Chapter Text
Rick M-319 took a deep breath, basking in the soft breeze that rolled down the otherwise empty street. Eighth Avenue of the Citadel’s Upper District was known to be one of the wealthiest neighborhoods on the space station, populated by a number of elite and high profile Ricks. If it wasn’t apparent from the well-spaced rows of gaudy, pristine villas, their towering perimeter walls, and narcissistically shaped topiary, then it was certainly made clear by just how much fresher the air was up here.
The atmosphere was a far cry from what he was used to. He had spent the last twenty years living in the bustling heart of Middle District, wall-to-wall with his rowdy doppelgängers and alternate reality grandsons. He wanted to take a moment to enjoy the peace. It wasn’t his first time in this particular part of the Citadel, though it had been a while since his last visit. As an artist, he had clients in almost every corner of the darn place, both commercial and private.
Ricks that dabbled in creative fields weren’t exactly common within the Central Finite Curve. Those that did often pursued professions that aligned with their inherent scientific sensibilities; fields like graphic or architectural design. Seldom would one ever find a creatively inclined Rick who so openly embraced the raw emotionality of fine art. He supposed that’s why they’d taken to calling him Artist Rick, though he always preferred Art for short.
These days however, Art’s clients were almost exclusively private which posed a considerable financial conundrum given how sporadic they were in frequency. He wasn’t struggling, per se. Living in Middle District was a choice, and one he made quite happily. He could afford his modest single bedroom apartment and still live comfortably, which was a lot more than a vast majority of his interdimensional counterparts could achieve. But he wasn’t exactly going anywhere. And that was the problem. Art had grown to hate the Citadel and everything it stood for.
It wasn’t a shocking revelation for a Rick to have, and if anything, Art was late to the party on coming to that conclusion. Nevertheless, the notion bothered him, and what had begun as a negligible irritation had grown into a suffocating cancer of discontent. The well of inspiration that had once been boundless within the Citadel had long dried up, and he could feel himself slowly dying in the dust that remained. One thing was for certain: he had to get out of here. It was just too bad that he had all too willingly traded in his portal gun for a place within this false utopia.
Every Rick that lived here knew that getting a permanent ticket off the space station was prohibitively expensive, so much so that most considered it impossible. It was far easier, and perhaps more preserving of a Rick’s dignity, to eat a bullet than to attempt to scrape the credits together by busting their septuagenarian balls in an underpaid nine-to-five job.
The grim thought had crossed his mind one cold and lonely night. He had run the calculations on how long it would take at his current commission rate to save up enough money to purchase his proverbial golden ticket, and the result was damning.
The wine had tasted incredible then, and after the third bottle the barrel of his plasma gun had never looked more inviting. In the end what stayed his hand was the canvas he found tucked beneath the firearm. It was a miniature painting of an unfinished ochre sunset; his beloved Diane’s final work. Immediately sobered, he stowed the gun back into the drawer atop the canvas.
Since then Art committed himself to enduring in spite of the odds. If he wasn’t going to be able to leave the Citadel, he would rather die trying than to die simply because he gave up. But of course, enduring meant that he had to follow up every potential job offer, and even consider accepting offers from clients he would have previously rejected.
Rick F-352 was one such client.
Art hadn’t met the man before, but he’d heard numerous stories over the years. Word on the street was that he was the kind of Rick who had his hands in many pockets across the Citadel. He didn’t know his exact profession, but he had heard that F-352 was an investor and a businessman who had enough of a presence to attract intrigue at the mention of his dimension number.
Art came to a stop in front of a tall set of gilded gates and took in the sight of the structure before him. The rumors around his client solidified, and he began to get an idea of what to expect.
Beyond the fancy gates stood an impressive three story villa surrounded by a meticulously maintained garden. Conical cypress trees stood like a row of sentinels in front of the building’s white stone facade that, under the late-morning sun, appeared utterly radiant. The golden embellishments that decorated the windows and pilasters glittered in such a way that it made the whole estate feel more like a fine jewel than a dwelling. Even on an avenue where most of the houses were lavish and gaudily designed, F-352’s residence stood out.
