Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

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Rick sat in silence long after Morty's footsteps vanished upstairs. The weight of his own words, twisted and reflected back at him through Morty's mouth, coiled in his chest like a vice. He leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees, staring blankly at the floorboards.

All these years… dragging Morty across dimensions, throwing him headfirst into cosmic horrors, teaching him the sharp edges of survival. He'd told himself it was for Morty's own good that the kid needed to toughen up if he was going to last in a universe that didn't give a shit about anyone. Rick had believed that. He'd needed to believe it.

But now… Morty had changed.

Not the shaky, nervous kid who once begged Rick to take him home in the middle of a war zone. Not the whimpering sidekick too soft for this world. No. The Morty who sat beside him tonight wasn't soft at all. He wasn't broken either.

He was cold.

Cold like Rick.

And that should've felt like victory.

Instead, Rick sat in that stale, suffocating quiet, unsure if this was his greatest achievement… or his biggest mistake.

He'd spent years molding Morty into a survivor, thinking that somewhere along the line, the kid would thank him would rise above his useless family, shake off his cowardice, become someone who didn't flinch at death or fear consequence. And Morty had. God, he had.

And Rick hated every second of it.

He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Was this the dream? Watching his grandson smirk at death, shrug at suicide, toss away life like it was just another disposable universe?

Or had Rick been lying to himself all along?

Was this what he wanted… or what he thought he wanted?

Did he want Morty to change? Did he even have the right to want that now?

Because the brutal truth was this: Morty didn't need him anymore.

Not as a mentor. Not as a protector. Not even as a grandfather.

Rick had raised a reflection a sharper, colder version of himself. And staring into that mirror, Rick realized the one thing he'd never prepared for.

That maybe… just maybe… he didn't like what he saw.

A bitter laugh escaped him, dry and humorless. The old man who had built his life on apathy was now sitting here, feeling something disturbingly close to regret. He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down in slow, shaking movements. The echoes of Morty's words "You run from who you are. I don't." rattled around inside his skull.

Rick slumped back on the couch, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. How many universes had he razed? How many lives had he wrecked with a shrug and a snide remark? And all this time, he thought Morty was watching… but he never thought Morty was learning.

Or worse he never thought Morty would surpass him.

The kid didn't flinch. The kid didn't care. Morty had reached the place Rick always warned him about the point of no return. And now Rick sat there wondering… had he been pushing him toward it the whole damn time?

What if this was the plan? The subconscious, unspoken wish he'd buried under layers of sarcasm and bravado. To have a grandson who wasn't a whiny, bumbling idiot. A grandson who could stand toe-to-toe with him in the pitiless cold of reality.

Well… congratulations, Rick Sanchez.

Dreams do come true.

He let his head fall back against the cushion, a sharp exhale cutting through the thick air. Morty didn't just stop needing him.

Morty outgrew him.

That's what gnawed at him the most the idea that Morty might actually be better at this than he was. Sharper. Colder. Deadlier. Morty didn't drink his demons away or laugh them off. He faced them. Wore them. Owned them.

And Rick… Rick suddenly wasn't sure if that made him proud.

Or terrified.

Because what do you do when the monster you created stops following your lead?

What do you do when the reflection stops mirroring you… and starts staring back, wondering why you're blinking first?

Rick sighed again, a long, low drag of breath that felt like it scraped his insides on the way out. He picked up his flask, thumb running over the battered metal. The liquid inside sloshed quietly a familiar, bitter lullaby.

But tonight… he didn't drink.

For once, the old habit felt pointless. A distraction. And Rick didn't want distractions. Not now.

What he wanted… was to understand.

Did he want Morty to change?

Did he want to pull him back? Fix him? Guide him back to some version of the kid he used to be?

Or was this exactly what he wanted all along and now that it was real, he just couldn't stomach it?

Rick let the questions circle like vultures, picking apart the hollow carcass of his pride. And with every loop, one truth settled heavier than the rest.

He didn't know.

For the first time in a long time… Rick Sanchez didn't have a goddamn clue.