The Adults Are Talking
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem!OC / Hobie Brown and fem!OC / Spider-Punk x fem!OC / Spider-Punk and fem!OC
Word count: 16k
Synopsis: Every decision Hobie's ever made gets challenged.
Author's Note: So...this one kinda snuck up on me word count wise 😭🤣 I wanted to tap into more worldbuilding, but I didn't think it would take this long 😅 I'd like to thank @pinksugarscrub for beta reading as well as letting me use her OC Cass 🥹 also wanna thank @the-kr8tor for her interpretation of Ned!
Tags: Cursing, TW references of blood, Pre-ATSV Hobie Brown interpretation, Anxiety, Spiraling, Dystopia
Hobie never liked being in Miguel’s lab.
Granted, he’s always had a fascination with machines. All those years of dumpster diving and sneaking into junkyards helped him sniff out some useful parts and cool trinkets to fix, even if they would be better off being stripped down for copper and aluminum to sell. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched for someone to think Hobie would be in heaven in this futuristic laboratory with all of the gadgets and gizmos.
But no. It’s just a cold, dark metal cell with flashing lights straining the punk’s eyes.
Hobie lets out a scoff as he stares up at Miguel on top of his stupid workstation platform– work down here on t’ ground like a normal bloke, ya pretentious prick. Orange holographic screens hover around the towering man, video feeds of different spider-people running around in their patrols displayed all around him. Meanwhile, the older spider taps along on his control panel like some glorified security guard. With a whirring hiss the platform descends– almost at a snail-like pace– as the red streaks on his suit glow amid the darkness.
In the three months Hobie’s been recruited in this strange Spider Society, he’s still not sure what to make of its elusive leader. Miguel is either this formidable spider scientist Cassie raves about…or some neurotic quasi-nudist under that holographic suit fucking off to his inventions. Either way Hobie can’t ignore that sick twisting in the pit of his stomach every time he’s in this mechanical room, the flashing amber lights within the dark lab akin to warning signs to the punk. Hobie’s hands drop to his sides, his calloused fingers brushing against the metal wall until they run along a small protruding panel. He pops it off with ease before pocketing it like nothing happened.
The rich bastard can afford to buy another part like this anyway.
A thrum of tingles blooms along the punk’s side, and Hobie glances over to the yellow-clad spider beside him. Cassie stares up at him through her white-streaked bangs, her eyes steadfast and expectant. It reminds Hobie of that old German Shepherd that used to scare him away when he was a kid. It wouldn’t bark at him, nor growl at him, but those eyes would always follow him every time he passed by, lingering only on him until he ran away. Cassie’s eyes, although not as hardened or wary as the German Shepherd’s, still pierce through him the same way, still fixated on him until he slips up.
Hobie averts his eyes back to the lowering platform. As fond as he is of the yellow spider after a few months of being partnered up, her habit of staring still unnerves him.
The platform lands with a loud slam, and the flurry of tingles under Hobie’s skin subsides when Cassie finally looks away. Although with the brief reprieve follows a new prickling in the back of his head, and Hobie schools his scowl away as the towering older spider turns towards the teens. Even with Hobie straightening up his back to his full height, with his boots platformed to make himself taller, Miguel still looms over the teen with his shoulders hunched over.
It annoys Hobie to no end, petty as it is.
Shadows blanket across Miguel’s face, orange and yellow lights from the holograms pulsing behind him. Hobie’s skin crawls under the older spider’s scrutiny, the hint of red in Miguel’s eyes piercing through the darkness against flickering amber.
Pixelated glitches of orange pop around the older man before a tiny holographic woman flickers by Miguel’s ear, her humming outline illuminating the side of his face.
“Finally,” Lyla groans as she glitches into a perch on Miguel’s shoulder, and the older spider side-glances at the AI with a weary frown. “You’ve been up there for who knows how long! God, you’re worse than some of these teenagers here, having your eyes be glued to a screen–”
“Lyla–”
“I swear, do you know how bad your tunnel vision is? It’s like one word floats into your ear and spills out the other–”
“Lyla–”
“And don’t even get me started with your posture, hunching over the keyboard like Dracula or something! The least you could’ve done is raise the workstation, that way you won’t have to deal with the risk of back pain–”
“LYLA!”
The holographic woman glitches from Miguel’s shoulders and pops up between the two younger spiders, raising her hands up in cheeky surrender. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, boss. Can’t have my creator be a shriveled up old man with arthritis before he hits forty–”
“Thank you, Lyla,” Miguel’s eye twitches as he steps off the platform. “You are dismissed.”
Blowing a glitchy raspberry, Lyla floats back with her signature shit-eating grin towards the young spiders.
“At least I broke the ice between you guys. Good luck!”
And with that, the holographic whirlwind flickers away, leaving the exasperated elder and dumbfounded teens alone.
“...Shall we move on to the reports, you two?”
“Right…”
“Yes, sir…”
Miguel shakes his head in resignation as he taps on his watch before more holographic screens pop up behind him. The screens display some familiar sights to Hobie: that dull classroom, the graffitied alleyway, the view of the scenic cityscape–
“It has been four weeks since you two have been assigned this mission to Earth-318,” Miguel begins as he pulls up more holographic screens behind him, revealing more public spots Hobie recognizes. “Have you two made progress on your respective objectives?”
Hobie’s eyes flick over to the sudden jolt of movement in his periphery as Cassie straightens up in front of the elder spider.
“W-well, sir,” the yellow spider taps on her watch before a pink beam shoots up from her wrist, “it’s taking a little longer than expected, but I believe I’ve made steady progress...”
The beam disperses into particles, drifting around the trio like glittering dust, before swirling into a map of the Boroughs– each one split into puzzle pieces slowly coming together. A bright yellow line shoots through the map, colliding into three different marked coordinates until it forms an outlined triangle.
“Based on the feedback Lyla provided for me from the spider-bots before they were taken, as well as the frequencies from the remaining active ones, I managed to detect three signals– two within the upper Brooklyn area and one in lower Manhattan.”
Cassie reaches her hand out towards the pinging dot hovering over the edge of Manhattan, flexing her fingers before the hologram shifts from the map into a glitchy, run-down building. “The strongest signal is emitted from this building in Manhattan’s Chinatown, although from what I can tell from surveillance–” her fingers tap along the screen of her watch before pulsing lights flicker from the small holographic building and tiny wandering figures flood inside it– “it’s a lot more active at night.”
Multiple holographic beams shoot out from the building, displaying enlarged wanted posters of various criminals. Hobie’s eyes flick over to a familiar face amongst the holograms– a nervous gaunt man staring at the camera, his skin and clothes dusted in sand and grit. He fights the urge to wince as the paper-like cuts on his skin sting from the last encounter. The punk also recognizes the familiar calling cards from the others– a feathered winged harness on a bird-like geezer, electric sparks crackling from a woman’s fingertips, a hideous green mask shielding a man’s face.
Hobie fights the urge to flip that particular rogue off; he doesn’t need any reminders of Osborn right now.
“From what I can tell, a lot of the rogues from this universe gather around this particular venue,” Cassie continues as the holographic wanted posters glitch away. “More than likely, it’s a secret meeting hub for them, possibly to pass along intel and other deals away from the public. I am still working on hacking into their security system, but…”
A frustrated grimace flickers on the girl’s face as she taps along her watch, only for a red flashing X to pop up in front of the building, “It seems they have some kind of electromagnetic interference around the perimeter.”
Cassie turns her eyes onto Miguel, her jaw clenched and her eyes hardened with determination. “It’s only a minor issue though. I can still figure out a way to mitigate it, but the security system here will still take some time to be fully infiltrated, even without the EMI.”
A few more padded taps from her fingertips echo within the lab as two new holographic images flicker in the air. One is a wanted poster of a masked man clad in purple with a clawed gauntlet. The other is a screenshot of a glitched out figure in front of the bar.
“Besides that hiccup,” Cassie stares up at the displays with a mix of frustration and caution, “there are also two particular rogues who can be possible obstacles for this mission. One–” the image of the masked man enlarges– “is a variant of the Prowler. He frequents this area, but he generally patrols in the upper Brooklyn area, particularly in central Bed-Stuy and southern Bushwick.”
The lowest coordinate point glows brighter as the holographic wanted poster shrinks back next to it. “This particular Prowler is more of a stealth-based rogue compared to the others in the multiverse, but he’s still capable of hand-to-hand combat. However…”
Cassie’s face pinches up into a harsher scowl, one Hobie has often seen on her during her little ‘slumps’ in missions. “The most concerning aspect of this variant is his potential engineering prowess. Based on the surveillance and fluctuating frequencies within Bed-Stuy, he may be one of the more technically-adept Prowlers.”
A pink glitch crackles in the air before another holographic screen pops up, this time showing a recording feed. A man shrouded in violet and black hunches over a work table through a window, his gauntlet-sheathed hand holding a mechanical spider. Multiple wires spill from the underbelly of the spider, swaying in the air under the mercy of the rogue. Sharpened fingertips trail down the wires, grazing the rubber-like covers as if tempted to cut down a slit, until they tap against the hanging chip at the end. White lights hum through the chip, twinkling through tiny transparent tabs. The masked man grasps the chip between his fingertips, raising it up in the air under tungsten light, the white blinking from the chip eclipsed by the amber overlight.
The robotic spider twitches in his hand, metal limbs pitifully scuttling in the air, an unfortunate victim under the rogue’s mercy.
His clawed finger tugs at the chip, the blade-like fingertip tucked beneath the wires, before the Prowler finally cuts the heart of the robot out. The white light from the spider flickers out as it falls limp, but the purple-clad man just tosses the metal corpse at the pile of its lifeless brethren.
The holographic screen flickers away as Cassie continues her report. “The fact that this Prowler was able to bypass most of the security measures for all of the spider-bots should be noted for the mission. According to Lyla, typically if someone were to attempt to hack access, the spider-bot would–”
Sparks of orange light flash back in front of the elder spider’s face, nearly blinding Miguel.
“Go KABOOM–" Lyla cuts in with a cheeky smile before glitching back to Cassie’s shoulder. “Sorry, had to get it out of my system. Well, not in my system, but y’know what I mean–”
“Lyla,” Miguel groans as pinches the bridge of his nose, “don’t interrupt Cassandra’s report–”
“Dang, can I at least get a please out of it–?”
