[ The rules of physics are different in this place -- given that, in truth, there are none. They perceive the dataspace as they do in a three-dimensional space because that's how they've been wired to perceive the world, but they are ultimately not bound to their expectations.
Case in point, Hiro's emotions and memories bleeding over in such a way that Baymax couldn't ignore them if he tried. He takes them all in, lending his own RAM to processing them so Hiro isn't overwhelmed. He sees them, feels the emotions attached, sees firshand how different his own Hiro's life may have been had he had a brother of his own.
Baymax's 'physical' form here in his own mind is bound to how he perceives himself. First and foremost, he considers himself Baymax: The synthformer, the servant, the protector, nine feet of cumbersome metal and sleek design. But here, now, he longs for a form from a lifetime ago; He remembers the feel of his tailored suits against flesh, the lingering aroma of aftershave on his five o'clock shadow, how his son seemed to fit perfectly against his chest when he held and comforted the boy.
There's no transition, no spectacle -- the change simply is. Baymax pulls Hiro close, holding the boy to a starched shirt and silk tie, with welcoming arms that can hold Hiro as tight as he can without fear of crushing him. He rocks gently, murmuring soothing words as he combs his fingers through the boy's mop of hair, feeling every strand at his fingertips. He hadn't done this is nearly a decade.
The change feels so natural, and Baymax is too caught up in shouldering Hiro's burden that he chooses not to react. There were more important things here, after all. ]
I know, Hiro. I know. It's okay. I know it feels like no one could ever understand what you're feeling, but I do. So much more than you realize.
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Case in point, Hiro's emotions and memories bleeding over in such a way that Baymax couldn't ignore them if he tried. He takes them all in, lending his own RAM to processing them so Hiro isn't overwhelmed. He sees them, feels the emotions attached, sees firshand how different his own Hiro's life may have been had he had a brother of his own.
Baymax's 'physical' form here in his own mind is bound to how he perceives himself. First and foremost, he considers himself Baymax: The synthformer, the servant, the protector, nine feet of cumbersome metal and sleek design. But here, now, he longs for a form from a lifetime ago; He remembers the feel of his tailored suits against flesh, the lingering aroma of aftershave on his five o'clock shadow, how his son seemed to fit perfectly against his chest when he held and comforted the boy.
There's no transition, no spectacle -- the change simply is. Baymax pulls Hiro close, holding the boy to a starched shirt and silk tie, with welcoming arms that can hold Hiro as tight as he can without fear of crushing him. He rocks gently, murmuring soothing words as he combs his fingers through the boy's mop of hair, feeling every strand at his fingertips. He hadn't done this is nearly a decade.
The change feels so natural, and Baymax is too caught up in shouldering Hiro's burden that he chooses not to react. There were more important things here, after all. ]
I know, Hiro. I know. It's okay. I know it feels like no one could ever understand what you're feeling, but I do. So much more than you realize.