Wazzap guys, I feel a lot better now.
Thanks for the wishes, tho it's only two people :3
- - - - - - - - - -
The Central Finite Curve was designed to cut Rick-shaped holes across infinity.
Every reality locked into a loop—Rick always the smartest, Morty always the dumbest, Summer chasing popularity, Beth chained to parental shadows, Jerry forever useless.
They weren't accidents. They were archetypes.
It was fated.
But Rod never fit that mould.
Where Mortys defaulted to mediocrity, Rods defaulted to greatness.
In every shard of reality, no matter the roll of the dice, no matter the chaos of environment—Rod emerged as somebody.
A doctor curing plagues.
A politician bending nations.
A celebrity reshaping culture.
A king without a crown, a titan without permission.
Rod wasn't a pattern inside the Central Finite Curve.
He was the singularity of it.
Unlike Morty, who only produced one anomaly in the endless river of mediocrity—Evil Morty, the Morty that rewrote his role—Rod's baseline was already stacked.
If "ordinary" Rods shattered ceilings in every timeline, then what about our Rod?
The outlier among singularities.
The one who didn't simply succeed.
The one who looked at the latticework of infinity and eternity.
Where Evil Morty clawed his way up to rival the Rickiest Rick, our Rod starts already ahead of the curve.
He doesn't need to cheat the system—he is the system's cheat code.
Doofus Jerry, J-19 Zeta 7's anomaly, was written off as a joke until he was revealed to be something else entirely—proof that outliers could be wild cards powerful enough to matter on Rick's level.
So what does that mean for Rod?
If Morty can produce one Evil Morty, smart enough to break gods, empires and Central Finite Curve…
If Jerry can spit out a Doofus Jerry who freakishly defies his fate…
Then what about the Roderick Sanchez?
A person who was fated for greatness already has one terrifying question written across it:
What does the outlier of success look like?
Our Rod isn't a doctor Rod, a celebrity Rod, or a politician Rod.
He isn't bound to one path.
The summation of every possible Rod compressed into one vessel.
His "fate" isn't success in a single field—it's dominance in all fields, whenever he decides to turn his focus there.
That's why he can graft science to mysticism, bend chakra to psychic force, weaponize his soul research, survive Rick's scrutiny, and still joke about steak dinners.
He's not simply living his fate—he's the combination of every Rod into one body.
If Evil Morty rivaled the Rickiest Rick, then OUR Rod is something scarier.
As there's neither a rival nor a peer.
- - - - - - - - - -
The limo was waiting —a glossy black stretch beast with chrome edges, tinted windows so dark they drank in the light.
He slid inside, closing the door with a heavy thunk.
At first, it looked normal.
Soft leather, the faint smell of cologne, and ambient lights glowing blue in the ceiling.
Then, with a smooth chime, the interior shifted.
The leather dissolved into glowing panels that rippled outward like liquid metal.
The roof stretched upward, reshaping into a domed screen.
The entire cabin lit up, not with bulbs but with projected constellations—tiny galaxies swirling, data streams rushing like rivers of light.
The armrest morphed, folding open to reveal a touch-surface interface—its glass layers rotating until they displayed a three-dimensional dashboard, the kind of thing you'd expect in a deep-space cruiser.
Transparent holographic controls hovered above his lap—sliding sliders, dials spinning in zero gravity, streams of neon data arcing between nodes.
The windows no longer showed the city outside.
Instead, they flickered into augmented overlays: maps that plotted traffic flow in real time, buildings rendered as blue schematics, each human moving like heat signatures marked with probability numbers.
Above him, the ceiling cracked open with a ripple, revealing a simulation of the cosmos—the Milky Way stretched across in blinding clarity, but each star blinked with extra metadata, coordinates, equations, tags written in shifting alien glyphs only Rod seemed to know how to read.
The minibar didn't hold champagne anymore; it deconstructed into a miniature lab station.
