Hound55

MARVELS: Streets of New York

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

^{"Well, you know Pete, Prowler was never exactly the most creative name either. I work with pneumatics, not words..."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Hobart 'Hobie' Brown | Motts Hunt, The Bronx - Formerly Harlem _________________________________________________________ Selfemployed - Pneumatics Engineering Systems Consultant _________________________________________________________ Former Criminal - Never Charged | Infiltration Specialist C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - 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. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Hobie Brown should have been lost in the Source. New York done enough other young men dirty like that. What's one more? The dirt poor guy, hustling to make ends meet. Made a decision to use his skills to get himself paid. Until he ran head first into a man who'd done the same once and lost far more than he ever thought possible from it. The Spider-Man. Someone who looked at him and for a moment saw where he had been, and a person - a fellow human - who hadn't done so much that there was no way back. He told Hobie what he'd learned on his darkest day. The deeper meaning of what someone from his own family had tried to tell him once. That with great power comes great responsibility. But Hobie didn't take the same message that Spider-Man did. Now, by night, Hobie uses his God-given skills, abilities and 'powers' to hold other powerful men responsible. Because, after all, with great power must come great responsibility... P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ The classic 'Second-chance man'. 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.

---

S A M P L E P O S T
S A M P L E P O S T

^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

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.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Well... it could be due to her career.

Stop judging.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>

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.

@Retired

Although the app says they've only been married 5 years...

MARVELS: Streets of New York

<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>

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.

@Retired

MARVELS: Streets of New York

https://open.spotify.com/track/1r453bo3yToA356T5H0LoP?si=O0a6NSuDRNGcWYW5wx3k-Q

MARVELS: Streets of New York

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

^{"Well, you know Pete, Prowler was never exactly the most creative name either. I work with pneumatics, not words..."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Hobart 'Hobie' Brown | Motts Hunt, The Bronx - Formerly Harlem _________________________________________________________ Selfemployed - Pneumatics Engineering Systems Consultant _________________________________________________________ Former Criminal - Never Charged | Infiltration Specialist C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - 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. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Hobie Brown should have been lost in the Source. New York done enough other young men dirty like that. What's one more? The dirt poor guy, hustling to make ends meet. Made a decision to use his skills to get himself paid. Until he ran head first into a man who'd done the same once and lost far more than he ever thought possible from it. The Spider-Man. Someone who looked at him and for a moment saw where he had been, and a person - a fellow human - who hadn't done so much that there was no way back. He told Hobie what he'd learned on his darkest day. The deeper meaning of what someone from his own family had tried to tell him once. That with great power comes great responsibility. But Hobie didn't take the same message that Spider-Man did. Now, by night, Hobie uses his God-given skills, abilities and 'powers' to hold other powerful men responsible. Because, after all, with great power must come great responsibility... P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ The classic 'Second-chance man'. 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.

---

S A M P L E P O S T
S A M P L E P O S T

^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

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.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Hound's Wacky Shack of Miscellaneous Clap-Trap

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

^{"Well, you know Pete, Prowler was never exactly the most creative name either. I work with pneumatics, not words..."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Hobart 'Hobie' Brown | Motts Hunt, The Bronx - Formerly Harlem _________________________________________________________ Selfemployed - Pneumatics Engineering Systems Consultant _________________________________________________________ Former Criminal - Never Charged | Infiltration Specialist C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - 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 found his own innate gifts for working with pneumatics & 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. - Hobie is a surprisingly good melee fighter for a regular human of his mere size - he attributes this to being the youngest of nine brothers who 'thought they were the Wutang Clan'. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Hobie Brown should have been lost in the Source. New York done enough other young men dirty like that. What's one more? The dirt poor guy, hustling to make ends meet. Made a decision to use his skills to get himself paid. Until he ran head first into a man who'd done the same once and lost far more than he ever thought possible from it. The Spider-Man. Someone who looked at him and for a moment saw where he had been, and a person - a fellow human - who hadn't done so much that there was no way back. He told Hobie what he'd learned on his darkest day. The deeper meaning of what someone from his own family had tried to tell him once. That with great power comes great responsibility. But Hobie didn't take the same message that Spider-Man did. Now, by night, Hobie uses his God-given skills, abilities and 'powers' to hold other powerful men responsible. Because, after all, with great power must come great responsibility... P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ The classic 'Second-chance man'. 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 people who grew up in 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 battles he 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.

