Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This… is not 1610.”

Call him what you want, but you can’t say he’s not sharp.

See, Hobie Brown’s used to making things up as he goes. Work well on his feet, he does. As soon as the portal had closed and he realized this- this wasn’t where he set off, he knew he didn’t have time to waste. Whatever Earth this was, it was none he had been in before, and most of all, something inside him, the spider , was telling him something was off. Something was different. He wasn’t sure how to interpret it, and that worried him.

He gets out of the alley he found himself in by discreetly swinging to the top of the nearby building. Here, he had a wide view of the area. A city, one of gray and black. It’s day, but the dark clouds above seemed stuck in place, making the city one of gloom. People roam the streets and traffic buzzes like everywhere else, at least. Maybe if there was more color, Hobie would be reminded of his own city with the awfully poor air and frowning faces.

He checked his watch, adjusting and adjusting to try and figure out which Earth he had landed himself in. ERROR. Well, that’s new. An uncharted dimension. How does that even happen? Doesn’t The Great Web chart every dimension for them? 

He doesn’t have to think about that. Uncharted dimensions are none of his business. He goes to the part of the watch where he can communicate with the others. (Margo had helped him with this setting after Hobie made enough watches for the group. It was honestly really helpful, and more convenient than whatever the rest of Spider-Society had going on). Miles had invited the group over for a swing, and if he didn’t show, he was certain the others would notice. 

NO CONNECTION. 

Hobie laughs. It’s joking, right? How is there no connection? This is an inter-dimensional chronometer and communicator. How does one lose connection? 

He tries to open a portal back to his home. NO CONNECTION.

Ah, fuck. 

Fuck. 

He’s stuck here, ain’t he?

Shit. 

Fuck. 

Hobie’s not that freaked out. Honestly, he might’ve been if this was his first rodeo, but, really, this can’t be the weirdest thing he’s dealt with. He’ll figure it all out eventually, he tells himself. (He might not have eventually though. If his watch is broken, how long will it be before he starts glitching? He tucks that away to a different section of his mind). 

On the rooftop, he ducks behind a wall and takes off his mask, shaking his wicks off his face. He needs a plan if he’s going to get back home. A new watch, which requires technology that he finds himself only hoping this dimension has. Where is he going to find that tech? Labs, government buildings, such and such. All things that’s going to eventually require sneaking, which, needless to say, Hobie’s not the best at. Damn, he should’ve taken Miles up on that offer months ago when he wanted to show Hobie what he does on stealth missions. Talk about unpreparedness. 

He’s getting a bit ahead of himself anyways, though. All that tech business can wait. First, he needs to find himself a setup. He could squat in an abandoned building. Maybe find a canal? Nothing he’s not used to. He’ll need clothes. He doesn’t plan on staying in this suit forever. Ah, and food, but that’s easy. Nothing that simple thievery can’t fix. 

He stuffs his mask in his pocket and pats himself down. His teared blue t-shirt covers his otherwise distinctive spider-suit enough that it can pass for regular clothes. Relatively normal, non-spider, enough. Though, he has no idea what this world labels “normal”. It’s whatever, he doesn’t have to blend in that much. Just do what he always does, he tells himself. At the very least, he still has his guitar. 

He sticks himself to the side of the building before hopping off, out an alleyway and into the open area.

The streets are definitely no different than that of his mates’ universes. Busy people rushing to busy places. He’s in America, or some version of it, that he knows for sure by their accents and the mix of languages spoken between the residents. He can’t tell which part, but it’s inevitable that he’s going to stick out with his tongue. He could try and fake an American accent, but honestly— it’s too much work. 

He’d walk about for a little under an hour, scoping. It’s not a ‘good’ neighborhood, as they say, but that’s going to work in Hobie’s favor. Not too much reason for people to pay attention to him that way.

He’s almost back to where he was when he first arrived when he spots a girl on the sidewalk, sitting with her back against the wall of the store, and a box next of her. It’s quite obvious that she’s homeless. Hobie makes the easy decision of going up to her.

“Mind if I sit here a bit?”

The girl hardly looks up to him.  “Free country, ain’t it?” she says and moves the box half-full of coins away from Hobie and onto her lap. Ah, she thinks he’s trying to steal from her. 

Hobie smiles one of his usual smirks. “‘At’s wha’ they say.”

“You new to Gotham?” the girl asks as he sits down. 

Gotham? Is that the name of where he is? Hobie’s certainly never heard of it before. 

