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the-awful-falafel · 5 years

Text

Ghost in the Machine - Chapter 6

Read the full story on AO3 here!

Fandom: Rick and Morty

Rating: M, Genfic (no pairings)

Chapter Wordcount: 6.4k

Chapter Summary: Time passes. A routine is established, and progress is made. Rick is getting desperate, while Morty starts getting impatient.

Rick felt like he was slowly losing his grip on reality.

It had been, what, one week? Two? Probably not more than that, although he could barely keep track anymore. He was mostly estimating based on the number of sleep cycles Morty had put him through, but even then it was increasingly difficult to tell. Time simultaneously seemed to be moving too slow and too fast.

Morty had wasted no time after they got back from the alien market. With the first drone fully operational, the teenager had uploaded a highly complex blueprint to its database, and it immediately got to work constructing new fabricators. It made sense that Morty would require more drones in order to build whatever he was planning, but since a fabricator was an extremely delicate component that needed exact precision to build correctly, each one took almost two days to fully assemble. And this wasn't even mentioning the fact that a fabricator was useless without a drone body attached to it.

So in the meantime, the two of them had fallen into a… routine of sorts. It mostly consisted of more drone construction and intensive, if varied work to advance Morty's agenda, and while they didn't always stay within the bunker or do the exact same activities each day, it still slipped into an easily recognizable pattern.

It was almost identical to the structure established before. Every morning, right after Rick woke up, he would be recalibrated. It barely seemed like a punishment anymore, and the only explanation he could come up with was that the process had become more like a general maintenance procedure. Rebooting and readjusting the mind control tech on a regular basis seemed like something that would be useful in keeping Rick securely under control. It was like restarting a computer every day in order to keep it running smoothly and prevent data overflow.

And the process still left Rick too disoriented to even attempt fighting back, so Morty was free to make him do whatever in the time it took for the dizziness to wear off. The teenager didn't always take advantage of this, but every so often he'd drag Rick over to the helmet room and hook him up again. This was always followed by Morty uploading a new program or fix, and Rick had gotten to the point where he stopped trying to figure out what they did. He later discovered one of them improved his dexterity with weapons, and another shortened the time it took for him to respond to complex orders, so it seemed like Morty was refining how he behaved on autopilot, but he didn't want to theorize about the rest. He'd never learn their purpose until it became relevant, and he already had so much other shit on his plate, so why bother?

Don't think about it, he thought, almost instinctively. A small part of him wanted to laugh. That was happening a lot more, lately.

On some days, it was limited to just the helmet, then Morty would unhook Rick and they'd leave. On others, it was followed by, well… he wasn't sure how to describe it as anything other than a “check-up”.

Morty would make Rick sit down in a chair, then he would proceed to take his vitals and evaluate his physical condition. The first few times it happened, Rick was honestly terrified the kid was going to make him strip, but it ended up being surprisingly tame, aside from the fact that it frequently involved Morty touching him. It never got weird, necessarily, especially with how clinically detached it was, but it was impossible to not feel uncomfortable with fingers pressed up against his jugular to take his pulse, or when a bright light was shined in his eyes to check pupil contraction.

Not to mention how Rick's body was unnervingly relaxed and permissive in response to being handled, no matter how vulnerable he actually felt and how much he wanted to flinch away. The whole process made him feel like a workhorse being inspected.

Following that, they'd eat breakfast. Like before, it was almost always something from a can, since Morty had a massive supply in the cabinets that vaguely reminded Rick of how one would stock a bomb shelter. He had never seen the kid prepare anything more complex than canned food, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to. When he was hungry it was easier to ignore, but it was obvious that Morty's cooking skills were… passable at best.

After that was when it got more complicated. They'd work on whatever Morty thought was most important at the time, which was usually nothing unexpected, but sometimes it seemed to be completely random and unrelated.

The first few days-- was it only a few days?-- it was nonstop drone building. Morty already had the underlying frames built, so it was more of a matter of screwing compartments together, fitting in the circuitry, and welding the external plating. With concentrated effort, they could get one finished per day, minus the fabricator. Like before, Rick was made to fetch tools and components for the most part, but Morty actually enlisted him to help out with the more complicated assembly a few times. Rick was still prevented from sticking his hands anywhere critical, but it was clear that Morty had regained some confidence in his control over the man to even risk that much. Or maybe he just wanted to get it done faster.