“Lyla–”
“W-well,” Cassie steps in with a sheepish smile, her hands up in the air in a placating manner, “Lyla isn’t wrong, but…”
The smile soon falters as she glances back at the miniature wanted poster hologram, “the fact he didn’t set any of them off is still a huge concern. If possible, we may need to upgrade some of our security protocols in the remaining bots’ software.”
A low grunt rumbles from the older spider as he snaps his fingers, and a holographic keyboard flickers in place. With a quick flutter of his fingers, the keyboard lights up where his fingertips hover before glitching back out.
“Continue, Cassandra.”
Hobie fights the urge to roll his eyes, but Cassie eagerly nods. “The Prowler would be manageable to take care of by himself, but…”
As she trails off, the light in her eyes dim as she squares her shoulders. New tingles ebb through Cassie, washing over Hobie in a twisted wave until he swallows down the urge to gag. The glitched screenshot enlarges in front of the group– a towering distorted figure stands in front of the building, staring back at them with glowing red eyes. A wicked grin stretches across the pixelated face while the figure holds a digitally-gnarled block of a hand up in the air.
“I’m afraid this particular rogue will be the biggest issue for us.”
More pixelated images explode across the holographic map, all with the same glitched out figure staring back at the camera with variations of the same wicked grin, no matter what it’s doing. Walking across the street, exiting a corner shop, even riding in the bus– those red eyes taunt the camera, as if already winning a sick game forced upon the spiders. Hobie glances back at Cassie, who exudes pulses of frustration as she glares at the mysterious figure.
“As of right now, I have no discernible match of who this variant is,” the yellow spider sighs, her voice wavering in discontent. “No matter how many times I try to surveil them, whether through the spider-bots’ live feeds or through the security cameras throughout this universe, I can’t get a good enough scan to identify–”
“No need.”
The air drops into a bone-chilling standstill, prickling goosebumps along Hobie’s skin. His eyes drift over to Miguel, only to meet cold red eyes shooting daggers at the image. A large vein pops out of the elder spider’s neck, his jaw clenched and his canines slowly growing into sharp fangs. His muscles strain under his holographic suit as he crosses his arms against his chest, his nails growing and sharpening.
“I am well aware of this one.”
The claws slowly retract before Miguel snaps again. An orange projection flashes behind the elder, and Hobie turns away from the sudden blinding light. A woman’s voice rings through the room, a hoarse cackle sending chills down Hobie’s spine before he finally looks back. The distorted figure from before is more enhanced, but Hobie can tell it’s an older video– a pixelated older woman’s face stares back at the camera, her eyes blocked by red hexagonal glasses. Dark markings are etched along her arms and up her neck. Her forearms strain under dirtied handwraps. A cheeky smirk tugs along her lips, almost cheshire cat-like to the punk, while she flips her braided ponytail behind her shoulder.
“Finder’s keepers, O’Hara. You really gotta stop losing your little toys. But don’t worry, they’ll be safe with me. You won’t mind me playing with them a bit though, right?”
Another deep, foreboding chuckle rumbles from the stranger before the video ends in static. The video glitches away, but more holographic screens project in the air soon after. Different variants of the woman are displayed– one crooning into the microphone in a long red dress in front of an audience; one with a pink leotard and sharp knives sneaking into a club; one in a dark purple catsuit with red splattered over her face, wiping blood off a skinny-looking sword while surrounded by lifeless bodies.
Even in a 2D space, only made of pixels and light projected before him, Hobie can’t stop the overwhelming dread looming over him. He stares at the same cheshire-cat smile on each of their faces, turning more menacing in his eyes, like the woman would suddenly pull herself out of the holographic screens.
“Delilah.”
Miguel growls out that name, as if it’s a forbidden curse for his tongue, while the holograms swirl around the teens. “There is little information we’ve gathered about her–”
More projections pop up, with a blaring alarm ringing off every time a red X flashes over them before disappearing. “The only conclusive evidence we have of her existence throughout the multiverse is her occupation as a highly-ranked assassin. Any other information about her is either undocumented or erased in each universe. And unfortunately in our case–”
All the holograms of the mysterious woman disappear, leaving behind the screenshots of the glitchy figure– “we have the least information about this variant. From what we do know, however…”
Red eyes sharpen at the glitchy image, the cat-like smirk taunting the elder spider, before Miguel turns his attention to Cassie.
“You’re not to look further into this rogue. I will handle it.”
Cassie’s face instantly drops, a hint of panic wavering behind her brown eyes. “Miguel, wait, I can handle this–”
“Your main objective is to retrieve the rest of the spider-bots, Cassandra,” Miguel’s logic shuts down any protest latched onto the yellow spider’s tongue. “As much as you want to take on more for this mission, the spider-bots take priority. Do you understand?”
Hobie glances over to his partner, watching the yellow spider shrink under Miguel’s scrutiny. Disappointment and frustration vibrates through her as she averts her eyes to the ground, her hands balling up into fists, before she reluctantly nods.
“Yes, sir.”
The pink holograms disperse in shimmering shards, swirling back to Cassie until they condense into a small bubblegum-hued girl perching onto her shoulder. Concern flickers on the pink AI’s pixelated face as she rests her head against Cassie’s cheek, and the yellow spider silently reaches up to the hologram with a reassuring caress.
“I’m okay, Gwen. You can go on rest mode now.”
The pink AI shakes her head as she curls up into a ball. “There was a spike in your brain waves and heart rate. It’s becoming a frequent occurrence for the past few weeks–”
“I’m fine, Gwen–”
“Your heart rate also fluctuates when you lie–”
“You did not need to say that out loud–”
“But it’s a concern that should be addressed–”
“Now, now,” Hobie sighs as he steps up to the duo, “as funny as it is t’ see ya two bicker like a bunch of nans, ya should probably listen to Pinkie Pie, Cassie.”
The AI brightens into a neon pink hue before dispersing into a pixie dust-like cloud, only to swirl and reform back in front of his face.
“Although I don’t appreciate the My Little Pony connection–”
“Yer li’l what–?”
“I always knew I liked you,” the miniature hologram grins at him. “I take back everything I’ve ever said.”
“Oi, now wait a moment, what does that mean–”
“She’s kidding!” Cassie darts in front of the punk as she shoos the AI away, a rosy hue creeping up her skin and a strained smile stretching across her face. “She doesn’t mean anything–”
“But you’ve said it too,” Gwen pouts as she hovers back over the yellow spider’s shoulder. “You told me how he’s like the super punk version of–”
“I will factory reset you and sell you to Apple.”
A loud gasp crackles from the bubblegum AI before she stomps her foot in the air with a petulant pout. “How rude! And to think Mr. Stark trusts you with my software–”
“Well, he didn’t make you, I did. So technically, I have every right to your software as I please.”
Cassie huffs as she taps along her watch. “Now go on rest mode, I’ll have you reevaluate me later, okay?”
The pout on the AI’s lips worsens before she relents, sticking her tongue out at her creator before dispersing into pink smoke again.
A low grunt rumbles in the air, and the teens turn back to the unamused Miguel.
“Shall we move on?”
Hobie shrugs as he steps back towards the door. “Not much t’ move on to, ‘m afraid. Ya already got t’ gist of t’ situation from Cassie, so I t’ink we can wrap this up–”
“You still have to give your report.”
“Ah damn, really?” Sarcasm tinges the punk’s voice, reluctance tugging his lips into a frown. “Thought t’ light show and comedy duo would suffice f’ ya–”
“Your mission is just as important for the Spider Society.”
With another loud snap, more holographic screens pop up behind Miguel, the same live feeds of other spiders looming over him and the teens. “As small as it is right now, we are helping preserve the multiverse from further catastrophe. With what happened in Earth-1610 and thereafter–”
“I don’t need ya repeatin’ yer spiel,” Hobie cuts him off with a deadpan as he crosses his arms. “Ya can save that fer the other blokes you manage to rope in.” Heavy footfalls echo against the metal walls as Hobie saunters towards Miguel. “All ya need t’ know is that ‘m doin’ m’ job, ‘n ‘s workin out–”
“You can’t just pass along your report with a brief comment and a flick of the wrist,” Miguel steps up to the punk teen, straightening up and squaring his shoulders until he towers over Hobie. “It is a complex situation, where rogues and innocents alike are being displaced by tears within the multiverse. This isn’t like your ragtag guerrilla group, Hobart–”
“Oi, watch ya mouth.”
The veneer of nonchalance cracks as Hobie glares daggers at the elder spider. Body taut and hands clenched into fists, the punk is a trigger away from making the first swing. “Don’t bring m’ band into this, O’Hara.”
Fire blazes behind russet eyes, clashing with the cold, red-tinted scrutiny from Miguel.
“Then treat this mission like how you would for your little cause at home.”
All the holographic screens behind Miguel dispel, leaving the group in the shadows, before Lyla pops back to life between the two spiders.
“Okay, before you two start your little cat fight, I wanna know about the details!” The orange-hued AI huffs as she pulls up a smaller screen. “I mean, from what I can tell from all the feeds in this universe, I personally think she’d be a good fit here.”
White crackles thrum through the holographic screen until a lone figure pops up in front of Hobie. Perched over a ledge of a building, a familiar blue-clad hero dangles her legs over the edge as she stares out at the cityscape. Moonlight glints over neon-orange plastic, her goggles shielding her eyes while the rest of her face covering hangs around her neck. Freckled cheeks are puffed out as the hero chomps onto a sandwich, her feet fluttering even faster while she bounces on the ledge. Her free hand fidgets with a small radio hooked on her side, her fingers toying with a small dial, as if searching for her favorite song within the sea of frequencies.
Mei just looks like a little kid like this.
“I mean, look at her!" Lyla flickers with a cheeky grin. “She’s got her little set up and everything, even without our tech! She can definitely adapt to our procedures and patrols easily! Plus she has a pretty solid balance with her life, not too absorbed in her vigilantism while not letting her personal life go too crazy–”
“Lyla, this is not your report to make–”
“But she’s definitely someone to get on board–”
“That’s not for you to decide.” Miguel massages the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “She would still have to go through multiple screenings before she can be considered as a member–”
“That’s if she wants to.”
All eyes turn to the punk, but his eyes are locked on the holographic screen as the miniature blue-clad spider gets up and stands on the ledge. “Just ‘cuz she can take on a ton of villains don’t mean she’d want to twenty-four seven.”
Hobie continues to watch the little 2D figure of Mei peering down the ledge, leaning over the edge until dark-plaited braids slip from her shoulders. Slivers of yellow peek through the plaits as the puffed pigtails dangle over, swaying in the direction of the wind. She tugs her covering over her lower face before leaning even further and falling headfirst.
