Current
A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing
Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
I'm currently in an irregular patch of my roster. Worked 14 hours today and have two straight weeks of mornings which have been rougher than usual for a bunch of reasons.
Got through the first, but I may still be quiet for a bit. I'm pretty much working, looking after my kid and sleeping with little time for anything else through this.
But as I said. This is irregular. Things will return to usual in about another week.
The husk pushed forward gently. Slid through plastic and a klaxon sounded. The pause was palpable, it pivoted on the rotating floor, before pneumatics move it forward again.
A breath of air. Movement. Always moving forward. Always progressing.
"Hey, can we-- Can we get an actual car up there and going through?"
"Well... it's a preliminary run-through to check the equipment. You haven't even hired the additional staff I advised yet, so, the process won't be as advised." Hobie said whilst never taking his eyes off the line to face the addressing voice.
"Well, if we're going to push something through anyway, might as well see what it will actually look like."
"Every individual process was timed. If you try to push one through without a full staff its just going to get held up at pinch points, where the work's taking longer from the lack of staff. It's going to highlight inefficiencies in the system which won't exist. Give you the wrong idea about how it will all look."
"Aaaaand what if, the additional staff won't be hired?"
"Then I'll be very pissed that I wasn't notified before the final plant testing stage, when I could've actually made changes to the system to smooth over your decision to be less efficient than my advise..."
Hobie pulled the 'kill' cable and the line stopped.
He sighed, and turned to face the source of his irritation. "How many?"
"Two."
"Two. So you're probably going to want to pull them from Section C and Section H. It'll cost you about three cars every seven hours. To save... what are you paying these people? Somewhere between fifteen and twenty bucks an hour? Worst case forty bucks an hour. Just pay the people."
"There's more at play than that. We hire the additional employees, takes us out of play for the Bronx Small Business Grant."
Hobie was in his head trying to figure out how to smooth over the problem and the change in figures.
"If you told me earlier, I could have re-worked the system... Maybe only cost you four or five every fourteen hours instead of six... Gonna pinch up at--"
"No, we-- We like the system as it is. Comes to the 'right' figure'."
"Well, yeah... but that's never gonna-- Oh. I see."
They liked the production figures. How they'd sound to anyone, media, government... They just didn't want to hire the extra staff to make those figures actually possible. Happy enough to have plant that could POTENTIALLY produce that many new Futura automobiles here in the Bronx.
"Apply for an exception. Give a demonstration of the system to show the production's possible. Tell them how much difference those two people would make. When business takes care of the community, the community takes care of business."
"What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying is, that when a business takes care of the people it, people tend to make it their interest in taking care of the business. You could have a bunch of people in the neighbourhood, and people who work here, parking new Futuras in the employee lot... or parking some Japanese imports."
Tension tightened, and was palpable in the other man.
"Need I remind you, when you took on this job you were required to sign an NDA about internal business practices. I'd be very disappointed to find sensitive information turning up in the media, Mister Brown."
"I'm well aware. And I'm not going to say nothin'. But I'm also not the only one who'd know. Employees can pick up on cynicism like that. You think they're not gonna notice they could be putting out more cars and not wonder what's going on? Why things are how they are? Nobody needs to hear anything from me."
Hobie picked up on the shift. The bitter cool breeze that stood in contrast to the furnace of rage. The bitter cool breeze which was projected whenever Hobie was like this to a client or an employer.
A surface annoyance who'd more than worn out his welcome whose appearance was no longer worth the effort or money changing hands.
"Well, Mister Brown. All of your advise has been incredibly helpful, but I think we can take it from here..."
* * *
"Well, we'll take it under advisement..."
"Yes, yes... I'm sure your inventions are very helpful..."
"Hobie... just wash the damn windows, man..."
Hobie sighed as he loaded his gear back into his truck.
Couldn't jush wash the damn windows again, could you, Hobie?
His phone rang, he opened the drivers door and answered it from his seat.
"Hello? Oh, hey man! Y'know... wanna catch a ball game? My afternoon just freed up..."
A few hours later Hobie and the person from the other end of the phone - one Randy Robertson - were eating Italian premio sausage with pepper and onions by the foul ball line.
"So, you get kicked again. Huh?"
"..."
A smile broadened across Rand's face as he took another bite and watched on at the game. He had all the answer he needed.
"I wasn't wrong. Besides... they were only gonna pay me for another month."
