Work Text:
Most of the more typical presidential work, and even some of the non-typical work he does behind the scenes that would surely have him viewed as even more of a monster than he’s already been accused of, requires paperwork. On days like these, Mortimer spends long hours in his office, rubbing his eyes, and with only some lamplight and his own external soul as company.
If there’s anything good to come of it, however, it’s that his daemon can roam a bit more freely in times like this.
Her small form weaves throughout the room with ease, disappearing and reappearing from his line of sight as she races along the ground, then up the shelves, and eventually, finding her way back onto his desk to pick through his things. He doesn’t blame her excitement for these moments— they might not be rare but she does spend more of her time hidden away than not.
It’s a double edged sword. Mortimer may be able to roam more freely than her, but freedom comes with its prices. All eyes are on him at every moment except these. Every movement is tracked. Every word is analyzed. Mortimer may have become the President of the Citadel for the power and resources he needed, but it did not come without its drawbacks.
In a sense, the only time both of them are free is when they can both escape from public view. The private moments. The quiet, albeit boring ones.
His clock displays that it’s currently 1:24AM, the dark, artificial sky outside reflecting this. Mortimer taps his fingers on the desk, debating internally before pushing his rolling chair off to the side and reaching for the bottle of hard liquor.
“Seriously?” His daemon twitches her nose as he carefully uncorks the bottle. “At this time of night?”
“I won’t drink much. You know I never do.” One of the immaculately polished glasses is plucked from the stack and he pours just enough to down in one go.
“You shouldn’t be drinking at all. It’s a bad habit to get into.” She’s starting to sound like a broken record, not that Mortimer can judge. He feels as though they’ve had this conversation at least twice before, and his answers remain consistent.
“We all have our vices, Minerva.” He brings the glass to his lips. Her whiskers twitch in displeasure, then he sees a spark in her eyes.
“It’s a little bit too much like him, don’t you think?”
Mortimer’s hand stills just before any alcohol reaches his tongue. Neither of them move for one, tense moment, before he breaks the standstill. A huff, the sound of the glass setting hard against the wood, and the unmistakable air of defeat.
“That’s dirty.” Mortimer mumbles, leaning back in his chair to rub his organic eye.
“It’s the only way you listen, sometimes. You’d think being a literal manifestation of your soul would give my words more weight.” Minerva twitches her whiskers, one paw reflexively mirroring him. Mortimer’s full attention turns to her at last; her beady, red eyes meeting his brown ones.
“It’s not even true.” He argues without much heat. “I don’t get drunk like he did. I only do it to feel the burn.”
“You’re getting a bit too addicted to the burn.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t like it, which means you don’t even like it.” After a pause, she adds, humorously, “If you want to feel pain so badly, I could bite you.”
It earns a snort out of Mortimer. Minerva turns her head up proudly.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d love that.” He rolls his eyes. “Another excuse to bite me.”
“I only bite you when it’s necessary.” Minerva insists, as she always does. Another conversation they’ve had before, though he knows how this one ends. It’s not really an argument after all.
“If you could do it when I don’t have judging eyes that take note of the fact that I’m seemingly reacting to nothing, then I would take less of an issue with it.”
“But still an issue.”
“Nobody wants to get bitten by a rat.” Mortimer rolls his eyes.
“I bet there’s some universe where that’s untrue.” Minerva counters.
“Sure. But it’s not ours.”
Going quiet at the mention of their own universe is an unconscious effect. Traveling the universe with a physical manifestation of your soul isn’t so fun when barely anybody else does it. When almost no one else knows daemon etiquette, or often what a daemon even is, and if they did, it would only hinder him further.
A vulnerable piece of himself, one that losing will directly result in his death, external and easy to hold with just one hand.
Minerva is no longer as helpless as she once was, the same as him, but she still bears the scars. An attachment for her tail, though the prosthetic blends in so well that no one would know the difference if they saw her. A pink scratch across her back and puncture wounds in her underbelly. Against her bright white and well groomed fur, it’s easy to spot.
What’s not so easy to spot, however, are her own enhancements. Both of them hide them not just under their skin, but under layers of protective programming that keeps them hidden, even from Ricks.
They’ve been hurt before. They’ve tasted the doors of death’s gates— the ash and dirt against their tongues— but with any luck, they never will again. No one will ever hurt them like they did again.
