"His life would be recorded in words, His purpose in deeds, and His love in all Mortys' hearts."
- Mouse 1:1
Mouse put his pen down and rolled his shoulder to work out the stiff joint. He'd been seated, writing diligently at his desk, for the entire day, and now his body was hounding him for a break. The candle that had melted past the -6 mark was indication enough that he was overdue for one anyway.
He pushed himself away from the simple wooden table and leaned back in his chair to stretch his arms overhead. The gears of his left arm whirred and clicked as he flexed pneumatic muscles and mechanical tendons.
It was the third model Rick had built for him, each iteration designed to fit his growing size. He hadn't had to get a new one for the past two years, however, and the hardware was now as much a part of himself as his original arm—even the shiny gold color. Buffed to brilliance, the phosphor bronze was the perfect combination of lightweight and strong while also rust- and water-resistant. Initially, the material had only been chosen out of convenience, the prototype's shell having been salvaged from ORA, but they both agreed they liked how it gleamed in the sunlight.
So the gold had stayed.
There was a knock at the room's single entrance. "Hey, buddy. How's it going? Your sermon coming along all right?" Rick was leaning against the doorjamb with an impish smile on his face.
Mouse already knew what he was there for without his having to say anything. It was a time-honored tradition between them—their favorite way to wrap up the day. And today, Mouse had something special to show Rick too. He smiled at his lover.
Even after moving halfway across the multiverse spectrum to this quiet corner of the Glaycias Galaxy, Rick hadn't lost his preference for practical attire, and with winter in full swing, his insulated coveralls were hard on the eyes but good at their job. His newest ORA was also a vast improvement over the previous one, and now there was no difference between the synthoptic and his real eye. To Mouse, though, it didn't matter because they both shone warmly at him.
It was only when Mouse noticed the bundle of wool blankets and scarves in Rick's arms that he realized how cold he'd gotten in the room. The fire in the hearth behind him had died down to a few smoldering cinders, and even with a thick robe swathed around him, he felt the chill prickle against his shorn temples and nip at his nose.
"Same old, shame old. I'm still having trouble getting the new parochial inductees to take the teachings of Sacrimortys in moderation," he answered, getting up from his seat. He shuffled over, arms scooping up the hem of his robe to wrap it more tightly around himself. Rick had already unraveled a blanket by the time he reached him, and Mouse leaned in for a quick kiss as Rick draped it over his shoulders.
"Ah, let me guess. Sacrimortys 4:23: 'A Morty should have love for himself and all other Mortys.'" The Book of Morty quote came easily from Rick's lips—after all, he'd helped Mouse with the wording.
"Exactly. They seem to think it gives them free license to neglect their Ricks in the meantime."
Rick tsked at that and quietly guided Mouse out of his study and through the rest of the house. The cabin was small but cozy, with just enough for the two of them. Drapes of heavy fabrics hung over the log walls to keep out the drafts, and natural light poured in through the windows which were beginning to pile high with snow.
Frequent missionary trips to spread the word of Mortyism kept them out of the house often enough that a quiet week at home came as a rare respite.
"Maybe you need to hold another retreat sometime. After all, not everyone learns through readings alone. They might benefit from a more hands-on approach," Rick purred, pulling the front door open for him. "We could give them a live demonstration. I have a few favorite sermons that could give those students a workout." Even through the thick layers of cloth, Mouse could feel Rick groping at his backside like a cheeky horndog. Rick shot his hands up in surrender. "'Cheeky horndog'? Don't you mean 'devoted partner'? 'Passionate lover'?"
Mouse chuckled and reeled Rick outside by his scarf, kicking the door shut behind them. Beneath the portico of fronds heaped with sweet-smelling snow, he touched their noses together, a small victory fluttering through him at the reminder that they were now the same height. "Who ever said they had to be mutually exclusive?" he teased as he pecked Rick on the lips. Then he took Rick's gloved hand in his metal one and walked with him around the southeast corner of the house.
Their boots crunched through the pink layer of ice that had crystallized overnight as they made their way to their favorite hillcrest. It always gave them the most stunning views of the Neapolitan Valley, and this evening was no exception.
