Chapter 3
Hobie felt himself start shaking the second he stepped into New London.
He hated it. He hated it. Hobie hated feeling so powerless against the waves of emotion barreling into him. He hated how he allowed Miles’ words to sink into his skin and stay there like teeth. He hated that he had let Miles speak to him like that and didn’t have the balls to stand up for himself. He ran away like a coward. It was pathetic.
His next breath was caught on a sob. Hobie looked around his darkened apartment, lips pressed together in a scowl as he berated himself. Keep it together, man. No use crying over someone who won’t cry over you.
But Hobie did cry. He couldn’t help it. There was no off button for his emotions, there was no New London bad guy to distract him from himself. Hobie threw his guitar onto the ground, only regretting it a little when he heard the strings complain. He kicked off his boots, uncaring when they flew into the wall, and stomped into his bathroom like maybe throwing himself around would make him feel better. He turned on the shower, stripped down, and climbed in.
The water was scalding. It felt like it was drilling holes in Hobie’s skin. He didn’t care, though, putting his wicks under the water even though it wasn’t a wash day and he knew he wouldn’t have the energy to dry them later. Hobie stood under the hot water of the shower in the apartment he bought to share with his friends and he sobbed.
It was hard, being Spiderman. Especially Spider-Punk. Hobie had been told his entire life that no one needed him, that no one wanted him, that he should have just laid down and let the tide that was Norman Osborn take him. Before joining the Spider Society, all Hobie had heard his entire like was that he was too much, he was too loud, too destructive, too political. And when he did join the Spidey Society, it was the exact same thing. No one wanted him around. And for one fucking moment he thought that maybe, maybe Miles saw him for something more than that. For something more than a machine for killing Prime Ministers and roping up bad guys. As something more than a loud-mouthed guitarist with an awful singing voice. Something more than a distraction.
It was embarrassing how hard Hobie sobbed. He was completely alone in his apartment and his face was hot from how ashamed he was by his crying. There was a hollowness in his chest as sobs tore through him, ripping him up the way that portals tore holes in his universe. It felt like he had nothing left to give. Like that hole would never close. Even when the tears dried up, Hobie sat on the floor of his shower, letting the hot water pelt against his back until it turned icy cold.
He’d regret it when his water bill came, but he didn’t have the energy to feel poorly about it then. Hobie could still see Miles’ face imprinted in his brain. The way his jaw set and his mouth twisted around the words. The way his nose scrunched up and how he threw his hands down when he delivered the final blow. Hobie could feel the words on his cheek like a brand. I don’t need you.
And no one did need Hobie Brown. Not anymore. Norman was gone, Karl had done a bloody brilliant job erecting a democracy with leaders people could believe in. New London was changing and other than being a face that showed up and smiled at rallies and celebrations, Hobie wasn’t needed. The odd bad guy or surviving Thunderbolt activist was a piece of cake to the Spider Band in New London. He could retire tomorrow and no one would notice.
It was over that quickly. Hobie had wanted nothing more but for the world to change, but now that he was living in it, he felt completely and utterly useless. Unwanted. Underappreciated. Hobie scoffed at himself then. Underappreciated was for people who deserved to be appreciated. What had he ever done but cause chaos? What had Hobie ever done that made him deserve the title of appreciated? Absolutely nothing. He felt a little guilty, then. Hobie was a selfish creature. The way he was talking- it sounded like he wanted bad things to happen to give the world a reason to keep him around.
Hobie thought of an iteration of himself he had met doing a mission. Another Hobart Brown. But this guy, he wasn’t Spiderman. Or Spider-Punk, for that matter. He was the Prowler, in his universe. His eyes were grey. His skin was ashy. He looked so exhausted. Every time he spoke, Pav heard a bad guy monologue and Hobie heard a plea for help. A tired, young man begging for someone to hear how desperate he was to be needed. To be feared and admired for it.
