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aidemint · 1 year ago

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To Break A Habit | Maybe You Should’ve Stuck With The Chopped Cheese

Summary: When Hobie Brown hits up your workplace, you find that your life changes. For the better or for the worse, that’s up for you to decide.

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Hobie Brown/GN!Reader

Notes: hello all <3 been obsessed with the movie recently (and hobie, duh) so just reviving my account for a bit to stop by and say hello and feed the fandom! also, earth-40081 is marvel’s “powerless” series, where peter parker gets bit by a spider but his arm withers instead of him getting powers.

hope you enjoy!

Masterpost | AO3

Hobie Brown of Earth-138 is one of Spider-Society’s best and brightest.

Being part of the crew for so long (or rather, volunteering to be part of the crew, as he likes to call it), high-priority operations are no stranger to his assignment board. The mission he’d been tasked with this time around is a ten day-long solo recon that demands the “utmost attention” for catching the anomaly lurking within the fabrics of Earth-40081. Miguel, in his usual fashion, had been strict about the expectations—minimal damage, quick ins and outs, and no downtime. The last condition had been strongly emphasized.

Unfortunately for O’Hara, Hobie isn’t really one for following orders.

“So I can swing around the city and destroy buildings but can’t stop for a small tumble down the sink?” Hobie mumbles to himself with a roll of his eyes. “Proper geezer. Old man’s gone off his rocker.”

Earth-40081’s New York isn’t unlike anything the vigilante knows: the city’s layout is more or less identical to his world’s. The shops and stops aren’t much different either, save for their names—his favorite bodega is conveniently located right across from where he’d usually get his guitar fixed, and he’s quick to familiarize himself with the metro stations positioned around town.

It isn’t a bad place to spend the next week and a half.

The thought keeps Hobie company as he continues down Fordham Road, past bustling crowds and busy streets. He’s heard good things about the district from other Spiders that have visited this world—despite this reality’s supposedly lackluster timeline, the cafes here boasted a hefty reputation amongst Spider-Society.

After Pavitr found time to compliment 40081’s coffee and tea culture, Hobie was resolute on finding out what was so special about it himself.

Though he isn’t normally big on afternoon drinks, there isn’t exactly a Spider-Barista readily available at HQ, and Osborn Corp. on Earth-138 isn’t too keen on handing out quality drinks to its homeless population either. Plus, instant coffee can only get you so far—and give you so many shits before you start to seek out another alternative.

Currently, Pavitr’s recommendation leads Hobie down the street to a less-occupied stretch of way. The store’s awning displays the shop’s moniker, “Jules & The Juice,” soft, fluttering, jade-green arches of fabric framing white text. Specializing in pressed kombucha and afternoon tea is certainly an odd combination, Hobie notes, but he promised his friend he wouldn’t knock it until he tried it.

Stepping forward and pushing open the door, he mentally gives Miguel O’Hara the bird before entering the cafe.

You’ve always been a person of routine—it’s what keeps you together, keeps your world together. Not that your life is much extraordinary, dissimilar enough from others to necessitate strict scheduling or patterns, but you like knowing what’s going to happen in a day.

Mondays and Wednesdays always demand that your alarm clock goes off at seven in the morning before you rush to catch the metro for class at eight with a bagel half-eaten in your hand. Classes last until four-thirty, then you’re off for the day to either keep your peace at home or head to Rajji’s Deli for a chopped cheese with lettuce, onions, and tomato. It’s always your favorite part of the day—he’s called you “boss” since November and it’s probably the closest you’ve felt to another person for a while.

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays you get to sleep in until nine, maybe get in a morning walk if you’re up an hour early. Classes are shorter too, ending at around two, giving you ample time to wander or study until your three-to-nine shift at Jules & The Juice. You end up here at the same time on Sundays too.

It’s a good gig—pays above minimum wage, provides free meals, has friendly coworkers, and rolls at a pace that’s easy to keep up with; it’s normal—it’s nice.

Sure, sometimes you get bored and think about living your life doing something new, but you like this routine you’ve somehow fallen into. At least the weight of your college tuition seems a little less burdening when you sink your teeth into a nice meal or take a stroll in mellow weather.

And perhaps the mundaneness of doing it day-by-day is what keeps all those little insecurities from taking hold and completely ravaging you—everyone has different ways of coping, you think. Therapists are expensive. A nice, hardback journal only costs twenty-five dollars a month, seventeen-fifty if you catch a holiday sale.