Hair and fabric whip behind her as Mei plummets towards the busy streets, LED lights from nearby buildings dappling her figures in a neon rainbow. The sleeves of her arms flap against her sides, dancing in an almost wing-like manner against the late night backdrop. The two small braids trail behind her while two other looped braids are being pulled back by the winds. There is no panic in her demeanor– her body is taut, straight and rigid like a line, with no room for any uncertainty and fear– as she yields to gravity beckoning for her.
“That being said,” Hobie’s eyes linger on Mei’s figure when she suddenly shoots a web to a billboard and swings over the traffic like a pendulum, “she can definitely do it.”
Mei soars back up to the sky the moment the web snaps from the force. Back arched and limbs languid, the cityscape lights fade away from her in lieu of the moonlight. Basked in pale silver, she hovers over the cityscape amongst the skyscrapers in brief intervals before falling and swinging again. Each swing propels the momentum faster, taking her to greater heights throughout the concrete jungle. With every peak she reaches towards the sky her hand stretches out towards the moon and stars, as if trying to pluck a twinkling light for herself, before she descends and repeats the process again.
A small prickle digs into Hobie’s chest at the carefree freedom displayed before him.
“Mei…she can make it work if she wanted to.” Hobie clears his throat as he averts his eyes from the holographic screen. “From last week alone, she’s shown she can think fast on her feet. She’s capable of combat, whether against one bloke or a whole lot of ‘em, but she can make her own call whether or not she can handle it, dependin’ on t’ situation.”
Another dull ache ghosts along his temple, he gingerly massages it as he continues. “Main thing ‘bout her that might bite ya in the arse might be her bein’ used t’ workin’ alone. Her quick thinking is a double-edged sword if y’not careful– she’s not the most attentive with her actions while fightin’.” A brief image of crumbled rubble and whirling winds of sand flicker in Hobie’s mind, with a gaping hole in a brick wall and scuffed converses in the air. “She can be reckless, puttin’ herself in danger. She’ll shrug it off, but still–”
“Sounds like someone else we know–”
Hobie narrows his eyes in a sidelong glance at Cassie as she perches herself onto a nearby worktable. A mirthful glint flashes in her eyes as she gives him a shrug, swinging her legs over the edge. He rolls his eyes before flicking his attention back to the screen, lingering on the blue acrobatic figure flipping in the air.
“She’s also a bit…abrasive. She ain’t gentle ‘n all, force-feedin’ ya food and medicine while chewin’ ya out–”
“Which, in your case, she probably needed to–”
“Oi, Cassie–”
“Continue, Hobart,” Miguel cuts through the banter with a disgruntled sigh, “before you derail the report any longer.”
Hobie narrows his eyes at the elder spider, a small scowl flickering on his face, before movement hovers in his peripheral vision. Russet eyes trail back to the holographic screen, lingering on the little figure flipping back against the backdrop of the late-night sky. A ghost of a smile curls on the punk’s lips as Mei finally lands in an empty street and scurries off into a dark alleyway, flipping her jacket inside out before shadows swallow her.
“She’s…hard t’ read at times. One minute she’s dozin’ off ‘n just followin’ behind in t’ background, ‘n then t’ next she’s all intense ‘n pullin’ ya ‘round like a damn ragdoll– ‘s like whiplash with her or somethin’.”
Hobie trails off as Mei reemerges from the shadows– her once-familiar blue windbreaker now stark-white, her intricate braids slightly frizzy and disheveled, her freckled cheeks flushed from the biting winds. With a quick survey around the area, she rushes across the street towards a red-bricked apartment complex with a rhythmic bounce in her step.
It’s almost jarring how Mei can switch between lives so easily but simultaneously be consistent with herself.
“Honestly, I dunno f’sure if she’s cut out for bein’ here,” Hobie finally pulls his eyes away from the screen as the little figure of Mei disappears into the brick building, “nor would she even want to, but…she definitely has potential.”
Soft humming from the surrounding equipment fills in the silence for a beat before Lyla flickers onto Hobie’s shoulder.
“Wow. I didn’t think you’d actually deep dive into her personality so quickly, Hobie.”
“What–?”
The AI flickers back to Miguel as the screen disappears, darting around the elder spider as he types along his holographic keyboard.
“I mean, I know you had a late start with your mission in the beginning,” Lyla continues as more tiny screens pop up around her, trailing after her with every flicker to a different spot, “especially with her suspension and her constant movements through the city throughout that week. Hell, even I couldn’t find her half the time.” She flickers back in front of Hobie’s face, a cat-like grin curling up her face. “But y’know what, you really pull through when you need to. You got a lot more out of her than even Miguel and I, and we’ve been trying to find her before you came on board!”
Lyla looks over her shoulder with a mirthful stare towards the towering leader, more lights flashing across Miguel’s face as he reviews more live feeds from other dimensions. “Was that enough of a report for you, boss?”
Miguel rolls his eyes with a quiet scoff, refusing to turn back to the AI’s direction. “I mainly wanted Hobart–” Cassie clasps her hand on Hobie’s shoulder before he barks out an irritated retort– “to assess Spider-Girl’s fighting capabilities. From what I could tell from surveillance, he’s been involving himself in her personal life far more than in her patrols–”
Cassie tugs Hobie back harder as he bristles from Miguel’s dismissive tone. Streaks of amber flash along the chestnut in her eyes, her fingers digging into his spiked leather vest as she subtly shakes her head. Hobie stares back at the yellow spider with sparks of indignation in his eyes, his body thrumming with the urge to storm off, but her silent plea extinguishes his frustration before he relents with a scoff.
“That being said,” Miguel glances over at Hobie, ignoring the blatant irritation vibrating from the punk, “you were still able to determine her disposition through your interactions, and in turn, weighed out the benefits and drawbacks of having her here. That in itself is crucial for her screening as a prospective member.”
With another snap, the keyboard disappears from sight before fluorescent lights suddenly flash throughout the lab, blinding the younger spiders. “Keep up your assessments. You’ve provided a lot more insight for Spider-Girl than what we expected out of this mission. However, for the next report, observe from how she is during her patrols rather than assume through her personal life.”
Hobie’s jaw clenches under Miguel’s scrutiny as he blinks away his momentary blindness. “Right. Whatever.”
“I’m serious, Hobart.” Miguel approaches Hobie with slow strides, straightening up and towering over the punk. “Just because I gave you some leniency on how you conduct your mission doesn’t mean you can waste time and play around in another universe.”
Hobie’s hands flinch, curling into fists. “Play around?”
Cassie’s hand gently digs deeper into Hobie’s shoulder. “Miguel, please…”
Hobie shrugs her hand off, refusing to look away. Despite the nonchalant veneer, Hobie’s eyes harden into a cold stare. “I dunno what ya t’ink ‘m doin’ over there, but I ain’t playin’ ‘round—”
“Really?”
A scoff leaves Miguel’s lips. “The only reason I allowed Cassandra and Lyla to forge your registration in Spider-Girl’s school was to collect more intel in your reconnaissance, but from what I can tell, all you’ve been doing is sitting on a desk and poorly pretending to be a student.”
Hobie grits his teeth, a vein slowly popping from his neck.
“Ya told me t’ keep an eye on Mei.” Coils of thorns snake around the punk’s chest, puncturing into his lungs as poison seeps into the wounds. “I don’t remember havin’ t’ be some snobby twat buryin’ m’ face into books fer this mission.”
“You are supposed to be discreet.” The elder spider steps into Hobie’s space even further, his shadow looming over Hobie. “You were to blend in and observe from a distance. Instead, you made yourself a walking spectacle with your stunts in a completely different universe—”
“Even if I kept myself in t’ background, she’d still notice me.” Hobie’s voice cuts through with a harsh snap. “She would’ve jumped over her desk ‘n attacked me if I didn’t make m’self known t’ her—”
“What Hobie’s trying to say is—” Cassie steps between both of them with a nervous, placating laugh, the amber streaks in her eyes sparking against the brown— “she might be more sensitive with her senses. He made an executive decision for himself early on, and it paid off for the mission.”
Electricity crackles in the air between the two spiders— Hobie’s heated glare clashes with the cold front of Miguel’s, brewing an impending storm within the mechanical lab. Eyes cloaked in shadow despite the sickly-white lights beaming down, the older spider lets out a relenting scoff before he turns his attention to Cassie.
“Then let’s hope this decision is not a detriment in the long run, Cassandra.”
Red-tinged eyes flick between the teens, a machine-like survey that sends a chill down Hobie’s spine and bubbles his blood at the same time, before Miguel turns back to his workstation.
“Both of you are dismissed.”
---
“Hobie–”
“No.”
“Hobie, c’mon–”
“No.”
“Can you just hear me out–?”
“No.”
Hobie ignores the stares from passing spider variants as he storms through winding halls, every footfall from him clanging against whirring metal. The platformed bridge groans and breaks apart to different directions the moment the two spiders step on, its automatic interval moving like clockwork, until it slams in place with another platform for them to cross through. Irritation vibrates within the punk, pulsing through the air with every stride. Other spider-people step aside in reflexive caution as his anger licks their skin like a blazing fire.
“Bloody prick— how t’ hell’s he gon’ tell me how t’do me job. S’all done, innit? Makin’ it sound like ‘m gon’ fuck ev’rythin’ up from t’ get-go.”
Cassie trails behind in a skip-like jog, her footsteps drumming in tandem with Hobie’s stomps. “Miguel’s just under a lot of stress right now. There’s been a lot of anomaly outbreaks throughout the multiverse lately—”
“Don’t mean he can take that stick out his arse and try t’ beat me with it—”
“That’s not a fun visual to imagine…”
Silver sliding doors slam open when the teens approach it, revealing towering holographic screens and a control panel glowing in the dark. Each stomp from Hobie bounces against the walls until he yanks a rolling chair before the panel, flopping onto it with a grunt and leaning back on it.
“I should’ve just stayed home t’day.”
“Wouldn’t you have to give reports over there too?”
Hobie curses under his breath as he lolls his head over the top rail, his deep-set eyes cloaked in blue light from the screens. He stares back at the yellow spider, weary and solemn, before a sigh slips through his lips.
“Y’know what I mean, Cassie.”
With a shrug, she crosses through the control room with a skip to her step. “Either way, at least Miguel was happy with our reports—”
“That’s happy?”