“Not much longer now.” Minerva speaks up at last.
“The hardest part is still ahead of us.” Mortimer reminds her, beginning to tap against the desk again. “C-137 isn’t as easy to pin down as I’d like.”
“We know where he is.” She trots closer and rubs her head against his hand. He strokes her fur absentmindedly. “And we know how we can pin him down. They all have their irrational attachments.” Her mouth curves upwards. “Those Ricks outside your door would kill at a moment's notice, even if it meant turning the gun on each other, simply because you look like a grandson they had once. And C-137 is no different. A little pressure involving his Morty and he’ll crack.”
“And the second he or his Morty set foot in the Citadel, we’ll know.” Mortimer finishes. “I know. I just don’t like how there’s still room for error.”
“We’ve done all we can.” She reminds him. “The trap is set. We only need to lie in wait until it can be sprung.”
Another moment of silence as Mortimer’s thoughts stray further. He remembers C-137’s Morty well. A typical Morty in many ways, yet something even more in others.
The reason things didn’t quite go to plan the first time.
The reason why his ship has an extra seat, just in case.
“I can be patient.” Mortimer murmurs at last. He twists his seat around, Minerva hopping onto the back of it so both of them can gaze down at the Citadel below. He once held incredible disgust for the city and the things that went on within its walls. Everything it stood for, the things it still stands for.
He doesn’t quite feel that anymore. He doesn’t feel much for it these days. Just anticipation. Holding his breath. Thinking about how it might look when it topples.
“It’ll be worth it.” He says out loud. Minerva hums in agreement. “All of it will be worth it. For both of us.”
“No more hiding. Or at least, not as much as usual.” She amends. “It’s not like the universe ever stops being dangerous just because Ricks aren’t the biggest assholes around. But it’ll be a breath of fresh air.”
Both of them can scarcely wait.
—
Before Ricks, before the Citadel and the Central Finite Curve, before the inherent horror and fury and hatred that came with knowing exactly how this universe they built worked, Mortimer had gone to school, like any other kid, and everyone thought that Minerva was going to be a dog.
She hadn’t quite settled yet but she took the form of dogs often. Border Collies and Labradors Retrievers and Shetland Sheepdogs and Miniature Schnauzers and Australian Shepherds and so on and so forth. His family were keeping bets on what breed she would end up as, but it was widely agreed upon that if Mortimer’s daemon was going to be anything, it was probably going to be a dog.
Just in case they were wrong though, each of them had backup bets. His mom had a few bets on different sea animals, notably an octopus or maybe a manta ray, as Minerva had been known to transform into once or twice. His dad had his bets on a cat, maybe a tortoise or even a few bugs, though the latter was partially because his daemon was a bug and he had a particular fondness for them. And, of course, Summer was betting on a bird. She had a monopoly on them, insisting that Minerva squabbled with her bird daemon like they were both birds of a feather, pun intended.
Mortimer didn’t have any bets. He was content waiting and was certain that whatever Minerva ended up as would be perfect. Sure, a few animals could be inconvenient daemons, but Mortimer was sure they could find work arounds. He wasn’t all that picky.
She was the dog trotting by his side, the ferret slinking around his shoulders, the praying mantis sitting on his desk, the crow perched on his shoulder. She changed a bit slower with each passing day, a little more comfortable with staying as one thing for longer and longer periods of time.
Any day now, they said in anticipation. You’ll both know when it happens. The settling is a finite thing. Like you're at peace. An understanding of yourself. Joy in realizing who you are, not that you haven’t to know for sure even then. Even after she settled, both would have time to grow.
For once, Mortimer wouldn’t be so behind. Other kids his age were starting to settle and Mortimer was right on track to do the same.
Everyone was always so certain that she would be some kind of dog. It always felt like a question not of if she was, but of what kind. Which ones she spent the most time as, which ones felt the most like Mortimer, which ones they were simply convinced just fit.
They had done normal family things. They ate dinners together with their daemons and talked about their day. Mortimer might’ve found school loud and disorienting often, but he was getting better at dealing with it. His grades were finally improving. He knew he was clever, it was just a matter of giving the schooling system what they actually wanted, as more often than not, he’d misunderstand what they had asked of him and got a bad grade for it. His family was proud of him for how far he had come.