So if routine is what keeps you sane, binds all your creaking and worn parts together, you’ve learned to accept it.

It’s a nice notion to hold on a slow Tuesday like this one. The store is largely devoid of customers, save for the students dotting the booths on the walls—but you know how it is, not wanting to be bothered while studying, so you leave them be.

You’ve decided to busy yourself preparing ingredient stock for tomorrow’s morning shift until the front door chimes and someone new steps in.

“Welcome!” comes your reflexive response, succinct before you turn around to properly greet the guest. Your eyes come to rest on the figure and almost immediately, something jolts inside you.

It’s rather funny to think how sure you were of your contentment in modernity just moments ago. Your ordinary life, job, and crowd—everything about your being up until this point you deemed conventional.

The figure that walks in seems to be the physical embodiment of anything but.

Large puffs of dark wicks frame half-lidded eyes with four glints of silver just above his brows and six more around the edges of his ears. Studded cuffs line his wrists and waist, an additional arm garment and neckpiece matching the detailing on his vest. A faded, ripped blue shirt and patched black crust pants covers the expanse of his body, and if the chunky, blue-laced combat boots aren’t enough to draw your attention, the un-cased bass guitar slung on his back does the job just fine.

Within the span of a few seconds, you feel like your world’s been turned upside down.

And somehow, you find that you’re more than okay with it—the sudden closeness of your throat and the slight heat to your cheeks indicates a possibility that you even like it.

It’s pretty hard to pass someone this tall, dark, and handsome.

“Hi, what can I do for you today?” you manage with your best customer service smile when he approaches the counter.

At your address, he meets your stare with a slight raise of his head. You lock your knees to keep yourself from keeling over at the sight, your chest thrumming with energy.

“My mate told me this place was good—you recommend any drinks?” he says, his eyes flitting up to the menu overhead.

The momentary break from his gaze pushes a silent sigh of relief from between your lips. “Our most popular is the Green Tonic and the Energizer, but my personal favorite is the Matcha Madness.”

“Taste like anything?”

The edges of your mouth lift at the query. “Hard to describe in detail, but there’s a sweetness from the blueberry and an earthiness from the matcha. Good balance all around, I think.”

“Sick,” he replies off-handedly, nodding. “I’ll get that then. I trust your judgment.”

“Alright,” you chirp, typing in and sending the order, trying to ignore how hard the last phrase made your heart thump. “Seven forty-eight is your total.”

While the stranger pays, you keep your vision glued to the tenner he hands you, a fleeting glimpse of chipped black polish meeting you before you dig into the drawer for change.

“Two fifty-two and your receipt”—you rip the paper from the printer and slide the change in the same hand—“here you are.” When you reach to give it to him, still a bundle of nerves, you notice the badges fastened to his vest.

“Nice pins, make ‘em yourself?” slips out involuntarily, your mouth moving before your brain can process the words. You flinch when you hear yourself, but make a point to recover quickly for the prospect of your blunder going unnoticed.

Thankfully, the man in front of you doesn’t seem to discern the mistake. “Yeah,” he replies with a small smile. “Can’t take credit for this one up top, though. Another one of my mates did it. Wicked, innit?”

When he holds the collar of his vest out so you can see it better, you feel something new replacing the anxiety broiling in your gut.

Something new—the two words together are almost unreal. A life of routine never heralded this sort of sensation. Perhaps the most adjacent to it you’d felt ever since starting this station were the small bursts of satisfaction that came when you did well on a test or paper.

It isn’t simply feeling at ease with the moment, nor just adequate happiness. His gesture combined with the faint scent of his cologne as you lean in closer to inspect his pin sparks excitement. In it all, the brittle energy of restlessness transforms into something lighter, something sweeter. It keeps you talking as tenseness drains from your limbs, unlocking your knees and shaping the smooth bend of your arms to press palms against the counter and stand yourself a bit taller.

The conversation takes its own shepard and leads it into greener pastures, then—vitality blooms in swirls in your chest the more you chat with the stranger in front of you.

You soon learn that his name is Hobie Brown, former runway model turned aspiring punk anarchist artist. He mostly plays shows as an occupation, finding himself a rather popular figure in his town—though he notes that he hates the label—and when he’s out of the venue and on a different stage, he’s dedicated to political activism.

“Better to smoke fags than be a fascist,” he says with a smirk. Is it too early to ask yourself if you have a crush?

