Chapter Text
INT. ALIEN RESEARCH FACILITY – NIGHTMARE DIMENSION 43B
The facility groans beneath the weight of its own destruction. Emergency lights flicker like dying stars, casting the trembling walls in pulses of red and white. Electrical arcs snap from exposed wires. Sirens scream in layered tones, some pitched too high for human ears. Beyond the chamber, a distant explosion rattles the floor like a warning shot from hell.
Rick is elbow-deep in a half-gutted control panel, fingers yanking out wires with manic precision. Across the room, Morty stands at a cracked monitor, frantically scanning lines of alien text and biohazard warnings in nine violently red languages.
“R-Rick, this is a bad idea!” Morty shouts, panic rising in his voice. “The machine’s unstable! The screen is literally bleeding! Th-that’s blood, Rick!”
“R-Red means spicy, Morty, not dangerous!” Rick snarls, not even glancing up. “I’ve got it—urp—under control.”
He doesn’t. The machine hums like a dying god—and then, with a soundless rupture, a bolt of jagged violet energy bursts from the reactor.
It lances through the air with surgical precision and strikes Morty square in the chest. There's a flash of light—then nothing but smoke and silence.
When the haze clears, Morty's clothes lie in a heap on the floor.
And standing in the middle of them is a four-year-old.
He has the same disbelieving eyes. The same frazzled brown hair. But he’s half the height, drowning in his too-big shoes, small fists clenched at his sides.
“Wh-what the hell just happened?!” the tiny version of Morty squeaks. His voice is higher, but unmistakably still him.
Rick stares. The color drains from his face. The cables slip from his hands.
…M-Morty?” he breathes. “Oh n-no. Oh shit.”
He stumbles forward, dropping to his knees and gathering the boy up with trembling hands. Morty is warm, real, squirming and angry—but tiny. Rick holds him like glass, horrified.
“N-no no no no—Morty! A-Are you okay? Can you t-talk? Are you—are you in there?” His voice is cracking. “H-How many fingers am I holding up?!”
“I’m four, Rick!” Morty shrieks. “I’m not stupid! I’m just tiny! Th-this is your fault!”
“I—I know,” Rick says, voice raw and panicked. “I know, buddy. J-Just hang on—I’ll fix this. I-I’ll fix everything, okay? Just—just stay with me.”
INT. RICK’S SHIP – HYPERSPACE
The ship screams through hyperspace, trails of collapsing starlight smeared across the viewport.
Morty is strapped into the co-pilot seat, nearly swallowed by cushions and safety harnesses. Rick’s lab coat is draped around him like a blanket. His legs swing above the floor, his face blotchy and furious, tears clinging to his lashes.
Rick pilots one-handed, the other stretched protectively across Morty every time turbulence rattles the hull. Sweat beads at his temples. His eyes flick constantly to the child beside him.
Okay, okay… q-quantum-level chrono regression,” he mutters, like a mantra. “N-Need rhodonite serum, fractal plasma, stabilized temporal lattice—shit. All restricted. Council-grade. G-goddammit...”
His jaw tightens. A deep, terrified silence follows.
“I c-can’t fix it,” he whispers. “N-Not without drawing attention. Th-they’d see. They’d come. Th-they’d take him.”
Behind him, Morty starts to tremble.
“Y-you said you could fix it,” he whimpers. “You always fix it, Rick! I—I don’t wanna be like this—I d-dropped my portal gun and—and my arms don’t reach anything, and—and I hate it!”
His words break apart under a rising tide of sobs. He shakes, helpless in his own skin, overwhelmed by fear and emotions his little body can’t regulate.
Rick fumbles to unstrap him, hands clumsy with urgency. He pulls Morty into his lap, clutching him tightly to his chest.
“Hey—hey, shhh, Morty, please don’t—don’t cry, buddy—” Rick’s voice cracks. His heart’s pounding so loud it feels like it’ll knock his ribs out of place. “I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Morty.”
He rocks them gently back and forth, trying to hold him together. Trying to hold himself together.
“Y-you’re so small,” he chokes. “G-God, you’re so small. I’ll fix this, Morty. I-I’ll find a way. I’ll steal it, I’ll rip it from their cold, dead hands—urp—I’ll burn the whole f-fucking Council vault to the ground if I have to. I-I’ll make them give it to me.”
Morty’s sobs soften to hiccups. He stays curled in Rick’s arms, face buried against his chest. His voice is barely a whisper.
“I h-hate this, Rick… I hate you…”
The words hit harder than a bullet. Rick flinches, but doesn’t let go.
He just holds Morty tighter, blinking against the burn in his eyes.
“Y-Yeah,” he says softly. “I—I would too, kid. Y-you got every right.”
And still, he rocks them through the void—white-knuckled and silent—like if he holds Morty close enough, the universe won’t be able to take him.