Vials of 'who knows what the fuck is that' samples.
Soul-energy resonance scanners.
A containment orb that pulsed faint green, alive with something that shouldn't exist in this reality.
And then, like a final magician's flourish, a hologram snapped into existence across from him.
The AI chauffeur—an elegant construct of light and form.
It's Cortana, of course.
A cascade of blue hair coded in flickering polygons, eyes sharp with intelligence but soft at the corners, wearing a suit that glitched between corporate executive and battle armor.
"Good afternoon, Master Rod," she said with a bow of her head.
Her voice carried layered harmonics, like three people speaking at once, perfectly in sync.
"Would you like the standard route to headquarters, or… something with more fun attached?"
Rod smirked, leaning back into the glowing leather that adjusted perfectly to his spine.
"You're getting too good at reading me. Let's take the scenic route."
The AI's lips curved. "Scenic… engaged."
The limo peeled off the curb. Outside, the street warped, folding into a grid of neon corridors.
To everyone else, it was still a stretch car rolling downtown.
But for Rod?
He was flying a starship through a data-stream galaxy, every building an asteroid, every stoplight a black hole waiting to collapse.
He drummed his fingers on the interface, grinning.
"Hahaha, normal kids get dropped off with buses. I get a goddamn dimension-hopping chariot."
The limo cut through the skyline like a blade, though to Rod's eyes, it wasn't asphalt and cars anymore—it was hyperspace lanes.
The holographic constellations above him folded inward, and in the span of a breath, the vehicle phased through what looked like a wall of numbers.
Numbers. That was his kingdom.
The building came into view: EternaCorp Tower, tallest spike on the continent.
From the outside, it looked like black glass wrapped around a steel skeleton, a monument to capitalism's overfed ego.
But Rod knew better—the walls weren't glass.
They were living data streams, stock tickers frozen mid-flash, dollar signs repeating like prayers across the facade.
Every tick, every green arrow or red drop, was him breathing.
The car eased into a private dock halfway up the skyscraper, doors hissing open to a floor not accessible to anyone but Rod.
He stepped out, adjusting his jacket.
The lobby wasn't a lobby.
It was a war room dressed as an office.
Holographic assistants shimmered like corporate seraphs, carrying tablets heavy with world markets.
Every time he walked past, their screens shifted, presenting quarterly earnings, takeover bids, debt ceilings—all stamped with a singular signature: RODERICK SANCHEZ.
"Morning, Boss," one of them AI holograms chirped with artificial cheer.
"China rolled over another two trillion in bonds. Shall we forgive the interest or keep them sweating?"
Rod smirked. "Keep 'em sweating. I like the taste of chin chong anxiety before lunch."
The assistant beamed like she'd been kissed.
He strolled through glass corridors where every pane showed a different stock market—New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt, and half a dozen off-world exchanges that humans hadn't "officially" discovered yet.
Every market shifted like an orchestra waiting for his cue.
He entered his "workspace"—a chamber the size of an opera hall, its walls alive with numbers, graphs, and shifting financial algorithms that arced across the air like constellations.
The centerpiece wasn't a desk, but a sofa fused to a control array, veins of neon threading up into the ceiling where a massive pulsating orb—the Core Ledger—hung suspended, dripping light.
Rod threw himself into the throne, limbs sprawling as the system synced to his bio-signature.
Immediately, the World Bank's nervous system lit up.
Loans. Interests. Wars.
The pulse of nations ticked like a heartbeat under his fingertips.
"Rothschild?" Rod snorted aloud, running a finger along the floating screens.
"Cute family. People think they've got the world wrapped in silk."
He pinched his fingers, and an entire balance sheet—the world bank's core—exploded open.
"But the world's already gift-wrapped, isn't it?"
He leaned forward, grin feral, eyes dancing with numbers.
"They're all reporting to me."
The system purred in response, as though amused at its own master's arrogance.
A holographic voice chimed—Cortana, bleeding through from the limo's systems.
