Rick & Morty: Science is Power (SI)

The garage was quiet again after Summer's departure and Rick's grumbled warnings. The silence felt heavier now, not from the absence of sound but from the weight of possibilities..

I stared at the dagger on the workbench, its sleek blade gleaming under the beaming lights. It wasn't enough. The mirror, the music box, even the dagger—all these tools were remarkable, but none gave me what I truly needed. The strength to stand on my own.

Rick wasn't wrong about the cost of power, but he didn't understand. If I didn't act now, someone else would. Or worse, I'd lose what little edge I had. I could find other things too do once I'm standing in the face of danger without fear of death.

My gaze dropped to the thin, collar on my wrist, a relic of the countless insane adventures I'd survived. It had been both a shackle and a shield, giving me just enough to survive while reminding me of my limits. I needed to evolve, just like it.

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In this short while I figured out the gilded dagger's metal was the key. It had already been imbued with immense strength, doing a basic calculation in my head I estimated its output at around 78,000 pounds of force just enough to slice through steel with ease. This would grant me around 99x my usual maximum force. If I could reforge it into a new casing for my wrist collar, I'd have a permanent upgrade. But reforging cursed—or formerly cursed—materials based on strength wasn't something you could do with a blowtorch and pliers.

I needed a smith.

Not just any smith—a galactic smith, one capable of working with metals infused with eldritch properties.

 The problem? Most forges capable of handling exotic metals like this existed in distant corners of the galaxy, run by eccentric smiths with questionable morals.

I packed the dagger, the mirror, and one of the two monkey paws into my bag. The paws were still a mystery to me, I had been hard to come up with an ability that wouldn't be diminished due to how powerful it was. I'd used one already, my wish had been simple yet paradoxical: reform the paw at the exact moment of my wish.

I wondered why I still only had two left but I didn't dwell on it knowing I could merely use the other two with almost zero consequence. Now in my ship and heading on this short journey I immediately made a new wish, for my life to restart after my mental death.

Why mental death? Because physical death wasn't really death. I'd imagined cenarios where i'd have to pretend to be dead or even that physical death would immediately activate due to my natural body continuously dying and resurrecting. The paw had granted the wish with no apparent besides the visible destruction of it and one forming in it's place, but I didn't trust it. It was much smaller than before as if it was reformed through the crumbs of the other.

It bothered me but for now, though, it stayed tucked away.

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I took my ship, having the blueprints of ricks allowed me to easily introduce ai that would guide me through the universe. But the galaxy was vast, and finding the right smith was like searching for a needle in a haystack made of black holes.

The journey stretched for longer than I'd anticipated. I bartered information, scavenged tech, and evaded more than one angry alien warlord. Finally, I found her—Tysarid, a smith whose name was whispered in the corners of the galactic underworld.

Tysarid's forge was hidden on a volcanic moon, the air heavy with ash and the ground glowing with rivers of molten rock. Her workshop was carved into the side of a cliff, a fortress of metal and fire.

When I showed her the dagger, she raised an eyebrow, her reptilian scales catching the glow of the forge. "You want me to destroy this?"

"No," I said, holding up the collar on my wrist. "I want you to make this better."

She studied me for a long moment before nodding. "It'll cost you."

"Name your price."

Her grin was sharp. "You."

I balked. "What?"

"Not you, you. Your will. A piece of it. Call it collateral. If you're asking me to forge something this dangerous, I need assurance it won't backfire. Your will ensures it's yours and no one else's."

I hesitated but eventually agreed.

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The process was brutal. The dagger's metal had to be heated to temperatures that would vaporize most materials—temperatures Tysarid achieved using molten plasma from the moon's core. It glowed brighter than any star I'd seen, radiating an intense energy that made my skin crawl even from the atmosphere.

Tysarid worked with precision, her claws moving over the metal with an artistry that defied logic. The blade was melted down, its essence transferred into the collar's new casing. As she worked, she chanted in a language I couldn't understand, binding the metal's strength to my intent, my will.

When it was done, the collar was reborn. Charcoal black and sleek, reinforced, and humming with raw energy, it felt... alive.

"Try it," Tysarid said, stepping back.

I hesitated, then slid it onto my wrist.

The power hit me like a freight train. My muscles tightened, my vision sharpened, and my mind cleared. Every part of me felt enhanced, as though I'd leveled up in ways I couldn't even comprehend.

But there was something else—a faint hum in the back of my mind, like a whisper.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to my head slightly tense.

Tysarid shrugged. "A side effect, perhaps. Or maybe it's just you hearing yourself for the first time."

This development made me slightly nervous but I didn't mind it to much. If whatever was in my head became a threat I could always wish it out of existence.

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When I returned through my secret entrance, the room was quiet when I stepped back. For a moment, I allowed myself to relax, feeling the weight of the upgraded collar around my wrist.

Then the air shimmered. Portals opened in quick succession, and figures in Council uniforms stepped through.

"Freeze, Rick C-137!" one of them barked, weapons raised.

Rick's voice boomed from outside my door. likely getting arrested currently "Goddamn Council of Ricks! What do you—"

Before he could finish, a canister hit my floor. Knockout gas.

'Shit.'