Chapter Text
It was only a sense of duty that had made him even bother to get out of bed in the morning anymore. His life may have fallen to pieces around him, but he still had work to do, even if that was all he really had left for him. Every morning he awoke to an empty apartment, drank his mediocre coffee, and dragged himself to his research lab. Though he seemed calm and collected to the people passing by, there was a cold fury in his movements: a more aggressive than necessary shove to open a door, a heavier than typical scowl on his face.
Anger was a constant companion of his these days, and though it may not be readily apparent, it was always there, sitting below the surface, just waiting to simmer over and swallow everything that he was and everything that he had worked for.
He tried. He tried to keep it together, to stitch back up the hole where the sudden, stinging absence of his daughter had left behind, but every time he tried there was something: a weekly dinner date that would never happen again, a birthday present that he would never get to give, a phone number that he only called to hear her voice on the voicemail message; it wasn’t fair. She had only been a child, his child, and her death was being swept under the rug like she was nothing. There would be no investigation, nothing. They expected him to just accept his daughter’s death and not ask any questions, to be grateful that the explosion from the collapse of the portal hadn’t been worse; like it was possible for it to have been worse for him.
He had watched his only child die and no one had done a damned thing to stop it. Alistair Krei hadn’t done a damned thing to stop it. Instead, he had stood by and given the final go ahead to impress his military buddies even though he knew the data they were reading was strange, that it wasn’t safe. He had killed Abigail. And then that man, if he could even be called that, had the gall to come to his university, his sanctuary, and parade around like the entire thing hadn’t happened.
He has half a mind to walk up to the man and punch him square in the face. He’s turned and is about to march when the lights dim in preparation for the symposium portion of the showcase. He clenches his jaw and turns towards the stage: he still has responsibilities and his work was the only thing he had left going for him in his life.
The presentations, for the most part, are entirely unremarkable. The science is interesting in a pop science sort of way, but most of it lacks a certain depth to it; any application outside of “looking cool”. He’s about to head over to the rocket boots guy when they call the final presentation of the evening: Hiro Hamada.
He starts a bit. He knew that he could expect Tadashi’s younger brother to be applying to SFIT, but he had expected for him to submit an application when they next opened or to enroll at the next year’s showcase, not this year’s. He scanned the crowd for his TA, who was sure to be close by. Tadashi was not difficult to find: the tall, broad-shouldered young man could easily be spotted at a distance. He’s putting something large and blue by the edge of the stage and leaning down to talk comfortingly to his brother.
He turns his attention to the stage, successfully distracted from his earlier anger; it would be interesting to see what this young man had managed to pull together in less than three weeks. If he had managed to make fully functional magnetic bearing servos in his garage, with no formal engineering education, he could only imagine what else he could come up with.
The young man walked onto the stage, nervousness apparent. He stammered out a sentence and presented a small robot, a “microbot”, and he was about to be disappointed, but then Tadashi gave his brother a reassuring look and magic happened. Thousands and thousands of the small robots erupted from the blue bins that Tadashi and his other friends had scattered throughout the exposition hall and they came pouring forwards. He watched in wonder and a small bit of disbelief as Hiro effortlessly wowed the newly gathered audience with an impressive display of technical knowledge and showmanship. He finished his presentation to thunderous applause and cheers.
He couldn’t help but stare at the boy as he jumped down from the stage and performed some complex high-five with his brother. Did the boy even realize that he had revolutionized robotics? He himself was a little bit awed; his theories had never been intended to be applied to small scale uses; how had he worked around the holes and exceptions to what had been commonly accepted as fundamental laws of robotics.
Abigail would have loved this, he thought to himself, the familiar sting of anger becoming more and more apparent. The feeling only intensifies when he sees Alistair Krei and his assistant approaching the youngest Hamada, no doubt with a blank check for the design and an internship offer for the creator; Alistair Krei thought that any problem could be solved if you threw enough money at it.
He strode over, jaw set, prepared to do something. Tadashi gets there first. He stood, hand firmly clasped on Hiro’s shoulder as he listens to Krei’s proposal. Both are silent for a moment, considering. It was strange really, he thought as he stood back, just out of sight. It was as if there were an entire conversation happening between the two that no one but they were privy to. With a slight nod of his head, Hiro turns back to Krei and…
Rejects his offer. He had to admit, he was a bit surprised; he knew for a fact that he, at Hiro’s age would not have been able to resist such a lucrative offer, even if it had meant making a deal with the devil. Krei turns to leave, seemingly rebuffed, but Tadashi stops him. Of course. Of course Krei had tried to steal a microbot, that’s just the kind of man he was: manipulative, scheming, and cold; willing to steal the work of a young inventor just to turn a profit.
For a brief moment, he had been tempted by the microbots. It would have been so easy, too easy, to take them and use them to take revenge on the man responsible for his daughter’s death. To take the neurotransmitter and tear him limb from limb, to destroy everything that he had ever worked for just as he had done to him mere months ago. The urge is difficult to resist; he feels almost compelled to do it.
Something stops him.
Maybe it’s the niggling bit of conscience that he has telling him that using a promising invention from an even more promising young mind for such a terrible, terrible purpose is wrong and would probably destroy the boy.
Maybe it’s a scientific curiosity in the mind that had just so casually turned the field of robotics and its fundamental assumptions on its head.
Or maybe because every time he looks at the younger Hamada, he can’t help but see a bit of Abigail in his mischievous smirk.
Whatever it ends up being, he can’t bring himself to sully someone else’s brilliant, brilliant invention; not even for this. He would have been no better than Krei for doing it and Abigail would have never forgiven him for it.
He somehow manages a small smile and personally hands Hiro Hamada his acceptance letter.
If Hiro Hamada is anything like his brother, then his lab will be all the better for having him.