Hound55

MARVELS: Streets of New York

H O R N E T
H O R N E T

Hobie walked solidly with his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he made his way down East 138th, contemplating what he was going to say.

Bigger brother still lived back in Harlem. Sure, only just on the other side of the Madison Avenue Bridge, but whilst the rest of the brothers had an affinity for repping the Bronx, their eldest still felt his roots in Harlem. He had a one bedroom apartment, no housemates, no significant others, at least none he'd ever told his brothers about, and led his very own subdued private life. Hobie understood why, the youngest and eldest had a mutual understanding and a different kind of relationship to the rest - albeit very different personalities.

Both felt protective of their brothers, but longed for their own space. One sought out quiet solace to match his temperament. The other could often be too outspoken for his own good.

But it was when Abraham discovered the man behind the Prowler mask that they truly became closer. Before that he'd failed to realise just how much pressure had been put on Hobie's shoulders with the hopes of college resting there. He realised how much they had in common, despite their obvious differences.

Abraham had equal pressure on his own shoulders, but he'd chosen to put more on there and when he had left on his own personal journey, he was putting his own faith in his body, as Hobie had with his mind.

Whilst all the brothers had an affinity for old kung fu movies, none had the promise, potential and discipline to pursue the martial arts in equal quantities to Abraham. His journey had led him to a jade tiger amulet, and once he'd made his mind up to defend his own local community, the Black Tiger was born.

Adorned in a yellow gi in honour of Jim Kelly fame from Enter The Dragon and sporting an even more elaborate fro, he quickly became a highly recognisable figure in Harlem and iconic defender of the local community.

Outside of Harlem he was a virtual unknown, not least because of the fame of others like Heroes for Hires own Luke Cage and Iron Fist, who seemed to dwarf his own power, but he never got into this for the recognition.

He was a true believer in the minimalism and discipline drilled into him by his shifu and laoshis past.

Talk is for others. Let his actions speak for themselves. Let his actions protect this place.

Very 'silent protector'. Laconic type. And he had a very special facial expression, reminscent of a cracked sidewalk for when he clearly felt Hobie was talking too much. Which was often.

Hobie felt a vibration in his pocket, and lowered his hand from his coat pocket to his jeans, as his timbs continued to beat the pavement.

The phone didn't recognise the number. Hobie considered sending it to voice mail, before remembering he could use more work on the off chance that this was a referral, so he raised it to his ear and took the call.

"Hello--?"

With as vague an answer as that, he probably shoud have just let it go to voicemail.

"Hi, is this... Hobie Brown?" A woman asked on the other end of the line. He couldn't quite place it, but had it narrowed to a thick Queens or Brooklyn accent. Somehow it brimmed with confidence, whilst still trying to place the name on the person on the other end of the phone line.

But the question itself meant that she didn't know him well enough to recognise his voice though.

"You got him. This about work--?"

"Good. This is Norah Winters. A mutual - I'm going to say 'irritant' - Randy Robertson won't let up about whether or not I've called you yet, so now I'm doing it to shut him up."

A knowing smile grew across Hobie's face.

Yeah, that would be why I didn't accept your number and just said you could have mine.

"Yeah, that all checks out. Probably a smart decision."

"So I suppose we should go through the motions of meeting up so that he leaves us both the Hell alone? Where at?"

Hobie's brow furrowed at the following question. The twang in her intonation had changed on that part.

"Where at?"

There was a lengthy pause, and Hobie realised he'd hit on a sensitive issue, until she regathered and expanded.

"Yeah, where do you... want to meet... at?" Somehow the confidence in her voice had been knocked slightly.

"Well... I'm Bronx based. Where are you?"

Another pause, which suggested she was still rattled. Before he expanded further. "So we can meet somewhere in the middle."

"Oh! I'm working out of Midtown, and living in Queens. Liberty Park."

Liberty Park... Damn near Brooklyn. Alright, split the difference and some place in northern Queens, somewhere like Woodside or Jackson Hei--. A place came to mind.

"Ay yo. You know Sanfords in Astoria?"

There was a slight hesitation.

"That's-- Are you sure?"

Hobie tried to make sense of her hesitation.

"Look, I'd be fine with a BBQ place, but I know Rand'. Dude'll trip if I don't at least take you some place with a wine list."

Reief and confidence seemed to be restored.

"What time?" She asked.

""You're the journalist, somethin' tells me your hours are harder to work around. You tell me."

"Eight thirty? Maybe closer to nine?"

Hobie remembered what Rand' had said about her needing something away from work and held his own suspicions.

So we're talking nine thirty to ten.

"Works with me. Let me know when you're on your way. Just don't forget that every day we bump this back he's gonna keep hasslin' us."

And now that he knows you actually got in touch with me, it'll start the clock on him actually hassling me as well...

She laughed. But it held some awkwardness, awkwardness that he could tell was unusual for the usual confidence that she comported herself with. "Yeah, we definitely know the same Rand'." She picked up his use of nickname for their mutual friend.

"Aight. See you then."

