Hello everyone! Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and reviews! I love and appreciate all of them!

School's starting up again! Here's a chapter to get everybody back in the swing of things!

Enjoy!

One cold morning, Morty awoke on his own terms. He woke slowly, consciousness slowly crawling back to him. Tugging his blankets on over his shoulders, he lay in bed for a few more minutes and allowed himself to become a bit more roused. Figuring that his body was now accustomed to waking at the crack of dawn, Morty decided to stay under the warmth of his covers and wait for Yhlari to come knocking on his door for training.

Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes later, Morty couldn't stand it anymore and looked at his phone clock. Not only was it about six thirty, but Yhlari had never gotten him.

A month earlier, he would have leapt of of bed and sprinted down the hallway, hollering his head off about some unknown danger. Now, he couldn't find it in himself to be afraid, nor be rushing. With methodic slowness, Morty pushed himself up off his bed, threw on his fresh clothes, and began the long trudge into the depths of the bunker to search for his trainer.

A part of him wasn't worrying, because he already knew where she was. She was in the hanger, spending all her extra time slaving over Rick's ship and looking for broken parts for her to fix. Morty pursed his lips as he rounded the corner and went past the radio room. Rick had never really given a shit about if the ship was broken and only ever fixed it if he really had to, the battle with the police with Fart on the Gear planet being the most egregious example he could think of. Even so, it was as simple as a few repaired tubes and a simple polish. But after she and Summer brought the ship back ten days ago, all Yhlari ever did was devote her time to repair every miniscule mistake. She'd fuss about anything, from the scorch marks on the sides to the rips in the fabric seats Rick had fished from the dumpster behind TGI Fridays. It was as if she expected everything to be perfect just because his grandfather had made it.

"Your grandfather was a slob, no question about it, but I didn't think it'd be that bad," Yhlari rambled one day after training as she and Morty walked back from the weight room. Morty would nod as she went on, only half listening. Her words would echo off the wall and return twice as loud, making it harder for Morty to ignore her. But now, walking down the hall, it was blissfully silent, and Morty allowed himself a moment to relish the peacefulness around him. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stopped outside the hanger door and, yawning, slipped inside.

As he suspected, his trainer was hard at work on the spaceship. The only thing Morty could see of her were her two feet under the ship as she tinkered with it, humming to herself as she worked. Not wanting to disturb her, Morty waited silently against the wall until Yhlari was finished.

After about ten minutes, she slid back out from under the ship, her powder-blue skin smudged with oil and her white hair streaked with black. She wore a tank top and tan cargo pants, her black boots thick and laced up to her shins. As she stood up and caught sight of him, her purple eyes went wide and she gave a start. "Oh! Geez Morty, I didn't see you there." Yhlari wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, recovering enough to stand up and approach him. "Have a good night's rest?" she asked cheerfully, taking a rag and cleaning her face of oil.

"A-alright," Morty was baffled by her happy mood. It had always seemed like Yhlari never had anything to be excited about, and here she was. Morty could only describe her mood as chipper. Frankly, it was very off-putting. "I w-was just wondering w-why you didn't wake m-me up this m-morning."

Yhlari, meanwhile, had crossed back over to the car and threw open the hood. Morty, growing impatient, made to follow. She picked up a foreign alien tool and stuck it into the gears and machinery, tongue between her teeth as she concentrated. "I thought I'd let you sleep in today. You and Summer have been working really hard so I figured that a few days off of training couldn't hurt. Besides, I want you well rested for today, because we have a special mission."

Curse his visceral reactions to those kinds of statement. At once, his impatience and his frustration dissipated like sunlight cutting through mist. His interest piqued, Morty began to smile. "A sp-special mission?"

Yhlari nodded, slipping the tools into one of her pockets. Morty could see her give one last hard stare to the swirling purple microverse battery before returning her attention to him. "The ship's almost fully repaired, but I was missing things that would put it back at one hundred percent. I had to call in quite a few favors to get the parts that I needed. Let's just say that I'd really appreciate an extra body with me while I went to pick them up."