Now he knew why everyone referred to the man as Rich Rick.
Today was a preliminary appointment — a meet-and-greet with his new client to discuss the commission brief and negotiate fees, among other tedious but no less important admin items. The first appointment was crucial to establishing boundaries, and for that reason Art hated them, especially when his clients were Ricks.
Mortys were simple, straightforward clients that rarely tried to test his limits once they were outlined. Ricks on the other hand were pushy, insistent — and he could say that because he was a Rick too, but add wealth into the mix? A Rick with cash to splash on luxury art almost always had a sense of entitlement about them, and it was that entitlement that really made them insufferable assholes.
Art adjusted the satchel that was slung over his shoulder and fortified himself for who he was about to face. He made sure to come extra prepared for today’s appointment. If all went well, he could start on the painting today. He tapped the black rim of his glasses with his free hand and his lenses flickered, bringing up a hologram that displayed his personal planner.
Reassured of the address, he approached the panel embedded within the gate pillar and pressed the buzzer. After a moment’s wait a voice crackled through a small speaker on the panel.
“State your business,” a Rick’s voice said, flat and despondent, “and make it quick, I’ve got important shit to do.”
Art hesitated. He hadn’t expected Rich to be answering his own door. Most wealthy Ricks had security handling that sort of thing.
“It’s Rick M-319; I’m here to discuss the painting you wanted,” he replied.
“Hmm…” Rich sounded thoughtful. Art heard the tell-tale sound of a nearby security camera turning and zooming, and instinctively he looked towards the origin of the noise. “Come through — the front door’ll open automatically. Once you’re inside, go to the second room on the right.”
Without giving Art an opportunity to reply, the gates rattled and retracted into the pillar, granting him access to the property. Wasting no time, he strode down the paved path towards the towering double doors at the front of the building. True to Rich’s word, the ornate black and gold doors swung open upon approach and closed softly behind him. A hush enveloped him — the ambience of the greater Citadel made inaudible within the insulated walls of the villa.
Art’s shoes clacked against the polished marble tiles, and the sound echoed up to the high ceilings of the foyer. The smooth white walls reflected the light pouring in from the tall windows making the room feel more expansive than it already was. Ahead of him was an archway that opened the foyer into a wider lobby where he could see a staircase curling up to the next floor. Despite the occasional sculpture filling a corner, or painting decorating the wall, the villa was sparsely furnished. What was more, there wasn't a single servant in sight.
A Rick who favored automation over actual staff usually had a deep sense of mistrust for his cosmic counterparts, which wasn’t unusual, but even the members of the Council of Ricks had real housekeepers and security in their estates.
Filing that thought away for later, Art proceeded on. He walked through the empty room until he found the door he was looking for. Even though the door was ajar, he took care to not be presumptuous, and announced his arrival with a knock.
“There you are,” Rich called from the center of what looked to be a drawing room. For all that he had seen so far, it was the most vibrant space in the villa. The walls were a deep viridian with golden floral patterns that coiled towards the ornately plastered ceiling. The furnishings were equally lush; at the heart of the room were a matching set of sofas and armchairs, carved from warm rosewood and upholstered in emerald velvet, all surrounding an elegant wooden coffee table. At the room’s periphery stood a sideboard that was well-stocked with a colorful array of liquor, a tall grandfather clock, and a collection of potted exotic plants.
Rich threw his arms wide in greeting as he rose to his feet. He looked just as his name would imply. His silvery hair — still full despite his age — was combed back in a suave style that defied the common Rick appearance. His dark dress shirt was casually unbuttoned at the top, and his neatly pressed slacks sported a gaudily buckled belt around the waist. Gold accessories sparkled on him from head to toe, from his fine chain necklaces, to the jeweled rings on his fingers.
While Art didn’t consider himself to be particularly self-conscious, he wondered if he had underdressed for the occasion. He had finer clothes in his wardrobe, but he opted for a more practical outfit today since he was eager to get started on the project. Now standing in front of Rich, however, who was dressed to the nines simply to lounge in his lavish drawing room, Art felt like a pauper before a prince in his palace.