A solitary chuckle when the word came out that the silence was indeed its own answer.
"Well... except maintenance."
"Nah. I know the man. One month in they'd have kicked me and tried to go someone cheaper who'll doubtless fuck up the service anyway."
"There's still word of mouth. I mean you're running your own busin--"
Hobie growled out a sigh.
"I know there's word of mouth, Rand'. I've been runnin' my own business for a while. Do you think I need you to tell me I fucked up again, like I don't know, and that I need to learn how to keep shit to myself sometimes? Just watch the damn game."
As if on cue, maple connected with leather as Aaron Judge hammered one with heat on it in their direction.
"Go! Go! Stay fai--" Randy urged the ball to stay in play, and got to his feet.
Spin dragged the ball foul, where it went into the stands, rows beneath them one section over.
"That one was close..." Randy said, the fact Hobie never moved a muscle suggested he didn't agree with that assertion. He returned to his food.
"You know what you need. Someone to help take your mind off of--"
"No."
"What--?"
"Your taste is... terrible. Like... Really bad. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were picking up women from outside a therapists office."
"C'mon... you haven't seen anyone since, what was her name again--"
"You know it was Mindy, man... Yeah, it's been a while but I've been busy. Starting and running your own business takes time, effort and energy."
"It does. And you've done it. And you've got time now..."
"Not for one of your projects, Rand'... Nobody has that much time..."
The two had come from very different backgrounds to get where they were today. Randy was suburban from birth. His father worked hard to get him the best. To keep him out of harm's way. And some of his decision-making had been left wanting to say the least... he found his own excitement in life. But he meant well. He worked in community outreach, he'd tried his hand at journalism himself, and did charity work.
Whilst Hobie came from as urban an environment as you could get, and through luck and sheer force of will his family yanked them out of that situation and gave him the best possible chance.
Both had their own issues with self preservation, but while with Hobie it generally came down to his mouth and not knowing when to leave well enough alone, with Randy it was a whole other level of naivete.
Which was why it grated on Hobie to hear Randy as the one giving the lecture.
Despite having so little in common from their background, they did have a few things in common which brought them together.
They both cared about their community, both wanted to see better for it. Both owed their lives to family who provided and loved them. And a mutual friend who one day brought them together.
Not unlike what Randy was trying to do here, he supposed.
Dammit...
"Alright... What's her name?"
"It's Norah Winters. I worked with her a while briefly, before I decided that--"
"A reporter. You're setting me up with a reporter."
"--before I decided that following in Dad's footsteps wasn't for me. Yeah, she's a reporter. But she's in the same place as you. She needs to find a way to hget away from work and have something else--"
"So not just a reporter. A reporter who can't leave her job at the door." He shook his head.
"We dated briefly, but--"
"And YOU dated her. This is getting worse and worse all the time. Like I said, you got no taste. It's like you're a magnet for crazy."
"We just realised WE weren't gonna work. There's nothing wrong with her. She's a good person."
Hobie side-eyed his friend.
"She's just... a driven person."
Hobie thought for a moment.
"She's a work psycho, isn't she? You're setting me up with a work psycho reporter who didn't work with you, and are hoping she'll be less work psycho around someone who isn't also in journalism. That's what you're doin, isn't it?"
"If she's around you, she's not going to be able to talk shop and be 'ON' twenty four hours a day. You'd be good for one another."
Hobie shook his head again, not taking his eyes off the ball game. He needed beer for this conversation and regretted not grabbing one from the concession.
"Can't we just watch a ball game, why you have to go dragging girls into this?"
"I mean it, it'd be good for both of you. You both need more outside of work. After me she was seeing this cameraman, and that went bad. I don't think she has much outside of work."
"She's got ex problems as well? You know, if you turn up dead, the police aren't gonna have to look any further than check social media to see who you're dating at the time. That's your taste. I don't know what makes you think I need more excitement outside of work..." 'Outside of my own personal hobbies...' Hobie thought to himself.
That didn't ring true to Randy this time. As long as he'd known him, Hobie had seemed a contradiction of sorts. He seemed small and quiet most of the time... but it was never long until his mouth would get him in trouble, and he'd go back to looking small and unassuming once again. Randy liked to talk about peace and quiet, but part of him always seemed to chase excitement and trouble which would threaten to pull him under.