He pocketed his phone and rolled his shoulders within his jackets depths, distancing himself from the call he'd just completed.

He was a block and a half from Abe's house now, but here came the tricky part.

He was seldom home, and the nature of Abe's and his own 'hobbies' wouldn't always be in a position to answer their phone.

He saw a familiar feminine figure walking past and took the opportunity to ask the woman he recognised as Abe's neighbour.

"Ay yo, you seen Abe, 'Shawnda?"

"You're in luck, he just got back in." Hobie didn't spend too long dwelling on how the local female neighbours seemed to be very on top of his much taller, more muscular brother's whereabouts.

"That thing he wears had quite a lot of blood on it, though."

If Hobie had any panic at all within him, it never showed. Blood on his yellow gi was pretty much par for the course. He doubted any of it was his. More often than not it wouldn't be. His own blood seldom went beyond grazed up knuckles.

"Word? Thanks, 'Shawnda."

Daring to add a question was as much concern as he could muster. The only person he'd ever come across more capable of looking after himself than his oldest brother, wore blue and red tights.

He kept walking and his timbs soon found the steps to his brother's place.

"Ay yo! Abe its me! Hobie!" He called out, announcing his arrival.

In this place, with his brother's identity being public knowledge, it was a whole lot safer to do so.

Hobie pulled his keys, and finding the right one turned the door handle.

As he walked into the apartment he heard running water and realised that his brother was having a shower. Presumably to wash off the blood that wasn't his. Hobie felt justified in his earlier confidence in his brother. Otherwise, he presumed, he'd have found him doing his own stitchwork on himself in the kitchen.

"Ay yo. Abe, its me. Hobie." He called, quieter this time now that he was in the house.

As he walked through the kitchen doorway he felt pressure on his throat as an arm slipped under his chin from behind. And above.

Hobie didn't respond. They'd been through this enough times already.

"If I were a threat, you'd be dead."

"We've been through this before. You're right, I should check the corners in your apartment... And please tell me you're wearing clothes."

The arm released him. Hobie stepped forward and turned.

Underpants at least... Hobie confirmed, a sense of relief passed over him.

"Wiseass."

"Shower. You just getting out, or just getting in?"

"In."

This was how it was with Abe. No wasted syllables.

So Abraham Brown had his shower, whilst Hobie updated him from the outside on what he'd found out from Big Ben Donovan's place on MGH and the potential power swings they might both be dealing with in the city.

"The rest know? They not about to do nothin' stupid are they?" The much taller brother asked about their brothers, wrapping himself in a towel and with one upturned eyebrow.

"Not about the full extent and the MGH, no. Came to you, first."

"Mmm. Tombstone gonna be an issue, huh?"

"Think there's gonna be a whole lot more issues than just that, it's why I'm telling you first. But yeah."

"How's your suit holding up?" He seemed to not understand the full gravity of the situation. As if he thought Hobie was coming to Abe more in search of help than anything.

"It's fine. I just wanted to make sure you knew, before you wound up dealing with a whole lot more than you're used to having to deal with." Emphasising the need for caution.

"'s cool. I'm used to dealin' with a lot."

The younger brother wasn't exactly sure where to go from here. He felt Abe still hadn't grasped how heavy this really meant things could get, he'd never looked Spider-Man eye to eye, or seen (or regrettably worked with) the likes of the Sandman up close. There was a whole world that Abraham Brown had never been exposed to in his own street vigilante level exploits, a level that Hobie himself generally gave a wide berth, which he had no idea about.

As much as the Black Tiger wasn't envious of the likes of Luke Cage and Iron Fist, there was a reason that he was only known in his own neighbourhood and they were considerably more renowned.

Abe took to the world and beat it into a shape that made sense with his own hands and feet. But there was a whole level of power he'd been fortunate enough to never have to know about - power that went far above and beyond what any jade tiger amulet could give him.

Hobie just hoped that he wouldn't be overly confident on the day that power finally came to his world.

But for now he had time, a date, and a sometimes violent hobby to give him some things to think about.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Finally free at home today. Expect a post to come.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

H O R N E T
H O R N E T

Hobie held at the windowsill, waiting for the silhouette to pass within, signalling his safe entry. The claws of the Hornet suit more than supporting his weight, as he leant to.

Tombstone. When people thought of organised crime in New York, they'd typically think of something like the Maggia, the 'old guard' mobsters. Maybe even Hammerhead and where the old guard meets the new guard. Few people thought more of Tombstone than a jumped up gang-banger, but the truth was far from this.

Few people considered Alonzo Lincoln with the true notoriety of what he achieved. The man ruled the Bronx with an iron fist - well, not that Iron Fist - and managed to achieve it with a level of organisation that both kept him distant from most direct action, but held a reputation that suggested he could hold his own should that direct action find its way to his doorstep. And an inferiority complex to many of the other 'bosses' of New York that saw him more than eager to show he could do so.

...which was why Hobie had no intention whatsoever of going to his doorstep.