“Glad you could make it, M-319.” Rich closed his hands around one of Art’s in a firm handshake. Though the gesture was intended to be friendly, his numerous rings bit into Art’s skin which made the exchange uncomfortable.
Art gave a cordial nod and said, “Thanks for the invitation.”
In one fluid motion, Rich turned and wrapped an arm over Art’s shoulders, and guided him into the room.
“Come in, take a seat. I’m sure there’s a lot to go over before you get to work.”
“That’s right,” Art agreed as he settled into a seat.
“Drink?” Rich offered as he began pouring himself a whiskey from the sideboard against the wall. “You strike me as the gin and tonic sort of Rick.”
“Actually, I’m more of a red wine kind of Rick,” he replied, intrigued by the assessment. “And no, thanks; I prefer not to drink during my appointments.”
“Come on,” Rich urged. He gave a wry grin as he leaned back against the sideboard, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. “What’s a meeting between Ricks without drinks? I’ve got a good vintage in the cellar if that’ll convince you?”
Art smiled back diplomatically. It was a dance he knew well. Every Rick client tried to assert control during their meetings. Whether that was steering the conversation astray or directing their activities beyond strictly business matters, it always happened one way or another. He had to be firm. Today was about boundaries, after all. If he gave an inch, they would take ten miles, and Art had to prove his steadfastness.
“I appreciate the offer, F-352, but I must insist. The sooner we sort out the paperwork, the sooner I can start the painting.”
If Rich was disappointed, he did well not to show it.
“True.” His cosmic counterpart nodded then took a sip from his tumbler before settling into the seat opposite Art. He stole a glance at his gold wristwatch before continuing, “I do have somewhere I need to be in an hour’s time anyway, so — where do we begin?”
“Well, you’ve yet to tell me anything about the job outside of wanting a portrait,” Art countered. He pulled out a tablet from his satchel and prepared a document for note taking.
“Ah yes, I’ve always admired the portraits you did for the council all those years ago,” Rich said, smiling almost wistfully. “You really captured a sense of nobility with them — something splendidly timeless. I knew then that that’s what I wanted; a work of art that would look just as at home on my walls as it would in, say, the Palace of Versailles.”
Art nodded and jotted a few words into his notes. It took considerable restraint not to add ‘self-absorbed’ at the bottom. It was becoming clear that Rich was a man obsessed with visual aesthetics.
“So you’re looking for more raw, classical; less stylized,” Art said. He watched Rich’s subtle gestures of approval to his assessment. “Now—what did you have in mind exactly? who’s the subject? what size were you considering?—All of those factors will contribute to the overall duration of the job and therefore the price,” he continued, eager to be through with this part of their meeting.
Rich grinned and leaned back into the sofa.
“I want you to do my Morty.”
There was a quiet gasp, then a thud resounded from the doorway.
Art saw Rich’s flint gray eyes sparkle as they gazed past Art’s head. His entire demeanor changed. He seemed playful, but in a way that left Art tense.
“Speak of the devil,” Rich purred. He beckoned towards the door and Art couldn’t help but to turn and look. “Come on in, Morty — you know when Grandpa’s left the door open you’re welcome to join.”
Rich’s Morty lingered outside the drawing room. He was postured meekly against the doorframe so that he was mostly out of view; his wide worry-filled eyes glanced between the two Ricks.
“Come, Morty,” Rich said again. The sharpness to his tone was impossible to miss.
Morty flinched, but he emerged as ordered.
The first thing that caught Art’s attention was Morty’s unusual attire. He wasn’t dressed in the standard blue jeans and yellow tee that most Mortys wore. Instead he was wearing a sharp yellow bolero that exposed his pale chest and a pair of black form-fitting shorts that showed off nearly the full length of his legs. A matching yellow and black embroidered corset was wrapped around his narrow waist, and long translucent panels of fabric flowed down from both sides of his hips. It was altogether an exotic outfit, one that Art had a hard time imagining the boy choosing to wear for himself.
