like your buddy Quantum had plenty of chances to spill before he got a terminal case of lead poisoning." His eyes flicked toward Bodack, voice dropping to a razor-thin edge. " Maybe he was too scared of you ."

Silence crashed over the room like a rogue wave.

Bodack’s jaw clenched. "What the hell did you just say?"

Rick tilted his head, unbothered. "C’mon, big guy, you’re smart enough to connect the dots. Quantum would rather die than talk. Makes you wonder who he was afraid of."

Bodack’s face darkened as he walked slowly up to Rick’s face, trying to size him up. 

" You son of a bitch."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, throw some more empty threats my way, real scary stuff," Rick said, waving a dismissive hand.

Another officer, already pissed, stepped forward. "Why are we even playin’ games, Chief? Just take his helmet off !"

A hand shot toward Rick’s helmet.

Rick moved first.

He struck, fast and brutal. A sharp jab to the gut folded the guy in half. The whole room exploded into chaos, hands grabbing, bodies lunging, fists flying.

Rick moved through them like a well-practiced dance. A forearm crushed into one officer’s throat, cutting off a yell. A knee drove into another’s ribs, sending him sprawling. A quick step backward dodged a wild swing before he twisted the guy’s arm and slammed him onto the interrogation table.

"BACK OFF!" Miller roared, trying to shove officers away. " BACK OFF! "

Bodack’s voice thundered over the chaos. "NOW I GOT YOU ON ASSAULTING AN OFFICER!"

Rick barely spared him a glance, rolling his shoulders. " Buddy, you got me on assaulting like three ."

Miller shoved him, harder than expected. Rick stumbled a step, head snapping toward him. Miller’s expression was hard, unreadable.

“What’s the matter with you?” Miller hissed.

Rick exhaled sharply, his patience officially circling the drain. " You too, huh? Great. Love that for me."

Miller turned to Bodack. "Lemme handle this, Chief. I’ll get him to cooperate."

Bodack scoffed. " You gonna put yourself on the line for this jackass, Millie?"

Miller didn’t hesitate. " Just give me a minute. "

Bodack, still fuming, jerked his head toward the door. 

“Okay give ‘em the room.” All the officers shuffle out. Staring at the two. Bodack meets Miller’s eyes.

" Two minutes. " He says flatly, before closing the gated door behind him.

As the room cleared, Miller took the opportunity to slam a fist into Rick’s chest plate, making it look like an argument. "Listen to me," he muttered under his breath. "We gotta get you outta here..."

Rick’s gaze flicked to the stairwell door. " That’s gonna put a lot of heat on you. "

Miller exhaled. " Yeah, well, you punch me in the face and run… looks real convincing. "

Rick smirked. " Love a good classic escape plan. "

"Take this." Miller slipped a key into his palm. " Back door. Hallway to the stairs that go to the roof. "

Rick was about to move when his eyes locked on a familiar face, a mustached detective, standing near the far wall. The guy was trying too hard to blend in.

"Who’s the mustache with the broken nose?"

Miller followed his gaze. " That’s Kennedy. Narcotics. "

Rick’s smirk widened. " Huh. Interesting. I just saw him moonlighting as a bouncer at the Finite Lounge the other night. "

Miller stiffened. " You saying Kennedy moonlights for Hawk? "

Rick tilted his head. " Or he moonlights as a cop. "

Kennedy looked up. Their eyes met. Recognition flickered, then panic.

Rick sighed dramatically. " Welp. Time to make things worse. "

Before Miller could react, Rick decked him.

The force sent Miller stumbling, knocking over a chair.

Shouts erupted.

Rick didn’t wait. He pivoted, sprinting toward the stairwell.

Gunfire cracked behind him.

A grapple hook shot upward, yanking him up just as bullets tore through the stairwell.

On the roof, the wind howled around him as he sprinted toward the edge. The city stretched below, a dizzying drop waiting to swallow him whole. He reached down, yanking the tabs on his boots, his armor locking into place as he transformed into a wingsuit just as the first officers burst through the door, guns raised.

Without hesitation, Rick jumped.

The city lights blurred as he plummeted, wind roaring past his ears. He angled his descent, barely in control as he released a parachute. He glided - too fast, as he crashed into the street, rolling hard, momentum carrying him forward. He staggered, regained his footing, and then, in a blink, melted into the night.

Chapter Text

Rain drummed against the steel skeleton of an unfinished skyscraper as Rick stood waiting. The elevator clanked, then slid open to reveal Miller who was talking with Morty, a fresh bruise blooming on Miller’s face.

He turned around and shook his head when he saw Rick. "...Could’ve at least pulled your punch, man."

Rick barely glanced at him. "Oh, I did."

Morty’s eyes lit up when he spotted Rick striding toward them, mostly unscathed. “Oh god, Rick! I thought you were dead! I saw the explosion! I freaked out and called Miller to make sure you were okay after they took you!” He dashed over and nearly tackled Rick in a hug.

Rick’s tough exterior cracked for a split second as Morty's worry washed over him. He offered a quick smirk before returning to his usual nonchalance. “Chill, Morty! I’m like a cockroach in a nuclear war, annoyingly hard to kill.” He scoffed, the edges of his face twitching with amusement.

Morty lets go, stepping back to watch Rick’s face before he sighs. "Miller said that Bodack put out an A.P.B. on you. You really think he's in on this?"

Rick’s jaw clenched. "I don’t trust any of them. Do you?"

Miller exhaled, running a hand over his face. "I only trust you and Morty."

Rick nodded, then Morty chimed in again, a little hesitant. “What’s a narcotics cop doing with Rick Prime’s right-hand man anyway? That seems pretty sketch…”

Miller gave Morty a confused look.

“I mean Falcon- Falcon’s right-hand man…”

"Quantum said cops protect the rat. Maybe Kennedy’s part of it." Miller states.

"You think Hawk’s the rat?" Rick asks, his tone is curious.

"His club caters to the mob. Sanchezminius practically lived there. Hawk would have been privy to a lot of dirt. D.A was a regular, too. Maybe Hawk got himself into trouble, and making a deal was his way out." Miller states flatly. But really he’s entirely guessing on the second part.

Morty’s mind raced. "...The rata alada."

"The what?" Miller asks.

"Rogue’s latest cipher. Means a rat with wings." Rick states.

Miller’s expression darkened as the implication sank in. “A Hawk’s got wings… that could mean something.”

Rick turned toward the Citadel. "Time for me to have another conversation with him."

“What about Rogue? He’s gonna kill again.” Morty says.

“It’s all connected. Like it or not, it’s his game now. We wanna find Rogue, we gotta find that rat.” Rick’s face darkens. 

Miller frowned. "Think Hawk’ll talk?"

Rick cracked his knuckles.

"Oh, I’ll be very persuasive."

And Morty chuckles lightly.

Thunder rumbles in the night sky as Miller, Rick, and Morty stalk the roads outside the Finite Lounge. Miller sits in his car, a radio in hand. His voice cracks over to Rick and Morty who are on the other end.

“Kennedy and the twins, comin’ your guys’ way.” Miller’s voice is low.

As Kennedy and the twins walk around a car, they throw duffel bags into the back of a grey Escalade. A Rick follows behind them, dressed in a very expensive suit. 

A white suit.

Rick pushes the talk button on the radio and it beeps. “There’s Hawk.” he sighs, Morty speaks up.

“I wonder what’s in the bags.”

There’s a beat of silence as the 3 watch them. Miller’s voice cracks over the radio again. “You wanna move in?”

Rick doesn’t say anything at first, he focuses intently on the group who start getting in the car, ready to leave. Rick’s voice finally comes over the radio.

“Let’s follow.” Is all he says, starting up the car's engine. Miller follows behind him as they start to follow the grey Escalade vehicle.

As the Escalade pulls up outside of an abandoned-looking warehouse, Kennedy and the twins are the first to step outside of the vehicle. Miller slowly pulls up quietly behind them, keeping eyes on the cars. His car is parked far enough away so that he’s hidden from view.

As Kennedy runs around the car, he opens the door - Letting Hawk out. He holds an umbrella for Hawk and they make their way inside of the warehouse.

Miller grabs his radio without looking away. He pushes the talk button, speaking lowly. “They stopped at Waterfront Street. Where that old recycling plant is.” 

He clicks off the button, eyeing for where Rick or Morty might be. A voice comes over the radio.

“I’m here.” is all that's spoke.

Rick sits on top of the warehouse's roof, peering over the edge as he watches Kennedy, the twins, and Hawk walk into the warehouse. He hears Hawk greet someone.

“Hey, how you doin’?” he speaks smoothly, not sparing a glance towards the man as he joins them inside.

“Yeah, good. How are you?” 

“Good, good,” Hawk states casually.

“Let’s get out of this deluge.”

As their conversation continues on indistinctly, Rick moves towards where some skylights are placed in the center of the roof. 

The twins work towards a conveyor belt, which pushes packaging towards them in big clusters. One of the twins stuffs them in a separate duffel bag while the other hands a handful over to Hawk.

Rick peaks through the glass ceiling. His dark armor keeps him well out of sight. He sees a bunch of young, small, frail Mortys all working at conveyor belts. They’re getting whipped and thrown around by some other Ricks who look to be watchdogs. Most look to be 10 years old, and the oldest ones look from 12 - 14 years old.

Rick feels sick to his stomach. “What the fuck.” He stutters, bewildered.

He watches as a young Morty lifts up a cylindrical plastic container, he inspects it slowly. His movements decreased from being starved for so long. His eyes are hollow, lifeless, - broken -

He watches another group of Mortys who are being watched carefully by a Rick, pack a bunch of small vials filled with a purple liquid into wrapping paper. The same kind he saw Morty hand Hawk at the Finite Lounge.

Rick shudders. How could they do this to Mortys? Especially at such a young age. He clicks on the talk button on the radio. He steadies his voice before speaking into it. 

“It’s a drug lab from the trafficking business. This is a buy.” Rick says as calmly as he can.

Miller’s eyes widen briefly. “Looks like they got Sanchezminius’ operation up and running again.”

“Or they never shut it down at all,” Rick says low and gruff. His voice teetering on the edge of anger.

“You sayin’ the biggest drug and trafficking bust in Citadel history was a fraud?” 

Rick is about to reply when he suddenly hears footsteps on the ground behind where he is on the roof. He rushes over to the ledge to see who or what it is.

He sees Morty, who has a coil of chains with him. 

He walks over to where the twins keep watch at the grey Escalade. He sneaks silently - he swings the chain in the air before throwing it. It wraps around one of the twins’ feet. Retracting and yanking the twin onto the concrete below. He yelps before being knocked unconscious from the contact.

“Hey! What happened?” The other twin calls out, he turns around, rushing to where the commotion happened. Morty rounds around the car coming up behind the second twin, swinging the chain in his hand.

“You alright?” The twin asks, before hearing the wind whip from the chain and swinging his body around. He panics, pulling a gun on Morty. Before he can shoot, Morty throws the chain at him. It wraps around his arm, yanking the gun from his grasp. He flies forward and Morty kicks him straight in the nose, knocking him unconscious too.

Morty snatches the keys off of the second twin's body and unlocks the car doors. He searches through the front, trying to find something. Anything that could be a lead to where Summer might be. A location, a notepad, a phone. Just something .

He fails to find anything useful and makes his way to the boot of the car. He puts his hand under the hatch of the boot and finds the button that unlocks it. The boot lifts up and he spots the two duffel bags. 

Searching for the first one, he only finds money. In the second one, he finds the belongings of someone. A pink phone that has a bullet hole piercing straight through the left side of it. He lifts it more into view and a keychain hangs. 

The keychain. This was Summer’s phone.

His eyes widen as he frantically searches through the rest of the duffle bag. He barely registers the footsteps coming up from behind him as a gruff voice speaks to him.

“Morty? What are you doing?” It’s Rick. His voice slightly sounded robotic through the voice modulator in his helmet. He touches a button to the side of it and his visor snaps up. 

Rick groans as fresh air fills his lungs. 

“I thought these guys might have something. From Summer. And I was right! Rick, look through this duffel bag, I found her phone in it.”

Rick’s eyes flash with a ping of sadness. He schools himself back to being serious. Stoic. 

As Morty finishes with another bag, he grabs another one that’s way in the back. He struggles, it seems heavy. 

“Rick! Hurry! They’re coming back over here!” He hushes in a panicked manner. Just as Rick grabs the duffel bag Morty was struggling to get, he unzips it. His face went pale.

Morty noticed Rick’s face and looked over to see inside.

“What the fuck?!” Morty cries out. 

Inside the bag was Summer’s corpse. Her face was pale and bruised. Morty’s face morphs into so many feelings at once. Hatred, guilt, disgust, fear. He didn’t know what to feel. He wanted to cry.

But just as suddenly as those feelings came, they were drowned in a wave of panic as the Camry was riddled with gunfire. Bullets tear through the air, stitching the car’s metal body with deadly intent. Rick’s eyes widen and he lunges toward Morty, throwing himself in front of his grandson to shield him from the barrage.

"Rick!" Morty shouts, but Rick doesn’t let go.

Rick grits his teeth and holds up his arm to protect his face, barely pressing the face visor button on his helmet as a bullet ricochets off, the sound sharp and violent. The impact sends them both crashing to the ground, the force of the gunfire overwhelming.

He bolts, weaving through the parked cars outside the warehouse, his heart pounding in his chest. The dark alleyway ahead looms like a refuge, and Morty disappears into its shadows, his footsteps echoing faintly. Rick is close behind, moving swiftly and silently through the chaos, his figure slipping unnoticed between the confusion of gunfire.

Rick makes a sharp turn, moving toward the back of the car. He swings open the boot with one fluid motion and grabs a heavy duffel bag. He pauses for a moment, squinting down at the contents before tossing it toward Morty.

“Ready to try out some new armor, kiddo?” Rick smirks, his voice dripping with that usual confident bravado.

Morty catches the bag mid-air, his eyes widening as he pulls it open. He gasps as he pulls out the familiar SSE armor, the same kind Miller gave Rick. His grin spreads into a wide, cocky smile.

“Holy shit! Fuck yes I am!” Morty exclaims, his voice full of eager energy. Without wasting another second, he drops his gun, tearing open the armor and rushing to suit up.

“You better thank Miller for it.” Rick laughs.

The moment Morty begins strapping the armor on, the revving of an engine fills the alleyway, followed by the screeching of tires. Miller, seeing the gunfire, slams his foot onto the gas pedal. "Jesus!" he yells, eyes wide with shock as he watches the bullets fly.

He charges forward, the tires screeching against the pavement. His car plows straight into the heart of it. Miller flies open his door and quickly pulls his gun from his holster. He fires, aiming blindly for the group of men who are firing back at them. He hits one of the men in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. 

Rick watches as Hawk, Kennedy, and the twins all fire at Miller’s car. Miller panics and ducks under his car door as bullets shattered his windshield. 

Hawk glares darkly at the car where Rick and Morty were ‘hiding’, he reloads and cocks his Uzi, walking ominously towards the car. 

“Hey, assholes!” Hawk roars, his voice echoing through the Camry. He rips off a series of shots towards the back side of the car, desperation fueling his aim as he hopes to provoke one of them into revealing their position.

“You think you can come after my money, huh?!” He screams into the night, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As he steadies his weapon, each step brings him closer to the back side, where he hopes to catch them off guard.

Peering over the edge, confusion washes over him. The scene is empty, and a scowl deepens on his face. 

Just as he processes the eerie silence, the night is shattered by the deafening roar of an engine starting up, guttural and terrifying.

Hawk and his men whirl around, their weapons raised, eyes darting toward the dark void of the alleyway. Flames leap menacingly from the sides of exhausts on an armored silhouette, red nitrous vapor spouting.

A thunderous boom reverberates through the ground as a thruster fires, and blue flashes of light cut through the dark, revealing an ominous form. The lights and fog magnify a sleek, black armored vehicle’s menacing silhouette, it casts an air of dread over the scene.

Hawk's eyes widened in astonishment, momentarily frozen by the sheer intimidation of two figures, who were sitting in the front seats. 

Instincts kick in, and Hawk makes a break toward the Escalade. He dives into the driver’s seat, adrenaline steering his actions as he shouts for Kennedy to grab the duffel bags stuffed with money and drugs. 

Kennedy races towards the car, his heart pounding, when a guttural roar rips through the air again. 

Morty slams his foot down, and the armored Dodge Challenger streaks forward, engine screaming as it charges straight at the Escalade.

Hawk’s heart leaps into his throat as the Challenger hurtles toward him at breakneck speed. He reacts instinctively, tearing out of the parking lot without a second thought, leaving Kennedy shouting in vain for him to wait as he speeds away.

Tires screech against the asphalt, grasping for traction as Hawk jostles the Escalade, nearly losing control. In a surge of speed, Rick and Morty’s vehicle fishtails wildly behind him, tires shrieking in protest until they finally grip the pavement. Miller watches in disbelief as both vehicles disappear into the fog and rain, leaving only echoes of chaos in their wake.

The Challenger tore down the waterline road, the tires of the car thumping violently against the slick pavement as they closed in on the Escalade.

Hawk glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing the car tailing him, its headlights blinding. Morty floored the gas pedal, the car surging forward, just inches away from slamming into Hawk's rear bumper. But at the last second, Hawk swerved sharply left onto a side street, barely avoiding the collision. Rick and Morty’s car shot past him in a blur of speed.

Hawk watched through his rearview mirror, grunting with annoyance, but a sly grin curled at the corners of his lips.

Morty scoffed, half-laughing at the sight of Rick's smirk next to him. He spotted an opening up ahead, the same side road Hawk had just turned onto. Without missing a beat, Rick shouted, “Turn left!” Morty’s eyes lit up, understanding instantly.

He slammed both the gas and brake pedals at the same time, wrenching the wheel hard to the left. The car fishtailed, skidding into the next lane, barely under control. Morty’s grip tightened as he swiftly released the brake and stomped on the gas, sending the car surging forward.

A highway barrier stood between them and Hawk’s road, but Morty was undeterred. As Hawk sped away, Morty braced for impact, his heart racing, the gap between them closing with each second.

Hawk noticed them in his rearview mirror. A smirk spread across his face as he glanced back, deliberately passing Rick and Morty, almost taunting them. But just as the revving of their engine grew louder, a deafening crash rang out.

Morty slammed through the highway barrier, splitting it in half, and the car shot forward like a missile. He whipped the wheel to the left, now hot on Hawk’s tail.

"Fucking Christ!" Hawk shouted, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror as debris flew through the air from the impact. He slammed his foot down on the gas again, pushing his Escalade faster. But as he glanced back, he could see Rick and Morty’s car rapidly closing the gap.

The engine roared louder, and Hawk cursed under his breath, desperately urging his vehicle to go faster. “Come on! Come ON!” He glanced back again, his stomach sinking as their car slammed into the back of his Escalade, trying to shove it off the road.

“This kid’s crazy!” Hawk muttered to no one in particular, a nervous laugh escaping him. Morty slammed the gas again, the car lunging forward before smashing into the Escalade once more. Hawk screamed at his vehicle, his face contorting with a mix of rage and fear.

“COME ON! HEY!” His voice cracked with panic as he saw their car inching closer for the next impact.

Both cars tore under the highway overpass, their tires screeching as they briefly lost traction, only to regain it in a heart-stopping moment of control. Morty growled under his breath, slamming the wheel to the left and speeding up, baiting Hawk to give him room on the road. Hawk’s eyes widened, and in a blind panic, he swerved in front of Morty, trying to block his path.

But Morty wasn’t done. He jerked the wheel, skidding around the other side of Hawk’s Escalade, now right alongside him.

Hawk’s jaw clenched as his anger flared. Seeing Morty next to him, he reached for the Uzi resting on the passenger seat. Without hesitation, he shoved the weapon through his window, the glass squealing as it rolled down just enough.

With a manic grin, Hawk fired off rounds at Rick and Morty’s car. Bullets ricocheted off the armored frame. Glass shattered, and sparks flew as the car's bulletproof windows held firm. Morty slammed into the side of the Escalade, shaking the car violently.

Hawk cursed, fighting to maintain control of the Escalade. But just then, the high beams of an oncoming semi-truck lit up the night. Its horn blaring like a warning bell. The two cars sped toward it, the trucks’ massive headlights glaring in their eyes.

Rick and Hawk exchanged a tense stare as if daring each other to make the first move. Then Hawk made his decision. He veered sharply, pulling off the road and up an embankment, lurching violently as he sped onto a highway.

Morty panicked for a split second but quickly recovered. He veered past the semi, tires screeching in protest as he performed a sharp drift, narrowly avoiding the truck. The car slid across the lane, burning rubber as Morty tore into the opposite lane, chasing Hawk up the embankment.

The world seemed to tilt as Morty pushed the car to its limits. Drivers swerved and honked as they tried to avoid the two speeding vehicles, now on the wrong side of the road, heading straight into oncoming traffic.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed as two cars swerved past him, barely missing his vehicle. “MOVE!” he shouted, fists tightening on the wheel as hundreds of headlights blinded him. His vision was a blur of light, and then, with a screech, a semi-truck grazed his car, throwing him off balance. He sped past it, but as more cars barreled toward him, panic set in.

He lost control as his tires hydroplaned, and his Escalade spun wildly. A blue sedan swerved in front of him, its driver fighting for control before smashing into the side of Hawk’s car.

The impact sent a jolt through Hawk’s body, and his door window cracked but didn’t shatter. His head slammed forward, disoriented. Through the chaos, he heard the unmistakable roar of Rick and Morty’s engine growing louder. Hawk twisted his neck, looking out the passenger window, just in time to see their car barreling toward him, swerving through traffic as Morty expertly navigated the traffic.

Hawk’s grip tightened on the wheel, his mind racing. He smashed his foot down on the gas and skidded forward. The highway around him was a warzone of blaring trucks and car horns. Just as a massive semi loomed in front of him, Hawk jerked the wheel, veering hard to the right, into the correct lane.

Morty, eyes locked on Hawk’s every move, followed suit, pushing the car into the other side of the highway. The semi-truck grew closer, looming like a wall. Morty’s heart raced as he slammed the pedal to the floor, the car surging to over 100 km/h. He shifted gears with expert precision, narrowly dodging the truck’s front bumper as it screeched past.

Hawk’s gaze snapped to the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with a crazed intensity as he saw the duo closing in. With a growl, he floored the gas, his car’s engine roaring in protest as it reached speeds it had never dared before. Hawk wove through traffic, cars honking frantically as they tried to avoid him. But Rick and Morty’s car was relentless, built for speed and muscle, matching Hawk move for move.

Desperation crept into Hawk’s eyes. He swerved into other lanes, trying to shake them off, but they were always right behind him. He shot through a row of semi-trucks, the sound of their engines vibrating through the air, the rumble of tires on asphalt deafening. Just as Hawk thought he might break free, a white SUV appeared in front of him, blocking his path. He was trapped, wedged between massive eighteen-wheelers.

The engine of Rick and Morty’s car roared louder, closing in like a predator on its prey.

Hawk blared his horn, desperately motioning the white SUV to move faster. But the SUV ignored him, moving at a steady pace. Hawk swerved left and right, revving his engine in frustration. His voice was panicked, rapid.

“Get out of the way!” he screamed, the horn blaring again as his grip tightened on the wheel.

Behind him, Morty weaved through the semi-trucks, getting closer with every second. The faint glow of Hawk’s tail lights cut through the fog, spurring Morty to push the pedal down harder. 

Hawk caught a glimpse of them in his rearview mirror and slammed on the gas, slamming into the SUV. He muscled it off the lane, sending it hydroplaning into the path of an oncoming semi. The truck slammed into the SUV with a deafening crash, its window shattering as the eighteen-wheeler tried to brake.

