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Inside the plush, neon-lit screening room of the Frederickson mansion, the air is thick with the sweet smell of synthetic popcorn. Hiro Hamada, all sharp angles and defensive slouch, leans against the velvet armrest, maintaining a protective layer of jaded indifference. For months, he has kept the ragged, searing grief over Tadashi sealed beneath a veneer of overachieving snark, like a faulty microbot held together by pure spite. Fred, lounging beside him in an oversized, custom Kaiju hoodie, barely registers the classic San Fransokyo tear-jerker playing across the holographic screen.
As the film reaches its inevitable sentimental climax—a digitally reconstructed scene of a long-lost brotherly reunion—Hiro’s vision blurs. The manufactured joy on the screen is a physical punch, dragging up the fresh, horrible memory of Tadashi’s absence and Callaghan's cold, indifferent betrayal. A single, molten tear tracks a path down his cheek, scalding against the cool skin. He blinks fiercely, the involuntary betrayal sending a jolt of panicked heat through his chest.
“No, no, absolutely not,” he mutters, shoving himself off the sofa so violently the snacks rattle.
This raw grief is an infection, and he knows the only solution is cold focus. He crosses the room in three quick strides toward the six-foot-tall inflatable robot currently standing in the corner. Hiro had nearly managed this escape before—but Fred, Honey, and Go Go always stopped him. Still, he tries again. Hiro’s fingers fumble frantically, pressing down on the seam of Baymax’s access port, trying to force the panel open so he can access the violence he needs.
“Gotta recalibrate. Emotional data corrupted. Just need to pull the original healing chip.” Fred’s presence is a warm weight near the doorway.
“Hey, genius,” Fred says softly, his voice cutting through the rising panic. He doesn't move, just watches with calm, knowing eyes. “You still think destroying the guy who killed him will make you feel better? Is that what Tadashi would have wanted?”
The mention of Professor Callaghan, the old pain, shatters Hiro’s carefully constructed wall. The robotics prodigy screams, a raw, tight sound, “Tadashi’s gone!”
He collapses against Baymax’s soft armor, the full, crushing weight of reality finally landing. Quiet, shuddering sobs wrack his thin frame. Fred steps forward at last, scooping up Hiro’s hairy baby, who had been lurking anxiously by the door.
“C’mere, 'Ro,” Fred murmurs, settling the cat into Hiro’s lap. “Petting cats can actually reduce stress levels. Science fact. Or… at least a Fred Fact.”
Mochi immediately curls into Hiro’s legs, purring like a tiny engine. Hiro’s shaking hands sink into the warm fur, and the rhythmic vibration grounds him, even if only a little.
Baymax’s gentle, synthesized voice cuts through the silence. “My scan detects elevated levels of distress hormones. Displaying recorded memory files of subject Tadashi Hamada.”
A small, private projector deploys from Baymax’s chest plate, projecting a vibrant, grainy image onto the wall: Tadashi is laughing, covered in oil and glitter, holding up Baymax’s first prototype fist. Hiro lifts his head, a broken, tearful smile stretching his mouth. Fred moves closer, simply placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The theatrical movie is forgotten; instead, they sit together on the floor, watching the archived, impossible presence of Tadashi until Hiro’s breathing evens out.