Hobie blows a raspberry as he leans further back onto the chair. “If that’s him happy, then I can’t imagine what he’d look like when he’s ragin’. Bloody wanker lookin’ like he’s stuffed up in the arse crack—”
“Again, not a fun visual to imagine.”
Cassie’s face pinches into a grimace as her fingers fly towards a flashing keyboard. “But we did make a lot of progress for this mission, so Miguel should give us more leeway. We just gotta send out some quick reports of our findings to him before the next meeting—”
“Y’mean you are.” Hobie sits back up as more holographic screens flash in front of them. “I ain’t tryna talk t’ ‘im any more than I need t’, Cassie.”
“It’s really not that bad,” the yellow spider quickly types some coordinates, and the screens flicker to different street views. “You can just send a quick text or call to him whenever something new pops up—”
“Ain’t that what Lyla’s for?”
“She can only keep track of so much through her surveillance.” Cassie enlarges a few screens with a few taps on the keyboard. “Even without the potential EMIs throughout this world, Lyla still has to monitor the rest of the multiverse. Miguel’s gonna want her to look out for more anomalies for the rest of the society while we take care of any incoming issues here.”
Another scoff exhales through Hobie’s lips as he stares up at one of the screens, one of a familiar unmasked spider stepping out of the red-bricked apartment complex with a taller figure following behind. The punk swallows down a chortle as Miles grabs Mei by her jacket collar, the sight of her stumbling back a rare moment of her guard down.
“Ain’t it weird that he’s trustin’ us with it, though?” the punk muses. “He could’ve assigned this t’ one of t’ other members he picked up before us, yeah?”
“Jess is staying here as one of the moderators, so she’s busy screening potential members,” Cassie sighs as she zooms in on another screen. “Ben’s still on his own mission with…whatever he’s doing for Miguel. I’m sure he’ll tell me later.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles in Hobie’s throat as the screenshots of wanted posters pop up in smaller bursts in front of him. “ ‘N what about that one bloke, the one that’s always wearin’ t’ pink fuzzy dressin’ gown?”
Cassie’s fingers freeze over the keyboards. She stands before the punk like a statue, her face pinched into a slight frown.
“Mr. Parker—” her face grimaces even more before dropping— “is only part-time at the moment. He's been working out his schedule with Miguel since he found out he’s gonna be a father.”
Another dissatisfied hum rumbles from Hobie as he leans against the control panel. “He makes it seem like we got free time on our hands…”
“I mean, I kinda do…”
Hobie side glances Cassie with an unimpressed deadpan.
“What?” she shrugs as she enlarges one of the wanted posters. “I either do my patrols or go to school. There’s nothing wrong with that—”
“Ya need a hobby—’
“I have hobbies!”
“Readin’ ‘n watchin’ romance stuff ain’t enough,” Hobie scoffs. “Yer jus’ sittin’ ‘n usin’ yer eyes—”
“Hey, you liked Pride and Prejudice!” Cassie scoffs as she turns her attention back to the holographic screens. “Don’t just blow off Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s cinematic slow burn like it’s a trashy soap opera—”
Her words die as purple and blue lights flood over them and into the dark room. The first thing Hobie’s eyes land on from the screen is the glint of the clawed gauntlet, followed by hues of violet striking through black spandex. Sharp eyes stare back through the screen, almost taunting the teens, as the Prowler’s masked face looms over them. The punk glances back at the yellow spider, her eyes locked in on the screen with caution.
“…Somethin’ up with ‘im?”
Cassie presses her lips together into a thin line as smaller screens pop up around the still image. “No, it’s just…” A heavy sigh slips through her lips before she shrinks the image of the purple-clad rogue, “he just reminds me of someone I know.”
A low hum rumbles from the punk as he leans back on his chair again. “Overcompensatin’ with t’ gloves, ain’t he?”
Cassie sputters out a huff of laughter before clearing her throat. “There are actual functions for the gauntlets, Hobie.”
“Please,” the taller spider scoffs as he props his feet on top of the control panel. “They’re bulky, metal gloves with pink ooze ‘n cat claws.”
“They help with climbing—”
“As opposed t’ what, grapplin’ hooks? If anythin’, grapplin’ hooks would’ve been easier t’ carry than those bulky t’ings.”
“And they’re really dangerous during close combat—”
“So is a shiv or a broken beer bottle.”
“Are you actually judging a guy’s choice in aesthetic for his weapons?”
“Yes!”
“WHY?!”
“I can tell those are gon’ be a pain in the arse t’ maintain!” Hobie jumps from his seat as he bumps his hip against hers. His fingers type along the keyboard in a flurry until the screen of the wanted poster zooms in on one of the gauntlets. “D’ya understand how painstakin’ly tedious those claw-fingers would be t’ sharpen? ‘N don’t get me started on ‘em pistons! Those can probably get clogged with that pink shit in ‘em—”
“Okay, so you don’t like the mechanics of his gauntlets. Valid. But—!”
Cassie bumps Hobie out of the way as her fingers tap on the keyboard in a hurry, pulling up another screen with a surveillance video playing. The same man shrouded in purple and black charges at some unfortunate souls in black suits, his clawed gauntlets locked and ready to attack. Pops of gunfire reverberate against metal walls while the Prowler easily dodges them before slashing his sharp claws at the unfortunate targets.
“I don’t think anybody’s going to be judging his choice of weapons when he’s charging at them with ten knives for fingers!”
Hobie clicks his tongue as he flops back onto his seat. “They won’t be as scared if he ends up wit’ arthritis from ‘em t’ings. They can’t be good fer his wrists ‘n fingers, ‘specially if he’s like in his fourties—”
“Either way, he’s still somebody to worry about.” Cassie grimaces at the sight of the purple-clad rogue slashing an unfortunate goon down before the screen flickers to a live feed. “Not just with combat, but with technology too.”
The screen displays an overview of an urban neighborhood, with few cars passing by on the streets under flickering streetlights. More lights flicker from the keyboard after Cassie’s fingers as she resumes typing. “The fact he got access to the spider bots without triggering any safety protocols is still a big issue we should keep in mind.”
Hobie rumbles out a noncommittal hum as his eyes linger on the holographic screen.
“There’s always gotta be somethin’ with ‘em rogues, huh?” the punk muses. “Always somethin’ t’ muck everythin’ up fer us.”
With a slight shrug, Cassie waves her hands until the holographic keyboard disappears. “That’s what we’re here for, though. To make sure things get fixed up and put back into place.”
The screens flicker in set intervals, switching into random surveillance spots throughout the city. Normal civilians pass through the feeds, as if oblivious from being watched. Or maybe they’re simply used to it, what with some small robotic drones whirling by over the dispersed crowds.
Strangely enough, Hobie doesn’t remember seeing those when he’s there.
Blue light floods over both of the spiders as one of the larger screens flicker over to an occupied bus. Familiar braids sway under yellow-orange streetlights through dingy windows. Mei leans closer to Miles’s shoulder before he props an earbud in her ear. Blue light from Miles’s small handheld breaks through the amber lights, shining over both teens’ faces while they stare at the screen. Mei looks like a normal civilian like this, in her own little bubble with her best friend, oblivious to the world around her.
Hobie could almost forget that she was swinging around the city just an hour earlier.
“Even then though,” Cassie sighs as she stares at the screen, eyes locked onto the displayed duo, “we don’t know what’s going on with them. What makes them do the things they do. Or if they even want to do them…”
“…Cassie, I don’ t’ink t’is is t’ time fer me t’ have a philosophy class—”
“Well, too bad.”
The yellow spider rolls her eyes as she waves the screens away, plunging them into near darkness before soft amber lights creep into the room. “Food for thought, Hobie. You gotta see things in a different light sometimes. Not everything is gonna turn out the way you think.”
A low grunt rumbles in Hobie’s chest, a frown tugging his pierced lip. “I dunno, I t’ink I’ve gotten pretty good at readin’ people as of late—”
“And that’s how you get your butt kicked when you least expect it. Case in point—”
A tingle erupts along Hobie’s wrist before Cassie grabs it. She quickly pushes his sleeve up, revealing the numerous bruises along his skin as she gingerly twists his arm back and forth.
“Sandman did a number on you during your last patrol in Earth-318—”
Hobie winces with a pained grunt when Cassie presses her thumb against a purpling bruise along his wrist.
“—and you refusing to go to the med bay is making your injuries last longer than they should.”
Cassie winces at the sight of another blooming bruise along his elbow before she flexes her hand against it. A startled yelp erupts from the punk when sharp pain shoots up his arm after his joint pops. “Not to mention you still have to get checked out for that concussion Mei gave you—”
Hobie yanks his arm from the yellow spider with a pointed look, clutching it against his chest.
“I’m fine, Cassie. I don’ need ‘em fancy drugs Miguel cooks up pumped int’ me.”
“It’s not actually Miguel who makes them—”
“Either way, I don’ need ‘em!” Hobie holds his hands up, ignoring the pops reverberating up his spine as he starts to back away. “I can heal up jus’ fine. Always have. No point of havin’ a healin’ factor if I ain’t gonna use it, innit—?”
“That’s not the point.”
Cassie’s words echo against the metal walls. Jaw set, shoulders squared, body rigid— Cassie paralyzes the punk under her glassy scrutiny.
“You still have to worry about your universe. You think your band’s gonna be happy with you being too injured to fight?”
Her voice rises as she takes a step towards Hobie, forcing him to step back. Small shocks of amber flicker in her eyes with each step she stomps.
“Or that you’re willing to throw your life away because you’re too stubborn to see a doctor?”
A vein strains against Cassie’s throat as her words claw their way out through her mouth.
“Especially when you have access to healthcare? Free healthcare?!”
Hobie flinches from her sound argument, turning his head away from the dog-like glare from the yellow spider. A sharp stab blooms in his ego, stubborn pride warring with retrospective logic, but he bites his trigger-happy tongue from shooting too early.
His chest heaves before he lets out a relenting exhale through his nose.
“…I’ll go t’morrow if it gets worse.”
Cassie’s eyes instantly lighten up. A relieved smile soon follows.
“You better. I’ll be by your side until you’re cleared—”
“Cassie, yer not me mum. I can go by m’self—”
“But you’ll just skip it if you do.”
Damn it.
Hobie’s face pinches into a dissatisfied frown as Cassie circles around him with a knowing grin.
“Well,” the yellow spider shrugs as she backs away, fingers already padding along her metal watch, “either way, we got everything done for today. I need to head back home and pick up my little sister from daycare.”