The entire globe's economy quivered under his smirk.
- - - - - - - - -
In this reality, Rod chose medicine.
He wasn't drawn by prestige or the paycheck.
He wanted answers.
And the world would never recover from what he found.
They called him The Last Doctor.
Not because he stood alone, but because after him, there was no need for another.
White corridors stretched like veins, sterile but alive.
Holographic nurses drifted silently on auto-hover, their arms full of surgical instruments glowing with green biolight.
Every door Rod passed through had names on the plaques—Ebola, Polio, COVID-19, Black Death, Spanish Flu, Cancer, AIDS—yet every room was empty.
Because in this world… those names were history.
And history bowed to him.
Doctor Roderick Sanchez didn't wear a white coat.
He wore something sleeker—surgical scrubs stitched with nanofiber that shimmered faintly, lined with a holographic readout of his vitals.
His stethoscope wasn't for listening—it was a quantum tuner that hummed in response to the soul-signature of the patient.
He didn't carry a clipboard either.
He carried a scalpel, carved from crystallized DNA, glowing faintly with each heartbeat it had already saved.
As he walked into the central hub—the Cure Cathedral—the scope of his empire unfolded.
The ceiling arched high like a cathedral dome, every inch covered in holograms showing eradicated diseases and restructured genomes.
The floor was a circular map of the Earth, continents glowing green.
People didn't pay medical bills anymore. They prayed to the name of their doctor.
"Welcome back, Doctor Rod. Three new diseases have manifested overnight.
An engineered neurovirus in Beijing, an autoimmune collapse in Paris, and something… anomalous in Cairo.
Shall I begin preliminary scans?"
Rod cracked his neck, smirk tugging the corner of his lips.
"Line 'em up. By lunch, I want 'em gone."
The AI pulsed. "By lunch… humanity will owe you again."
He smirked wider, scalpel twirling in his hand.
"Humanity's been owing me since I rewrote cancer's obituary."
The holograms updated in real time, molecular structures rotating in mid-air. His eyes scanned them once, twice.
He didn't even need lab rats anymore. His mind had become the lab.
Disease ended with him.
Cancer? Gone.
AIDS? Gone.
Genetic disorders that had plagued families for centuries?
Rod rewrote them at the root, patching genomes like an artist retouching a canvas.
Pandemics, both new and ancient, fell before him like candles snuffed in a storm.
HIV ended on XX17.
Malaria vanished on XX18.
Alzheimer's, ALS, cystic fibrosis, Parkinson's—names once spoken with despair became nothing more than obsolete medical terms archived in textbooks.
Rod didn't just heal people.
He healed eras.
His hospitals weren't hospitals—they were cathedrals of health, towering citadels of white steel and soft light, where patients walked in broken and walked out whole.
Reporters once camped outside for weeks to catch sight of him.
Billionaire CEOs and prime ministers flew in secret jets to kneel at his doorstep, begging for their lives.
They left cured, but humbled.
At first, the medical establishment mocked him.
Called him a fraud, too young to make these discoveries.
Then they saw their patients flock to him.
Then they saw the data.
Their ridicule turned to fear, then fear into silence.
By the time pharmaceutical giants tried to shut him down, Rod had already dismantled their monopoly with a single move: publishing his formulas, his research, his methods—for free.
Insurance collapsed.
Big Pharma imploded.
And humanity, for the first time, stared at a world without sickness.
Rod shrugged it off like it was nothing.
White coat draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, he didn't speak like a god, but like a man bored of limits.
"Disease," he said once at the UN summit, his voice calm, unshaken, "is humanity's oldest tyrant. And I don't negotiate with tyrants."
And with that, the world realized: the age of sickness was over.
Rod didn't cure humanity. He rewrote it.
- - - - - - - - - -
In this world, Rod picked up a mic.
And the world never let him go.
Rod wasn't a star—he was the sun.