On a cold, January night, a knock at the door disturbs their dinner, and will continue to do so forever.
An old man in white lab coat with blue hair stands there. Perched on his shoulder is an almost sickly and most definitely angry-looking great horned owl.
His mom’s horse daemon startles, an uncommon event seeing as how desensitized he’s become to everything. His mom, on the other hand, stares blankly ahead. Like she’s dreaming. Like she’s having a nightmare.
“…Dad?”
—
With a single tap, the Rick goes limp, dropping the jagged rock, and the pressure on his mind elevates.
“Do we really need him?” Minerva asks, currently riding on his shoulders. There’s distaste in her voice— she’s been asking that for weeks now. She doesn’t like looking at him. He may not be the worst Rick of the bunch, but he was by no means a good one. That is, if there are any good ones at all.
This Rick didn’t know about her. After the first few— the ones that grabbed her without permission, who hurt her, who held her over his head— Mortimer started shielding her existence from the world.
One of his arms had been replaced with a cybernetic by a previous Rick who didn’t care what he wanted, just that he wanted a Morty who was ‘Actually useful in battle’. His death had been too quick for everything he put him through, but he was good for one thing. Mortimer got to upload all his cybernetic blueprints into his newly wired head.
He learned what made them tick, and with some tinkering, improved on the designs. His cybernetic arm now had an empty compartment big enough to hide Minerva. Not something either of them liked to do, both with the limited space and the nature of said compartment being inside his arm, but it was a necessity. Anything was better than the alternative. Their original Rick had gotten a little too close to killing her outright when they had retaliated.
They couldn’t afford that again.
This Rick wasn’t one of the ones who hurt her, but he did hurt him. Those bruises and cuts, both accidental and on purpose, were gone now. Mortimer might’ve forgotten them, but Minerva did not.
She never did. She was an archive of every injury, every insult, every terrible thing that any Rick had ever done to him. She remembers their dimension numbers and what each one did. Any distinguishing features. Whether or not the family noticed or cared or did anything at all.
Mortimer’s original family was an anomaly, he learned. Imperfect, but not dysfunctional. It was for the best that the other ones didn’t act the same, as there was no replacing his family, but it did ache. It always ached.
Mortimer learned to numb himself. He did feel anger and hatred and despair but they became more and more distant feelings with time. It was easier that way. They were less likely to cloud his judgment then.
Minerva had once been on the calmer side, but now it felt as though she only grew angrier with each passing day. It festered in her heart— the fury, the bitterness, the hurt— and she sank her teeth into it. She didn’t let go because she didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want to forget. She wanted to remember, even if it hurt. Even if it destroyed her internally, she never wanted to forget why they were doing this.
The remote controller inside ‘Evil’ Rick’s head may keep him under his control, but Minerva doesn’t like his presence. Her claws sometimes pierce through his pocket and stab into his skin when he’s around.
Considering the nature of her existence, that probably says something about him. But Mortimer is numb and he doesn’t let it shake him off their course.
“They’ll notice if it’s a lone Morty.” Mortimer reminds her. “He’s camouflage. All blame will get pinned on him and that gives us an out.”
“Couldn’t we make an android instead?” She argues.
“They’ll know the difference. The remote controller is discreet.” Mortimer reminds her. Minerva mutters under her breath about it not being worth the price and hating his face. Mortimer hears it all but doesn’t have a good enough reply.
They leave the unconscious Rick there. A pile of dead Ricks is slowly being disposed of by the chuckling lobster creatures as Mortimer scans all the data collected from them.
Dozens of Ricks, dozens of supposed geniuses, and not one of them knows a thing about the Central Finite Curve. They have basic understandings of it but they’re all disinterested in knowing more. Mortimer knows more than they do.
He pinches the bridge of his nose with a noise of frustration. Then, Minerva perks up and points her nose at something on the screen.
“Look at that!”
Mortimer follows her direction to one of the recorded accounts about the Central Finite Curve. Again, mostly basic understanding of it, not caring how it really works, but there’s a name this time. A rumor about who helped create it.
A Rick from Dimension C-137.
Mortimer inputs the name into the computer to see if he’s collected any data on him already. Immediately, dozens upon dozens of tabs pop up. Nearly every single Rick he encountered knows the name, and while not all of them know any useful details, there’s a good handful of them that do.