Eventually, however, Morty started alternating with other activities. One of the more notable ones was distilling the venom that was still stored in the fridge. This involved heating it up repeatedly until all the extraneous compounds were vaporized, leaving a rather viscous substance behind. It would then be mixed and diluted with another chemical, creating a liquid solution that was faintly tinted pink. Rick wasn't sure that he had the willpower to fully analyze what the final mixture was for, but it was clearly going to integrate the venom's sedating effect in some way. Perhaps that additional chemical worked as an amplifier?

Again, Rick was permitted a surprisingly in-depth role working with the venom, but that was also probably because resisting was far more likely to damage himself in this case, especially since it involved handling boiling chemicals. Even without his other reservations holding him back, he wouldn't want to fight when the risk was this disproportionate.

Morty also started taking them on brief trips outside the bunker, portaling to other planets rather than exploring the one they were currently on. Of the three visited, none looked the slightest bit inhabited, although their habitability in the first place was questionable. The trips took less than fifteen minutes each, as they mostly consisted of Morty looking around aimlessly. Rick seemed dragged along almost as an afterthought. It was almost like the kid was scoping out the locations for… something.

The first location was a scorching desert planet of lilac sand, with scraggly, half-dead trees scattered everywhere. It was wide and flat, with occasional stretches of sandstone. The temperature seemed like it'd get unbearable after a while, but thankfully Morty had the forethought to leave early before the risk of heatstroke became a real possibility.

The second location was a murky swamp planet with a green foggy sky. Spiky outcrops of rock and moss stood out in the terrain, and alien trees grew up out of the muddy soil. The atmosphere was breathable enough, but Rick couldn't help but be suspicious about whatever vapor was coming out of the glowing vents in the ground.

The third looked to be in a massive cavern where the ceiling was hundreds of meters above them. Bioluminescent lichen on the rocks allowed some amount of visibility, and deep ravines in the ground were bridged with giant root-like structures. The air was a little thinner than what Rick was used to, leaving him somewhat light-headed, but it didn't seem worse than what one would find in Earth's highest mountains. Aside from the enclosed and limited air circulation, admittedly.

After all that, their evenings were relatively unremarkable in comparison. They'd have a canned dinner, squeeze in a little extra work if possible, and then Morty would order Rick to sleep. Rick's personal hygiene was only addressed every other day, and it was slotted in right at the end. He was made to shave, brush, and take a five-minute shower with uncomfortably cool water at full blast. It was a miracle he didn't get hypothermia by the time he changed into a fresh set of clothes.

Rick had no idea when Morty would go to sleep after he did. He had a suspicion that the answer ranged from “much later” to “never”. Some days the kid looked downright exhausted. Once, in the middle of a work session, he straight up fell asleep on his desk, leaving Rick to stand there and slowly panic for twelve minutes until Morty finally jerked awake again. He must have been working on something well into the night, which showed some unhealthy commitment if nothing else.

Rick tried to keep track of all of the different activities as they happened, if only because he was still trying to figure out what Morty was even planning, but it was… difficult, more than it should've been. It wasn't just him losing the ability to track time effectively, either. Lately, it felt like he was losing sense of his body entirely. He was still getting complete sensory feedback and everything, but sometimes, he didn't feel like himself. And in a way, he wasn't. His body was following Morty's orders, moving without his input, which made it easy to forget that it was still technically his. His eyes and limbs would feel too weird, too alien, like he was looking out of a stranger's body. He'd be so distant and detached from his own skin that when he'd snap back, several minutes would have passed, or even a half hour, and he wouldn't remember what had happened. It was like he was… drifting. It took conscious effort to anchor himself down enough so that he could focus.

He couldn't even argue with Morty's increasing boldness in making him do important tasks, since half the time, he felt too numb and mentally exhausted to try taking advantage of it anyway. Occasionally he tried to muster up the energy to disrupt something, but then the spark of fear would hit and drain him of whatever gave him energy in the first place.

