Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

The living room quieted the way it always did when Jerry retreated a soft, hollow hush filled by the flicker of the muted television casting colorless light on vacant cushions. Jerry had shuffled off, some sitcom looping silently behind him, and Morty or Viktor, if the soul beneath the skin could be named for what it truly was sat alone in the living room. The clock on the wall crawled toward six. No Rick. Rick had vanished in his usual fashion silent, unannounced, slipping through a portal like smoke dissolving in air, off to wherever the universe required him least. That was Rick. That was expected. But Morty didn't mind waiting. Patience came naturally now, like breath or blinking, not born from politeness but from a different reservoir entirely a studied, silent observation of how this house, this family, rotated in its weary orbit.

Six o'clock sharp, and Beth Smith arrived. Right on cue.

Her car pulled in with a sound so familiar the walls seemed to lean in when it happened. She stepped through the front door with the kind of quiet force people reserved for places they stopped belonging to long before they realized it. Coat still on, bag still slung over one shoulder, heels tapping soft on hardwood she didn't even glance toward the couch where Morty sat. Instead, she beelined straight for the kitchen, ponytail swaying behind her in a taut, controlled rhythm. Most people, after a twelve-hour shift stitching organs and navigating the soft idiocies of hospital politics, might spare themselves the courtesy of collapse. A seat, a drink, a moment to shed the weight of existing. Beth didn't. She moved like a woman caught in the machinery of her own survival, pushed forward by a motor that wouldn't die even if she wanted it to.

Morty watched her go, silent, hands folded loosely over his knees.

Beth Smith had been Viktor's favorite character before any of this began not because she was brave or fierce or resilient, though she was all of those things but because she moved through a world that chewed people alive and never let them spit out their bones. She carried herself with a kind of fractured strength that men wrote poems about and women died from. A woman who woke up before sunrise, scrambled eggs for a husband who barely counted as one, ironed the wrinkles out of a life no one thanked her for, stitched together families and hearts and half-destroyed creatures, only to come home to the slow rot of a marriage that sapped her dry. A woman who would never be weak enough to break, no matter how many hands reached in to pull her apart.

Beth was a study in endurance a masterpiece of survival in the most silent, most damning sense.

But as Morty's eyes followed her to the kitchen, another thought unfolded in his mind, slow and measured as a blade slipping from its sheath.

There were a hundred ways to break a woman like Beth.

Not with force. No, that would be too easy. Too vulgar. And it wouldn't work. The world had been trying to break her since the day she took her first breath in a house ruled by a man like Rick Sanchez. And she was still here. Standing. Moving. Enduring.

No the ways to break Beth Smith were more intricate than that.

He could watch her closer, pick at the threads of her insecurities with the patient precision of a surgeon. Feed the gnawing doubt that whispered late at night when Jerry stumbled over his failures or when Summer slammed a door in her face. He could unravel her pride by reflecting back to her the futility of the life she stitched together daily a life that moved in circles, that never paid her back for the skin she shed keeping it alive.

He could twist her need to be necessary into a vice around her own throat.

He could turn her fierce independence into a prison.

And he could do it without raising his voice or lifting a hand.

But he wouldn't.

Not yet.

Because Beth fascinated him.

Morty rose from the couch, his movements smooth, deliberate a teenager stretching his legs, or so it would seem to anyone watching. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen doorway where the faint sound of cabinets opening echoed softly. He walked forward, not fast, not slow, every step weighed like a stone set on a scale.

He wasn't moving to help her out of kindness. Sympathy had no seat at this table. Admiration, perhaps, had brushed against his curiosity once, but it had long since bled away into something colder. This wasn't about affection or gratitude or familial duty. Those words meant as much to him now as prayers meant to the dead.

No Morty moved because Beth Smith was a lock.

And Viktor wanted to know how deep the keyhole ran...(Nothing valgur at least not yet 😏)

Helping her meant proximity. Proximity meant access. And access meant study.

He watched her from the doorway, standing still as Beth opened the fridge, her motions sharp, practiced. She hadn't noticed him yet, too absorbed in the rote rhythm of domesticity. Cutting vegetables. Pulling out meat she'd season with a mechanical hand. The quiet labor of a woman who had long since given up asking why she bore the weight of keeping this family fed and stitched and whole.

Morty stepped into the kitchen. Softly. Like air moving through a crack in the door.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

Beth didn't jump. Didn't flinch. She turned halfway, a kitchen knife still in her grip.

Morty met her eyes calmly.

Beth blinked once. Her lips parted slightly in a flicker of surprise not at his presence, but at the offer.

"You… want to help?"

Morty gave a slow, easy shrug. "Figured I'd see if I'm any good with a knife."

Beth's gaze held his a moment longer, studying, searching. She set the knife down, slid a cutting board his way.

"Knock yourself out."

He took the place beside her without comment. Picked up a cucumber. Began slicing with the same calm, steady hand he'd used on a soldering iron hours before.

Beth worked beside him in silence.

Morty didn't watch her. Not openly. He watched the way her shoulders moved. The way her breath caught every time the front door creaked in the distance like she was waiting for another complaint or another crisis to land on her lap. The faint tremor of tension in her fingers that no one else seemed to notice not Jerry, not Summer, certainly not Rick.

She was a woman carrying too many wars inside her skin.

Morty sliced slowly. Cleanly.

He said nothing as they worked, letting the silence stretch thin between them until it hummed with something not quite conversation, not quite shared space.

Beth broke it first.

"You've been… different lately."

Morty flicked a glance at her. "That bad?"

She shook her head, setting a pan on the stove. "No. Just… different."

Morty smiled faintly, turning his attention back to the cutting board.

They moved in parallel Beth seasoning meat, Morty prepping vegetables the quiet choreography of strangers sharing a stage.

And all the while, Viktor observed.

He noted every guarded look. Every flicker of relief when Jerry didn't stumble in to derail her routine. Every silent sigh Beth let slip when she thought no one noticed.

This wasn't a woman waiting to be saved.

This was a woman waiting to be seen.

And Viktor saw her.

He intended to see all of her.

Not because he cared. Not because he admired her silent strength or shared her burden. But because Beth Smith, in all her silent suffering, was a crack in the wall of this house a crack Viktor intended to study until he could slip right through it.

People wore their weaknesses like jewelry. Morty just had to watch long enough to know which ones fit tight enough to break the skin.

And Beth?

Beth was worth the effort.

He didn't say a word as they finished prepping dinner.

Beth didn't either.

But when their eyes met over the kitchen counter as the stove hissed quietly between them, Morty saw it the faintest flicker of something behind her eyes.

Recognition.

Or curiosity.

Either one would do.

Viktor returned her look with a soft, unreadable smile.

Beth turned back to the stove, setting a pan down with a quiet clatter.

Morty wiped his hands on a towel and walked back to the living room, moving with the same easy grace that had carried him through a hallway full of whispers and a science lab thick with unspoken challenges.

He'd gotten what he came for.

A first look at the edges of Beth Smith's armor.

And like every piece of armor…

It had seams.

Viktor would find them all.

He always did.

_________

Whoa this took me almost two days to write l hoped you like it

l had written it for the sole reason of showing you guys how Viktor mind works l have seen enough stories to know when a author say their MC don't have emotion or are sociopath they most likely have them but Viktor is a true sociopath he don't care he don't feel and he certainly don't give a fuck l hope you guys like as it it took immense effort to write it

I would specify why he's interested in Beth next chapter cuz l need rest 😪

Attendance please:-