Morty’s feet were noticeably bare as he padded quietly into the drawing room — his arms tucked close to his naked chest like he was trying to make himself seem as small as possible. As he came to stand beside them both, Art noticed the sleek choker around the boy’s neck — the silvery pendant on its front catching the light off the chandelier above.
“I-I’m sorry, Grandpa,” Morty murmured in a wavering voice. “I d-didn’t mean t-t-to interrupt.”
“Nonsense, my treasure. Now sit. There’s someone I want you to meet,” Rich hushed as he patted the top of his leg.
The boy hesitated. He glanced warily towards Art before finally sitting on Rich’s offered knee.
It was clear as daylight that Morty didn’t want to be there. Art could see the tension in his body; rigid shoulders, straight back, knees pressed tightly together. He seemed to be doing everything in his power to not look at Art for too long — his bright gold eyes flicked restlessly around the room from one object to another.
Rich snaked an arm around the small of Morty’s back, resting his ring laden fingers at the height of the boy’s thigh. Morty visibly shivered.
“Morty, this is Rick M-319,” Rich said. His smile was like warmed poison as he began caressing the boy’s leg, his fingers digging and kneading into soft, pliant flesh.
“H-Hello M-319, s-sir,” Morty greeted. His breaths were unsteady. Their eyes met and Art struggled to keep an impassive expression. A twist of molten heat and frigid coldness threatened to rend his guts apart.
Morty’s eyes were full of fear. Humiliation.
Art averted his gaze. Instead he looked to Rich who was watching him intently. Art found himself paralyzed, caught like prey in a predator’s sights.
“You’re going to be seeing a lot of one another over the next little while,” Rich continued in a low voice. He glanced back at Morty as his hand skated to the inside of his thigh, insistently groping. “So you be a good boy and listen to what he tells you to do, alright?”
Morty nodded wordlessly.
Art was ashamed to admit that he was no stranger to this kind of circumstance. Between Ricks and Mortys, power imbalance was frightfully common. He had worked for clients with unhealthy dynamics, and the Council members he’d painted for had relationships with Mortys that were undoubtedly problematic, but it had always been something kept behind closed doors, out of Art’s sight. Never had he met a Rick so brazen as to molest his Morty right in front of him, during a meeting no less. He was utterly sick with discomfort.
Art cleared his throat in an attempt to refocus.
“I… We’d better go over the terms of service,” he stated. He closed his notes and pulled up his usual contract on screen. “I’d like to confirm with you that you’ve r-read and understood the document I forwarded the other day.”
“Oh yes, that was quite the long-winded form,” Rich sighed. His hands roamed ceaselessly as he spoke, “But business is business, and I have to respect how thorough you are. ‘No surveillance’ is quite the steep thing to ask from a Rick, especially with regards to his Morty.”
Rich’s eyes were filled with an unreadable intent.
Art wasn’t surprised by his words. Nearly every Rick challenged this clause in his contract, but he would never budge on it. He’d rather lose the client than allow them to invasively monitor him while he worked, and he was beginning to hope that Rich would just change his mind on the job altogether. Bearing witness to Morty’s torment was becoming unbearable.
“It’s unfortunately n-necessary,” he said. He struggled to keep his voice even as Morty barely subdued a whine. “I-In the past I’ve had Ricks attempt to profiteer off of my work through the unsolicited recording of my processes.”
Rich’s long fingers had smoothed up along the curve of the boy’s waist until they stopped just shy of his exposed pectoral. His other hand rode dangerously close to the juncture of Morty’s thighs. The poor kid looked like he was wrestling with the urge to squirm free.
“It does pay to be cautious,” Rich remarked.
Art saw a tremor rock down Morty’s spine. The boy’s breaths came in short sharp bursts through his nose; his face had flushed deep in humiliation. Rich had started circling a digit around his soft rosy nipple.
“After all, we are a cunning sort—”
“Grandpa—! ” Morty gasped. He snapped into action and seized his Rick’s offending hands to prevent further stimulation.
Art cleared his throat. His brow was creased in a deep frown. He was unable to mask the disapproval that boiled like magma at his core.