The setting sun glinted off the strips of pink and brown—strawberry and chocolate, as far as Mouse's taste buds were concerned—that painted the mountainsides. A gust of frigid wind brought with it the scent of pecan from the surrounding snow-covered boughs, and the first of the night's ice cream flurries was beginning to circle down from the sky.
Mouse closed his eyes, lifted his face, and stuck out his tongue. Strawberry. He felt a squeeze at his hand, and when he looked over, Rick was regarding him with curiosity.
"So? What's this thing you wanted to show me?"
Mouse blinked before finally remembering. He blew an exasperated huff. "I swear, mind reading just takes all the fun out of things sometimes," he pouted. "Can't I have a big reveal for once?" Slipping off his one glove, he dipped his hand—oh, that was cold!—down the front of his robe.
It had stayed close to his heart for the past few days, rolling between the cleft of his pecs like a hefty, glass marble. He held it out to Rick, who peered closely at the bead of vivid magenta dangling on its golden chain.
"What is it?" he asked. But when he tried to reach for it, Mouse gently closed his fingers around it.
"It's a part of me. I mean—well, I made it."
Rick arched his brow. "Mouse." He smirked. "Are you saying you laid an egg?"
"Of course not!" Mouse blushed and shoved him playfully with his elbow. "God, you're such a kid." The snowfall was beginning to thicken, and he held his prized creation against his chest to keep it warm.
The last few years had been dedicated to spreading The One's word and helping ensure that the balance between Ricks and Mortys remained intact throughout the multiverse. What had transpired in the Citadel was only a small feat. Elsewhere, there were still countless versions of themselves that had fallen off the righteous path and were in need of their guidance.
Mortys were often easier to persuade than Ricks. They were quick to take up the mantle of their savior, even going so far as to mimic The One True Morty's appearance. The spiritual leaders dressed in white robes, shaved their heads, and tattooed their faces with red ink to honor Mouse's miracle on the night of the Great Morty Exodus. Even his prosthetic was worshipped as a means to enlightenment, his followers claiming that they had been saved by his Golden Touch.
Rick and Mouse's mission seemed all the more important once they'd heard that plans for the Neo Citadel were already underway. However, Auctioneer Rick, now simply "Richard"—It's pronounced Ree-shard, mon petit chou—had been proud to share that his new Council included the voices of both Ricks and Mortys, and it was already on its way to serving the populace as a true and just democracy.
Even Chi had found his place among the leadership as Director of Interdimensional Relations. Meanwhile, the former council members filled their own niche, relegated to janitorial duty to instill in them a sense of humility. The Captain of the Guard would not be returning to his post, opting instead to take an early retirement with his trusted second-in-command, a Morty who proved to be one of Mouse's most loyal followers.
When not proselytizing, Mouse passed his time in peace and meditation. He had years of reflection to make up for, and as he approached himself with forgiveness and sensitivity, he looked back on the journey that had brought him here. It had been full of hardship, a long and arduous march, but now he felt gratitude for all that had happened—and all who had led him to his Counterpart.
Mouse and Rick shared all things in their lives—their work, their leisure, their meals—and at the end of each day, they shared a warm bed. The nights were spent sometimes passionately, sometimes quietly, but always blissfully dream-free.
Save for that one night.
It had come to Mouse a few nights prior—a dream bearing a message that made a chill race across the back of his head whenever he recalled it. In the dream, he heard a voice that was both familiar and alien, humble yet regal. It said unto him:
"Place your golden finger upon your tongue, and you will birth your own keeper. He will be there at the beginning to set all events in motion. He will know where the cards fall and will be a guide to you in your darkest hour."
And when Mouse had awoken the next morning, he'd found this tiny pink egg sitting lightly on his tongue. At first it was no bigger than a humming bird's egg, but day by day it grew larger, and its purpose became clearer to Mouse.
"Does this mean we're keeping it?" Rick joked, wrapping an arm around Mouse's shoulder and gazing at the treasure in his hand.
To the outside observer, they likely made an odd pair, but they wouldn't have it any other way. Just Rick and Mouse versus the universe.
"No. He's not staying for long. I'll be sending him back soon. He has an important purpose to fulfill," Mouse said wistfully. He held the egg up to his face to peer at the small fetus that lay curled within, dreaming peacefully. "And he has my story to write."