Hobie's upbringing had led to this. For his whole life, Randy had been an only child, with what would have been his older brother dying when he was still a baby. He'd been loved and cherished by his parents and held close. Hobie had grown up in a large family - the youngest of eight brothers, who mostly took care of each other - and from what Randy could tell, he'd grown up as the young brother who'd chirp. A younger brother who would find trouble and know he had older brothers to back him up from things ever going TOO bad.
But Hobie would need a push. While Randy did truly think this would be good for both of them, he knew there was only one way to get Hobie to go along with it.
"C'mon... I'll owe you."
"You'll owe me..? Wow. You really are not sellin' this girl well..."
"I mean it, she's a good friend, and great. But she needs something away from her work. And she still has to work with the ex..."
Randy knew that on this, they were two of the same. If Hobie thought he was doing a favour, doing something FOR his friend, he was far more likely to go along than if he were to explain that it was really what Hobie needed.
Hobie sighed. Randy smiled knowing that the begrudging gesture, meant that something had to be ceded to, in order for the begrudging attitude to be there in the first place.
"So 'Norah', you sayin' that she's--"
"Yeeeees, she's white." Randy rolled his eyes, he'd been waiting for that question ever since he said her name.
"Hey... don't give me attitude like it don't make no difference. It's not a deal breaaker either way, but still gotta handle things different cos of it. You didn't grow up in Harlem, 'Ridgewood' Robertson."
"You barely grew up in Harlem! Your family moved to the Bronx when you were still just a kid!"
"And yet..."
"..."
"Alright, do you have a brother who won't answer to his own name, and only responds to 'Ghostface Killah' or a variation of 'Ghostface Killah'?"
"N--" But Hobie cut him off.
"No, you don't. Like I said, some things have to be handled differently. You want this to happen."
"Who's talking about introducing her to your family? I'm just saying take her out a few times and see how things go." Randy said, with a smirk. Thinking he was already getting too serious about this in his head.
"There's sixteen eyes up in my business. I'd be watched less in prison. It's why I came here. I go home, they'll all know about how things went with Futura Motors before the end of the day. And THAT'S assuming they haven't already found out."
Randy nodded towards the game, and then watched him out of the corner of his eye. The Yankees young shortstop Anthony Volpe was taking a big lead-off, as Aaron Judge took some practice swings.
"What? What else, man? You already got me to go along with--"
"Just-- be careful going to get another client. I heard things are going to heat up in the city. So be careful around, like, warehouses and unused factories and--"
"You just described ninety five to ninety eight percent of the places I do business... If it weren't for that one dentist job I got on referral, it'd be a hundred percent."
"Dentist?"
Hobie shrugged. "Pneumatics is pneumatics."
Randy accepted it, unsure what else to really say about the matter, but wanted to make sure his point got across.
"I'm serious though. Just-- be careful. This came from Ben Urich. So it's solid."
"That doesn't mean anything to me." Hobie played dumb. He followed the crimebeat and cape-print enough to be well aware of the man's work.
"Reporter on crimebeat. Pulitzer winner. If he says sources are telling him things are going to get dangerous, well..." Randy let the sentence hang as if it would give it more weight. What it really told Hobie was that Randy admired the guy, and would take his quiet unprinted word as gospel.
After all, he'd briefly worked at the same publication as him, if not necessarily in close quarters with the man. Hobie found it difficult to imagine that Joe Robertson would willingly let his kid be that close to the action.
Things hotting up in the Bronx would likely mean Tombstone was getting agitated. Either that, or a new element with designs on the region... which would in turn lead to much the same thing anyway.
Hobie could dig. He had his own potential sources and lines.
His own, much less willing, though. And if he played it right, they'd never even know they were.
"It's work, Rand'. I'm getting asked to scope these places out on the new owner's request. So it's not like I'm stumbling around in the dark, looking for trouble in abandoned warehouses and factories."
"You know me, man. No dumb risks."