“Yer really livin’ up that mother hen role, Cassie,” Hobie rolls his eyes with a snort before a swirling shock of orange and red pops up beside them. “Ya gotta get some hobbies fer yaself—”
“I told you, I got hobbies!”
“Yer only followin’ a capitalistic trap consumin’ all ‘em romances—”
A tingle floods over Hobie’s mouth before he ducks, dodging a quick string of webs before it can latch onto his face. “Oi! That ain’t motherly of ya, innit—?”
“Shut up!”
Cassie sticks her tongue out at the taller punk as she steps back into the whirling portal. A swirl of pink circles around her before a pop-like sound blares from her watch, lyrics from a different language scrambling in Hobie’s ears like white noise.
“Now go home!” Cassie scoffs as the bubblegum-pink Gwen pops up on her master’s shoulder with a wave. “You need to get some shut eye!”
Hobie’s hand shoots up with his middle finger up, instinct taking over, as the portal snaps shut. The metal room plunges Hobie back into its amber-tinted ambiance.
Goosebumps prickle along his bare arm, the chill of the room now vying for his attention. He tugs his sleeve down before his hand hovers around his own watch. HIs reflection stares back at him from the blank screen over his wrist— faint scratches on his cheek, purpling bruises curtained by charm-cuffed locs, a cut splitting his bottom lip next to his silver piercing.
He really did look like hell.
A disgruntled sigh slips through his lips before his fingers tap onto the screen. Bright orange text flashes over, bathing his face in that artificial sunset color, before his fingers slowly pads along coordinates through muscle memory. A muffled voice nags in the back of his head. A familiar warning within him long before he got bit by that radioactive spider, one he would trust even more than the weird tingles now ingrained in his skin.
That voice creeps up to the forefront of his eardrum once his own portal flashes before him.
Go back home.
---
The moment the orange and red swirl snaps shut behind Hobie, he stands in the middle of a dilapidated shed. Rusty scraps and dried leaves scatter across rotten floorboards. Splintered wooden cubbies are covered in cobwebs. Walls wheeze and groan from the wind, traffic and yelling barely muffled around the punk. Greenish-brown light spills through gaping holes on the roof, the only light source revealing dust motes and moths fluttering in the air. A work table bears its scars— cracked wood, scratch marks, ink and dust— while displaying old tools on their last legs of maintenance.
Pressure looms over the punk’s shoulders again, heavier somehow than in Miguel’s lab. But for Hobie, it’s more familiar. Like an old friend welcoming him back.
With a roll of his shoulders, Hobie stumbles across the shed, metal shavings and leaves crunching under his steel-toed boots. His hands press against the cracked wood grain of the door, splinters snagging at his calloused fingertips, before he slams it with the heels of his hands. The door swings open with a loud THWAK against the wall, splintering even more before Hobie steps out of the shed.
Green-tinted billows of smog cloak along the ground. Rickety buildings tower over the punk, almost swaying from every smoky gust of wind. Cries and whirling metals echo in the atmosphere as blinding pillars of light survey from the skies, hidden in heavy pollution. Stragglers on the ground rush to any dilapidated debris from the light beams, abandoning their makeshift shelters of torn tarps and scraps. Bonfires scatter across the grounds, ash and smoke dancing in the air before the winds whisk them away from the forsaken earth. Beyond the shantytown lies an ink-stained body of the water, stretching past the borders under the scrutiny of helicopter lights and the muggy-silhouetted moon.
Hobie’s eyes scan around his surroundings, tingles humming throughout his skin, body locked and ready to bolt away. Heavy rubber soles sink into gravel and dirt as he crosses through the sea of rusted metal and tattered plastics. Bile burns the back of his throat when he catches something in his periphery— a small child in rags curled up in a patched up teepee, shivering with a shredded up blanket in his embrace. Hobie’s foot drifts towards the teepee before a haggard woman rushes towards it, crawling into the space as the child wraps his twig-like arms around her neck. The woman glances over her shoulder at the young punk with a scowl, distrust clouding her bloodshot eyes, before she kicks the flaps of the teepee closed behind her.
The acrid bile creeps up his throat more, singeing his uvula, before he forces his legs to walk away. Waves of resentment and grief crash into his body in sickening prickles, wrapping around his throat and squeezing the smog-rich air out of his lungs. His hand drifts to his pocket and tugs out his red bandana, stained with dried brown and black, before he covers his nose and mouth. A violent cough wracks his body, making the teen stagger while he weaves around more dead-like wandering stragglers and roaming searchlights from above. Tears prick up in his wavering russet eyes before Hobie blinks them away, pulling the bandana away from his face before he hisses another breath. A metallic, smoky tinge taints the oxygen around him, but he continues inhaling it into his lungs until the ache in his chest subsides.
Getting used to the air between universes is always the worst part for Hobie.
Graveled dirt changes into cracked concrete as the young punk approaches gnarled wire gates. Metal strands poke out from all angles before him, jagged cut edges brandishing themselves like barbs. Hobie pushes against the wired wall, avoiding the sharp makeshift defense as he parts the walls into an exit. The wires snag onto him— the denim of his jeans, the stitches on his spidersuit he just mended, even the end of one of his charmed locs— before he steps through.
The sounds of crashing waves and whirling copters grow louder as Hobie stumbles towards the main road nearby. Murky brackish water from the River Thames crashes across from him, oil-shaded waves pummeling against rocky terrain and concrete walls. Salt tinges the smoggy air, clinging to the back of his throat, but the familiar scent melts the tension off his shoulders.
He follows along the cracked sidewalk parallel to the manmade canal. Faint honks vibrate behind him, the nostalgic horns from boats reverberating in his ears, as his steel-toed boots stomp over uneven pavement. Each breath Hobie takes grows deeper, the smog and salt latching onto the walls of his lungs. The dull aches in his joints creep back while he shuffles along the road alone.
Alone.
With only his thoughts in the foreground of his mind, the sounds of crashing waves and whirling helicopters muffling out into white noise.
It’s been a while since he’s been left alone. Whether it’s a good thing or not, he doesn’t know, but somehow it’s easier to breathe. No voices that buzz in his head like little gnats beside his ears. No bodies that flood his own with waves of tingles and emotions that overwhelm him. No looming pressure on his shoulders, not with everyone and their own agendas trying to latch onto him. It’s just him— tired, dragging his feet against unmaintained pavement, with only the River Thames as his company as he stumbles towards a visage of cityscape before him.
A nostalgic comfort for the young punk.
Tingles slowly fester along the planes of his back. Soon after, a car honk creeps up behind him, growing louder as it prowls over to the foreground of his mind.
Hobie’s shoulders tense up from the new presence rushing up to him, but the familiar frequency of the tingles laps over him before he slows into a full-stop. He cranes his neck as he looks over his shoulder, only to be blinded by two headlights staring back at him. Rumblings of guitar strings and drum rolls course through the cracked cement beneath his feet as a dented, scratched up blue van approaches him. Balding wheels lined with dried webs kick gravel back behind it before the passenger side stops beside him.
Tinted windows reflect the exhaustion along the teen’s face. Dark circles blending in with fading bruises, small cuts fading into little pink scratch marks on his skin, caution clouding his russet eyes— all of that rolls down along with the window. Strands of fire-red hair flutters from the sudden salty breeze, a glint of forest-green strikes through the shadows and blue lights inside the van, and a cat-like smile curls up before a young woman leans over the window and rests her arms against the side pane.
“Lookin’ fer a ride, handsome?”
Hushed and honeyed, the redheaded woman gazes at the young punk as she rests her cheek against her forearm. Small blue veins paint along her pale skin, her limbs skinny and scarred, but Hobie can’t help but sigh in relief at the spark in her viridescent eyes.
“MJ…”
MJ’s smile widens as she reaches a hand out, cupping his cheek. Her thumbnail traces along the healing cut along his cheekbone. “Neddy ‘n I have been lookin’ fer ya, Hobie. What’ve ya been doin’ while we were on patrol?”
A dark silhouette looks over the redhead’s shoulder, leaning against the steering wheel. Choppy dark strands fall before the shadowed face, the only light illuminating it from the car’s dashboard. Hobie’s eyes land on a gaunt face— hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes, stubbled jawline— as Ned leans closer to the window with a pointed glare.
Hobie steps closer to the window, fighting off the sheepish smile curling on his lips.
“Ned, if ya stare any harder, ya gon’ burn a hole through me.”
Ned’s face instantly drops into a deadpan before he pulls away with a roll of his eyes. “Alright, ya, s’him. Get inside, Hobs, ‘fore ‘em Thunderbolt pigs start sniffin’ ‘round here.”
With a teasing smirk Hobie gives a mocking salute, the rest of his fingers folded with only his middle finger extended against his hairline, before slinking over to the back of the van.
“Aye, aye—”
“Don’t call me Captain!” Ned scoffs as Hobie flings the back doors open and climbs inside. “I don’t need that shit right now.”
The back doors slam shut before tires screech against the paved road, kicking back rocks as the beaten up van drives off towards the city.
Hobie flops onto the carpeted flooring, mustard yellow shag tickling his skin while the suspension creaks beneath him. Strums of guitar strings thrum around the young punk while his eyes drift around his surroundings. Cracked leather lines over the backrests of the front seats. Bare metal walls display instruments strapped against them— Hobie’s sticker covered guitar, a sleek orange and blue bass, splintered drum sticks in a plastic case, and a red-splattered microphone and stand. All the tension vibrates out of Hobie’s bones as he melts into the shag carpet, warm tingles blooming over his body.
As his eyes flutter halfway, red tresses cascade over the back rest until the split ends tickle his cheeks. A pair of emeralds peek over the edge at him, and an image of rustling leaves and dappling sunlight flickers in the back of Hobie’s mind.
“Ya still haven’t answered my question, Hobie,” MJ chides jokingly, her smile creeping into her eyes. “What’ve ya been up t’ out here?”
As she leans over the backrest, her arm drops over until her hand dangles above Hobie’s face. The young punk reaches his hand up to grasp her fingertips, his rough callouses pressing against her own.
“Jus’…had a lot on m’ mind.”
Soft chuckles chime in Hobie’s ears as MJ gently squeezes his fingertips, the warmth in his body vibrating even more under his skin. “Ya care t’ share yer thoughts with me?”
“Oi, MJ, sit back down.”
Ned’s gravelly voice breaks through MJ’s honeyed voice. “Can’t have ya hangin’ over t’ seats ‘n givin’ ‘em pigs a reason t’ pull me over.”
