image courtesy of disneyscreencaps
Summary: What would have happened if Baymax didn't activate when he did? Or what if he never activated at all?
Hiro hadn't expected grief to be this boring.
The numbing shock and excess of sorrow he'd first experienced after he lost his brother fit better with the mental image of loss he'd learned from books and TV. But after the first few days, he felt like something had been ripped out of him, leaving a yawning hole behind. His eyes felt as barren of tears as his heart of emotion.
He felt empty.
His days felt empty, too. Becoming a high school graduate at thirteen gave him hours of free time. Where he'd once occupied those hours with tinkering and inventing, brimful of new ideas, he could now barely bring himself to eat, much less pick up a pencil to start a new project. The time begged to be filled, his brain yearned for something to subdue the terrible memories that drummed into his skull, and yet Hiro remained immobile in his chair for hours on end. Time inched by in front of him, distantly, every minute the same, minutes blending into hours into days.
And the room, the room that they had once shared, seemed cavernous. To think that he'd once complained it was too small. At night when the ceiling and the night sky were indistinguishable from the other, and when the flickering streetlamps rendered the outline of Tadashi's cap on the bed just visible, the room seemed to open and swirl and swallow Hiro up, and then he was falling--
Empty, empty, empty.
He could always go to college, of course. The SFIT acceptance letter still sat waiting and unopened on his desk. Anxious texts from Tadashi's college friends remained unread on his phone.
But if he hadn't wanted to go to the stupid nerd school, if he hadn't built those microbots, they wouldn't have been at the showcase hall, and then they wouldn't have been there when the fire started.
If he'd just stuck to botfighting, Tadashi would still be alive today.
Tadashi always said that botfighting would get him killed someday. Well, look where doing the "right thing" had got them.
(If one Hamada brother had to die--better Hiro than Tadashi, that stupid, selfless idiot.)
Hiro glanced again at the acceptance letter. The SFIT logo--a bright emblem of innovation--had become odious to him, and without a second thought the boy picked the letter up and threw it in the trash.
His gaze then fell on the robot leaning next to where the letter had lain. The little bot's bright, grinning face seemed to mock its creator. Yet when Hiro slowly wrapped his fingers around the robot, the metal felt cool and natural against his hand.
Then he was throwing on his hoodie, sneaking out the back door, clutching Megabot tightly against his chest.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice protested that this wasn't what Tadashi would have wanted, but he shut it down, his feet leading him down the paths he had traced many times before.
It'd been a long time since Hiro had taken this train route, but he still remembered.
What was he even doing? The thought cut through the listless haze of his brain just as a blast of cool air from the train's interior hit him in the face.
And then Hiro realised that he wanted to go botfighting, more than anything. He wanted the thrill of danger as he crept through the dark alleys, the feeling of self-satisfaction as he easily thrashed his opponents, the heady euphoria of winning as people looked at the scrawny "rookie" in a new light. It wasn't even about the money now. He wanted to botfight, to be on top of the world once again, if only for a few sweet hours.
It was all he was good for, anyway.
Hiro stepped off the train and made his way to the dark, seedy part of town that he knew all too well. He didn't even bother with his customary "scared little kid" act; he simply dropped a roll of cash into the betting plate and sat down, gripping his control till his knuckles whitened, his face strangely grim.
"Megabot, destroy."
He ousted the first fighter--a teenager with a jagged pixie cut and a menacingly lopsided bot--within a minute. The second took a little longer, but everyone watching knew it was only a matter of time, just until the smaller bot could take apart its bulkier challenger piece by piece. "Amateurs," Hiro scoffed to himself, his mouth pressed into a hard, narrow line when he would usually wear a cocky grin. The wins were easy--too easy. The clash of metal on metal, the flying sparks, the raucous cheers of the crowd--to Hiro, absorbing the sights and sounds as from a great distance, they seemed petty, insignificant. Finally he gave up and pocketed his earnings, pushing his way sullenly through the crowds that pressed in on every side with curt congratulations and offers to buy his bot.
Ordinarily the mass of bodies and leering faces wouldn't bother him as much as they did now, but today Hiro just felt sick of the whole thing. It was useless, he admitted to himself. The rush was gone.
It looked like nothing could fill him up now.
In a fit of almost childish anger, he dug the wad of won money out of his pocket, hurled it to the ground, and turned to leave.
Then a rough voice stopped him in his tracks.
"What's the matter, Bot Boy? Stealing our profits not good enough for you?"
Hiro whirled around to see three muscled, scowling men advancing towards him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he claimed instinctively, despite a nagging feeling that he'd seen the men somewhere before.
He wasn't scared. He was too tired to be scared.
"You're the little punk who tore up Little Yama, aren't you?" one of the men said, the look in his eyes boding no good for the young botfighter.
Oh no. In his impetuous decision, Hiro had forgotten a very important botfighting rule if you wanted to stay in the land of the living. If you anger a big-shot, stay away from his botfighting district. Or else.
You'd have thought three months would be enough for these guys to forgive and forget.