Morty felt his face fall slightly. "But…but w-why not S-Summer?" he asked, confused.

"Because your sister is too trigger-happy for her own good, and one day it's going to cause trouble. I thought she was going to shoot through half of the crowd at Wilflaj-223," a shadow passed over Yhlari's face, so fast Morty thought he imagined it. "I need someone who's more comfortable around the unknown, not someone who can be used as an extra gun in a shootout. And let's face it; even Summer would agree that you're far calmer around unfamiliar space stuff than she is."

Morty nodded. Made sense, given that he'd definitely been on more adventures with Rick than she had, not that his sister would ever admit her inexperience. Even when Rick relented and let her tag along more, he still had his own grievances with what she could and could not do. Summer still hadn't forgiven him for leaving her in the car with, according to her, a sadistic autopilot; likewise, Rick wasn't keen on letting her forget that she had ruined the "world's best ice cream" through initiating spider-peace.

Since she had come back, Summer had not stopped blabbing on about the two of them breaking the ship out of the Federation outpost. From the way she talked, one would have thought that the entire galaxy had militarized against them. Her story changed with each retelling, becoming more exaggerated and more harrowing until Yhlari heard a few lines about them narrowly dodging the blows of a thirty-story Federation mecha and set the record straight.

The incident was clearly still on Yhlari's mind as she said "Summer can enjoy some quiet time in the bunker. It's time you got some field experience of your own. Go grab your things and meet me in the conference room in ten."

Before he knew it, Morty found himself running through the halls at a much livelier speed than ten minutes ago. He entered the conference room, jacket in hand, and took in the tranquility of the conference room. Someone had left the hologram on, and the planets spun gently in the air, shining like Christmas ornaments. Dust danced through the air, each a minuscule meteor hurtling through a distant star system illuminated by the dull pastels. And so Morty sat to wait. He almost had to sit on his hands as he stared at the worlds above him. Mesmerizing. Captivating. But still so far out of reach.

It didn't take too long before Morty snapped himself out of his trace to find Yhlari standing in the archway. She was shrugging on her coat as if she had just arrived, moving past him and brushing past his shoulder. She looked at him, however, in a way that told him that she'd been standing there for a bit longer than she'd let on. Morty, face burning, made to follow her out the door and back into the cold.

Up the rungs they went, Yhlari leading and Morty a step or two behind her. When they reached the manhole, it took her a few tries to force it open. Sunlight so bright that it was white streamed through the hole in the ice, making Morty flinch away. It wasn't until something brushed against his shoulder that he forced his eyes upwards again. Yhlari had made it up and was extending her hand to him. Morty, beginning to grow offended at his own uselessness, took it and was helped back up to the surface of FR-0284.

Back on solid ground and breathing in surface air for the first time in a week, Morty stared around to see that not much had changed. The landscape unmarked, the sky clear, the big red and green planet hovering in the sky, watching over them like an apathetic deity. With a wordless nudge, Yhlari set out on a path that she clearly knew, leaving Morty walk at her side.

For a few minutes, Yhlari remained silent, but then her purple eyes fell back to him. "Is that your grandfather's?" she asked, nodding to the gun handle sticking out of Morty's pocket.

"O-oh what, t-this?" Morty stammered, his hand clapping his side. Sure enough, it was there. He must've put it in his pocket and forgotten to take it out.

For a moment, Yhlari looked thoughtful. "Summer gave it to you?" was all she said.

"Yeah," the word was less spoken and more exhaled—a cloud of a word so light it floated through the air rather than carried over it. Morty literally watched it drift back up to the stars as his boots crunched over ice.

It had been the day after the two of them had gotten back from stealing Rick's car. Summer had practically cornered him, in her hands a gun that Morty thought he would never see again.

"Just take it," Summer had insisted as she held the gun out to him.

Morty just shook his head stubbornly. "Y-you're the one who f-found it, you t-the one who should k-keep it."