Minerva whistles. “Quite the character.”
“No kidding.” Mortimer reaches under his eyepatch and pulls out the connection cables to attach to the monitor. Immediately all the information starts downloading into his head. His eyebrows climb higher and higher as he properly processes it. “A ‘Rouge’ Rick. He’s considered highly dangerous. Known for killing other Ricks without much care or remorse.”
His organic eye flickers to the pile of dead Ricks and the blood trails from where some of the dead bodies have been dragged.
“Hm.”
“Hm?” Minerva cranes her head to follow his gaze. “Oh. I see. That might work.”
“It would be a risk. Our best bet is to lead him right to us, but he’ll put up a fight.”
“We have a lot of lobster minions.” Minerva points out. “They don’t really fear death.”
“All Ricks get tired eventually.” Mortimer nods to himself. “But if this is another dead end, that so-called Council of Ricks, as risky as it is, might be our best shot.”
“That’s the good thing about infinity.” Minerva agrees, whiskers twitching. “We don’t exactly have a shortage of Ricks to take from.”
—
The very first adventure had been fun. Rick dropped him off at Blitz and Chitz, gave him a bunch of alien money, and told him to go nuts. Mortimer and Minerva had, trying out dozens of games and discovering some of the wonders of the universe on their own.
There had been no danger— none of the aliens questioned Minerva. They didn’t even question him. They had been so free and happy, no expectations and seemingly no limits, at least, until they ran out of money. And even then, they had gazed out the windows with wide, starry eyes at how beautiful the view was, and how different it was from anything they had ever seen.
When their time was up, Rick and his daemon both smelled of alcohol, having spent all their time at the bar. Minerva had wrinkled her nose but said nothing and Mortimer didn’t want to sound ungrateful so he did the same.
The second ‘Adventure’, and everything afterwards, was not so fun.
Exploring the universe was fascinating in theory but Rick wanted him to do chores. Picking things up for him or helping him collect things but making him and Minerva do all the work. They started out tame, just seeming to be grunt work. Rick ignored all of Mortimer and Minerva’s suggestions to improve things. It was demeaning but Mortimer and Minerva were drawn in by the wonders of space and learned to put up with it. It had felt no different than the patronizing staff at school.
The way things started to change however, was gradual but noticeable. Rick was cold to them, giving backhanded compliments and flat out insults, often about their intelligence. Every time Mortimer tried to correct him on something, he was shot down brutally. Every time Minerva helped them out of a tight spot, Rick claimed it was luck, or actually because of something him and his owl daemon, Umbra, did.
And if Rick was a jerk, Umbra was worse. Every word out of her mouth was jeering and she seemed to take pleasure in the way she could get Minerva to jump when she screeched. Her scathing looks had Minerva cowering, she pecked him or Minerva whenever she was particularly annoyed with them, and the few times she had perched on his shoulder rather than Rick’s, it felt more like she was monitoring him. Watching. Laughing at every mistake.
Mortimer had little puncture wounds on his shoulder from where Umbra’s talons would dig in. Every time it felt like they were finally healing over, she’d stab into them all over again. It scarred eventually. It never quite went away.
Despite all of this, Rick never wanted to drive them away. In fact, he always tried to draw them in with promises of whatever he thought they wanted but more often than not, the adventures didn’t feel like an option. And some deep chill in both of them knew this to be a fact.
Admittedly, Mortimer had been paralyzed at first. He didn’t like the increasingly dangerous adventures, even for the small moments where Rick gave him one compliment or another, or the breathtaking worlds he saw in the process. His hands shook the first time he shot someone and he had nightmares the first time he killed. Minerva wanted to stand up to Rick but Umbra— she unnerved her. Her words dug into her and both of them were being slowly crushed under the weight.
Rick was efficient. He showed them what happened if you did what he wanted, and then what happened if you didn’t. They watched Rick not just kill people, but ruin their lives. They watched as Umbra’s talons tore into people’s faces, and if it didn’t kill them, it scarred them for life. They installed the fear in them, taught them desperation, and Mortimer found himself sinking into a deep well of unhappiness.
His family worried. His parents argued with Rick about adventures and tried to tell Mortimer that he didn’t have to do them if he didn’t want to, but again, that fear had taken hold of him. Every attempt to speak up was stifled with one look from Rick or Umbra. Every attempt to stand his ground was met with some form of pain, physical or psychological.