Hawk gritted his teeth, pushing forward and swerving into the lane to the right of him, only to be stopped again by another semi blocking his path.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” he roared, his voice thick with panic.

But then he heard it, the thunderous blare of a semi’s horn behind him. Hawk’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, watching Rick and Morty’s muscle car closing in on him from the left. The semi’s horn echoed in his ears, making his panic rise, and Morty’s car kept getting closer. Hawk’s chest tightened, his breath quickening.

Without thinking, Hawk yells, slamming onto his brakes.

The semi behind him screeched, its tires losing grip and hydroplaning. The truck swerved wildly, jackknifing straight into Rick and Morty’s path. The violent chain reaction of trucks braking too quickly and losing control set off a wave of chaos on the highway.

“Morty, watch out!” Rick shouted, his voice laced with urgency.

Morty’s eyes widened as the massive trucks loomed ahead. He slammed his foot on the brake, trying to stop the car from crashing into the wreckage, but another semi, this one to their right, smashed into the side of their car. Morty wrestled the wheel as debris from the truck’s cargo hit the windows, the sharp sounds of metal twisting ringing in their ears.

A third semi-truck, caught in the chaos, hydroplaned and tilted over, swerving uncontrollably.

Morty’s face went stone-cold serious, his eyes darting to every vehicle around him as he fought to stay in control. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as the flipping semi-truck barreled toward them. With a sudden jolt, he slammed the brake pedal to the floor, just as the semi crashed onto its side in front of them, blocking the road.

Before he could even breathe, a car from behind slammed into the back of their vehicle, jerking Rick and Morty forward in their seats from the brutal impact.

A row of semi-trucks loomed ahead, their massive frames careening wildly as they passed beneath the bridge. With a thunderous crash, they collided, metal grinding against metal, sending cargo and debris spiraling into the air. Morty gripped the steering wheel, panic surging through him as he lost control of the car. The tires hydroplaned, and the vehicle spun out, slamming sideways into the wreckage of a semi that had flipped onto its side.

The impact jolted the Challenger back straight on the road, and with a grunt, he wrestled the wheel, regaining control just in time. He and Rick exchanged a tense glance, adrenaline pumping as more trucks toppled in front of them, their cargo scattering like confetti across the asphalt. Morty barreled through an aggregate construction cylinder, the sound of crunching synthetic concrete echoing in their ears.

As they hurtled toward a chaotic pile-up, Morty’s eyes widened. A tilted flatbed trailer loomed ahead, creating an unexpected ramp. Desperation clawed at him, this was their chance to escape the impending disaster.

“Hold on!” Morty shouted, his voice barely rising above the chaos. He lunged for the nitrous line trigger, his heart racing. With determination, he slammed it down, and the car surged forward like a rocket.

They launched off the makeshift ramp, soaring through the air as the world below erupted in chaos. 

A deafening crash echoed behind Hawk, and he dared a glance back just in time to see the semi-trucks ignite, bursting into a fiery void. Hawk cackled with wild glee, his eyes alight with adrenaline. “I GOT YOU!” he screamed, laughter spilling from his lips as the flames danced behind him, illuminating the night sky.

“I GOT YOU! TAKE THAT, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! I GOT YOU-!”

Hawk’s triumphant shouting was abruptly cut off by a chilling roar of an engine. His eyes widened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, and his heart dropped. The ominous armored car re-emerged from the flames, soaring through the fire as if time had slowed. It hit the ground with a slam and revved back to life.

Before Hawk could react, Morty slammed on the accelerator, ramming into the back of Hawk’s car. The impact sent the Escalade hydroplaning across the slick asphalt.

Morty yanked the wheel, executing a sharp drift that brought him to a screeching halt.

Hawk’s car was violently tossed into the air, flipping multiple times before crashing down onto the concrete. Windows shattered, and metal shrieked as parts of the car tore away, debris flying in every direction. 

Inside, Hawk was tossed around like a rag doll, whimpering and shouting. A final, bone-crushing slam echoed through the air, and glass exploded outward before the car came to a rest, upside down.

Dazed and disoriented, Hawk felt a warm liquid trickle down his face, the pounding rain mixing with the chaos around him. He blinked through the haze, He barely registered the distorted sight before him, an upside-down pair of heavy boots stepping into view on the slick pavement outside. Then, slowly, a dark figure crouched into the frame, the silhouette unmistakable even through his pain-clouded eyes.

Before he could react, the figure loomed in, moving with eerie precision. A hood was yanked over his face, plunging him into a darkness. His pulse quickened and thumped in his ears as he felt himself being hauled away, the cold grip of steel tightening around his wrists and ankles.

Chapter Text

Hawk's head slammed against a cold metal. The hood was ripped away, and he blinked at the sudden, blinding light of high-beam headlights. 

Disoriented, he gasped, taking in his surroundings, rusted train cars, vacant platforms, and the unmistakable scent of damp steel and rot. 

The Citadel’s bullet-train yard.

A shadow loomed over him. The shape barely registered before another figure stepped into the light, a soft mechanical whirr sounded and the two figures' face visors snapped up. Miller’s car pulled up behind them and Morty waved him over.

Hawk’s bloodshot eyes darted between the three, his breath hitching. “Jesus...” he croaked, his voice raw. “The hell is this? Good cop and his robo-cops?!”

Rick didn’t rise to the bait. He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “Who’s Rogue?”

Hawk scoffed, though his hands twitched against the binds. “Rogue? How should I know?!”

Morty’s voice cut through the adrenaline, measured and sharp. “Let’s make it easy for you, Hawk. The cops caught you doing something. They were gonna shut you down, put you away.” He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “So, you gave up a bigger fish to save your ass.”

Rick’s voice followed like a shadow. “You ratted out Sanchezminius. His trafficking operation.”

Miller pushed. “But then the cops, city officials, the President, the DA, they got greedy, didn’t they? One big bust wasn’t enough. They wanted control. They wanted the whole operation.” He leaned in, his breath warm against the chill of the night. “But they needed someone to run it. A minor-league mope like you.”

Morty’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried more weight than a shout. “You don’t just work for Rick Prime. You work for them, too.”

Hawk’s composure cracked. “W-what are you, CRAZY?” he barked, the words laced with panic.

Morty’s eyes burned. “That why you killed the girl?”

Hawk jolted. “I didn’t kill no girl!”

Rick didn’t flinch. “We know she worked for you. At the De Jure Facto.”

“She got too close,” Morty pressed, his voice tightening. “She found out from Allen that you were the rat. So you killed her. But somehow, Rogue knows, too.”

The words hung in the air like a noose tightening around Hawk’s throat.

“He knows so much about you,” Miller said. “You must know about him.”

Hawk let out a breathless chuckle, but it lacked conviction. “You guys are a helluva trio. Why don’cha start harmonizing?” His grin faltered. “Only problem with ya little scenario, I AIN’T NO RAT! You got any idea what Rick Prime would do to me if he heard this kinda talk?!”

Miller wasn’t done. His voice dropped, lethal and cold. “Oh, you don’t wanna talk about rats? Then let’s talk about what they did to my partner’s face.”

He pulled something from his coat and shoved it in front of Hawk’s face, crime scene photos, gruesome, unforgiving. Hawk recoiled.

“Holy GOD, whattaya SHOWIN’ me?!”

Miller’s voice thundered through the night. “This was around his head!” He jabbed a finger at the image.

Hawk’s face twisted away. “OHH!”

Miller didn’t let up. “OPEN YOUR EYES!”

There was a beat of silence. “Are you El Rata Alada?!”

Hawk blinked. “El Rata Alada?” he repeated, his confusion genuine. The name hit the air like a gunshot.

“These symbols in the maze,” Miller insisted, pointing. “Right here. It says, ‘YOU ARE EL RATA ALADA.’”

Hawk squinted at the cipher, then barked out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “‘You are EL rata’? It SAYS that?”

Morty narrowed his eyes. “Why? Got something you wanna tell us?”

“YEAH!” Hawk spat before then lowering his voice. “That’s like the worst Spanish I ever heard.”

Morty stiffened. “What?”

Hawk shook his head, exasperated. “It’s LA! LA Rata! What, is this Rogue STUPID or somethin’?!”

A moment of silence passed. Morty and Rick exchanged a glance. The pieces shifted.

Hawk huffed. “Jesus, look at you guys. World’s greatest detectives! Am I the only one here who knows the difference between EL and LA?! No habla español, fellas?!”

Miller’s temper snapped. “DO ME A FAVOR, SHITHEAD! SHUT UP!”

Hawk fell silent, but the damage was done. Miller turned to Rick and Morty. His voice was lower now, uncertain. “…Think he made a mistake?”

Rick didn’t look away from the cipher. “He doesn’t make mistakes...”

Rick’s eyes darkened. He turned back to the maze, reading the phrase aloud, slowly. “‘You are el rata…’ You… are… el…” His voice trailed off.

He repeated the phrase in his head, hoping for something to come to the top of his mind. Anything - just something.

You are el, you are el, you are L.

U, R, L

Then his gaze snapped up, realization dawning. “It’s a URL.”

Miller’s car idled in the dimly lit alley, its engine humming softly beneath the patter of rain against the windshield. The city lights flickered in the rearview mirror, casting a fleeting glow across the water-beaded glass. Perched on the hood, Rick adjusted the laptop in front of him, its faint blue glow illuminating his sharp, focused gaze. With a few swift keystrokes, he entered the URL

The screen flickered, then abruptly went black.

A dead link.

Miller leaned in, peering at the screen with furrowed brows, droplets of rain glistening on his coat. "Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe he’s not as smart as we think."

Rick didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gloved fingers hovered over the keyboard. He sensed something, a lingering presence in the digital void. "Wait."

A lone blinking cursor appeared on the screen, pulsing like a heartbeat. Then, without warning, it began to type.

<?>

Miller’s breath hitched. "Holy shit...”

“Is that him?" Morty chimed. His eyes are wide.

The words materialized slowly onto the screen, deliberate, and eerie: DID YOU FIND HIM ?

Rick’s fingers ghosted over the keys before he responded. EL RATA ALADA ?

The cursor hesitated, as if considering its response before the reply appeared: YES .

Rick’s expression darkened. MAYBE . IS A HAWK A RAT WITH WINGS ?

A long pause, then a chilling reply: INTERESTING . Another blink. YOU’RE MISSING THE BIG PICTURE .

Miller muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. "What the hell does that mean? Is he, or isn’t he?"

Rick silenced him with a subtle raise of his hand. More words spilled onto the screen, each keystroke feeling like a whisper from the void.

I NEED TO SHOW YOU MORE FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND . MY NEXT VICTIM IS THE BIGGEST PIECE OF THE PUZZLE .

A chill swept over them. Miller and Rick exchanged a look, dread settling in like a thick fog. Morty moved towards the screen, pushing Rick aside slowly as his fingers tensed as he typed. VICTIM ? DEAD ?

The response came after a long, agonizing pause. HE WILL BE SOON .

HERE’S A CLUE TO WHERE YOU CAN FIND HIM . . .

A riddle formed across the screen, each word appearing like a specter creeping from the darkness.

I MEND THE BROKEN , EASE THEIR PAIN . . .  SICKNESS AND LOSS ARE PART OF MY NAME . . .

BORN IN BRIGHT HALLS , WHERE SHADOWS LOOM . . . I BRING BOTH HEALING AND DOOM . . .

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM ?

Miller read it aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "Any idea?"

Rick’s jaw tightened. His mind worked through the pieces, the puzzle shifting into place. "He’s a doctor."

Morty typed the answer. A DOCTOR ?

The cursor flickered once before the final message appeared. GOODBYE. Then, as if an entity had retreated into the shadows, the screen went black.

Rick exhaled sharply. "Born in bright hall, where shadows loom… He’s talking about the old hospital."

Miller’s eyes darkened with recognition. "The one that burned down?"

Rick gave a terse nod and Miller straightened, already reaching for the car door. "Let’s go."

Before they could move, a voice cut through the night.

"Hey! You guys realize I’m still here right?"

The three turned to see Hawk, still bound at the hands and feet, wriggling on the ground like a beached fish. His face was contorted in indignation, rain dripping from his soaked hair.

"You gonna untie me? How’m I supposed to get outta here?!"

Rick and Morty shared a glance as Miller got in his car, but neither made a move to help. Without so much as a backward look, they climbed into their own respective vehicles and started off into the night.

“Hey, Morty. You and Miller should go check out the hospital, I’m gonna write down some documents about this evidence. Come back and tell me what you find.” Rick turns, pulling out his grappler.

Morty turns to him, looking confused. “Oh… Alright, I’ll see you when I get back then, Rick.” He smiles gently. Rick turns to meet Morty’s gaze. 

“Be safe, Morty.” He smiles back lightly.

“Thanks.” Is all Morty says, and he hops into the Challenger. Rick flips down his visor, he smiles under his visor and he shoots for the rooftops with his grappler.

"YOU GODDAMN SONS OF BITCHES!" Hawk’s voice rang out behind them, swallowed quickly by the sound of roaring engines and his grappler.

Chapter Text

The Challenger prowled through the empty streets like a predator in the dark, its engine a deep, controlled growl. The cityscape blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow until Morty’s headlights illuminated a faded, weather-worn sign: THE CITADEL’S REDEVELOPMENT FUND – INVESTING IN OUR FUTURE.

Beyond it loomed the hollowed-out skeleton of the old hospital, a derelict husk of charred concrete and crumbling brick. Its windows gaped like black, empty eyes, watching as the rain streaked down its decayed facade. Morty brought the Challenger to a slow crawl before killing the engine. The night pressed in around them, thick with silence.

Miller adjusted his gun as they stepped out, the crunch of their boots loud against the stillness. They moved through the wreckage, the damp air heavy with the scent of mildew and ashes. Miller’s flashlight swept across the blackened walls, cutting through the darkness. Then something starkly out of place. White-painted arrows hastily scrawled over soot-streaked surfaces.

Miller followed the markings with his beam, the fresh paint stark against the decay. They led toward a gothic staircase, its once-grand banister a ruin of splintered wood. The two exchanged a wary look before climbing the steps, the air growing heavier with each step.

At the top, a long, foreboding hallway stretched before them, lined with broken, rusted doors. More arrows pointed forward. Miller peered into darkened rooms, the flashlight’s beam illuminating only dust and decay.

Then, from the depths of the hospital, a sound drifted toward them.

A voice. Soft, melodic, and haunting. The distant echoes of a boy’s choir wove through the halls, singing and humming ‘For The Damaged Coda’ which was distorted by time and decay, threading through the ruined corridors like ghosts of the past.

Miller tensed. "What the hell is that?"

Morty didn’t answer. His focus sharpened as he listened, the eerie melody wrapping around them like a cold embrace.

Then there was a giggle. A breath of movement. They turned sharply as a silhouette emerged from a nearby doorway.

The figure froze at the sight of them, lingering for only a heartbeat before vanishing into another room, slamming the door shut behind it.

Morty surged forward. "HEY! HEY!"

Miller was already in motion, boots pounding against the rotting floorboards. He raised his gun, but before he could act, Morty sent the door flying open with a single, forceful kick.

Inside the room was a row of melted metal bed frames, a group of drug-addicted Mortys sprawled in twisted positions, their faces frozen in eerie, vacant grins. One of them let out a dazed, high-pitched giggle, a sound that barely registered as human. Miller swung his flashlight over the room, his expression hardening when the beam landed on a trembling figure huddled in the corner.

The figure, a frail, emaciated Rick, cowered under the harsh light, his hands gripping a small tray and a paper straw as if they were lifelines.

"Friggin’ druggies," Miller muttered in disgust, lowering his flashlight.

Then, suddenly, there was a wave of cheers and applause that rang out, distant but unmistakable. The haunting echoes of a crowd filled the abandoned halls, followed by the warm, amplified voice of a woman.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, everyone! Thank you for coming today...”

Morty’s entire demeanor shifted. There was something about that voice, something that sent a chill up his spine. Without a word, he moved toward the sound, his footsteps near silent against the rotting floorboards. Miller followed, his hand instinctively hovering near his holster. The deeper they went, the clearer the voice became, reverberating through the ruins like a ghost speaking from the past.

At the end of the hall, Morty stopped, his gaze locking onto a set of words maniacally scrawled in thick, white paint over a doorway:

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

He inhaled sharply, then stepped through the threshold.

A grand hall stretched before him, cavernous and hollow. Its walls, once adorned with intricate molding, now stood blackened and broken. Water dripped from the exposed beams, each droplet catching the thin ray of light that pierced through the ruined ceiling. It wasn’t the vast emptiness that held Morty’s attention, but rather, the small, flickering beam coming from a tiny tripod-mounted USB projector at the room’s center.

Morty followed its dim projection to the wall, where the past came to life in shaky, faded footage. The screen wavered in the damp air, revealing a well-dressed woman standing in front of a choir of young Mortys outside in front of the Department of Justice. 

Her voice, clear and confident, continued to echo through the space. Morty’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the woman.

Beth Freeman. His mother.

The chyron beneath the grainy footage explained everything. It was an old press conference. A younger, idealistic Beth stood before the gathered press, her voice filled with conviction.

“I believe in The Citadel. I believe in its promise. But too many have been left behind for too long. And that’s why I’m here today to announce, not only my candidacy for President, but also the creation of the Citadel’s Redevelopment Fund. Win or lose, I pledge a five hundred million dollar donation to start a charitable endowment for public works. I want to bypass political gridlock to get money to people and projects who need it, like these Mortys behind me. Redevelopment is about growth. It’s about planting seeds. And redeveloping the Citadel’s promise.”

Morty stared, transfixed, his pulse pounding. His mother’s words rang hollow against the reality of this place, the decay, the corruption, the lie. His gaze shifted slightly, drawn to something just beside the projection.

More words, hastily painted onto the wall:

REDEVELOPMENT IS A LIE.

A sharp pang settled in Morty’s chest. Before he could process the emotion roiling inside him, a voice sliced through the silence, snapping him from his trance.

“Sins of The Mother...? ”

Morty spun, muscles tensing for a fight. But it was just Miller, stepping cautiously into the room, his gaze following Morty’s.

More white-painted words stained the crumbling walls:

THE SINS OF THE MOTHER

Morty’s voice was barely a whisper as he finished the phrase. “...shall be visited upon the son.”

Miller swallowed, his understanding dawning like a slow, creeping dread. “Jesus...” His eyes darted to Morty. “His next victim is Morty Freeman…”

Morty turned sharply, but Miller’s words barely registered. He was already moving. By the time Miller looked back, Morty was gone. Miller ran for Morty, yelling out for him. “Hey! Morty!”

A phone rang, the shrill tone of it pierced through the stillness of the apartment. It rang twice. Then a third time. The tiny illuminated screen flashed: NO CALLER ID.

No one answered.

Morty sped through the Citadel’s streets, the roar of the engine echoed through the streets. Inside, Morty’s jaw clenched. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as the phone rang again, its desperate chime blaring through the car’s speakers. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the screen, willing for Rick to pick up.

Back in the apartment, Rick sat alone in the living room, he was exhausted and oblivious to the danger. The phone’s insistent ringing went unanswered as he thumbed through the day’s mail, absently flipping through envelope after envelope. 

Then something odd caught his eye.

A bulging manila envelope, heavier than the others. Rick paused, slowly blinking his sleep away, turning it over in his hands. The scrawled lettering on the front read:

PERSONAL/CONFIDENTIAL – FOR MORTY FREEMAN’S EYES ONLY.

His brow knitted together in suspicion. He slipped a finger beneath the fold, starting to pry it open.

The Challenger tore through the streets as fast as a bullet. Streetlights turn into streaks of light across the windshield. Morty’s heart pounded as the call continued to ring. He was yelling now, voice lost in the roar of the engine. But the only sound that echoed back at him was the unanswered call.

Rick's hands trembled slightly as he pulled the gift-wrapped box from the mailer, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the silver envelope taped to it. The sight of the envelope caught his breath. On the front, in bold, dark letters, it read: 

"FOR C-137"   

The ringing of the phone grew louder, each buzz more urgent than the last, like a warning hanging in the air. He hesitated, glancing from the envelope to the gift box in his hands. Then, with a growing sense of dread, he flipped the envelope over. The label read: “FIREPROOF.” A cold shiver ran down his spine. Rick’s gaze shot back to the box, his heart pounding as wires protruded from the paper. 

His eyes widened.

The phone’s incessant ringing finally stopped. The call ended - Morty almost sobbed, praying that Rick was okay when a sudden voice crackled over the radio he had in his car still.

“Morty, it’s too late.” Miller’s voice was cold, saddened.

Morty let out a strangled cry as he ripped the radio off of its stand and clicked the talk button. 

“No! No, no, no! It’s not! It’s…” Morty’s voice trailed off as he drove through an overpass. His eyes shot to the apartment building that sat in the distance. Fire and smoke emanating from the shattered windows. His eyes widened and Miller’s voice came over the radio again.

“I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Text

Morty stood just outside the ICU room, his face blank as he gazed through the glass. Inside, Rick lay unconscious, his body bandaged and hooked up to machines. The soft hum of the hospital equipment filled the space, but all Morty could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

A doctor Morty appeared beside him, speaking in quiet tones. “We’ve sedated him... We just have to wait for him until he stabilizes. Luckily he was not badly burned, just minor lacerations, and a concussion. You should go home, Mr. Freeman, get some rest.”

Morty barely seemed to register the words. His eyes stayed fixed on Rick, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. The doctor watched him for a beat, then asked gently.

“Is there anyone else to notify..?”

Morty didn’t answer right away. His chest tightened, his throat dry. The question hung in the air, unanswered. But the truth was, Morty was alone. Always had been. And now, more than ever, he felt the weight of it.

“No… It’s just me.”

The silence of the early morning was broken by the heavy scraping of a table being dragged across a tile floor. The sound was rough and intrusive. 

Morty had gone to Beth and Summer’s estate to stay for the time being. He spent the whole night with Miller, moving stuff that had survived the explosion.

Then a sharp hiss filled the air, the sound of a spray can. A thin white line began to trace its path across the floor.

Morty’s movements were deliberate, methodical, as he knelt on the ground. His eyes were fixed on the images scattered before him. Photos of the President and Summer. The Commissioner and a Trafficking Pusher. 

Each face was marked with scrawled names: Rick Allen, Zeta-Alpha, Rick Quantum. Lines connected them, their relationships mapped out in a web of conspiracy that only Morty could understand.

He continued spraying, each line an answer to a question that gnawed at him, but none of it made sense. His hand was steady, but his mind was unraveling. When the hissing of the spray can stopped, Morty finally rose to his feet.

The once elegant dining room had been transformed into something else, a chaotic, sprawling evidence board. The floor was littered with photos, files, and scribbled notes. Morty’s eyes narrowed as they landed on one particular spot.

The words "THE SINS OF MY MOTHER" were written in bold letters, connected to a question mark: "???" 

He stared at it for a long time, the weight of the phrase sinking in. He could almost hear his mother’s gentle voice echoing in his head.

Then his gaze shifted to another set of words, even more unsettling: “REDEVELOPMENT IS A LIE.” The words seemed to pulse with meaning, but their significance eluded him. They only deepened the pit of frustration in his stomach.

Morty exited the room, moving to the downstairs part of the Freeman estate. He moved through the study that belonged to Beth. An old yellow crime scene tape hung loosely across the doorframe.

He walked toward a wood cabinet, its surface marred by time. He opened the long drawer with purpose, pulling out file after file, flipping through them with growing impatience. He was searching for something, a piece of information that might explain the horror unfolding around him.

His fingers landed on a file marked “REDEVELOPMENT.” He pulled it out, his eyes scanning the contents with a feverish urgency. But there was nothing there. Just more questions. He threw the file aside and opened another drawer, hoping for a different result. More files marked “REDEVELOPMENT.” The same. Over and over, until the drawers seemed endless, and Morty’s frustration mounted with each passing moment.

