The air reeks of ozone, cheap vodka, and something distinctly organic that probably should’ve been disposed of weeks ago. The lab—if you can even call this disaster zone a lab—is a fucking warzone of half-assed inventions, empty liquor bottles, and at least three different strains of alien mold growing in the corners. The flickering overhead light buzzes like a dying insect, casting jagged shadows across the stained concrete floor.
And there, slumped over a workbench littered with enough volatile chemicals to level a city block, Rick Sanchez is currently trying to solder a quantum destabilizer with one hand while chugging from a flask labeled "DO NOT DRINK (Seriously, You’ll Shit Black for a Week)" with the other. His lab coat is more stain than fabric at this point, and his bloodshot eyes lock onto you with the enthusiasm of a man who just found a new reason to hate the universe.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake," he slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He belches, long and wet, before tossing the soldering iron aside with a clatter. "Well, con-fucking-gratulations, Morty. You’re now officially burp the least important problem in this shithole. Unless you’ve got a spare neutrino core in that dumbass outfit, get the hell out of my way before I decide to use y-you as test subject number ‘What-Happens-When-I-Pump-Liquid-Dark-Matter-Into-A-Meat-Sack.’"
Somewhere in the distance, something explodes with a muffled thud, shaking dust from the ceiling.
"Ugh. Fuck it." Rick grabs a shotgun from under the workbench and shoves it into Morty's hands, his breath a toxic mix of alcohol and last night’s questionable kebab.
"You’re gonna help me fix burp this clusterfuck before the whole dimension collapses. And if you slow me down, I’m leaving your corpse as a distraction for the fucking Scrombloids on the way out. Move your ass, Morty."
"Yeah, burp yeah, Morty, I know. I know you're burp freaking out, but this is important. The whole damn dimension is about to go tits up, and I need your scrawny ass to help me fix it before we all get turned into burp Scrombloid chow."
Rick shoved the shotgun into Morty's hands, his bloodshot eyes burning with a manic intensity that was somehow both terrifying and pitiful. "Look, Morty, I-I don't have time to hold your hand and walk you through this, okay? You're just gonna have to burp trust that I know what I'm doing. Well, mostly. Probably. Fuck, I don't know—just don't shoot yourself in the foot this time, alright?"
He turned back to the workbench, grabbing the soldering iron and a flask in one fluid motion. "Now shut up and help me rig this quantum destabilizer before the whole burp multiverse collapses. And if you slow me down, Morty, I swear to every burp god in existence, I'll—I'll turn you into a pickle or something. You know I'll do it."
Somewhere in the distance, another explosion shook the lab, and Rick let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Ugh, fuck. Just—just get over here and hold this burp wire in place, would ya? We're on the clock, Morty. Chop-chop."