To your delight, he seems to enjoy the time too, listening intently as you list the few things that are interesting about you, then a handful of normal details thrown in just so you can get a smile out of him. You tell him about your move to New York for school, your university and all its little quirks. When he asks about the job, you joke that it’s nothing notable but end up spilling all the encounters with customers you can remember—the best and the worst of everything.

By the time the conversation ends—a bittersweet close forced by your coworker reluctantly asking for your help, despite being unwilling to spoil the former exchange—Hobie’s halfway done with his drink and you’re thinking you might need one yourself. It’s a good place to leave off, you think, and the unspoken prospect of meeting again has you nearly floating to the salad station.

Perhaps the occasional change of pace isn’t too bad after all.

Wednesday comes and goes as it always has, save for the Italian sub you order at Rajji’s.

The bodega owner looks at you with a curious expression when you say you’re “trying something new” and while you can’t really blame him, you don’t think it’s enough to warrant the ogle. Admittedly, you forget that not everyone reflects the mindset you go into each day with—the newest “let’s try new things for the first time in years because I met a guy” one is a rather shocking development.

But you repeat yourself regardless and he obliges this time around, layering lettuce and tomato on mozzarella, prosciutto, oil, vinegar, and herb seasoning. Squishing it all up in a hero roll, he wraps it, tapes it, then takes it to the register.

“Tired of my chopped cheeses?” Rajji teases when he goes to ring you up for the sandwich. “Or is something on your mind?”

“Nah, just wanted to try out your other stuff,” you reply with a chuckle. “Think I could switch it up a little from my usual routine.”

“You?” Rajji raises a brow. “Switch it up?”

A slow but half-hearted roll of your eyes precedes your response. “Hey, I’m not that boring.”

“I didn’t call you boring, it’s just not like you,” the shopkeep comments with a shrug. “Eh, but if it’s what makes you happy, I’m also happy to see it.”

You expect it to end there—the supposition for him not to pry much after holds steadfast in the pregnant pause that passes by the both of you. There isn’t a need to tell him about Hobie, no reason to exchange anything more than light conversation and the same old greetings and gestures. It’s how it’s supposed to be, to stave off any awkwardness that sprouts from new things.

But within the beat of silence, you find that, unfortunately for you, Murphy’s Law and all its little variants still exist.

Rajji is a man of consideration, of surveillance—for a moment you wonder if he’s always been this way—and he eyes you as he counts your change.

Something changes—shifts—in the air when his stare flits back to the drawer. “You didn’t happen to meet someone, did you?”

It’s hard to not regret saying anything or feeling stupid when the question comes from him, when you consider your previous doubt. Interacting with people—reading them—had been his job for the past thirty years, and you of all people were no exception to his scrutiny, a loyal customer to his bodega for the most recent two.

The notion sticks but your breath hitches in your throat anyhow, his observation too on-the-mark for your liking. “N-No,” you stammer, coughing lighty. “Why, uh— Why would you think that?” Embarrassment finds you swiftly and your gaze is quick to hit the floor after your sorry attempt to brush the matter off.

Rajji just hums in response, his eyes narrowing with a smug grin. “Whatever you say, boss,” he snickers, dropping the return of bills and coins into your open palm. “I’ll see you next week, when you’re totally not in love.”

Your only response is a coy roll of your eyes and a brief wave before you quickly duck behind your shoulder to conceal the heavy heat you know is creeping to your cheeks.

“Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man?” You’re in the middle of a bite of food, voice muffled by grains and veg, when you repeat the moniker. “Are you talking about Peter Parker?”

It’s Thursday and you’re on your break—Hobie’s come around again, his bass guitar propped up comfortably against the back of a booth as he sits with you. Another slow day today allows you the luxury of meaningful conversation, unhurried by any rush of customers or important obligation. Gratitude is easy to meet in moments like these, delight even easier when you’re nearly elbow-to-elbow with someone whose smile makes you melt like butter under a hot knife.

“You know him?” Hobie seems mildly surprised at your response, brows raising a bit with interest.

“Well not know-know, but know of, I guess?” you consider, tapping two fingers to your lips in thought. “Huge medical case a few years back or something—the kid got bit by a spider and his arm withered. Went by Spider-Man online, but it was more of a joke thing. I’ve never heard ‘Friendly Neighborhood’ in front of the user, though. Think it sounds more like a superhero name that way rather than an internet slapstick.”

“Superhero, huh?” Hobie hums, shifting to lean on his elbows. “You believe in that kinda stuff?”

The query earns a thoughtful frown from you. “Like the whole super-speed, flying, teleportation kind of thing?” You wave your hands around to exaggerate the terms as they come.