Even in the powered Hornet suit, Hobie didn't really want his sub-six foot frame testing his mettle against a 6'7" monster of a man with legit superhuman strength.

No... much better to be snooping around the home of the seven and a half foot man with just regular seven and a half foot man strength...

Which is why he now found himself hanging off the side of this building waiting for Big Ben Donovan, the man who the Maggia would refer to as Tombstone's 'consigliere'.

But don't say that to the man, though... Few people hold greater disdain for the 'old guard' than the former member who learned just where a black man's ceiling was within the organisation.

Ben Donovan became a self-taught jailhouse lawyer after the mob abandoned him when he got caught on a job turned bad. Imposing figure aside, he'd always been someone who relied on his smarts and the former figure causing people to underestimate the latter. Tombstone saw his potential and put him to good use, as they eyed Harlem and then opening opportunities in the Bronx as the Maggia began to lose their hold.

Donovan's great work even saw him 'given' his own territory where the sum total of profits from those areas found their way to his own pockets. A privilege from Lincoln not matched by anyone. Such was the trust and privilege bestowed upon him.

So Hobie was confident that if there was anything Tombstone knew whatsoever which WAS on record, it would be within the computer and files that were just on the other side of the window he now clung to, waiting for the large man to leave.

He watched on as the silhouette's form raised an arm to its ear, presumably answering a call, and made its way to the front door.

Hobie waited though. He didn't want to be wrong about it, with the nature of the man in question.

Hobie considered the window that stood in his way and slid a device underneath. With a quick blast of air, the lock mechanism on the other side swung across, and he lifted the pane to grant himself access. He quickly placed a hose to the other side of the locking mechanism, always planning for a quick safe exit, before sitting at the computer and pulling a hack-and-crack USB device of his own creation in the port.

It would take a short while for his device to 'work its magic' and not wasting it, he started to thumb his way through an accordian folder of paper files, putting a small flashlight in his mouth as he scanned the documentation, hoping he'd know what he was looking for when his eyes fell upon it.

His thumb hit a fine, fibrous paper - a carbon copy sheet for a logistics contractor. Working for Roxxon.

A truck manifest.

What do you want with a truck?

The hack-and-crack had done its job and the computer had now loaded to desktop, waiting for his digital search to begin. But Hobie felt confident he was holding something important.

It was a secure armoured truck, fitted for handling and transporting potentially dangerous chemicals.

Which was not something usual for Tombstone and his group to have an interest in, even with as varied and diverse a set of interests as they had.

He searched through the manifest over the various container contents. Most were coded.

But Hobie had spent his time bouncing around a lot of these factories over the years. And whilst garbled and seemingly unintelligible he knew that quite often these "codes" weren't terribly complex or even different from the actual known acronyms of their substances. Just mixed in with other information.

As he held the carbon paper to the light he could see a large thumbprint shine through from the flashlight's work. He checked the line item above the smudged print. There were a number of identically named containers throughout, through and below the smudge. Over two dozen in total.

Container: AS78MGHRXX

Roxxon's own owners code was easy enough to see through...

MGH.

What are you guys looking for..? Some new hot drug? Methamphe-- Mari-- Morph-- no. What are you looking to start pushing on the street that's MGH--? oh... Oh no.

As the answer slowly turned itself over in Hobie's own head, and he thought about the impact it would have on the various turf wars that swung between heated and dormant across the city, and the literal power injection could have on violence citywide.

Hobie quickly shut the computer down again, confident theat he'd already found exactly what he'd come looking for. He returned the accordian folder to it's previous resting place. And moved the seat back how it had been.

Stepping back out the window, he pulled the pane down once more, and with a single blast of air, locked the window once more and pulled the hose out from underneath the window, before pushing off of the wall and gliding to a nearby rooftop.

Mutant Growth Hormone. That's it, isn't it? That's what got y'all acting stir crazy. Whoever controls those canisters is gonna control the city. And you'd do just about anything to be that one...

The truck manifest had been for that day. He seemed to remember hearing something about an armoured truck being attacked today - but had dismissed it as probably just a bank or payroll run some minor newjack cape or cowl had tried to jump. The next wannabe Shocker or Ringer.

Now he felt the anxiety beneath his mask as he realised it was probably related to this.

So did you get it? Or if not, who did?

Because Hobie knew, a truck like this, especially not running through Tombstone's own turf, was probably on far more people's radar than just his.

Hobie stepped off the rooftop and started his glide home, intermittently firing fresh jets of air for renewed lift on his flight.

The next person stepping to one of his brothers on their way home from work might be pumped full of enough superpowered juice to snap a bat like a toothpick.

There was only one person to go to with this next, and even then it was probably beyond his weight class.

Big bro.

Abe would need to be told.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

My last week was crazy, no free time at all.

Getting on this now, apologies once again for being so quiet of late.

Commencement: A Farewell to P.R.C.U. [COMPLETE]

Banjo returned to his dinner table, slumping in his seat with his brow furrowed with thought.

