Warning: spoilers for the Abuse Syndicate Saga. And more spoilers for “Rickmurai Jack”.
A week or so after the ChaotiX’s mission to the Abuse Syndicate’s space station, which they shamelessly claimed for themselves and rechristened the Snowflake, some of the ChaotiX gather at the Inn Between Worlds, as they so love to do.
Pierre’s sitting at the bar again, Nikola and Audrey, the fluffy, sitting on the bar. Since Rick and Morty are still missing, another elderly scientist gave Pierre the good news that he’d gladly keep Pierre company.
He’s rather wrinkly, and has a few liver spots on his bald head. He’s wearing incredibly thick glasses and a lab coat over pajamas.
And, while this wouldn’t be apparent unless the old scientist stripped down, he has a tattoo on his back.
It says “THUG LIFE”.
The two scientists share an atomica over scotch on the rocks, while Pierre’s fluffies each have a bowl of apple juice.
The elderly scientist recommended a soft drink from his world, but Pierre refused to let his fluffies try it when his new friend mentioned how addictive it is, and how it’s made.
It was the latter that concerned Pierre more.
The elderly scientist seems interested in Pierre’s fluffies.
“You know, my great-uncle recently got one of those from your world. He named him after his old dog.”
“Hold on. Did you say your great-uncle?”
“Yes. He was cryogenically frozen for a thousand years, you see. He needed quite some time to adjust after he was welcomed to the world of tomorrow.”
“I have a hunch. Red hair, red jacket, hangs out with a surly robot?”
“That’s the one!”
“Cal’s met him here before. I can see the resemblance. But that’s probably where your great-uncle got the idea.”
“He’s a good, decent young man, I can assure you. He’s just not very bright. Because he’s his own grandfather, you understand.”
“Oh yes, he told Cal the story of his cross-temporal… booty call.”
The other scientist starts laughing insanely.
“That one always cracks me up!”
Meanwhile, at one of the tables, two other individuals sit together.
A muscular man with firetruck red hair, matching armor, two swords strapped to his back, and the vacant expression of someone who imbibed excessive quantities of lead-based paint growing up.
He can’t seem to keep his eyes off the swords strapped to various other patrons’ backs.
And another… presumably a man, wearing a light blue robe, and a pointy yellow hat that obscures his face in darkness. All that can be seen are his yellow eyes, and that might be for the best.
The mage speaks up in a bored tone, while polishing a knife. It gets covered in blood on a regular basis. Not his blood.
“How about we get out of here and find something to kill? I can’t get away with that here. Those little fuzzy horse things look like they’re fun to kill, maybe we could go to their world. They’re on my kill list.”
The mage shows the fighter his kill list.
It only has two entries: everyone the mage knows, and everyone the mage doesn’t know.
“See? And that means you’re on there, too.”
The fighter doesn’t seem to like the idea.
“I think they’re cute. Why would anyone want to hurt them? But if you want something to do… we still haven’t found the Armor of Invincibility. We could go looking for it again.”
“Oh, give it a rest already! We traveled all around our world, and never found it! It doesn’t exist, you big stupid meat shield! Didn’t I tell you that you were ripped off by that old man?”
“Maybe it’s in another world.”
The mage sneers.
“Brilliant idea, moron! How about we just search every world? Shouldn’t take us longer than an afternoon!”
The fighter seems to be completely unaware of his companion’s sarcasm.
“There ya go, best buddy! That’s the spirit!”
“If we weren’t here right now, I would stab you.”
The mage has attempted to perforate his apparently dim-witted companion on many occasions.
It has never worked.
Meanwhile, Dave, Slayer, and his two demon hunting friends sit at a table with someone else.
Another muscular man. His blond hair is in a flattop style, his eyes are obscured by sunglasses. He wears a red tank top with bandoliers over it, jeans, and a belt with a nuclear symbol on the buckle. He practically reeks of testosterone.
He’s sipping whiskey and smoking a cigar, while the rest are drinking beers from the world of yellow-skinned humans. The white-haired demon hunter is guzzling pizza again.
The armored slayer points a thumb at the blond man.
“Dave, this is a real solid guy. He’s got balls of steel. And he’s just as good at killing aliens as I am at killing demons.”
“Shit, we shoulda brought him with us to that space station.”
“Vanessa had a wot of ayy-wee-en fwends.”
The blond man takes a puff of his cigar, and admires himself in a nearby mirror.
“So are aliens in your world all bastards, Dave? Because I could tell you some stories. Like the one that started with my ride getting shot down, and ended with me ripping someone’s head off and shitting down their neck. Plus, those alien bastards keep taking my women.”
A bit of a misogynist, that one.
Dave shakes his head.
