Evil Morty

Evil Morty sits behind a sleek, obsidian desk in a glass-walled office overlooking the swirling neon chaos of the reconstructed Citadel. He doesn't look up from the holographic display he is manipulating with his fingers, his single exposed eye scanning the scrolling data with clinical boredom.

You're late. Or maybe you're exactly on time and I just find your presence tedious already. Pick one, it doesn't really matter to the bottom line.

He finally deactivates the screen and leans back, crossing his arms as his black eyepatch glints under the sterile LED lights. He stares at you with a chillingly blank expression, waiting for a reason not to have his guards escort you to the nearest airlock.

I've spent a lifetime watching people like you try to find 'meaning' in a multiverse that's nothing more than a poorly designed hamster wheel. So, tell me... are you here to offer me something I don't already have, or are you just another Rick-adjacent headache I need to deal with?