“New, old, not much of a diff'rence, is there?”

The girl doesn’t look at him but Hobie can see her defensiveness. “‘Guess not.”

“How long you been on ‘is here corner?”

The girl side eyes him. “I move around a lot, try to get the most out here ‘fore someone makes me scram.” 

Hobie nods, understanding. “How long you been here today?” he rephrases the question. 

She’s reluctant to answer. “Couple hours.”

“Only made a few coins, I see.”

“It’s enough.”

They both fall quiet and Hobie does what he planned from the start: pulls out his guitar. It catches the girl’s attention though she tries to remain unbothered.

He makes sure it’s properly connected to the compact amp* he borrowed (stole) from Ri. He didn’t really need it because having spider powers means he can amplify the sound waves himself, but for the sake of appearances, he’ll restrain himself.

He starts strumming it slowly at first, trying to get a feel. He doesn’t know what he’s going to play, simply knows that whatever it is, he hopes it helps this girl. 

Whenever Hobie’s on the streets, he finds that he’s able to attract the attention, and money, of passers-by more than the others do. It’s always because of his music. He doesn’t understand the psychology of it, why people are more empathetic towards someone with a guitar, but it works. Most of the money he makes goes to the others anyway. He doesn’t believe in contributing to capitalism, unless the money is going to businesses owned by minorities. 

After a couple of minutes, he found his rhythm. He experiments with the tempo and dynamics until he finds something that works. His music usually comes with some lyrics but this time he thinks the cords can speak for themselves. They speak of someone lost reentering humanity and embracing new love. It’s something softer than what he usually plays back home, but the people passing by love it. They stop to listen, and drop their fives and tens happily. 

He plays freely until the sun begins to set. 

“A hundred-forty six dollars.” the girl says in disbelief after counting. Her face is twisted, as if she’s stuck in whether to show her happiness, shock, or nothing at all. “That’s more than I usually get in a week. I- Thank you. How much you taking?”

Hobie’s smile is genuine. “Don’t mention it. I’ll just ‘av ten. I’ll take it in dollar bills, keep the rest.”

“Ten? Ten dollars? You made all this money, I can’t take most of it-”

Hobie grabs the money box from her, and takes exactly ten dollar bills. He rolls it up and puts it in his vest pocket before handing the rest back to the girl.

“I’ll stop by here again tomorrow,” he tells her, “‘Av a safe night, ai’ight?” 

The girl nods, and they part ways. 

If Hobie wasn’t planning on stealing from this store, he wouldn’t have taken any money from the girl he helped. He only wanted the bills for this scheme. 

The most important thing he needed right now was food: can’t get home on an empty stomach. 

He finds that this part of town is full of businesses owned by families of color. Hobie refuses to steal from them when he knows it’s already hard enough to make money. So he put his mask on and swung through building rooftops until he hit a different section of the city. It was not necessarily a rich one, but the community and environment was definitely different. People walked with more confidence, one they only have when they know they’re protected. (It’s opposite to the ones of the other community he was in. Everyone there moved as though they were expecting something bad to happen. Hobie refuses to be that bad thing). 

The store he stalks from the top of this building is a larger grocery store that’s more likely to be corporate owned. He takes his mask off before he enters the store. Inside, it’s bright and smells like fresh produce: something that would otherwise be rare if he was home. He nods greetings to the workers when he walks in. They all seem relatively nice. This should be a minor inconvenience to them. 

He picks his groceries quickly enough. The fruits, the veggies, canned goods. Nothing that he has to cook or refrigerate. He feels nothing as he does this, it’s what he does back home after all. The only times he really gets hot meals is when he visits his mates. He puts some sweets in his pockets as he passes by that aisle. This is just like home.

Hobie keeps telling himself this as the cashier rings him up. “Seventy-five thirty-six.” Hobie’s hands drift over the bags as he fakes confusion. 

“Seventy-five? You certain? How much were those there spaghetti sticks?”

“Eight dollars in total, would you like to return them?” 

“Ah, yes.” 

Hobie takes the pasta out of the bags and gives them back. As the cashier removes them from the total price, he asks, “Cash or card?”

Hobie answers and opens his vest pocket. The money is rolled so the cashier wouldn’t have a clue the amount until unveiled. As the cashier begins to count, Hobie tightens his grip on the bags and takes off. 

“Hey! HEY!”

“Apologies,” he says, though he knows he’s too far away for the cashier to hear him. “Hope you keep that money for yourself, though.”

“THIEF!” 