There was nothing in the world Hobie was more afraid of than turning into that man. He had gone home after the mission and told Miguel not to contact him anymore. It was Gwen who roped him back in, because of course she did.
Hobie dwelled on that idea as he sat on his couch wrapped in a towel.
Feared and admired for it.
Was that all Hobie was?
Was his studded jacket and the spikes on his mask and the uncaring persona all just a desperate attempt for someone to look at Hobie and be in awe for a moment?
How are you even cooler under the mask? Hobie’s heart had soared when Miles said that. He played it off, he always played it off, but Hobie liked to think his fate had been sealed the second Miles said that to him. He didn’t want to think about Miles anymore.
But he did, of course he did. Hobie thought about the mission and what he could have done differently.
He had heard Miles fighting. He had heard the cannons going off. Hobie could have paused what he was doing and stepped out to help before finishing. But he hadn’t. The stuff he found on that computer was sickening. The medical reports, the damage reports, the complaints, the bribes. It was everything Hobie loathed. It was easy enough to click and point the folders into his hard drive, but then Hobie found something different.
PRcheque.pdf
Aaron Davis.
Hobie had heard about Miles’ Uncle Aaron. Hell, he’d met the guy in a different dimension. Miles idolized him. And Hobie knew how tortured he would have been to learn that the Prowler was working for Roxxon, taking out competitors and employees about to whistleblow and pretty much whatever else the corporate big-heads were willing to throw money at. If Miles knew that about his Uncle Aaron, all of Miles' good memories would be gone. All his hope that underneath the necessity of being The Prowler that Aaron had some kind of deniability would be gone.
So Hobie had deleted the file. He deleted every file that had the name Aaron, or Davis, or even so much as mentioned The Prowler. And that was a lot harder to do than move evidence from one device to the next. That’s what took Hobie so long. That’s why he didn’t go out to help. While trying to protect Miles, Hobie had endangered him.
And maybe that’s why Hobie was so scared. Because he realized that he would do anything for Miles. He had joked about it before, sure. He prided himself on loyalty. But Hobie had risked the whole mission and Miles’ life just to spare him from some heartache over a man who was already dead.
He was going soft.
Hobie knew he was going soft because his next instinct was to text Miles and apologize. Use his words, or whatever. Explain that he knew Miles was a smart and capable, but that Hobie couldn’t stand the thought of him being hurt because he pushed himself too far.
But Hobie was a selfish creature.
Why was he always the one begging for scraps? Why was he always crawling on his knees, begging and pleading for someone to give him the time of day? Hobie had had his childhood ripped away from him by an uncaring country that would rather its people suffer than prosper. He hadn’t gotten an education, never enjoyed supportive parents, was tossed onto the streets as a child and became Spiderman at thirteen. There was grief deep, deep inside of Hobie, mourning a life he never had that he saw in Miles. How dare he want to throw away everything Hobie had ever wanted. Hobie wasn’t going to let himself feel bad over giving Miles a reality check when it came to how lucky he was because people cared so deeply about him. Miles was the one who raised his voice and Miles was the one who could apologize to Hobie.
And that apology never came.
Hobie’s watch remained silent. Even Karl noticed, after a day or two, while they were lounging on a roof top watching the grand opening of a new women’s shelter from afar.
“You’re brooding an unusual amount.” Karl said.
“I think I’m at my proper level of brood, actually.” Hobie said cooly.
“Drop it, Hobs. I’m trying to be serious here.” Karl without the mask was something Hobie was still getting used to. He had cute dimples and deep brown eyes and black hair that he kept short but wanted to grow out. He had that same openness that Miles did. Hobie hated it. At least the visor added some kind of mental distance.
“There’s nuthin’ to be serious about.” He replied.
“Alright then. How’s Miles?”
Hobie stayed silent.
“I knew it!”
“Shut it!”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Can you not be such a box of toys?”
“Are you guys breaking up?”
“NO! I don’t know!” Hobie collapsed in on himself, head in his hands. “Maybe.”