It felt like a warning sign that he should be paying more attention to. That was happening a lot more frequently. Another problem Rick was noticing was his growing inability to control his emotions, which seemed to fluctuate without warning. He'd be neutral for a while, watching his surroundings without feeling much of anything, and then there would be a sudden surge of anger blotting out all his thoughts. Other times he would find everything uncontrollably amusing, no matter how minor or stupid. And sometimes crippling despair would hit and he'd just wish for it all to end.

Each mood swing would last anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, and they were almost impossible to predict or notice while in the moment. His train of thought would stop and shift abruptly. It'd feel like an uncontrollable surge of energy in some cases, driving him to think things that he'd recognize as batshit insane or reckless any other time. Especially in his intensely angry and murderous moods-- fuck that fucking piece of shit Morty, what does that asshole think he's doing? I'm not going to sit back and take this shit no fucking way let's see how he likes it when I fucking kill him-- where for a moment, he'd almost, almost lash out again. And then he'd get the whiplash of returning to a more stable mindset just in time to stop himself. Sometimes he was too late, and he'd only snap back once the pain hit.

Rick supposed his complete isolation had something to do with it. Being unable to talk or interact with the world around him in any meaningful way was more maddening than he first realized. He had all these thoughts circulating with no real outlet, and it caused him to sink deeper and deeper into his own head until he felt like he was driving himself insane. Focusing outward on what his body was doing was a decent enough distraction, he supposed, but it wasn't enough to be a long-term coping strategy.

The problem was, the only person who he could possibly talk to in this situation was Morty. Not only was the idea ludicrous, but the teenager seemed committed to barely acknowledging Rick's existence in the first place. Several days had already went by without a single word spoken between the two of them.

It wasn't like Rick didn't try to incite anything, either. There was a point a couple days ago where he mentally cursed at and insulted Morty for nearly forty minutes, getting more and more elaborate as time went on. It was an attempt to get any sort of reaction out of the kid, because fuck it, Morty had already provoked something out of him a few times, so he might as well return the favor.

Because it wasn't like Morty was actually ignoring him, far from it. Rick could practically feel the uncomfortable sense of the teenager watching his every move, tracing his every thought. And he knew Morty was paying attention most of the time, because despite the silence he would subtly react to what Rick was thinking. If Rick was handling something important at the time his thoughts started turning mutinous, Morty would instantly make him stop his current action and switch to something lower risk. If Rick made a particularly scathing observation or comment, he sometimes saw Morty pause in whatever he was doing, if only for a second.

So it wasn't surprising that after a short while, Morty had put down the vial he was holding and looked straight at Rick. The older man hated how that emotionless stare always made his insides go cold.

“I didn't install that program because I wanted to talk with you,” Morty said, tone indifferent.

That had made Rick fall silent. Because fuck, that was really what he was doing, wasn't he? He didn't really irritate Morty as much as he intended, and yet here he was, feeling almost relieved that he got any response at all. He knew by now that Morty paying attention to him was never a good sign and never something he should be seeking out. Was he really that desperate for any kind of social interaction?

Morty turned away soon after, seemingly returning to ignoring Rick as well. But a few moments later, after Rick had already been made to resume his own work, Morty muttered something under his breath. “… Although having an audience is kind of interesting, I guess.”

Rick had paused at that, but Morty didn't say anything more. The older man wasn't sure what to make of that statement, if he even heard it correctly. Was that all Morty saw him as? A spectator?

If only Rick could get himself drunk, maybe everything would be slightly more bearable, but he hadn't been given a drop of alcohol since he first woke up. It wasn't like Morty didn't have any, either. Rick had personally seen the bastard dip into a stash of whiskey at mealtimes, although only in small quantities. It seemed to be denied to Rick purely out of spite. The sight of the substance gave him an aching feeling in his stomach that wouldn't go away, not even after he'd eaten his fill.

Rick knew all of these… symptoms were an effect of being trapped in his own head for an extended period of time, but he still couldn't help his frustration. Two weeks wasn't even long. It shouldn't be any problem for him to deal with. He could vaguely recall a memory where he was imprisoned in solitary confinement for almost a month before he managed to break out. Compared to that, this was nothing. Certainly not long enough for him to start slipping like this.

He ignored how he also remembered similar side effects appearing in the second half of that memory, enough that his recollection of that part was even fuzzier than usual. And he also ignored the difference of how occasional interrogations had broken up the monotony, meaning he didn't deal with the isolated feeling on a constant basis.