He was slamming doors shut on his own efforts here. Shoshanna was freezing him out now, and it was his own stupid fault. Unable to be anything but himself, even in the face of oblivion.

Banjo bein’ Banjo.

So what now? He could no longer see the canary in the coal mine.

A wry smile crossed his face.

Exactly what you were doing. Be loud. Be unruly. Let it be known you’re looking for him. Put the word out. And be so big, brash and bold that eyes linger.

And then find the eyes which try to look away too fast.

Loud, unruly, big, brash and bold.

Obnoxious.

Banjo bein’ Banjo.

Then it descended on him. The scraping between his ears. Obstructive static behind his eyes. It relented for a moment, before re-gathering him, having found something it wanted.

In the moment in between he could smell the familiar. But whatever it was had been different this time.

The presence had been gentler before, this was barely recognisable as the same thing, but the touch was too familiar and too rare to be anything else.

What once had been a gentle guide, held mentally hand-in-hand, now rummaged through the contents of his mind like a thief who had him bound and vulnerable on the floor.

He knew enough to feel fear. And it hadn’t even been instilled in him. It was his own.

He felt overwhelming nausea. First from the act, and then from the violation, compounded by his helplessness in the moment.

With a gasp it released him. At its own whim. It had enough of what it wanted.

He suddenly wished that no eyes were on him at all, but felt like all the world was watching. Perfect, complete exposure.

He remembered who she was now. He had his faculties back enough for that. Everything in him screamed at him to run. She’d been with ‘Him’ and now he was dead, what were her designs here. Had she found another who also wished him harm and decided to join forces?

His breath quickened, but his focus was gathered enough to know that running would accomplish nothing.

If this was an attack. If she was part of anything that sought to harm him, it was already as good as over. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Wait, and let your last act be to spit your own blood or pony in their bloody face, and remember your laughter ringing in their ears.

You'll come a Waltzin' Matilda with me, Sunshine...

If something even better doesn’t come along…

He felt the restraints snapped on.

A broad leer spread across his face. "Unstable. That's not the word they use to describe a man who'd feed a bloke his own horse?"

As he was dragged him away by his bare arms, the floor grazing behind his heels, he launched one final salvo.

"Easy on the material, champ. Don't let the poo brown fool you, the fibres are scratchy as shit as well..."

She leapt back upon his mind once more. A show of force to show she could. To make him pliant. When the pain receded, like an ebbing tide, he dropped his brow into a scowl directed firmly at her.

Whatever her designs were, they weren't through with him yet.

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Foundation - Present}

Human #5.096: Land of the Bloody Unknown

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation}

Previously: Shoshanna Tannin

Banjo found himself in another dark space.

Not unlike the one he had found himself in earlier during their initial tests. Only without the scent of urine with a side of defecation.

The boy in the box.

Why is it all of the worst moments in my life take place in tight spaces in the dark..?

This time the monster was a blonde woman, barely five and a half feet in heels, in the old measure.

Summer Carlisle. The therapist he'd seen when he first came to the school. One he'd taken mentally by hand on a traipse through his mental space. She already knew her way around his memories, and didn't seem quite so gentle anymore.

But why?

That didn't seem like the puzzle to solve at this point. Nefarious intent. Whatever it was. He needed to get out. Out of this box and into the sun. Bobbing up and down as lonely as a cork in the ocean, his chances of juicing and swimming safely to ANYWHERE meaningful seemed slim. But slim seemed better than whatever this was.

Speed, strength and smarts didn't seem like much of anything when dealing with a person who can get at you from the inside.

"Hello again." The voice seemed to surround him. Piped in from some place unseen and reverberating around the tight space.

His attention snapped to look for a source, before he realised it was a hopeless case.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it, Andrew?"

The name bit into him, she was one of very few people who knew that it genuinely was his real first name, whatever he chose to call himself. From a past she'd seen, with a veil she helped peek behind, at one of the more vulnerable times of his life.

"...and you've experienced quite a lot since last we met."

A deep inhaled sniff came from the young Australian man. His discomfort with the scene palpable.

"Perhaps we should re-visit it? It has been a while since we had a session. Your files tell us you have a history of being... less than co-operative with most therapists. But I'd like to think we're familiar enough that we can dig a little deeper."

"So who are you working for this time? Found another bloke to follow and believe in? Someone else to push all of your chips in and go down without too much of a fight for again? Which psychopath is it this time? You're supposed to be imprisoned here, so I take it its somebody high up? Wasn't just that scumbag horse-chef was it, from the Hall just now? You can do better. Slumming it."

"We're not talking about me, Andrew--" She refused to be baited away from purpose, to be delayed for even a moment of time.

"Well, maybe you can't do better. But those are the kind of nice things you say in polite company, yeah?"

"We're delving into you." The horrible feeling of violation once more, as she wormed her way into his mind, grabbing familiar parts of his past as she pulled herself deeper inside.

"Maybe. Not. So. Polite. Bloody. Compan-- fuck!"