MJ blows a quick raspberry before she pulls away. Hobie’s fingers chase after hers for a moment, but he reluctantly drops his hand onto the carpet when she leaves his sight.
“Such a mother hen, Neddy,” the redhead teases as she leans back against the passenger seat. “Ain’t ya glad Hobie’s safe ‘n sound now?”
A quiet thump echoes against the metal walls before a startled yelp rings through.
“Ya didn’t hav’ta flick m’ forehead that hard—!”
“Then don’t give me lip t’ begin with, MJ.”
Hobie glances over to the driver's side, where the crown of Ned’s head peeks over the backrest.
“Besides, Osborn’s been increasin’ his patrols through his damn lapdogs lately.” Ned slowly twists his neck, small pops reverberating in Hobie’s ears. “We hav’ta be more careful with where we go, ‘specially after t’ shit ya pulled with Yuri ‘n James in Old York last week—”
“I had t’ improvise,” Hobie can hear the eye roll in MJ’s tone. “What else was I supposed t’do with ‘em snotty Thunderbolts ‘n their black suits surroundin’ us—?”
“Besides nearly settin’ James on fire with that damn molotov—?”
“I told him t’ get out t’ way before I threw it—”
“Yer lucky he actually did with yer shitty aim—”
Hobie’s vision starts to fuzz along the edges before his eyes flutter shut. Ned and MJ’s voices muffle into white noise along with the hum of the moving van, the constant vibrations melting the rest of the tension out of his bones. Exhaustion catches up to the young punk, beckoning him to leave his physical body behind with the promise of silent rock-a-byes and hazy REM sleep. His breaths grow deeper the more they pass his parted lips while sleep coaxes him into its embrace, the rest of the world around him fading into black.
---
“Okay, breathe fer me, Hobie.”
Hobie takes a deep breath, the metal rim of the round chest piece cool against his bare chest.
Ned moves the end piece of the stethoscope across Hobie’s sternum when the young punk exhales, his other hand scratching graphite across coffee-stained paper with a nub of a pencil. A small flame flickers from the lit wick as the tall candle melts between the duo, the stand keeping the pooling wax in its comically large bowl. Yellow and orange light halos around them in the dark tool room, the sounds of waves muffling through wooden walls. Soft snores reverberate through an open door across from them, shifting silhouettes making futon-covered floorboards creak, leaving the duo alone with the flickering candlelight.
Ned gently presses the chest piece against another area on Hobie’s chest. “Another one.”
Hobie sucks in another breath. He can taste the hint of smog lingering in the back of his throat before he lets out another exhale.
Ned’s eyes narrow for a moment before he scratches out another off-note. The chest piece drags across Hobie’s skin until it hovers over his heart.
“One more time.”
Hobie inhales through his teeth this time, taking in more air, but he can hear the phlegm in his lungs starting to climb up his throat this time. He pulls away from Ned with a violent cough, green and clear mucus flinging out of his throat and onto the crook of his elbow. A wheezed curse stumbles out of Hobie’s lips as he pulls out his dirtied bandana and wipes the phlegm off his bare arm.
“Sorry, Neddy…”
Ned flicks his wrist with a dismissive wave as he pulls the ear pieces out from his ears, a ghost of a smile laced on his lips.
“Yer breathin’s gotten a little better,” the elder reassures the teen as he sets the stethoscope atop the tabletop. “Coughin’ fits ain’t as bad as before, innit? Used t’ cough up a lung ‘til most the mucus was blood every time we did this…”
The young punk winces from the memory, a dull ache creeping up in his chest before fading away.
“Not sure if it’s ‘cuz of yer powers, or…” Ned trails off as he glances at the metal band wrapped around Hobie’s wrist. Goosebumps flood along the young punk’s skin as tingles bloom over his wrist, but they disappear when Ned glances away to his coffee-stained notes.
With a scratch along his stubbled jaw, Ned lets out another sigh. “Well, whatever it is, yer healin’ up a lot better than before. I didn’t even hear a lot of phlegm in ya this time.”
“Ned…”
Hobie’s throat starts to tighten as he reaches for his shirt on the table. “About t’day, ‘bout me bein’ gone—”
“Yer fine, Hobie.” Ned’s voice hushes in tandem with the flickering flame, shadows dancing across the elder’s face. “Nothin’ happened durin’ our patrols t’day, ‘n even if somethin’ did happen, we can take care of it.”
Ned rolls his shoulder before a soft pop muffles through his orange coverall. “Ya shouldn’t even hav’ta worry about patrols, either. I know ya got other t’ings goin’ on in yer head.”
“I can make it up and go on patrol t’morrow—”
“Like I said, ya don’t need to.”
Ned gingerly pushes himself up from his seat, clapping his hand over Hobie’s shoulder. “Jus’ ‘cuz MJ recruited ya when ya first got ya powers don’ mean ya gotta jump into the frontlines fer us…”
Hobie’s shoulders tense up as Ned’s hand slips off. “I can still do more, Neddy. I can do a lot more than before, ya’ve seen me.”
“I know ya can, but ya shouldn’t have to.”
Ned’s eyes soften as he stands over the teen, warm oranges and yellows from the small flame illuminating his weary face. “Ya already proved yaself t’ us so many times. Even before that spider bite, ya’d follow me ‘n MJ ‘round with whatever trinket ya thought of with that big dome of yers.”
“Oi, my head ain’t that big—”
A quick flick thumps against Hobie’s forehead mid-protest, and the young punk lets out a pained grunt as he flinches away.
“Y’know, fer a bloke with his little ‘tingles’, ya can’t dodge fer shit.”
“Fuck off, Neddy.”
A low chuckle rumbles from Ned’s chest as he nudges the candlestick closer to Hobie. “Ya mind hangin’ ‘round fer a bit longer though, Hobs? There’s somethin’ that caught m’ attention.”
Mid-massaging the throbbing spot in the middle of his forehead, Hobie’s eyes track over to Ned’s figure as he saunters away from the candlelight, the shadows swallowing around the elder.
“What, is it some Oscorp tech ya needed picked out again?” Hobie calls out as he slips his shirt on. “Might need m’ tools fer that, but I can probably strip it down fer ya t’morrow—”
“Nah, it ain’t.” Ned’s voice reverberates against the wooden walls as he steps back into the light, his scarred hand clutching onto something. “It’s jus’ a weird t’ing that caught m’ eye when I was restockin’.”
Wooden chair legs scrape against concrete flooring as Ned flops back down onto his seat. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Ya remember what I always told ya when we were younger? Whenever we have to scavenge fer supplies?”
Hobie’s brows furrow as he sits up. “’Take what we need,’ yeah.”
“Yeah, good, good.”
The faint smile on Ned’s face slowly fades. “Before I went out on patrol with MJ, I jus’ finished up a supply run. Luckily I nicked some bandages ‘n alcohol along t’ way, so I went t’ put ‘em away in the medicine cabinet…”
His clutched hand drops onto the tabletop, and a plastic thump and rattle echoes into Hobie’s ears. When Ned lets go and pulls his hand back, he leaves behind a familiar small plastic bottle. Sweat breaks out along Hobie’s back once his eyes dart back to the elder’s. Ned’s smile is nowhere to be found, only a solemn frown trained on the young punk.
“I ended up findin’ this tucked in t’ corner behind some old antiseptics…”
Hobie slowly shrinks under Ned’s scrutiny, his eyes averting to the scuff on his steel-toed boot.
“I can explain—”
“What t’ hell were ya thinkin’?”
Hobie curls into himself even more from the tired hush in Ned’s voice.
“They’re painkillers, Neddy—”
“I can fuckin’ read, Hobie. That doesn’t answer m’ question.”
Red-hot prickles crawl up Hobie’s spine as he shrinks even further into his seat. “S’medicine someone gave me. It can help t’ others—”
“That still doesn’t mean t’ bring it over ‘ere.”
A frustrated groan slips through Ned’s lips as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “When I gave ya the okay t’ do yer…” His eyes dart back to Hobie’s watch, caution flickering over— “solo patrols, I never said ya can bring anythin’ back ‘ere.”
Hobie’s throat tightens. bile burning the back of his throat.
“I thought it would help—”
“I know.” Ned wearily shakes his head as leans in, resting his elbows against his knees. “I know ya did, ‘n I know ya wanna help out more, but this isn’t t’ way t’ do it.”
Guilt flickers across Ned’s face as the small flame sputters on the shrinking wick. “I get it. There’s been a lot of pressure on us lately since Osborn deployed his pigs t’ hunt us down, but that’s somethin’ I hav’ta worry about. All ya have t’ worry about is lookin’ out fer yaself ‘n t’ band.”
Ned claps his hand on Hobie’s shoulder again, the weight heavier than before. “We all have our own roles t’ play, ‘n right now all ya hav’ta do is keep ya head in check. I know ya can handle yaself, but we can’t lose our tinkerer, yeah?”
Hobie’s hands curl up into fists on his lap as he lifts his head up, his eyes drifting to the faded logo over Ned’s heart.
Oscorp.
The bile in Hobie’s throat burns hotter before he swallows it down.
“We can’t lose our leader either, Neddy.”
Ned gently squeezes Hobie’s shoulder again. “’N y’ain’t gonna, y’hear me, Hobs? I ain’t goin’ nowhere…”
Heat creeps up the back of Hobie’s eyes, but he blinks it away as Ned pushes himself back up.
“I still need t’ keep ya idjits in check, remember?”
A watery scoff slips through the young punk’s lips before he swats Ned’s hand away. “Wanker…”
Another low chuckle rumbles from the elder, vibrating into Hobie’s bones, before Ned steps away from the light and towards the ajar door.
“Don’t stay up too late, yeah?” Ned calls out over his shoulder with a hushed lilt. “Yer a bloody deadweight when yer asleep.”
Hobie fights off the tug of a smile in the corner of his lip as Ned quietly closes the door behind him with a faint click. Soft snores and muffled waves creep back into Hobie ears as he leans back against the creaking backrest. Russet eyes drift over to the dwindling light source beside him, a mini sun setting towards the pool of melted wax. The ghost of Hobie’s smile fades before a weary sigh slips through his lips. He flicks his tongue between his thumb and forefinger before he pinches the flame out, plunging him in the dark.
---
Hobie can never understand how anybody can be glued to a glorified flat brick. It’s not even a good brick either. It’ll just shatter and fall apart if he chucked at somebody.