Most importantly, he had full control over himself, had an escape plan, and could take refuge in both of those facts. Even in dire situations, if he felt that he had a certain amount of control, he could push through it with a level head. But this? This was a situation of absolutely no control, of being locked in the back of his brain and not being even able to move his body to confirm that he was still real. Even his nightmares didn't normally approach this level. He couldn't do anything.

He recoiled and wanted to slap himself for that thought. That wasn't true, fuck that. He still had one sliver of control afforded to him. Even though Morty was working like hell to condition it out of him, Rick was still capable of resisting the commands. Hadn't it been Rick who damaged the drone? Hadn't it been him, working of his own free fucking will, who had interrupted the venom hunting and consequently got Morty slashed in the side? Yes, he also had gotten a deep and bloody bite wound in his shoulder, which had long since scarred over, but it had been worth it.

Rick needed to be single-mindedly focused on that. He needed to stay alert, aware, not losing his concentration like this. It didn't matter how much Morty was aware of Rick's thoughts and intentions now-- sooner or later, the bastard would slip up. When that opportunity showed itself, Rick needed to seize it without any second of hesitation.

Maybe he could actually get Morty killed this time, wouldn't that be interesting? He almost found it unsettling how much the idea satisfied him, and he vaguely wondered if it was normal to want to murder a teenager this much. There was a solid chance that it still wouldn't break the control, and Rick would be forced to stand idle until his body broke down, but… he didn't really feel like that mattered. Better than continuing to be a tool and scapegoat, at any rate. If he was going to die, it might as well be in the process of taking Morty down with him.

So Rick kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. That's all he could even do right now. But he wasn't sure how long he could hold out. Days, weeks, months? As long as necessary, he stubbornly told himself, but it felt like a lie. There was that growing sense of hysteria that he was just barely suppressing in the back of his mind, that crawling sense of unreality like a caged animal who couldn't find an escape.

He wasn't sure if it was that more desperate mindset that led to him starting to resist again.

It had started yesterday, sometime in the afternoon, when they were out hunting. Morty had recently introduced a new, albeit familiar activity to the daily schedule-- going outside and harvesting animal parts. For better or for worse, it didn't involve any dangerous venomous aliens this time around, nor did it involve killing the creatures afterward. That wasn't to say it was done in the most clean and humane manner, though. It usually involved seizing a sample of carapace or skin or blood, without any regard to the distress of the alien in the process. Morty seemed to be harvesting genetic material, although as usual Rick didn't have the energy to try to figure out why.

They were going after a wide variety of creatures, too, spread in different areas across the planet. This desolate rock had a surprising amount of biodiversity when examined closely. They started easy, targeting slow or immobile species. There was a land-dwelling organism that resembled a sea urchin crossed with brain coral, and Rick broke a few spines off of while avoiding getting pricked. They tore a chunk of carapace from a passive multi-headed millipede-like creature, which screeched in pain and scuttled away afterward. They even snapped a branch off of a vividly purple alien tree, which curled in on itself and retracted its leaves upon being damaged.

The day afterward, they had moved on to creatures of more moderate difficulty, ones that required a bit more stealth to approach. One of them was a green lobster-looking creature with a frankly disturbing amount of teeth, scuttling around near tide pools, although it thankfully only came up to Rick's knees. The other one was an armored gecko-like alien with eight limbs and a forked tail, barely the size of a cat, and it tended to quickly disappear through cracks in the ground when it noticed danger.

They were hunting the toothy lobsters when Rick ended up resisting. It was a spontaneous, split-second decision, and in hindsight he couldn't really tell the reason behind it. One moment he was distantly watching himself sneak up on the lobster alien from behind with his weapon drawn, the next moment he felt a surge of something, and he pushed back. His legs suddenly jerked and gave out for a half second, causing him to stagger and scrape his feet against the ground. The sound alerted the alien, and it bolted away immediately, submerging itself in the local pool in the span of a second.

Rick was swiftly punished after that, familiar pain lancing through his synapses and almost making him regret everything. And despite return of the torturous pain and overwhelming fear, for the first time there was another quality paradoxically mixed into it. The pain was so viscerally real that Rick found himself clinging onto it more than he expected. It was like a shock to his system, anchoring him better to reality than anything he'd attempted previously.