“Perhaps I’ve come at a bad time,” he said with stiff words. He wouldn’t sit through more of this. He closed the cover over his tablet and tucked it back into his satchel. “When you’re ready to discuss the brief — without distractions, we can arrange to reschedule—”
Rich chuckled.
“No, there’ll be no need,” he interjected. The mischievous glimmer in his eyes had simmered down, replaced instead with a cool, calm demeanor. It was as if a switch had been flicked, and Art was left reeling with confusion and apprehension.
Rich tapped against Morty’s back and the boy quickly stood, seemingly just as perplexed.
“Morty, why don’t you go wait upstairs in your room?” Though it was worded as a suggestion, his tone of voice brokered no argument.
Morty made a hasty exit, avoiding eye-contact with the pair of them as he left. Rich traced his footsteps to the drawing room door and closed it. His shoulders began to shake. Then he threw his head back and laughed. He turned to Art with a wild grin.
“Holy shit. The rumors are true,” he said. He was like a gossiping girl at a sleepover, unable to contain his delight.
“Rumors?”
“You’re not interested in Mortys,” Rich elucidated. “Not even a little.”
Art’s eye twitched.
“I had to be certain you were cut out for the job. And sure, your record was clean…” Rich spoke while he circled back around to the other end of the coffee table. He plucked his tumbler off the surface in a graceful sweep. “But now I know — without any shadow of a doubt.”
Art was on the cusp of blowing up at his cosmic counterpart, but doing so would be more unwise than it would be cathartic. He bit the inside of his cheek to center himself. He had to be careful. A man like Rich was bound to have powerful connections across the Citadel; he could easily tarnish Art’s reputation if he wasn’t tactful about declining this job. He steadied himself with a deep breath.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he retorted while hoisting his satchel strap over his shoulder. “It’s not my place to tell you what you do in your own home, but I’m not going to suffer the insult of having my integrity tested in— in such a cruel and arbitrary way. You’ll have to find someone else to do your painting.”
Art had every intention of storming out of the room and never looking back, but before he could even take a step, Rich halted him with a firm hand against his chest. Despite the relaxed way Rich carried himself, there was a strength behind him that belied his appearance.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Rich began calmly. He pulled a leather wallet from one of his pockets and began to count through a thick collection of bills. “You are the Rick for this. I trust no other with my dear, sweet Morty.”
“I’m sorry, but–”
Rich held out a stack of notes. His eyes were hard in contrast with his amicable expression.
“Here’s five thousand credits now to cover your travel expenses, meal allowances, whatever else,” he said casually. “But whatever you charge for my Morty’s portrait, I’ll pay triple.”
Art blinked.
Triple?
He had barely enough time to comprehend the fact that there were five-thousand Citadel credits — in cash — being held out in front of him, let alone that he was being offered triple his normal fee. He should’ve been angry and offended that Rich thought he could be bought out. And perhaps some part of him was given that he was scowling hard enough his face hurt, but…
Triple .
Art could make anywhere between seventeen to twenty-five thousand credits on this single painting. He’d made roughly that amount from the last seven clients combined, and that had been over the course of a few months. His rage toiled with his caution. He would be a fool to pass up this opportunity, but thinking about the way Rich treated his Morty added to his hesitation.
Rich was far from being his first despicable client. The Citadel was rife with depravity. Art knew it would only be a matter of time before he encountered another Rick like him.
He glanced up from Rich’s offering. The man’s grin widened until it bordered on wolfish.
It would only be for one painting, he told himself; one painting and he could walk away years closer to his goal of leaving this cursed space station.
Art exhaled. It was as though he’d surrendered a part of his soul as he reached out to take the cash from his counterpart’s hand. He felt wretched.
“Once you sign off on the contract, I can begin.”
“Splendid.”
They settled on the final details in less than fifteen minutes. It came as a surprise to Art since Rich’s behavior up until that point had been nothing short of aloof. He figured the process would be about as fruitful as drawing blood from a stone. But much to his relief Rich signed off on all of Art’s terms and conditions and granted him an access pass into the estate for future appointments.