The crowd around them all groaned with sudden disappointment. Volpe had just been caught stealing for the third out, leaving Judge at the plate.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ►The Hornet Armour Hobie's current costume is a modified version of his Prowler Suit. The key differences are that utilising pneumatic blasts and drafts, caught by his glider cape, he is capable of short-distance flight. It also utilizes sedative 'stingers' which are also fired pneumatically, effective to aim over about forty feet, assuming regular weather. His suit still has precautionary grappling hooks in each gauntlet, and impact-resistant boots, capable of allowing him to withstand falls and harder landings. His boots also possess the pneumatic means to allow him to leap great heights, useful if conditions aren't the best suited for a ground based take-off. ►Skills Whilst Hobie is a genius of sorts, he's still a specialised one. A self-made man who discovered his own innate gifts for working with pneumatics and fabrication, he is a creative and innovative thinker in his field. He is currently using his skills to function as an investigator/detective work, and his own skills and genius don't really transfer that way. He can make obvious inferences, and see blatant connections, but he is neither Batman, nor Vic Sage. He has no training for it, and no natural aptitude in that regard. He's just able to gain access to information by use of his brilliant suits, and feels they should be put to good use. Holding bad people accountable. Hobie is a moderately good hacker. Again, self-taught. But he's not a miracle worker in this regard. -
That's what we're getting here. Hobie was spared, given a second chance and made good with it. He has a solid career, that never happens if he goes to prison, and 'made it out'.
Now he's hellbent on crushing those who would exploit the people who grew up in those similar circumstances - to try and give those people the chances that he had. The chance to make good. The chance to 'be more'.
Captain America, the Avengers, maybe even Spider-Man bring hope. Hobie brings down giants who trample people like ants.
T H E H I S T O R Y O F H O B I E T H E H I S T O R Y O F H O B I E
The youngest of nine brothers, Hobie was born to Tyrone “Tiger” Brown and Josie “Jo” Brown in Harlem New York.
Before Hobie can remember, his father went off to war. He is MIA and the family was receiving payment and benefits, but with nine kids they struggled to stretch so far. Only one parent with her hands full with nine young boys, in the background of the ‘crack wars’ of the mid-to-late 90s.
Jo was shot in a home burglary, in an unsolved crime committed by someone doubtless seeking fast money for drugs. Rushed to Emergency, she was given a blood transfusion which was poorly screened. The transfusion infected her with HIV, back in the days when the diagnosis was viewed as a certain death sentence.
Facing an impossible choice of fighting a prolonged legal battle she certainly wouldn’t live long enough to see the end of, she accepted a cash settlement for the medical ‘mishap’, and the family used the money to buy a sizable home in South Bronx. At tremendous cost, she had managed to provide and get her boys out.
Their oldest brother, Abraham, had left the home already for opportunities overseas. He would return packages of money for the family periodically, as they remained in correspondence. As their mother was approaching her end, the family reached out to have him brought home, but he didn’t make it back in time. Before ‘Jo’s passing, she made the brothers swear to look out for one another – this resulted in the eight remaining boys, always remaining in close proximity. Even as some left home, they would still remain in the Bronx.
The eight boys had a ‘hustle-life’ attitude to money and its procurement, but had formed a zero tolerance attitude to drugs and gangs, all having seen the impact that they had indirectly had on their own family – the drive for money for drugs which resulted in their mother being shot, and the gangs who peddled drugs to one who shot her. Direct confrontation from all eight of the Brown Boys any time someone was foolish enough to attempt to recruit one on their own, saw an unsteady truce where the family and gangs both left well enough, and each other, alone.
Hobie, the youngest of his family, and in many ways the most fortunate, with seven older brothers watching over him and pushing him to meet his potential had the best grades of the group and was their hope to be the family’s first chance at going to college. He was a natural talent in many sciences and mathematics. A mishap with one of his inventions, saw him lose the opportunity as intent was read into the disaster, and he was suspended for the remainder of the school year. He later completed his schooling and got his GED, but school’s which had courted him distanced themselves after the incident, despite his pleas of innocence.
Hobie had a number of jobs over the years. Factory hand, repairman... but it was as a window cleaner where his life went through another pivotal change.
He saw a fight between Daredevil and Stilt-Man playing out right in front of him. The action, the excitement, this clash of two previously larger than life entities - one, larger than buildings - playing out in front of him.
And when it was done, and the marvels and menaces had disappeared, cloaked in the city beyond, presumably either still in conflict or to clash another day. Hobie found himself in a strange situation.
He was critically assessing the Stilt-Man's costume. Simple ways it could have been done better.
And just like that, these people-beyond-men no longer seemed larger than life.
Hobie began work on his own suit and his own secret identity.
After being let go from his job for an argument that started over whether he took the job seriously, when he tried to show his boss tools of his own invention which he created to make his job easier, he was left a necessity to find money for his family and not much time to do it in. He needed money fast. Likely faster than he'd be able to get a new job.