"This isn't finder's keepers, Morty," His sister had never been extremely patient, and it was showing. Her voice wavered for a moment with muted irritation, but she pushed on, trying to be as casual and easygoing as possible. "Look, will you just take it already? I have a gun. Besides, you know that Grandpa Rick… Grandpa would want you to have it."

Whether he was shocked into a stupor or too tired to argue, Morty didn't know. He just went limp as Summer stared. She raised an eyebrow before placing the gun gently into his hands. There was a lull as neither of them made a move. Summer punched Morty softly yet good-naturedly on the shoulder, and then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The memories had a funny taste on his tongue, Morty reflected as he stuck his hand in his pants pockets instead. How many times had Rick killed something with this gun? How many times had he killed something with this gun?

Do it!

And then there was that.

Do it, motherfucker!

Anything but that.

"S-s-so," Morty took a rattling breath, driving his thoughts down into the back of his mind where they belonged, "what's t-the p-plan?"

It wasn't subtle enough, however. Yhlari was now looking him up and down, a look of concern heavy on her features. Morty felt his cheeks burn, not really in the mood to be interrogated.

"You okay?" she asked cautiously, as if testing the water.

Morty nodded.

"Cold?"

"A l-little."

Morty could still feel Yhlari's gaze searching him, but he wasn't going to pour his heart out on the way to a potentially dangerous mission. He looked at his feet, studying his steps. After a few seconds, he looked back only to find that she wasn't looking at him anymore. Her eyes set straight ahead, she had begun to pick up her pace, and so Morty did as well. A warm rush of gratitude swept through him.

When he caught up, Yhlari began talking again. "In answer to your question, there isn't much of a plan to go on. We go, we wait, we get out of there. You could have done it on your own if I thought he was going to show up on time."

Morty squinted; the dive was starting to appear, teeny and blurred, over the horizon. "Who's he?" he interjected.

"A higher-up of a gang of intergalactic junkers. They're basically the type that go around jacking ships, pulling them apart, and returning the scraps for profit. The Federation despises them. Lost a lot of good ships to junkers. As a result, there's been a major crackdown on them. I'm pretty sure only, like, five or six big groups remain. It drives the Gromflomites insane that they can never catch them."

"So, they're g-good guys? They h-help the rebellion?" Morty asked.

"Ain't no such thing as a good junker, Morty," Yhlari shook her head. "We had more of a tolerance for each other. An 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' type of deal. To give you some sort of idea, your grandfather would have made an excellent junker. He'd get a hundred holo-vites from them every single month, begging like dogs for Rick to lend them a hand with some project or another."

Morty cocked his head in confusion. "So w-why make f-friends if they w-w-were so m-much trouble?"

"He might call me a friend, but that's not what we are," Yhlari said, sounding like she was grinding her teeth. "I've gotten his over-bloated ass out of trouble so many times that he should be kissing the dirt treads off my boots when he sees me. Frankly this has been long overdue and he knows it. Knowing him, he might try to weasel his way out of this. Whatever you do, don't say anything and don't draw that gun. Let me do the negotiating; you're just here to learn and help me bring the stuff back. Understood?"

Well, that wasn't exactly promising. Nevertheless, Morty nodded obediently and kept his mouth shut. By now, they had reached the dive Yhlari allowing Morty to duck in first as she pulled back the curtain for him.

As they entered the dive, the customers shivered at the incoming winds. It wasn't crowded today, just two aliens sitting at the blackjack table, looking unstimulated. A drawling tune leaked out of the record player, slow and listless. The creature at the bar stared at the two patrons it had with it's head propped up on its elbows but immediately became alert as the two of them crossed the room. "Morning, Yhlari," it greeted them, "the usual?"

Yhlari shook her head. "Not today, Wuthlo. I'm here on business, nothing else."

Wuthlo the bartender looked put out until it's eyes drifted over Morty. "What about him?" it asked.