The study was a disaster. Files, papers, books, everything was scattered across the room, as if Morty had tried to pull some sense out of chaos but failed miserably. His hands shook uncontrollably as he flipped through the papers, slamming files closed only to grab another. His eyes were bloodshot, blurry from exhaustion, and his mind was lost in a fog. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t make sense of the mess.

Nothing made sense. Not the files, not the answers he was hunting for, and certainly not the pain inside him that had been growing for months.

Then, without warning, the stack of papers he was holding slipped from his grasp, tumbling to the floor in a crash. Morty lunged to catch them, but it was too late. The papers fluttered around him like leaves in a storm, each one another reminder of how little control he had.

He froze. His breath was shallow, his chest tight with a weight he could barely comprehend. He stared at the mess, his eyes starting to sting with tears. This was it. The frustration, the hopelessness had finally taken him over. His mind screamed at him to do something, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t fix anything. Not the room. Not himself.

And then, like a wave crashing down, the anger bubbled to the surface. It wasn’t just anger. It was pure, unfiltered desperation. His hands went wild, grabbing anything in reach. Papers, books, a chair, throwing them across the room, smashing them to pieces. His fists hit anything he could, breaking, destroying, hoping that the destruction would somehow make the pain go away. But it didn’t.

His heart hammered in his chest, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. The anger wasn’t enough, the destruction wasn’t enough. His body was alive with rage, but inside, he was hollow. Empty. A pit that kept swallowing everything whole.

His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps as his vision blurred. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He needed it to stop. The crushing weight. The suffocating grief. The loss . His mother. Summer. The dimension. Rick. Everything that had been torn from him, everything that was slipping through his fingers.

And then, through the fog of his own panic, something caught his eye.

A glint of silver. A cufflink. His mother’s.

It was half-buried under the mess, just barely visible, but it was enough. Enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Morty stared at it, his heart hammering in his chest. His throat tightened. The cufflink was the only thing left of her, the only piece of her he had left to hold on to.

His eyes stung. The tears came without warning, spilling down his face as his whole body went cold. It was too much. The grief was a flood, swallowing him whole. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

And in that moment, in the crushing weight of everything he had lost, he snapped.

His hands, shaking uncontrollably, reached for the nearest object. A broken shard of glass lay at his feet. Leftover from the chaos he had caused. His fingers curled around it, trembling, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, he pressed it against his skin.

It wasn’t an accident. He wanted it. He needed it. The sharp sting cut through the numbness, through the overwhelming ache inside him. He dragged it across his arm, slowly at first, watching the blood well up.

It felt real. It felt like something he could control , something that hurt . The pain was sharp, but it was something, anything to distract from the emptiness, from the overwhelming grief that consumed him.

His breath hitched. He pressed harder, feeling the cut deepen. The blood dripped down his arm, but the pain didn’t make it stop. Nothing was enough. Nothing could make the hurt go away.

Tears mixed with the blood on his skin as he dragged the shard across his flesh again, a desperate attempt to end the pain. His body shook as he cried out, but no one could hear him. No one could save him.

The world around him was spinning. His vision was blurred, his breath coming in desperate gasps as he fought to breathe, to hold on to something, anything. But it felt like he was slipping, like the world was slipping through his fingers.

Miller’s heart dropped when he saw Morty’s car parked outside the Freeman Estate. He hadn’t heard from him in hours, and something about the sight of the car here, alone and abandoned on the driveway set his nerves on edge. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. His heart hammered in his chest as he slammed open the door of his patrol car, rushing toward the front door without a second thought. His hand shook as he reached for the knob, pushing the door open. The quiet of the house hit him first, too quiet, too still. But that didn’t last long.

The sound of something breaking. A crash. A thud. Followed by the shattering of glass. His breath hitched. He moved faster, his boots pounding on the hardwood floors as he darted down the hallway toward the source of the noise.

“Morty?!” Miller called, his voice tight with concern. His pulse quickened when he stopped in front of the study door, the noise spilling out into the hallway. The air was thick and suffocating.

Miller ran inside.

The sight that hit him froze his breath in his chest. Papers were scattered across the floor, books torn apart, lamps shattered into jagged pieces. But at the center of it all stood Morty. He was a blur of frantic, panicked motion, thrashing around as though the violence he was inflicting on everything around him could somehow silence the storm inside his head.

Blood was dripping from his arm, pooling beneath him. The sight stopped Miller dead in his tracks. His heart clenched.

“Morty!” Miller shouted, louder this time. The boy didn’t hear him. Didn’t see him.

The moment Morty turned around, it was as if the world around him disappeared. His eyes were wide, frantic. And then, when they locked onto Miller, something in his face shifted, shame, fear, guilt. So much guilt, as if he had been caught in the act of something unforgivable.

“No! No, no, please, please don’t!” Morty’s voice cracked as he stepped back, his hand instinctively pressing against the bleeding wound on his arm, his fingers trembling. His wide eyes darted around the room in panic, like he was trapped.

Miller felt a pang of pain in his chest. “Morty, you’re bleeding. You need help. Let me help you.”

But Morty was already pulling away, his body shaking uncontrollably. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-” His words stumbled over each other, a mess of guilt. “I didn’t want you to see this. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Miller’s heart ached. “Stop. Morty, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.” He moved forward, but Morty took another step back, his face pale with fear, and the desperation in his voice shook Miller to his core.

“No, no! I messed everything up. I ruined it all. I…” Morty’s voice broke again, thick with emotion, as he sank to his knees, trembling uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry. Please. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t think I’m-” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He was sobbing now, his shoulders shaking violently as the tears spilled over. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I didn’t mean to do this…”

Miller moved to him, kneeling beside him, but Morty flinched, a fresh wave of panic flooding his system.

“M-Miller, please. Please don’t be mad at me. I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I can’t make it stop. I don’t know how to fix it.” Morty’s breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with panic, locking onto Miller as if expecting him to recoil in disgust.

“Hey. Look at me, Morty.” Miller’s voice was soft but firm, pulling Morty’s attention back to him. “You’re not alone. I’m not mad at you. You don’t have to be sorry.” His hand reached out, resting gently on Morty’s trembling shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize for this.”

But Morty’s face was streaked with tears, his lips trembling as he pressed his hand harder against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but the blood was still seeping through his fingers. The raw panic in his eyes made Miller’s heart twist with pain.

“I can’t take it, Miller. I can’t take the pain anymore. I just…” Morty’s voice broke as his breath hitched again, choking on the weight of everything inside him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

Miller’s stomach clenched. He didn’t know what Morty had been through to make him feel this way, but the boy needed to know one thing. He wasn’t alone.

“Morty, you don’t have to carry this alone,” Miller said quietly, his voice steady but filled with a tenderness that Morty had never seen before. “We’re going to get through this. Together. You’re not a mess. You’re not broken. You’re hurting, but that’s not the same thing. You’re not going to hurt yourself, do you hear me?”

Morty nodded, though the motion was weak, and his body trembled as he choked on another sob. He was lost in the flood of guilt and despair, unable to find the strength to pull himself out.

Miller’s chest tightened as he stood up, pulling Morty into a sitting position. “I’m going to get you help,” he said softly, his voice unwavering. “Stay with me, alright? Don’t close your eyes. We’re going to fix this.”

Without waiting for a response, Miller rushed out of the room and into his patrol car. His hands were shaking as he grabbed the first aid kit from the trunk. He needed to get back to Morty, he needed to stop the bleeding, stop him from falling deeper into whatever dark place he’d been sinking into.

When Miller returned, Morty was still on the floor, his face a mask of brokenness, his body wracked with quiet sobs. His arm was still bleeding, the blood staining the floor, but Morty didn’t seem to notice anymore. His eyes were glassy, unfocused as if everything had become too much for him to bear.

Miller knelt beside him again, his breath shallow as he worked to clean and dress the wound. He didn’t speak at first, just focused on the task, trying to bring some kind of calm to Morty’s spiraling world. He couldn’t make the past disappear, couldn’t erase the pain Morty had been carrying for so long, but he could help him now. He could show him that he wasn’t alone.

“Breathe, Morty,” Miller whispered as he worked, his voice soothing but firm. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

Morty’s eyes flickered up to him, raw and desperate, but there was something else there too, something that resembled trust. A flicker of hope buried deep beneath all the pain.

Miller didn’t need to say anything else. He just stayed beside him, a steady presence in the storm, making sure Morty knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

As the days passed, morning faded into night. After Miller found Morty, he decided to stay with him until something else came up. He gave Morty some medicine, and over the next few hours, his wound slowly healed, leaving behind deep pink scars, a fresh reminder of the morning’s events.

Eventually, Miller got called into the department, leaving Morty alone.

At first, Morty was fine. He kept to himself, trying to push everything that had happened to the back of his mind. But then, Miller texted.

“Turn on the TV.”

The harsh glow of the screen lit up the dim living room. Morty stood frozen in front of it, his face pale, chest rising and falling from the weight of the days. He barely noticed the flickering lights of the tech around him. His entire focus was locked on the screen, where a chilling video played before his eyes.

The chyron at the bottom read: "Explosive New Rogue Video Goes Viral" . Below it, a smaller line added: "Killer's message has over 13 million views."

On the screen, the aged footage of a political campaign ad played, Beth Freeman, smiling proudly at a podium at the Department of Justice with a younger Summer and a young Morty standing at her side. A younger, hopeful version of the Citadel’s philanthropist, but beneath the surface, something darker was brewing.

"From a very young age, my family, as well as the Primes, instilled in both of us that giving back is not just an obligation... it’s a passion. That is our family’s legacy..." Beth Freeman spoke.

The words hung in the air, sweet and righteous, just like Beth had once seemed to Morty. But then, the music shifted. What had been a patriotic anthem now distorted into something ominous, like a slow drum of impending doom. The camera zoomed in on Beth’s face, freezing it as if to emphasize her sincerity.

The screen flickered, and the voice of Rogue cut through the music like a jagged knife.

"The Freemans and the Primes. The Citadel’s founding families. But what is their real legacy?"

The photos on screen began to distort. At first, it was subtle, a slight darkening at the edges, a faint shift in tone. But then, the red began to bleed through, until every image of the Freeman and Prime families was saturated in blood. Beth’s smile, once so reassuring, now looked almost mocking. Summer’s face, once soft and graceful, now appeared ghostly.

The voice continued, its eerie distortion sinking into Morty’s bones.

“Four years ago, one reporter set out to uncover the dark truth. He found shocking family secrets..."

Morty’s breath hitched. He wanted to turn away, but his eyes wouldn’t leave the screen. He couldn’t look away. A reporter's photo flashed up next, an image of a Morty. The next sequence of images took his breath away, autopsy photos, crime scene photos, police reports. All things Morty had never meant to see.

"How when the Freemans first established the Citadel, Rick Freeman brutally murdered the Citadel’s Council, how the Freemans moved from their original dimension because they murdered everyone on the planet, Summer and Morty who are from the dimension C-137... and how the Primes used their power and money to cover it up..."

Morty’s stomach churned, the words seeping into his mind like poison. He had heard stories about the Prime family. About their madness, their broken legacy. But this… This was something else entirely. It was the truth, no matter how terrible it was.

The video shifted again, showing a death certificate. The words “Cause of Death: ACCIDENTAL” stood stark against the screen, the finality of them like a slap to Morty’s face.

"And they didn’t want anyone to know… Beth Freeman tried to force this crusading reporter into a hush money agreement to save her Presidential campaign..."

The video shifted again, showing his mother in a handshake with an unseen figure. The words “HUSH!” filled the screen, bold and unforgiving. The truth hit Morty like a freight train. His mother had been tied to these dark deeds.

"But when the reporter refused, Freeman turned to longtime secret associate, Rick Prime, AND HAD THE BOY MURDERED!"

A gunshot rang through the video, and Morty flinched. News footage followed, the image of a dead Morty, his face contorted in death, the headline screaming: “Gangland Style Execution.” The picture of his mother, shaking hands with Rick Prime, haunted Morty like a vision of doom.

"The FREEMANS and PRIMES! The Citadel’s legacy of LIES AND MURDER..."

Morty’s hand trembled as he gripped the edge of the table. His mother’s legacy, her perfect, clean image, was crumbling, disintegrating into nothing. It was a lie, all of it. And Morty was the one left to pick up the pieces.

The screen shifted one last time. A campaign poster of Beth Freeman, crossed out. The words “MURDERER” scrawled across the top in thick red letters. Rogue’s voice echoed one final time.

"I hope you’re listening, Morty Freeman, this is your legacy too. And the Citadel needs you to answer… For the SINS OF YOUR MOTHER … Goodbyyyyyyyye..."

Chapter Text

Morty stepped out of the estate, the night air sharp against his skin. A biting wind whipped across his face, but he barely noticed. His heart pounded, steady and relentless, a constant drumbeat in his ears. The Citadel sprawled before him, a mess of neon and shadows, its streets pulsing with life. And just beyond the Citadel’s haze, the club beckoned, gaudy, artificial, alive.

His purpose was clear. There was only one man who could give him the answers he needed.

The rhythmic thud of his footsteps filled the silence as he approached the entrance. A bouncer stood at the door, his eyes flicking toward him. One of them, broad-shouldered, with a face like a bruised knuckle, stiffened slightly, recognition dawning in his expression.

Morty met his gaze, his voice steady, stripped of warmth.

“Know who I am?”

The bouncer hesitated, eyes scanning over Morty’s disheveled state, windblown hair, shadowed eyes, the tightness in his jaw. Then, as if the realization hit all at once, his posture shifted.

“…You’re Morty Freeman.”

Morty didn’t move, didn’t react. He saw the uncertainty flicker in the man’s eyes. The weight of his name still carried power, but it had been a long time since he’d wielded it so openly. 

“I need to see Rick Prime.” Is all he said.

The bouncer blinked, hesitating, then, without another word, the door slammed shut in his face.

Morty exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cold air. He didn’t move. He just waited.

Seconds stretched into moments. The muffled bass thumped beneath his feet, vibrating through the pavement. Then finally, the door creaked open again. Both twin bouncers stood there, their expressions shifted. The second one grinned slightly, like he was looking at a legend who’d just stepped out of the past.

“C’mon in.”

Morty didn’t acknowledge them. He just stepped past, slipping into the heat and pulse of the club without another word.

Inside, the music pressed against him, thick and suffocating. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, painting the dance floor in flashes of electric blue and red. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and something burning at the edges, cigars, maybe, or something heavier.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t glance at the faces that turned toward him, curious, startled. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, silent, focused.

There was no time for pretense, no need for pleasantries.

He was here for one reason. And nothing was going to stop him.

The elevator ride up was silent, the hum of the machinery the only sound in the confined space. The walls gleamed, polished and sleek, reflecting the dim lighting like a funhouse mirror. Morty stood motionless, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

He stepped forward, his boots meeting the marble floor of a long, dimly lit hallway. The air here was different, heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke, a stark contrast to the raw, chaotic energy of the club below. Laughter drifted from the drawing room at the end of the hall, accompanied by the unmistakable click of pool balls colliding.

Morty kept walking.

“Hey, Johnny Slick! What’chu doin’ here?” Hawk asked surprised.

At the head of the room, with a pool stick in hand, Rick Prime - better known as Falcon - barely moved. His suit was crisp, his tie slightly loosened at the collar. The faintest smirk played at his lips as he finally looked up, dark eyes locking onto Morty’s.

"Give us a minute, fellas."

Chairs scraped against the floor. Without hesitation, the men surrounding the table gathered their drinks and retreated, some casting wary glances over their shoulders. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only Morty in the thick silence of the room.

Prime gestured toward a chair opposite him. "Have a seat."

Morty didn’t move.

Prime exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly, his fingers drumming against the pool stick. "Thought I might hear from you. This Rogue sonuvabitch is really stirring things up, huh?"

Morty’s voice came quiet, low, edged with something Prime couldn’t quite place.

"Is it true?"

Prime’s smirk lingered, but there was something else in his gaze now. He tilted his head slightly. "What? That reporter business?"

Morty didn’t answer. His silence spoke for him.

Prime studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed. "What do you wanna know, kid? What are you looking for?"

Morty took a step closer, his voice steady.

"The truth. Did you kill him? For my mother."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp as a blade.

Prime’s expression barely changed, but something in the room shifted, an invisible line crossed, an unspoken tension settling between them. He let out a slow breath, considering his next words carefully.

"Look," he started, his voice measured, "your mother saved my life. I was loyal to her. I even tried to give money to her campaign, that whole Redevelopment thing… but she wouldn’t take it. She didn’t wanna associate with a guy like me."

Morty’s jaw tightened. "My mother hated everything you stood for."

Prime let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know. Of course she did. Guys like you, women like your mother, you don’t wanna be in business with me… ‘til you need me. Right?"

The words landed like a hammer.

Morty’s hands curled tighter into fists, but he said nothing.

Prime watched him closely before continuing, his tone turning quieter, more deliberate. "Your mother was in trouble, okay? This reporter had some dirt, some very personal stuff about your family history… you know, everybody’s got their dirty laundry. That’s how it is. But she didn’t want none of that coming out. Not right before the election. Your mother tried to pay this guy off, but he wasn’t having it. So she came to me."

Morty felt his breath catch, but he kept his face unreadable.

"I never seen her like that," Prime murmured, almost to himself. "She said: ‘Prime. I want you to put the fear of God in this boy.’"

Silence.

Morty could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"And when fear isn’t enough…" Prime’s voice dropped to a near whisper, "you take it to the next level. Your mother wanted me to handle it. So I did. I handled it."

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thinner.

Morty’s voice was barely audible. "You killed a kid..."

Prime exhaled slowly, a shrug rolling through his shoulders. "Don’t lose any sleep over this, kid. That reporter? He was a lowlife. He was on Sanchezminius’ payroll. He got what was coming to him."

Morty’s chest felt tight, his breath shallow.

"Sanchezminius?"

Prime nodded. "Oh yeah. Sanchezminius could never stand your mother. After what happened with this reporter, I think he was worried your mother was gonna be in my pocket forever. He would’ve done anything to keep her from becoming President."

A beat.

"Are you saying… Sanchezminius… had my mother killed..?" Morty’s brows furrowed, a sad look plastered on his face.

Prime’s eyes darkened. He studied Morty for a long moment before finally speaking.

"Do I know it for a fact?" His voice was almost amused. "I’m just saying… it sure looked that way to me."

The truth hung between them, heavy and suffocating. The weight of it all crashed down on Morty, his breath catching in his throat. He had prepared himself for an ugly truth, but not this.

Prime watched him, his expression unreadable, but there was something cold in his eyes. Calculated. Amused, even.

"This what you wanted?" His voice was low, almost lazy. "This little conversation here?"

Morty didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hands had curled into tight fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms, but he barely felt it. The room around him felt distant. Prime’s words echoing in his head, the implications gnawing at the foundation of everything he thought he knew.

Prime exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "Anhh… I s’pose it’s been a long time comin’…" He studied Morty for a moment, the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth again. "I mean, you ain’t a kid no more, huh?"

The tension in the room thickened, the words hanging between them like an unbearable weight. But before Morty could process anything further, Prime moved.

It was slow. Calculated. He was in no hurry. A heavy hand landed at the back of Morty’s neck. It wasn’t just a touch. It was possessive, like he had the right to be there, like Morty was something he could own.

Prime’s fingers dug into the tender flesh just below Morty’s hairline, not a comforting gesture but an invasive one. The warmth of his palm felt like a brand against Morty’s skin, sending a sickening jolt through his body. His thumb grazed the dip at the base of Morty’s skull with chilling familiarity, a cruel touch that left no room for misunderstanding.

Morty’s heart slammed against his ribs, his body stiffening against the pressure, but he didn’t dare flinch. He’d learned long ago that showing any weakness around Prime was a mistake. Still, his breath hitched, the warmth of the man’s hand crawling through him, choking the air from his lungs.

Prime chuckled softly, that same low, predatory hum that had once haunted Morty’s every step, the sound of someone who found his discomfort amusing. "You’re all wound up," he murmured, his fingers flexing slightly, as if testing how tightly he could pull the strings of Morty’s composure. "What, you think I’m gonna hurt you?"

The question was a mockery, a cruel joke. Morty’s insides twisted in revolt, but he kept his voice steady, flat, masking the repulsion curling in his stomach. "Let go."

Prime didn’t respond right away. He was savoring the moment, the power of it. He leaned closer, his breath warm and sickly sweet against Morty’s temple, so close that Morty could feel the faintest brush of his lips near his ear. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the sharp tang of cigar smoke, the heaviness of it clogging Morty’s throat.

For a brief, horrifying second, it felt like a repeat of those old, haunted moments, when he had been little more than a pawn in the man’s twisted games. Morty had been too young, too naive to understand the weight of Prime’s touch then, too terrified to fight back. The power, the control, the invasion. Everything flooded back in a gut-wrenching wave.

Prime’s grip tightened, not painful but firm, unyielding. “You came to me for answers, kid," he murmured, the words dripping with something far darker than the casual tone he was trying to feign. "That means you trust me.”

Morty’s body locked in place. The memories surged, jagged and violent, but Morty crushed them down, burying them under layers of cold resolve. His breath was shallow, every inch of him screaming to recoil, to run, but he couldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. Not again. Not like this.

"I trust you to tell me the truth," Morty spat, the words cutting through his throat like shards of glass. His tone was colder than he felt, desperate to hide the tremor beneath the surface.

Prime’s chuckle rumbled through Morty’s chest like a phantom. “Good boy,” he purred, the words a sickening mixture of praise and derision, like Morty was nothing more than a pet.

A wave of nausea surged up Morty’s throat, but he swallowed it down, refusing to give Prime the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. His voice, when it came, was raw, strained, a single, bitter command. "I said, ‘Let go ’."

Prime sighed, the sound thick with mock disappointment, like Morty had somehow failed him. The chill of the room seemed to return as soon as Prime's hand left, but the warmth of his touch lingered unnaturally, like a stain Morty couldn’t scrub off. He fought the instinct to rub at the spot, to erase the feeling of Prime's hand, but he stayed still, rigid.

Prime was watching him, his eyes darker now, gleaming with something cold and calculating. Morty wanted to leave. He had what he came for, and staying here would only make it worse. But the room felt like a trap, every corner closing in on him.

Prime’s voice broke the silence, low and lazy, like he was weighing Morty’s resolve. His gaze slid over Morty like a predator sizing up its prey, and Morty could feel every ounce of Prime’s attention, the weight of it suffocating.

It was too much.

Morty couldn’t stay.

Without another word, he turned, his steps unsteady but purposeful, his mind racing, his body still trembling from the echoes of Prime’s touch. The door clicked shut behind him, but the warmth of Prime’s hand, his ownership, was still burned into his skin.

Chapter Text

The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the silence, rhythmic and relentless, like a clock counting down. Muffled behind a glass pane, Morty stood motionless, his eyes locked on Rick’s still body. He hadn’t moved since he arrived. Hadn’t blinked much either. He just watched.

A soft voice interrupted the silence.

“Morty Freeman?”

He turned slowly, meeting the gentle gaze of a Morty nurse. He spoke with quiet sympathy, as if too much volume might shatter him.

“When he wakes up, he should be all good to go. You can see him now.”

Morty swallowed and nodded, forcing a small, sad smile. “Thank you.”

The door opened, and he stepped inside.

The chair creaked under him as he sat beside Rick’s bed. He didn’t know how long he had been there. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Time moved strangely in a hospital room, too fast and too slow all at once. The heart monitor continued its steady song, an unrelenting reminder that Rick was still here, still alive.

Morty barely noticed when Rick stirred. Just a faint movement in his peripheral vision, a slight shift of his head, a flutter of his eyelids. Then, groggy, pained, Rick’s eyes opened.

