Rick has flaws?!?

Morty sat cross-legged on his bed, the heavy weight of Rick's old science journals stacked beside him. The faint hum of the lamp on his nightstand was the only sound in the room, save for the occasional scratch of a pen as Morty scribbled notes in the margins. His eyes tracked each line with an intensity that hadn't been there the first time Rick shoved the first of these worn, dog-eared books into his hands and told him, "Try to keep up."

Back then, Morty barely understood half the words, stumbling over formulas, lost in the jargon of multiverse theory and bio-enhancement protocols. It had been a challenge a cruel joke even. But not now.

Now, he devoured every page like it was scripture.

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One book lay closed on the bed, its margins filled with his notes corrections, improvements, additions. Another lay open across his lap, Morty's pen moving steadily as he annotated theories Rick hadn't fully explored. On the floor at his side, two more journals sat in a neat pile, already read, already dissected.

A quiet, sharp grin touched the edge of his mouth.

He flipped to the final chapter of the current book, eyes scanning Rick's meticulous handwriting, the sharp lines and cramped margins filled with equations and theories that would make most scientists weep. But not Morty. Not anymore.

He reached for the pen again, circling a formula with a slow, deliberate motion. Not because he needed to remember it but because he saw where it could be better.

Where Rick hadn't gone far enough.

Morty's fingers tapped lightly against the ink-stained paper as his mind raced beyond the words on the page. This wasn't about proving himself. It wasn't about making Rick proud. Hell, it wasn't even about Rick anymore.

This was about Morty.

About the boy who used to follow… finally stepping ahead.

But stepping ahead didn't mean stepping away.

Morty leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling as a low, slow exhale left his lungs. The kind of exhale that sounded almost like a laugh if a laugh could carry weight.

He closed the book with a soft thud, stacking it neatly on top of the others.

Finished.

But Morty didn't feel finished. Not even close.

This was just the start.

The start of something bigger than Rick. Bigger than anything the old man ever dared to dream.

Not a rebellion.

Not a challenge.

Just a different path. His path.

He set the stack of journals aside, standing with a slow, deliberate ease, his hands slipping into his pockets as he walked to the window. The night outside stretched wide and indifferent, stars scattered like careless specks across the void.

Morty stared out at them not with wonder.

But with calculation.

It wasn't about leaving Rick behind.

It wasn't about overtaking him.

It was about seeing if there was a version of himself that didn't have to measure up to anyone. Not even Rick.

It was time.

Time to stop being the shadow.

Time to stop being the echo.

Time to see how far Morty Smith could really go.

And Rick? Rick didn't matter.

He never did.

Morty's gaze lingered on the skyline, his reflection faint in the glass—a shadow superimposed over the endless black. He reached out, fingertips brushing against the cool pane as if tracing the shape of the night. The stars didn't blink. The universe didn't care. And neither did he.

Tomorrow, he'd move on to the next stack Rick's weapons schematics, prototype blueprints, failed concepts abandoned halfway through. Not to copy. Not to emulate.

To surpass.

He wasn't looking for permission. He wasn't waiting for approval.

There was no conversation left to have.

Morty turned away from the window, the slight creak of the floorboards following his steps. He walked past the scattered journals, past the notes and pages of corrections, his hand brushing over the spine of one worn leather-bound book with a casual, careless flick.

Whatever Rick thought he'd taught him… it was over.

Morty didn't owe him gratitude. He didn't owe him loyalty.

Rick was the door Morty had walked through.

Nothing more.

He knelt beside his bed, reaching beneath the frame where a slim, unmarked notebook waited in the shadows. His notebook. Not a replica of Rick's journals, not a pale imitation, but something raw—his ideas, his visions, things even Rick hadn't dared to think.

Morty opened it, thumbing through sketches, rough formulas, notes written in a hand far steadier than the boy Rick once knew. Diagrams half-formed but burning with promise. Concepts that didn't belong to Rick's world… or anyone's.

This wasn't about rivalry.

This wasn't about hate.

This was about Morty carving his name where no one else's had ever been.

He scribbled down a new line of thought, pen moving swift, precise.

Rick's shadow was behind him.

And it was staying there.