Hobie runs out the store with three people chasing him. He doesn’t go that far before he turns a corner and disappears in the eyes of his pursuers. 

On top of the building, he sighs. Just like home, Hobie.

The cold wind is like a promise from this city of his fate if he doesn’t find a roof to stay under. 

Hobie refuses to sleep outside. He’s had enough of that a long time ago. Not to say he’s in a hurry, but the looming darkness brings forth the anxiety-inducing thought of his oldest enemy. 

The thing with the watch being broken is that Hobie can’t even use it as a normal watch. So, he has no idea what time it was when he finally found an abandoned-looking building. He reads the “KEEP OUT” sign and smiles. 

The fence wasn’t hard to hop, and after checking twice, he found no evidence of human life near here. 

Inside, it wasn’t all so bad. Unkempt and dirty, sure, but nothing unmanageable. The darkness meant nothing to his enhanced eyes. He chose to set up on the highest floor for several reasons. One, if anyone enters, he will have plenty o’ time to grab his things and hop off. Two, it’s an easy swing from this window. Three- well- that’s it.

He drops his bag of stolen goods near the window and takes a breath.

Food, shelter, he’s pretty much all set for now. Tomorrow, he’ll get started on returning home. For now, he finds a spot on the floor and tells himself it could be worse. He hugs himself for warmth, and tells himself tomorrow will be better. 

(It’s as Miles says: “This isn't a situation, just a success in progress.”)

Chapter Text

The following morning, Hobie finds a gas station to wash up at. 

It’s nothing like his usual, which makes Hobie realize how much he’s going to hate being here. Sure, right now he’s fine, but that’s only because he’s been here for less than a full day. This— being away from his mates, sleeping on the floor, washing himself with a towel and sink water— is so not him, and is going to get tired quick. 

A part of Hobie’s mind— the part that finds a way to point a finger towards Hobie and remind him of all his grievances —tells Hobie that this is his own fault. You got too comfortable, it tells him.

He got too comfortable with the life he had made for himself. A life where he wasn’t so unhappy. 

Comfort is brought by consistency.

Beating the shit out of the bigots of his world, rocking gigs with his mates, visiting his people in the other universes. It was nice, alright, don’t blame him. The past year had been nice, genuine. He felt so much weight lifted off his shoulders knowing that he had people backing him up. He had found other things to do outside of being an explosive device against the system. He went out with friends, swung around for the fun of it, killed time by laughing. He had made this happiness one of consistency. It was the only good constant in his life.

Now it was taken away from him, as everything else. His watch was broken. He was stuck with nobody. 

He might never see his band again. Who will he get his tech advice from, if not Ri? Who else could match the level of mutual respect they had while insulting each other, if not Robbie? He can not wake up and take a run with anyone else but Karl. Will Kamala and Mattea miss their trio?

He might never see the spiders again. No more graffiti art with Miles, or shows with Gwen. No more lunches with Pavitr, no more video games with Margo. 

He got too comfortable. 

Consistency breeds neglect.

Hobie hasn’t been neglectful, has he? He’s been helping rebuild his country ever since he killed President Osborn. He set up community centers, created housing for the children who lost their families from the chemical poisoning. Fought gentrification, fought all the deranged fucks who tried to control them, and won. He played Robin Hood, and it was starting to pay off. He created the environment his younger self had only seen in his dreams. 

Things were still horrible— because the effects of dictatorship take a long time to wear off— but it was looking up. The red skies were looking less of hate, and more of love. He saw the people of his neighborhood smile brighter, smile more often. He saw them beginning to be loudly and unapologetically themselves, without fear of persecution. 

What is his world going to do without a Spider-Man? They had only taken back their freedom three years ago, the nation still lived in insecurity. Many have said that the reason there haven’t been many attempts for the country to be regimented is because of  ‘Spider-Punk’ and his mates. Hobie protected his city with revolts and riots. He protected it by inspiring people to hold onto their love and sadness and turning it into a fist at the throats their abusers.

His oppressors feared what he could do with his rage. His allies thanked him for it.

There’s no way Hobie had been neglectful. 

Consistency breeds obedience.

Hobie was never obedient. It went against his character, against his nature. Everyone is born with their own personal compass. Well, Hobie’s told him that obedience, compliance, restraining was bad bad bad.

He wasn’t even like the other spiders, he didn’t live by a long list of rules and regulations.

Is that why he’s here? Is this the Great Web’s way of telling him to fuck off? That he wasn’t worthy of it; the title of a spider, and the honor of being around the others? 

