The President's Secretary (Evil Morty X Reader)

State of the Citadel

You stand in your new bedroom next to your office, tightening your blood red tie. Your newly dry cleaned suit makes you look confident and formal, but your anxiety is internally crippling you.
"Deploy Anxiety Suppressors," you command, resting your shaking metal palm on your cheek.
A small needle extends from your hand and pierces through the skin of your neck, injecting a lukewarm serum into your body. You see your pupils dilate in the mirror, then contract to their usual pinpoints. Your hands stop shaking and you let out a relaxed sigh, pulling a black glove over your right arm and walking to your office door. The two Secret Service Ricks waiting outside your office escort you to the balcony above the courtyard.

The doors swing open, and an empty podium stands in front of you. Uproarious chanting and applause drowns out everything. You smile and wave at the ocean of different Ricks and Mortys in the courtyard below you. You wait patiently as the tumultuous cheers eventually die down. You adjust your microphone and look down at your notes. You clear your throat and begin.
"My fellow residents of the Citadel. Firstly, I'd like to wish you all a wonderful Wednesday morning."
You continue with your address, speaking loud and proud.
"...Throughout my many years of captivity, I've been told only one thing: {Y/N}s are heartless, remorseless murderers who don't belong in the Citadel. I was told this so much, that I started to believe it. But it's just not true. It's a stereotype. If you were to ask a random {Y/N} if they ever wanted to hurt anyone, 99.9% of them would say no before you could finish the sentence. The problem is that .1%, the vocal minority. This .1% is ruining the reputation of {Y/N}s everywhere. All we need to do is find this .1% and stop them before more harm can be done, saving the lives Ricks and Mortys everywhere. But we can all identify the elephant in the room: {Y/N}s are a rarity in themselves. Through a recent study, we have learned that only one in thirty dimensions even have a chance of having a {Y/N}. But through that study, we have learned which dimensions do have {Y/N}s originating from them."
Static sounds off from your earpiece. You flinch a little and look around at the Secret Service Ricks surrounding you, who are also adjusting their earpieces in confusion. Remaining calm, you get back to your speech.
"And... now that we've narrowed down the dimensions that do have {Y/N}s, we can locate that bad .1% and bring them to justice. And that remaining 99.9% will be welcomed into the Citadel with open a—"
"Kzzth— Sniper on the roof! Zzzt— have to get the president out of h— Bzzzzzt—" A deep, distorted voice yells in your ear, cut off by static. You flinch and grip your podium in terror.
"Sir, this is a secure line," a Secret Service Rick says into his earpiece, "who are you?"
"Vvvvt— My name is Eps— Ktttth— I'm not kidding, please get them out of here! I'm fighting off the sniper—AGH!!" The voice exclaims, cutting off abruptly.
Two Secret Service Ricks grab your arms and begin leading you inside. You look around in fear and confusion. Before you can process it, you're on the floor of the balcony, unable to move or feel your left arm. Horrified screams echo from below. You try to lift your head, but you go limp.

You wake up in bed, your left arm in a sling. Remembering what happened, you stand up and walk to your office.
You sit down in your chair and look down at your left arm. You wiggle your fingers and bend your wrist perfectly fine. You roll your shoulder backwards and there's no pain. You sigh and take the sling off, throwing it in the trash can by your desk. Your intercom sounds off.
"President {L/N}, there's a young woman here to see you. She's unarmed."
"What's her name?"
"She says her name is Epsilon."