A Genius Morty

Rick sat slumped in his garage, the dim light from his workbench casting long shadows across the cluttered space. The familiar hum of half-finished inventions and strange alien machinery filled the air, but it no longer gave him the thrill it once had. He stared blankly at the contraption in front of him, a mixture of wires, metal, and glowing alien tech that should have excited him—a project that, under normal circumstances, would have had him muttering genius ideas to himself, fueled by a flask of something strong.

But none of it mattered anymore.

It had been weeks since Morty had left, and Rick had spiraled. He'd tried to keep up appearances at first, pushing forward with his usual bravado, diving into his work as if nothing had changed. But the truth was, everything had changed. Morty wasn't just his sidekick, his partner on adventures. He had been Rick's tether to some semblance of humanity. Morty had balanced Rick's recklessness, his detached sense of chaos. Without him, the adventures felt hollow, the universe more empty than ever.

Rick took a long swig from his flask, the burn of the alcohol barely registering anymore. His hand shook slightly as he set it down, staring at the half-completed device in front of him. He'd been working on this particular project for days, but he didn't even know what it was for anymore. There was no point to it. No one was here to push him, to challenge him, to remind him why any of this mattered.

Morty had been that voice. Annoying at times, sure, but grounding. And now, without him, Rick was lost.

The rest of the family had noticed, of course. It wasn't hard to see the way Rick had spiraled, the way he drank more, talked less, and disappeared into his garage for longer and longer stretches of time. He was always unpredictable, but now he was erratic, and the family was feeling the strain.

Summer had been the first to vocalize her frustration. She'd barged into the garage a week after Morty left, her eyes red with anger.

"This is all your fault, Rick!" she had shouted, her voice trembling with emotion. "Morty's gone because of you!"

Rick had barely looked up from his workbench, his face expressionless as he fiddled with some device, trying to pretend that Summer's words didn't cut deeper than he'd ever admit.

"You were supposed to protect him! You were supposed to—" Summer's voice cracked, and for a moment, Rick had glanced at her, his eyes empty. He had wanted to say something, anything that would make it right, but the words didn't come. Nothing he said would change the fact that Morty had left—because of him.

Summer had stormed out, slamming the door behind her, leaving Rick alone with his thoughts and the gnawing sense of guilt that had been growing inside him since the day Morty disappeared.

Beth, on the other hand, had been quieter about her feelings. She didn't yell like Summer, didn't confront Rick directly. But Rick had seen the way she looked at him now—like he was a stranger. Like she couldn't recognize the man who was supposed to be her father. She had stopped coming by the garage as often, stopped asking him about his latest inventions or whether he needed help with anything. It was like Morty's absence had created a rift between them, one that Rick wasn't sure could ever be mended.

Beth blamed him too. Rick could see it in her eyes, even if she didn't say it outright.

And then there was Jerry. He had never been one to hide his disdain for Rick, but now, in Morty's absence, that disdain had turned into something more bitter. Jerry would make snide comments whenever Rick was around, small digs about how "Morty was the only thing holding this family together," or how "Rick's brilliance finally pushed his own grandson away."

At first, Rick had brushed it off, belching and retorting with his usual sarcasm, but now… now, those words stung. They hit a little too close to home.

The family was unraveling, and Rick knew he was at the center of it.

The days bled into each other, each one filled with more drinking and fewer adventures. Rick had tried—really tried—to go on a few adventures without Morty. He'd even dragged Summer along on one of them, but it hadn't been the same. She wasn't Morty. She didn't hesitate when she should have, didn't voice her concerns the way Morty used to. Summer didn't ground him the way Morty had, didn't force Rick to think about what they were doing, the consequences of their actions. Without that pushback, without Morty's moral compass—even as fragile as it had been—the adventures felt… wrong.

There was no fun in it anymore.

Rick found himself standing at the portal gun more often, staring at it, wondering where Morty had gone. He had the tools, the technology, the means to track Morty down if he wanted to, but something held him back. Pride, maybe. Or fear. Fear that if he found Morty, he wouldn't recognize him anymore. Fear that Morty had outgrown him, surpassed him. That thought haunted Rick more than he cared to admit.

There was a part of him—an arrogant, defiant part—that refused to believe Morty was truly better off without him. But another, quieter part of Rick knew the truth: Morty had left because he needed to. Because Rick had pushed him too far.

In his more lucid moments, when the alcohol hadn't yet dulled his senses, Rick thought about their last conversation—how Morty had grown colder, more distant. How his grandson had stopped looking to him for answers. Morty had started asking questions that Rick didn't want to answer, about power, control, and what it all meant in the grand scheme of things.

Rick had seen the change coming but had ignored it, hoping it would go away. He'd hoped that Morty would fall back into line, keep playing the sidekick, keep balancing Rick's chaotic genius. But Morty had grown beyond that. He had started to realize that he didn't need Rick anymore.

And now, Rick was alone.

The family dynamic had shifted since Morty left, and it wasn't just Rick who felt it. Summer had thrown herself into school, into her social life, trying to distract herself from the gaping hole that Morty had left behind. She tried to act like it didn't bother her, but Rick saw the way she avoided talking about Morty, the way her face twisted whenever someone mentioned his name.

Beth, too, had changed. She was quieter, more withdrawn. She still went through the motions—taking care of the house, going to work—but there was a distance to her now, a sense of sadness that Rick couldn't ignore. She hadn't said it out loud, but Rick knew that she blamed him for Morty's departure. In her eyes, Rick was the reason her son had left, and nothing he could say or do would change that.

Even Jerry, despite his usual cluelessness, had been affected by Morty's absence. He tried to fill the void with his usual bumbling attempts at family bonding, but it was clear that things weren't the same. Morty had been the glue that held their dysfunctional family together, and without him, everything felt fractured, broken.

Rick took another swig from his flask, the liquid burning as it slid down his throat. The familiar numbness started to creep in, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. It was easier this way—easier to drink until the guilt and the emptiness faded into the background, easier to pretend that none of it mattered.

But deep down, Rick knew it did matter. It mattered more than anything.

Morty was gone, and it wasn't just about losing his sidekick. Rick had lost something far more important—his connection to the family, his anchor to reality. Without Morty, Rick felt adrift, untethered. And no matter how many inventions he built, no matter how many dimensions he visited, nothing could fill the void.

The truth was, Rick had always needed Morty more than Morty had needed him.

But now, it was too late.

Rick stood up from the workbench, swaying slightly as the alcohol coursed through his system. He stared at the mess of tools and parts scattered around him, feeling an overwhelming sense of futility. What was the point of any of this? Without Morty, without someone to share the journey with, it all felt meaningless.

He walked over to the portal gun, his fingers hovering over the controls. He could track Morty down right now, step through a portal and confront him, demand answers, demand that he come back. But something stopped him. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was fear. Or maybe, deep down, Rick knew that Morty had made his choice.

And maybe, just maybe, Rick had no right to ask him to come back.

With a sigh, Rick turned away from the portal gun and stumbled back to his chair, sinking into it with a heavy, exhausted sigh. The garage was silent, save for the soft hum of the machines around him. It was a silence that Rick had grown used to—a silence that mirrored the emptiness inside him.

He was alone. More alone than he had ever been.

And for the first time in his life, Rick wasn't sure if he could fix it.

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