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Using himself to feel alive.
The phrase tasted bitter even as he thought it. It was a pathetic, degrading concept. But there it was, lodged in his head like a parasite.
Morty had given up on Rick a long time ago. With that, he had also given up on blind complacency, unconditional forgiveness, and sacrificing himself for scraps of approval. He wasn’t that kid anymore. Or at least, that’s what he repeated to himself every night after turning off the lights and lying down.
Most nights his eyes stayed wide open. He’d toss and turn before eventually getting up to distract himself with anything.
Because the loneliness… that was something he hadn’t planned for.
The drugs, alcohol, and pills kept him afloat for a while. They worked. They numbed him enough to stop thinking. But once the high wore off, only the emptiness remained. He had achieved everything he wanted: freedom and distance from any Rick. And yet…
What the hell was supposed to come next?
There was no real joy, just a hollow satisfaction dressed up as paradise.
He kept catching himself replaying that last encounter with C-137. The way Rick had looked at his Morty. And that stupid little spark that had ignited in his chest:
“I could use this someday.”
It wasn’t a “could.” It was a “want.”
And he hated it.
Contacting him turned out to be harder than expected.
Not because of Rick’s security—that took him less than ten minutes. What actually held him up was spending nearly an hour deleting and rewriting the first message before giving up. In the end, he simply appeared directly in Rick’s underground lab, disabling the alarms with a bored flick of his wrist.
Rick came down in a rage. He attacked without asking questions, as expected, destroying parts of his own lab without mercy. Morty dodged the blows effortlessly. After ten minutes of struggling, Rick finally listened.
“An alliance,” Morty said.
“Blackmail, you mean,” Rick growled.
But he accepted. Reluctantly, of course.
When Rick saved his contact as “Morty, Evil” Morty had to look away. It was a small, ridiculous detail, but it stayed burned into his mind for days.
At first, everything was strictly professional. Missions. Information. Nothing more.
But somewhere around the fifth or sixth adventure, Rick smiled after finishing the job. A tired smile, covered in dust and blood, but a smile nonetheless. He said something sarcastic. Morty shot back with an insult. And for the first time in a long time, something felt like it clicked into place.
It started small. A dry “haha” in lowercase. A period at the end of a message. Then, a goodbye instead of cutting the connection cold.
“Got something to work on. I’ll text you later.”
Rick replied with a middle finger emoji. Slowly, the conversations stopped being pure transactions.
Morty hated how much he looked forward to those messages. How he’d fix his hair before opening a portal. How alive he felt every time Rick put a hand on his shoulder or laughed at one of his comments.
Because yes, he was using himself.
And the worst part was that he knew it perfectly.
He wanted to impress him. He wanted to be useful. He wanted Rick to see him as an equal, not just “a Morty.” On his best days, he almost managed to convince himself that he was succeeding.
On the worst days, he’d lie staring at the ceiling of his empty mansion—perfect, enormous, full of servant robots—and laugh bitterly at himself.
How pathetic you are. You’re still just a Morty. You still need someone to validate you.
He knew this was temporary. He knew Rick could betray him at any moment. He knew he could betray Rick at any moment. He knew the whole thing was a dangerous illusion he was feeding himself.
But even so… he would turn off the lights, lie down in a bed that felt too big, and allow himself to close his eyes.
Just a little longer.