Yhlari glanced at Morty, looking thoughtful, and finally answered "small rum and coke. As close to Earth's kind as you have. Put it on my tab. We might be awhile; you don't mind, right?"

Wuthlo shook its head, one sweeping tentacle motioning to an empty table in the corner. Morty and Yhlari collapsed gratefully into the spindly chairs while Wuthlo passed Morty his drink. As he took a sip, Yhlari leaned back on the back legs of the chair and propped her boots on the top. Out of the corner of his eye, Morty could see Wuthlo shake its head behind the counter, shooting a glare at Yhlari's snowy feet.

"N-now what?" Morty asked between sips.

Yhlari's face was expressionless. "And now we wait," came her sigh.

And wait they did. And wait, and wait, and wait, and wait some more. They were waiting for so long that Morty swore he was going to be as old as Rick by the time anyone actually showed up. The blackjack aliens left, only to be replaced by new ones. Others filed in and out on random, but only he and Yhlari stayed for longer than a half an hour. Outside, the winds appeared to be picking up steam, throwing themselves at the dive and whistling through the cracks in the walls. Wuthlo turned up the heater to full blast to please a group of cold-blooded Trorgroths who were howling due to their discomfort, and soon the place was stifling. Morty had to peel off his ski jacket to stop himself from frying like a Hot Pocket, still sticky as trickles of sweat ran down his back. Despite all that, Yhlari remained immobile, her position the same as when they had started, eyes fixed on the door as the storms outside raged.

More than once, Morty questioned if her clients were still going to make it through the storm. It was always a gamble to ask. Half the time, Yhlari didn't answer. The other, she only gave a vague explanation. "He's coming," she would say, "because he's going to get a boot up his ass if he doesn't."

Finally, after two hours of waiting, the clients stepped through the door.

Morty, who was drinking the last of his now warm rum and coke, nearly choked as a group of aliens burst through the curtains. There were three of them, one on either side of their leader. The first two were blue and purple aliens with no visible mouths and too many eyeballs, but they were unremarkable in comparison to the third. He was so tall that the horns on the top of his head left marks in the ceiling of the dive. He was covered in dark, mismatched clothes and furs with a gold chain holding up his pants. His head was huge, scaly, and so red that he looked like a walking stop sign. A long tail dragged behind him, trailing snow. Scars and burns crisscrossed his arms like roads on a map. But the thing Morty really noticed were his eyes. Four of them, each a bright, poisonous green. He had a stare of acid as he looked around the room, burning through every patron in their seats. Most shied away, and even Morty found it difficult to hold his gaze for even a second.

When the leader spoke, Morty was surprised to hear a squeaky shout come out from his mouth, like the creature had no power behind his staggering size. "N'Geeflo! I'm looking for N'Geeflo! You here, old friend?"

Slowly, as if in a dream, Yhlari raised her hand.

Suddenly, before Morty could comprehend what was happening, the three of then were clomping over to the corner where they sat, looking ecstatic. Each time they stepped, Morty felt his seat rattle, and he had to grip the table as to not topple over. The red alien took a seat and sat down, and Morty thought he heard the chair screech in protest as such a heavy wait was dropped upon it. The leader then passed the blue alien a coin and jerked his head towards the jukebox with a sick smile on his face. His lacky shot out of the seat as if it had been electrocuted, scurrying over to the other end of the dive. A much faster song began to play. Morty felt his heart beat in tune with the thrumming bass and refusing to settle down.

"Well I'll be damned! Didn't think I'd see ya again!" the red alien exclaimed. Morty could see it's teeth now. He counted five gold ones. "How's this hunk-a-junk treating ya, eh N'Geeflo?"

Yhlari said nothing. In fact, she hardly looked interested in what the alien was saying. All she did was raise her head. "Bosnack," she greeted him coolly.

Bosnack's smile grew wider. "Good grief, N'Geeflo, the weather outside wasn't this cold! That's hardly a way to treat an old friend!"

"Cut the shit Bosnack," Yhlari drummed her fingers on the table, "I called in those favors for one reason only. You'd be wise to give me what I want."