His sister saw the signs. And one day, when Mortimer was so dizzy that he could barely stand, having taken a heavy blow to the head, Summer and her macaw daemon stood up to Rick and confronted him directly. His parents joined her. Mortimer had sunk to the ground behind them with Minerva curling up tightly against his stomach, still seeing stars, but he remembers that fear. The all consuming terror that rose to his chest when they did, because he knew. And judging from the dread he could feel from Minerva, he knew that she did too.
Rick, if nothing else, was consistent about one thing. Stand up to him and face the consequences. Mortimer hadn’t just experienced it but he saw it. Over and over again— the people who crossed Rick Sanchez always regretted it, one way or another.
Rick had looked at the family, unimpressed, and then his eyes flicked down to meet Mortimer’s. And he might’ve been seeing double through a bad concussion, but he saw the darkened look in the eye. The frenzied look in Umbra’s, whose feathers were puffing up and talons were twitching.
“It was an accident while we were adventuring. Morty will be fine, right, Morty?”
Mortimer pushed the words out. “‘m f’bine. D-don’t w-w-w’rry.”
His stutter had never been worse. His words slurred badly. Talking had never been so difficult yet so essential.
But his family didn’t back down. They wouldn’t stand for what was going on.
So Rick and Umbra did what they always did, and made them regret it. Permanently.
Mortimer remembers screaming. His own, Minerva’s, from his family and their daemons— it all blended together. He remembers trying to fight, trying to help, the heavy limbs, sluggish movement, and wide punches, but it didn’t matter then. At best, he bought them a minute of extra time.
Mortimer remembers passing out in a pool of someone else’s blood, trembling badly as Umbra’s cackling became maniacal as she tore into Summer’s macaw. He remembers the way Minerva had whimpered and cowered when she realized there was nothing they could do.
He remembers the cold, dead look in Rick’s eyes, like this was just another obstacle in his path. Like none of this really mattered in the end.
—
He’s different, Minerva speaks up in his mind, though physically is still in the safety of his cybernetic compartment. Not different in the same way that Morty C-137 was different but still… Different.
Mortimer is inclined to agree. He doesn’t show it outwardly however, simply exuding a calm sort of confidence and a polite smile on his face as he usually does.
“I’m not worried about the polls.” He says out loud.
“You should be.” Campaign Manager Morty, also known as Morty of Dimension B-118, rarely backs down to him. He knows politics well, and because of that, he doubts. And he has every right to— the polling is terrible, the mocking is endless, and none of the Ricks really take his campaign seriously.
Yet, anyways.
“What you’re doing, a-appealing to other Mortys like you are, it’s good but that’s only half the population. The Ricks are the tough ones to sway, and you’ve barely appealed to them at all! Not to mention that some Mortys are still being swayed by the Candidate Ricks!”
He’s not afraid of you. Minerva notes. Even when she’s hidden away, her presence is a constant. A second voice in his mind, saying many of the things he’s already thinking. A part of himself that knows him better than he knows himself. Everyone else is either slightly intimidated, in awe of, or blindly obedient to you. But he’s none of that. He voices his doubts. He clashes head on with you when necessary. He’s become disillusioned by Ricks. Even in the Citadel, that’s pretty uncommon.
“Do you have any suggestions to fix this?” Mortimer asks, genuinely curious what his answer will be. Campaign Morty’s mouth presses into a thin line.
“Is this really worth all the effort? Your name dragged through the mud? The— the mocking that’ll surely come when you lose?”
When, he says. Not if.
Campaign Morty doesn’t have much faith in this campaign. And yet, despite the offers he would no doubt get if he were to leave, he’s still here. He still attends every rally, is punctual to showing up whenever he’s needed, and still brings up all his concerns to him. Even if he views it all as a slowly sinking ship, even if he doubts that Ricks will ever let them into office, he’s still here.
It’s fascinating, but also tragic, in its own way. As different as he is, Mortys struggle to let go of certain things, even if it’ll drag them down with it. Campaign Morty carries this trait.
“That’s not what I asked.” Mortimer hums. Frustration flickers on his face and Campaign Morty huffs.