Before that moment, so much of his time had been obsessively into his own latest creation - the suit.
The solution seemed obvious.
First he began to put together a list of high value, low conflict targets. People whose own business dealings had ravaged the community. But his life would change once again, when he set his sights on the Daily Bugle's payroll, in a retaliatory effort for a string of articles on gentrification which Hobie felt put the 'hood in a bad light.
He had never attempted anything so public and visible before, but it was a newspaper, and the message was half of the point wasn't it?
That's what saw him confronting people in his suit, for the first time, in broad daylight.
Until it all went wrong.
Some young copyboy or intern was knocked out of a window. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. It was never supposed to be like this!
And when Spider-Man swung to his rescue and to confront him, all fast flying words, webs and punches Hobie wasn't ready for it.
He ran. Fled.
Once he got clear, he broke down, lamenting the loss of the young man. Reconsidering every decision he'd ever made since creating the suit.
And that's when Spider-Man found him. And the webs and punches were put away. This time it was only words.
And no snappy one-liners.
Spider-Man told him that he hadn't gone his entire costumed life without a mistake either. That he'd suffered loss. And the one lesson he'd learnt from who he had lost which always stood paramount.
With great power comes great responsibility.
And with that, Hobie's life pivoted.
He was forever grateful of the second chance he'd received. But he also looked at the suit in an entirely different way. Those words had made it sacred in a sort of way.
And beyond just a mere source of income.
Hobie's obseession drifted away from the suit. The money he had so far accrued had bought him a little time. And instead he worked on himself. He invested the time, effort and energy, inwards.
And with his skills in pneumatics, and with the critical eye he had cast over Stilt-Man's costume all that time ago, he found his own calling, as a consultant for how to best create processes utilitising pneumatics to maximise efficiency and effectiveness, mostly in the industrial sector.
Hobie Brown took back control of the power within his life.
And in his free-time..? Now he would hold other people in power responsible.
Air Jordan 35s kiss the blacktop in steady repetition, as Hobie sits on the ground level bleacher watching on.
One of the few reasons Hobie would ever return to Harlem. But religious grounds are always a good reason, for basketball's Mecca.
He worked away on a chili burger from Harlem Shake, before a pair of Lebron XXs had him looking up.
"You ain't gonna spill none of that on the court, or my Brons are you, Old Man?"
His brothers were on their way, but wouldn't care for the tone if they stepped in now. The family always got together to see the Rucker Tournament. Every year. Since before Hobie even was. They'd seen Kyrie ball here. Older members of his family could even remember seeing Steph back when Steph meant Starbury, Kobe and Iverson.
Whatever the weather. Whatever turmoil went on in their lives, this place was something else.
"Can't spill on your kicks if you get back in the game, Young buck."
"Can still get your chili on my Brons if you spill courtside. Wh--"
His next comment was silenced by the blackening of the sun, as an afro the likes of which hadn't been seen at the Rucker since Doctor J held court, sat atop the crown of the intimidating man who stood with his arms folded, waiting to be given a reason. Three jade tiger amulets perched upon his chest. And his expression held all the good humour of cracked concrete.
"Rucker's always been about good community, Young Buck. For us, by us. My brother and I will clean up any mess we make."
Trying to save whatever face he could, the baller stammered out a "Ye-- yeah... Just see that you do." and turned back to the pre-game shoot around.
"Just like you'll clean up any mess you make, when my brother makes you piss yo'self."
Some laughter came from the bleachers behind him, as the interaction had drawn more attention than just the three of them.
The large figure with the afro shot Hobie a look. He wasn't here to clean up any trouble his younger brother intentionally put himself in.
"So I couldn't help myself. What's happenin', Abe?"
Hobie finished his burger, cleaned his hands and dapped his brother up, finishing with a hug.
The age gap isn't as severe as I first thought. However, still no bueno. If he knocked MJ up at 22, Felicia would have still been a teen, even if barely. The timeline of her being Black Cat and meeting Spider-Man would put Pete and MJ as firmly in wedded territory. Guess their previous partnership will have to have been purely business.
Gowi will be so disappointed.
Although the app says they've only been married 5 years...
I guess we're gonna have to pass on a more traditional Black Cat x Spider-Man romance in the past, 'cause at this rate Peter's gonna be, like, 10+ years older than Felicia, and they would have had to have a thing prior to MJ and Annie... which would make for a very inappropriate relationship.
