Rick and Morty: Smartest Morty in the multiverse

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The room was silent, too silent for Morty's liking. He lay in bed, the moonlight cutting across the edge of his desk where the blueprints still sat, that last line still glowing in his head like a live wire refusing to go cold. "Tear through dimensions." He should've left it out, maybe. He didn't need to build that feature in. After all, he had the portal gun not some childish knockoff or disposable rig but the real one,e

Even above Rick's top-tier model, the kind of tool that could rewrite how you moved through space like a god rearranging his furniture.

But the moment Morty let that thought finish forming, he rolled onto his back and exhaled slow, knowing exactly why he kept the tear-function in. "I'd be a fool to rely on one option." That wasn't paranoia that was preparation. He wasn't designing a ride to get from school to home.

He was designing something that could chase gods into their own heavens and outrun the rules of reality if need be. Escape, war, diplomacy, surveillance, extraction he had no clue what tomorrow's version of him might be doing.

But he knew what it would need. And if the portal gun ever got knocked from his hand and it would, eventually he couldn't allow his entire contingency to fall apart. Not in battle. Not with enemies who move like shadows and fight like time itself. And the gun, despite how precious it was, wasn't invincible in his hands.

Sure, it was made from the same metal Rick had used in the Night Family episode — the indestructible alloy that laughed in the face of physics, the one Rick shaped into plates that could survive entropy itself. That wasn't steel or vibranium. That was something else entirely. Something rare.

Something even Rick probably regretted revealing on public episodes. Morty had stolen an inferior model, a flawed attempt Rick had chucked into a dark corner, and from that, reverse-engineered the perfect one. Built better. Calibrated tighter. Cleaned from all the toxic redundancies Rick had baked into his inventions out of boredom or self-sabotage.

But Morty hadn't stopped at the gun. No, that metal was destined for more the very chassis of the bike, the curve of its frame, the tension in its muscle. He melted and recast pieces into shapes the universe would weep to understand. Because if a bike was going to scream across dimensions, split timelines like bone, and fight wars against entropy itself, it couldn't be a delicate thing. It had to be a juggernaut cloaked in elegance. A machine with grace, ferocity, and no leash.

Still… even that alloy wasn't truly immortal. There were weapons out there that made nuclear death look like a soft breeze antimatter rifles, quantum-tunnel guns that unraveled existence molecule by molecule. He wasn't arrogant enough to pretend indestructible meant invincible. But he had a field in mind.

A shield not the kind that bounces back bullets, but one that folds probability in on itself. A shell of refusal. A declaration stitched into existence that said: "You cannot touch this." That kind of barrier didn't protect with strength. It protected with concept. Which is what the whole machine would run on, eventually. Not fuel. Not radiation. Not battery or coil or turbine. Not even Rick's cheap hack of trapping a tiny universe and exploiting it like a sweatshop battery. Morty thought about that again for the second time Rick's pathetic reliance on cruelty. That was always Rick's problem. He could only imagine power as something to exploit, to drain, to keep in a jar. Morty was going higher. Morty was going pure. If his memory was correct and Viktor's memories had never betrayed him

Rick had once flirted with the idea of drawing infinite power from faith. Not metaphorical belief, but literal divine infrastructure. Specifically Norse. Odin, Thor, Valhalla. That whole Viking buffet of madness.

The idea was beautiful, elegant even siphoning spiritual energy from belief systems with enough mythic mass to generate actual force. But Rick failed, of course. Rick always failed when it came to things that weren't measurable. That experiment ended in flaming mead and dimensional collapse.

But Morty remembered. Morty studied. And he was going to succeed where Rick couldn't even think clearly. His bike wouldn't run on fossil fuel or lithium or dark matter it would harvest theology.

As long as the belief system it tethered to still existed somewhere in the multiverse, it would remain eternal.

Picture it: a ride that, instead of burning gas, burned faith. One that inhaled hymns and thundered forward on divine relevance. If one version of Christianity blinked out, he'd have a nuclear fallback reactor built into the core compact, precise, and dormant until emergency capable of ten jumps, maybe more, enough to cross galaxies in a flicker. But that was a last resort.

Because the real engine, the true soul of the bike, was going to be metaphysical. Rooted in the stories people believe. His wheels would spin on myth. His exhaust would whisper prayers. No heat signature. No pollution. Just truth, belief, and the savage commitment of a rider who refused to die. Morty turned to the side again, blanket bunched under his neck, heart pacing fast. Sleep still wouldn't come. His eyes darted across the ceiling like satellites looking for God. He could feel the gears in his brain still turning, still shaping the impossible into something tangible. He needed to rest tomorrow, he'd have to start the build. But how could he? He was in love with this creation. And love doesn't sleep easy. Not when it's becoming. Not when it's about to reshape everything.

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Those who didn't understand the bike would literally run on hope and prayer.(Pun intended)