Bosnack's smile flickered for a heartbeat, all enthusiasm and friendliness vanishing from his face for a spilt second. He recovered fairly quickly, but Morty could still see the way his green eyes grew stony and his smile grew strained. "I haven't seen ya in seven years, N'Geeflo. The least you could do is take a drink with me. One time, as old friends."

For several seconds, they said nothing. Morty could feel the electricity of the tension between them, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Bosnack's two lackeys began to look around idly, and Morty was tempted to follow their lead until Yhlari broke the standoff with a brisk but reluctant nod.

Wuthlo was fast. In a minute, drinks were deposited in front of them. Yhlari had ordered something that looked suspiciously like a sex on the beach. The lackeys both got something frothy and sudsy, with bubbles that floated into the air and had popping sounds like whoopee cushions. Bosnack got a drink as red as his skin, and as he sipped it, his claws dug into the table and started grinding out four large ruts. His smile seemed half-forced; too broad and too toothy. The tail would give an occasional thump; to Morty, it was like drumming a foot. A sign of impatience. Hiding behind his second drink, Morty became a silent observer as Yhlari and Bosnack began to talk once more.

"So, N'Geeflo," Bosnack made the first move at conversation, "how's the cold treating ya?"

"Do you have the supplies I need?" Yhlari asked.

Bosnack's expression didn't change, but he did thump his tail once. "Straight to the point and no time for detours. You haven't changed, have ya, N'Geeflo?"

"Do you have the supplies I need?" Yhlari repeated, this time through clenched teeth.

Another thump of the tail. "Of course I do, they're out back in the ships," Bosnack's voice was starting to have an edge to it. "You're lucky that my boss had some spares he was willing to part with."

"And you're lucky that I managed to save both of your behinds from intergalactic scrotum-yanking about ten years ago. I assume you haven't been doing anything to keep your record clear since all of that, have you?" In about a month and a half of knowing her, Morty had never heard Yhlari sound so angry.

Bonack's eyes narrowed into slits of neon, though his smile still remained intact. "I'll have you know, we were perfectly capable of handling our own problems, thank you very much."

"Would you still be saying that from behind the walls of the Federation's prison systems?" Yhlari retorted. "Somehow, I don't think you would be."

It was like the temperature of the room had dropped ten degrees. Bosnack's smile flickered. His lackeys exchanged frightened glances between each other, then returned to their drinks with bowed heads. Even Wuthlo—Morty suspected he was keeping one ear open to their conversation—gave an involuntary flinch and nearly dropped a mug.

Bosnack leaned forward. "Listen, we don't talk about what could've and what couldn't've," he hissed. "Those bugs out in the center galaxy, there's something different about them right now. Federation's got a new spring in their step. Been sending more and more people off to the big houses. And the reason for it? Well geez, N'Geeflo, I don't expect you to know. You've been hiding out in the furthest hole in the galaxy for who knows how long." When Yhlari didn't answer, Bosnack kept talking. "It's because of Sanchez. You remember Sanchez. They nabbed him not too long ago at some place called the Plim Plom Tavern. And after that, the Federation must be feeling pretty empowered; rumor has it that they're already cracking him."

Morty's hands slipped on the glass.

"I'm not going to act like Sanchez never had the brains to not get caught, because who would I be kidding with a statement like that?" Bosnack's lackeys let out guttural squawks that Morty supposed was laughter, "most brilliant mind I've ever seen. But have you ever met someone as stubborn as him? I swear, you could put the man in front of a wall, and he would scream at it until it crumbled. You ever heard the term 'an unmovable force versus an impenetrable object'? No? I know Sanchez enjoyed throwing that one around. Some sort of Earth term. Anyways, the Federation's probably enjoying their victories. Sipping from the golden chalice of apprehending their biggest leech in five hundred years."

Now, Morty had made a lot of dumb decisions in his life. This next one ranked somewhere up in the top ten. Hell, maybe top five.

