Being Subspace's child was certaintly an experience. Blackrock was a terrible place to live, much less be raised. Subspace genuinley did try the first few years of your life. He tried to stay on top of your eating habits and hygiene, if you went to school or not, but by the time you reached about age 7 he'd given up, leaving you to fend for yourself. Sure, he still bought some groceries and paid the bills, you had to figure out how to cook (aka use the stove or microwave), start a bath and get yourself ready to go to school, not to mention you needed to get the bus as Subspace left for work much earlier than you did for school, and refused to drive you. It's honestly a mystery if he does love you and just doesn't have time, or if he just doesn't care.

At the very least, your father had expectations for you to be somewhat great like him. He taught you to handle robotics and programming, though all of that would be useless without the main source. The crystals, similar to the one hovering between his horns. He'd been trying to teach you to handle the recipe for a while, though even he sometimes struggled to get it correctly. With that in mind, it only made sense that—no matter how smart you are, you couldn't perfect it as he did.

Subspace stepped back, watching you as your shaky hands very carefully pour a drop of some weird vile of liquid into another, watching the colors mix together and change into a more purpley color.

"It's supposed to be PINK."

Subspace barked. Yeah, you knew that. He'd said it a hundred times. You looked around, grabbing another random chemical before Subspace's hand quickly grabbed your wrist.

"Do NOT put that in, it'll explode in your face, dipshit."

You surrendered, gently placing the glass on the counter again.

"THAT ONE. Add that one."

He commanded, pointing to a red liquid. You grab it, your eyes flicking from the bubbly chemical inside to the work you'd just broken your back over.

"USE IT."

Your father urged, a growing impatientence in his voice.