At first, he just looked at Morty, gaze hazy, unfocused. Then, slowly, recognition crept in.

Morty let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His lips curled into a small, pained smile. But when he finally spoke, his voice was strained, filled with something that wasn’t just sadness. But betrayal.

“…You lied to me. The whole time.”

A heavy silence stretched between them. The air in the room shifted, thickening with something unspoken. Rick just stared.

Morty swallowed hard. His voice was quieter this time. More cutting.

“I knew there was no other way to get the truth. Especially after the broadcast. So I spoke to Falcon… Rick Prime.”

Rick’s eyes widened slightly, the exhaustion in them giving way to something colder. Sharper. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, like the words hurt coming out.

“…You talked to Prime?”

Morty nodded. “He told me what he did… for my mother. And about Sanchezminius.” His voice hardened, sharpened with grief and anger. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this? All these years I spent searching, fighting, for my mother, believing she was a good person.”

Rick’s expression darkened. His jaw tightened.

“You listen to me, Morty… Your mother was a good woman. She… She made a mistake--”

“A mistake?” Morty scoffed, shaking his head. “She had an innocent boy killed, Rick.” His voice cracked with anger, with hurt. “Why? To protect her image? Her career?”

“It wasn’t to protect her image and she DIDN’T have anyone killed.” Something in his voice made Morty pause. It wasn’t just defensive, it was desperate. He looks at Rick, who continues, simply emotional.

“She was protecting you and your sister. She didn’t care about her image. She cared about you both.” His voice caught slightly. “These… secrets about the past, they haunted her. Summer specifically battled them every single day. We all have our scars, Morty.” Rick paused for a second. His face twists slightly into guilt and sadness.

Morty’s breath hitched, but he said nothing.

“And your mother knew, if everything came out, it’d be too much for Summer. It would destroy her and she just… Your mother was so worried, she loved your sister so much. And so in a moment of weakness, she turned to Prime. But she NEVER thought that Prime would kill that boy. Your mother should have known that Prime would do anything to finally have something on her he could use.” There’s a sudden bitterness to Rick’s voice. His brow furrows.

“That’s who Prime is. And that was your mother's mistake. And when Prime told her what he had done, your mother… was distraught. She told Prime that she was going to the police, that she would confess everything. And that night… your mother was killed.”

Morty’s eyes widen slightly. Prickles of tears form at the corner of his eyes. He’s stunned.

“It was Prime…?” He asks quietly. Voice breaking.

Rick just looks at him sadly. Wanting to give Morty the answer he’s needed, but he just doesn’t know.

“I wish I knew for sure. Or maybe it was some random thug on the street who- who needed money, got scared, and pulled the trigger too fast -- If you don’t think I’ve spent every day searching for that answer.” Rick’s voice trembles slightly. Looking at Morty.

And for the first time. Morty sees Rick at his most vulnerable. Rick looks at him truly distraught. “It was my job to protect her, do you understand? I know you always blamed yourself, but you were only a boy, Morty. I could see the fear in your eyes - but I didn’t know how to help.” 

Rick stops, he breathes out his nose sharply. Morty, who is silently crying next to him, turns away - trying to wipe his tears.

“I could teach you how to fight. Defend yourself and your sister. But I just wasn’t equipped to take care of you. You needed a mother. But all you had… was me.” Rick’s voice strains. 

Morty blinks slowly. “I’m sorry, Morty.” Rick looks over to him, moving his hand over to him to hold his hand, and he looks away, his eyes red with heartbreak and regret. Morty interlocks his hand with Rick and squeezes slightly. He sobs quietly.

“Rick, no… Don’t be sorry.”

Rick blinks hard. Then, his face morphs - struck.

“God, I… I never thought I’d feel fear like that again … I thought I’d mastered that all decades ago. I mean, I’m not afraid to die.” Rick’s unflinching gaze meets Morty’s, who nods, solemn. Then Rick’s eyes shift away again, processing thoughts that race in his mind.

“But I realize, that… That there’s something I never got past… The fear of- of ever going through any of that again. Of losing someone I care about…”

Rick looks back to Morty, who looks moved, stunned. Morty smiles sadly at him, tears in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Rick and Morty arrived back at the Freeman Estate just as the first light of dawn began to push through the sky. The long drive had been silent, both of them lost in their thoughts, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on them in ways neither of them could escape. Rick was exhausted, physically and mentally drained, but Morty… Morty had a different kind of energy in him, something that hadn’t been there when they first arrived.

Rick had barely made it through the front door before he collapsed onto the nearest couch in the main living room, his body sore and heavy. He didn’t bother with the lights; the dim glow from the hallway was enough for him.

“You need some rest,” Morty had muttered, not looking at him as he disappeared up the stairs.

Rick didn’t argue. Morty had a way of saying things with an air of finality. He couldn’t tell if the kid was speaking out of concern, or if it was just another instance of him trying to take care of everything for both of them.

Rick closed his eyes, the thumping of his heart and the sound of his own breathing louder than the hum of the house around him. He tried to sleep, but his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts of Morty, of the lies, the betrayals, the shattered pieces of a family that might never be put back together, kept him awake.

It was almost an hour later when Rick finally stirred from the half-sleep he'd drifted into, hearing faint footsteps coming from the stairs. He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and tried to shake the fog off his mind.

He turned toward the sound, expecting to see Morty walking down in his usual disheveled state. What he wasn’t prepared for was the figure standing in the doorway. Morty, but not the boy he recognized. Morty was in full S.S.E. armor.

The black, sleek armor, reflective and imposing, molded tightly to Morty’s frame, the helmet's angular design hiding most of his face. The suit’s blackened surface caught the dim light from the hallway, casting eerie reflections across the room. Morty stood there for a moment, staring straight ahead, his posture rigid.

Rick’s stomach dropped. Morty hadn’t worn the S.S.E. armor since that car chase, and it wasn’t a good sign. Not now. Not after everything that had just happened. Rick narrowed his eyes, taking in the way Morty held himself, tense and purposeful, as if ready for battle.

“Where are you going?” Rick asked, his voice heavy with suspicion, though he tried to keep it casual.

Morty didn’t answer immediately. Rick’s gaze flicked to something in Morty’s hand, a phone. Summer’s phone. The sight of it in Morty’s grip sent a sharp pang through Rick’s chest. Morty’s knuckles were white from the tension, and his eyes… There was something different in them. Something darker. A quiet determination Rick didn’t recognize.

Morty didn’t meet his gaze as he shoved Summer’s phone into his pocket and started toward the door.

“Morty…” Rick’s voice was more insistent this time, tinged with unease. “Where the hell are you going in that gear?”

Morty paused just before he reached the door, but he didn’t turn around. “I need to take care of something, Rick. Don’t worry about it.” His tone was clipped, cold.

Rick stood up, watching Morty’s every move, feeling his gut twist with a mix of concern and growing suspicion. He wanted to stop him, to ask more questions, but Morty was already slipping out into the night, the door clicking shut behind him before Rick could get another word in.

Rick stood there, staring at the door for a long moment, then glanced down at his phone he had left on the table. Something wasn’t right. Morty’s body language, the way he rushed out, the phone in his hand, it all screamed that he was on a mission. And it didn’t seem like a mission Morty should be tackling alone.

Rick tried to push the unease from his mind. Maybe Morty just needed space, or maybe he was going after something important, something related to what they’d learned about Summer and the mess with Prime. But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong.

An hour passed, and Rick’s mind wouldn’t quiet. He paced the room, tinkering with some tech out of sheer habit to distract himself, but the growing sense of dread gnawed at him.

Then his phone rang, cutting through the silence. Rick snatched it up without looking at the ID, already irritated. “Miller, this better be good.”

“It’s about Morty,” Miller’s voice came through, tight with urgency. “Rick, you need to get over to the old construction building on Maple and 3rd, right now. Morty called me about an hour ago, said he needed to meet me at the top floor. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but he’s acting… strange. Something’s off, Rick.”

Rick’s heart skipped a beat. Morty? In that suit, acting weird? On a top floor of some unfinished building? It didn’t make sense. “What the hell’s he doing up there, Miller?” Rick’s voice dropped to a growl.

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel right. I’m getting a bad vibe about it. He’s all business, no talk about what’s going on. Like he’s on a mission or something.”

Rick clenched his jaw, his mind racing. Morty had been acting different since the hospital, distant, colder. And now he was doing this? Rick couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Alright, I’m on my way,” Rick said, his voice hard as he hung up the phone. He didn’t waste any time strapping himself in his own S.S.E armor and heading out the door, the familiar chill of the night air hitting him as he moved swiftly toward the car. The bike was gone though, so Morty had probably taken it.

Something was wrong with Morty. And Rick wasn’t going to wait around and let whatever it was go unchecked. He reached for his grappler and slipped into the night.

Chapter Text

The elevator creaked as it slowly ascended, the sound of its gears grinding echoing through the cold shaft. Rick stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes darting from the ceiling to the floor, sneaking glances to Miller. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his posture stiff, his movements tense. Rick could feel the weight of Miller’s worry, and it hung in the air between them like a storm ready to break. “You’re not telling me something, aren’t you Miller.”

Rick looked at Miller. Something was different about him tonight. Miller’s expression was unreadable, but there was a fire in his gaze, a quiet intensity that Rick couldn’t ignore. “I… I guess I am, Rick.” He states softly. Worry creeping into his voice.

“What happened.”

Miller stayed silent for a moment, he looked away from Rick. His eyes carried guilt.

“I found Morty parked at the Freeman Estate while you were in the Intensive Care Unit. Something happened- He… He was telling me abo-” Before Miller could finish his sentence, the elevator came to a sudden stop, the harsh sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space. The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing the unfinished top floor of the building. The space was a cavernous mess. 

Concrete pillars and exposed wires, steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling, and scattered debris that seemed to have been abandoned halfway through construction. Flickering overhead lights cast eerie shadows, and the air felt thick with a sense of unease.

Rick’s eyes narrowed. He stepped out first, his boots thudding against the concrete floor. Miller followed close behind, the sound of his S.E.A.L armor, a dull, metallic echo in the stillness. It was then that Rick saw him. A Rick slumped on the ground, bound by thick chains. The Rick’s face was swollen, disfigured from the brutal beating, his eyes half-lidded as he struggled to breathe.

And standing over him, with the deadly grace of a predator, was Morty. His back was straight, his jaw clenched in anger. Morty’s hands gripped the Glock tightly, the barrel pointed downward, but there was no mistaking the danger in his posture. His eyes locked onto the Rick, cold and unblinking, as though the world had narrowed down to this single moment.

Rick felt his heart rate increase, his pulse quickening in response to the tension in the air. Morty was different, darker. This wasn’t the same boy he had tried to protect all these years.

Without taking his eyes off the Rick, Morty spoke, his voice low and seething with fury.

“I found him.” Morty’s voice was sharp, full of anger and frustration. "What’re we gonna do?" he demanded, his eyes wild. "He had my shit! My phone! Summer left a message! The night they took her, she called me!"

Kennedy, his fear growing by the second, looked up at them, panic filling his eyes. "Miller! Help me OUT, man!" he pleaded, his voice trembling as he looked from Rick to Miller.

Rick’s voice was low but firm, commanding. "Put down the gun."

Before he could finish, Morty’s boot collided with Kennedy again, knocking the air from his lungs. "SHUT UP!" he shouted, his fury unleashed.

He turned back to Rick and Miller, his grip tightening on his phone as he pulled it from his armor’s pocket, holding it up to Rick with trembling hands. "I'm telling you, goddammit, she CALLED ME!"

Morty’s hands were shaking, but he hit the play button on the voicemail, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He tossed the phone to Rick, and he instinctively caught it. Miller leaned in, his expression tense as the distorted message filled the air.

The first sound was the frantic, panicked breathing of someone clearly trying to escape something terrible. Then an angry voice crackled through the speaker.

“Back here, where you goin'!?”

A second voice immediately joined the chaos, shouting over the first, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“Hey hey- HEY, what’re you doin’? C’mon, Kennedy, you’re scarin’ her.”

Then, the unmistakable sound of Kennedy’s voice cut through the noise, trembling with fear.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry, Prime...”

The tone on the other end shifted, smooth and unsettling, though calm amidst the rising panic. It was Prime. Falcon, his voice eerily collected.

“Hey... you okay? C’mere.”

Summer’s voice came next, cracking with terror.

“Please don’t- don’t hurt me...”

Prime’s voice softened further, taking on a near-soothing quality.

“Don’t be scared, c’mon... Now, let me just ask you again... What’d Rick Allen tell you?”

Summer’s response was hesitant, her nerves evident as she struggled to form the words.

“N-nothing… he-”

Prime’s voice grew firmer, more insistent, as if pushing for the truth.

“Al liked to talk, I know that. Especially to pretty girls like you... That’s why I made him take your passport, ’til we could have a little conversation.”

Summer’s voice cracked, desperation bleeding into every word.

“All I wanna do is get out of here, okay?! You’ll never hear from me again, nobody will- PLEASE!”

Prime’s voice remained steady, but the promise in his tone was chilling.

“We’re gonna get you outta here, I promise... But first, I gotta know... What’d he tell you?”

Summer hesitated, the tremor in her voice betraying her fear.

“He... he just said they... they all made a... a deal with you...”

Prime chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down the spine. It was a cold, knowing laugh, as if he had already anticipated every word.

“Ohhhh, he told you about that, huh? A deal?”

Summer’s voice barely rose above a whisper, but the words spilled out in a rush.

“Yeah, long time ago he said… He said you gave some information on some drops thing that helped a lot of people, and that’s how he became President. He said you were a... very important man...”

Prime’s response came slow, as if savoring the moment, already knowing how the conversation would end.

“Right... uh-huh...”

A long, resigned sigh escaped him, heavy with finality.

“Okay...”

Suddenly, Summer’s screams cut through the tension, raw and agonizing. Her cries were so piercing, they seemed to rip through the air. Rick’s gaze shifted instinctively toward Morty. He stood frozen, his eyes locked on the space before him, the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes as the sound of Summer’s suffering filled the air. The desperate gasps from Summer followed, each one more suffocating than the last.

On the phone, Prime’s voice remained eerily calm, strained as though the chaos surrounding him barely touched him.

“… Just... take it... easy, okay? Take it easy...”

Miller’s voice cut through the chilling silence, his disbelief raw.

“Jesus... he’s strangling her...”

Miller’s gaze flickered to Rick, his mind still reeling from the gut-wrenching truth they had just uncovered. But Rick’s eyes remained fixed on Morty, unwavering, as if trying to piece together something more than just the anger that radiated from him. It was there in Morty’s eyes. A rage so raw, it was almost suffocating. But behind it, there was something else. Something darker, more personal. A pain so deep, Rick could almost feel it in his own chest. 

He knew that look.

Taking a step closer, Rick’s voice softened, but there was no mistaking the edge that lingered in his tone. “You really want to go after Prime like this, huh? What is it that drives you so hard, Morty? This isn’t just about Summer or Beth, is it?”

For a split second, Morty’s eyes flickered toward him, a flash of recognition, but it was gone before Rick could read it. His gaze shifted back to the darkened horizon outside, distant and unfocused. Morty wasn’t even seeing him anymore. He was lost somewhere far beyond, locked in a memory that Rick could never understand.

Rick watched him in silence, a knot forming in his stomach. He could feel it, the distance growing between them, even in the same vicinity.

Rick’s hand landed on Morty’s shoulder, an almost brutal reminder of the present moment. The contact was sharp, insistent. His grip was firm as he pulled Morty back from whatever dark place he’d drifted to in his mind. “Tell me, Morty,” Rick’s voice was low but edged with an intensity that cut through the tension. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Morty didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. But Rick saw it. The subtle hesitation in Morty’s eyes. The flicker of fear. Something Morty wanted to say, something he desperately feared revealing. Rick could feel the invisible wall that had gone up between them, stronger than anything physical. Morty’s fists clenched, white-knuckled, as if holding the flood of emotions back with sheer willpower.

“Forget it,” Morty muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, but it was final, dismissive. “I-I can’t even talk to you.”

Rick’s patience had its limits. He wasn’t about to let Morty slip away again, not when he was this close. Not when something this important was hanging in the air. His hand shot out, grabbing Morty’s arm with an iron grip, pulling him back. “No. Tell me. Why would a guy like Prime owe you anything?”

Morty’s jaw tightened. His body went rigid, as though Rick’s words had triggered something deep inside him. Morty tried to pull away, to escape the question that was unraveling him, but Rick wouldn’t let him. Not this time. Not when Morty was teetering on the edge of something so much darker than they’d ever discussed before.

“I-I can’t, Rick…” Morty’s voice broke, barely above a whisper. His eyes were glossed with unshed tears, but the words refused to come.

Rick’s chest tightened. His mind scrambled, but he pressed on, trying to find the logic in Morty’s collapse. “Why, Morty? C’mon, what the hell happened? Tell me.”

Morty winced, his face crumbling as if trying to hold back a flood. “Rick, just- just stop it!” His voice cracked, thick with fear, but he couldn’t hide it now. It was a plea. One Rick couldn’t ignore. Not when Morty was unraveling in front of him.

“Stop what?!” Rick snapped, more desperate than he cared to admit. “Why do you hate him so much, Morty? What are you so ANGRY ABOUT-?!”

“BECAUSE I WAS RAPED!” Morty’s voice broke, harsh and jagged, like he was tearing it from deep within.

Rick, Miller, and even Kennedy froze. Time itself seemed to stop, as if the universe had hit pause. Rick’s thoughts grounded to a halt. 

Raped .

The word hit him like a sledgehammer. He could barely make sense of it. His thoughts whirled, trying to process the magnitude of what Morty had just said.

Morty’s rage, always so loud, so fierce, was gone now. It was replaced by something darker, quieter. A raw kind of pain. This wasn’t about revenge anymore. This was survival.

Morty stood there, shaking but still trying to hold it all in. His eyes were wide, filled with a torment that made Rick’s stomach twist. The kid wasn’t just a pawn in some crazy vendetta anymore. He wasn’t some cocky kid trying to fight a war. No, Morty had been fighting for something far bigger. His sanity. His very self.

“Two years ago. Mom would invite those guys over, the ones she was ‘friends’ with... I had to greet them. Always hid in my room while she entertained them. But he’d be there…” Morty faltered, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it himself.

Rick’s stomach turned. He knew this was going somewhere terrible, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely.

“Guy was creepy as hell, Rick,” Morty continued, voice cracking. “And I didn’t- didn’t know why he looked at me the way he did... Then one night, they were all drunk... Mom, the others... and he came into my room.”

Rick felt his blood run cold. His fists clenched, but he held back. Morty wasn’t done yet.

“He- he just- he threw me on the bed and told me if I ever said anything, he'd kill me and Mom. I didn’t know what the hell to do, Rick! I was just a kid…”

Rick’s heart squeezed in his chest. All the petty shit he thought Morty was mad about seemed so damn small now. What Morty had been fighting against wasn’t just a grudge. It was terror. Survival.

“And it kept happening every damn time,” Morty whispered, his eyes unfocused, as if trying to block the memory. “I couldn’t even get out of bed after a while. I was scared to go downstairs... scared of seeing him again.”

Rick didn’t know what to say, how to fix this. Morty had been living in a nightmare alone. The city outside felt cold, distant, a sharp contrast to the heat building in Rick’s chest.

“That’s why I asked to stay with you, Rick,” Morty muttered, his face pinched in pain, and it felt like a punch in Rick’s gut. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Rick looked at him for a long moment, the weight of it all crashing over him. “We’ll take him down, Morty. I don’t care what it takes. Prime’s not getting away with it. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born.”

For a moment, Morty didn’t react. His face was unreadable, but then there was that flicker, just a small shift in his expression. A crack in the hardness he always wore. Maybe he hadn’t thought Rick would get it. Hell, maybe he hadn’t thought anyone would. But Rick did. And that meant everything.

Rick’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he repeated the words to himself. 

“Rata alada… W-what did Prime go by again? Falcon? Rick Falcon- Prime whatever! A Falcon has wings too is what I’m trying to say.” The pieces were falling into place. His eyes darkened beneath the mask. “Rick Prime’s the rat.”

A gust of wind swept across the rooftop, rattling the metal scaffolding nearby. The Citadel sprawled beneath them, a maze of flickering lights and wet streets, the rhythmic wail of distant sirens underscoring the weight of the moment. Miller’s gaze slowly shifted to Kennedy, his expression hardening. He took a measured step forward, his boots scraping against the gravel-coated roof.

“He works for you guys?” Miller’s voice was thick with restrained anger. “The D.A.? The President?”

Kennedy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, reflecting the dim orange glow of the streetlights below. His panicked eyes darted between them, searching for an escape that didn’t exist. Then, as if the pressure had squeezed the truth from him, his lips parted, and the words spilled out in a shaky breath.

“No… we work for him. Everybody does.”

Rick’s jaw clenched beneath the helmet of his SSE armor, but his voice remained unreadable, a quiet storm on the horizon.

“Through Redevelopment” His tone carried an edge, like a blade just before it struck.

Kennedy trembled, the confession tumbling out in fragments. 

“Yeah… After Beth Freeman died, they all went after it like vultures. The President, Rick Prime, Sanchezminius. They carved it up, turned it into a machine. It was perfect for makin’ bribes, laundering money. A massive charitable fund with no oversight. Everybody got a piece.” 

His breath hitched. 

“But Prime wanted more. So we made a plan. Decided to take down Sanchezminius big time, ratted out his whole operation, and made the careers of everyone who helped bury him. Then Prime installed them as his puppets. He ran the Citadel from the shadows, pulling every string. You think this goddamn election matters? Rick Prime’s the President. He been the President for the last four years.”

The weight of his words settled over them like a heavy fog.

Rick remained silent, but Morty, standing just behind him, stiffened. His eyes, once watchful, now burned with something sharper, something dangerous. His breath was steady, but his grip on the gun tightened. Then, in a voice colder than the wind whipping through the city, he spoke.

“Come on, Rick.” he sneered. “Let’s go kill that son of a bitch.”

The gun in Morty’s hand leveled at Kennedy, his fingers curling around the trigger. “Might as well start with this creep, too.”

Kennedy recoiled, his face contorting in sheer panic. His breath came in short, desperate gasps. “Oh, God- no! No, no, no!”

A black-gloved fist struck out like a lightning bolt, knocking the gun from Morty’s grasp. It hit the ground with a sharp clatter, spinning across the rooftop.

“No.” Rick’s voice was like stone. Unyielding, final.

Morty’s eyes flashed as he turned, his face inches from Rick’s. The night air crackled between them, thick with tension.

“We’ll get him,” Rick said, his voice steady as granite. “But not this way.”

Morty’s breath was shallow, his body rigid. “There is no other way,” he shot back, the frustration boiling over. “He owns the Citadel!”

Rick’s stare didn’t waver. “Cross that line, you become just like him.”

For a long, stretched moment, Morty didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, his face unreadable, then slowly, a smirk curled at the edge of his lips, something dark flickering in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Rick.”

With dancer’s grace, he lifted his leg, pressing the toe of his boot against Kennedy’s chest, slow and teasing. For a second, it was almost playful. Then, in an instant, the amusement vanished. His heel snapped forward with brutal force.

Kennedy’s scream shattered the night as he toppled backward. His arms flailed, the Citadel below yawning open to swallow him whole. But before gravity could claim him, a sharp hiss sliced through the air. A grappler fired, the line snapping taut just as Kennedy’s body jerked to a halt. He dangled helplessly over the edge, breathless and trembling, eyes wide with terror.

Rick gritted his teeth, the weight pulling against his arm as he held on. Miller lunged forward, grabbing hold of the line to help.

But Rick’s attention was elsewhere. His head snapped toward Morty, just in time to see him make his escape.