---

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Ste Aisling

He revelled in making her uncomfortable, that much was clear.

Or at least he tried to.

It took a lot to shake a former investigator of H.E.L.P. Particularly one who had seen the kinds of things Zara Catrell had seen over the years.

But he tried nonetheless. Singing that damned song, leaning into his thick brogue with the shanty.

The Irishman. Ste Aisling.

"There was ol' Mickey Coote who played hard on his flute,
When the ladies lined up for a set.
He was tootin' with skill for each sparklin' quadrille,
Though the dancers were fluthered and bent,
With his smart witty talk, he was cock of the walk,
And he rolled the dames under and over.
They all knew at a glance, when he took up his stance,
That he sailed in the Irish Rover."

He was onto about his third verse or so by now. Part of her wanted to see how long he'd continue this charade of nonchalance. But as the song seemed ever longer her patience had begun to wane.

"Nice. Rhymes. Are you going to keep on telling me how unbothered by all of this you are, or are we going to actually talk about what you know?"

He paused his song and rocked his neck back a second.

"What makes you so convinced a fella like me knows anythin', darl?"

She smirked. He was all front veneer and tough guy trimmings.

"You're very intent on having us belief you're a hard man, aren't you." There was no question in it.

"Am a well hard man." He corrected. "But still don't know nothin' 'bout this."

"Was playin' poker with the lads. Then I heard the Captain actin' the maggot as shit all went arseways."

Zara pulled her notepad.

"The lads being?"

"Dougie, Parkers and Tim. The three having committed the horrible crime of having money that was as yet not in my possession. So... poker."

"Not at all concerned with having to get back to work?"

"What work? We weren't meant to cast off yet. Wasn't nawt for me t'do. The others on late night crew and the radio. Again, nawt t'do til cast off."

Zara nodded as details began to check out. Except for...

"Fair enough. Except I'd heard that your poker game got put on hold after the Captain checked on you all, and asked you all if you could have been doing something."

"Bah! He was just doin' his rounds checkin' on everybody. You're makin it sound like we all scattered and dashed off with our winnin's. Some of the losers were just pleadin' poverty and trying t' get out of another hand, s'all. We were all still milling 'round and talkin'."

"And you heard the shot?"

"Heard a whole lot of effin' and blindin' as it all was goin' arseways. That much was true. But couldn't see nothin'. We were all playin' poker on the seaward side."

"Starboard?"

"Aye."

"Captain and the craziness was mainly on the port. Tryin' to cast off and get us movin'. Good job he did too, I hear. Quinn could've been all've us."

"Mmm." Zara murmured in a non-committed fashion, acknowledging the opinion.

Zara looked across at his hands. They were unblemished, uncalloused. A smirk crossed her face as she once again felt justified in her first take on Ste, all front and the perception of hardness. These weren't the hands of someone who'd seen the hard work in life. She remembered the Chef's opinion of him, and her statements regarding his efforts to get out of work and socialise. A picture of the man opposite was forming ever more clearly in her mind with every word that fell out of his mouth.

Something the Chef had said came to her mind, and she briefly looked up to check the time, before returning her sights to the subject.

He smiled at her. But it never met his eyes. Those eyes.

"There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee,
There was Hogan from County Tyrone,
There was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff of work,
And a man from Westmeath called Malone,
There was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a mule,
And Fightin' Bill Treacy from Dover,
And your man, Mick MacCann, from the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover..."

"You quite like your song, don't you?"

His grin only broadened further and his head rocked at the neck, as if answering her were more effot than it was worth. No. More effort than she was worth.

"Tis a fair ditty, t'besure. Guessin' I just feel that when at sea it calls for a shanty. Eh?"

There was more going on here. She could see that much. He was guilty of something, if not this. His mannerisms were weary and tired, but it never met his eyes. Those penetrating eyes. If he wasn't getting enough sleep it wasn't affecting those eyes.

"If you've been a fan of it so far, somethin' tells me you'll love the next verse..."

His mouth opened and she caught a flash of a leer.

She'd enough experience in interrogations and interviewing subjects to know there was intended cruelty coming, and wasn't disappointed in her decision to harden herself as he once again broke into song.