“Shit, Hobie.” Karl said. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
“He yelled at me.” Sighed Hobie. “We ‘aven’t spoken since.”
“Miles? Miles yelled?” Karl laughed a little bit, but his mouth shut with the click of his teeth when Hobie shot him a glare.
“I. Critiqued. His decision making. Ruffled his feathers.”
“Ah.” Karl nodded. He let that statement hang in the air for awhile. “Are you okay?”
“Proper fine.”
“Hobie.”
“You ask and I answer. What more d’you want?” Hobie complained.
Karl sat next to Hobie and gave him a severe look. “I want you to be honest with me. You seem to forget that we literally have our emotions written all over us.”
Hobie touched his cheek. He could still feel the burn of Miles’ words dashed across his face. Were they actually there? He hadn’t bothered to check. Looking at his arms, Hobie could see that amidst the headlines talking about rising employment rates and lowering house prices there were scattered, smudged words that Hobie thought he had limited to his apartment. Mean things that he said to himself with the lights turned off. He wrapped his arms around himself and hoped Karl didn’t look any closer.
“I’m sorry, Hobie.” Karl said. “I wish something I could say would make you feel better in an instant, but it won’t. I just. I want you to know what I care, yeah? And so does Riri. And Robbie. And Kamala and everyone in New London cares. You’re loved, Hobie. You’re wanted.”
“Yeah.” Hobie said, not believing a word. People did that, you know? Told you what you wanted to hear so they could turn it back on you down the line.
“I remember that one art instillation you did on the billboards downtown.” Said Karl, wistful, almost. “Joy Joy Joy.”
Hobie remembered. Armed with paint cans, he had webbed himself to the side of one of the biggest billboards he could find. The Osborn regime liked to put “Obey, Obey, Obey” over everything and it had become an eyesore. Hobie had always cherished the tenet that love was the purest form of resistance. So, he spray painted over it “Joy, Joy, Joy” wherever he saw one of those signs.
“You need to remember that Hobie.” Karl’s voice was so serious, so severe. He clasped a hand on Hobie’s shoulder and squeezed. “No matter how much the world beats you down. No matter how much it takes from you. The punkest, most fuck-you thing you can do in a world like ours is to be happy despite the odds. Happy out of spite. You know this man. You were the one who taught me that.”
There was a stinging in Hobie’s eyes. From the smog, he told himself, even though the new emission regulations were slowing it down. Hobie had made changes in New London. Things were looking up for everyone. The women’s shelter. The housing prices, the employment rates, the decreasing gloom in the sky. He had done good. There was always more to be done, because of course there was, but Hobie wanted to be there to see it. He and Karl sat in silence, watching the last of the streamers from the celebration settle into the streets. A woman with purple streaks running through her braids embraced someone who looked like her mom with happy tears in her eyes. It was reactions like that which reminded Hobie why he cared so much about people who didn’t care for him. Everyone deserved to feel loved.
“How about you and I meet Robbie at the community center and start decorating?” Karl asked. It was a new project they had started in downtown Brooklyn. A place where kids could get books. Elders could rest their bones. Tired parents could get childcare and on Wednesdays, there were doctors and nurses. There was even a little basement where Gwen kept her drumkit and the rest of the Spider-Band kept their instruments so they didn’t have to pay for rehearsal spaces anymore. Robbie was considering holding music classes. It was a good place. Karl and Hobie had agreed it looked a little too sterile and had been procrastinating actually decorating the place even though Riri had sketched out floor plans for them like the gem she was.
Hobie nodded. Maybe New London didn’t need Spider-Punk anymore. But Hobie Brown could hang up streamers in the community center.
“That’s my guy.” Praised Karl, punching Hobie in the shoulder and leaping to his feet. “There’s this little party shop that opened up in the textiles district. I bet they’ll have some cool stuff.”
“I think we’re a bit old for crafts, we not?” Hobie admonished, but he was smiling as he got to his feet.
“No such thing!”