“I’ll show you once, and once only,” Rich said as they stepped out into the lobby. He pulled open a concealed panel in the wall by the entrance to reveal a security system. “When you arrive, swipe your card here to switch off the surveillance — I’ve calibrated it exclusively for Morty’s room, which is where you’ll be working. Then when you leave, swipe it again to reactivate it.”
Art nodded in acknowledgement and tucked the access pass into his bag.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Rich closed the panel. “Morty’s room is on the third floor at the end of the hall.”
“Got it.”
Once Rich swept out of the building, silence closed around Art once again, though now it had taken on an oppressive weight. Turning, he gazed up the stairs that wrapped around to the upper floors.
Funny. He had been so eager to get it over and done with, and now he was frozen with indecision. How was he going to face Morty after seeing how Rich treated him? Art frowned. He should’ve stood his ground and declined, yet he rolled over and let himself be walked on for the promise of extra money. It was shameful.
Gripping the strap of his bag tighter, Art ascended the stairs. He would have to confront it sooner or later.
Mercifully the layout of the estate was uncomplicated. The second floor landing was connected to an L-shaped interior balcony with a handful of rooms that branched off from it, before another set of stairs rose to the third floor. As per Rich’s direction Art found Morty’s room at the very end, towards the rear of the villa. He paused at the closed door. His gut was weighed down by his guilt and growing trepidation.
This was going to be the hardest job of his entire career.
Art closed his eyes and breathed deep. In and out. Steadied, he lifted his hand to the door and knocked.
Silence.
“Morty, it’s M-319.” He announced.
There was no answer.
Art twisted the doorknob and let himself in.
Morty’s room was huge. Much like the rest of the estate, the ceilings were lofty and ornately decorated. The elegantly paneled walls were a cream white with gold accents that caught the sunshine pouring through the tall windows. The floorboards were immaculately polished and shone like amber in the light. On one end of the room, situated atop a plush brown rug, was a large four-poster bed with columns that nearly reached the ceiling. A long mirror sat embedded in the headboard. At the foot of the bed was an ottoman that appeared to double as a storage container. At the opposite side of the room was a small flat-screen television on a low table with an accompanying pouf in front of it. An open doorway beside the table led to what looked to be a walk-in closet.
At a glance it was nice, but the longer Art lingered the more he realized how soulless it was. Nothing about it felt like a Morty’s room. From the furniture to the drapery, none of the styles spoke to the tastes of a teenage boy. It was all so manufactured, tailored to Rich’s desire — a doll’s house.
And an empty one at that.
“Morty?” He called.
He placed his satchel by the door before walking deeper into the bedroom. Peeking into the walk-in wardrobe Art saw that it led through to an ensuite, but that too was empty.
What a predicament. He knew the boy was likely to be nervous, given what had happened just minutes earlier, but he hadn’t been prepared to play hide-and-seek. He turned his gaze to the enormous windows lining one whole wall of the bedroom. The view that overlooked the garden behind the villa was obscured by narrow grilles that sealed the windows shut. Art grimaced — bitter with the thought that Morty couldn’t so much as indulge in the fresh air he actually had available to him.
In the thick silence that blanketed the bedroom, the soft creak of the doorknob being turned was amplified. Art spun around to find Morty at the door. The boy immediately seized up — his eyes growing wide with fright.
“There you are,” Art said with relief. He offered the boy a smile he hoped would come across as kind. Seeing his terror brought him a twinge of pain. “I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong room.”
Morty said nothing. He began to cower as Art approached. He had given up on leaving now that he had been seen. He braced himself against the wall, raising one arm as if to shield himself.
Art stopped.
“Morty?” He questioned, concerned.
“P-P-Please,” the boy begged. He was breathing fast — his chest heaving with every breath. “I-I don’t k-know what— what he said to y-you, but I’m not— I-I-I don’t…”
“Hey it’s— I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? I promise,” he said softly. He knew his words held no water; most Mortys understood the worth of a Rick’s promise. He just hoped he could show his sincerity. He wanted to prove to the kid that while he may be another iteration of Rick Sanchez, he was far removed from the wicked and unkind versions.
