i hate labels - hobie brown (;spiderpunk) x oc/reader

friday 30th may 2025 - 7:39am(?)

listen, before you get mad, i was starting to think i was not going to get answers here.

by here, i of course mean my universe.

Hobie wasn't back yet. not that i had any faith he would be, he has this fantastic habit of leaving cryptic notes and disappearing without a trace. doesn't help that he has a dimension-jumping wristwatch and whatever other inventions he's armed himself with.

speaking of, i bit the bullet and touched it.

the watch, i mean.

it's sitting against my wrist right now, just beneath my own dimension watch gadget. it's still glowing, only more frequently now, the dull green pulsing in a beat similar to my heart. i'd fastened the pin that adorned it to my satchel, which is practically attached to me at all times. as i'd strapped on the...gadget, it had vibrated lightly, before displaying a small, black line of text.

'Earth- 982'

from what i understand, the watch scans and reads the Earth you're inhabiting, displaying the associated dimension title once configured. i've never used it beyond Hobes' universe, Earth-138. there, things are...different. very. and i've never used it alone, only ever at Hobie's side, or in order to reach him. and he was always standing directly afront the portal i'd emerge from, smirking and awaiting my arrival.

funny, he isn't now.

i should explain; i, uh, jumped. you know, universes. as one does. i got bored! bored and annoyed. Hobie rocks up at mine unannounced, crafts an unknown gadget, then dematerialises like a puff of smoke. not cool, Hobie. so, naturally, i followed him.

or, i thought i did.

he'd always been there, waiting on the other side of that brilliantly blazing opening, smile on his face, guitar in hand. and now he just...wasn't. i'd locked my gadget onto Earth-138 and let it do the rest, flicking me across dimensions as though i was an ant on a windowsill. and when i did finally jolt into Earth-138, panting and wide-eyed, i was in the right place. i'd sort of just...appeared in Hobie's room.

Hobie had marked it as my 'spawn point', if you will. that way, whenever i visited him, i'd end up right here - in the centre of his perpetually cluttered bedroom. 

now, i know this room well, but it looked utterly wrong.

it was dark like i'd never seen it before. void of Hobie, the walls stared back at me with a newfound drabness, his many, many posters sitting flat and lifeless against them. the place was a mess, as per the usual, but even the mess looked wrong. as opposed to his usual hurricane tendencies, the room had been raided, drawers left agape, clothes strewn across furniture. from the hallway came silence, no lights, no chatter, no faint bassline. just silence.

safe to say, i was freaked. out.

Hobie's place is never not noisy. having moved out of home some months ago, he'd taken up residence with some member of his band, within a decrepit, crumbling terraced townhouse, packed to the brim with instruments, band merchandise, and teenage stoners. ah yes, home.

but in that moment, the place had been empty. nothing but my footsteps and an overhanging fog consistent of weed smoke and frost. 

i bounced after poking at a few things - sue me, i'm a curious guy - and crawled my way onto the streets of London. that's right, the British bastard lives in London. typical. except, it's not quite London like i know it. it's bright, for one. the comic/pop-art/retro thematics trail down streets, across skyscrapers, plastered over billboards. it's like stepping into an art piece, except every single feature is alive with colour and movement.

i've been keeping to myself since, swinging across darkened alleyways and quiet streets in hopes i go unnoticed.

where the fuck are you, Hobie?