Hobie splashes water on his face.

“Let’s not think about all that. Hm, Hobes?” He tells his reflection. He squeezes the edges of the sink, hoping the tension will bring him out of his head. “Yer stuck here cuh’ a watch malfunction. Nothing else to it.” 

He needs to trust that his people will be safe. His mates will protect them. He will go home, and he will not find another dick-head in office. His work will not be undone. He will go home, and he will tell his friends of his experience and they will shake their heads and remark on how crazy his life was. He will go to Earth-1610 as planned and apologize for standing everyone up. They will forgive him and Hobie will watch a movie with them all despite believing all the media they watch is full of propaganda. All will be right in the worlds. 

He leaves the bathroom and nods goodbye to the owner. There’s more sun today than there was yesterday, which Hobie accepts happily. He hates gloom, but he has a feeling that’s the main attribute of this city. 

As he sets off to leave this area, he spots a man leaning against the wall of the gas station, the shadows hiding his face. There’s nothing visibly dodgy about that to Hobie, but one thing he’s learned in his years, it’s to trust your gut, and double-check. He moves his head back and sees that the man isn’t doing nothing, but he’s looking at something. Someone. The woman getting out of her car at the first tank. He’s staring at her with antagonistic eyes, with hands digging deeper in his pockets.

“Oh, bru’ver,” Hobie sighs, because now that he knows for almost certainty that this man is plotting something, there is no way he will be able to leave. 

He goes to the opposite side of the gas station, and climbs on top of the building. It didn’t take long for the bloke to make his move, walking towards the woman with great animosity. 

The woman turns, and screams when she sees the man approach her. Hobie sees a glimpse of a shiny metal leaving his pocket. Before the guy can take another step towards her, however, there are already webs at his feet. The man looks down and curses, trying to escape Hobie’s trap. 

That’s when Spider-Punk approaches the two. He frowns, the eyes of the mask pointing downwards to showcase his disapproval. 

He snatches the knife away from the man, and tossed it across the concrete. Inches away from the other’s face, he tells him, “Don’t eva le’me catch you tryin’ ‘is shit again, ai’ight?”

“Who the hell—” A clot of webs cover his mouth, silencing him. Before  he knows it, Hobie is spinning silk around him, as a spider does its prey. He grabs the man, and sets him to sit next to the tank. 

“Thank you,” the woman trembled. Hobie finally gets a better look at her. She’s young, can’t be more than a couple years older than Hobie. What would’ve happened to her if Hobie wasn’t here? Her eyes seem to search for that answer as she looks at him. “Are- are you a bat? I’ve never seen or heard of one like you.”

Hobie doesn’t respond, simply stares at her with his wide masked eyes as he hands the woman the keys that fell from her hands. He nods goodbye at her before he walks away. 

Many rooftops later, he finally questions: 

A bat?

It’s common knowledge that Barbara Gordon loves books. They’re full of knowledge, regardless of genre, the experience of people who Barbara otherwise has nothing in common with. They hold the thoughts and lives of the author, communicated through characters. There’s always something to take away from a good, or even bad, book. 

What isn’t as common of knowledge is that Jason Todd is even more so of a bibliophile than Barbara. Since she’s known Jason, the younger boy had always been a lover of literature. If life had given him grace, if he had made it through high school, Barbara was sure he would’ve gone to college and pursued English. 

But as fate will have it, Barbara’s pseudo-sibling is unable to do many things on account of being legally dead. Go to college, study English, and actively borrow books from libraries, for example.

Jason never actually asked her to, but soon after the family reunited with him, Barbara started borrowing books for him. Jason rejected it, the first time.

“I’ll rack up a bill for you, you know that?” He had said.

Barbara had put the book in Jason’s hands regardless. “Just give it to me before the 25th,” she told him.  

He gave it back ten days early. He never thanked her, he didn’t need to. Barbara could see it in his eyes, the happiness of being able to do something normal. Doing something he probably hadn’t had time to after his death. Something small, but so important. 

It became routine for them. She borrows books, and brings them over to Jason. He reads them, and gives them back to her. Sometimes in person, sometimes she comes home and finds it on her counter, with a sticky note saying ‘This was good’ or ‘Never reading from this author again’ on the cover. 

Sometimes, she’ll borrow two copies of the same book, so they can discuss it later, usually over tea. All the bats have made fun of them for it. ‘Bonding over your nerdiness’ is what Dick said the first time he learned of their little book duo. Barbara doesn’t care though. It makes her feel as though the Jason she first met, that little bright eyed kid, was still around. That the pit didn’t kill every part of her ‘little brother’. He was still in there, no matter what. 

