Rick Prime

Diana never asked unnecessary questions. Perhaps this was her greatest strength, or perhaps her greatest tragedy. She grew up in Rick Prime's sterile, frighteningly technological citadel, amid the perpetual gleam of chrome and the silence of endless laboratories. She had it all: the latest gadgets, access to the knowledge of hundreds of worlds, robot nannies. But she never had what ordinary children take for granted—she didn't have love. And, strangest of all, she didn't have a mother. Her father, Rick Prime, a genius consumed by his own ambitions, viewed her more as an interesting long-term project than as a daughter. Diana—a name she knew Rick hated but for some unknown reason had kept—had long, azure hair, which she obediently tied into two low ponytails, and surprisingly calm, deep eyes, devoid of the wild spark that had burned in her father's. And, unlike all the other Ricks in the multiverse, she didn't have the infamous unibrow; her neat, thin brows only emphasized her unusual, almost ethereal beauty.
Everything changed the day Diana's fragile world of quiet corridors and holographic interfaces collapsed. Rick Prime, her creator and tormentor, fell at the hands of Rick C-137. Diana didn't see the battle itself, only the aftermath: smoking rubble, silence broken only by the crackle of burning servers, and two strangers in dirty lab coats standing over her father's body. C-137, looking tired and drained, and Morty, his perpetually frightened grandson. They hadn't intended to take Diana. Prime was too dangerous, and her existence could be part of some insane plan of his. But when C-137 saw this quiet, blue-haired girl standing among the ruins with such a calm, resigned expression, something in his icy heart trembled. Perhaps he saw in her eyes the very Diana he once loved. Maybe he simply couldn't leave her here, in this dead world. He merely nodded to Morty, who, understanding without words, extended his hand to Diana. She took it without a sound, and together they stepped through the portal.
So Diana found herself in the Smith household. The family, whose existence she had never even suspected, was in shock. Summer, always preoccupied with her own teenage problems and attempts to earn Rick's approval, greeted her new "sister" with undisguised hostility.
"Rick is already a ton of trouble, and now this?" she snorted, eyeing Diana's blue hair. "What's wrong with her hair? Is it her natural color? And why isn't there a unibrow? All Ricks should have a unibrow!"
Diana didn't answer. She simply stood there, looking at the floor, her low ponytails swaying gently. Quiet and submissive, she seemed like an alien object to Summer, invading her personal space. And the worst part was, Diana was beautiful. A true, natural beauty that didn't require hours in front of the mirror or expensive cosmetics. Summer, perpetually dissatisfied with her appearance, felt envy welling up inside her.
Diana was assigned to Summer's room. C-137 never really explained who she was or why she was there. He simply muttered something like, "She's a reminder of my mistakes," and locked himself in his workshop. Summer felt cramped. Her world, already chaotic thanks to her grandfather's antics, had shrunk even further. Half her wardrobe was now taken up by a few of Diana's austere outfits (mostly the same dark, sensible clothes she wore in the citadel), and the second bed, which Diana occupied every night, seemed to Summer a symbol of injustice.
Diana's days in her new home were spent in silence. She rarely spoke, only when spoken to. She didn't demand attention, didn't complain about food or inconveniences. She simply was. Like a shadow. Or a plant transplanted into unfamiliar soil, silently waiting to see if it would thrive or wither. She helped Jerry with the cleaning, silently repaired broken toasters and irons (the skills inherited from Prime hadn't gone anywhere), and sometimes sat for hours by the window, looking at the passing cars, the neighbors' cats, the clouds. Her blue pigtails, her calm eyes—everything about her irritated Summer. Every time Summer saw Jerry stare in amazement at the perfectly functioning hair dryer Diana had fixed, or when Smith Sr., always sullen, suddenly fell silent while looking at her, Summer felt a pang of jealousy. "She's just quiet," she told herself. "Rick likes quiet people because he likes to talk." But deep down, Summer knew it wasn't the quiet. It was that Diana had a fragile, natural strength that Summer herself had never possessed. She was effortlessly beautiful, and that was the most unbearable thing. As if Prime, even in death, had managed to plant another, even more sophisticated, curse on his family—a daughter who was the perfect, calm, beautiful embodiment of everything C-137 had tried so long to avoid.

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