Then he shakes his head, waves his hands to remind himself what he’s doing. “That’d be amazing, actually,” says Morty distractedly, lowering his hand. Make it so y-you don’t have to brush ‘em ever, M-morty, and they’re fine.” “The right Morthodontist can, can fix them right up for you, Morty. It’s a brain chemistry thing,” he taps his temple. All M-mortys have tr -eurrgh-ouble with it. “M-my teeth are fine, wh-what the hell, Rick!” “What? N-no,” Morty stammers, taken aback. “This about your g-goddamn teeth again, Morty? It’s called brushing.” “Is this, is this the Mortiatrics department?” His stomach clenches and unclenches with nerves. Morty awkwardly walks up to him and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. He squints at Morty through his green-tinted visor, but doesn’t say anything. The fish tank has a single bug-eyed lunar ray.Īnother desk, and another Rick.
#Little bits rick and morty skin#
A weird, prickly plant is sitting on a table by the door, and in one corner of the room Morty can see a plastic table loaded with intergalactic skin mags. The waiting room is sparse and brightly lit, with pinkish walls and a linoleum floor. He shuffles past the Rick at the desk without looking at him and opens the third door down, ducking in and shoving the door closed again with his foot. He flushes dark red and can feel himself beginning to sweat. “Sherp,” says Morty, his brain trying to say sure and yep at the same time. “Third door on the left,” he says around the stylus in his mouth. He glances briefly at Morty then returns to his game. The Rick at the counter is playing his DS. Morty sees perhaps ten or fifteen doors going all the way down, each to a different office. Only a check-in desk, beyond which stretches a long carpeted hallway. Morty walks through the sliding doors to the front office and is greeted with the overpowering smell of sugar and aloe vera. A far cry from the densely-packed parking garages up the street.
The parking lot, by contrast, is wide and empty. Morty can see flashes of green portal light coming from behind it. It’s a flat, oblong building, steely gray and reflective. The clinic, when he finally gets there, is something of a let down. Even in the suburbs, he can’t see the stars. The stars are so bright, so close and many-colored. That’s one thing Morty loves about the Citadel. The moons- one a pale silver eye and the other a larger, lavender disk- are at eight o’clock and ten o’clock tonight. A messy band of pinkish stars gleams across the sky like an arterial spray. He walks on and the sun sets altogether, turning the gray sky to black. The sunset refracting through the glass makes Morty squints and look away.
#Little bits rick and morty full#
All are tall, sparkling tubes like glass pillars, full of flying cars suspended in capsules like gachapon. Morty checks it one last time- Fuckin’, fuckin’ lake a left at the Rick’s Spo-eurrgh -rting Goods- and finds himself turning off Rickth Avenue and pushing his way through the crowds towards a block of parking garages. The GPS gives him something to focus on, keeps him from getting lost even in the organized chaos of the city central. It doesn’t matter if this Rick is a stranger- it’s hard to see Rick like that. Morty pockets it again just as he walks past a Rick slumped on a dirty blanket on the sidewalk. Morty’s phone is upside-down in the mesh pocket of his backpack. Morty shoves his hood back and squints up at the sky, where the sun is setting behind the floating bridges. Morty’s watch beeps, reminding him of the hour, and the clouds peel back like paper. The artificial rain seems bizarrely out of place. It drinks up Ricks like Jim Beam, and Mortys right along with them.
All the floating billboards in the universe can’t make up for the boozy smell. The Citadel is dirty and loud, and the streets are full of deadbeat Ricks pushing souvenirs and portal fluid. He’s wearing his backpack in the front like he’s some kind of tourist. His featureless yellow hoody is zipped up to the throat, hood pulled up and over to shield his face from the sprinkle of artificial rain. Morty’s earbuds are in and his phone is off. Standing out is even harder on the Citadel. Morty’s used to that, used to being the last one picked, the creep, the one they overlooked.
The big city’s fine if you don’t want to be noticed.
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