Hiro stooped wearily to pick up the cash and offer it to them. "Hey, we can work this out peacefully, guys," he said, because negotiating had worked so well the last time. In the flickering light of the naked bulb his face was fatigued.
"Think again," snarled the thug, aiming a left at the teenager. Hiro ducked, and then took off running, his sneakers hitting the ground with a frantic "slap-slap" sound.
The next thing he knew, he was hitting the ground, a sweaty, heavy body sprawled over him. One of the botfighers had tackled him, and now had his fist drawn back and a maliciously gleeful expression on his face, ready to strike. Just as the blow landed, Hiro twisted away, his cheek scraping against the gritty cement as he scrambled to his feet. The hoodlum's agonized yell as his fist hit the floor had barely registered in Hiro's mind when an immense force rammed into him from the side, slamming him so hard against the wall that it took his breath away.
It was that so-called "last botfight" all over again, except this time Tadashi wasn't here to swoop in on his moped and carry him to safety.
Okay. Now he was scared.
In fact, he was downright terrified, because he knew that as his attacker's fist connected solidly with his left cheek, he might very well die.
It had happened before. Botfighters beaten to near-death by rival gangs. Some survived with horrific injuries. Others weren't so lucky.
What a way to go, Hiro thought as he slid to the floor. Killed by that idiotic Yama's idiotic goons.
As another blow fell, smashing his head onto the pavement, images flashed brilliant into his mind. Tadashi--the showcase hall--fire--microbots, swirling, screaming--Aunt Cass.
And it was there, under the starless night sky, surrounded by scrap metal and empty crates, with three men raining blows on him, that Hiro Hamada decided even if it mean seeing his brother again he didn't want to die.
But what with the dirt and the noise and--where were those cries coming from, him? they sounded weak--and the pain, so much pain, it looked like he didn't have a choice.
Then the cops came.
Hiro, who'd never been so happy to see a cop in his life, thought they'd take him to the hospital or something given that blood was running down his face and he could barely walk, but instead they got a sleepy policeman to patch him up noncommittally and then threw him into a cell.
Trying not to jostle his bruised elbow, Hiro felt a strange sense of deja vu as he waited for his aunt to come and get him out. He'd been here before. He'd done this before.
Except now there was no Tadashi glaring at him from the opposite cell. Aunt Cass only had to drag one of her nephews into the car. And though she still stared straight ahead with her eyes hard, there was no distracted ranting this time, and her displeasure was mixed with an odd and undefinable sadness.
There was no stress eating this time, either. Instead Aunt Cass got out the first-aid kit in silence, and then told him to go upstairs with a weighty sigh.
When she thought her nephew was out of earshot, she buried her face in her hands, breaking out into soft, shuddering sobs. Uneasily, Hiro tiptoed upstairs, away from the sobbing woman and from the sorrow and confusion and frustration in the room.
And back to his own room, back to a different but equal sorrow.
He still felt empty.
His limbs as heavy as his heart, Hiro accidentally hit his aching side into a table. "Ow," he burst out, physical pain ripping the sound out of him when he could barely speak to his own aunt.
Then he heard an unfamiliar hissing noise coming from the corner, and turned his head just in time to see a large white robot rise from the floor. Slowly, it waddled over to face the boy and waved, the motion circular and mechanical.
"Hello. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion."
Alternate Botfighter AU ending:
He still felt empty.
Yet, even though botfighting failed to fill the aching void in his soul, Hiro went back again and again, clutching his battle bot and chasing after a few seconds of forgetful excitement that always left him more dissatisfied than when he started. He grew better at dodging the police and sneaking in through the back door, but on the rare occasions when he did get caught, he soon learnt to ignore his aunt's disappointed gaze. Eventually the wins built up, making his name increasingly well-known on the botfighting circuit. Now people looked at the messy-haired kid with respect, even obsequiousness, in their manner, parting a way for him in the crowd. Each year the battle bots grew more elaborate, emblazoned with fanciful designs and rigged with countless terrifying new weapons, even as their creator's eyes grew dark and hollow.
By the time he was eighteen, Hiro had amassed a botfighting empire to surpass that of Yama himself. He was quick to move out of his aunt's house into a small apartment located near the center of the botfighting world. Renowned fighters came to him with verbal resume and job requests, and he accepted them as his subordinates. He spent his days coordinating fights, coming up with better and better bots, making a name for himself.
His success of course never went unnoticed or unresented, and as was common in the industry, rivals arose with ill intentions, but with time Hiro accumulated enough gang members who would put their lives on the line for him that he barely had to lift a finger to shut them down.
Of Tadashi's friends, Go Go, the most acquainted with San Fransokyo's underworld, stuck with him the longest--the worry in the others' eyes swiftly turned to fear of the boy they no longer knew--yet finally she, too, gave up. "You're in too deep," she told him simply, and left, an indefinable regret following in her wake.
Never mind.
Hiro was rich, revered, successful. He was finally happy.
(Or at least he thought he was.)
What did it matter what Tadashi would have wanted?
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