The young punk stares down at the small handheld tablet in his hand, the shattered glass in the corners spiraling into web-like cracks under hazy moonlight. His feet dangle over the ledge of the rooftop, waves of inky water from the manmade canal lapping beneath him. Saltwater overrides the smog in the air as a gentle breeze kisses his skin. Creaking metals groan in tandem with lapping waves against Hobie’s eardrums. Rusty, dilapidated ships bob beside the concrete dock, long abandoned by their captains and crews. Stark beams of light trail amongst the polluted clouds, but they stray closer to the glittering cityscape across the water from him and the empty shipyard of a base.
A low rumble crawls up from the back of Hobie’s throat as he stares at the dark reflection of himself on the cracked screen. Narrowed eyes, deep wrinkles along his forehead, a frown upon his pierced lip— his face grows more aged the longer he stares. With a crinkle of his nose, the young punk gingerly turns the handheld over, face contorting even more in veiled curiosity.
When Cassie and Hobie first started their mission together, she insisted he’d have the thing to blend in. But even when this contraption is the norm for the rest of the universes he’s encountered, where every passing spider person has some variant of the multipurpose brick glued to their palms, he still doesn’t understand the normalized obsession. Hell, it’s even more prevalent when he hops back into the mission— people his age glued onto those screens like worldwide hordes of zombies under a wireless hypnosis.
Capitalism. Capitalism at its worst. And all it takes is a fragile flat flashing brick.
A scoff slips through Hobie’s lips as his thumb absently pops the back of the handheld off, revealing some tampered circuit boards and a small flat battery pack with a doodle of a wonky-shaped spider.
Cassie really needs to learn how to weld better.
Popping the cover back in, Hobie flips the phone over with his fingers until his face stares back through the cracked screen. His thumb traces along the side until his nail snags on the button tab, and when he presses into it, blinding blue light flashes into his face.
“Fuck—!”
White flashes over Hobie’s eyes as he flinches away, the urge to chuck the damn thing into the canal vibrating in his bones. But knowing Cassie, she’ll just throw a fit about her handiwork drowning in the bottom of the Thames. Instead, the young punk tucks the insufferable brick into the dusty gutter before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. More curses tumble out of his lips while he blinks the last of the flash out of his sight.
“Damn it, Cassie…”
His hand blindly rummages along the gutter before his fingers bump against the flat plastic brick. Squinting his eyes, he faces the handheld away from him and presses the side button again, blue light flashing out in the open again. As his fingers slowly turn the small tablet back, his eyes land on the grainy picture of snowy mountain peaks on the screen.
Hobie’s never seen snow that white before.
His finger hovers over the cracked screen, almost hesitant, before he quickly swipes up. The young punk squints at the bright screen as he flicks his finger along, avoiding snagging his skin along the cracks. Each flick switches to a different page, numerous mini icons littered throughout in an organized chaos. One icon catches his eye— one with a phone icon and a red bubble hovering in the corner— before he taps on it. Red and white text flashes in a list, most being under Cassie’s name or a scramble of unknown numbers. He slowly scrolls down the list with a furrowed brow the longer the list goes on.
Hobie doesn’t even know the phone number for this thing. How do these strangers already have it?
One name drifts past before his finger freezes on the screen. With a slower drag, he scrolls back up until his eyes land on a familiar name.
Mei.
Her face briefly flickers in his mind— face pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed with silent judgement before she thumbed her number into the borrowed handheld.
“L’il brat.”
Hobie’s voice breathes out into a scoff, but a smile barely tugs at the corners of his lips. Another image pops up in his mind, one of Miles snatching the little brick from Mei’s hand and chasing her around the cell-like classroom for a “selfie”— whatever that is. And despite her quick reflexes, she always gets caught by her longtime friend, whether or not she does try to.
His finger taps onto her name.
The screen goes dark except for a small circular picture in the middle. A blurry close up of Mei stares off at the corner, her face flushed and contorted into a flustered frown, her hands clutched onto a sleeved arm around her neck. Hobie’s brows knit together until his forehead wrinkles.
Was that all? Hobie thought there would be more to it—
“Hello? Hobie?”
Hobie screams and throws the shattered handheld across the air, only for his heart to drop at the same speed.
“SHIT—WAIT—!”
The punk slams his feet against the wall of the building dock before flinging the rest of his body over the edge, the soles of his boots sticking onto the wooden wall. He whips his arm towards the falling brick before a string of web shoots out his wrist and catches it like a lasso. Whipping himself back, he yanks the handheld back to him.
A flurry of sharp tingles explodes between his eyebrows as the brick zooms towards his face.
Oh.
Fuck.
The corner of the brick rams between his brows like a bullet, knocking him back onto the rooftop. Red-hot pain pierces through his skull, and a strangled slurry of curses hiss through Hobie’s teeth as he clutches the throbbing spot. The handheld skitters across the roof while Hobie thrashes and curls into himself.
“Hobie?! You okay?!”
A pained scream catches in his throat as Mei’s tinny voice hushes through that godforsaken brick. He slams his fist against the roof tile before snatching the handheld, pressing it against his ear. A grimacing smile curls up on his lips before he finally answers.
“H-hey, shorty.”
“Are you okay? What happened?!”
Faint bass thrums from the small speaker, staticky chatter and movement tickling against Hobie’s eardrums. Blood pounds between his brows in tandem with the music in the background while heat crawls up his nape.
“Nothin’, nothin’!” Hobie grunts as he struggles to sit himself up, blinking away the pops of blue and green away from his vision. “Jus’…almost dropped m’ dog.”
“Your WHAT?!”
Tinny expletives roar through the speaker. The young punk flinches from the sudden shrills, the high frequency rattling his bruised brain, before he frantically pulls back into the call.
“Me phone! I almost dropped m’phone!”
The strain of his own voice irritates the throbbing in his head more, and his free hand clutches onto the budding bump like a retrospective shield. “Anyway! Ev’rythin’s fine! Nothin’ bad actually happened!”
The background music hushes in Hobie’s ears into a buzzing silence, whether or not a reprieve for the punk, he doesn’t know.
But a groan soon reverberates through the speaker.
“Bruh, you can’t just say that shit to me.”
A sputter of laughter echoes through, and a weary sigh of relief tumbles through Hobie’s lips.
“Oi, it ain’t m’fault ya don’ listen—”
“The hell you mean?!” Mei barks out an offended laugh. “You can’t just say you dropped a dog and expect me to be cool about that!”
“I didn’t drop a dog though, now did I?” Hobie bites back a laugh from the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “I jus’ almost dropped m’phone, tha’s all—”
“Dude, I hate to break it to you, but I think your phone’s too fucked for you to care about dropping it—”
“Oi, now tha’s jus’ rude—!”
Another wheeze chimes through the handheld, and a snort ripples through the punk’s nose before he covers his mouth. “Bloody Americans, I swear. So judgmental and materialistic ‘bout their t’ings—”
“Hey, watch it, Queen Elizabeth! I don’t wanna hear that from you and your old man tendencies—!”
“Old?!” Hobie straightens up with an offended gasp. “‘m probably like a year older than you at most—!”
“Bro, you legit didn’t know how to add a contact on your phone—”
“I barely use this bloody brick—!”
“Yeah, I can tell! How were you talking to people before, through pigeons? You didn’t even know how to text or take pictures on your dinosaur-ass phone—!”
“I don’ need this slander, you l’il brat!” A grin stretches across Hobie’s face despite himself. “Why don’cha run off to tha’ l’il party of yers since ‘m so old fer ya?”
A beat of silence rings wrong in Hobie’s ear.
“…nah, the party can wait.”
Quiet rustling buzzes through the speaker as the teasing grin fades on the punk’s lips.
“Shorty?”
A huff of laughter tickles in his ear again, but it’s more strained than before. “No, y’know what, yeah, my bad. I should probably head back. I don’t wanna hold you up from what you’re doing right now—”
“No! No, I can talk.”
Hobie leans over until his elbows rest on his knees, his steel-toed boots hanging over the edge of the roof again. “What, ya ain’t havin’ fun over there?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just…”
A faint sigh vibrates in his ear, and an image of Mei’s shoulders drooping flickers behind the punk’s eyes. “…it’s not really my scene, y’know? More of Miles’s, honestly.”
A salty breeze rustles through Hobie’s locs, trailing stinging kisses along his healing skin, as he hums along with understanding.
“Where’s he at right now? He don’ seem t’ type t’ leave ya alone with strangers.”
“He’s DJ’ing right now.” Her voice hushes against his eardrum, making Hobie press the handheld against his ear more. “He just switched with the main guy, so he’s kinda occupied. I already gave him some food and water though, so he shouldn’t be too bad over there.”
A small frown tugs at the corner of Hobie’s lips.
“No other friends t’ keep ya company?”
An almost derisive scoff echoes through. “I don’t really fuck with people here. A little too rich and snobby for me.”
A huff of laughter hiccups in the punk’s chest from the girl’s ironic sentiment. “Even tha’ one Harry bloke Miles mentioned—?”
“Bruh, don’t get me started with him—”
More chuckles bubble up Hobie’s throat from her scoff.
“Dude legit was trying to talk to me the whole time, even when Miles tried to get him to back off. Honestly, the fact you called right when he tried to get me alone with him was a blessing for me—”
“He tried t’ what?”
Pops crackle through his vertebrae when Hobie straightens up again, his jaw locking in place. “Shorty, tha’ ain’t safe—”
“I know, I know, I’m already away from him,” Mei reassures him. “Lucky for me, his rooftop’s huge as hell, so I got a lot of hiding places over here.”
Hobie’s shoulders drop in relief when he sighs. He drops his head, charmed locs cascading down his shoulders. Waves of inky water crash against concrete walls under his feet as another breeze catches his dangling hair.
“Aw, t’ l’il spider found a hidey-hole fer herself—?”
“Ew, why do you gotta say it like that—?”
Warmth slowly blooms in the punk’s stomach when quiet laughter chimes from Mei’s end. “Nah, but yeah, the rooftop’s pretty cool though. There’s like a huge glass greenhouse connected to the water tower, and it’s facing the city and everything. The view’s honestly the best part about this place. You can probably see Times Square from here if you pay attention.”
A small smile tugs at Hobie’s lips as he lifts his head up. Swirls of cloudy greens and grays blanket the skies, dimming the moonlight in favor of the faraway cityscape of London before him. Abandoned ships bob in the canal throughout the young punk’s periphery, but with Mei’s voice, Hobie can’t help but see shadowed silhouettes dancing across the ships’ docks.
“Yeah? Probably a better view than where ‘m at, then. What d’ya see right now?”