He found himself in an open field from one late evening. Up ahead was a blonde heading for a tent. Their tent. Banjo bopped confidently towards the tent, practically dancing as he watched her gait. The swing of her ample hips, suddenly she turned and looked back at him, a smile upon her lips as she looked at him from behind those glasses--

Wait-- no- this isn't-- This isn't what happened. This isn't right.

He still held enough of his memories of her to know this wasn't right at all. It didn't happen like--

Obscenity!

"Get. The. Fuck. Out of. There!" He growled through gritted teeth, flecks of spit starting to froth in the corners of his mouth with hot rage.

"Oh relax... You've still plenty of her in here. I won't replace her in all of them. After all, that would miss the point, wouldn't it? And you've been so good at deliberately missing the point..."

She yanked his attention to another past memory.

He found himself back in the trials, in front of the AV set up. Seemingly watching Haven get sawn into parts.

"But it's not like you really care. After all, you seemed more rattled by--"

"There's a difference between a situation where I know we're all in danger, and seeing a friend's grisly bloody demise..."

"Then why haven't you wept for her?"

Banjo's teeth gritted and he stayed silent. Maybe she couldn't see it. They were thoughts and plans, not memories. Best she not know what he's really doing here. The thought that she was now in with Daedalus flashed across his mind, perhaps Daedalus himself was a known and accepted part of the school. After all, they did accept the views on sub-species which he also shared and adhered to...

Maybe he'd read this all wrong. Maybe the whole damn Foundation was Daedalus. And he'd walked right through the front door with barely veiled intentions...

"You know, you don't wear silence well." She smiled. "I can practically HEAR your mind ticking when you go quiet, and its always so angry. Are you that angry all the time? Did any of your therapists ever touch on that?"

She smiled knowingly. That must have been one of the moments she stumbled upon out in the dining hall.

Smug. He didn't deal well with smug from teachers. From adults. He didn't deal well with smug from would be authority figures. Few could be in higher authority than one who could run roughshod on the mind.

"My mind isn't such a nice place to be..." He growled, before his own memory lunged at her and dragged her back to a different time, a darker time. The darkness, the growing, living darkness, as they found themselves in the closet. A horrible dark figure moving around beyound the door which protected them.

Summer laughed. Banjo stood paralysed with fear, fear that her brazen laughter would draw the attention of the dark figure on the other side of the door, terror gripped him and then she did by the hand, and the pair left the boy in the box and jumped back through his mental space.

"Your past doesn't scare anyone but you. You think I haven't seen worse? You think the people you went through school with, the students the teachers, never saw worse? I LET you lead me through your mind, I could have dragged you through your past at any moment I chose. You confused willing submissiveness with a lack of ability. And let me tell you, for a 'bad boy'... most real 'bad boys' don't have so many rules or principles. Your mind isn't anything special, dark or otherwise. And neither are you. You're a scared little boy. Only you're supposed to be a man now, so its even more pathetic."

She hauled him into a moment in his recent past. The moment Calli told him of the 'recent developments with her family'. The point of doom.

"Well, that sounds great." She'd told him that the rift seemed to be closing between her family. Her brother had been shot, and it had brought together elements previously believed to be torn asunder, possibly for good. It had seemed too good to be true.

"Well, that sounds great." She had just told him that she'd be going to be by her brother's bedside, her father wanted to mend fences. For a man as cynical as Banjo, and with his own feelings towards family, it seemed too good to be true.

"Well, that sounds great." He had just agreed to stay home, whilst she tried to patch things up with the estranged family members who were still bound together by what they came so close to losing. Banjo could be a... divisive figure... and the best hopes of a future as a family would probably be for him to remain at P.R.C.U and to be introduced at a more stable time in the future, since they seemed to have a real shot at patching things up. It seemed too good to be true.

"This was the moment." Summer said. "You knew different. You always knew better. More than anyone, you know how fickle family can be. That it would never be this simple. This was the moment you killed her."

Just keep her here... Anywhere is better, than if she starts to snoop and finds out what you're doing here.

"Well, that sounds great." His own words washed more of his composure away with each passing of a fresh tide.

"Well, that sounds great." The bitterness of the weight those words carried with such levity.

"Well, that sounds great." As if it were nothing. Words with which he'd see her leave, bound for doom. Destined for horrors heretofore unimaginable.

"We're not going anywhere. We're going to stay here until you actually absorb the meaning of those words. You did this. You killed her, and you know it. You can't keep running from it."

We're staying here..? Good. Good, Banjo. Good. That's just what we want.

"Well, that sounds great."

Isn't it? Yes. Yes, it's exactly what we--

"Well, that sounds great." What exactly WAS he thinking when he said that? In what way did it seem like a-- no.

"Well, that sounds great."

It wasn't you. It was the monster you're tryin' to get. All of this was him. And if you hold--

"Well, that sounds great." His breathing was becoming rapid in contrast with the calm, composed words of his past self. So sure of himself. But he wasn't, was he?

You are not responsible for that monster's actions. And you're gonna get her back. Even if you have to follow Gil down to literal Hell once he walks the path, you're goin' to get her back and make him fix this.

