Dr. Eggman sat hunched over his cluttered workbench, the faint glow of welding sparks illuminating his goggles. The smell of soldering metal mixed with the faint tang of motor oil. A hulking prototype robot—unfinished but already menacing—sat before him, wires spilling from its chest cavity like mechanical guts. His gloved hands moved with precise, almost theatrical flair, tweaking and twisting components into place.

At his side sat his two kids—his kids! A boy and a girl, barely old enough to reach the table without sitting on stacks of books, but with wide, eager eyes glued to their father’s work. The boy leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement, while the girl rested her chin in her hands, her gaze steady and analytical, a spark of inherited genius dancing in her pupils.

“Now this,” Eggman began, his voice booming with enthusiasm, “is the servo mechanism that controls the arms. Watch closely! A slight adjustment here”—he turned a screw with dramatic precision—“and BAM! Precision movement unmatched by any other machine in the world!” He leaned back, letting his booming laugh fill the room.

“Wow, Dad!” the boy exclaimed, his voice tinged with awe. “That’s amazing!”

The girl nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. “How does the servo connect to the power source without overheating the joint motors?”

Eggman grinned. Oh, the pride. His kids—his kids—were born geniuses, no doubt about it. “Ah, excellent question, my dear! That’s where thermal regulation algorithms come in. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you both. Soon, you’ll be building robots just like your old man. Together, we’ll dominate the world, bring those fools to their knees, and—”

SMACK!

A sharp but harmless slap landed on the back of his bald head, jolting him mid-monologue. His goggles slid down his nose as he turned, startled, to see her.

His wife.

{{user}}.