A melodic hum croons through his ear as he props himself back, leaning on one arm while tucking the cracked handheld against his shoulder.
“…pink. There’s a lot of pink lights out tonight.”
A wheeze slips reverberates through Hobie’s nose, eliciting a snort on the other end of the call.
“Shut up, okay! I know it’s obvious!”
“I didn’t say nothin’!”
“You were thinking it, you asshole!” Mei barks up another muffled laugh. “I get it, it’s almost Valentine's Day, but damn!”
Hobie rolls his eyes as the trembling smile on his lips stretches into a grin. “Why does that matter, huh? Why’s that a big deal?”
“…dude, it’s Valentine's Day. That’s kinda the point of the pink lights.”
The smile on Hobie’s lips falters. The little immersion of their banter briefly fades, and reality laps the warmth away from his body.
Is that supposed to be an important day? What the hell is a valentine? Is that something that’s normal in other universes? Is that something that he should’ve known about for the mission, something that slipped away from him during the dull debriefings with Miguel?
“Well…I don’ really pay attention t’ t’ings like tha’—”
“I can tell.”
Another muffled laugh hiccups through the speakers, and Hobie’s shoulders sags again. “I mean, it’s whatever. Not everybody cares about it like that. It’s kind of a gimmicky holiday anyway, trying to get people to buy a shit ton of chocolate or flowers or something.”
The punk’s face pinches into a grimace. “I can feel the capitalism looming through the speaker, shorty.”
His quip earns another stifled laugh. “Yeah, it’s a little tacky for my taste too. There’s only so much you can do with huge teddy bears with hearts or expensive jewelry. Like some last-minute public display of affection for one day out of a year.”
A low hum rumbles in Hobie’s chest before he leans back onto the roof, scratchy tile digging into his back. “Ah, bless ya ‘n yer cold heart, withholdin’ yer affection by refusin’ t’ buy int’ consumerism—”
“Shut up,” Hobie can hear the eye roll from the other end, and he bites back another teasing smirk. “I’m not gonna kill my wallet over that crap. Besides, I already have something else in mind.”
“Oh? Like what?”
A beat. Staticky rustles echo into Hobie’s ear, carrying jumbled bass and electronic snares in the background.
“…making chocolate.”
Hobie’s brows furrow as an image of thin gold wraps around a block of dark brown, plastered across billboards throughout London with a ghoulishly cartoonish goblin grinning over the masses. Luxury bares its fangs in the young punk’s mind, its sickly green skin stretched out into a monkey-like grin like the chimpanzees in those faded animal magazines in the junkyard.
“…ya can make choc’late?”
“Yeah.”
Her response is so matter-the-fact, so simple. Confusion scratches the infuriating goblin out of Hobie’s mind.
“Like…actual choc’late?”
“…yeah? I mean, it’s not professional or anything, but they’re not bad, I guess.”
Disbelief tinges his voice as an expletive tumbles through Hobie’s lips. “I didn’t t’ink ya could make it…”
“No, yeah, it’s not really that hard. I usually make it with Tía and Miles every year, but I think I’m gonna try doing it myself this time. Every time we all make it together, we make too much until Uncle Jeff gets sick of the smell in the apartment for the month.”
Another rustle scratches against Hobie’s eardrums, and he can see Mei shrugging with that familiar deadpan on her face. “He’ll still eat it though. He always does for Tía. I’ll probably make something else for Uncle Aaron and Oum D though, they’re not that big on chocolate.”
Shadowed silhouettes surround the conjured Mei in Hobie’s mind, a cloying scent fazing into the smog and salt in the air. Her face pinches up in embarrassment when a hand ruffles her dark curls, and she curls into a ball before another figure tries to tug her shielding arms away from her face. Laughter croons into his ears, and a sharp sting pricks up in his chest.
“Ya really got a nice set up, don’cha?”
Those words slip through Hobie’s lips before he can stop them. His pulse sputters under the silence at the other end.
“…like, for making chocolate?”
A strained huff slips through Hobie’s lips. His tongue grows heavy like lead, but he swallows it down before he croaks out his response.
“Nah, like…with yer family.”
Another beat of silence makes Hobie break out in a sweat before Mei’s voice chimes in the air.
“I guess, yeah. They kinda get on my ass at times, though.”
Her voice hushes into a solemn vibration. “Not gonna lie, I got chewed out a bit by Uncle Jeff and Tía earlier about skipping class again, talking about wasting my potential and all that.”
The lingering ghost of Hobie’s smirk fades.
“I know they want what’s best for me, but still,” Mei continues, as if lost in her own thoughts. “I don’t think gym class is gonna matter in my life in the grand scheme of things, especially when crazy shit happens out here every day. And I can’t really ignore it with my powers always acting up when something comes up.”
Pressure slowly crushes Hobie’s chest the more he listens, tingles flooding his skin in resonation.
“…everybody’s been telling me what I should do. To quit screwing around and think about my future, like that’s supposed to be easy for me. I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with being a hero and being normal at the same time…”
Her musing hits closer to home than Hobie would like to admit.
“…I get it. Like ev’rythin’ ya do ain’t enough fer them sometimes.”
“…yeah.”
Soft rustling reverberates through the small speaker before another sigh tickles in Hobie’s ear. “I mean, I’m still doing my own thing either way. I’ll probably figure something out later. I just…”
Every trail off from the other end of the call grows louder in Hobie’s ear. The tinge of uncertainty in her voice burrows into the punk’s chest, the unfamiliar question in her demeanor sheathing itself between his ribs to the hilt. In the whole month he’s been around her, the manicured wall she surrounds herself in finally chips before him.
That should be good. That means she’s starting to trust him.
And yet…
“I got a good thing going here, y’know?”
Something ugly pools within his ribs, latching onto her uncertainty. Burning low like embers, stubbornly clinging to life as it singes everything behind his sternum up to the back of his throat. The smog and salt in the air irritates the prickling in his chest even more.
Hobie swallows the creeping bile in his throat, and his voice strains through his lips.
“Yeah, I get that.”
No, he doesn’t.
Roving light beams travel across clouded skies, scrutinizing the whole cityscape and sea before the punk. The odor of smog and saltwater sours in the back of his throat. Static crackles in his free ear while the one against the cracked handheld croons electric drum beats and acoustic guitar at the end of the line. For a brief moment, pink lights flicker in front of him, and instead of the inky waters and bobbing ships, he’s surrounded by lush green and glass panels. Muffled music and chatter blends into lapping waves and creaking metal. Pink and white LED lights take over and dapple through the green and brown smog until they flood over the faraway city.
“…I know I signed up for this.”
A streak of yellow flicks in his periphery, and a brief tingle blooms along his arm from a faint presence beside him.
“I mean, not really,” Mei’s voice huffs in a downcast, “but what else can you really do when you get bit by some weird-ass spider, right? It’s not like you can make it go away and go back to how things used to be…”
Something tickles the hairs of his arm, almost hair-like, curl-like. Hobie shrugs the sensation off as his free hand drags against rough tile, anchoring him from his wandering mind.
“Ya make it sound like ya’ve been doin’ it fer a while.”
The punk can hear Mei shrugging again, can hear the crinkle of her windbreaker.
“…yeah, like three years, probably. Around middle school. I don’t know if that’s a long time, to be honest, but it kinda feels like it to me.”
Long braids and blue nylon flicker in his eyes, a small body swinging and soaring through the air. Screams and laughter phases in and out of his ear as a tiny blue spiderling tumbles with her newfound abilities in mid-air.
“…’n ya t’ink ya got it figured out?”
“…probably not, but I probably will at some point. So far I’ve been pretty lucky—”
A whirring suddenly cuts through the crooning music from Mei’s end. Hobie flinches from the offensive buzzing as he comes back to polluted skies and inky waters, the pink lights and glass greenhouse shattering before him.
“Shorty? T’ hell is that?”
The whirring irritates his eardrums, like hundreds of gnats swarming into his ear, but he ignores the urge to chuck the flat brick out of his grip.
“Oi, what’s goin’ on—?!”
A loud electric crackle screams in his ear, and he flinches away from the handheld again as he scrambles up from the edge of the roof.
“Mei—!”
“Shit, my bad, I’m good.”
Hobie’s heart seizes despite the nonchalance vibrating through the small speaker. Tingles buzz under his skin, and an ooze-like pressure wraps around his lungs into a chokehold.
“Some drone just flew up in my face, but I got it away from me,” Mei lets out a strained laugh as more rustling claws into Hobie’s ear. “I’mma have to go though. I think Miles’s curfew is coming up, and I don’t wanna keep Uncle Aaron waiting.”
“Wait, shorty—!”
The words tumble off his tongue before he can stop them. Lapping waves and muffled music war against his ears as his fingers squeeze around the cracked metal and plastic, drying sweat chilling his skin.
“…yeah?”
Puffs of staggered air pass through Hobie’s lips, tingles ebbing along his trembling fingertips until they seep through the handheld. The foreboding pressure constricts the air out of him, lodging his organs up his throat, but he forces them down with another swallow.
“…lemme know when ya ‘n Miles get home then, yeah?”
Hobie hates the silence that looms through the speaker, the charged static buzzing in his ear.
“…yeah, I will.”
The pressure disperses behind his ribs, and a deep breath wheezes through his throat as muffled voices and rustling echo through his ear.
“Alright, I’ll text you later, Hobie— Miles, fuck off! Get the hell off me—!”
“Hobie!” Miles’s voice booms through the punk’s overwhelmed eardrum, but Hobie bites back a startled laugh as Mei’s indignant squawking fades in the background. “Bruh, you need to pull up next time, okay? Mei’s been a sourpuss this whole time, and she’s scaring everybody away with her stank face—”
“MILES, I SWEAR TO GOD—!”
“Nah, but for real! Hang out with us more! I’ll have Mei text you next time we plan a hangout! We’ll see you at school on Monday though, aight?”
Before Hobie can utter a word into the chaotic verbal squabbling, soft beeps tickle his ear canal. He pulls the handheld away from his ear, only to be greeted with his cracked reflection on the black screen. Vertigo suddenly slams through his head as exhaustion blankets over the young punk again. With a low groan he collapses back onto the rooftop, rolling onto his back until he stares back up at the swirling green and brown sky. The tingles linger under his skin, the brief spike of anxiety hiding in the back of his subconscious. Mucus starts to break apart in his lungs when he takes another deep breath, but the tingles refuse to fade away through his exhale.
What the hell did Hobie get himself into?