Still, at least initially, the conditioned fear and exhaustion won out again, leaving Rick compliant enough to not interfere with the next few alien lobsters they sampled. Morty chose to involve himself much more closely, capturing the creatures himself sometimes, so it wasn't like Rick had much of a chance to mess things up anyway.

But that lack of opportunity didn't bother him for some reason. There was this weird intoxication rising up in his mind, clashing with his twitchiness but somehow also being accentuated by it. And before he knew it, Rick resisted again, this time causing his muscles to relax when he was holding a squirming alien gecko-thing, which nearly let it slip out of his grasp. Morty waited until after they had managed to successfully grapple the creature and slice off a part of its tail tip before inflicting punishment on Rick again.

And Rick kept resisting, and he kept getting shocked. Again, and again. He resisted four more times that day. It was a mental seesaw of being paralyzed by panic and snapping back every time the pain hit, his survival instincts desperately screaming at him to stop stop stop STOP, and then that strange overwhelming feeling that would return and make him do it again. It didn't matter how pointless it was, how little he was affecting things. He couldn't stop himself.

The pattern continued into today, where Rick had resisted twice during the morning and about three additional times so far during the midday routine. But the crippling pain was starting to get to him again, the more logical part of his brain starting to protest. The impulse fueling him was already withering away somewhat, as if he was getting more hesitant. This couldn't be worth it. It wasn't like he was even hurting Morty with this. What was he even doing?

But it was okay, really. It was fine. Everything was fine. The pain meant he was feeling something, that he existed. It shocked him out of the deadened fugue he was falling into more and more often. He was forcing the universe to acknowledge him for once in his fucking life.

He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care.

And then the next time Rick resisted, Morty didn't punish him.

It had been one of the few times Rick had actually caused damage, too. He had been kept away from anything critical for a while now, so this time he ended up breaking something relatively unimportant, almost by accident. He had resisted in a way that made his body lose its balance, causing him to stagger to the side and bump into a table. An empty glass flask was knocked off and shattered into pieces against the ground, the sound deafening in the silence.

And yet, even though Rick's chest tightened in anticipation, no pain came. He looked up and saw Morty staring at the mess with a completely blank expression. After a moment, the teenager gave a heavy sigh, and he got up and silently approached it. He leaned down and started cleaning up the pieces, being careful not to cut himself on the broken glass. Eventually, he gathered them up in a small pan and carried them over to the wastebin. He didn't even look at Rick.

Rick didn't expect that to be what sapped away the rest of his energy. He expected that manic impulsiveness from before to return and encourage him to resist again, especially because there wasn't any punishment this time, but he just felt... hollow. Something was very wrong here. Why wasn't Morty reacting?

And for most of the remaining day, it definitely seemed like Morty wasn't going to make any response to the incident. They continued working as usual, and it went by even faster now that Rick had unexpectedly lost his motivation to fight back. Most of the work was focused on the drones. The fabricators had finally been completed last night, so all that was left was to attach them to the drone bodies that were already built. Due to it being a rather simple operation, it didn't take any more than an hour, and all the drones added up to a small fleet of six in total, including the initial drone they had created.

Individual testing confirmed that each of the machines could construct and deconstruct without error, which already cleared the biggest hurdle. However, it was unclear how well they'd work as a synchronized unit, so Morty took the drones down to the base of the mountain for some outdoor experimenting. Rick was made to follow, although he wasn't sure for what reason. The sun was setting, casting long shadows and a violet tint over the landscape.

They walked to their destination rather than taking a portal. It was probably to save on portal gun charge, considering the relatively close distance, but it still took nearly half an hour to reach the bottom. The entire way down, Morty kept his back turned to Rick. He still hadn't acknowledged the man since earlier, and Rick couldn't help but be unsettled by the prolonged silence.

Once they reached the bottom and walked ahead for a short while, something came into view. Resting at the foot of the mountain cliff, hidden in a crater-looking alcove, was a ruined alien spacecraft. It didn't look much bigger than a small fighter jet, but it was impossible to tell its original shape since it had long since shattered into messy pieces, as though it crashed and fractured against the ground before colliding into the solid rock. It looked like it had been there for decades, with its titanium exterior being well-worn and coated in a fine layer of dust and grit, and the insignia along its side being too faded to make out. A few spindly weeds had even sprung up in cracks in the plating, like nature was reclaiming it.