With a swift, practiced motion, Morty leapt off the ledge, his gloved fingers catching hold of a cable strung between a construction crane. His body arced through the night, his silhouette cutting through the neon haze of the city. Then, just as quickly, he was gone. Vanishing into the shadows like a ghost.

Miller hauled Kennedy back onto the rooftop, the man gasping for breath, limbs shaking uncontrollably. He turned to Rick, who was already securing a grappling hook to the ledge, movements swift and precise.

“He’s not gonna make it out of there alive,” Miller warned, his voice tight. “And if he kills Rick Prime, we might never find Rogue.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. “I have to stop him.”

Miller hesitated. “Don’t you mean we?”

“I gotta do this my way.”

Without another word, Rick tossed something to Miller. He caught it, frowning as he realized what it was. Morty’s phone.

“We do what Rogue said,” Rick murmured. “Bring the rat into the light.”

Miller stared at the phone, then nodded, understanding at last.

But Rick was already gone. He leapt from the tower, a black flash as he vanished into the night.

Chapter Text

The alley behind the Finite Lounge was dark and deserted, the air thick with the scent of rain-slicked asphalt and garbage left to rot. A single flickering streetlamp cast long, uneven shadows over the walls.

Morty ripped off his helmet, his breath steady despite the pounding adrenaline in his veins. With practiced precision, he ejected the Glock’s clip, inspecting the rounds with a flick of his wrist before slamming it back in place. The metallic snap echoed in the empty alley.

Without hesitation, he reached for the clips of his armor, ripping it away to reveal the sleek, form-fitting showboy outfit beneath. The transformation was seamless. One moment, a hardened masked knight in tactical gear, the next, an alluring vision of control and danger. He tossed and discarded his armor into a duffle bag strapped on the back of the bike and turned toward the club’s entrance, eyes sharp as he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlamp.

Inside, the nightclub pulsed with deafening bass, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and the scent of expensive liquor. Morty pushed through the crowd, his movements purposeful yet fluid, his every step measured. The private elevator was guarded, naturally. The Rick stationed there was tall, built like a brute, with a sharp gaze that swept over him from head to toe.

Morty smiled, light and easy. “Hey, could you tell Mr. Prime I’d like to come up?”

His voice was casual, unassuming, but there was an underlying weight to it, just enough command to make the guy hesitate.

The guard didn’t even bother pretending to consider it. His mouth twisted into something between a sneer and a smirk. “He ain’t seein’ nobody tonight.”

Morty didn’t react. He simply leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make the words feel heavier. “Tell him it’s about Summer Freeman.”

That did it.

The guard’s entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders tensed, the casual arrogance in his eyes dimming as he muttered something into the mic curled around his ear. A pause. Then, with a small jerk of his head, he stepped aside as the elevator doors slid open.

Morty stepped inside without looking back, though he could feel the guard’s stare burning between his shoulder blades as the doors sealed shut with a soft hiss.

The air was thick with the scent of cigars and leather, the kind of wealth that reeked of old money and blood-stained deals. Morty stepped off the elevator, moving past a wall of armed bodyguards before entering the drawing room.

Prime was already waiting, walking slowly towards Morty who was stomping confidently towards him. A slow smile curled his lips.

“Well, well, look who came back.” he mused.

Morty let out a fake, almost apologetic laugh. “Sorry to bother you.”

Prime waved a dismissive hand. “No, it’s fine, baby. What can I do for you?”

Morty exhaled softly, shifting in his shoes. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a minute?”

Rick Prime grinned at him. “Absolutely…” He stated lazily.

Morty side-glanced at Rick Prime’s bodyguards who stood around before whispering. “Alone?”

A loud banging was sounded on the front door to the Finite Lounge. The sound wasn’t casual. It was deliberate, forceful, shaking the very walls. The twins stiffened, hands instinctively drifting toward their weapons.

The tension stretched, thick and waiting. The twins exchanged glances before the both of them hesitantly stepped forward. They moved with caution, every step echoing against the polished floors as they reached for the door handle.

With a slow creak, the heavy door swung open.

Nothing.

The outside was empty. Dark and yawning like an open maw. A single streetlamp flickered, casting jittery shadows against the damp pavement.

The Twins hesitated, stepping out just far enough to scan the area. Their heads turned in opposite directions, scanning the darkness for movement. But before they could react there was a sudden BAM! As the heavy door slammed shut behind them with a jarring finality, locking them out.

Inside, the club pulsed with life. Music throbbed, bodies moved in a sea of flashing lights and smoke. The scent of alcohol, sweat, and perfume clung to the air like a second skin.

Pushing through the haze, Rick had entered the Finite Lounge.

He moved with purpose, cutting through the revelers like a shadow slipping through the cracks of reality. An army jacket hung from his shoulders, hood low over a cap that hid his face. A duffel bag slung at his side, shifting slightly with his measured strides.

His eyes, sharp and searching, locked onto a single door at the far end of the club. A worn, metal sign hung on it, barely illuminated by the neon wash of the room.

KEEP OUT.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and disappeared inside.

A security guard noticed.

His head snapped up, brow furrowing as he registered the intruder slipping through a restricted entrance. His reaction was immediate, he moved to follow the figure.

The guard pushed past the crowd, following as the figure turned a sharp corner. The club’s noise dulled in the back corridors, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the quickened breath of pursuit.

The guard rounded the corner and the figure lurched out, uppercutting the guard. He slammed into the opposite wall before collapsing in an unconscious heap. Rick kept walking.

Morty sat across from Prime, eyes wide, lips trembling just enough to sell the act. He was good at this. At slipping into personas, at weaving truth with lies. His voice was soft, pleading.

“I’m just… I’m so worried,” he whispered, his fingers twisting in his lap. “I don’t know where she is... and I know you’re a very important man , so I was hoping maybe you could help me find her. She’s been gone so long, I’m starting to think she might be-”

His voice cracked at the right moment.

Prime’s gaze flickered with something… Pity? Amusement? He reached into his pocket, pulling out a crisp handkerchief, offering it to Morty.

“That’s okay,” he said smoothly. “I understand.”

Morty shook his head, offering a small, grateful smile as he reached into his clutch. His fingers brushed against the cold steel of the hidden Glock.

He was just about to wrap his fingers around it when a voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

“Mr. Prime.”

Both of them turned, startled, as a bodyguard Rick stepped inside. Morty immediately released the gun, his hand darting instead for a small packet of tissues. He dabbed at his eyes as if caught mid-breakdown.

Prime sighed, irritated. “HEY! Didn’t I tell you-”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Prime,” the Rick interrupted, his tone urgent. “I really think you’re gonna wanna see this.”

Prime studied him for a beat, then gave a reluctant nod before turning back to Morty.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmured, rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

Morty nodded, still dabbing at his eyes. But as soon as Prime turned away, his expression hardened. His gaze flickered toward the Glock hidden in his clutch. His chest rising and falling.

A side door swung open, revealing a dimly lit room dominated by the cold glow of a television screen. The static hum of the broadcast filled the space as Prime stepped inside, his usual air of control flickering like the light dancing in his eyes.

The news played on the screen, casting shifting shadows across his face. His eyes narrowed. Then, realization hit.

"…Holy shit…" he muttered, breath hitching.

The reporter’s voice cut through the stale air:

“…The recording was provided to us by Lieutenant Morty Miller of the S.E.A.L PD. We should warn you, the contents are disturbing.”

Prime’s lips parted slightly as he watched the screen. A glaring headline stretched across the bottom in bold, merciless text:

“RECLUSIVE ‘CRIME BOSS’ RECORDED COMMITTING MURDER. ADMITS TO BEING MAFIA INFORMANT.”

Then came the audio.

A grainy, crackling voicemail played from the screen, the voice unmistakable.

“Ohhhh, he told you about that, huh? A deal?”

“Yeah, long time ago he said… He said you gave some information on some drops thing that helped a lot of people, and that’s how he became President. He said you were a... very important man...”

Prime’s expression barely flickered, but the room felt heavier. His empire, years in the making, now unraveling before his eyes.

Across the room, Morty watched in silence. The two men stood transfixed by the screen, backs to him, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing behind them.

Morty’s fingers curled around the cool steel in his clutch. The weight of the Glock felt reassuring.

He inhaled sharply, steadying himself.

Then, he rose.

A single step forward, then another. The gun slid from his bag, his grip tightening as he lifted it, one slow, deliberate inch at a time.

On the TV, Summer screamed.

A metal door burst open, slamming against the wall with a resounding crash.

The duffel hit the concrete floor with a dull thud. Rough, gloved hands reached inside, fingers curling around the cold steel of a portable rotary saw.

With a sharp whir, the blade spun to life, screeching as it met metal. Sparks exploded outward in chaotic bursts, lighting up the dark space in violent flickers. The blade chewed through the power lines, slicing closer and closer.

For the briefest moment, the light flared, illuminating something just beneath the fabric of the duffle.

A black S.S.E helmet

“Hey, Falcon.”

Prime’s head snapped around at the code-name, his face contorting with confusion as he met Morty’s eyes. His expression froze, disbelief filling his features. Standing there, gun in hand, was Morty. His posture unwavering, his finger already on the trigger. Beside him, the Rick Bodyguard spun around, his eyes widening as he realized what was happening.

“What…?” Prime’s voice caught, the question more of a stunned gasp than anything else.

Morty didn’t move. His gaze was cold. Sharp like steel. Beneath his calm exterior, something deeper simmered, something dangerous. His voice, when it came, was steady, controlled.

“I already knew what you did.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than any bullet. For a long moment, Prime’s expression remained frozen. The revelation hit him harder than he could have expected, a flicker of shock flashing across his face. He stood there, unnerved, unsure of how to respond. After what felt like an eternity, he tried to regain some semblance of control.

“Okay, just… just put down the gun, baby…”

Morty’s lips barely moved as he spoke again, his words cutting through the room like a blade.

“This is for my family.”

He pulled the trigger just as the lights in the room flickered before dying out, plunging them into darkness.

For a split second, everything stopped. The sound of Morty’s breath, his pulse in his ears, was the only thing he could hear. Then, the flash of his muzzle illuminated the room in a brief, blinding burst. In that instant, he saw Prime. His body a blur as he dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the bullet.

Below, the crowd in the club erupted in panic. The sudden loss of power sent them into a frenzy, their voices rising in a chaotic wave of confusion and fear. People stumbled in the darkness, unsure of what had just happened. The room, once filled with music and laughter, was now consumed by a terrifying uncertainty.

In the elevator shaft above, the doors slid open with a harsh screech, the noise echoing through the narrow space. A figure - Rick -  emerged from the shadows, moving with practiced ease. The elevator guard, standing watch outside, had no chance. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, taken out without a sound. Rick reached for the grappling gun on his forearm, the mechanism clicking as it was primed for action. The hook shot upward, latching onto the elevator car five stories above with a sharp, metallic noise.

Back in the TV room, Morty and the Rick Bodyguard were locked in a brutal struggle. Morty fought with everything he had, his movements sharp and calculated. With a swift motion, he drove his heel into the bodyguards knee. There was a sickening crack as the bone shattered, and the bodyguard crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. Morty spun, his foot connecting in a blinding roundhouse kick. The bodyguard dropped to the ground, out cold.

His eyes flickered toward the door. There, was Prime. He was making a break for it, darting toward the exit. Without hesitation, Morty fired. The sound of the gunshot rang through the dark room, deafening in its intensity. Bullets tore through the air, slamming into the wall inches from Prime’s retreating figure. But he kept moving, scrambling to escape.

Outside, in the elevator hallway, the voices of the guards were frantic. Shouting, cursing, and running toward the source of the gunfire. They were disoriented, trying to make sense of the chaos. But in the darkness, all they had was fear.

A Guard’s voice echoed through the darkened hallway, barely audible over the pounding of their hearts.

“Jesus Christ…”

A second voice followed, panicked. “I can't see a goddamn thing!”

Another guard, more frantic, shouted over the growing tension. “Here, here, here!”

He flicked on the flashlight from his cell phone, the beam cutting through the darkness to reveal five armed guards standing in a tense cluster. The light spilled over them, trembling in their hands as they exchanged uneasy glances. The air was thick with dread when, suddenly, an ominous screech echoed from the far end of the hallway.

They all spun toward the eerie silence of the open elevator doors. The darkness beyond seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy. Eyes wide, they exchanged another look, spooked, unsure of what to do next. One guard nodded toward the man holding the phone. He hesitated, then, with an unspoken command, he reluctantly moved toward the elevator doors, gun drawn. The others watched in tense silence as he stepped into the darkness.

Inside the elevator, the glow of the cell phone flashlight swept across the empty space. The guard’s breath came out in shallow gasps as he scanned the interior, looking for any sign of movement. It was quiet. Too quiet. Then, a sound broke the stillness. 

The unmistakable sound of breathing.

The guard’s pulse quickened. He raised his flashlight, and for a split second, his heart stopped. Above him, braced unnaturally against the ceiling, hung a figure, its silhouette cast in the distorted glow of the light.

It was Rick i his full S.S.E armor. His visor snapped down with his night-vision enabled.

The image was something born of nightmares. His features warped by the light, a mask of terror in the guard’s eyes. Rick dropped, moving faster than the guard could react. He yelled in agony as Rick slammed into him, his scream cut off in a strangled gasp. The guard’s cell phone shattered on the floor as he was sent crashing into the darkness, his body limp and unconscious. The hallway was plunged back into blackness, save for the sounds of Rick’s footsteps. A relentless pounding through the silence.

In the drawing room, Morty’s gun flashed in the dark, each shot revealing a fleeting image in the gloom. Prime scrambled desperately, crawling around the pool table, narrowly evading his bullets. His panic was palpable, but he was quick, almost slippery in his movements.

Morty rounded the corner, ready to end it, only to freeze as he saw Prime poised to fire. But before Morty could act, a force yanked him backward. He was slammed into the edge of the pool table, his breath was knocked from him. The Rick bodyguard was upon him, his grip ironclad.

Morty fought back with a vicious kick, sending the bodyguard staggering away. But as he regained his footing, Morty delivered another brutal strike, stomping down hard on his injured knee. His roar of pain filled the room, and he crumpled, collapsing to the floor.

Morty grabbed his head with one hand, slamming it onto the edge of the table with a sickening thud. 

Morty spun back toward Prime, ready to finish this, he found him gone. The room was silent again, save for the faint echo of footsteps and then a sickening CRACK!  

Prime swung the pool cue with all his strength, slamming it into the side of Morty’s head. The impact spun Morty’s head and rattled his vision completely, he staggered, disoriented, before he hit the ground hard, the gun clattering away from his reach.

Prime’s low chuckle echoed in the room as he tapped the end of the pool cue against the floor tauntingly. Morty groaned, pain shooting through the side and back of his head like a fire igniting in his skull. He tried to move, his body unresponsive, reaching for something—anything to hold onto, to stop himself from completely losing control.

"Got to hand it to ya, kid," Prime said, his voice mocking. "You got your mother's fight in you."

Morty’s eyes flickered open just as Prime climbed on top of him, his body weight crushing Morty’s chest. The pool cue was thrust down, pressing painfully against his neck, and Morty’s throat constricted in a desperate gasp for air.

He was choking him.

Morty’s hands flew to the cue, his fingers desperately trying to pull it away as he gasped for breath. He writhed beneath Prime, his body fighting against the suffocating pressure, but it was no use. Prime’s weight crushed him, the darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision.

Desperation fueled him. Morty flicked his hand up, his nails scraping against Prime’s skin. Prime howled in pain, giving Morty the opening he needed. The pool cue slipped from his neck as Prime recoiled, and Morty threw it away with everything he had left, gasping for air.

Prime's rage exploded as he swung a hard punch into Morty’s jaw, sending him back into a dazed state.

“You think this hurts me?” Prime snarled, his voice dark and mocking. “Why don’t we just relive those old days, huh? Make it like it was.”

As Morty struggled beneath Prime’s weight, his heart hammered in his chest. Every breath was a battle as Prime’s grip tightened around his throat, choking him. But it was the feeling of Prime’s hands shifting lower that froze Morty’s blood. The sickening pressure of Prime’s palm against his body. His chest tightened with panic as Prime’s fingers grazed over the latex skirt.

Morty’s pulse skyrocketed, and a wave of terror surged through him like icy water. He tried to twist away, but Prime’s grip only tightened. The fabric gave way with a cruel, tearing motion, the garment slipping lower, inching too close, and Morty’s stomach twisted as the truth of what Prime intended settled in.

“Stop it- stop!,” Morty choked out, his voice hoarse, trembling with fear, but Prime’s eyes didn’t flicker with any sign of hesitation or remorse.

Prime sneered down at him, tightening his hold as he yanked again, tearing at the flimsy garment. The force of it was a violation in every sense, and Morty’s heart pounded as a deep, primal panic overtook him. His body trembled, his mind screaming for escape as he twisted beneath Prime, trying to free himself from the crushing weight.

But it didn’t stop.

Prime’s hand shot up to Morty’s throat again, closing around it like a vice, choking him into submission. Morty’s hands slapped weakly against Prime’s wrist, his nails scraping the rough skin, but it did nothing to free him.

There was no mercy in Prime’s eyes, only a twisted, sadistic glee. “You made me do this,” he growled, his voice low and filled with hate. “Just like your mother and sister.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Morty’s eyes, not from the suffocating pressure on his throat, but from the sheer violation of the moment. His entire body went rigid, fighting not just for breath, but for dignity. For survival.

His skin burned where Prime’s hands touched him, each second stretching out like an eternity. His mind raced with ways to break free, but the suffocating fear was paralyzing.

He had to escape.

The whole world felt like it was closing in on him, every corner filled with darkness as Prime’s laugh echoed in his ears.

“Just like your mother and sister.”

The words were like a knife in his chest, cutting through him with each repetition. Morty’s pulse thudded louder, each beat a drum calling for help that wouldn’t come. The pressure on his neck grew unbearable, and everything inside him screamed.

A sudden shape loomed in the doorway, a shadow moving with an almost supernatural speed. Before Morty could react, a force ripped Prime away from him, throwing him aside with terrifying strength. It was Rick.

Morty gasped, inhaling desperately as his vision blurred, his breath coming in ragged pants. He had no time to process it as Rick slammed Prime onto the ground, hitting it with a thud that left him dazed, barely able to comprehend what had just happened.

In the aftermath, Morty’s hands shook violently as he reached for the gun. He aimed it at Prime, his entire being trembling with fury, his heart pounding in his chest. The sound of the gun clicking into place was deafening in the silence. He could feel the weight of his mother’s death. His sister’s death. 

His innocence. 

Everything that had been ripped from him, in every movement. This Rick, this monster. He had to pay.

But Rick moved swiftly, his hand reaching out to gently stop Morty’s, holding him back with a calmness that contrasted with the fury in his veins.

“He HAS TO PAY!” he erupted, his voice raw with the rage and grief that had been building up for so long. The gun trembled in his grasp as he struggled to break free from Rick’s hold.

Rick’s hand on his was steady, firm, but gentle. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it fell like a stone in the stillness. “But you shouldn’t have to pay with him.”

Morty’s eyes locked on Rick’s as his visor snapped up, confusion mixing with the frantic energy still coursing through him. He didn’t understand. Didn’t Rick see? Didn’t he feel the same need for revenge?

Rick’s gaze softened, though his eyes remained intense, as if he could see into the very core of him. “... You’ve paid enough, Morty.”

Something in those words finally broke through the storm inside him. His breath hitched as he stared at Rick, the words sinking in like a weight, pulling him back from the precipice. He didn’t know why, but suddenly, the fight drained from him. He slowly lowered the gun, his hand trembling. The fury that had once felt so righteous now felt hollow. He glanced down, lost, his chest tightening as a wave of exhaustion overtook him.

Chapter Text

The Finite Lounge’s long entry hall. Stunned onlookers parted in silence, their eyes wide as Rick forcefully guided Prime forward. Among them, Hawk and his twins stood frozen, watching as the chaos unfolded. Prime, still dazed from the impact, murmured under his breath, unfazed by the turn of events.

“Jesus, look at you,” Prime muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. “What do you think this is? You think you're gonna scare me with that helmet and the armor? I’m gonna start cryin’ and spill all my secrets? Is that it?”

Rick’s rage simmered beneath the surface, his jaw clenched tight as he slowly turned to face the criminal, his eyes glowing with the intensity of a simmering volcano. He said nothing, letting Prime’s words hang in the air like smoke.

“Lemme tell you something,” Prime continued, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Whatever I know, whatever I’ve done, it’s all goin' with me. To my grave.”

Rick’s stare was unwavering, his fists balled at his sides as he fought to keep the violence in check. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. And just as the tension reached its peak, Rick turned, his eyes catching sight of Miller standing at the open front door, a shotgun in hand, waiting. The two of them moved in sync, shoving Prime toward him.

Prime, still undeterred, sneered. “You with Zorro over here?” he asked, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. “Don’t you know you boys in blue work for me?”

Miller’s glare cut through him like a blade, silencing his words. Without another word, he and Rick shoved Prime forward, leaving the man to stew in his own arrogance.

Outside the club, the air was thick with the sounds of distant sirens, but it was the sight of the armed cops lining the street that caught Prime off guard. His smug smile faltered as he looked down the row of officers, their expressions cold and unreadable. The sheer number of them made his blood run cold.

Miller stood at the forefront, his gaze unwavering. “Guess we don’t all work for you,” he said, his voice steady, almost pitying.

Prime’s face twisted in disbelief, his arrogance crumbling under the weight of Miller’s words. He didn’t know what had just hit him, the shock of it all seizing him in place. Miller nodded to Officer Martinez, who stepped forward, handcuffs glinting in the streetlight.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Miller continued, his voice no longer containing the anger it once had. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. If you cannot afford one, the Citadel’s Department of Justice will provide one to you. Do you understand these rights?”

Prime’s eyes drifted across the crowd that had gathered. His eyes fell locked onto Morty who stared back. A dark, cold gaze.

“...Yeah. I’ll see you when I walk out.” Prime stated smugly. Hawk and his twins emerging from the club, their faces filled with disgust and silent judgment. The expression on Hawk’s face said it all: this wasn’t the glorious moment he’d envisioned. No, the power had shifted.

“You will be charged with two accounts of sexual assault, two accounts of second-degree murder, attempted murder, and drug dealing. With these rights in mind, is there anything else you wish to-”  

“... Goddamn rat...” Hawk muttered under his breath, but loud enough to be heard by anyone within Primes vicinity.

Rick, a couple of cops and Prime turned around.

Prime’s brow furrowed, the audacity of the insult pushing him past the edge of his pride. “What’d you say...?” he hissed, his voice a low growl.

Hawk’s voice was mocking, tinged with a newfound confidence. “Enjoy your night at the Galatic Federation, Prime... Probably be your last.”

The words were like a slap in the face, but Prime’s response was venomous, his voice laced with disdain. “Oh, you’re a big man now, huh, Riq?”

Hawk’s face shifted, a smirk slowly curling up as he basked in his brief moment of power. “Maybe I am-” he began, but before he could finish, Prime’s next words cut through him like a blade.

“Really, Riq? 'Cause to me, you were always just a gimp in an empty suit.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and cruel, like poison slowly seeping into an open wound. The twins, standing nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle under their breath. But it wasn’t the laughter that reached Hawk’s ears. It was the sting of public humiliation, and it burned him to the core. His face reddened, and in an instant, the fragile thread of his control snapped.

“I’LL SPRAY-PAINT YOUR ASS!” Hawk screamed, his voice cracking as he whipped out an Uzi from beneath his coat. A thunderous boom echoed throughout the buildings. In a blur of motion, Rick lunged for Prime, his arms wrapping around the mob boss in a desperate attempt to shield him.

The cops scrambled, some diving for cover, others rushing to restrain Hawk.