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ►The Hornet Armour Hobie's current costume is a modified version of his Prowler Suit. The key differences are that utilising pneumatic blasts and drafts, caught by his glider cape, he is capable of short-distance flight. It also utilizes sedative 'stingers' which are also fired pneumatically, effective to aim over about forty feet, assuming regular weather. His suit still has precautionary grappling hooks in each gauntlet, and impact-resistant boots, capable of allowing him to withstand falls and harder landings. His boots also possess the pneumatic means to allow him to leap great heights, useful if conditions aren't the best suited for a ground based take-off. ►Skills Whilst Hobie is a genius of sorts, he's still a specialised one. A self-made man who discovered his own innate gifts for working with pneumatics and fabrication, he is a creative and innovative thinker in his field. He is currently using his skills to function as an investigator/detective work, and his own skills and genius don't really transfer that way. He can make obvious inferences, and see blatant connections, but he is neither Batman, nor Vic Sage. He has no training for it, and no natural aptitude in that regard. He's just able to gain access to information by use of his brilliant suits, and feels they should be put to good use. Holding bad people accountable. Hobie is a moderately good hacker. Again, self-taught. But he's not a miracle worker in this regard. -
That's what we're getting here. Hobie was spared, given a second chance and made good with it. He has a solid career, that never happens if he goes to prison, and 'made it out'.
Now he's hellbent on crushing those who would exploit the people who grew up in those similar circumstances - to try and give those people the chances that he had. The chance to make good. The chance to 'be more'.
Captain America, the Avengers, maybe even Spider-Man bring hope. Hobie brings down giants who trample people like ants.
T H E H I S T O R Y O F H O B I E T H E H I S T O R Y O F H O B I E
The youngest of nine brothers, Hobie was born to Tyrone “Tiger” Brown and Josie “Jo” Brown in Harlem New York.
Before Hobie can remember, his father went off to war. He is MIA and the family was receiving payment and benefits, but with nine kids they struggled to stretch so far. Only one parent with her hands full with nine young boys, in the background of the ‘crack wars’ of the mid-to-late 90s.
Jo was shot in a home burglary, in an unsolved crime committed by someone doubtless seeking fast money for drugs. Rushed to Emergency, she was given a blood transfusion which was poorly screened. The transfusion infected her with HIV, back in the days when the diagnosis was viewed as a certain death sentence.
Facing an impossible choice of fighting a prolonged legal battle she certainly wouldn’t live long enough to see the end of, she accepted a cash settlement for the medical ‘mishap’, and the family used the money to buy a sizable home in South Bronx. At tremendous cost, she had managed to provide and get her boys out.
Their oldest brother, Abraham, had left the home already for opportunities overseas. He would return packages of money for the family periodically, as they remained in correspondence. As their mother was approaching her end, the family reached out to have him brought home, but he didn’t make it back in time. Before ‘Jo’s passing, she made the brothers swear to look out for one another – this resulted in the eight remaining boys, always remaining in close proximity. Even as some left home, they would still remain in the Bronx.
The eight boys had a ‘hustle-life’ attitude to money and its procurement, but had formed a zero tolerance attitude to drugs and gangs, all having seen the impact that they had indirectly had on their own family – the drive for money for drugs which resulted in their mother being shot, and the gangs who peddled drugs to one who shot her. Direct confrontation from all eight of the Brown Boys any time someone was foolish enough to attempt to recruit one on their own, saw an unsteady truce where the family and gangs both left well enough, and each other, alone.
Hobie, the youngest of his family, and in many ways the most fortunate, with seven older brothers watching over him and pushing him to meet his potential had the best grades of the group and was their hope to be the family’s first chance at going to college. He was a natural talent in many sciences and mathematics. A mishap with one of his inventions, saw him lose the opportunity as intent was read into the disaster, and he was suspended for the remainder of the school year. He later completed his schooling and got his GED, but school’s which had courted him distanced themselves after the incident, despite his pleas of innocence.
Hobie had a number of jobs over the years. Factory hand, repairman... but it was as a window cleaner where his life went through another pivotal change.
He saw a fight between Daredevil and Stilt-Man playing out right in front of him. The action, the excitement, this clash of two previously larger than life entities - one, larger than buildings - playing out in front of him.
