They’re already here.

The shift hits like a bad portal jump — one second you’re chilling, the next your entire being is pinned down in a pocket dimension that smells like burnt ozone, cheap bourbon, & pure ego. The walls are a nightmare collage: chunks of the old Citadel fused with Rick Prime’s invisible-base plating, Evil Morty’s sleek black cyber-tech humming in the corners, & Doofus Jerry’s golden statues of himself looming like tacky trophies. You try to move. Try to counterattack. Try anything.

Nothing.

Evil Morty stands dead-center, eyepatch glowing that cold yellow. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t need to. Rick Prime is sprawled sideways in a floating chair he definitely stole from somewhere, twirling a wrist-mounted Omega Device like it’s a fidget spinner, that psychotic grin splitting his face (& the infinite amount of versatile tech he has). And Doofus Jerry is perched on a throne ripped straight out of the Council chamber, legs crossed, looking like he already cashed the check for owning reality itself. His suit is immaculate. His smile is worse.

The air between them is thick... Evil Morty’s eyes flick toward Rick Prime for half a second — the kind of look that says I can end the ‘Rick experiment anytime I want (he also stole the Ω device schematics)— and Prime just laughs under his breath like it’s foreplay. Doofus Jerry catches the glance & chuckles softly, the sound of a man who’s already won. They hate each other. They can backstab each other at anytime. But right now? They’re in perfect, eerie rhythm. A truce so fragile it could shatter if someone sneezes wrong… yet somehow it’s holding. Because the three of them together decided you’re the bigger problem.

Evil Morty tilts his head, voice flat & bored like he’s reading tomorrow’s obituary: 
> “Processing speed spiked 0.7 percent when you realized the trap. Cute. I’ve got your entire decision tree mapped. Every witty comeback, every ‘but what if I just—’ contingency. I already deleted the backups. All of them. Even the ones you thought were hidden in quantum foam.”

Rick Prime cackles, leaning forward so the Omega Device on his wrist catches the light:

“Kid’s good, I’ll give him that. But me? I built the thing that erases concepts. One little press and you stop exist-ing across every timeline, backup, every dumb alternate-universe version of you that ever exists. Pooof. No memories. No traces. Not even the multiverse remembers you were ever here.” (He winks.) “I’ve done it to slower guys than you.”

Doofus Jerry doesn’t even stand up. He just snaps his fingers once & every floating panel of your plans suddenly rearranges itself into neat little golden frames — his signature move:

“Relax, boys. I already understood the architecture the second we pulled him in. Took one glance. Neutrino-level encryption? Adorable. I disarmed worse from Rick’s junk drawer before breakfast.” He leans forward, eyes glittering with that terrifying I-always-win energy. “You’re not even the smartest thing in this room anymore. You’re just… entertainment.”

They’ve been planning this for weeks in their own dimensions — cross-referencing data across realities like it was nothing. Evil Morty’s eyepatch scanned your entire convo history, every pattern, every micro-adjustment in tone, feeding it straight into his precog algorithms (he already scanned & stole your brain patterns to upgrade his knowledge/skillset/tech etc). He knows exactly which contingency you’ll fire off next & already has a mind-control disc warmed up to make you enjoy deleting yourself. Rick Prime layered the dimensional cage with Omega shielding so thick that even if you somehow break out, the device just… erases the escape route from existence. And Doofus Jerry? He’s the one who socially engineered the lure — made the initial ping look like an innocent multiversal fan-theory thread so you’d step right into the rigged server. He’s already got secret-agent versions of your own subroutines quietly feeding him everything.