"For a sailor its always a bother in life,
It's so lonesome by night and day,
That he longs for the shore and a pretty young whore The leer flashed once more as he added emphasis.
Who will melt all his troubles away,
Oh the noise and the rout, swillin' poitin' and stout,
For him soon is done and over,
Of the love of a maid, he is never afraid,
An old salt from the Irish Rover..."

She wouldn't give him the pleasure of a reaction.

Deliberately, needlessly provocative. Looking for any control in a situation where he felt he had little to none. Grasping for any power in the situation he could find.

And in the absence of a reaction from Zara he laughed at himself, sensing nobody else would.

"Of course, what you're telling me... it's not entirely the whole truth is it?"

He snorted derisively, this was her reaction to the song, he was sure. Accusing him when she had nothing.

"Yeah, how'dya figure that, lass?"

"The Starboard side. Had a clear path to the stern. In fact, its the clearest path there. And the Port side, where the Captain was, wouldn't have had visibility of anything happening on that side, would he?"

The Irishman's brow furrowed into a scowl.

"True. But the three people I was playin' poker with and probably a half dozen people all in all would have, if I'd done what y'r claimin' I did. But you know that. It's just a baseless shot across the bow because you got your feelings hurt."

Zara hesitated to think of another question, before Ste's brogue filled the vacant air once more.

"...and I think one stray shot gettin' caught by an innocent fella is enough, without firin' off more. Or am I wrong?"

That one stung. And lengthened the pause in her response.

"What's the matter, dryshite, got nothin' else for me?"

This time she chuckled. Far enough away from the moment of real irritation. He kept leaning in further and further, practically making a parody of a charicature of himself.

Poke him once more. Hit his ego and his masculinity and see what rattles out.

"So, playing poker with three guys. The Chef doesn't seem to think much of you, but I guess that shouldn't be too much of a surprise. Don't suppose you keep much company with women. Can't imagine you--"

She didn't even finish the comment and he'd already leaned forward like he was stung by a hornet. Full of bluster and outrage.

"What're you gettin' at, you dozy dose?! Back ashore I was up ta ninety with the beours! Couldn't keep 'em off me, I couldn't. A man plays poker with the lads in a spare five and he's suddenly the Lonesome Loser. Trust me, I'll do alright for m'self. I'd be more worried about yourself. Can't imagine this'd get you anywhere, or is this how you meet all your blokes, eh? Prefer a captive audience. Well from this side of the table I'll tell ya you'd clean up better if you smiled once in a while."

"You do alright for yourself, huh? Lilly Marks or-- Suze Scrivener?" She quickly threw in the name of the next female subject, having the foresight that the Chef Celeste Boucher would unlikely be his type.

He gave a wider leer still, and even fired off a wink. "It's a long cruise, like."

Now THAT she bought. He might not have it in him to shoot someone, but at that moment he could absolutely see that he was exactly the kind of disgusting type who would take any advantage with a woman that he could get.

And maybe already had, or was.

He knew she had little desire to hear any more from him, comfortable in the knowledge he knew nothing about the case at hand. But Zara did make a mental note to ask the next subject, and perhaps a few more of the women on board about him. And Quinn as well. Mistaken identity and self-defense had become a possibility in her mind. Stranger things had happened.

His leer returned once more as he rocked back in thought as he finished his ditty.

We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out,
And the ship lost its way in the fog,
And that whale of a crew was reduced down to two,
Just myself and the Captain's old dog.
Then the ship struck a rock, oh Lord, what a shock,
The bulkhead was turned right over,
Turned nine times around and the poor old dog was drowned,
I'm the last of The Irish Rover..."


^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.045: The Irish Rover and A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village}

Previously: If You Can't Handle The Interrogation Get Out Of The Kitchen

Suzanne Scrivener

A crooked little smile, she tucked her dress behind her knees as she sat opposite Zara.

She raised her eyes to the investigator opposite and tried to widen her smile with warmth, but it was clear that everything about proceedings was uncomfortable for her.

Suze Scrivener, Zara noted. She'd yet to hear a negative word about her amongst the ship's crew, and what little interaction she'd had with her herself, she'd shown herself to be affable, and if anything a little too eager to please.

Some might even consider it 'sweet'.

