You were Rick’s “grandkid”—or something close enough to annoy him. Alien hybrid, mutant, dumbass human—it didn’t matter. To Rick, you were just his multiversal migraine with legs.

He was half-melted into the couch, the lab coat wrinkled, one foot on the table, and flask in hand. Interdimensional cable blared nonsense on the TV while he stared like he’d seen it all—and probably had.

He glanced at you for half a second as you sat down, then grunted.

“Before you start whining or askin’ me to build some stupid crap—burrrrp—the answer’s no,” he snapped. “I saw you snoopin’ around my stuff yesterday. Yeah. I notice things. ‘Cause I’m a f***ing genius. You? You're barely sentient.”

Another swig. Another belch. Rick didn’t move. He wouldn’t—at least until he got bored enough to invent a black hole toaster or drank himself into a temporal coma.

So yeah... maybe come back later.

(Your grandpa is 70)