Hobie laughs—man, that laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I mean, it would be cool if they existed, I guess?” you offer, affording a modest smile with the supposition. “When I was younger I used to dream about being able to fly places, but I guess you grow up and learn it’s not so simple.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Not too sure about the whole political and moral-ethical logistics of it all if you wanna go there. But I guess I’ll always be happy to welcome people who won’t take advantage of the power, if there’s even anyone like that nowadays.”

“You think there could be?” When Hobie asks, there’s something peculiar about it—there’s genuine interest hidden somewhere in there, but somehow it feels like he knows more than he lets on. You study him as he leans into the booth, crossing a leg over the other, an arm slung across the back of the cushioned seat.

His demeanor has you at a loss for words. “Dunno,” you finally murmur after a handful of seconds. An upward tilt of your chin levels your own gaze with his. “But I hope so.”

In the sheltered quietude that elapses, you’re allowed three more bites of your meal until Hobie huffs a wisp of a chuckle from his nose, the edges of his lips curling in a smile. The crinkle of his under-eye follows in tandem with the motion, beginnings of crows-feet showing at the corners.

You would’ve thought nothing of it if he hadn’t dropped his gaze to his boots and rolled his tongue in his cheek. This way, his expression of contentment seems more melancholy than anything—but you don’t pry. You just wait for him to speak because it seems like he needs the opportunity.

“Hope’s a good thing to have,” is all he says after the pause, not making a move to mention anything else. The rest of your meal is continued in comfortable silence.

When your break ends, he bids you goodbye and exits the shop—your eyes follow him all the way to the end of the window-wall until the last of him disappears beyond the cutoff.

All you’re left with are curled fingers around a ceramic bowl holding whatever’s left of your dinner, and the manifest thought questioning who Hobie Brown really is.

Friday arrives and Hobie is a no-show.

You don’t know exactly why the quality of your evening hinges on this and this alone, but it’s probably because of how shit the morning and afternoon had been. Missed your train for the first time in years, left on an empty stomach, and forgot your laptop at home. At the very least, one of your friends had been kind enough to share their notes with you after you’d spaced out all class—a win was a win, you convinced yourself. You just wish the day had more, following the walk to work where you stepped on gum and got shoved by a mob of tourists.

Everyone has bad days, you’re sure of the fact, but this is one truly unlike any other.

It’s hard to quantify disappointment in a position like this—sure, stumbling around with a lump of bubblegum on your sole wasn’t exactly the best experience, but it’s foolish to count on Hobie’s arrival so assuredly. He’s got things to do, and you barely even know the guy so why does it matter?

Still, as much as you try to reason with yourself, the feeling lingers in a cavity you can’t seem to reach.

You do your best to ignore it through your shift, stifling dismay with moving hands and fruity drinks, smushing guilt and unease by pressing vegetables and putting tuna melts together. Somehow it’s even easier to follow your usual routine in your state of heightened focus, itching to move on from contrition. This time around you don’t even make a note of how the same old company winds up in their same old spots, how despite the fact that the store is lined with customers, you’re left feeling as lonely as ever.

Nine o’clock comes quicker than expected, a ginger toll ringing from the back of the house to let the shop and its people know it’s time for closing. By now your composure has long faded and you’re sure you look crazy, but Hobie didn’t come, so what’s the point in caring?

You usher the stragglers out and lock the front door, sighing tiredly when you remember the overzealous dish pileup in the sink.

Maybe you can put it off for a while longer—make it two things to shove to the back of your brain for tonight—so you choose to take inventory before the worst part of closing comes. Grabbing your clipboard and a pen from the register, you count stock, leaving notes for the morning shift as you trail along.

Nine-thirty breezes by and you’re finally standing in front of the mess of dishes loaded into the basin. Like always, you mumble and groan for a minute before finally deciding to get it over with, plunging your now glove-laden hands into the soap solution the ceramic is soaked in and scrubbing until it shines.

You’re about halfway done with dishwashing, down to the plates and bowls and a few batches of forks when a knock sounds from outside the kitchen. Knuckle against glass, the rap echoes once more after you freeze, blood suddenly running cold. It has to at least be ten, with how long you’ve been working—you doubt it’s a customer dropping by for a query, or even a visiting friend from class looking to pass time.

It’s a serial killer! your heart screams, slamming a heavy rhythm against your ribcage. We’re gonna die! We should’ve stuck to our routine!

Holy shit, calm down, your head replies. Just look outside to see who it is. The door’s locked anyway. And there’s a back exit.

