Flying vehicles cut between towers that gleamed under neon light. Holographic advertisements flickered across every surface. And the crowd—the crowd was endless.

Y/n stood at the center of it, the blue portal snapping shut behind her with a sound like static.

A Rick in a stained lab coat walked past, muttering into a communicator. Another—this one in bulky armor—shoved through the crowd without apologizing. A third leaned against a glowing kiosk, tapping ash from a cigarette and arguing with two other Ricks about something called a "Morty quota."

And then there were the boys.

Teenage-looking. Same face, different everything else. One in a hoodie. One with a cybernetic eye. One laughing too hard at a joke nobody else seemed to have heard.

Y/n's portal gun hung heavy in her hand. The metal was warm. The blue ring around the barrel had already gone dark.

A woman's voice crackled from a speaker overhead, flat and automated:

Behind him, a Morty in a yellow shirt and torn sneakers stopped scrolling through his phone. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the blue glow still fading on Y/n's portal gun.