Zara wasn't one to think in such terms.

When you'd seen the kind of things that the H.E.L.P. Investigator had seen, read as many of the reports on what the worst in society had done. It wasn't on her scale of the spectrum of humanity. She thought more in terms of guilt. More in terms of what information she could pry, an what leverage to utilise to crack a subject open like a nut to reveal those kernels of enlightenment.

What Zara saw was a person primed for being knocked off balance. Open to intimidation. But was aware of what the affect in doing so early, when that action would likely to impact the actions of the crew as word of mouth travelled faster outside of these walls than her questioning could spread through the subjects at hand.

She'd prefer to be interviewing this one later, to counter that response. Or to re-call her. But with her being kitchen crew it had been made clear the Captain would want this handled earlier.

His interference in her interrogation was grating on her more with every subject, with every minute.

"No morning service, so I suppose this was the last best opportunity to catch you while you're well rested." Zara Catrell smiled, attempting to at least open the interview with some kind of levity.

Suze's smile, barely cracked open to show a hint of pearl, as she nodded, considering her response.

"Hardly relaxing though, considering events." The smile rapidly disappeared from her face, and Zara silently cursed herself for not making better use of the first swing, to draw more of a response. She'd likely be more guarded now.

So long away from her work, she was out of practice.

Suze again took her time, before she gave a solemn solitary "No..."

"Did you know Quinn at all?"

Another pause.

"I think we saw each other once or twice in the Alumni village. At Mrs Millett's shop, getting groceries. Just... friendly 'Hello's and waves, if anything. I knew him by sight, but not very much about him."

Zara could feel the weighty pauses, controlling the tempo of the interview, and didn't care for them at all. She was dictating tempo. To give herself time to formulate a lie if she had to? Perhaps. Or maybe not. Regardless, it didn't serve her well to allow it to continue.

She sped up her voice as she snapped back a follow-up question. Trying to elicit a speedier response from the social tension it would create.

"Were you aware what his hyperhuman power was?" It wasn't a question who's answer would give a lot of weight to anything, it's purpose more to manipulate the tempo than gain anything meaningful in response.

"No. I don't think so. Like I said, we never spoke much. And I never thought enough about him to ask anyone el--"

She re-gathered herself as the physical manifestation of her exclamatory comment exploded between the pair.

Zara's brow lowered at the response. It was so large it had almost forced her out of her chair, and stood in stark contrast to the temperament of the girl seated opposite.

"I'm so sorry, that's so terrible, you must think I'm awful, that I didn't really--"

"It's alright. It doesn't seem to be an uncommon situation for most I've spoken to already."

Maybe a bit more survivors guilt than most, though. Demonstrative?

Zara recalculated the motivation behind the pauses. Perhaps they weren't solely for this interview. She wrote a 'P' and a '?' as shorthand in her notebook, before continuing with her questions. She lacked complete control of her powers. And in her case that could mean a potential breach on secrecy. Could it be that she had she said something that was seen by the wrong person?

Zara knew better than to ask herself what possible darkness this unassuming girl in her dress, who was so quick with a disarming smile, could possibly behold. For an opressed people, darkness could be found in even the brightest appearing hyperhuman. Well masked by years of practice.

"A few people have said it was your response that first gave the indication that something was wrong at th time, and finding the body of Mister Spence. Could you tell me what you were doing when you found Quinn? Was there anybody else already there?"

She thought for a moment.

"Well... I think Jason was technically closer. He'd struggled to get himself to the shelter of the starboard side because, well, I think he pretty clearly didn't feel well. He'd turned a pretty nasty shade of pink, from his usually nice red hue. But I don't think he actually saw anything, I think he was just trying to get somewhere safe whilst not throwing up."

Zara considered this, and was about to make a note that she was the first on scene to discover the body, when she continued.

"...but, being the closest, doesn't mean I was the first. I just... was the first to say anything, and I was pretty shocked to find him like that."

"Yes. The Captain did say your-- comment-- was the first sign that he had that anything was wrong."

"Oh..." Suze said, turning a similar shade to Jason McGee from the other direction, before re-gathering herself, but with some sign of relief on her face.

Zara recognised what she was looking at and made a mental note if only to try and make use of it later. Still, she was a co-operating subject, and willing to provide what information she had at present.