“I DIDN’T SHOOT! I DIDN’T SHOOT!” Hawk shouted in a frenzy, his voice desperate as the reality of the situation crashed over him. But his protests fell on deaf ears. The officers surged forward, piling on top of him with the force of a tidal wave.

Rick rolled off Prime, his body still tight with adrenaline, and he froze. The mob boss was bleeding out, a bullet had tore through his neck and blood was pooling beneath him.

The whole world went silent, his ears ringing. Rick’s attention was caught on the faint, eerie gleam in the crimson liquid. He looked up, his eyes drawn to the lone flickering streetlamp above, casting a dim light onto the grim scene.

“Bring him into the light...” Rick muttered to himself under his breath.

His head whipped to a darkened window across the street. “… and you’ll find where I’m-”

“UP THERE!” A voice of an officer  cried out from somewhere unseen.

Everyone turned at the sound, their attention snapping to Officer Carter, who was pointing at the window, eyes wide with realization.

“The shot came from up there!” Carter shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade.

Cops rushed to draw their weapons, a few staying behind to attend to the wounded Prime. Rick’s gaze never left the window, his mind already racing, piecing the puzzle together.

“It’s Rogue,” Rick said, his voice low, the words coming out like gravel. He wasn’t just thinking out loud anymore. He knew .

Miller, snapping back to action, barked orders to his men. “Gage! On me! Carter! Round back! NO ONE GETS IN OR OUTTA THERE!”

The cops rushed the building, some taking positions while others ran toward the entrance, but Rick moved with purpose, alone, heading straight for the window. His every step was a calculated, silent march. There was no room for hesitation now.

A few officers remained behind, tending to Prime, whose face was starting to lose its familiar, arrogant gleam, replaced by the stillness of death. The flickering streetlight cast long shadows over his lifeless form, adding to the chilling atmosphere.

And then, the shadow fell over his face, the light around it flickering once more.

Morty stood above him, staring at his body, his gaze distant and cold. The adrenaline from earlier still buzzed through his veins, but now it was replaced with something deeper. A numbness. The cold stare of someone who had lost everything. 

A grappling hook shot through the window with a deafening crack. Rick launched himself into the air, catapulting into a rundown studio apartment. He hit the floor with a roll, landing gracefully on his feet.

The place was a fucking mess like a drug lag. The walls were covered with images. Scrapbooked pictures, scribbled notes, the signs of someone obsessed. A sniper rifle sat by the window, a clear sign of the Rogue’s handiwork. Rick moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the room, every movement deliberate.

He turned to find another open window on the far wall. Moving swiftly, he made his way to it, his eyes sweeping across the alley below. He leaned out, searching the grime-covered streets, his gaze piercing through the darkness. The alley was empty, no sign of movement, no indication that anyone had fled.

But he knew better than to let his guard down. Something. Someone, was still out there, pulling the strings.

Suddenly, the front door of the apartment crashed in with a deafening bang, and Miller and a team of cops stormed through, weapons drawn. Their boots pounded against the floor as they moved with urgency, their eyes scanning every inch of the place.

Rick was already ahead of them, his figure a shadow against the walls cluttered with images and notes. His voice was steady, a cold certainty in his words.

“He’s gone.”

He moved past cages of rats, their frenzied screeches echoing in the silence, his gaze landing on the wall covered with photos. Some were of Zeta-Alpha, others of the dealer, Allen, and Summer. A quiet, haunting collage of lives destroyed. Rick lingered on the pictures for a moment longer than necessary, his mind racing.

He turned, staring out the window, his thoughts aligned with the puzzle pieces starting to fall into place. Miller joined him, his eyes narrowing as they both surveyed the street below. The photos were all taken from this exact spot. A vantage point so precise it was almost calculated.

Miller let out a low grunt, half in disbelief. “... He’s been here this whole time?”

Before Rick could answer, Carter’s voice crackled through the radio, cutting through the tension in the air.

“LIEUTENANT! We got a witness here! A Morty says he saw someone come down the fire escape right after the shot. He said the guy went into the corner diner. Guy’s sitting by himself at the counter right now!”

Miller and Rick exchanged a look. There was no hesitation in their movements as they turned toward the door.

The diner stood alone in the desolate street, its neon sign flickering in the cold night air. It looked like a relic from another time, an eerie and silent place frozen in its own quiet misery. The world outside seemed unaware of the storm brewing inside.

Through the large window, a solitary boy sat at the counter, his back to the glass, mockingly oblivious to the chaos unfolding outside. The streetlight above cast long, jagged shadows across his figure, giving him an almost ghostly presence.

Inside, the counterman placed a latte before him, the cup steaming softly in the dim light before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving the boy alone with his thoughts. The muted hum of a TV above played the election results, the calm voice of the newscaster filling the space.

"...not enough precincts in to call yet, but so far, Rougel is ahead of Acting President Mitchell by huge margins, celebrations already beginning at his headquarters in the Citadel’s Square Garden where even Rick Allen’s daughter and grandson have gathered to show unity…"

The newscaster’s voice trailed off, but the tension in the air thickened.

Then, the shrill shout of a cop sliced through the moment.

“POLICE! HANDS UP!”

The boy at the counter didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up. His fingers continued to stir his latte with an almost obsessive precision, the plastic stirrer scraping faintly against the sides of the cup. The world around him erupted into chaos, but he remained completely unmoved.

Another cop's voice cut through the heavy silence of the diner, low and intimidating.

“I said put your goddamn hands up, you son of a bitch.”

The lone Morty at the counter barely reacted. He finished stirring his coffee with agonizing slowness, his hand steady, the small stirrer twisting idly in the foam. The tension was unbearable. He raised his hands, his fingers still pinching the stirrer, holding it delicately as if it were the most important thing in the world.

The Morty began to turn, but before his face could be revealed, the entire diner seemed to come alive with the show of force around him. Cops filled every inch of the space, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning every corner. The place was packed. Dozens of armed S.E.A.L. team members, waiting for the moment to descend.

Finally, the Morty’s face came into view. Pale, unremarkable. Nothing special about him at first glance. He looked like any ordinary kid, a nobody. But there was something unnerving about the way he stared at the cops, something calculating in his eyes. A creepy half-smile formed on his lips.

With his stirrer still in hand, he gestured lazily toward the kitchen, almost as if to make light of the situation.

“I just ordered a slice of pumpkin pie,” he said, his tone casual, as if they were discussing dessert instead of an impending arrest.

And then, in a flash, the cops were on him. They rushed forward, slamming him onto the counter with a violence that shattered the moment. The Morty’s cheek pressed flat against the counter beside his latte, his prescription glasses cracked and askew.

But even as they held him down, Rogue’s eyes, cold and focused, drifted past them, locking with Rick’s. The smile on his face grew wider, more twisted, as if this entire moment was nothing but part of a game he had already won.

Carter ripped the wallet from Rogue’s pocket, pulling out two driver’s licenses, one reading “Mortimer Nashton,” the other “Mortimer Parker.” His voice was sharp with irritation.

“Which one is you?!”

Rogue’s grin only deepened as he met Carter’s gaze.

“… You tell me.”

Carter’s patience snapped. “Awright, let’s go, pencil-neck!” He barked, as the cops started dragging Rogue away, pulling him with force toward the door. Leaving Rogue’s latte still steaming. Untouched. 

A delicate work of latte art in the foam. Drawn with precise care, each swirl of white foam created a perfect, eerie symbol.

?

Chapter Text

The apartment was crawling with investigators, S.E.A.L. photographers snapping photos like they were at a crime scene fashion show. The camera flashes lit up the dim room, revealing a mess of papers, ledgers, and notebooks, all scrawled with cryptic symbols and codes like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream.

Outside in the hallway, Carter leaned against the doorframe, scrolling absentmindedly through election results on his phone. He barely glanced up when a shadow flickered past him.

"Hey-!" he started, twisting in place, but whoever it was had already ghosted through.

Inside, a couple of detectives hunched over Rogue’s countless notebooks, muttering like they were trying to crack the Da Vinci Code.

“What even are these? Diaries?” Miller asked, flipping through a particularly ratty one.

Morty, the forensic officer, shook his head. “Ledgers. Dude’s got, like, a thousand of ‘em. Ramblings, ciphers, codes.”

A sudden shout cut through the murmurs.

“Got something back on one of the IDs!” A detective clutched his phone like it was the winning lottery ticket. “Mortimer Nashton! Works at CBTM! He’s a forensic accountant!”

Miller frowned. “An accountant?”

Rick, who had been quietly sifting through one of the ledgers, let out a dry, unimpressed snort from across the room. “Oh great, so we’re dealing with a math nerd with a god complex. That always ends well.”

A surly cop shot Rick a glare. “Hey, Lieutenant! You really okay with this?” He gestured at Rick like he was some stray dog they let wander in. “What about the chain of evidence?”

Rick didn’t even look up. He just kept flipping through the pages like he was skimming a particularly tedious Reddit thread.

Miller barely glanced at the cop before muttering, “He’s wearing gloves.”

Rick smirked under his helmet. “Yeah, see? Unlike some people, I actually understand the concept of contamination.”

Miller’s attention snapped back to the ledger Rick had been poring over. The top sheet was covered in frantic, scrawled notes, words slashed across the page like they’d been written mid-breakdown. As Miller started reading, Rick wandered further into the dimly lit room, his eyes landing on something particularly unnerving. A shrine of mannequins dressed in crude, homemade torture devices.

Because, sure. Why not?

Miller’s voice filled the thick silence as he read aloud:

"Friday, July 16th. My life has been a cruel game I could not solve, suffocating my mind, no escape. But then today, I SAW IT… A SINGLE WORD on this ledger, sitting on the desk beside me! REDEVELOPMENT! The empty promise they sold to me as a child in that hospital. One look inside and finally I UNDERSTOOD! My whole life has been PREPARING me for this… The moment when I would learn the TRUTH… when I could finally strike back and EXPOSE THEIR LIES!"

Rick sighed, shaking his head. “Wow, this guy’s real original. Love how he’s found his evil awakening in a stack of tax paperwork. Truly the villain origin story of the century.”

Miller kept reading, flipping through more pages, Rogue’s handwriting getting progressively worse. Like he’d been scribbling with the desperation of a guy who just discovered caffeine.

"If you want people to understand, REALLY understand, you can't just give them the answers. You have to CONFRONT them, TORTURE THEM with the horrifying questions. Just like they tortured ME. I KNOW NOW WHAT I MUST BECOME."

Rick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, he’s deep and tortured. Bet this guy thought Fight Club was, like, life-changing.”

Then, an eerie screeching sound cut through the room.

Everyone paused.

Miller hesitated, eyes darting toward Rick, who was now frozen in place beside a row of cages.

“Jesus,” Miller muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t think that rat likes you, man.”

Rick didn’t move, his voice flat. “That’s not a rat.”

Miller and the surly cop stepped closer.

And there it was.

A rabid bat. Its thin body writhing, wings thrashing against the bars. Its tiny, snarling face twisted in fury, foam flecking at its mouth like some kind of rabid demon spawn.

And beneath it, an envelope.

Rick sighed heavily, rubbing his gloved fingers over his visor. “Oh great. A bat. Real subtle. What’s next? Dramatic poetry? A fucking monologue?”

Miller just stared at the cage, shaking his head. “This Citadel’s got issues, man.”

Rick smirked. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

“TO C-137”

A bloodied metal tool was attached to it, wedged between the bars like some twisted art installation.

Miller raised an eyebrow. “What is that…?”

Rick glanced at the tool, then at the Rick cop standing nearby. He gave him a look, like he was trying to figure out if the guy was actually capable of being useful.

The Rick cop shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

Rick didn’t need to be told twice. He reached in toward the cage, but as soon as his hand brushed past the bat’s flailing wings, a camera flash went off, blinding everyone in the room. The bat shrieked, its wings slamming against the cage in a flurry of panic.

Rick didn’t flinch. He locked onto the envelope and the bloodstained tool beneath the screeching creature, snatching them both up with surgical precision.

The Rick cop squinted at the tool, clearly confused. “Some kinda… 2-by tool? A chisel?”

Rick turned it over in his gloved hand, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the jagged edge. “It’s a murder weapon. He killed Allen with this.”

The room fell silent, everyone exchanging uneasy glances like they weren’t sure whether they were dealing with a madman or a genius.

Rick didn’t wait for them to process it. “The edge'll match the floorboard impressions in the President's study. That’s how they’ll link it.”

With deliberate movements, he tore open the envelope, his eyes flicking over the contents. Inside, there was a greeting card with the words “JUST FOR YOU” written in messy, almost childlike script. He flipped it open.

Inside was a note, scrawled in jagged ink:

"MY CONFESSION…"

Miller frowned, glancing over Rick’s shoulder. “Confession? What’s he confessing to? He already told us he killed Allen.”

Rick’s eyes were glued to the page, his mind racing. “This isn’t over…”

Before anyone could ask what he meant, a digital forensics officer spoke up, his voice tinged with the kind of unease you get when you’ve been on the dark web for too long.

“Oh man… he’s been posting all kinds of stuff online. Like, five hundred followers... creepy fringe types…”

They all turned to see a forensics Morty hunched over Rogue’s laptop, his face illuminated by the sickly green glow of the screen. Miller moved toward him, but Rick’s eyes drifted past, landing on something far more sinister.

The wall across the room was covered in a sprawling, chaotic collage. A madman’s mural. The Truth About The Citadel.

Rick stepped closer, his eyes scanning the defaced photographs—Citadel officials, cops, Rogue’s victims. The images were twisted, grotesque. Scrawled messages snaked through the faces like veins. But one stood out.

A young Morty Freeman, posing beside his mother at the Department of Justice charity ceremony. Their eyes were scratched out, furiously, as though Rogue had been trying to erase them from existence.

Rick’s throat tightened as his eyes lowered, landing on another cluster of images. Sensationalized tabloid headlines. One stood out:

A crude police sketch of his masked face. The title: "CITADEL TERRORIZED. WHERE ARE THE C-137s?"

And next to it, in angry, thick ink, Rogue had scrawled:

“I KNOW.”

Rick felt his stomach drop.

“I know the REAL you. Mr. Freeman…”

The walls felt like they were closing in.

A voice pulled him from the haze. The digital forensics officer muttered, his voice strained.

“His final post was last night. Some kind of video. Got a ton of views… but it’s password protected.”

Rick’s gaze locked onto the laptop screen, where the title of the post flashed like a warning siren:

“The Truth REVEALED.”

His gut twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was dread or something else gnawing at him, but he didn’t like the feeling one bit.

Miller, sensing the weight of the moment, pressed forward. “Can you get in?”

The forensics officer didn’t look up, tapping away on the keys with focus. “Copying his drive now. Should have access soon.”

Rick didn’t hear him. His thoughts were elsewhere, piecing it together. Every horrifying revelation clicked into place.

“I think I’m his last target,” Rick muttered, his voice low, almost to himself.

Miller’s eyes shot to him, alarm flashing across his face. “ You ?”

Rick nodded, his gaze fixed on the screen. “Maybe this is all coming to an end.”

Miller furrowed his brow. “What’s coming to an end?”

Rick didn’t answer, his focus unyielding.

Before Miller could press further, his phone rang, shattering the silence. He stepped away, his voice dropping into a low murmur as he answered. Rick watched him, reading the tension in his posture. Then, when Miller finally hung up, his eyes met Rick’s.

“Rogue’s asking for you,” he said, his voice tight. “At the Federal Prison.”

Rick held his gaze for a long, heavy moment. Then, without a word, he turned to leave. But just before stepping out of the room, he stopped.

His voice was quiet, almost… sincere.

“… You’re a good cop.”

Miller’s expression softened for a moment, but by the time he opened his mouth to respond, Rick was already gone.

Chapter Text

Rick pulled into the driveway, the Challenger’s engine growling before he shut it off. He stepped out, locking the car with a quick beep, and fished a key out of his pocket as he approached the front door. Before he could slide it into the lock, the door swung open.

Morty stood there, already suited up in his S.S.E armor, arms crossed. Rick’s eyes flicked over him, brows knitting together.

“Uh… what the hell are you doin’?” Rick asked, tilting his head.

“I’m coming with you,” Morty said, tone flat but firm.

Rick blinked. “Yeah, no, that’s cute, but you’re not.”

Morty didn’t budge. “Yes, I am.”

Rick exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Look, I’m just here to check in on you, make sure you haven’t had a nervous breakdown or, I dunno, started drinking bathwater or some shit. Then I gotta go to the Federal Prison and talk to some sad piece of SHIT who’s all pissy ‘cause he’s not you.”

That got Morty’s attention. His eyes sparked with curiosity. “Wait, what?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Rick waved a hand dismissively. “Point is, you-”

“That’s too bad,” Morty cut in, stepping past Rick like he didn’t even hear him. “You can be my therapist in the car.”

Rick did a double-take before spinning on his heel. “Morty- goddammit, no! You’ve had a long-ass night, you almost died like, what, three times? You need to rest.”

Morty turned back, staring at him with a look Rick couldn’t quite read. A look he didn’t like.

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ugh, fine. But don’t start bitchin’ when your ass goes numb ‘cause we’re sitting in a room for three hours listenin’ to some asshole whine.”

Morty smirked, hopping into the passenger seat. “I’ll live.”

Rick climbed into the driver’s seat with a grumble, fired up the engine, and peeled out of the driveway, the Challenger disappearing into the neon-lit shadows of the Citadel.

The heavy metal door of the Federal prison screeched open, revealing Mortimer Nashton sitting in the dim visiting cell. The moment Rogue saw Rick, a twisted grin crept across his face. His eyes flicked around the squalid, windowless room before locking back onto Morty.

“Why are you here? I told you I’d see you in hell,” he murmured, voice dripping with disdain.

Rick, genuinely confused, shot Mortya look. Morty narrowed his eyes, the audacity of the guy annoying him more than he liked to admit.

“What the hell’s this guy talking about?” Rick muttered, not understanding the reference.

Rogue’s grin only widened. "Oh, this is too rich," he whispered, tilting his head like some kind of twisted philosopher. “You don't get it, do you? I'm the guy who’s been waiting for this... this moment.”

Rick shot a pointed look at Morty, then back at Rogue, trying to suppress the growing irritation. “What do you want from me?”

Rogue's fingers tapped idly on the table, his voice lowering but charged with something manic. "Want? No, no, no. You have no idea how long I've been planning this. Invisible ... my whole life, Rick. But now? Now, everyone’s gonna remember me. Remember us.”

His eyes flickered, darker now, gaze cutting into Rick’s skull. And then, without warning, he spat the words like venom.

"Freeman."

Rick’s fists clenched. Morty’s face twisted into fear.

Rogue’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “It’s funny, isn’t it? All these years, and no one cares about the real Mortys who were in need. No one talks about me .”

Rogue's eyes flared with something violent, something that wasn’t born of logic. He leaned in, voice dripping with raw bitterness. “You know what it’s like to be Rick-less?” His eyes locked onto Morty. “Thirty kids to a room in a school. No parents, no real care. That’s being practically an orphan.”

Rick’s gaze didn’t waver, even as the words hit like a blow to the chest. Rogue’s eyes burned as he leaned in closer, sneering at Morty, “And every winter? One of the kids dies. Freezing. You think that’s some sad, romantic story? Try living it. Then talk to me about being unfortunate, you spoiled brat."

Rick’s jaw tightened. Morty’s hands balled into fists, but he stayed silent, unsure of how to respond to the madness spilling out of Rogue’s mouth.

Rogue leaned back, his expression shifting. He seemed almost pleased with himself, savoring the twisted story he’d just told. “And yet, all they could talk about was poor Morty and Summer. The Freemans ."

His voice lowered, a dark laugh escaping him. "Pathetic. You’ve had everything handed to you with your Rick, and you still think you know what suffering is. You probably enjoyed all the attention you got when all those sick fucks partied at the Freeman Estate…"

Rogue let the words hang in the air and Morty’s eyes shifted to the floor, memories of those times coming back. Rick saw how it affected him, and his eyes glinted with rage. “Enough with the fucking sob story,” he spat, leaning in. “What the hell do you want with me?”

Rogue’s eyes locked onto Rick's, glinting with something dangerously close to admiration. “I don’t want anything from you, Rick. I’m just... I’m just grateful. You helped me see something. You showed me something.”

Rick’s stomach churned. Morty shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing. “Showed you what?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Rogue gave a small, almost confused laugh. “I told you. We’ve been doing this together. You’re part of this. ”

Rick’s jaw tensed. “We didn’t do anything together.”

Rogue’s grin only widened. “Oh, but we did. What did we just do?” His eyes sparkled with something unhinged. “I asked you to bring him into the light, and you did. We’re such a good team. ”

“We’re not a fucking team.”

Rogue’s hands twitched against the table, his smile faltering slightly. “I never could’ve gotten him out of there. I’m not physical! I-I mean, my strength is up here.” He tapped his temple. “I had all the pieces, I had the answers, but I didn’t know how to make them listen. ” His eyes glistened. “ You both gave me that.”

Rick stiffened.

“You showed me what was possible.” Rogue’s voice softened into something disturbingly genuine. “You showed me all it takes is fear and a little focused violence.” His grin returned. “ You inspired me. ”

The words struck like a hammer.

Morty surged forward, fists slamming against the table.

“ You’re out of your fucking mind! ”

Rogue flinched, eyes widening slightly, lips parting.

“What..?”

Morty’s voice came out low and cold, his words slicing through the air like a blade.

“This is all in your head.” He shook his head, staring Rogue down with a mix of disgust and disbelief. “How can you say that? You’re twisted. Sick. ”

Rogue’s laugh was more of a strangled sob, desperate and hollow.

“You think you’ll be remembered?” Rick’s voice suddenly rose, mockingly, the finality in his words cutting sharper than ever. “You’re a pathetic psychopath begging for attention. You’re gonna die in here. Forgotten . A NOBODY!”

Rogue’s expression twisted violently, his hands pressing to his ears as if to block out the words, a tantrum unfolding in front of the duo’s eyes.

“ No, no, no, NO-NONO! ” His voice broke, rising in a violent scream. 

The silence that followed was oppressive. Rick stood still, unmoving, as Rogue fumed to himself, rage simmering down into a quiet, broken sound.

Finally, Rogue stopped screaming, and a violent yell ripped from his throat, despair, “I HAD IT ALL PLANNED OUT! WE WERE GONNA BE SAFE HERE.. WE COULD’VE WATCHED IT ALL. TOGETHER!”

Rick’s brow furrowed, the words barely scraping through his defenses. “... Watch what?”

Rogue’s gaze fell to the floor, almost as if ashamed. “EVERYTHING!”

The words hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste. Rick felt a sinking feeling in his gut.

Rogue’s eyes flickered up to the two, a sudden realization dawning upon him. A grin stretched across his face.

“It was all there. You mean you didn’t figure it out?”

Rick stared. A beat of disturbing silence fell over them.

“Ohhhh… Oh you’re really not as smart as I thought you were… I guess I gave you too much credit…”

Rick’s stomach churned. “What did you do?” he growled, fists clenched.

Rogue leaned forward, his eyes glowing with sadistic satisfaction. “What’s black and blue... and dead all over?”

Rick’s blood ran cold as the realization hit. Morty’s stomach turned. Rogue’s grin stretched wider, his voice thick with pleasure. “You…" He paused. " If you think you can stop whats comin’...”

“What have you done.” Rogue’s laughter erupted, manic and unhinged, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, jagged and dissonant. It echoed around them, clawing at their very souls. Morty stood paralyzed, every muscle screaming to move, to run, but his legs refused to obey. The storm of dread gathering in the pit of his stomach was unstoppable, rising higher and higher until it felt like the room itself was closing in.

Rick slammed his fist against the glass, the sound a thunderclap in the suffocating silence. His voice roared with rage, low and guttural, shaking with the weight of his fury. “WHAT DID YOU DO!” His breath was heavy, sharp, every syllable laced with the rawness of a nightmare finally unraveling.