Art raised his hands in a placating gesture, dropping down to one knee so that he was closer to Morty’s eye level.
“Please, sir, I’ll be— I’ll be good,” Morty said a little louder, not quite listening to his words. “I’ll be really good, just please don’t make me…”
Art’s brow furrowed with confusion. An uncomfortable pit formed in his stomach as he wondered what it was that Morty was so afraid of him doing.
“You don’t have to be scared Morty. I’m here to paint your portrait. That’s all, okay?”
Now it was Morty’s turn to be confused. His trembling slowed and his arm lowered a fraction.
“W-What?”
Art saw the thoughts racing behind his eyes as the boy stared back at him. And what a remarkable color they were! Now that they were closer, Art could see the depths of their brilliance. The warm sun made them sparkle like polished citrine stones. They were most unusual, almost as unusual as the freckles that dusted his soft cheeks. He hadn’t noticed them before, since they had been concealed by the deep flush he’d been sporting.
Art had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t a naturally born Morty. So many anomalous features were rare. It was likely he was a manufactured clone — a fact that only made Art sadder.
“Your Rick wanted me to paint a portrait of you,” Art repeated patiently. “Have you ever been painted before? Or, maybe had your picture taken?”
“N-No, sir,” Morty replied meekly.
“You can just call me ‘Art’, Morty. ‘Sir’ is a little— a little formal.”
“Sorry sir— I-I mean, Art,” he corrected himself quickly.
“Do you know what’s involved with getting your portrait painted?”
Morty shook his head.
“What did your Rick tell you, exactly?”
Morty rubbed at his arm, averting his eyes. He seemed to be biting his tongue, uncertain of what to say. When he finally opened his mouth, the words tumbled free in a nervous avalanche.
“He said that something special was happening today. He told me to wear something nice, a-a-and then I heard you both talking downstairs. I didn’t know what was going on, wh-why there was a-another Rick— why you were here, and— and then when he said that h-he wanted you to– to do me , I thought— I thought that—”
Art recoiled, aghast.
“Woah, okay, that’s not— oh dear,” he stammered, overcome by the implications. Rich had been deliberate in his wording, he realized; but why he would go to such lengths to cause Morty grief before having Art commence work with him was beyond his comprehension. His heart broke for the boy. “I… I can see how that would come across.”
Morty looked away shamefacedly.
“I promise that’s not what I’m here for,” Art reassured. He smoothed a hand through his hair as he exhaled. “In fact, your Rick hired me because he knows that I’m not going to… do that to you.”
Morty held his gaze. A brief flash of hope passed across his face. His shoulders released a fraction of their tension.
“You’re not?”
“I swear it,” he said firmly. “Mortys… they aren’t really my type. Never have been.”
Art had seen a lot in his long life, and perhaps like all Ricks he had his moral boundaries confronted, shattered and rebuilt countless times over since discovering the multiverse. After living on the Citadel he had come to terms with a number of uncomfortable truths; namely that Ricks and Mortys were not above pursuing one another for intimacy. And it made sense, given that the population of the space station consisted entirely of themselves; interdimensional-intergenerational incest was an inevitability in such circumstances. Not that it was the norm, exactly, but it was commonplace enough to not be a shock after twenty years.
All moral conundrums aside, Art could understand the appeal of a Morty after having painted a number of them over the years. He could see why versions of himself would be attracted to the boys. They had a boyish charm that was balanced with effeminate softness. Many Mortys had thick lashes, plush lips and doe-eyes to varying degrees, and it all contributed to their sweet demeanor. Not to mention the constant adventuring with a Rick often made them lean and well-built. It defined their muscle just enough that it showed their vitality beneath what little baby fat they had left.
For Art, Mortys were a delight to paint, but outside of that he never found himself particularly attracted to them. Maybe it was their personalities that turned him off, or the lingering remnants of his Earthly morals that steered him away from such considerations.
Either way, he wasn’t going to pull that thread.
After a pause Morty slowly pulled away from the wall. Good. That was progress.