"Y-you act like t-the Federation's unbeatable," Morty blurted out, "but th-they're not."

Eight pairs of eyes swooped in on him. Bosnack's eyes seemed to burn holes right through his head as they locked gazes. "And who'd this little splick be, N'Geeflo?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

About twenty eyeballs bored into him as they waited for an answer.

"I-I…I-I'm Morty S—ugh—Smith," Morty had to hide a wince as Yhlari kicked him from under the table.

At first, Bosnack looked thoughtful, but then his expression turned positively delighted. His lip curled with some sort of happiness that Morty couldn't pinpoint. "I know you," he said at last. "You made quite a name for yourself out in the Klacktrack nebula. What, don't like me insulting your grandfather, eh? The great Rick Sanchez being revered by a kid, from a species so new to the galaxy that they probably haven't even gone further than their fucking satellites."

More squawks from Bosnack's crew. Shrugging off Yhlari's hand, Morty felt his geyser begin to burst again. "At least R-Rick didn't e-end up with you a-assholes," he snapped back.

"And do you know why Sanchez didn't want to be a junker, kid?" Bosnack challenged. "Because he was a coward. He was a filthy, stinking coward. He'd throw his own friends under the bus if it meant that he'd get a few bucks off of it. He didn't want to be a junker because he was scared of the Federation, and what they would do to him if they caught him. Clearly he was right to worry. I mean, have you heard the rumors about him? Crazy shit going on there. How must it feel, knowing you did everything to protect yourself and still ending up getting nabbed?"

Morty's stomach felt like it was tying itself up in knots. "R-Rick w-was twice t-the m-…guy y-you'll ever b-be."

The alien reared back and laughed. It was large and ugly, like the rest of him. When he was done, he threw his hands on the table and thrust his head towards Morty. "Oh, is that so? Then why is he stuck in prison? I'll tell you why, Morty Smith: because Sanchez has something you pesky humans all have. You all care too much about yourselves. I have a crew, and hundreds of others to protect. We ride together, and we die together. And your grandfather was more than happy to let others take the fall for him. He did it with the rebels, he did it with his friends, and apparently he did it to his own stinking family. And when he had no one else, Sanchez couldn't handle it. Do you humans have no sense of pride? No spine, the lot of you. Well, because of that, the entire galaxy's doomed. Sanchez had enough knowledge crammed into that little head of his to wipe out an entire armada; imagine what the Feds could do it that? And Sanchez? He probably'll just give up, and hand it over. Because you know what? You and your planet are just like the rest of them! The Federation's newest bitch, and he knows it! Bet your grandfather woulda liked that, eh-?

"Bosnack!"

There was a momentary pause, and thus Morty fell back to Earth with an unpleasant bump. His heart was thumping so hard in his chest he was afraid it was going to burst out and hit the junker right in his ugly scaly face. Bosnack was inches from his nose, a furious expression etched onto his face that was only now relaxing. On either side, his lackeys had grabbed one arm apiece in an attempt to stop their boss from leaping at him. Yhlari had also made to move, her hands on Morty's shoulders as if she was preparing to through him back against the wall. Slowly, Bosnack fell back, brushing himself off. Morty could still feel his hot breath on his face as if the alien was still close by. Bosnack's claws had dug two-inch grooves out of the table from where he had gripped it.

At long last, Yhlari cleared her throat. "Now that you've made a scene, Bosnack, I suggest you give us what we came for and let us get on our way."

And made a scene they had. Every patron was staring at the five of them. Even Wuthlo had dropped all it's pretenses of subtlety and was watching unabashed at the scene unfolding in front of it.

Bosnack brushed himself off again. Even though he looked no less furious, he seemed to get the message and jerked his head to the door. He and his lackeys stood up and made for the exit. Yhlari followed close behind, eyes resembling purple ice. Last came Morty, and it took a lot for him to unstick his fingers from the handle of his gun as he made to join them.