“Appeal to the working class Ricks! The ones who are dissatisfied with the way things are going! Or— or the ones who are stuck on the Citadel because the former Council trapped them here! You did that with— with the Mortys, why not the Ricks too?”
Because it’s a lie, Mortimer thinks. I don’t care if their lives improve. I do hope they rot in the misery of the prison they created. I hope they get sick of each other but they’ll never understand what it’s like for us to be sick of them.
But sure. If you need me to lie, I can lie. I can tell them whatever the hell they want to hear if it means they’ll do everything I want them to. If it means getting what I need.
“That’s not a bad idea.” Mortimer smiles politely. It’s not. He’s not the biggest fan of it, but it’s not a bad idea at all. If he were an actual candidate, maybe Campaign Morty could get him where he needed to be. Maybe he still will, not that he knows what Mortimer is really trying to do.
What do you think he’d do if he knew? Minerva wonders.
He may have lost hope in Ricks, but our plan requires hurting some Mortys along the way too. And I know he won’t like that. Mortimer replies internally. The look in Campaign Morty’s eyes— it almost reminds him of himself. When he first lost hope. When he first saw the horrors and the infinite spiral and the realization of how endless infinity truly is when you’re surrounded by it.
He won’t crack in the same way. But with the right motivation, he might crack in a way that benefits him.
Do you think if I showed my true colors, Mortimer asks, he would try to kill me?
Minerva pauses, considering the odds. There’s a 78% chance. Higher if you actually start pulling ahead in the polls.
There’s a thought.
“I’ll see what strings we can pull to make it happen.” Mortimer lays a hand on Campaign Morty’s shoulder, smile never faltering. “You have too many doubts about this election.”
“Do you blame me? How many t-typical Ricks want a Morty for President?” Campaign Morty points out. “I want you to win— I do! But the election is in a month and our odds are slim at best.”
“But not zero.” Mortimer reminds him. His face twists into one of displeasure.
“I’m trying to be realistic here! I’m trying to prepare you for the worst!”
“I appreciate it.” He drops his hand, folding it behind his back. “I do. But you need to have more faith, young man.”
“Y-young man?” Campaign Morty scrunches up his nose. Mortimer is already walking away.
He’s different. Minerva says again. We like that, don’t we?
It’s refreshing. Mortimer admits. He was starting to feel alone— too un-Mortylike. He still is but at least he knows he’s not the only one capable of growing a backbone. In another life, we might’ve been able to work together. Could’ve been friends. Wouldn’t that be nice?
It would be. Minerva pauses. Strong-willed. Steadfast in his opinions. Willing to say what’s necessary, even if it’s not what you want to hear. It's a shame. Had things been different, we might’ve been able to let him live. But if we do, he’ll sniff us out. Sooner or later, he’ll be a problem. Either he’ll get us killed, or we kill him.
To die by another Morty’s hands. Mortimer muses. Wouldn’t that be poetic?
The month passes quickly. Mortimer pulls ahead in the elections and promptly fires Campaign Morty. A shady Rick that’s been following him for weeks sees this and drops everything he has into said Morty’s lap. The second he’s served his purpose, the shady Rick is disposed of, and when Campaign Morty shows up at his next outing, Mortimer shakes his hand.
The shot isn’t lethal but it does hurt. Minerva hates every bit of it, especially being unable to do much to comfort him, but even once he’s recovered and being elected into office, she doesn’t hate the Morty that hurt him. Not like she hates every Rick that hurt him or how she holds bitter feelings towards every family that didn’t care about them like their original one did.
If Mortimer quickly reinstates a shield to protect himself from all future attacks, and if Minerva cuddles a little closer to him over the next week, then that’s their business and nobody else’s.
—
Minerva had been hurt by Ricks before but the first Rick, his, Rick, had hurt the most. Because he knew better. He knew and fully understood what daemons were and the etiquette and taboos surrounding them, but he hurt her anyway.
To keep them in line. To punish them. To show that he could.
Rick and Umbra hurt them over and over again after their family was gone and they had no reason to hold back, but they always kept them around. Mortimer didn’t understand why at first. Why everyone else was killed but they were spared. Why they were different. Why Rick and Umbra could bring them to the edge of death but never actually let them cross it.