Every arena that hosted him sold out before tickets even printed.
Every screen lit with his face.
Every voice online spoke his name like it was oxygen.
He wasn't one genre, or one scene—he was culture.
By his mid-20s, he wasn't chasing awards.
The awards chased him.
He stacked Grammys, Oscars, Nobels for art—hell, the Vatican once called him to perform at St. Peter's Square.
It was the first time in history that faith and fame blurred together, thousands of priests swaying like teenagers at a rave.
But music wasn't enough.
He leveraged his fame into empire.
Built SkyNet Global—an internet company that wrapped the Earth in satellites.
Where governments failed and corporations extorted, Rod dropped the hammer: free internet for every human alive.
He streamed his concerts across it, live, infinite, unpaywalled.
A kid in a slum, a soldier in a trench, a billionaire in a penthouse—they all tuned into the Rod.
He turned the planet into a single audience.
And unlike other stars who burned out, Rod only grew brighter.
No scandals stuck, no tabloids fazed him.
They tried to drag him into the mud, but he stood too high above it.
When paparazzi ambushed him outside clubs, he'd laugh, pull them into the VIP section, and make them part of the story.
What made him untouchable wasn't just his talent, or his empire, but the way people swore he saw them.
Every fan. Every crowd.
When Rod sang, it wasn't to millions—it was to you. Individually. Intimately.
He didn't have fans. He had believers.
Governments fell trying to regulate him.
Corporations collapsed trying to stop him. None of it mattered.
Because in this reality, Rod wasn't an entertainer. He was the pulse of the world.
Rod stood on a stage that stretched for miles, suspended in orbit above the Earth.
Not a concert hall. Not a stadium.
An entire ring-shaped arena circling the planet, lined with holo-billboards of his face, his name, his logo: "THE ROD" written in sleek neon.
His outfit wasn't subtle—golden jacket shimmering with live Twitter feeds, diamond sunglasses that scrolled through news headlines, and a microphone plugged directly into the internet itself.
When he spoke, the sound wasn't carried by speakers. It was carried by the web.
The crowd screamed as he raised one hand.
Not a million people. Not a billion. But the whole world, connected via free universal internet that he created.
"Good evening, Earth! And to my Martian listeners—yeah, I see you guys!"
The crowd's roar shook the orbital arena.
He paced across the stage, grinning.
Behind him, holograms burst alive—clips of his old movies, viral music videos, memes that never died.
Rod didn't conquer one industry. He conquered all of them.
The highest-grossing actor. The record-breaking musician. The meme king.
The CEO who gave the world free internet after crushing every telecom empire.
"Tonight's concert," Rod smirked into the mic, "is brought to you by me. And also free. Because f*** subscriptions."
The crowd howled. His voice carried into every home, every device, every holographic implant.
The corporations once sued him for killing their monopolies.
He sued them back—then bought them.
Now, the very CEOs who once cursed his name sat in the VIP box, clapping like obedient seals.
But his true audience? The billions who no longer paid a cent for connection.
He gave them the net. He gave them entertainment. He gave them himself.
"Here's a brand-new track," Rod grinned, snapping his fingers.
The arena's light bent, holograms exploding into a new music video on the spot.
The beat dropped, heavy enough to shake tectonic plates.
Rod didn't need an album. Didn't need a studio.
His songs wrote themselves as he moved.
His internet empire processed the crowd's emotions in real-time, feeding it back into his voice.
"IF YOU'RE HERE TO HEAR ME SING, SAAAAAY WHAAAT!?"
Every chorus hit harder because it was literally synced to the pulse of humanity.
The crowd screamed his name again, louder than ever—an unbroken chain of voices across the globe.
"""ROD! ROD! ROD!"""
The boy who conquered silence. The man who gave the planet a single beat to move to.
- - - - - - - - - -
Do you get any of that?
Wazzap, just putting some layers to hide our Rod's story.
That's all guys, peace!