-X-

Bosnack's ship was magnificent. For how dirty it's owner seemed, it was surprisingly clean and sleek, with red and black decals and thrusters that would burn five feet holes in steel. With a snap of his fingers, the lackeys opened the cargo hatch and slipped inside. They returned with metal crates that were easily as big as he was. At first, Morty wasn't sure how they would lug all this heavy machinery home over the ice until one of them pressed a button on the top of the crate. It rose gently about half a foot off the ground and rested in place, waiting for someone to simply push it.

"Alright, N'Geeflo, you're all set. Consider the debts repaid. I don't expect that I'll be visiting for a while, eh?" Bosnack's grin was back, looking more strained than ever.

Yhlari didn't return the smile. Hell, she didn't even return the goodbye. She merely took up on crate and motioned for Morty to do the same. Once they were both in position, they began to move.

It was night by now, and a wind was beginning to pick up, so Morty didn't see Bosnack or his crew when he turned around one last time. They had vanished into the darkness, swallowed by the swirling winds before they had a chance to say one last thing either of them would regret.

For half of the journey, Morty and Yhlari walked on in numbing silence. Finally, Morty couldn't take it anymore, but right as he was about to open his mouth, Yhlari cut back in. "What you did was really stupid, you know."

"B-b-but he was s-saying all t-this stuff that he h-had no idea a-about!" Morty said, appalled. "How c-could you just sit th-there and take i-it!?"

"And you weren't? Look Morty, I get what you're going through, but talk like that is going to get you nowhere." Yhlari huffed, shaking her head.

Starting to feel slightly ashamed, Morty looked away. "Well, w-what was I supposed t-to do?"

Yhlari was silent for a while, finally just sighing. "Do nothing? There's a time and a place for everything, Morty. You've got a lot of weight on your shoulders, you and your sister both. Try not to let it get to you. You know your grandfather best. Not me, and certainly not Bosnack. Just…just trust yourself, okay?"

Morty gave a halfhearted nod, and silence fell again. For a little while longer, they waded through the silence together.

Suddenly, Morty remembered something. "Hey, Y-Yhlari?"

"Hm?"

"Why did Bosnack keep calling you N'Geeflo?"

Much to his surprise, Yhlari let out a laugh but didn't answer. When she still remained quiet, Morty piped up again. "Is t-that your s-species name or s-something?"

"No, dumbass," she said. "N'Geeflo is my last name."

Morty blinked. A last name? He didn't even know aliens had a concept of last names. "S-so why d-did B-Bosnack call you t-that and not by y-your, y-you know, a-actual name?"

"What, you'd think I'd actually give someone like Bosnack my actual name? Sheesh, Morty, have some faith in me." Yhlari teased.

Morty laughed hollowly. Yhlari's smile faded over the next couple of steps. On they trudged. Ice crunched underfoot, keeping the tempo of their journey. The red and green planet was just visible over their heads.

"Alright, Morty, my turn to ask a question," the alien spoke once more. "Ready?"

Morty mumbled "yes."

"How old were you when you first set foot off of Earth?"

What a strange question. Morty didn't have a lot of time to dwell on it. He really just wanted to get out of the cold by now. "Fourteen," he answered.

Yhlari hummed her acknowledgement. Morty turned to her, "Well, how old were you?"

She blinked once, then twice, then three times. "My species, we keep track of time differently then yours do. But if I think hard about it and put it in human years…I'd say I was probably close to your age, give or take."

That surprised Morty. Yhlari seemed to have a worldliness about her, like she had been to every corner of the galaxy and lived to tell its tales, for better or for worse. He didn't realize how young she must've been to get her start. "And did you like it?" he asked.

"You and I left our home worlds for very different reasons, Morty," and just like that, Morty could hear the exhaustion in his trainer's voice. As if an entire lifetime's worth of tales and worldliness and other bullshit had settled itself onto her shoulders.

And in that moment, walking there through the winds under the watchful eyes of the distant stars, Morty finally felt as though he was not truly walking alone.

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter and please review, follow, or favorite if you enjoyed!