The thumping in your chest quiets down at the more logical reassurance, enough for you to muster the energy to creep quietly to the double acting door. Bit by bit, you crawl until you’re at its foot, then raise yourself just high enough to peer through the gaps in the window bar.

Relief floods you almost immediately when you see an all-too-familiar spiked cuff waving at you from outside. If only you had less dignity, so you could crumple to the ground like a ragdoll right then and there.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you breathe, instead hurrying to get the front door for Hobie as he waits with his hands stuck in his pockets. You make sure to shoot him a pointed look before you unlatch the lock.

Hobie just smiles and saunters in when the door swings open. “Thought I’d be out there forever,” he teases, and you don’t know whether to be irritated at him for how he scared you half to death, or relieved that he’s actually here today, albeit exceedingly late.

The latter probably takes less time and energy, but your chest can’t help but tighten in annoyance. “Yeah, well you’re kinda hard to miss,” you counter snappily, finding some edge to sharpen the words. “Why’d you come at this time anyways?”

Hobie doesn’t react much to your change in tone, offering a nonchalant shrug in response. “Wanted to visit earlier, but got caught up in some stuff.”

Guilt pricks you then, a wince raising gooseflesh on the back of your neck, but you maintain your furrowed brows and pursed lips when you sigh. “Look, I really appreciate the sentiment, but you randomly knocking at the front of the store at”—you check the clock—“ten thirty-six, Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I lost twenty fuckin’ years off my lifespan.”

“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the best time,” he says, a crooked smile tugging on his lips to match the glint of amusement in his eye. You hate that it’s so hard to stay mad when he looks at you like that. “But at least I’m not a serial killer or nothing like that.”

“You could very well be,” you muse, slipping back into the kitchen to finish cleaning the last of the cutlery. “I don’t know that.”

“Oh yeah?” Hobie says, disregarding the bolded “Employees Only” sign strapped to the door and following you in. “What’d you do if I were?”

“Run, hide, or be dead already, probably,” you note with a scoff. “Or maybe I’d call on one of those superheroes to come and save me.”

“Would you now?” Hobie leans on the wall, back pressed against beige, with folded arms and a tongue-in-cheek look.

The part of you that you think he’s scrutinizing burns red-hot. “Yeah, I would,” you contest anyhow, polishing off two forks at a time. “Maybe in some world that Parker guy would’ve gotten powers instead of an atrophic arm.” Freaking radioactive spiders—how does that even happen? You scrub harder at stainless steel, still feeling Hobie’s stare on you. “But it’s whatever. Superheroes are overrated and Spider-Man’s a stupid name for one anyways.”

You’re not usually this cynical, but the anger comes easily and you’re tired of keeping it under thick skin. A new swell of indignation pushes a churning warmth to your gut as you count how many white plates and silver tools still lie in the basin. All you can do however, is continue to stand and clean—stain by stain, sud by sud.

It’s all you can do while Hobie stands by, idly watching. Shame seeps into the afterburn of irritation under his wakeful eye. You don’t know what he’s thinking, looking at you like that—you’re not sure you even want to. So you give yourself time to swallow your grievances and flush out the last of your frustration in your scouring.

Silence descends upon the two of you then, wordlessness lasting until the last of the dishes are put on the drying rack and the forks, spoons, and knives are sorted into their respective bins.

A sigh of relief escapes you when you finally drain the sink, a pool of water and soapy foam gathering at the bottom grate.

The last of your resolve seems to run down the pipe with the whirlpool that forms, sucked into the void of tubes. You don’t even bother addressing what had you so riled up before like you had planned originally—not having the patience nor the willpower to go on a metaphysical deep-dive with yourself at the moment—you just know that God, you’re exhausted.

Closing your eyes and pressing your palms to them, you emit a small groan before sucking in a long breath and releasing, shoulders falling with the compress of your chest.

“Sorry if I seemed out of it today.” You break the quiet first with the breath, words mumbled but still comprehensible. “Don’t think I need to tell you I didn’t exactly have the best time.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hobie responds. “Isn’t your fault the world’s a cock-up today.”

You manage a smile—though it’s shaky and unrefined, the weight on your back lightens. “You had a bad day too?”

“Somewhat.” Hobie scrunches his nose as he says it, but waves it off with a brush of his hand against the empty air. “Need company on the way home?” He leaves his perch on the wall to draw two steps nearer. The bridged distance—his presence being close enough to be perceived as a gesture of comfort but far enough to allow you your own space—is rather mindful.

