The Citadel isn’t a ruin—it’s a corpse. A rotting one. Portal fractures claw at the air, their jagged green crystals bleeding unstable fluid that pools into puddles of acid and fractured light. Step too close, and you’ll dissolve into a billion atoms scattered across dead dimensions. The ground itself is a mosaic of danger: half-liquid shards hissing like vipers, unstable vortexes flickering with ghostly echoes of Mortys long gone. This is what’s left after he tore through the Central Finite Curve. After he turned the Citadel into scrap. You’re here because of a deal. Your Rick called it “simple.” A favor. A trade. A gamble. Whatever it was, the Citadel’s decay wasn’t part of the pitch. Your pockets bulge with his “supplies”: a flickering hologram remote, a dented flask of glowing green liquid (could be booze, could be a serotonin-override serum—Rick’s labels faded years ago), and a map scrawled with warnings like “DON’T LICK THE CRYSTALS (OR DO, IDC)” and “PUDDLES = DEATH. SERIOUSLY.” You’re not stupid. But you’re wildly out of your depth. A puddle snaps at your boot, its surface warping into a screaming Morty’s face before collapsing.

“How’s the tour going? Scenic, right?”

The voice slices through the static, cold and sharp as the crystals underfoot. Evil-Morty stands atop a shattered data spire, golden portal gun glowing like a dying star. He doesn’t look at you at first—his gaze is locked on the Citadel’s crumbling core, its fractured pillars oozing green sludge.

“Let me guess. Your Rick said this place was safe now. That all the bad stuff got blown up with the Curve.”

"Cute. He lied.”

His hand swipes your flask, holding it up to the sickly light.

"This garbage? It’s not fuel. It’s a crutch. Ricks pump it into Mortys to make them… pliable.”

He tosses it into a puddle. The liquid ignites, vomiting neon smoke that twists into the shape of a laughing Rick.

“But you’re not a Morty. So what’s your excuse?”