"Well, that sounds great."

This is not a situation you can't unfuck. You'll drag a monster to Hell to pull her free of another monster if you have to. This is something you can do. You could talk down the devil himself if you had to. You--

"Well, that sounds great." The false confidence of his past self was rattling his belief in himself to fix what had come to pass. With every wave of his misplaced confidence striking a fresh blow against him.

"She's gone and you killed her. With those glib, thoughtless words. You sent her traipsing down a doomed path with--"

"Well, that sounds great." The bell tolled once more, its resonance shaking him once more.

"You killed her."

"Well, that sounds great."

"You--!"

Need to get the fuck out of here...

He grabbed her by both shoulders. "Fuck you!"

He suplexed the pair of them backwards, hurtling through his memories.

Gotta go somewhere else. Somewhere... not scary. That wasn't an answer. But something that'll shock her. Somewhere I can re-find... Balance?

They hurtled past a stormy night where a hyperhuman terrorist wreaked havoc on a horrified student body, passed funerals, passed classes, passed car rides and star-filled nights.

He landed with a thud driving the pair of them into a linoleum floor, wearing state provided flannel pyjamas.

A boy covered with bruises for a crime he didn't commit.

He fell onto his bunk belly down, to avoid contact with the kisses 'Auld Scalder' had laid on his form. He twitched and jumped as a figure appeared from the darkness.

Jennifer put an arm around his upper body away from where he'd been beaten and hugged him. He couldn't relax into it. But the sentiment was there.

"This is really how you see yourself isn't it. Some kind of hero. No. Even more laughable. A martyr." Summer laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, bringing them back here.

"That's still all you are. A scared little boy, telling whatever lie you need to, to run from the truth. That you bring all of this onto yourself. You killed her. Now you came crying back here for what? A hug? Pitiful. You know she can never hug you again, because of what you did, so you need one from someone who is still alive."

He couldn't relax into it. The pain still bit. The words still hurt. They couldn't be true, but still they stung all the same.

You know why you're doing this. Why you'll keep doing this. Any and all of this is worth it once you get her back. Once you make-- wait-- who was it that you're meant to...

It was... No. What had she been messing around with in his--

"What did-- Wait--?! What did you do!?!"

A small smirk crossed Summer's face as she watched and discover his realisation that the winning move was already being played, far away from his emotional outburst.

He sprinted through his past, jumping through memories of fireside chats and chairs outside of Principal's offices. Sprinting faster than hyperhuman sun-inused legs could normally carry him. Vignettes of love and laughter, violence and outbursts flashing past and cutting him like overgrown foliage as he ran.

He came to the place they'd found Haven. They'd rescued her. But from what? He tried to remember the words, the source, the threat, but it was gone. His name. Was gone.

No... That isn't...

Summer finally, found him again, and began to chuckle.

He sprinted through memories again. That night. Everyone knew what happened that night!

He burst through a door to a classroom wardrobe closet and came out of a bathroom in the A.R.C with trouser legs half mast, and a suit that was practically bursting off of him.

He was grabbed by a large form. A friend. Albeit one who didn't like him very much.

Their conversation was immaculately preserved, but of no real use to what he wanted. He pushed on past that part of the memory.

The monster, the beast. Where was it from! It was from-- no! Where was the name--?!

"What did you take from me!?!"

Still she laughed. He'd been playing a short game and never even saw it coming. "What could you mean? It can't have been too important, can it?"

No... it was everything. It was why he was here. It was his way of... What was he--?

"Well, that sounds great." The words from his past echoed. As the monster, this Chernobog tore through everyone that night whilst he stood and watched.

"Well, that sounds great." Two Gils were broken before monstrous hands.

"Well, that sounds great."

"You did this. You killed her. You did it all. You see that now, don't you?"

It was gone. The way that he knew she was wrong. She'd robbed him, when he thought he was distracting her. She'd been playing him, after all, being in these mental scapes was her purview, he'd fought a war on a battleground she was most used to fighting on. In ways he hadn't even considered.

"Well, that sounds great." She'd stolen his purpose. He'd lost everything, but he'd never had any fear that he could never get it back.

"Well, that sounds great." "You--"

"Oh-- Oh God. I did this..." The realisation, the weight of it all. He dropped to his knees. Everything he'd lost, finally hit home. And furthermore that it was his doing. He'd sent it all away.

Summer smiled, and her hand patted the back of his head gently. A gracious victor. His head, her prize.

He wept as the horror scape of his the A.R.C and all its gore melted into desolation, before the mental space lifted around him.

He was kneeling in the dark, before a bright light as the door to the solitary cell had slid open. A large figure towered over him, holding him in eclipse.

A name dared to squeak inquisitviely from his lips, before a large fist helped him find sleep.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

On the subject of chatter and activity in the OOC:

What's everyone's favorite take on their respective character? Any particular runs in the comics you'd consider required reading, or a version from the cartoons or movies that inspired you?

@AndyC

I've... very little to go with in terms of tv and film media for my take.

