Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

This might be my favourite character yet so please make sure to leave a comment l would really appreciate it

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Morty shut the door to his room with a soft click, the familiar quiet wrapping around him like a threadbare blanket. The noise of the house Jerry's TV blaring in the living room, Summer's music bleeding faintly through her walls, the occasional clink of Beth's wine glass faded into a low, ignorable hum. The setting sun cast a lazy orange streak across his carpet as he sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the quiet mess of his room with the clinical calm of a man about to gut it for parts. He wasn't here to brood. He was here for answers.

He leaned forward, reaching under his bed until his hand closed around a worn medium size box the same battered one Morty had hidden there since he was eight years old. Back then, it had been his secret stash of Halloween candy and bubblegum, comics. Now? It held something else. Something Viktor was willing to bet even Rick had forgotten he'd given away.

Sliding the box out, Morty set it on the bed. The lid lifted easily, no ceremonial hesitation. On top, crumpled copies of cheap pornographic and smut with loud covers, the kind Morty used to hide more out of habit than desire. Viktor moved them aside without a flicker of interest. They weren't why he was here. Beneath them, wrapped in a faded, oil-stained cloth, lay the real treasure. books. Leather-bound. Edges frayed with age and use. Their spine cracked from too many openings. The front bore no title, only a crude symbol burned into the skin of the leather a jagged spiral Rick sometimes scribbled when he was deep in his head.

Viktor ran a thumb across the surface of a book, feeling the rough texture, the faint indent where Rick's hands must have pressed it countless times. He unwrapped it gently, flipping open the cover. The first page held a simple inscription in Rick's spiky handwriting: "For Morty. Don't screw it up." No flourish. No heartfelt note. Just the same half-assed affection Rick gave everything that mattered to him more than he'd admit.

Viktor turned the page. The contents weren't child-friendly drawings or bedtime stories. They were notes dense, tightly packed theories, schematics, formulas spanning topics that could melt the brain of an average scientist. Concepts civilizations would murder for, compressed into diagrams and shorthand. Wormhole equations, zero-point energy maps, interdimensional interference theories, things so far beyond Earth's scientific community they may as well have been spells in a dead language.

Rick Sanchez had given this to Morty. Not because Morty had earned it. Not because Morty had asked. But because once, maybe for a flicker of time, Rick had believed Morty could be him. Could inherit his madness and his brilliance and carry on the legacy Rick both despised and couldn't let go of.

Viktor shook his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. And Morty…? Morty had shoved it under a pile of porn and never opened it again. Figures. Rick's greatest miscalculation wasn't the Citadel, wasn't the war with the Federation, wasn't even Evil Morty. It was Morty Smith the grandson Rick had once pinned a fragment of his hope on, only to watch him grow up soft, afraid, stupid in all the ways Rick couldn't stand. Rick had gambled. And Rick had lost.

But Viktor wasn't Morty.

He flipped through the pages slowly, scanning, committing to memory. He recognized a few concepts from his own world's science. Others were fresh, alien, some elegant in ways only a madman could craft. But all of them were useful. Pieces he could adapt, bend, weaponize. This wasn't a gift. It was an arsenal. And unlike Morty, Viktor wasn't going to waste it.

A glance at the clock on his nightstand told him it was 7:30 PM.

Perfect.

He had until midnight five good hours. Enough time to absorb the essentials and still wake up sharp. Sleep? He didn't need much. Not with discipline. Viktor had mastered micro-sleep techniques back in a past life short, controlled naps, power cycles timed with brutal efficiency. He could run for days on fragmented hours, a skill learned in wars, sharpened in black sites, and now… adapted for high school.

He stood, moving toward the bookshelf in the corner. Behind a stack of old gaming guides, he fished out a slim, metal case a folding lap desk Morty had bought and forgotten to ever use. He set it up on the bed, laying the book flat on it. The posture mattered. Focus mattered. Even in this dump of a suburban bedroom, Viktor made the space a field office, a command center.

He stretched his shoulders, rolled his neck until it cracked softly, and sat down cross-legged on the floor before the book. The pages opened before him like the whisper of a door unlocking.

As his eyes moved across the ink, the rest of the world faded. He read in silence, lips moving slightly now and then, not mouthing words but testing thoughts. Concepts unfolded in his mind, clicked into place. This wasn't just data. It was a map of Rick's insanity a trail through the dark corners of genius Rick never shared, maybe never even trusted others to see.

Viktor caught himself chuckling softly under his breath when he found a margin note scrawled beside a quantum loop diagram: "Don't bother explaining this to Jerry. His brain's a wet sock."

He smirked, turning the page. The insult was juvenile. The theory was brilliant. And the combination? Very Rick.

Hours blurred as he moved from section to section.

Time dilation fields. Probability locks. Neurological override circuits.gene locks.formulas for aging,de-aging serum.

Each discovery added another tool to Viktor's mental kit. Another string on the puppet Rick never realized he'd handed his grandson.

When Viktor finally checked the clock again, it was a quarter to midnight. He closed the book slowly, fingers resting on the cover. The knowledge wasn't his yet not fully. But it was in motion. Pieces fitting together in ways Morty's soft little brain never even attempted.but soon it will belong to Viktor

Viktor stood, placing the book carefully back into its cloth wrap, sliding it under the bed for now. He would digest it all soon enough. Tonight was only the start.

He turned toward his nightstand. The girl on the magazines cover caught his eye the familiar mop of red hairs, a teasing smile drawn in cheap ink.they looked like Jessica. Morty's old obsession. Viktor stared at it for a beat, eyes narrowing faintly.

Patheic.

He shook his head, sliding the magazine aside. Whatever Morty thought he wanted, it didn't matter. The world wasn't for the obsessed. It was for the people who thrive for perfection.

And Viktor?

Viktor always was a perfectionist.

The house lay silent around him as he switched off the light and lay back against the bed, eyes closing into a darkness filled with diagrams, equations, and plans that stretched far beyond this little town.

He didn't sleep. Not really.

He prepared.