On many days, Mortimer wished they would, but he found reasons to keep pushing. He didn’t want to die like this— at Rick’s and Umbra’s hands. As someone who barely mattered to anyone still living. No friends at school, not that he attended anymore, and no other family left to turn to, except maybe grandparents on his dad’s side but like hell was he gonna bring them into this.
He was afraid of Rick and Umbra. More afraid of them than he’s ever been of anything or anyone. With no hope for anyone else to stop them, Mortimer and Minerva were under their complete control. Even when they could escape to their room, it wasn’t like it offered any actual protection. It wasn’t like there was anywhere they could run to that Rick and Umbra couldn’t give chase and find them again.
Back then, Mortimer and Minerva didn’t understand why they wouldn’t let them go despite seeming to hate them. They just knew that they wouldn’t.
Minerva started taking on smaller forms. Things easy to carry. Things that made it easier to hide and cower. She already felt so small next to Umbra, it wasn’t like it made any difference if she actually was.
For a while, it felt like they were trapped in Rick and Umbra’s orbit, slowly getting pulled into the black hole where they would be obliterated. Like nothing they wanted mattered, like they were just tools— whatever Rick and Umbra needed them to be. Nowhere else to go, just this for eternity. A hundred, a thousand, a million years, trapped with Rick and Umbra.
Mortimer doesn’t remember the exact moment that did it. It was more a build up of things— starting with the moment Rick decided to cut his family out of his life forever and ending with another adventure that made Mortimer and Minerva feel like even less than nothing.
With enough pressure, anything will snap. And they were terrified of Rick and Umbra but they didn’t want this forever. An eternity of falling in line, being nothing, taking whatever was thrown at them. The risks no longer outweighed the potential reward. They wanted out, and there was only one way they could get out.
Minerva’s smaller forms became vital to the plan, allowing them to sneak parts away from their adventures or tools from Rick and Umbra’s workshop. Despite how demeaning it could be to be forced to make things for Rick, Mortimer learned from it. He understood tech better, handled various weapons with ease— Mortimer had been dragged all over the universe to do whatever Rick and Umbra wanted the two of them to do. And now, all of that would aid them in bringing about their downfall.
Rick and Umbra were separated and had forced Mortimer and Minerva to be the same. This simple fact made it all the easier to go about their secret side project, allowing Minerva to keep an eye on Rick and Umbra drink themselves to death while Mortimer worked on the weapons that would one day kill the pair.
The day they were ready was a surreal experience, but neither were willing to back down now. They waited until the pair got drunk again, then struck. Even as inebriated as they were, Rick and Umbra fought back hard.
But Mortimer and Minerva were desperate. Rick and Umbra taught them that desperation. They had been backed into a corner for so long that now, it didn’t matter how afraid they were. It didn’t matter how much they dreaded the fallout if they lost. They were going to fight back and cut them out of their lives forever, or die trying.
Mortimer remembers lying on the cold, pavement floor of their garage, his right eye gouged out from Umbra’s talons and bleeding heavily, but still breathing. Shaking and tears falling and so very afraid, unable to take his eyes off of Rick’s completely still form and the pile of dust that was once Umbra. Convinced that somehow, they would be back. That Mortimer fucked up somewhere and he was going to pay the price for ever trying to rebel.
But Rick never got up again, and Umbra remained dust. For so long, Rick had hammered it into both of their heads that he and Umbra were gods, and yet, they had still killed them. He was still breathing while Rick never would again.
Mortimer thinks he threw up everything he had at some point. Things got a little hazy— everything felt like a dream he was going to wake up from at some point. Minerva had weakly crawled into his arms when he was in the middle of a panic attack, most of her tail gone and bleeding just as he was, but alive. Still with him. Pressing into his chest like she could phase right through it.
He remembers feeling it then. He thought he had been hallucinating or simply lost too much blood but later, when he woke up in a hospital in the Citadel, and after a panic attack or three at seeing more Ricks for the first time, he knew for sure. And Minerva knew it too.
She settled. On an albino rat of all things.
Not a dog. Not a sea animal or bug or bird or anything his family predicted. A rat.
Death, one symbolism website had said. Disease. Bad luck.
Survival. Another said. Intelligence. Adaptability.
Mortimer was missing an eye and Minerva was now missing most of her tail, but he held her close and mourned that his family would never know. He mourned everything he was now leaving behind but at the same time, this one thing was good. Minerva was his and she was small and quick and sharp in her wit, and he would keep her with him forever.
