Obake Itoko Chapter 6: Things We Lost In The Fire, a big hero 6 fanfic

Hey! Look who's finally back with an update! And even better, I FINALLY HAVE MY DOCTORATE! I'm so happy man! *sob*

So been spending the past few days chillin' to get myself back in order, but here we are, and hopefully I'll be able to update everything before the year's out. In the meantime, let's see what the boys are up to….We've got a few quotes from Angels in the Outfield and Mrs. Doubtfire, by the way. :D

The machine Hiro's looking for is a Coinstar, by the way. And Mrs. Hicks is based on a combo of one of my science teachers and my recollections of the women working at my first college (I'm almost out of college, that's so surreal). And hey look! Wasabi and Professor Granville! :D

According to one of the shorts, Wasabi is an Uber-driver, or at least moonlights as one, which apparently didn't end well—this isn't the first time he's had to drive Obake somewhere. D:

In other news, I have concerns that in the comments section of "Things We Lost In The Fire," topping the list is Tadashi Hamada. D:

And—and can we just discuss the fact that in canon, Professor Granville and Callaghan were teaching at SFIT at the same time? Meaning that Callaghan would have been teaching Obake? Please, I need you to picture this.

Infinitriniti, thanks for the review! Yes, and apparently I've been mailing in chapters! *bricked* Yes, Baymax is the best. :D

TheGeekno72, thanks for the review! Yes….

Wreck-It Ralph © Disney (referencing the second movie as well, although I haven't seen it)

Ultimate Spider-Man © Marvel (again we reference volume 1 of the comic run)

Litwak's further down the street did indeed have Sugar Rush, but it was closed for repairs—something about a broken wheel he was having to order. A few other games were under the weather too, but they were able to find plenty of other games to blow quarters and other assorted coins on. Hiro won handily on skeeball, but he suspected that was because Obake currently had terrible depth perception. There were plenty of other games that Obake beat him at though, and plenty he beat Obake at—they would have probably been at it all day if Baymax hadn't set a reminder about heading back home.

They ducked into the convenience store across the street from the post office on their way back, mostly to look for one of those machines that turned coins into cash. None were forthcoming, and it did seem a waste to pass up perfectly good junk food—hence Hiro nabbing a Pepsi while Obake grabbed a Monster drink.

Hiro also made one more purchase, and one that seemed to baffle Obake when he held it up.

"They're ice pops," Hiro said, trying to subtly get Obake to take the blue one. "They shouldn't hurt to eat, they're just flavored ice."

"The: ice," Baymax said, blinking at them. "Would help to soothe any swelling."

Obake considered.

A few minutes later saw them sitting on the curb, Hiro eating the blue ice pop (Obake hadn't fallen for it). The other boy was stuck with a green one though—Hiro stuck his tongue out at him, laughed when he mirrored the action and revealed a green tongue. Obake was laughing and pointing, so Hiro was certain his whole mouth was blue at this point—he wondered how many people he could freak out like this.

Sigh, watch the light traffic going by as he sucked up the melting juice—bright sunny day, one that had been spent at the arcade, ice pops afterwards…it was a nice day, one that was almost normal.

I'm sorry about Tadashi.

Another sigh, cold seeping through him that didn't come from the ice; almost normal was a pipe dream anymore. There was nothing normal about a life without Tadashi, nothing normal about a life with such a big piece of it gone. He wanted his brother back—he wanted him back so badly it hurt.

Physically you are uninjured.

Physically, yes—if he looked like he felt, though…he was honestly surprised he was even remotely functioning. The only way he had been able to even get out of the house the past two days was to entirely focus on something else—bot-fighting, the arcade, the quest to get rid of the money AKA bot-fighting evidence…little things that he could focus on with a singlemindedness that was almost strong enough to cut through the fugue.

Almost.

Because there was always that undercurrent now—that pain sucking away at him, draining his energy, his essence away, relentless as an incoming tide attacking a sand castle—he might still look okay, might still act okay, but any moment that would all go crumbling down.

And part of him wanted to let it—just get it over with, so he didn't have to live with this pain anymore. But he had to hold on—for Aunt Cass's sake, at least.

He couldn't help but glance at the main reason he kept being dragged out of the house—couldn't fully tell what Obake was looking at with that eye covered, not with Hiro sitting on his injured side, but he seemed to be looking at the post office as he sipped at his Monster drink.

Obake—what kind of a name was ghost, anyway? It might pass as a cool street handle—and he had been street-savvy, the bot-fighting proved that much.

Come to think of it—he knew exactly nothing about this kid. Spent the last…two, three days with him? He didn't know any more now than he did when they started. He actually had more questions now than when he started—who was that Yosei kid anyway, and why was it so important to Obake that Hiro beat them? How could a kid Hiro's age be so blasé about a thousand dollars? What, precisely, happened to him, that made it hurt to talk and required a bandage over half his face?

How was he supposed to deal with this kid when he could almost feel him pulling Hiro's strings, like he was no more than this week's entertainment? Was it really such a good idea to keep him around?

The answer was probably not—but Hiro didn't want his aunt crushed again, didn't want to go back to that empty echoing room…even some mute possibly-manipulative kid was an improvement over that.

Maybe he was overreacting—Obake was a kid, same as him; he enjoyed goofing off at the arcade and eating ice pops and drinking drinks that probably weren't the healthiest of choices—Hiro finally had a friend his age, if he were to be so generous as to call Obake that. Tadashi would go down on both knees at this news—

It felt like a ton of iron rebar being dropped on him.

Tadashi would never react, because Tadashi was dead.

His soda suddenly tasted like dirt when he took a swig, trying to get the tightness out of his throat—not again, not again—

It was his fault Tadashi was dead.

Free up a hand to scrub at his face, hope that neither Obake nor Baymax commented—he didn't need this, he didn't need any of this, he just wanted to go back to a few months ago when his biggest concern was figuring out how to get into SFIT—

He just wanted his brother back—

"Hey! Hey Hiro!"

Hiro barely registered his name being called, definitely registered the car horn almost right next to him—jumped, spun—recognized the car and the head sticking out of it. "Wasabi! Wait, what are you doing here?"

Tadashi's friend got out and leaned on the door of the car, indicating it in a half-gesture. "Summer job as an Uber-driver—need a little extra money in case my funding goes through. It shouldn't, but you know—better safe than sorry." Peer at him with concern. "What about you? We haven't heard from you in weeks—is that Baymax?"

Hiro scrambled upright during this, tossed his trash in a nearby bin and wiped his hands down on his shirt, thinking—better come up with a good story before Baymax said anything about the money—

"Uh, yeah," Hiro managed finally, deciding to go with at least part of the truth right now. "He kind of…self-activated…we're trying to get him back in his charger."

"They are both in need of care," Baymax said.

"Both?" Wasabi echoed—flinched a little; Hiro glanced behind to see Obake mirroring his actions, giving Wasabi an evaluating look.

"Uh…yeah," Hiro said. "This is Obake—he's…this is Obake."

Wasabi looked like he couldn't decide between confused, concerned, and amused, among other expressions. "Did he run into Fred?"

That—would actually explain a lot; he glanced at Obake, saw him looking at Hiro blankly. "Fred is…one of Tadashi's friends." And saying that would bring up—"Oh man, look at the time—really gotta get home, Aunt Cass has this…thing…."

Wasabi checked his phone. "I don't have anything to do right now—hop in, I'll give you a lift."

"Uh…." Great. Couldn't exactly brush him off. "Uh, sure, thanks."

To be fair, it wasn't even that long a walk, would be an even shorter ride, but he felt that brushing Wasabi off would be more trouble than it was worth.

Of course, he probably should have thought of the logistics of getting Baymax into a car first.

"Okay," Hiro said, walking around to where Wasabi and Obake were on the sidewalk. "Maybe we should just walk." Obake shifted his weight a little—or maybe not, if Baymax was right about him being in a 'recent trauma,' whatever that all entailed. "Maybe we could tie Baymax to the roof?"

Baymax tried to get out of the car, couldn't, was wedged in too far from Hiro trying to haul on him from one side and Wasabi and Obake trying to shove him in from the other. Blink at them, look his situation over.

"I will have to deflate in order to fit in the: car," Baymax declared—

What followed was about a minute of three boys trying desperately to pretend that they were anywhere but right there.

"Are you done?" Hiro asked, when Baymax stopped.

Baymax considered, wiggled further into the car—let out another small burst of air. "Yes."

"Oh-kay, I am going to desperately pretend that this isn't my car and that I'm not really here buh-bye," Wasabi muttered, rubbing his neck and scanning the sky as he slid into the driver's seat. Hiro looked to see which seat Obake was taking—

"Oh no you don't," Hiro said, running after him and dragging him back. "If I have to suffer, you do too."

On the positive side, Baymax had ensured that most of the ride was in silence.

"So," Wasabi noised finally.

"No," Hiro said sternly, turning a little in the shotgun seat. "We silently agreed that we're not going to talk, because talking means we might have to remember it, and I for one do not want to remember this particular car ride."

Obake tugged himself forward a little on Hiro's seat so his frantic nodding was evident.

"Talking: is an important part of social interaction," Baymax said, a finger up. "It is also a crucial part of the healing process."

"Baymax, no—"

"So I was actually going to ask about Mr. Scarily-Quiet in the back," Wasabi tried, voice strained.

"Uh…yeah," Hiro said, glancing behind at Obake. "Obake…doesn't exactly talk? Long story."

Stop at a stop sign. "And…you two met how?"

"Long story?" Hiro tried—they were literally a block away from home, they could hold off…nope, no, not with that expression, somewhere between confused and consternated; Hiro gusted a sigh before continuing.

"Aunt Cass signed up for this…program…thing," he said, gesturing weakly. "So…he's staying with us now?"

He couldn't help the glance back at Obake, couldn't help the unasked question: Are you staying? Obake looked out the window, didn't acknowledge the questions spoken or unspoken.

"Oh," Wasabi noised—glance at him, saw the expressions—he wanted to ask the big question, address the elephant in the room—

"Oh look there's the café," Hiro said quickly, pointing. Finally—took all his willpower to wait until Wasabi pulled to the curb and came to a complete stop before unbuckling his seat belt, hands shaking, and tumble out of the car. "So thanks for the ride, gotta go—"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Wasabi said, startled by Hiro's speed in getting out. "Uh, you need any help with—"

"No we've got him," Hiro said, opening the back door so Obake could tug Baymax out. Obake nodded at him, glanced at Wasabi.

"Thanks," he rasped, before tugging on Baymax.

"He speaks," Wasabi gasped, looking both surprised and deeply concerned.

"Oh look at that, the ice pops work," Hiro squeaked, bouncing a little and mentally begging them to hurry up. "Okay we're out gotta get in Aunt Cass will be looking for us—"

"I will require a few moments to reinflate," Baymax declared, shuffling a bit on the sidewalk before his vinyl started inflating.

"You can do that in the house," Hiro said, shooing Baymax towards the café. "So uh, thanks for the ride, Wasabi! We really appreciate it!"

"Uh, okay, no problem!" Wasabi called—almost in the clear—"And, um, Hiro…I'm sorry about Tadashi."

There—right there, like a shot in the back, shattering him, the blow he had been afraid of. There was no stopping it, no getting rid of it, no deflecting it—he didn't…he didn't want people to be sorry about Tadashi.

He just wanted Tadashi back.

"Yeah," Hiro wheezed, voice weak and squeaky, head and shoulders dipping, despite him trying to stay upright. "Me too."

Forget it—just forget it—run into the house, run up the stairs, ignoring Aunt Cass's oh you're home! Dive at his bed, burying his face in his pillow. Just…if he just laid there, maybe everything would go away. Maybe this was all a horrible, horrible dream, and he'd wake up and Tadashi would be alive. He'd give Hiro a hard time for ages, he was sure—every time Hiro gave him grief he'd bring this up, you'd miss me if I was gone, you know you would!

He felt someone sit on the edge of his bed, slip on it a bit further—didn't feel like Aunt Cass.

Maybe he had—maybe this was a dream, and that was Tadashi—

…Or maybe he was just willingly deluding himself, knew he was deluding himself—because if he wasn't, he'd look; the fact he wasn't told him all he needed to about that particular daydream.

Whoever it was had upgraded to poking him and shaking him a little—their not saying anything yet gave away the identity.

Hiro rolled to his side, arms crossed, to look at Obake, evaluating him…the other kid's expression wasn't judging, or sympathetic—just that aggravating passiveness he had been showing, like he was only paying attention because it was the polite thing to do.

But he wasn't trying to understand Hiro's pain, or trying to make him feel better—he was just being there, and right now, Hiro could appreciate that—could appreciate someone looking at shattered glass with enough sense not to tap on it.

"Y'ever…just kinda want to take your life, hold it away from you, and say that's not my life?" Hiro asked finally, not expecting an answer. Right now, that was simply how he was feeling, and maybe saying it out loud did make it a little better—to, in a sideways sort of way, acknowledge that this, this right here, was not the life one Hiro Hamada should be living. There was another life, only a few months ago, when everything was good and right with the world, where he wasn't looking at it through a shattered window, where if he breathed too deeply the glass would all fall apart.

To his surprise, Obake looked like he was considering that question seriously—nodded with a wry expression, like he found it ironic that Hiro had decided to ask him that question.

Hiro blinked, blinked again to give his mind enough traction to get going again. "I guess you would," he said finally, looking at the bandage coating half the boy's face. "And I guess asking about it won't get an answer, will it?"

Obake shook his head.

Hiro considered this. "I…guess I can respect that." Glance up at Aunt Cass calling for them. "And…." And what? What did he have to say? Nothing wanted to come out, no matter how hard he tried to purge it—it'd get to his throat and tighten, threatening to choke him rather than escape. There was nothing he could say—just…just get up and pretend like his life hadn't been utterly destroyed, a huge chunk just ripped out of it.

Obake seemed willing to pretend with him, at least.

"Right," Hiro muttered, shoving himself into a sitting position. "We should probably see what Aunt Cass wants—probably about your clothes." Consider a moment…."Maybe it's all embarrassing pink stuff."

At least he could still laugh at the little things—like Obake's offended expression and shove at Hiro's shoulder. With that, maybe he could pretend a little bit longer.

Maybe he could stave off the inevitable breaking shatter.

The whole thing with the clothes was about as aggravating as he thought it would be, honestly—at least Cass and her friend had gotten general measurements, allowed him to slip away as they discussed the box of clothes.

And Hiro—hmm….

Tug him into the living room, point out the game system in an endeavor to get him out of his funk—that annoying shadow in his eyes had made an aggressive comeback on the ride back, had overwhelmed him when they had arrived.

Now, Hiro was busy going through the games and discussing the pros and cons of each one, that shadow still flickering in there—most of these seemed to be party games or ones that required two-player co-op—and then Cass came back in, showing off some of the clothes and discussing maybe washing Obake's hoodie. Oi.

Later though, enjoying a long shower with plenty of hot water, he reflected that he had been a bit premature in trying to take off right away. Sure, the plan was just to get away as fast as possible—but on the same token, hot showers were a luxury he didn't often get, and it was nice to get a month or more of just an icky feeling off of him, letting the heat soak in—not quite to his bones, but it was an improvement.

And another thing, he reflected as he dried his hair—Hiro. That boy did have the potential to be entertaining, at the very least…now if only he could get rid of that flickering shadow in his eyes, the memory of the dead brother. Consistently ruining his fun, and he wasn't even here.

Tug on the new clothes—a little loose, but he didn't care, made it easier to hide his belongings in his pockets—fluff up his mohawk in the mirror, enjoying the shine on it for once.

But yes—Hiro had the potential to be diverting, quite fun if he set his mind to it—use him up, certainly, toss him aside when he was done.

Although….

Hiro could definitely be an entertaining cohort, if Obake could just unseat the dead brother in his mind—enjoyed the bot-fighting, definitely, until he thought of the brother; was even fun on lesser games such as the arcade, also until that shadow came crashing down. Willing to go along on Obake's schemes—until the memory of the brother made a comeback.

Now if he could get rid of that somehow…well, he was in the market for a new partner in crime—hopefully Yosei figured out the carefully-worded screw you of grabbing a little kid off the street and having him kick their can. Ahh, that expression had been satisfying. And served them right, too, after leaving him to be picked up by the cops.

But that was in the past now—as for the present….

He'd have to edit his approach, he felt—because now, he was motivated.

And he could be very dangerous when motivated.

Finish straightening up the bathroom, leave—found Hiro on one of the steps, playing a handheld game. Sit down near him, wait for him to sense his presence and glance up.

"Oh good," Hiro noised, going back to his game. "You were really starting to smell."

Give him a light kick before scootching over—ah, he saw that smirk—feign interest in the game, cross his arms and look interested when Hiro started explaining it.

He wasn't sure how long it would take, but he'd win Hiro over.

After all, he was quite adept at getting people to play his game.

The entirety of the campus still stunk like smoke and wet ash.

The main exhibition hall and several of the nearby labs had caught fire that night, were now varying levels of utterly destroyed. The exhibition hall itself had been burned to the ground, the two poor unfortunate souls trapped inside rendered down to ash from the intense heat of the burning chemicals from the exhibits there. It had been an awful night, one that had resulted in two horrible deaths and several terrible injuries.

People were still reeling from it, that she was absolutely sure of.

Her, for example, gingerly picking through the campus where the fire company had already cleared it, examining the burned husks, having already paid her respects at the shrine on what was left on the exhibition hall steps. Professor Grace Granville, robotics professor now promoted to dean of robotics in the wake of Professor Callaghan's death. She had accepted, knowing that the void needed filling but feeling ill at the speed with which it had been filled.

And also, because she didn't think she deserved it.

She finally reached the lab she wanted, stood there in the dim ambient lighting of the surrounding city—the streetlights here had yet to be replaced—stared at the blackened skeleton marring the sky. Look around…there was something odd and sobering about standing in what was left after a fire had raged, of seeing the bones left, of breathing in its remnants.

(The fire company had assured her it was safe to walk around campus, that the smell wasn't the first sign of some form of chemical poisoning, that it'd take another month or so to fully disperse, would probably be gone as soon as the debris was clear).

It had been chaos that night—no one knew how the fire had started, the fire company couldn't determine its source, not with the numerous explosions and chemicals involved. It could have been any number of reasons, the destruction that night.

The sick persisting feeling continued as she looked at one of the destroyed labs, sitting adjacent to the exhibit hall. One of the explosions in the hall had lit it, the fire company thought.

Or, perhaps, something in one of the labs had started the fire.

She should have said something—should have put a stop to it—should have set limits. She hadn't—such a brilliant boy had made her think that perhaps he didn't need them.

What a fool she had been.

There was no proof—nothing to say that was the source of the fire; but she couldn't help but wonder….

I have concerns, you giving him free reign—you may view it as limits, but I view it as guidelines. That boy—I don't trust him; he's dangerous. Very dangerous. You don't see it, but it's there—mark my words, one of these days he's going to cause some damage you can't excuse away. What then?

What then indeed.

It was true, she had given the boy more breaks, more leniency, more freedom than she usually allowed for students—but it seemed such a shame to tamp down that level of brilliance, especially when feeding that fire dampened his less savory qualities. She had had hopes that he could be steered into a more beneficial mindset, that if he thought that someone believed he could do great things, he would.

Now the man who had issued her that warning was dead—and the last she had heard of the boy who only answered to Ghost was of him slipping out of the hospital he had been taken to after being pulled out of the wreckage of the labs.

And it was her fault.

Callaghan was right—she should have established limits, should have put her foot down—should have at least told him he couldn't operate without supervision, that being in the labs after hours was off-limits—whether he was the source of the explosion or just an innocent bystander, he shouldn't have been there, and that was her fault.

The deaths of two people might be her fault as well.

She wouldn't be sure until the forensic team had finished scouring the campus to their hearts' content and shared with them their results. Until then, she had that worry eating away at her.

Another one eating at her: what had become of Obake. She had seen him, when they had taken him away in the ambulance—one month of hospitalization wasn't nearly enough time for him to be disappearing into the night. He hadn't shown up at the campus, as far as she knew—or perhaps he had, to find that it had shut down while cleanup was going on. After that, she wasn't sure what he'd have done—it had been a chance encounter that saw them crossing paths, and she never knew much of his life before SFIT; he never saw fit to share. What she had learned, she had learned by accident.

And she had learned that he didn't really have a support system outside of campus—barely had one on campus. Callaghan wasn't the only one who had had concerns about him—he was polite, he kept to himself, but he was more than willing to show fangs when he thought he could get away with it.

And that attitude might have resulted in death and destruction.

She sighed, shook her head, headed back for the administration building, one of the only ones on campus with lights still on—a few people were working there, calculating costs and organizing the online courses that were still able to go on in spite of everything.

"So?" Mrs. Hicks asked, when she came in. "How's it looking?"

"Destroyed," Granville told her, walking by. "I was just getting a cup of coffee before heading home."

Mrs. Hicks nodded. "I'm sorting this mail and then heading home myself."

That was it on the small talk—Granville made a small to-go cup, turned, walked by Mrs. Hicks' desk again on the way out—

Stopped and came back upon registering her expression. "What is it?"

In response Mrs. Hicks handed her the letter, started counting out the money as she skimmed it over.

"I mean—it barely makes a dent, but…this was so nice," Mrs. Hicks said finally, gesturing to the money. "This is the nicest thing—can you believe it?"

"Barely," Granville said—there was something about the letter—it was polished, too polished, to the point it felt fake—

And familiar, she realized.

She looked at the money on the desk. "How much is there?"

"About two-hundred and fifty dollars," Mrs. Hicks said. "And the letter said there was more coming—donations from the neighborhood! Isn't it wonderful?"

"Yes," Granville said, putting the letter down. "Good night, Mrs. Hicks."

She was sure the other teacher wasn't expecting such an abrupt departure, but she needed to digest this new wrinkle—mostly because it gave her a clue as to what Obake had been doing after leaving the hospital. Two-hundred and fifty dollars was a pittance in regards to the damages to the school, but for a boy with no clear financial means, it was a surprising windfall.

And, looking out on the gleaming city and its deep shadows, she had to wonder just what he was up to, and what he was planning next. And simply hope that whatever it was, it was something good.

Somehow, she doubted it.