Probably the closest thing to my version is the old '94 Animated series just from lack of representation for him - the Hobie in Spider-Verse is a multiversal character, and Marvel's Prowler is the Ultimate version. Maybe we'll see a different Hobie in the third, but that aside it's mainly the older Animated series.

It's pretty much just stuff pulled from the comics themselves though. And then extrapolations from that.

In the comics his oldest brother Abraham, just as in my stuff, is Black Tiger (from the original run of Shang Chi's Deadly Fists of Kung Fu comics) who was based heavily on Jim Kelly's look from Enter the Dragon. According to those comics, Hobie and Abe are the youngest and oldest of eight brothers... but there's never been further world building on that, so I'm kind of playing there.

And expect to see the contrasting differences between how those two in particular approach the world, and the power they've afforded themselves to change it. They have an interesting relationship. Abe's the only one who's kind of not tied down to the rest of the family, but doesn't view them as not something to be responsible for.

Abe gets himself in trouble overstepping and throwing himself physically into problems. Hobie's mouth has often caused him life-changing issues.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

<Snipped quote by Retired>

Well, I did kind of steal the death of the Rands from that. I've never really liked the wrinkle that Wendell Rand lived in K'un-Lun, completed all the trials, and nearly became Iron Fist before effing off to become a billionaire instead. It makes Danny not just a white savior but the son of an even bigger white savior...

Other than that, yeah, the well of inspiration runs pretty dry.

@Eddie Brock

I do like how Immortal Iron Fist tied all that together with Orson Randall though.

And the kind of spin on fate where Wendall's not actually meant to ever be the Iron Fist, and the depth in trying to return to that world after he was kind of scared off of it by Orson who had his own views on the role and place of the Iron Fist.

The fact Wendall basically turned Orson's accrued family wealth kind of de-fangs that incredulity as well.

Wendall was forever chasing Orson's shadow, and the one he wound up accepting was less the one he actually wanted... and more what was less intimidating.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

H O R N E T
H O R N E T

Hobie pulled his truck up and carried his tools into the Mott Haven home.

Two of his brothers were hunched over controllers for a console on the lounge in varied levels of concentration, thus far unaware of his presence.

“Masta Killa! Dropped another one, huh?”

…or not so unaware of his presence.

Most of his brothers had an affinity for the Wu-Tang Clan, and had done since they were just young boys. To the point where each had been branded with a name of one of the members of the group. If there were exceptions to the rule it was the eldest brother Abraham, and the youngest brother Hobie. But where Abe would glare and glower until they reverted back to referring to him by name, Hobie generally took the path of least resistance. All of the brothers were fans of the music, and also of the old martial arts movies the group tended to find inspiration for their references from, some took their love of the Wu to higher levels than others.

But none were more gripped by it than their brother Bayard.

Not that he’d ever answer to, or even acknowledge, the name…

“Lay off, Ghost’. Like I need that right now.”

Bayard and Roy, were practically joined at the hip. It was little surprise both simultaneously found the time to be playing video games. Roy seemed to be the one of the pair who actually possessed the understanding of social graces.

“What happened, ‘Chief?” Roy said, wincing away from something that happened on screen.

“I wasn’t wrong.” Came Hobie’s reply.

“You never are, Jamel…” ‘Ghost’ fired back, using an alias for the Wu-Tang member.

“Don’t come with no paycheck though…” He finished.

“They didn’t hire the people they said they were gonna, and then were gonna—” Hobie began to explain and then stopped, realizing that the pair probably wouldn’t care enough to follow the intricacies of the disagreement.

“They tried to run game. And were gonna use me to do it. And play me in the process.”

“Then fuck those guys!” Roy spat back. Bayard didn’t join in. He knew he was only hearing one side of the story. While Raekwon (Roy) was better at dealing with people than Ghost was, he didn’t have the same kind of mind for holding people to scrutiny, and certainly not his brothers. He was always very quick to buy in if any of the Brown boys ran into trouble.

Their brother had a mouth which could get him into trouble. And without knowing the full details of the situation, only what he’d heard, the previous trend of his mouth costing them money seemed the most likely outcome.

He didn’t know Futura Motors. He DID know Hobie.

And Hobie could get himself in this kind of situation even if a client or boss WASN’T doing anything wrong.

“Where’s everyone else?” Hobie asked.

“GZA’s workin’…” Their second oldest brother Martin – worked at a Foot Locker. Like the rest of the brothers, he had no higher education, but had worked his way up to management level, and his store sponsored a local youth ball tournament.

“I think Mal’ is too.” Roy interjected, not risking Hobie a glance from what his controller was acting upon.

Their brother Malcolm worked construction. It was unsurprising. The pair of them were the most consistent breadwinners for the household, with Malcolm’s work occasionally affected by operational factors, but bringing a steady high pay when he worked.

That only left—

“Iunno where Deck and U-God are at.”

Philip and John. John was the second youngest after Hobie. Also the most likely to get himself into trouble.

…well, Hobie had himself a supersuit. So probably the second most likely.

