Chapter Text
Subspace stood in the Phighting ring, his body beaten and bruised, yet strangely intact. He looked at the faces around him—Hyperlaser, Katana, Medkit—and felt the tightening knot of unease in his chest. Something was wrong. It had been wrong for a while now, and he knew it.
He let their attacks hit him harder than ever before. Punch after punch, blast after blast—he barely even flinched. Subspace welcomed the pain, or at least, what should have been pain. But nothing felt real. Not the sting of impact, not the ache in his bones. He barely even registered it, as if his body was disconnected from his mind.
A dark thought tugged at the edges of his consciousness: this wasn’t real. None of it.
Medkit rushed to his side after a particularly hard hit. Subspace felt their hands on him, trying to assess the damage, offering help. Their voices sounded concerned, like they actually cared.
But they didn’t. They couldn’t.
Subspace’s eyes scanned their faces—worried expressions that were too perfect, too rehearsed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it was genuine. He let out a quiet breath, his gaze falling to the ground. He had been testing this for days now, letting them hit him, even secretly swallowing his own poison. Every single time, nothing happened. He should’ve been dead by now. But instead, his wounds healed far too quickly. His own concoction, designed to bring him down, barely left a mark.
He’d started small, at first, just to see if his suspicions were right. A few self-inflicted cuts, drinking the poison in secret. But when that didn’t work, he pushed further, letting his enemies hit him harder than usual, waiting for the fatal blow that never came. He felt no pain. No exhaustion. No real threat. The concern in their eyes? It was fake. All of it.
He had always known they wouldn’t care about him like this. It wasn’t natural, wasn’t them. Subspace, after all, wasn’t the kind of person who inspired loyalty or kindness. He didn’t deserve it. But here they were, acting like they did. It didn’t add up.
Subspace stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with a grimace. His face, half-rotten, should have caused him immense pain, but there was nothing. Not even a twinge of discomfort. Blood, sticky and dark, soaked his clothes from the countless wounds he’d inflicted on himself. But no matter what he did—slashing, stabbing, biting—there was no agony, no reprieve from the numbness that consumed him. His rotting skin seemed almost decorative at this point, like a grotesque costume in some twisted show.
“Is this what it’s come to?” Subspace muttered to himself, tapping his decayed cheek. “A reality where even death’s on holiday? Come on, I’m Subspace. I’m supposed to feel this!”
He turned slightly, inspecting a gash he’d made along his ribcage. It was deep, ugly, and should have been excruciating. Instead, it was like watching a special effect in a cheap horror movie. Subspace let out a bitter laugh.
“Look at me. A walking corpse on prime time. Do you think this looks cool to your nonexistent audience out there?” he spat at the mirror, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Am I your tragic antihero now? Yeah, let’s rework Subspace’s story. Make him invincible. Everyone loves an invincible idiot!”
He jabbed a finger at his reflection, mocking himself. “Look at this guy, can’t even die right! What’s next? Gonna throw a laugh track in whenever I stab myself? Add some applause when I don’t bleed out?”
His reflection, of course, had nothing to offer except that same hollow, twisted grin staring back at him.
Subspace sighed, leaning closer to the mirror, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What kind of sick TV show is this? No pain, no consequences. Just one endless rerun of a fake life that nobody asked for.” He ran his hand through his messy hair, still wet from his recent attempts at self-harm. “You know, in any good story, the hero suffers, right? That’s what makes it real. But not here. Oh no, not in the ‘Subspace Show.’ Everything’s just… scripted.”
A dark chuckle escaped him. “You know what? I’m starting to think I’m not even the main character. I’m just the comic relief.” He mimicked a cheesy announcer voice, “And now, watch as Subspace, the unkillable fool, tries and fails to hurt himself for the hundredth time! Cue the laugh track!”
He smashed his fist against the mirror in frustration, but the glass didn’t break. Not even a crack. Subspace blinked, slowly realizing the absurdity of it. “Really? Not even the mirror’s gonna shatter? Wow, you guys really are thorough.”
Stepping back, he wiped the blood from his hands onto his already bloodied shirt. The stains were getting ridiculous now, like some overused movie prop. “This is what it’s like, huh?” he mused, throwing his arms up dramatically. “Living in a world where pain is just… fake. Like, come on! No audience is that bloodthirsty, right?”
He turned, his gaze wandering to the ceiling, as if expecting someone—anyone—to answer. “Are you entertained yet? Is this what you wanted? A half-dead guy who can’t feel a thing, stuck in your perfect little loop?” He laughed again, a sound that was more bitter than amused. “Well, congrats! You’ve got the best unbreakable punching bag on this side of the universe!”
Subspace paused for a moment, staring back at his reflection. His grin softened into something more resigned. “But seriously… if you’re out there, watching… Do me a favor, okay? At least throw in a plot twist or something. This is getting real old.”
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Subspace lay motionless on the bed, his gaze empty as he watched Biograft, his loyal creation, diligently bandaging the latest wound he’d inflicted upon himself. The robot’s hands moved with precision, as if performing a routine task. Biograft had gotten used to this. This was the new normal—patching up Subspace’s self-harm, repairing him over and over again.
Subspace’s mind wandered as Biograft worked in silence. His thoughts, however disjointed, began to spiral. The room felt colder, quieter. Was it even real? Probably not. Nothing had felt real in 578 days. It had all blurred into this numbing, monotonous existence where no matter how much he bled, he couldn’t break through the illusion.
He stared down at the neatly bandaged wound, his own blood soaking through the fabric. “You know, Biograft,” Subspace muttered, his voice low, “this is all fake. Everything around me… fake. But you, you’re… well, you’re something, aren’t you?”
Biograft didn’t respond, not yet. The royal robot never spoke until Subspace gave permission. That’s how it was designed. But there was something reassuring in that silence—a reminder that at least Biograft followed the rules. At least Biograft remained consistent, reliable, even when Subspace’s reality was unraveling.
Subspace’s voice grew softer, more thoughtful as he stared at the ceiling. “You… you’re the only thing keeping me sane, aren’t you? You’ve always been here. Even when I’m too far gone, when I’m losing my grip, you’re here, bandaging me up… fixing me.”
There was a slight mechanical hum as Biograft finished its task, stepping back and awaiting further instructions. The bandages were clean, precise—much better than the mess Subspace made of himself.
Subspace chuckled, but it was hollow. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Out of everything that’s real or fake, you’re all I have left to keep me together.” He paused, his eyes flicking over to Biograft. “And I know, I know I created you. I built you with my own hands, but… I’m starting to think you’re more real than any of this.”
The silence stretched out between them, the only sound being the faint beeping of hospital equipment in the distance. Subspace ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly.
“I talk and talk, and no one listens… but you, Biograft. You’re always here. Always doing what you’re meant to do, never wavering. That’s what’s keeping me from completely losing it, you know?” His voice cracked as the words tumbled out, uncontrolled. “You… you’re all I have left to remind me of who I was. Who I’m supposed to be.”
Biograft stood perfectly still, the faint glow of its sensors reflecting in Subspace’s tired eyes. It wasn’t programmed to respond, to offer comfort, and that was exactly what Subspace needed. Not false reassurance, not fake smiles or meaningless words. Just the quiet, methodical presence of something that didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t.
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Subspace’s fingers hovered over Biograft’s control panel, his expression unreadable. His eyes fixed on the small screen embedded in the robot’s chest, the faint glow reflecting back at him. He hesitated for a moment, then clicked on a specific option: Memory Restore.
A message popped up on the screen:
“Do you want to remove all memory from this hard drive?”