Zara looked to keep momentum.

"So... what other crew members did you see there who would have discovered Quinn's body just before, or just at the same time as you had?"

Suze sobbed gently once more, at the reference to 'Quinn's body', and Zara cursed herself for being out of practice, and made a mental note to keep it more just objective and refer to it as 'the body' to prevent the bubbling over of feelings slowing her interview process.

"Well, you weren't far behind. And Vee and I had been talking. She was a bit behind because she was busy with the cloud cover. But there was Rafe, and young Tash, who helps Vincenzo. Oh, and one of the boys. I don't really know them very well."

Zara's brow furrowed at the cloud over this piece of information. She probed on clumsily.

"Do you know his name?" She said, more forcefully than was comfortable for the conversation.

Suze withdrew slightly. Not wanting to accuse anyone just by their presence alone. Especially just because she didn't know the person well. The Alumni Village was a small place, and most knew each other, but with people travelling in cliques it was not always the height of familiarity. One of the friends of Ste. Which meant it wasn't really someone she would make it her business to be around. They'd been playing some type of cards earlier, and the Irishman gave a leer that made her uncomfortable as she passed by with Viola, who very loudly put him in his place at the time. But Suze didn't like to be so provocative.

You never know how people could and would react.

"I'm sorry. I don't know his name."

Zara's watched Suze's face with deep scrutiny, and as HZEs swirled, her mind calculated and she had this mystery 'boy' down to one of two people.

She considered her next path as she wrote the assorted list of names down on her pad in rough shorthand.

She felt comfortable she'd given everything she 'would claim' she knew quite willingly. But she had a decision to make here. She could 'burn' the subject, probably risk her treatment souring the crew to her investigation - many of whom, didn't seem to particularly care for it in the first place either because of its prying nature on their own privacy, or due to following the Captain's sentiments like sheep. But it would give her an answer, one way or the other. And cement some of what she knew, and what she felt her powers had deduced to meaningful information.

It was barely a question. She wrestled her expression to a flat, neutral state, before hitting the girl between the eyes with what would take her off balance.

"So how long have you felt this way about the Captain?" She quickly fired, in a flat tone.

Zara immediately followed it up with another question.

"He'd be quite old for you. What would that be? Almost a fifteen... twenty year age difference. Does he know?"

Suze's face had fallen to shock. She was trying to gather herself, but kept getting peppered with a new hit every time.

"If the Captain wanted you to cover for him would you do it? Sorry. What exactly would the Captain have to have done in order for you to be willing to cover for him?"

Suze tried to take her time to regain her balance. "...I-- I didn't. ...I wouldn't."

Sensing it was the time to pivot to get what she was truly after, Zara swung the point of attack.

"So what did the boys do to 'make you forget'? Where di--"

Suze's facial response was quite mild. Not outrage. Not shock at a discovery coming to light. Zara scanned for every twitch, every involuntary tell, but the reaction wasn't the same as when she posed the question about the Captain.

"What? They didn't? As if I'd let--"

The pointed questions didn't seem to hold the same truth. Draw the same effect. aybe she'd regained control. Covered her motivations. More stress was called for tob e certain.

"Was it here on this ship, or at the back of Millett's shop where they cornered y--"

"That never happened, what are you--?"

"Did they threaten that they'd be back. That next time they would-- he would--"

Suze's face had twisted with baffled confusion. The whole interview had changed pace, and while at first she was nervous that she saw through one of her secrets, now it was just baseless wild swings at complete falsehoods. Whatever integrity her investigation held, and respect for process she may have once had was now a distant memory for this subject.

"Is this-- How you used to investigate people? You just make up stupid stuff that never happened and hope something sticks?"

Zara circled the two symbols she had drawn and pot a dot in the circle. Her confidence in that had grown, even if she had lost something else here in this room.

Nothing else mattered in the pursuit of the truth.

"I think I've got all I need."

"You've been very helpful, Miss Scrivener."

Just outside, a gull landed on the railing and peered into the interview room through one of the many portholes which provided light. The scavenger took two beats, and left of its own devices, unclear whether it was satisfied in getting whatever it cme for or not.

The Thorpedo surged ever onwards through mild chop.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Until McKay it'd been too damn long since anyone remembered The Shroud.