It was barely surprising, then, that this was what Morty planned on testing the drones on. It wasn't like it was too big an object to take apart, after all. All construction drones utilized pocket dimension technology in order to absorb several tons of material at a time.

With a single order sent via tablet, all six of them flew forward, surrounding the ship like a swarm of wasps. With a light blue glow and a synchronized hum, they started deconstructing different parts of the wreckage, slowly and meticulously. Even with all six of them, it still looked like it would take a few minutes to completely eat away at the hull.

Morty had put away the controller and was simply standing back to watch. Rick could understand why. Watching the outer plating disintegrate was oddly hypnotic, like seeing a newspaper burn up in a fireplace, holes growing and burning at the edges. For a moment or so, there were no sounds except for the faint sizzling of the deconstruction and the whirring of the drones.

“I honestly thought you would have given up by now.”

Morty's voice was quiet, but it still gave Rick a jolt. He turned his head to look at the teenager. From this angle, the only visible part of Morty's face was his eye patch, rendering his expression unreadable.

Rick was mostly surprised that he was actually being talked to again, after… how many days had it been? Although the comment still took him off guard, as well as sending a prickling feeling down his neck. Why would Morty think that? The kid must have detected his confusion, because he continued speaking only a moment later.

“I mean, it's a reasonable assumption to make,” Morty said. “I've been trying to be patient, all things considered, but it's getting to the point where it's a little… grating. I'm not sure what you're even getting out of it anymore. Is it pride? Spite? Satisfaction? It's weird, it's like even you don't know.”

The older man felt heavy at those words, because they weren't wrong. There was really no point to casually resisting anymore, not logically anyway. But some part of Rick still wanted to do it, because… why? To prove something to himself? And he had even less of a clue why he suddenly started doing it at extreme frequency yesterday and the beginning of today. Because it wasn't like he enjoyed being shocked or anything, far from it, it was just… at the time, the alternative had felt so much worse.

There was a brief silence, and then Morty gave a small sigh. “I wish I could say I'm surprised. You've made me start considering my options, though.”

Rick's thoughts stopped at that. Wait, what?

“I could just wait a little longer,” Morty continued. “You won't admit it, but you're in a pretty poor state right now. It would probably take only, what, two weeks? Three? But that's the thing, Rick.” He finally turned to look directly at the man, and there was something resigned in his expression. “Keeping an eye on you is tiring. Entertaining, sometimes. But mostly, I'm just worn out. A few more weeks of this isn't really something I'd enjoy dealing with.”

… Morty had never come this close to admitting weakness before, especially unprompted. A cold, crawling sensation was creeping up on Rick as the seconds trickled by. Fuck, where was this going?

“I could do it, if I had to,” Morty said, in an almost matter-of-fact way. “You're hardly the worst Rick I've put up with. Still, it leaves me wondering… it would be nice to speed the process along, wouldn't it?”

Then the pain hit before Rick could react.

It immediately sent him reeling from its unexpected intensity. It was so much worse than all previous shocks, in a way that he didn't even realize was possible. It was more than simply every nerve in his body being set on fire. It was that deep nauseating sensation of his bones being cracked and broken apart from the inside out, fragments spreading out and lacerating his tissue until everything was shredded. His senses short-circuited, blinding him. There was only pain.

Rick didn't even realize that he had outright collapsed until the agony receded slightly, allowing him to somewhat regain awareness of his surroundings. The dull ache from hitting the ground was almost invisible compared to the fading shock. But something was wrong. The pain wasn't leaving. Instead of ebbing away completely, it held at a fixed level, churning across his skin like a flame.

“That's the convenient thing about simulated pain, isn't it?” Morty's voice was somewhere far away, no louder than before, and yet it cut into the haze of Rick's thoughts like a knife. “It can be exactly as strong or drawn out as it needs to be. Maybe the constant level from before was leaving you too comfortable.”