Rogue’s laughter didn’t stop. It spiraled, and with each passing moment, it became more distorted, more twisted, until it was nothing but a haunting, hollow sound that reverberated in their minds long after the moment had passed.

Chapter Text

Rick and Morty burst into Rogue’s darkened apartment, the metallic screech of Rick’s blade slashing through the police seal filling the air. Their movements were fast, instinctive—like predators on a hunt. Rick folded his tactical knife with practiced precision, his eyes darting around the room, scanning for anything out of place. His mind raced, anxiety creeping in. What did I miss? Everything felt wrong. When did I lose control?

A voice pierced the tension, sharp and unexpected.

"Hey! what are you doing in here?"

Rick didn’t even flinch. Morty, however, spun around, locking eyes with the officer in the doorway. The cop’s hand hovered near his weapon, unsure whether to escalate or back off.

“Shit! You scared the hell outta me, man!” Morty hissed, irritation and a touch of panic in his voice as he waved off the cop’s question.

Rick’s eyes flicked over to Morty before locking onto Officer Morty Martinez, his glare cold enough to freeze the air.

Martinez swallowed hard. His hand instinctively released its grip on the gun, his body retreating into the shadows. He stepped back, out of the line of fire, his gaze darting between Rick and Morty as they continued, unfazed, with their search.

Martinez, unsure of what else to do, reluctantly followed, confusion and uncertainty clouding his mind. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the two strangers, their every movement unnerving, like sharks circling in murky water.

Morty knelt beside a bloody metal tool discarded on the floor, his fingers snatching it up with grim efficiency. He unclipped the UV light bar, casting it over the tool, his mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour, trying to make sense of the evidence.

Rick’s eyes landed on a greeting card near Morty, his face tight with concentration. Martinez, his unease growing by the second, muttered, unsure how to break the silence.

“Man, this guy’s a real nutjob, huh? Killing Allen with a freakin’ carpet tool...”

Rick’s glare was lethal. The officer stumbled over his words, choking on the tension that had filled the room. Morty’s eyes narrowed, something snapping into place in his mind, the pieces falling together.

“What’d you say?” Morty’s voice was low, a dangerous curiosity coloring his tone as he locked eyes with the cop.

Rick turned slowly, his sharp gaze darting to Martinez, his patience wearing thin.

Martinez faltered, realizing he’d messed up. “Uh… my grandpa was an installer,” he stammered, his hand nervously running through his hair. “It’s a… uh, a tucker?”

The words hung in the air for a beat, and Morty’s expression shifted. The realization hit him like a freight train. This was a key Rick had missed. Morty’s eyes widened, and without a second’s hesitation, he shot a look at Rick before scanning the rest of the room.

His gaze locked onto something, a detail he hadn’t noticed before. His heart picked up speed as he moved toward it.

There, at the edge of the rug, was an odd, uneven corner that seemed too deliberate to be an accident. Morty crouched, his focus laser-sharp as he tugged at it, his hands working methodically.

Martinez, now visibly freaked out, stepped forward. “Hey, hey—what are you doing, man?” His voice wavered in alarm, but Morty didn’t even glance up.

Ignoring the officer, Morty tugged at the rug, the tacks popping free one by one, the sound sharp and unsettling. Each pull felt like a heartbeat, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place as Morty’s hands moved faster, driven by instinct.

Finally, the rug gave way, revealing a sprawling map of the Citadel meticulously drawn across the floor. Every line, every symbol seemed to have purpose, and scrawled beside it, in bold, menacing letters, were the words: A REAL CHANGE.

Rick and Morty stood frozen for a second, the weight of the discovery sinking in. Rick’s gaze shifted from the words to the laptop across the room.

“Holy shit…” Morty whispered, eyes wide as he stood beside Martinez, who was visibly unnerved by what he’d just witnessed. The screen flickered to life as Rick rushed over to the laptop, his fingers flying over the keys. He typed in A REAL CHANGE, hitting enter, the screen illuminating with a disturbing video.

On the screen, Rogue sat, cloaked in shadows, his voice familiar yet distorted through a voice changer. It was smooth and strangely casual, the contrast making it even more chilling.

“Hey, everyone, thanks for all the comments, and special thanks to everyone for the tips on detonators,” Rogue’s voice came through, oddly smooth but laced with a venomous undercurrent. 

“Detonators…?” Martinez whispered, mostly to himself.

“I just want to say... this’ll be my last post for a while, and, uh…”

The emotion in his voice caught them all off guard. There was a tremor, a crack in the façade that almost sounded real.

“…what this community has meant to me... these weeks, these months... Let’s just say... none of us is alone anymore, mmk?”

Rick’s lips tightened, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. He could feel the danger in Rogue’s words, the promise of something much bigger at play.

Rogue’s voice steadied, and there was an unmistakable satisfaction in his tone as he continued, the malice in every word unmistakable. “Tomorrow’s election day, and Morty Rougel will win. He promised real change. But we know the truth, don’t we?” Rogue’s voice dripped with contempt. 

Morty’s heart raced, his thoughts spiraling as he stared at the map. The threat was far more than just words. It was a warning. And soon, the real chaos would begin.

“You’ve seen The Citadel’s true face now. Together, we’ve revealed it. Its corruption, its perversion, masquerading under the guise of Redevelopment…”

The three stood frozen, watching as Rogue moved the camera. It swung toward the large map sprawled out on the floor, and Rick’s gaze followed, his mind racing. Rogue’s ominous words echoed in his ears, each one a hammer blow.

The camera zoomed in on the map, showing seven distinct “X” marks scattered across it. Morty’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the confirmation of his fears. Rogue’s plan was in motion.

“…but revealing is not enough… “

The three’s eyes flicked to the “X”s carved into the map, the locations eerily precise. Their chest’s tightened as they realized the enormity of what was about to happen. The words were barely out of his mouth before Morty’s eyes widened in horror. Below the "X" on the map was an exact match to the street just below them down the road.

“The Day of Judgement is finally upon us, and now it is time… for retribution…”

A breath caught in his throat, and Morty nearly gasped. 

"I’ve parked seven vans all along the Citadel’s sea wall," Rogue’s voice continued, casual but carrying a deadly weight. "And on the big night… they will... go... BOOM ."

In the place of one of the Xs, a van erupted in a massive explosion. The force of the it tore through the concrete wall, sending a surge of water crashing through the streets and the water flooded in, overwhelming the Citadel’s infrastructure.

The cop Morty shrieked as the explosion rang through the room. The three spun toward the window, their hearts pounding as they saw the skyline shrouded in a cloud of fire and smoke. The rising fireballs lit the sky in a terrifying display of chaos, casting a sickly orange glow over the Citadel’s darkened streets. 

A new, distant angle revealed Rogue, his eyes glinting from the narrow window of his cell. His lips twisted into a satisfied smile as if savoring the destruction unfolding outside.

The Citadel looked like the map slowly being torn apart. In the distance, a colossal tsunami wave surged, sweeping over stunned pedestrians. Buildings and cars were ripped from their foundations, and the streets were torn apart in an instant.

Back in Rogue’s apartment. Rogue’s voice rang out once more, dark and amused, almost like a conductor guiding his symphony of chaos. "Those who are not washed away..." 

Rick’s focus sharpened as his head whipped toward another intersection scrawled on the map. He heard it then, the faint, distant screams of terrified people. The sound was almost suffocating, like it was coming directly from the map itself, an omen of the devastation to come.

"...will race through the streets in terror..." Rogue’s voice echoed.

Back to the real-world intersection, where the wave, now black with debris, ripped through the streets with an unstoppable force. The once-bustling road was now a violent whirlpool of water, twisted metal, and screaming people. Cars flipped, nature was uprooted, and lampposts were sent crashing into the chaos. The sounds of screams filled the air, sharp and full of panic.

Rick’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. His gaze flicked between the map and the devastation in the streets. He had to act fast. The Citadel was slipping further into destruction by the second.

“Call Miller!” Rick barked.

Martinez, fumbling with his phone in a panic, finally found it, his fingers shaky but determined. "Yeah- yeah, yeah!" he stammered, hurriedly dialing the number.

The Citadel’s Square Garden, where crowds gathered in celebration, watching Rougel’s victory on jumbotrons and checking their phones. The air was filled with the electric buzz of triumph, but it quickly turned to unease as emergency bulletins flashed across the screens, interrupting the live coverage.

Rogue’s voice returned, cold and calculating. "As breaking news hits higher ground at the CItadel’s Square Garden, celebrations will turn to panic..."

People reacted immediately, their celebrations quickly turned to screams of horror as they looked up and saw smoke swirling ominously in the sky. Panic spread like wildfire through the crowds as the first signs of the chaos Rogue had orchestrated began to hit home. The Citadel’s darkest hour had arrived, and the people, once oblivious to the rot beneath the surface, were now paying the price for their blindness.

Rogue’s voice cut through the chaos, chilling and methodical. “... as the venue becomes the Citadel's shelter of last resort..."

In the darkened apartment, Rick’s gaze hardened. His attention snapped to the comment board on Rogue’s laptop. The chilling replies stood out like a grave warning: 

What gauge? 

What caliber? 

Rifles are good too.

Rogue’s voice continued, smooth but sinister. “... when the time arrives, I will already be unmasked. The pigs will have me in their custody—but that’s okay, because then… it will be your turn...”

A dark figure moved through the shadows, navigating the rafters above the Citadel’s Square Garden, rifle in hand.

“... you’ll be there, waiting...”

The figure’s sharp eyes scanned the scene below, where the panic was growing more palpable with every passing second. News of the flooding had spread like wildfire, and the chaos outside was spilling into the building.

But the figure wasn’t alone for long. Another armed figure appeared, hooded like the first. They exchanged a silent, knowing glance before nodding in grim understanding. And then more arrived. Each one hooded, masked, and armed, making a disturbing procession. It was clear now: a small army of bitter souls had gathered, all of them in Rogue’s image, preparing to strike. They were hidden above the crowd, poised for action.

Rogue’s voice echoed once again, dark and final. 

“It’s time for the lies to finally end. False promises of REDEVELOPMENT... CHANGE?.”

Back at the laptop, The three watched in horror as Rogue’s words took on a sharper edge. “WE’LL GIVE THEM A REAAAL, REAL CHANGE! We’ve spent our lives in this wretched prison, suffering, wondering why us? Now they will spend their last moments WONDERING, WHYYY THEM!?”

Martinez stood frozen, his fear palpable. He fumbled with his phone, desperately trying to get through. “I-I can’t get through! The lines are down!” He turned toward Rick and Morty, the duo shot a look of slight fear.

“Don’t worry, just try to get somewhere safe. We’re going to go to the venue.”

And before Martinez could respond, Rick and Morty fled through a window.

Chapter Text

Outside the Citadel’s Square Garden, utter chaos unfolded. Emergency vehicles, sirens blaring, cut through the streets as terrified citizens ran in every direction. First responders screamed at the panicked crowds, urging them to get inside the building, where the only refuge seemed to be. Those too injured to move were tended to with urgency. The crisis was escalating, spiraling further out of control with every passing second.

Among the madness, a motorcycle weaved its way through the crowd, slicing through the pandemonium with ease. It was Rick and Morty. They stopped at the roadblock, a look of frustration crossing Rick’s face as he and Morty hopped off the bike and moved.

A traffic cop Morty appeared, shaking his head. “Hey- road’s closed!”

Rick shot him a sharp glance. “I know!” he spat.

The cop wasn’t having it. “Listen, we got bombs going off, whole Citadel’s flooding! Now you’re gonna have to go inside the building with everyone else!”

Morty opened his mouth to say something but stopped short. His and Rick’s eyes dropped to the ground, and they felt the cold, creeping sensation of black water pooling around their feet. A dark omen, one they couldn’t ignore.

Inside the Citadel’s Square Garden, the scene had turned from victory to panic. The celebrations had turned into a mad crush of bodies, people fighting to get through the doors to shelter. Amidst the chaos, Miller appeared, rousted from his bed, now urgently heading toward a makeshift command post. Officers, medics, and firemen shouted orders, coordinating efforts in the midst of the storm. Miller flashed his badge, his voice cutting through the noise.

“MCU, who’s in charge?!” he demanded.

A young officer Morty spoke up. “I really dunno, we’re all just tryin’ to get a handle here, sir!”

Miller signed sharply. He looked around the group of emergency members. “Hey.” he slightly shouted, trying to get the attention of them. But they didn’t hear. Miller’s patience started to falter.

“Hey- HEY!” He shouted, agitation slipping out. All of the emergency members turned to look at him, slightly shaken from the sudden volume.

“We have an active situation, we need to sweep the building for explosives and get the President-elect outta here, now. Where is he?”

A rifle’s scope glides over the crowd, sharp and calculating. It focuses in on Miller and the officers pushing their way through the chaos. The crosshairs track his every move before shifting toward Morty Rougel, who’s hidden behind a festooned stage. He’s surrounded by his team, his figure ducking in and out of view as he gestures anxiously, his voice rising in frustration as he argues with a fire marshall.

Through the scope, an eerie magnified eye blinks, focused solely on him. The scope lowers, revealing one of the hooded gunmen, lying flat on his stomach in the rafters above. He watches silently, seemingly at ease in the tension-filled atmosphere.

Satisfied with his position, he lowers his rifle and opens a plastic ammo case. Inside, hundreds of rounds glint in the dim light. He takes one, loading it carefully into the chamber. He looks over to the side of him, watching as other gunmen silently prepare their weapons in the rafters behind, each one adding to the looming threat above.

Miller and the officers make their way toward Rougel, who’s still in the midst of his heated argument with the fire marshal. Miller’s gaze flicks to Allen’s daughter and grandson, standing nervously at the edge of the crowd. There’s a palpable tension in the air as the urgency escalates.

“If we don’t close the doors, we’re gonna have a huge problem. Water’s already starting to breach!” The fire marshall Rick argues.Rougel’s brows furrow. “I thought this was the shelter of last resort-!”

“Yeah, for a hurricane! Not if the whole sea wall comes down!”

Rougel raises his voice, it’s edges with frustration and concern. “I am not going to let those people die out there!” he takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but his voice cracks.

“Alright... I’ll go calm the crowd down so we can get everyone in.”

The weight of the moment hangs heavy, the chaos just outside the doors threatening to overwhelm them all. Rougel moves to take charge, trying to keep order in the middle of the rising storm. The officers follow him closely, their eyes darting nervously to the rafters where danger lurks, unseen but ever-present.

Miller’s voice cut through the chaos, urgent and firm. "It’s not safe for you here."

Rougel turned, his eyes locking onto the detective as he and the other officers moved toward him. There was no time for pleasantries.

"I’m not going anywhere," he responded sharply, his tone filled with resolve.

“We are under attack,” Miller insisted, his gaze hardening as the violence escalated around them.

Rougel didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, determination burning in his eyes. "Exactly! That’s the problem with this Citadel. Everyone’s afraid to stand up and do the right thing. But I’m not." Without another word, he moved past Miller, heading for the podium.

"Excuse me!" he called out, raising his voice as best as he could over the din of panic. "Everyone!? Everyone! If I could just get your attention-!"

But the crowd was too wild, too frantic. His words were swallowed by the chaos. He tried again, but just then, something caught his eye, a glint of metal, a flash of light from behind the stage lights. His heart skipped a beat. A rifle. Rougel froze, eyes wide, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut.

His fear was palpable, and Miller noticed it immediately. He started for Rougel, but he was too late.

The sound of a gunshot rang through the room, sharp and final. Rougel collapsed to the ground, his body jerking as the bullet struck his shoulder. Miller’s instincts took over, and without a second thought, he dove on top of Rougel, using his body as a shield. The air was thick with gunfire, shots ringing out from above.

Panic erupted in the crowd. People screamed, running in every direction. Miller scrambled to drag Rougel behind cover, his hands around his waist, his heart pounding in his chest. He pulled out his gun, his eyes scanning the rafters above where the shooters were perched.

From his vantage point, he could see flashes of muzzle fire, bursts of light lighting up the darkness above them. The gunmen were ruthless, methodical, their aim deadly. The crowd below was in a frenzy, people pushing, shoving, desperate to escape. Miller’s stomach churned as he realized just how out of control the situation had become.

And then, a deafening explosion shattered the ceiling. Glass rained down, scattering like deadly confetti, sending the gunmen scrambling. But it wasn’t just the explosion that sent a chill down Miller’s spine. It was the figure that followed.

A shadow descended from above, a dark, foreboding silhouette. Rick.

He crashed through the rafters, barely managing to keep his feet, but instantly springing into action. Without a moment's hesitation, Rick pulled out his harpoon line and shot it straight into the leg of one of the gunmen across the room. A second shot followed, this time nailing another gunman to the beams.

In one fluid motion, Rick swung off the catwalk, yanking both shooters down from their perches. They dangled helplessly, their bodies thrashing as they were pulled into Rick’s grip. He flipped backward, using his momentum to swing beneath the catwalk and then right back onto it with a graceful, terrifying ease.

The gunmen hung suspended in midair, powerless, as Rick stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the room, prepared for whatever came next. The chaos of the moment seemed to slow down around him. The terror, the panic, the violence, it all felt insignificant now, dwarfed by the silent presence of Rick

The gunmen turned in unison, their rifles rising, their fingers tightening on triggers. A storm of bullets erupted, tearing through the rafters, but Rick was already in motion. He vaulted across beams, twisting his body to avoid the hail of gunfire, his armor absorbing glancing shots as he moved like a shadow through the chaos.

He leaped, hands grasping onto a beam, using his momentum to swing upward, right into the middle of the shooters.

Before they could react, he struck.

A flurry of fists and elbows, bones snapping like dry twigs beneath his blows. A knee to one gunman’s chest sent him sprawling, another had his wrist wrenched at an unnatural angle, the rifle clattering from his grip. Rick’s eyes locked onto a terrified gunman struggling to reload. He moved toward him, but suddenly, his balance shifted. A violent tug at his feet.

Two of the bloodied assailants had latched onto his ankles, their desperate grip dragging him toward the gaping abyss below. Rick twisted, using their own leverage against them, pulling them forward before delivering precise, crushing strikes, one to the temple, another to the jaw. Both crumpled instantly.

But in that split second, the terrified gunman finished reloading.

Rick turned just in time to see the barrel of the rifle rise. Another shooter behind him had his sights locked on him too.

Right as one of them fired, Rick moved out of the way. The shot sent the gunman behind him staggering as bullets tore into his chest. But his reflexive trigger pulled and sent wild shots into the second shooter before a sharp impact struck Rick’s helmet, sending his vision spinning and he fell backward onto the rafter, then a shot flew up into the ceiling, tearing through a cable that held the rafter up and it snapped. 

The whole thing tilted violently and they all slipped down to the gaping abyss of the Citadel’s Square Garden. Rick barely managed to grab onto a small railing that circled the rafter, he swung, his body twisting from the sudden stop of gravity pulling him down. He winced as his arm twisted in a way it wasn’t supposed to and swung the other way around, finally grabbing onto the railing with his other hand.

One of the gunmen saw Rick dangling and aimed to fire. Rick’s vision stopped spinning and he realized the situation he was in. He shuffled to the side as quickly as he could as the gunmen fired at him, narrowly missing the bullet. Eventually, other gunmen noticed him and a relentless storm of bullets forced him into a panic, shielding his face down as he retreated around the rafters. 

Below, the stage was a sea of panic. Hundreds pushing, shoving, trying to escape. Miller shoved against the wave of people, eyes locked on the chaos above.

“Get me up there!” he barked at the nearest officers.

They leaped from the stage, wading through the rising floodwaters. Amidst the fleeing crowd, someone else had stopped. It was Morty. His breath caught as he saw Rick under attack, his heart hammering.

He reached for the scaffolding, pulling himself up, climbing higher for a better view, dread tightening in his chest.

Above, in the rafters, the gunmen advanced, rifles raised, moving in for the kill, Rick’s gaze flew to his sides, a red glint grabbing his attention. A row of fire extinguishers. He moved fast, pulling a sticky charge from his armor and slapping it onto the nearest canister. He barely had time to retreat before they exploded.

The charges ignited, blasting thick clouds of white vapor into the air. A smokescreen consumed the rafters, swallowing Rick and the gunmen whole.

The gunmen hesitated, their sights obscured. One of them edged forward, probing through the fog with his rifle.

A hand shot out of the mist.

Before he could react, Rick seized the barrel. A sharp click, a taser from his utility belt made contact with the metal. A violent jolt of electricity coursed through the weapon, sending the gunman convulsing to the floor.

Rick turned, wielding the rifle like a club. He moved through the fog like a wraith, striking them down one by one. A hard crack to the skull sent another assailant sprawling. A swift kick to the ribs took out the next.

One of the gunmen, wounded, was crawling desperately toward a duffle bag. Rick advanced, closing the distance, but the man’s hand found what he was searching for.

A shotgun.

Rick lunged, but the gunman was faster. And a loud gunshot rang through the rafters. The blast slammed into Rick’s chest plate at point-blank range.

Rick tumbled backward, the impact of the shotgun blast sending him careening off the catwalk. His fingers barely found purchase on the edge, gripping with all the strength he had left. His chest heaved, pain radiating through his body with every breath. The armor had taken most of the blast, but not enough. His strength was fading.

Above him, the gunman staggered forward, his hands still shaking from the recoil. He hesitated, staring down at Rick, half in shock, half in exhilaration. The executioner’s hood masked his face, but his wild eyes said everything.

He chambered another shell.

Rick forced himself to move, to pull up, but his body refused. The pain was too much. His limbs felt heavy, his grip weakening. He looked up, helpless, as the gunman leaned over him, pressing the barrel of the shotgun against his exposed jaw.

This was it. Rick’s gaze sharped, tunnel visioning the gunman’s face.

Then, out of nowhere, a sudden blur. A streak of black.

A powerful kick slammed the shotgun from the gunman’s hands. The weapon discharged, firing harmlessly into the air. The shooter spun, dazed, just in time to see him.

Morty.

He launched himself from the scaffolding, twisting midair, his boot hooking against the side of his head with brutal precision. He reeled, barely staying on his feet. But he wasn’t done. He caught the gunman as he stumbled, grabbed a fistful of his hood, and drove his face into the railing until his body crumpled to the floor.

Breathing hard, he turned.

Rick was slipping. His grip was failing.

No hesitation. Morty dropped to his knees and grabbed Rick’s arm with both hands, Morty braced his boots against the railing for leverage. With a strained breath, he pulled. Inch by inch, he hauled Rick up, muscles burning, refusing to let go. Until, finally, he collapsed onto the catwalk right on top of Morty.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Their breath mingled in the cold air, both panting from the exertion. Morty shifted, rolling Rick onto his back, his hands still on him.

His eyes were unfocused as if he wasn’t really seeing Morty.

Then, Morty saw it. The blast had torn through his armor, and the jagged edges of his suit peeled back to expose raw, bloodied skin. A buckshot was embedded in the wound. Blood seeped through, dark and glistening.

He groaned, trying to sit up. Morty pressed his hands against Rick’s chest, guiding him back down.

"Shh…" His voice softened. "It’s okay. It’s done. It’s over."

Rick exhaled, long and slow, as if finally surrendering to Morty’s words. His gaze drifted to his, locked onto it. For a moment, the world faded around them, no chaos, no pain, just this.

Morty’s hands cradled Rick’s face, his thumbs brushing gently against his jaw. Emotion swelled in Morty’s chest, something unspoken passing between them. Then, slowly, he leaned down. His lips brushed against Rick’s. Soft. Barely there.

When he pulled back, his eyes opened. They just stared at each other.

Then a shadow moved behind Morty. Rick's gaze flicked up, his body tensing in alarm.

The gunman. Bloodied, but standing.