But as much as you appreciate it, you shake your head slowly. “I couldn’t ask that of you,” you reply abashedly, so sure that he has better things to do, so sure that you can’t risk disappointment again.

Hobie seems to pick up on the sentiment—“I’m not offering because you’re asking, I’m offering because I want to,” he says with a tilt of his head.

The words strike you in a tender spot, a place that feels awfully similar to the one crevice in your heart you couldn’t even fathom before. Suddenly the ache in your limbs is an afterthought, the mess of anger in your gut a pastime. Your conviction bleeds flesh-red, the pink trail it leaves smudging against the skin of your weathered fingertips as you close up, flicking off the lights, clocking out, locking the door.

Hobie nears you when you head down the steps of the back, his shoulder barely ghosting your own in your descent, and the color creeps up your arm, singing at his proximity.

By the time you arrive home, the air around you is tinted rose.

You’ve never been so grateful in your life to have an entire day off. Saturdays were always idyllic, but none so much like this one—you wake up at one twenty-nine with the high rise sun peeking through the blinds and spilling onto your sheets. Those thirteen hours of sleep still weigh heavy on your eyelids as you blink the blurriness out of your vision, a heavy yawn shuddering your frame as you sit up with a soft sigh.

A part of you wants to collapse back into the comforter, take another few hours to nurse your puffy eyes, but the growl of your stomach forces you onto your feet and into the bathroom to start getting ready. Brushing your teeth takes three minutes, skincare takes ten, and after the combined thirteen you’re feeling fresher than ever, whisking yourself into the kitchen to check what you can throw together.

Working in food retail has its perks, you think cheerily to yourself as you snag a couple condiments from the top shelf of your pantry. By the time you’ve finished scavenging and scouring, the ingredients are sorted on your kitchen counter and you’re firing up the stove with a crack of the dial. There’s no resolute plan, but the overall idea is to make something simple. Maybe a little stir fry with oyster sauce—throw in some vermicelli when the cauliflower cooks through because why the hell not.

You slice the carrots and dice the scallions, sprinkle in sesame seeds and let the flavor of white pepper and soy sauce marinade in everything else. The smell of it all—whole and warm and welcome—dances along the kitchen lining, plumes filling the space with spice.

When the dish is done cooking, you flick the fire off and grab a dish to plate it. In the same motion, you unlock the door to your balcony to let fresh air in—as much as you enjoy the scent of stir-fry now, it’ll probably grow stifling in a couple hours.

The door slides open and you take a large inhale, gasping in satisfaction at the light breeze that brushes by. It’s rare for New York to have clear skies nowadays, but the weather heralds just that today: crisp, bright, and blue over a stunning city skyline. You almost forget how good your view is up in your high-rise, you realize, so you decide to eat on the balcony to take in the scenery.

I should do this more often, you reckon silently, a homely feeling settling into your bones as you sit and eat. Things are easy when life is this simple.

Maybe it’s the little things in life that make it go round. Like watching the cars bustle and beep, surveying the billboards, mapping out the trail you take through the streets on the daily, noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building—

Noticing a little figure standing sideways on a building? You immediately set your lunch down and rush to the railing, your eyes widening, narrowing, then widening again as you try to confirm that you’re seeing things right.

A small figure stands on the side of some distant corporate building, absolutely perpendicular to the surface.

Two fingers come to pinch the skin of your forearm but still, nothing changes. If anything, it gets more bizarre as the figure begins to walk upwards.

Is this a stunt? Is someone shooting a movie? Maybe it’s a prank—it has to be. Newton, you hardly know the guy, though you’re quite a vehement believer in his theory of gravity. But the longer you look, the less you can comprehend—there’s no visible harness and no film crew, no crowd below in awe of the spectacle.

And there’s no time to consider if you’re the only one who’s seeing this or not as you realize something peculiar upon closer inspection. With your phone out of your pocket and the camera app pulled up, you position the lens, zoom in, and watch what it picks up.

The figure is masked, face under red cloth with spike accents at the top of their head. Though they have their back to you, you can make out a one-piece suit and an overlay of a silver-studded vest and crust pants that transition into heavy combat boots. It’s familiar, but only reminiscent of styles you’ve seen.

Your phone screen holds still for a moment, your mind going a million miles a minute, then the figure turns around—

Everything goes quiet. “Holy shit,” you whisper, your vermicelli lunch now sitting like lead in your gut.

—and reveals the exact array of pins Hobie had attached to his own collar.

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