Rick wanted to protest the idea that those prior shocks could ever be considered “comfortable”, but he couldn't piece together a coherent response. Every instinct and reflex of his was screaming to get away but there was nowhere to escape to. His body was shivering violently and his breathing was coming in kind of funny, and that was a bad thing, wasn't it? Distantly, he could hear footsteps walking up to him, stopping merely a few feet away.

“But, obviously, pain by itself isn't sending the right message anymore. Really, this is just me being self-indulgent. So let's try something else.”

A wordless order constricted around Rick's mind like a strand of barbed wire. He flinched away mentally, but his thoughts blurred with that sense of have to and before he knew it his body was moving, pushing itself up. The pace was slow and staggered, hindered by the pain that flared up when he so much as shifted a limb, but eventually he managed to get himself in a kneeling position. He was slumped and breathing harshly, his vision darkening at the edges as he stared at the ground. He felt like he might faint.

Rick could tell Morty was watching him. It only took a few seconds for the teenager to speak up again. “… It was painful doing that, and yet you can't do anything else, can you? That's what you're not getting, Rick. You can resist all you want, but you never affect anything when it matters. So then--” There was suddenly a harsh pressure around Rick's collar, causing his breathing to stilt as he was dragged upward, fingers digging into his shirt with unexpected strength. His gaze was forcibly locked with Morty's as his body was yanked up and his head tilted back. “Why are you still doing it?”

Rick's stomach dropped the second he recognized the look in Morty's eye. Unblinking, intense focus, with a cold fire behind it that hinted of something just barely suppressed beneath the surface. Like there was a ticking time bomb of anger and frustration leaking out more and more as the situation progressed.

Morty had never raised his voice, never broke from his usual cadence, and yet it was chillingly obvious that he was absolutely pissed.

Too paralyzed with fear and too disoriented by pain to respond, Rick hung there with shallow breaths, desperately hoping beyond all reason that Morty wouldn't kill him. The stare held for a moment, then the teenager's expression became more guarded as he let Rick sag in his grip somewhat. “… Maybe I just haven't made myself clear,” he said, almost to himself. “I could never get through to you before, so I'm not getting my hopes up now. But it's not like you have a choice in the matter.”

Rick mentally twitched as he felt a pressure forcing itself over his brain, pushing him down, although he was far too dazed and weak to attempt actual resistance. All he could think was no no no no NO NO--

“Listen,” Morty said in a stern tone, although it sounded weirdly distant. “You're not actually stopping anything here. I'll get what I want no matter what you do to get in my way. But you continue to make things difficult, you will be replaced with another Rick who's more cooperative. Do you understand me?”

Rick couldn't think. It took a moment, like his vocal chords were sluggish from disuse, but the pressure intensified and he spoke out in a hoarse voice. “… Yes.”

“Who is the one in control here?” Morty asked.

“You are.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

The pressure around Rick's brain and neck released simultaneously, letting him fall back down to the ground. His body caught itself on his hands and knees, breathing labored. The constant pain was finally fading, too, leaving a numb feeling in its wake. He tilted his head up to see Morty's back turned to him as the teenager walked away, slipping the remote back into his pocket.

Now that he was finished with Rick, Morty seemed to be turning his attention back to the drones. They had just finished deconstructing the last of the spacecraft, and they hovered in the air on standby. All that was left of the original wreck was a large, oddly shaped indent in the ground.

But that was hard for Rick to care about, at least at the moment. He was weak and empty-feeling, and he felt disconnected from his surroundings, with everything being somewhat blurry. He was unable to do much but focus on his gradually steadying breathing and trying to hold himself together. To not crack any further than he already had.

It looked like Morty was cracking, too, but just a little bit. Just enough to suddenly snap and take out his frustration on Rick, before relaxing and then returning to business as usual. And even then, he still didn't completely lose his composure or lash out in a physically damaging way. Nothing had pushed the teenager far enough for him to lose his sense of self-restraint, it seemed.

It was like this whole thing had become an endurance match between the two of them. Each move they made, intentional or not, was systematically working to wear the other one down. To eat away at their resolve until something broke.

And, deep down, Rick knew which one of them was going to break first.

#rick and morty #evil rick #evil morty #fanfiction #rick sanchez #morty smith #prequel fic #ghost in the machine #tw: torture

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