Before Rick could react, the attacker’s boot slammed into the back of Morty’s head. He gasped as the blow sent him sprawling. The gunman grabbed Morty by the collar, dragging him off Rick with a snarl, a gleaming hunting knife appearing from his boot.

Morty twisted, arms coming up to block as the blade slashed wildly at him.

Rick tried to rise. His limbs were lead. His vision blurred. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to move, but his body refused.

He fumbled weakly at his belt, fingers grasping for something. Anything.

Then, he found it. An auto-injector. An adrenaline shot.

With a last surge of effort, he jammed the needle into the hole in his chest plate.

The effect was immediate.

His body jolted, muscles tensing, senses sharpening in an instant. A feral growl ripped from his throat as he launched himself at the attacker, a force of raw fury. He tore the gunman off Morty, driving him into the ground with a sickening crack.

And then, he lost control.

A flurry of fists, relentless and merciless. The gunman’s muffled screams barely registered as Rick rained down blow after blow, blood spattering his gloves.

Morty scrambled back, watching in shock. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. This was rage. This was something primal. Something unhinged.

Then a door burst open.

Miller and a team of cops stormed onto the catwalk.

Miller barely hesitated. He saw what was happening and rushed forward, shouting. "Hey!"

"Hey, man- take it easy," Miller said, his voice steady but urgent. "Easy."

Rick didn’t move. His fist was still raised, knuckles slick with blood, his breath ragged.

"Hey- HEY!" Miller grabbed his shoulder. "STOP!"

The words cut through the haze. Rick froze, his body still trembling from the adrenaline. Slowly, his fist unclenched, his breathing slowing.

He turned his head, disoriented, as Miller gently pulled him back. For a second, the world felt distant, blurred at the edges. He barely registered the warmth of Morty’s gaze as he pulled himself up.

He was looking at him differently now. Surprised. Grateful.

He saw it in his eyes, the way Rick finally understood.

Miller knelt beside the shooter, gripping the torn hood and yanking it off.

“Jesus." His breath hitched. "Who the hell are you?"

The man beneath the mask grinned, his face streaked with blood. Something eerie flickered in his eyes, something unsettlingly familiar.

"Me?" His lips curled into a twisted smirk. "I'm the revenge that this Citadel needs."

Rick stiffened. The words spoken dripped with malice. Perverted. Twisted.

His stomach turned. He stared at the man, unable to look away.

Suddenly, a crash sounded through the Citadel’s Square Garden. A deep, guttural roar of destruction, echoed through the arena.

Miller, Morty, and the others whirled toward the noise, their bodies tensing instinctively. But Rick didn’t move. He stayed frozen, his mind still reeling.

The sound of panic swelled, voices rising in terror.

Rick’s eyes finally flicked away, drawn to the flickering lights overhead. A bad feeling settled in his gut.

He turned and saw it.

The four-story glass wall behind the stage shattered, an unstoppable force of nature crashing through.

A monstrous wave of black water surged forward, sweeping through the debris, uprooted trees, crumpled cars, and the remnants of the Citadel itself. The sheer force of it took out the scaffolding in an instant. The metal structures groaned and collapsed, dragging screaming people into the churning depths.

The water was rising. Fast.

Sparks crackled as live electrical wires tore loose from the falling towers, writhing like snakes over the water. Rick’s sharp eyes locked onto one. A thick, high-voltage cable, flickering with violent energy, snaking dangerously close to the water’s surface.

If it made contact... Thousands of people were still in the water, they’d all be electrocuted.

There was no time. Miller, Morty, and the others stood paralyzed, helpless. But Rick was already moving.

He yanked his grapple gun from his wrist and fired. The hook shot upward, locking onto the ceiling’s framework. In a single, fluid motion, he launched himself into the air.

"Rick-!" Morty’s voice barely reached him as he swung toward the power line.

The wire crackled, inches from the water. No hesitation. Mid-swing, he pulled his tactical knife from his belt, twisting his body to brace himself. He didn’t think about the pain, didn’t think about the risk. There was no other option.

The blade sliced through the thick cable and a violent surge of electricity detonated through him.

Agony exploded in his chest as the current ripped through his suit, his muscles locking, his vision flashing white. The force threw him backward and he fell.

The water rushed up to meet him, and he crashed into the depths, swallowed whole. And there was silence.

For a moment, the Citadel stood still. The lights above flickered once, then went dark.

Morty gasped, stepping toward the railing, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Miller squinted into the murky abyss. "Rick?!"

There was no answer. The water was still.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then, a figure broke the surface, gasping for breath.

It was Rick. Alive.

The relief that surged through Morty was instant, but it was nothing compared to the sight that followed.

From the darkness, something in his hand sparked to life, a single, burning light. A flare.

Its glow sliced through the darkness, casting an eerie red hue over the devastation.

And in its light, the thousands of terrified faces staring back at him, half-submerged in the water, clinging to whatever they could. And they were waiting for someone to lead them.

Rick didn’t hesitate. He moved toward them, the flare held high, the only beacon of hope in a drowning Citadel.

Through the eerie glow of the flare, Rick saw them. Rougel and the others are trapped within the twisted wreckage of scaffolding, water still rising around them.

He moved swiftly, boots sloshing through the flooded wreckage, climbing the crumpled metal. With a sharp breath, he heaved a steel truss aside, clearing an opening. The way out was there, but as he reached inside, offering a hand, the group hesitated.

The flickering red light of the flare cast long shadows across his form, turning him into something unnatural, something otherworldly. A wraith emerges from the darkness. Their eyes held fear, not just of the water, but of him.

Except for one.

A young Morty. Small, no older than ten.

It was Allen’s grandson.

He didn't flinch, didn't shrink back like the others. Instead, his tiny hand lifted toward Rick without hesitation.

Rick grasped it, lifting him out of the wreckage with steady, careful strength. The boy clung to him, trusting.

Rougel’s eyes met his again. The hesitation wavered, then broke. Slowly, he reached for Rick’s outstretched hand. He pulled Rougel free, and as he gripped Rick, holding onto him like he was solid ground in a drowning world, the others followed. One by one, they climbed from the wreckage, stepping into the rising water, their fear replaced with something else. 

Hope.

The flare burned bright in Rick’s hand, the only light in the suffocating darkness.

And they followed it.

Through the water, through the debris, through a dying Citadel struggling to breathe.

A silent, mesmerizing sight.

A beacon leading the lost to safety.

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 13th

The Citadel is underwater.

A golden glow stretched across the horizon, casting its fragile light over the submerged citadel.

From the sky, it looked like a world abandoned, rooftops peeking through the endless flood, streets lost beneath murky water.

The entire island of E. Sanchez Heights was swallowed.

In the quiet of the morning, the floodwaters reflected the sky like glass.

Citadel Hall stood half-sunken, its grand facade ripped apart by the force of the storm.

A dog paddled aimlessly through the wreckage, past the tops of traffic lights, its whimpers lost in the vast emptiness. The destruction was serene, almost beautiful in its stillness.

But beneath the surface, the Citadel’s heart was still beating

Sunlight spilled through the shattered windows of the diner where Rogue had been caught.

Inside, everything was eerily still.

A small fleet of Pyrex coffee pots floated in the stagnant floodwater, their reflections shimmering like ghostly apparitions on the surface.

The Finite Lounge sat in silence.

The once-crowded dance floor was now submerged, water rippling under the dim glow of stage lights. The place that once pulsed with life now stood abandoned, a hollowed-out shell of decadence, waiting for someone new to claim it.

Footsteps echoed softly in Rick Prime’s empty drawing room.

Fresh, wet prints tracked across the polished floor, leading toward the high-backed leather chair at the head of the room.

Hawk sat there now, his broad form slouched comfortably, a crystal tumbler of scotch swirling lazily in his fingers.

He stared out over the Citadel, his mind turning.

The Citadel was wounded.

Which meant opportunity. A slow grin curled at the corner of his mouth.

Outside the Citadel’s main hospital, the Citadel's leaders stood at a makeshift triage center, framed against the rising sun.

Morty Rougel, his arm bound in fresh bandages, stood before a battered podium.

A sea of reporters and first responders watched as he spoke, his voice firm despite the weight pressing down on him.

"We will rebuild. But not just our Citadel."

"We must rebuild people's faith. In our institutions, in our elected officials... in each other."

"Together, we will learn to believe in the Citadel again."

His words rang out over the weary faces, over the wreckage. A promise, fragile as glass, but holding the weight of hope.

High above the Citadel’s Square Garden, evacuees crowded the rooftop, desperate hands reaching toward rescue ships.

First responders moved quickly, pulling survivors through shattered skylights, and lifting them from the depths of the floodwaters.

Down below, the Citadel still groaned, still suffered.

But up here, above the chaos, there was movement.

There was life.

A hush spread across the rooftop.

Firemen turned, eyes widening as they took in the sight before them.

It was Rick and Morty.

Dried mud caked their armor. Morty glanced over to Rick. Blood crusted over the torn seams of his chest plate. He looked like hell. And yet, he moved forward, silent and unyielding, an injured Morty cradled in his arms.

The people parted as he passed.

No one spoke.

The Morty trembled, clutching him as Rick gently laid him onto a waiting med sled.

Rick stiffened, uncertain, the kids grip was desperate, fingers clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing left in the world.

His eyes met Rick’s, searching.

Pleading.

Rick hesitated.

Then, slowly, he covered the kid's hand with his own.

No words.

No promises.

Just presence.

And that was enough.

The Citadel’s skyline was awash in twilight as Rick stood on the rooftop, watching the last rescue ship take off.

- - - -

A chyron scrolled across the flickering glow of a television screen.

“TWO UNKNOWN S.S.E. MEMBERS SAVE THOUSANDS IN THE CITADEL SQUARE.”

The report played inside the Galactic Federal prison dimly lit guard station.

Through the smudged glass of his cell, Mortimer Nashton, Rogue, watched. His face pressed against the reinforced barrier.

His mouth twisted in silent anguish.

Everything. Everything he had planned, unraveled.

Then, a voice. Soft. Mocking.

"Isn’t that just terrible?" An unseen prisoner chuckled.

"One day, you’re on top … the next, you’re a nobody."

Nashton slumped to the floor, shaking, staring at nothing.

"Well, let me tell you … there are worse things to be …"

Rogue’s eyes flickered, barely listening, until the voice spoke again.

"Don’t be sad … you did so well."

"And you know … The Citadel loves a comeback story."

Nashton stiffened.

Slowly, he turned toward the direction of the voice, pressing against the shadows of his cell.

"Who… who are you?" he whispered.

Silence.

Then…

"The less of them you have … the more one is worth."

Rogue blinked, mind racing, the answer bubbling up before he could stop it.

His lips parted.

"... A friend?"

And then, the laughter started.

Low at first. Soft. But rising. Twisting into something unnatural, something jagged and endless, curling through the walls of the Galatic Federal Prison like smoke.

Rogue grinned.

And the laughter echoed on.

Chapter Text

Dusk settled over the rain-soaked cemetery.

Morty stood in front of the grave, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Beth Freeman. Summer Freeman. Their names were etched into the worn stone, half-covered by dirt and time. He stared at them for a long while, his breath slow, controlled.

"You’d hate it here," he muttered under his breath. "I do too."

The Citadel still burned in the distance, smoke curling into the night sky. He wondered if they’d be proud of what he’d done, or if they'd look at him like he was just as lost as the rest of them.

With a sigh, he wiped at his nose, turned toward his bike when suddenly-

"Morty."

His body tensed. He turned, slowly.

Rick stood a few feet away, half-lit by the cemetery’s lone streetlamp. His visor was up, face unreadable. He looked tired, more tired than usual.

"Jesus, Rick," Morty exhaled, shaking his head. "You ever try just- I dunno, calling out like a normal person instead of creeping up like a serial killer?"

Rick ignored that, stepping closer, his gaze flicking briefly to the grave before landing back on Morty.

"You leavin’?" he asked, nodding toward the bike.

Morty let out a humorless laugh. "I mean, what else is there to do? Stick around and watch the next asshole crawl outta the rubble?" He scoffed. "Yeah, no thanks."

Rick was quiet for a moment.

"Where you gonna go?"

Morty shrugged. "Upstate to that newly built inner city maybe? Somewhere with less…" he gestured vaguely to the burning Citadel behind them. "Y’know. War crimes... until we can head to a new dimension."

Rick nodded like that made sense. But there was something with the way he stood. Like he was hesitating.

Morty smirked. "Why? You want me to stay?"

Rick didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the graves again, then up at the Citadel.

"You know this place is never gonna change," Morty said after a moment. His voice was quieter now. "It’s just- same shit, new President."

Rick exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Maybe."

Morty frowned. "Then why stay?"

Rick finally met his gaze. "Because it can change."

Morty let out a dry laugh. " Really? You believe that?"

Rick tilted his head. "I believe that if I don’t stay, the next guy in line’s gonna be worse." He scratched the back of his neck. " Way worse."

Morty studied him, and for once, he couldn't tell if Rick was full of shit or not.

"You think you can fix it?" he asked.

Rick was quiet for a beat. Then-

"I think I can try."

Morty scoffed, shaking his head. "It’s gonna kill you, y’know that?"

Rick smirked. "You sound like a broken record."

"Yeah, well, I mean- it’s true !" Morty huffed, throwing up his hands. "You keep doing this shit, one day you’re not gonna crawl out of the rubble, Rick."

Rick’s expression didn’t change. "Then I guess I better make it count."

Morty opened his mouth, then closed it. He ran a hand through his hair, let out a deep sigh, and kicked a loose rock.

After a long pause, he muttered, "I’ll stay."

Rick raised a brow.

" For now, " Morty clarified. "I dunno. See how long it takes for this place to chew me up."

Rick smirked slightly. "Always were a slow learner."

Morty huffed out a laugh. " Rick and Morty, huh? " He shook his head. "Hundred years, right?"

Rick let out a low chuckle.

"Yeah, kid," he murmured. "Hundred years."

They both turned toward the burning Citadel, standing in silence. The Citadel smoldered, but somewhere in the ashes, something else was rising.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"Hey, uh-" Rick cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly.

Morty glanced at him. "Yeah?"

Rick hesitated, then shrugged. "Nothin’. Just- y’know. Don’t die or whatever."

Morty smirked. "Yeah. You too."

Rick sniffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Tch. Please. I’ll be fine."

And with that, they walked toward their bikes, the weight of the night still pressing on their shoulders. But for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone.

The roar of their bikes broke the stillness of the cemetery, the engines rumbling like distant thunder. Morty glanced at Rick as he swung a leg over his ride, kicking it to life.

"So, uh… what now?" he asked, voice barely cutting through the hum of the engines.

Rick exhaled, tilting his head back slightly. The Citadel lights reflected off his visor, but behind it, Morty knew his mind was already running at a million miles an hour.

"Dunno," Rick admitted. "Could get a drink, then head back to the estate. Could punch a corrupt politician in the face. Both sound pretty good right about now."

Morty let out a short laugh. "Sounds like a Thursday."

Rick smirked. "Atta boy."

They pulled out of the cemetery, the crunch of gravel beneath their tires giving way to the slick pavement of the Citadel streets.

The Citadel was quieter now, but not at peace. Sirens still wailed in the distance, fires still smoldered, and people were already scavenging through the wreckage for something, anything, to hold onto. The Citadel was a living thing, bleeding but unbroken.

As they weaved through the streets, Morty spotted a group of people gathered around a massive screen on the side of a high-rise. The broadcast flickered, static cutting through the signal, but the image was clear enough: a news anchor with tired eyes, reciting the aftermath like a script she barely believed in.

"Authorities are still piecing together the full extent of the destruction left in the wake of last night’s coordinated attacks-"

Morty’s grip tightened on the handlebars.

"Newly elected Morty Rougel has yet to make a statement-"

Rick scoffed. "‘Course he hasn’t. He’s too busy shitting himself."

Morty exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. I bet he thought all that ‘real change’ talk was gonna end with him on a throne. Not in a foxhole."

Rick hummed in agreement, taking a sharp turn down an alley. Morty followed, and soon enough, they were parked outside a dingy little bar tucked between two crumbling buildings. The neon sign buzzed weakly, flickering between O-P-E-N and D-I-E .

"Charming," Morty muttered, killing his engine.

Rick popped his visor up, grunting as he slid off the bike. "It’s a shithole, but it’s our shithole."

Morty rolled his eyes but followed him in.

The bar was quiet, save for the low murmur of the few souls who hadn't fled the Citadel or been swallowed up by its chaos. The bartender Morty barely glanced up before pouring them both a drink. He knew better than to ask questions.

Rick took a slow sip, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Morty just stared at the glass in front of him, fingers drumming against the counter.

After a long silence, he finally muttered, "Do you think Rogue was right?"

Rick raised a brow. "Which part? The whole ‘burn-it-all-down’ thing, or the ‘Citadel’s too corrupt to fix’ thing?"

Morty exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I dunno. Both, I guess."

Rick swirled his drink, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. "Ehh. He was right about the problem. Wrong about the solution."

Morty frowned. "And what’s our solution, then?"

Rick smirked, downing the rest of his drink in one go. "We make it up as we go."

Morty chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Great. Real reassuring, Rick."

Rick set his empty glass down with a quiet clink and turned to face him fully. "Look, Morty-" His voice was lower now, more serious. " You don't have to do this. You can walk away. Hell, you should walk away. Get outta here, find something better. Upstate, like you said."

Morty scoffed. "Yeah? And if I do, what happens? Someone worse takes my place? You go out there alone, get yourself killed?" He shook his head. "Nah, man. I’m sick of running. If this place is gonna kill me, I’d rather go down swinging."

Rick studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Goddammit," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "You really are a dumbass."

Morty smirked. "Guess I had a good teacher."

Rick huffed out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright, kid. You wanna play hero? Let’s play hero."

Morty clinked his glass against Rick’s.

“For Beth and Summer.” Morty stated. A toast. Rick smiled, only slightly before returning the sentence.

“For Beth and Summer…” he stated, a light pang of pain in his throat.”

Morty took a sip- then immediately coughed, doubling over. “ Jesus! What- Ugh! The hell is this, lighter fluid?!”

Rick smirked. “Warms you up, don’t it?”

Morty shoved the glass down, grimacing. “Yeah, no thanks. Not tryna die twice tonight.”

Rick chuckled, but the sound faded quickly. As he put his glass down, his expression shifted, the smirk falling away. He stared at Morty for a long, quiet moment, his eyes distant, as if something was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. Morty caught the shift—Rick’s unreadable expression, the way his gaze seemed to hold a thousand unsaid words.

“You wanna talk outside or somethin’?” Morty asked, his voice soft but certain. He knew this was how it had to go. Rick wasn’t one for heart-to-hearts unless they were alone, away from distractions.

Rick didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still lingering on Morty for another beat before he gave a subtle nod. He stood up, and Morty followed suit, the weight of the unspoken conversation hanging in the air between them.

They moved toward the front door without saying anything more and they stopped just out next to the road. The early morning sunrise casting a blue light over the orange fires that lit up the central Citadel in the distance.

“Morty, I… I know I’m not the best at this whole ‘feelings’ thing, but I- uh… there’s something I need to say.” Rick paused, his fingers fidgeting with the rim of his wrist armor, eyes avoiding Morty’s gaze. “I’ve never been there for you. I’ve always been so wrapped up in my own crap that I never stopped to think about… well, about you. About your feelings.”

Morty glanced at him, eyes wide, unsure where this was going. “Rick, what are you talking about? You’re always there for me…”

Rick shook his head, looking up at the sky, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “No, Morty. I’m not. Not really. You needed me, and I wasn’t there for you. I’ve always been too damn selfish, running around doing whatever I thought was important, never really seeing how much you… how much our family needed me.” His voice cracked, the words more difficult than he anticipated.

“I-I should’ve done better. I should’ve been better for you. For Beth. For Summer.” Rick’s eyes glistened as he turned to Morty, his expression raw and vulnerable. “But now... now they’re gone. And I-” He swallowed hard, the weight of loss crashing down on him. 

“I didn’t realize how much I had until it was gone, Morty. They were my family. And I never took advantage of the time we had. I should’ve… I should’ve said how much they meant to me while I had the chance. And now it’s too late.”

A long silence passed between them as Morty took in his words, the rawness of Rick’s confession settling deep in his chest. Morty felt something shift inside him, a pang of empathy for the man who had always seemed so invincible.

Finally, Morty stepped forward to Rick, his voice quiet, but firm. “Rick…” he said softly, his hand on Rick’s arm, his gaze steady. “It’s not too late.”

Rick looked up at him, his expression conflicted, eyes searching Morty’s face for understanding. “What are you- what are you talking about, Morty? You don’t get it. You… God, you deserved more than I gave you. I never gave you the love you needed, the stability. I was too busy being a damn idiot, pulling you into all my messes, dragging you into this godforsaken life.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s true. Maybe you messed up a lot, Rick,” Morty said, his voice wavering but his determination clear. 

“But you’re here now. You’re with me, and that counts for something.” He took a deep breath, his throat tight. “Look, I-I know you never say it, but I always knew you cared. Even when you pushed me away. Even when you were being a total jerk. I get it, Rick. I do. You don’t always know how to show it, but I…” Morty choked on his words, feeling his chest constrict. “I know you care about me. I know you do.”

Rick stared at him for a long moment, before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m sorry, Morty. I never told you that enough. I never told you how much I love you. You’re… you’re the best thing I’ve got. And I didn’t even realize that until now. I just... I’m so damn sorry for all the times I let you down. I can’t take back the things I’ve done, but I just want you to know, that more than anything, that I’m sorry. And I love you.” Rick’s voice broke slightly on the last words, his vulnerability there for the first time in forever.

Morty’s eyes welled up as he heard the words he’d waited so long to hear. He stepped forward, almost without thinking, and threw his arms around Rick. The older man stood still for a second, shocked, before he wrapped his arms around Morty, pulling him close.

“Don’t you dare apologize, Rick,” Morty muttered, his face buried in Rick’s shoulder. “You’re here now. You don’t have to be perfect. I-I know you love me, and that’s enough. That’s all I ever needed.”

Rick held him tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers dug into Morty’s back, as if afraid to let go. It was the first time in a long time that he felt truly connected to someone, truly understood. He wasn’t just the broken scientist anymore. He was someone’s father, someone’s protector. And Morty, his Morty, was here with him. Holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Morty,” Rick whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now. Not ever. We’ve got time now. Our time.”

Morty let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling around Rick’s armored. “Yeah. We’ve got time.” He sniffed, then gave a wobbly smile. “And I’m not going anywhere either.”

Rick held his gaze for a moment, eyes searching his face like he was memorizing every little freckle, every tiny scar. Then, almost on instinct, almost the most natural thing, he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Morty’s lips. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate.

Just warm and full of everything they never got to say.

When they pulled apart, Morty’s cheeks were pink, his lips curved in a small, teary smile. He pressed his forehead against Rick’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m so damn lucky to have you,” Rick murmured, his fingers threading gently through Morty’s hair. “You’re everything to me, Morty. Always have been.”

Morty let out a quiet laugh, sniffling against him. “I know, Rick.” He exhaled, his breath warm against Rick’s armor. “I know.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, wrapped up in each other, as if the whole world had faded away. No more fights. No more running. Just them.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Rick finally pulled back, brushing a thumb over Morty’s damp cheek with an affectionate smirk. “Alright, sentimental time’s over. Let’s get the hell outta here before you make me cry or somethin’.”

Morty let out a small laugh, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

Their bikes rumbled to life, engines humming beneath them as they rode out side by side, the first light of morning stretching golden across the horizon. The Citadel was still in ruins, battle scars fresh and deep.

And for the first time in a long time, the weight on their shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Because this time, they weren’t alone.

Always and forever.

100 years.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .