Chapter Text
Bright, white-hot pain. A deafening roar, his own screaming. Blinding light all around him, the smell of soot and ash and hot metal. Every sense clogged with too much information. Tears evaporating as they fell.
In the midst of it, words.
Silent, no voice. Would have been lost in the rest of the noise, otherwise. Words forming in his mind like thoughts – not his voice.
“You'll do.”
The vague impression that someone, somewhere, might be smiling.
Nothing.
It was like the beginning of a nightmare.
Sometimes, when he was dreaming, his eyes would be closed. Not just from sleep – in the dream itself, his eyes would be tightly shut, and no amount of effort would open them. It was kind of like that now. His vision was dark, his ears plugged and muted, his limbs stiff and frozen as if suspended in concrete.
A stray thought slipped in and out of his mind. If I don't breathe soon, I'll suffocate.
He tried to move his mouth, crack open his jaws, feel air pass over his dry tongue, but every millimeter of movement drained him. Desperate, he forced his last dregs of energy into his jaws, only to regret it. Filth filled his mouth, something bitter and gritty like rusted iron and old cigarettes. He shut his mouth with a snap, and his sharp teeth crunched around a mouthful of it. A gagging cough forced itself out of him. He still hadn't breathed yet.
I'm going to die.
The thought rang in his mind with a note of familiarity that made him shudder all the way to the tips of his claws. He couldn't die, not yet. He had to go home. There was something important, something –
A memory danced in his mind, flickering in and out. He reached for it desperately, and it darted away. What was it? He needed to get out. He needed to stop. He needed to think, act, sleep, move, breathe, live, for – for –
The noise that slipped from his jaws could barely be classified as speech. With empty lungs and grit filling his mouth, words were impossible. Fight this , he thought. Live. You have to – you have to.
His body was like stone, but with a savage effort he moved it all the same. Around him, his prison shifted – not concrete as he had thought, but dirt or something like it. Whatever was in his mouth was also all around him, trapping him, holding him as still as stone. As still as death.
Which way was up?
He writhed, choking on his panic. His jaws opened again, spilling more of the grit onto his lolling tongue. Had he breathed yet? In a moment of panic, he tried, and only succeeded in nearly swallowing the mouthful. He gagged again, forcing filth and spit out of his mouth. There might have been bile, too, but he couldn't be sure.
It was liquid, though. That was important. Because he could feel it dripping from his tongue to the corner of his mouth, spilling onto his cheek.
Liquid drips down. He was on his back.
He kicked out with all fours, clawing savagely at the trapping weight. With each passing second, he felt his prison loosen. His eyes almost cracked open, but he kept them shut.
It was like trying to swim through wet cement. After a few seconds of straining, he gave up on trying to sit up. He tried to breathe on instinct, only to choke on another mouthful of grit. Blindly he twisted and writhed, fighting to turn over. Minutes may have passed, or hours, before he gathered up the moisture in his mouth and tried spitting again. It dripped down – away from his face, this time. He was on his belly.
He bared his teeth in a snarl of effort and shoved all fours downward. Against his back, the loosened weight shifted. Something jabbed into his side, a distant pain. He kept at it, clawing and digging and pushing himself upward through his prison, panting and whining and snarling in his exhaustion, until finally, finally –
Cold air swept over his back. A strangled sob forced its way from his aching throat, and he kicked, clawed, and crawled his way to freedom. There was fresh air on his face, and he drank it in greedily with starved gasps. The strength fled his aching limbs, and he sank to the ground again. Grit scraped against his cheek, and he refused to care. His ears rang with a distant noise, somewhere between a howl and a whistle.
He opened his eyes. It was still dark, but it was a manageable sort of dark. He could make out shapes of things, the lumpy ground beneath him (what was that? Dirt? Mud? Rocks?) and above him, a cloudy night sky. For a few moments, he let the world pass while he took a moment to breathe and live. Through half closed eyes, he watched the world lighten as his eyes adjusted and the clouds overhead moved. Soft, silvery light shone down on him – the moon was out.
The memory danced within reach, as if teasing him while he was exhausted. Instead of chasing it, he let it come. Closer and closer it came, until he could reach out and touch it.
Dry, cracked lips parted. His jaws opened again, and cool night air passed over flat, gritty teeth. He spoke.
“Hiro.”
The sound of the name, his own voice in his own ears, woke him further. He shifted, feeling himself sink back into the softened, lumpy ground. His bones creaked and ached like an old man's, but after a moment he managed to heave himself into something approaching a sitting position. In bits and pieces he came back into himself – a battered, exhausted young man with a soot-blackened blazer and hair that was stiff with dirt and dried sweat.
Around him, the distant ringing hadn't stopped. He blinked blearily at the room around him. Was it even a room? There was no ceiling, but there were certainly walls – he thought. Tables? The remains of tables? Burnt-out, melted machinery? Everything around him was black, but he was starting to realize that it wasn't the dark. He lifted his hand, reaching toward the nearest surface, and found the same blackness on his own skin. A careful sniff brought him the answer.
Ashes.
He had been buried in debris and ashes. What the hell happened? Where was he?
And what in God's name was that obnoxious ringing?
He turned his head, searching for the source, but something blocked his view. More soot-covered walls, fallen beams, the remains of the roof that had buried him. Narrowing his eyes, he fought to see.
There it was. Lights, reflecting off the dull black. Red, blue – emergency lights. Sirens. He was hearing sirens.
Fallen roof. Sirens. Soot. The taste of ashes, the stench of burning.
Fire.
His pulse rocketed, and a sudden explosion of light startled him into motion. With a cry, he flung himself backward and away from it, eyes fixed on the dancing orange brightness. Fire. Fire. There was a fire. There is a fire.
He breathed in small, quick gasps as he forced himself to calm down. It was a small one. Tiny. Smaller than your average respectable campfire. It couldn't hurt him. It hadn't hurt him, as far as he could tell.
With each breath, he calmed down. The little fire died down as well, which helped. Once his mind was still again, he gathered himself. This situation, not unlike science, started with questions. He needed answers. But first, he decided to give standing a try.
The uneven ground did nothing to help his balance, but he grabbed the remains of a table or display to steady himself. With his free hand, he combed his fingers through his stiff hair and let his mind do its work.
Where am I? What's going on?
Bit by bit, it came back to him. Hiro's name had been the first to come back, and the rest trailed after it. Hiro had been excited – but why had he been excited? What excited Hiro? Bot-fights, usually – no, Hiro had stopped bot-fighting. He had to, with the project keeping him busy.
The project.
Microbots. Genius invention. The neuro-cranial transmitter was truly inspired. Smart kid. He was so excited for the showcase. The showcase!
It had gone well, open fly notwithstanding. He'd been planning to let Hiro know about that – brother's prerogative. Callaghan had handed Hiro an acceptance letter himself.
Callaghan. Professor Callaghan's still—
The thought ended when it had barely started. Tadashi didn't bother chasing it – he could do that later.
The showcase. Hiro's presentation. Applause, Krei, Callaghan, letter, and then –
And then?
It was like a mental brick wall, and no amount of shoving would get him past it. He was ready to give up when he remembered a handy little piece of advice. His own advice, his own words. Look from another angle.
He glanced around, still bleary-eyed. This was as good an angle as any. There was a fire, it had destroyed this building, and all this machinery and display tables had burned into a misshapen mess.
Display tables. Melted remains of technology. Was that a stage over there, half-buried in the remains of the ceiling's ashes?
He was still at the auditorium.
The auditorium had burned.
“Hiro!” It was a pathetic attempt at a shout. It came out thin and weak, and his voice cracked “Hiro?” He took a step and nearly tripped and fell all over again. Stumbling, he made his way through and over the rubble of the auditorium. “Hiro, it's me. It's... it's Tadashi. Hello?”
There was no answer but the continued wail of sirens. Tadashi almost smacked himself. Emergency services, of course! He had to let them know he was all right – they must have missed him when they searched for survivors. Maybe they found Hiro.
His stomach twisted at the thought. No, no, maybe Hiro made it out. Maybe he was nowhere near the fire.
Maybe he was at home, with no idea where Tadashi was.
The panic rose up again, but he forced it down and continued his clumsy, shambling journey through the rubble, out to where the light was. He froze at the front entrance, staring in wide-eyed alarm. The glass was no longer there, and the metal frames were melted and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever had happened here, he was lucky to be alive, and probably needed medical attention.
That could wait, though. Find Hiro first, seek medical attention later.
Tadashi had excellent priorities.
He tried to shrink himself as he staggered down the steps. He missed the last one, pitched forward with a cry, and nearly split his chin open on the concrete. In the corner of his eye, light flared up again. Someone yelled out in alarm as a bit of debris burst back into flame.
“It's fine,” a rough male voice said. “Just sparks flaring up. I got it.”
Tadashi was immediately drenched with firehose water and scrambled to get out of the way as the fireman took care of the flame. “H-hey!” he yelled. “You could've waited til I got out of the way!”
No answer. Tadashi scowled, looked up, and took in the scene before him.
There were only two ambulances there – the rest were fire trucks and police cruisers, all blinking lights. The wail was coming from the police sirens. In fact, most of the people there were firefighters and cops. A few paramedics, but they were clustered around people sitting in the ambulances. Hugging himself slightly, Tadashi made his way over.
“Um, excuse me?” he called out. “I just – I just came out of the building. I feel okay, but I thought you might want to check. Maybe a ride to the hospital, I think I inhaled-”
He stopped talking. No one was listening. Not the paramedics, and not the few victims left being treated. Tadashi stepped closer to one of the EMTs who wasn't busy with a patient, frowning. “Hey! I need help!” The woman turned away from him rudely. “Look, could you at least tell me if you've seen someone? A fourteen-year-old boy, messy hair? Hiro Hamada?” No use – they were all ignoring him. Irritated, he stepped forward to put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, come on, I just-”
The woman turned abruptly as if about to address him, but instead of speaking she simply walked forward.
Before Tadashi had time to get out of her way, she was already walking through him.
He flinched back, gasping with shock. Behind him, the woman continued unaware. Slowly, he turned around, stepped after her, and gingerly reached for her shoulder.
His fingers passed right through her, as if he were made of air.
Panic crept up again, but the woman's voice cut him off. “That all of them? Anyone seriously hurt?”
One of the other paramedics, a tired-looking man, answered her. “Nope. At least no one we pulled out so far. Mostly a few burns. There was one kid – fourteen year old boy – showing signs of a concussion, but he went to the hospital hours ago. Beyond that...” His voice trailed off.
Tadashi Hamada was already off and running.
Minutes bled together. He knew these streets well, and his footsteps matched his pounding heartbeat. People passed him, passed by him, passed through him – he flinched and shut his eyes each time it happened. Don't think about it now. Later. Right now, find Hiro.
The hospital. He slipped onto a bus, not bothering to pay the fare for the first time in his life. The driver didn't appear to notice, and Tadashi tried not to throw up. Could he even throw up now—?
No. Not now. Think later.
He arrived at the hospital when the moon was high and he still had no idea what time it was. His momentum slammed him into the front doors with a grunt, and he had to slow down for a moment to open them properly.
Emergency ward. Would Hiro still be there? No – not after hours. For a concussion, they might keep him overnight or send him home, depending on how bad it was – and no one was answering him. How was he supposed to find him?
And then someone passed through him again. On moment there were footsteps behind him, and the next he was staring at the back of someone's head. A very familiar someone.
“Honey!”
She didn't hear him. She was hunched, walking quickly, her face in her hand and her phone against her ear. Tadashi ran to keep up.
“Honey Lemon. Honey, please answer me. Honey!” He tried to stop her, but his hand passed through her arm. “Honey, I'm right here, please, you have to tell me what's going on! Where's Hiro?”
“Second floor.” For one wild, cruel moment, Tadashi thought she had answered him. “I'm on my way there now. N-no, no, Fred, he's all right. They're just keeping him under observation. F-Fred – no Fred, don't – the firefighters are there, they'll-” She halted suddenly in the hallway, her words choked off. For a few seconds she stood shaking, composing herself. “They'll find him, Fred. Th-ey have to, he went in, he can't just-” A sob. “He wouldn't just disappear, they'll find him. They'll... I have to go.” She put her phone away, tucked herself into a corner out of the way, and sobbed into her hands.
Standing before her, reaching out futilely, Tadashi had never felt so utterly useless. “Honey? Honey, it's okay. I... I'm okay, I have to be okay , I'm standing right here!” Ghosts aren't real. “I... I have to go find Hiro. Second floor, right?”
He didn't wait for an answer that he knew wasn't coming.
It was Room 231. He knew because he found Wasabi standing in the doorway. His friend was motionless, silent, gazing at the wall with a thousand-yard stare. He was also blocking the door.
“Wasabi?” He didn't want to do this. Not on purpose. If he did it on purpose, after thinking about it, it meant it was real. “Buddy, I need to get through. Is Hiro in there?”
No reply. He bit his lip, wincing when a sharp tooth broke skin, and walked forward. One step at a time. One, then two, then three, and he was past Wasabi and through the door, tense and shuddering from the sensation of having walked through someone like they were a mirage.
No.
He was the mirage here, wasn't he?
Tadashi stepped into the hospital room.
Aunt Cass sat by the bed, silent. She clutched Hiro's hand with both of hers. A few times she looked up as if ready to speak, only to look down again and stay quiet. And Hiro...
Hiro's eyes were open, but like Wasabi he was staring at the opposite wall and past it. His hair was as messy as usual, if not more so. There was a bandage on the arm that Aunt Cass was holding on to. In his other hand, he clutched a familiar baseball cap. His baseball cap.
Tadashi's feet took him around the bed as if of their own accord. “H-Hiro.” He took the other chair, because he wasn't sure how long his legs could keep holding him up. “Hiro, look at me.”
His little brother's eyes remained fixed on the wall. With his last drop of hope, Tadashi reached out to take Hiro's hand. And of course, he couldn't.
There was no panic, not this time. Panic was too much effort. Tadashi's breath caught in his throat, and he folded in on himself, desperately trying again and again to hold his brother's hand. His own hand curled into a fist around the sheet (and why could he touch that and not his brother?) and his eyes burned like the fire that had consumed the auditorium.
Flames licking at him, searing him. White-hot pain.
The sheet warmed beneath his touch, and he released it to find the sterile blue fabric blackened. His vision blurred, and he ducked his head.
“Hiro. I'm sorry.” His voice shook with sobs. “I don't know what I did. But I'm sorry. I never meant – I never meant to-”
No answer.