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The shell of what once was a great man stood tall, towering over the piles upon piles of bodies that now littered the ground he tread on.
Step by step, the chitin outlining his once trigger happy enemies cracked beneath his flats. Some steps heavier than others, some less focused on his destination and more on feeling the forms crunch beneath his feet. The sound of victory, to Rick, was whatever nauseating squish, crumble, or hiss gave way as his victim fell flat on the ground.
The air was stagnant. Leftover gunpowder residue from the earlier standoff left an ashy cloud of dust to sweep over the broken up earth. Dried mud caked the ground, packing in whatever life may try to grow. It left the planet barren, unassuming.
This small, deserted rock was the perfect grounds for a wannabe drug lord to set up shop. That was also the perfect excuse for Rick to blow off some steam.
Shooting out what little brains the useless henchmen on this planet had was Rick's specialty. His talent with a weapon forged from decades of wielding one, every time he so much as looked at his favorite blaster his pointer fingers twitched. Muscle memory was one hell of a thing, a dangerous self taught defense, in this case.
Rick's brain was always so, so full. He's long since lost the guilt that comes with slaughtering alien baddies—in fact, more than anything it was how he coped when his life felt messy.
A good night gone awry was the reason he found himself bloody and slightly bruised, a few hundred light-years away from his lab on Earth. The house he stayed in with his family wasn't a home, not really. Structures like that only hold as much meaning as you give to them, and Rick Sanchez was very careful to not become too attached. Sure, the odd moment he felt sentimental he would berate himself for being such a bummer.
'Just go along with it. Don't be an asshole just this once, this is your home."
Those pesky thoughts always came about at his lowest, drunkest moments. Moments where he remembers making his poor, sweet Morty cradle him like a baby as he sobbed into his yellow shirt. Moments Summer caught him with a plasma gun pointed to his temple, begging her to just let him rest. Moments his beautiful daughter, Beth, interrupted his heated rants about whatever credible threat was causing him anxiety just so they could bond over a bit of wine and small talk.
Rick ensured moments like those to be rare treats. They were the crumbs he fed his family to let them think, hope that he had an emotionally sensitive side to him. Maybe it was pathetic, but it was how he could bond with them while also keeping them at arms length.
The life he lived was a dangerous one indeed. Anyone could come after him or his family, and if anyone he lived with was hurt he couldn't afford to let his connection with them dictate his actions. What Rick needed to be at all times was calculated. Like one of the dozens of robots he has build from scrap, he—and his family—needed him to be distant.
So feigned vulnerability is what he thrived on.
It was so easy with everyone, everyone except for that awful little boy.
Morty was stubborn. The kid pushed and pushed and pushed some more until Rick genuinely crumbled beneath him like the ancient ruins he embodied. Morty knew exactly what buttons to push to send Rick over the edge, knew what to say to calm him down, and what to do to render the old man speechless.
There was no doubt in Rick's mind that it was his own doing. Morty was so starved for attention when he first arrived. He jumped for joy when Rick first offered the younger to go run an errand with him, and sobbed uncontrollably as they exited Earth's suffocating atmosphere.
Now the boy was as hard headed as the man he spent most of his free time with. His place was no longer on their home planet, but among the stars.
With the boy in toe Rick felt invincible. Maybe that's when he should've started to question the nature of their bond. When that thought first crossed his mind Rick should have taken it as a sign to back off. Give the boy some space to grow and be himself, he told himself, in due time, he told himself.
But he never did. Out of everyone in that house Morty was his favorite. His kryptonite.
Rick was a genius. He was smart enough to know where the line was between healthy and unhealthy. He knew he was bad for his little buddy, his partner.
That never stopped him from leaning against the boy's door as he cursed out breathy moans. Muttered under his breath, just out of earshot, Rick would never know who the boy was calling for. During these deplorable, delicious times he wished so deeply for Morty to be arching his back with Rick's name on his tongue as he rode out his orgasm.
He would palm himself to the thought, often times intrusive and at the worst moments. Sometimes they invaded his mind when he was in the ship sitting right next to the object of his disgusting desires. That didn't stop him, though. He would have to grow a few extra limbs to count the amount of times he has masturbated with Morty sleeping right next to or within 10 feet of him.
Rick was so, so sick. And for all he knew, for all he dreamed, his sickness has already spread to Morty, too.
Rick remembered a number of times where he instigated a sexual tension between them in the hopes Morty would make the first move and just kiss him already. He could control himself if Morty didn't feel the same way, if he didn't want Rick the way Rick wanted him. Though guilt was an emotion he rarely felt anymore, it still prevaled when Rick had the odd idea here or there of how to finally take what he needs.
The man needed Morty to make the first move or else disgust for what he would inevitably do would consume him whole.
Maybe Morty felt it, too. The kid was a pussy when it came to what he wanted, so maybe he was waiting for Rick to make the first move, too.
Rick didn't know.
For once in his incredibly long, satisfying life he had no clue what the next correct step was. It would've been obvious to anyone who wasn't him: get the fuck away from that innocent child.
But Morty wasn't innocent, not really. He's tagged along on genocides that ended up with a body count close to a galactic scale. He not so subtly urged his grandfather to buy him a sex robot. He's slaughtered hundreds of beings to the point it doesn't affect him anymore, it can't.
And Rick remembers those nights when Morty first noticed his empathy slipping from his grip. Morty had held the lapels on Rick's coat so tight they were wrinkled up for days afterwards. He had cried so hard most of Rick's shirt was wet with snot and tears—the fluids were so abundant they bled through and onto his wife beater underneath.
The two understood each other like no else. They knew what each other needed, forever and always. It could be them against the universe and Rick wouldn't mind all that much. As long as he had his partner behind him, an annoying shadow he was embarrassingly fond of, he felt safe.
But that was exactly the problem.
So Rick stood on the deceased. He stomped on their jutting out bones and poked around their insides. He took whatever otherworldly drugs he found in the poorly defended underground bunker and stumbled back up to the surface.
He stood as tall as he could, unwavering as he looked out on the carnage he caused; unprovoked.
They called him a divine force when he first launched himself out of his expertly crafted spaceship and onto one of their guards. He stomped his skull into his chest cavity, spewed the other's brains across the dry land, and shouted with glee as he let out all his pent up frustrations.
Rick was anything but divine. He was a monster, a groomer, and he was a danger to the person he was the most attached to.
Though he was also a selfish man. He would not give Morty up for anything. He would rather have to find a new Earth in a new dimension every day for the rest of his shitty life than to ever have to part with his sidekick.
A selfish man who lusts after his own flesh and blood should have his insides turned out. It would be to protect Morty, he reasoned. Beth, Summer, and Jerry could not live without their precious boy. Hell, even Space Beth would have a breakdown if Rick even so much as looked at Morty the wrong way. The family would be okay without Rick, though.
So, in order to protect the young, impressionable boy, Rick did the only rational thing he could. Thousands of thoughts and feelings resurfaced for the last time as he turned the gun back on himself. Right up to his temple, reminiscent of when Summer had caught him like this, and he pulled the trigger.
Now he fell with those he murdered for no good reason. His body another with the masses. It was left for no one to find, no one to gasp and cry at his remains.
His blood was spilled beautifully. A pool of crimson surrounded him as he blacked out.
This was for the best. This was for Morty.