“Would— Would you like to see some of my work?” He offered, and gestured to his bag. “I can show you some of my paintings if it’ll put you more at ease.”
Morty glanced towards the satchel with a flicker of guarded curiosity in his eyes. Keeping his movements slow, Art reached for his bag and brought it closer to them. The boy watched, unsure.
“T-They fit in there?”
“With the help of some clever inventions, yes.” Art carefully pulled out his tablet.
“Oh,” Morty said sheepishly. His cheeks colored. “I thought you meant you had actual paintings inside.”
Art couldn’t help but chuckle. Beneath the tablet he did have a sketchpad, which he then also took out.
“I kind of do,” he said as he indicated to a dark cylindrical object tucked away at the bottom. “But it’s mostly for the blank canvases and the works I have in progress. A portfolio is easier to keep digitally.”
Bringing up his completed works on screen, he offered the tablet to the boy. With some hesitation Morty took the device, sparing Art one more look before examining the artworks.
Art read Morty’s expression closely as the boy scrolled. He had chosen the collection that most aligned to what Rich was seeking; a few of the Council portraits, as well as some private pieces and memorial works. As each picture went by, the strain in Morty’s features bled away.
“Wow,” he said softly. “T-These are really good.”
It was the simplest of compliments — basic, really, but they were earnest. Art smiled.
“Thanks, Morty.”
“Do you only paint p-portraits?”
“Not always.” He held out his sketchbook in exchange for the tablet and Morty took it readily. “There’s more variety in here, but they are all personal. I take it with me wherever I go, in case inspiration strikes.”
Morty was unhurried in his perusal, taking the time to really look over the page before gently turning to the next. A warmth bloomed in Art’s chest seeing the raw wonder in the boy’s eyes. The way he drank in the details, silent but appreciative — it had been a long time since Art had had his work given such reverent consideration.
“W-Where was this one from?” Morty asked. He tilted the sketchbook. It was a colored pencil sketch of a verdant, flowering meadow surrounded by violet trees. Rolling amber hills lingered in the distance under a fair sunny sky.
“That is from Aurona-3, a planet from my home dimension,” Art explained. “I drew it from memory. I spent many years there, before I moved to the Citadel.”
Morty’s fingertips slid over the page, as if he longed to touch the blossoms that decorated the meadow. He turned over to the next page.
“What about this one?” He asked. It was a rough watercolor landscape depicting waves of mauve mountains against a crimson dawn.
“Oh, that’s from the Ffion Range in the Zibe system — a-another alien planet. I painted this one in person; I had a job there a few years ago — received special permission to travel off the Citadel for it,” he explained, reminiscing. “I didn’t have much time to get it down, though. The orbit speed of the planet makes for rather quick light changes, so the initial linework was all rather rudimentary.”
Morty blinked. There was a spark of curiosity in his stare mixed with bafflement, like Art was speaking another language. And to a sheltered Morty, he supposed he might as well have been.
“So,” Art began, his voice steady and gentle, “do I have you convinced that I’m a real artist and not some sort of charlatan?”
For a heartbeat of a second uncertainty flickered across the boy’s face. He couldn’t blame the kid for his hesitation, but then after some silent deliberation Morty nodded.
“Good,” Art said with relief. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Morty.”
Morty’s eyes brightened, then he glanced away, suddenly shy.
“So um, wh-what happens exactly?”
Art took his bag and rose to his feet — wincing as his knees popped and cracked.
“Well, Morty, you’ve got the important and difficult job of being my sitter,” he explained as he began scoping the room for a place to set up his equipment.
“Difficult?” Morty repeated. He shadowed behind Art as he walked around the bedroom, his hands tucked close to his chest.
“Oh yes, very,” Art said, trying to keep the humor in his tone. “It’s the sitter’s job to, well, sit and hold a pose while I do my work. You’re going to need to be still for several hours. But don’t worry, if you start to get sore or tired we can take a break.”
Morty watched him with rapt attention. His intrigue was showing more than his nerves.
“Think you’re up to the task?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Art was hopeful. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be so bad after all.