Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

Morty stepped into his room, the soft click of the door closing behind him swallowed by the quiet hum of the night. The lights remained dim, casting long shadows against the walls cluttered with half-forgotten gadgets and mementos of adventures that felt like they belonged to another lifetime. He reached up and unbuttoned his shirt with steady fingers, peeling it away from his skin. The collar, stained faintly with a fine splash of blood, folded limp in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, his expression unreadable, then dropped it onto the chair by the door.

He crossed the room, moving with the same quiet calm that had unnerved Rick in the garage, and stepped into the bathroom. The mirror caught his reflection the boyish frame, the hollow eyes, the face of someone who should have been breaking down, not standing this steady after everything that had happened. He turned away, twisted the faucet handle, and let the icy stream blast against his skin as he stepped under the cold spray.

The chill hit him like a wall, sending a sharp shiver through his muscles, but he didn't flinch. He stood there, letting the water run down his face, over his shoulders, washing away the sweat, the grime, the blood that was his. It stripped away the outside… but what lay underneath stayed the same. He tilted his head back, eyes closing as the water cascaded down, his breath slow and even.

Minutes passed.

When he finally stepped out, the towel draped around his neck felt warmer than his skin. He walked over to the narrow cabinet against the wall his wardrobe, if it could be called that and opened it with a soft creak.

Rows of identical yellow t-shirts stared back at him, pressed and hung with mechanical precision beside pairs of the same blue jeans. The uniform of Morty Smith.

He stared at them for a long time, fingers resting on the edge of the door. This was who he'd been. The kid who followed Rick around, took his orders, went on adventures, got traumatized, broke, healed, broke again and kept wearing the same goddamn outfit like it meant something.

Like it defined him.

But now…

Morty exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Games are over," he murmured under his breath.

His hand hovered over the row of yellow shirts before he let it fall back to his side.

"It's time I changed," he whispered.

He reached for the nightwear folded on the shelf beneath the simple black shirt, the soft pajama pants not a uniform, not a statement. Just clothes.

He pulled them on, the fabric cool against his skin, the motion slow, deliberate.

When he was dressed, he sat down on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his thighs, staring at the floor.

Any normal person…

He let the thought trail off.

Any normal person would be laughing their ass off right now.

He'd done it.

He'd beaten Rick.

Not in a fight. Not in some epic, interdimensional showdown. But where it mattered.

In his head.

He'd seen it the cracks in Rick's eyes, the way his hands trembled, the fear he tried to drown in that bottle. Morty hadn't needed to break him physically. He broke the man who thought he couldn't be broken by making him realize the truth.

Rick Sanchez… the smartest man in the universe… was afraid of him.

And that was worth more than a hundred victories in battle.

Morty sat there, the faintest curve of a smile touching his lips before it faded again.

But as satisfying as it was, he knew better.

His first plan had been simple.

Get Rick drunk.

Put a gun to his head.

End it clean.

Just like how Evil Morty had done it.

But somewhere along the way, Morty had realized the same thing every version of himself should've figured out.

This Rick wasn't like the rest.

He was smarter.

Crazier.

More dangerous.

He might've had implants, weapons hidden under his skin, defensive protocols that kicked in when he slept. Hell, for all Morty knew, Rick could have a miniature portal gun embedded in his heart that would teleport a bomb into his killer's face the second his pulse stopped.

No.

Killing Rick wasn't just risky.

It was suicide.

So Morty didn't risk it.

He played a different game.

The long one.

And tonight…

He'd won.

He leaned back on the bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Somewhere in the house, Rick was probably pouring another drink, trying to convince himself that this was all fine. That he still had control. That his grandson wasn't slipping through his fingers.

Morty closed his eyes.

And smiled.

But the more he thought about it, the deeper the realization cut. Morty didn't just avoid the direct route because of the risk. Somewhere in that cold calculation, he'd discovered a deeper truth killing Rick wouldn't have been enough. Not really. Death was simple. Death was final. And Rick Sanchez never deserved simple or final.

Rick deserved to live.

To wake up every day knowing he wasn't the smartest man in the room anymore.

To choke on the knowledge that Morty had surpassed him not through brute force, not with a bullet but by walking past him, by moving beyond him, by becoming everything Rick feared and everything he couldn't control.

And that, Morty thought, would be the real punishment.

To make Rick watch.

To let him drown in his own paranoia, to feel the walls closing in, knowing that Morty wasn't a pawn anymore but a rival.

A threat.

And the best part? Morty didn't need to lift a finger.

Rick's own mind would do the job.

It already had.

Morty opened his eyes, staring into the ceiling, heart beating slow and steady.

He wondered how long it would take before Rick broke completely.

A week?

A month?

Or maybe… he was already broken.

And Morty just hadn't noticed until tonight.

He reached up, trailing his fingers lightly over his chest, tracing the faint memory of the chip Rick had implanted hours earlier. The skin was flawless now, healed without a scar, but Morty could still feel the weight of it beneath the surface the ghost of that moment when Rick cut him open.

Morty smiled again.

He wondered if Rick felt that same ghost when he closed his eyes.

Because Morty knew one thing for certain.

This wasn't over.

Not even close.