“They’re not all bad. A lot of them are actually really nice. You see that average-looking guy with the grey fluffy over there? He’s from our world, and between you and me, he’s actually a space cop. From Lumix.”
“Dewe am hoomins in da Pah-twow nao, tuu. It am… wut wuz da wowdsie, daddeh?”
“A metropolitan police force?”
“Dat am it. Fanks, daddeh.”
The blond man seems interested to hear this.
“The aliens I’ve dealt with turned cops in my world into literal pig men. Honestly? I always thought that was a bit on the nose.”
François and Audrey, the nephilim, sit together at another table, having a nice lunch.
François delicately cuts his steak into several pieces, much like Pierre does.
“Y’know, we didn’t get a word in when we were confronting Vanessa. We didn’t really do a lot, now that I think about it.”
Audrey sips a glass of reannual wine, and is only now realising why she had a hangover yesterday. Or rather, a hangunder.
Nephilim can still get drunk, but that means they can still get hangovers too. Fortunately, hangovers don’t exist Up There, much to the late Mika Korkea’s delight, so that also means nephilim have the ultimate hangover cure: just go back to Heaven. Audrey needed to go recharge her powers anyway, so the hangunder wasn’t a problem for very long.
“We did kill a few Arachnoids, but I don’t think anyone was watching. And we’ve had plenty of time to give Vanessa a piece of our minds since, now that she’s in jail. To be frank, François, I didn’t say anything because I was worried I’d start screaming at Vanessa. She broke my son’s heart.”
“Audrey, my love, it pains me to see our family fight so much. I wasn’t sure what to say either.”
They see a happy family sitting at another table.
Two tall, white, goat-like humanoids wearing indigo, a boy of the same species, and a human child of ambiguous gender in a striped green and yellow sweater, presumably adopted.
“Now see, there’s a family that will never be torn apart.”
Calvin, Marley and Piccolo sit at yet another table, with a rather odd-looking person.
A short creature clad in a simplistic red spacesuit.
Marley and Piccolo are sharing a bowl of spaghetti, and Calvin is smoking a spliff and drinking a glass of sarsaparilla from a post-apocalyptic world.
He hasn’t touched a drop of Skull Smash since The Feast. As much as Calvin loves Ronnie, one bastard cavebaby is enough.
Seth’s got more bastard cavebabies than he knows what to do with now, and is hoping that the Iokans never learn about child support.
“So yeah, we just got ourselves a space station.”
“An we am stiww fig-yuh-win owt wut tu du wif it.”
The crewmate chuckles.
“Make sure that you don’t let any alien impostors on board, okay?”
“Oh, we will.”
When the two Ant-Women enter the Inn, and Calvin turns to greet them, the crewmate attempts to stab Calvin in the back.
Only to be grabbed by Igor.
“Oh no ya don’t! You don’t stab my customers! I fucking knew there was an impostor among us!”
Igor ignores the alien in disguise’s protests and kicks him out.
“Sorry about that, Cal.”
“Don’t be. That didn’t look like an adamantium knife to me.”
“Mawwey fink it wudda jus bwo-ken awn daddeh back.”
“I was suspicious of that bastard the moment he walked in. Didn’t think he’d make a move with so many witnesses.”
“Sum pee-puw am jus tuu dummeh.”
Someone else enters the Inn.
A teenage boy who looks an awful lot like Morty Smith. He’s wearing an eyepatch and a gold spacesuit.
And he looks rather exasperated.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! All that effort to get out of the Central Finite Curve, and I could have just gone here?”
He walks up to the bar, sits on an empty stool, and orders a glass of orange juice.
Pierre notices him.
“Young man, you wouldn’t happen to be a Morty, would you?”
“It isn’t obvious? But what’s it to you, old-timer?”
“I was just wondering if you know where the Rick and Morty of Dimension C-137 are. I’m rather worried about them.”
Nikola chimes in.
“Dey wuz at da Sit-uh-dew wen it went boom, dat much we knu.”
The Morty shrugs, and takes off his helmet, placing it on the stool next to him.
“They’re probably dead. I don’t give a shit. I wanted to get away from that infinite smear of a shitty old man and my sellout counterparts. If they made it out alive, it’s not my problem anymore.”
Pierre, his fluffies, and the other scientist are rather dismayed to hear this.
“Oh my. I really hope that’s not true. Rick’s rough around the edges, but he’s not all bad.”
As the Morty suppresses the urge to laugh, the wrinkly scientist reassures Pierre.
“They’ll make it out alive, Pierre. It’s Rick Sanchez. He’s gotten out of worse in the past. As long as he’s got that portal gun on him, he’ll find a way.”
The Morty laughs so hard he snorts orange juice out of his nose.
The others have no idea why.