“So how’d you hear?”

“Sixth sense, six pack, six degrees of separation,
My evil third eye blinks with no hesitation.”

Hobie looked at the pair deadpan. It was a lyric by Ghostface killah. The ACTUAL Ghostface killah. ‘Six Degrees’. And he dropped it often. In this exact circumstance, usually. It was almost a hip hop dad joke at this point.

Video games were his past time. Obfuscation through the abstract verses of his namesake was his passion.

‘Raekwon’ spoke up, “They made a follow up call. Said you can pick anything you left up tomorrow, or it will be discarded.”

Hobie looked down at his tools in his hand. They needn’t have called. He had everything. All they did was deliver embarrassing news before he could break it gently. He felt rising heat as the anger radiated through him, over how unprofessionally Futura were handling things.

Hobie looked around the living room. Nothing particularly out of the usual, but—

“You guys couldn’t be bothered… cleanin’ up or nothin’?”

“Why? You bringin’ a girl over?” The answer fired back so quickly he couldn’t be sure it had rattled against the side of his brother’s head before it came out.

“N-- Well, no. Nah.”

“Wait, there is a girl?!” The hesitation was picked up immediately by the more empathetic Roy, who’s attention cost him a headshot.

“Oh, you motherfucka!” He immediately spat, before turning his attention back to Hobie for his response.

“There’s not a girl. There’s… I’m doin’ a favour. To Rand’ Robertson. He wants me to take out some girl he used to work with. Sure as Hell not bringin’ her here though…”

“Rand Robertson? Daddy’s boy from the Burbs?” Ghost replied.

Hobie just shrugged. Not like he could fight the description.

The pair of brothers had polarised reactions. Ghost’s eyebrows barely lifted above the bridge of his nose at the revelation, whilst Roy’s interest was palpable. Now the brows suggested some deeper thought.

“Don’t want us embarrassin’ you in front of the white girl, huh?” Ghost fired, his eyes briefly turned to Hobie whilst Roy respawned.

“Who said she’s white?”

“You just did. First by sayin’ it was a hook-up from Rand… made it better than even odds, and then by your face when I said that.” What little interest or distraction Hobie had been was gone from brother Bayard’s face now. He’d amused himself to his own satisfaction, and the point of conversation had little more to offer now.

“He doesn’t only date white girls.”

“Forget date. You brought man here, Jamel. I’d put money on it he mostly knows white people. Brother don’t know how to act.”

“You talkin' that bul—”

“Fine, what’s girl’s name?”

“…”

“C’mon Hob’, what’s her—” Roy tried a gentler approach, but he needn’t have worried he just had to wait.

“…Norah.”

“Psssssssh.” Ghostface shook his head, a broad grin across his face.

Roy started laughing.

“Shiiiiiiiit, boy. At least make it hard for me.” Ghost’ fired back.

Hobie left the jocular pair to their video game.

“Wonder why I wouldn’t bring a girl here…”

Ghost yelled back. “I never wondered that, Masta Killa! I just said, ‘don’t want us embarrassin’ you in front of the white girl!’” The pair laughed harder.

Hobie dumped his tools in his room, and returned to the common space to hit the kitchen to find his two previously lost brothers panting in the doorway. Philip and John had been running.

It had Hobie’s attention. It took a lot to make any of the Brown boys run.

“’Sup?” Hobie checked his brothers.

It took Philip a while to answer, he was still catching his breath. But there was concern, if not fear in his eyes as the words found their way out.

“I don’t know what it is, man. But somethin’ got 'em riled. Tombstone’s. They know we’re local… Never seen them so hardcore 'bout territory and presence before. If there’s more than one of us, they’re normally smart enough to not start shit—but…”

Roy got to his feet. “Get the fuckin’ bats?”

“This—this was too many for the five of us’n bats. This was somethin’ else. Do we call in Abe?”

Bigger brother would mean all hands on deck. They hadn’t pushed back with all hands in years. Hadn’t had to. Abe was the only brother who didn't live in the same house, so calling him in meant something serious. Tombstone had learned their family made no dent on his income streams, so long as they didn’t get too loud, the Brown boys weren’t worth the hassle of confronting. The bruises it would cost them.

Hobie’s mind shot back to Rand’s warning from earlier. Things heating up. Ben Urich as a source.

“So, call on A—?”

“Hold on Abe. Let me ask some questions tonight.”

Without knowing their motivation, they couldn’t know the lengths of their desperation. Starting a fight with an enemy with everything or nothing to lose, changed the odds and how hard they’d come at them.

He needed to know WHY?

And for the former Prowler… he wouldn’t be asking his questions verbally.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

I was pretty much off the face of the earth for a while there, swung around to night shifts in terms of my sleep. The work is slowing a bit. I should have something up myself this weekend.

But for now, I'm caught up on the last few posts from the past 36 hours where I'd pretty much vanished without a trace.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

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.

@Hound55

Update on this...

Things slowly straightening out today. Should have a lot more time again after this shift today.

Thank you for your patience.