And when it was done, and the marvels and menaces had disappeared, cloaked in the city beyond, presumably either still in conflict or to clash another day. Hobie found himself in a strange situation.
He was critically assessing the Stilt-Man's costume. Simple ways it could have been done better.
And just like that, these people-beyond-men no longer seemed larger than life.
Hobie began work on his own suit and his own secret identity.
After being let go from his job for an argument that started over whether he took the job seriously, when he tried to show his boss tools of his own invention which he created to make his job easier, he was left a necessity to find money for his family and not much time to do it in. He needed money fast. Likely faster than he'd be able to get a new job.
Before that moment, so much of his time had been obsessively into his own latest creation - the suit.
The solution seemed obvious.
First he began to put together a list of high value, low conflict targets. People whose own business dealings had ravaged the community. But his life would change once again, when he set his sights on the Daily Bugle's payroll, in a retaliatory effort for a string of articles on gentrification which Hobie felt put the 'hood in a bad light.
He had never attempted anything so public and visible before, but it was a newspaper, and the message was half of the point wasn't it?
That's what saw him confronting people in his suit, for the first time, in broad daylight.
Until it all went wrong.
Some young copyboy or intern was knocked out of a window. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. It was never supposed to be like this!
And when Spider-Man swung to his rescue and to confront him, all fast flying words, webs and punches Hobie wasn't ready for it.
He ran. Fled.
Once he got clear, he broke down, lamenting the loss of the young man. Reconsidering every decision he'd ever made since creating the suit.
And that's when Spider-Man found him. And the webs and punches were put away. This time it was only words.
And no snappy one-liners.
Spider-Man told him that he hadn't gone his entire costumed life without a mistake either. That he'd suffered loss. And the one lesson he'd learnt from who he had lost which always stood paramount.
With great power comes great responsibility.
And with that, Hobie's life pivoted.
He was forever grateful of the second chance he'd received. But he also looked at the suit in an entirely different way. Those words had made it sacred in a sort of way.
And beyond just a mere source of income.
Hobie's obseession drifted away from the suit. The money he had so far accrued had bought him a little time. And instead he worked on himself. He invested the time, effort and energy, inwards.
And with his skills in pneumatics, and with the critical eye he had cast over Stilt-Man's costume all that time ago, he found his own calling, as a consultant for how to best create processes utilitising pneumatics to maximise efficiency and effectiveness, mostly in the industrial sector.
Hobie Brown took back control of the power within his life.
And in his free-time..? Now he would hold other people in power responsible.
Air Jordan 35s kiss the blacktop in steady repetition, as Hobie sits on the ground level bleacher watching on.
One of the few reasons Hobie would ever return to Harlem. But religious grounds are always a good reason, for basketball's Mecca.
He worked away on a chili burger from Harlem Shake, before a pair of Lebron XXs had him looking up.
"You ain't gonna spill none of that on the court, or my Brons are you, Old Man?"
His brothers were on their way, but wouldn't care for the tone if they stepped in now. The family always got together to see the Rucker Tournament. Every year. Since before Hobie even was. They'd seen Kyrie ball here. Older members of his family could even remember seeing Steph back when Steph meant Starbury, Kobe and Iverson.
Whatever the weather. Whatever turmoil went on in their lives, this place was something else.
"Can't spill on your kicks if you get back in the game, Young buck."
"Can still get your chili on my Brons if you spill courtside. Wh--"
His next comment was silenced by the blackening of the sun, as an afro the likes of which hadn't been seen at the Rucker since Doctor J held court, sat atop the crown of the intimidating man who stood with his arms folded, waiting to be given a reason. Three jade tiger amulets perched upon his chest. And his expression held all the good humour of cracked concrete.
"Rucker's always been about good community, Young Buck. For us, by us. My brother and I will clean up any mess we make."
Trying to save whatever face he could, the baller stammered out a "Ye-- yeah... Just see that you do." and turned back to the pre-game shoot around.
"Just like you'll clean up any mess you make, when my brother makes you piss yo'self."
Some laughter came from the bleachers behind him, as the interaction had drawn more attention than just the three of them.
The large figure with the afro shot Hobie a look. He wasn't here to clean up any trouble his younger brother intentionally put himself in.
"So I couldn't help myself. What's happenin', Abe?"
Hobie finished his burger, cleaned his hands and dapped his brother up, finishing with a hug.
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.</div>
xVampire3go
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