No matter what else they lost, Mortimer would not lose this part of himself. His soul, no matter how battered and damaged, would be with him until the very end.
—
The Citadel is coming crashing down and yet, Mortimer has never felt calmer. It feels right to leave it destroyed after all the suffering it brought him. An endless cycle of Ricks he can’t escape, finally broken.
Mortimer is monitoring the power needed for tearing a hole in the curve when he hears the pair catch up to him. He suspected as much— Rick C-137 knows the Citadel as well as he does. There are only so many places to run to if you’re trying to escape without portal travel and if you don’t have a ship on hand.
Minerva sits on his shoulder as he explains the Central Finite Curve to the other Morty. His eyes are wide and filled with horror. It’s almost funny how it doesn’t matter how different a Morty is, they all initially react the same way he did. No matter how far removed he feels from them, Mortimer will always be a Morty. He’ll always be fourteen and so much smaller than he wants to be.
But it has never mattered how small he is. He knows what he’s capable of— and by proxy, what all Mortys are capable of. There’s a reason why Ricks fear cocky Mortys, and there’s a reason why the manifestation of his soul is a rat.
Rick C-137 and Morty keep glancing at Minerva, but the urge to hide her is no longer there. She's anticipating their escape, craving their freedom, and above all else, excited. Nobody can stop them now. Not with how far they’ve come.
The tear is forming slowly. His eyepatch has settled into place and their matching spacesuits rise from a stand for them to start slipping into.
“So if all of— of this is for ‘Escaping the curve’ or whatever, w-what’s the rat for?” Morty speaks up, squinting at Minerva. “You’re bringing your pet with you or— or something?”
“She’s not a pet.” Mortimer replies calmly. He’s gotten that comment too many times for it to bother him anymore. He’s only met another Morty from a daemon universe once. He had a dog daemon. It had made him feel… Something. Distantly.
“A robot?” Morty guesses.
“Not that either.” Minerva says this time, making Morty’s jaw drop. Her whiskers twitch in amusement. “There are an infinite amount of universes out there. Some of them include physical manifestations of the soul.”
“Daemons.” Rick supplies. He looks a lot more interested in Minerva than he did prior. “Millions of different kinds of animals you could’ve chosen to represent your soul and you ended up on a lab rat?”
“If you’re accusing me of ‘Choosing’ my form,” Minerva gives him an unimpressed look, “Then you truly don’t know nearly as much about daemons than you think.”
“I know that if you die, so does he.” Rick shoots back.
“Oh, I’d love to see you try.” Minerva bears her teeth. “You just might get the honor of being the last Rick I ever have to kill.”
Somewhere high above them, Project Phoenix is torn to shreds and the wormhole forming grows bigger. Morty screams. A piece of the ceiling falls and lands on Rick. Mortimer zips up his spacesuit and steps out of the protective dome. Minerva has a small one of her own, built so she doesn’t feel so restricted in it. They had a lot of time to perfect it.
“You can come if you want.” Mortimer offers. His face is kept blank but Minerva knows better. She can feel his hope to take someone else away from this nightmare. She knows his disappointment when Morty turns his back on them to help his Rick instead.
Mortimer tells them he lied about the offer. Minerva telepathically calls him a liar.
Both of them settle into the ship when they’re left alone. When it launches, they watch as colors and lights blaze past them, momentum steadily slowing down until finally, they’re weightless, floating in the space of a new universe.
Mortimer and his soul, at the edge of a brand new multiverse. Anything and everything is awaiting them. An old feeling returns to him— a surreal one. Slight disbelief that they made it at last, but with enough confidence to know that it’s real and their hard work has finally paid off.
“No more ‘Smartest man in the universe’ bullshit.” Mortimer breathes out.
“No more Citadel of Ricks.” Minerva adds. She hops onto the top of his head for a better view. He can feel her excitement. It’s almost like they’re kids again, gazing up at the stars and wondering what’s out there. Finally, things are new again. “We could go anywhere… Do you think there’s other daemons here too?”
“Only one way to find out.” Mortimer takes out his portal gun and shoots a golden portal into the space in front of them. Seeing it alone makes him smile— he was getting sick of green.
Together, they slip through, allowing it to disappear behind them.