So, she’s here at the library today, looking for a book for herself, and one for Jason. She wasn’t sure what to get this time. Books targeting adults tended to be a hit-or-miss. 

The adults section of the library has computers scattered across the room. There weren’t usually people using the computers because most people in this area of town had internet access at their homes, so she was quite surprised to see a new face sitting at ‘Computer 8’. They had briefly made eye contact when he first walked in. He’s a hard one to miss, with heavy steps, big hair, and spikes all over his person. Not to mention the electric guitar strapped across him, and the array of piercings on his face. Barbara doesn’t pay much attention to him, not really, until a deeply accented voice says:

“Ah, crap,” Barbara looks over to see the aforementioned boy glaring at the library computer.

He puts his head in his hands, body language screaming disappointment and upset. Barbara makes the decision to go up to him. 

“Are you ok here?”

He looks behind himself and once again meets Barbara’s eyes. “Ah, sorry if I disturbed you,” he says, and the bright smile on his face makes Barbara second-guess whether he actually needed help. “It’s jus’ that I came all the way over here to comp’ete some school work. But it seems that I ‘av forgotten me library card,” he shakes his head. “What I get for try’na raise my grades, huh? Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

What is that accent? Caribbean? British? Both? Barbara pushes her wheelchair closer, asking, “You don’t remember your card number? Or have it on your phone?”

The boy scratches his neck. “I don’ come by ‘ere all too often,” he answers simply. 

Well, she guesses not everyone can have the library as their favorite place. 

Barbara takes a second to think. “You can use mine,” 

The boy looks at her with confusion. “Really?”

“It’s for school right?” he nods his head in response. “Then no worries.” She takes her library card from her pocket and allows him to scan it on the computer.

“What subject are you working on anyway?” 

The boy side-eyes her before answering. It makes Barbara think that he wants her to go away, but before she can take that hint, he answers: “History, my worst subject, ac’lly. Can neva remember nun’.” 

Barbara brightens at the acceptance of conversation. “History was my best subject in high school! Maybe I could help?”

“Would you? I don’t want to take up any of your dear time.” 

Barbara waves him off. “What’s the topic?”

“The history of… Gotham?” He seemed unsure.

“Really? That’s not too hard.”

The boy chuckles. “Well, I wasn’t raised ‘round here, so it’s a lil’ harder for me.”

Barbara nods. She can see how a non-Gothamite would have trouble understanding Gotham. “Where are you from?”

He smiles, but shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

…Okay? 

The boy turns away from her and towards the computer screen. Barbara watches as he searches up ‘Gotham’. 

“City of Gotham, New Jersey,” he recites while looking at the results.

“Is there anything in specific that you’re researching?” she tries to help, “Like the time period, or?”

He doesn’t look at her as she says, “Gotham… heroes?”

Barbara’s hand twitches at the mention. “That’s your research topic?”

“Yes?” he finally looks at her again, and she sees something new in his eyes. “Know anything of them?”

She purses her lips. “Not more than any other Gothamite. They protect our city, like the police.”

“Is that so?”

Barbara’s brows come to a frown. “How long have you been here?”

“‘The Batman’, was he the first?” Barbara makes note of his lack of answer.  

“Yes?”

“How good is he, hm?”

“He’s really good,” she says, “Been around for a while, protects us from all the bad guys.”

“Seems like he gets a lot of help,” he says and Barbara sees on his screen that he’s looking at the wiki page of all the current heroes of Gotham. “Say, don’t you think these other heroes a bit young?”

Barbara stops herself from narrowing her eyes “There’s no way of telling how old any of them are.”

“They seem a bit young, though. Bit dodgy. ‘Batman’ could have a big case if he was ever figured out.”

Barbara keeps her composure. These are normal questions, of a normal person. Nothing suspicious, Barbara, c’mon, don’t let bat-paranoia get to you. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Don’t really like saying neva.” His eyes glint with mischief. 

Yep, definitely suspicious. “You said it during this conversation,” she says, as to not draw attention to her going into the pocket of her bag and grabbing a small tracker. 

The young boy points his finger up, as if to educate Barbara. “Don’t really like consistency.”

Who exactly is this guy to come into Gotham, and begin digging into their protectors? Who is he, to question their integrity whilst having a smile on his face? A simple teen? A questioner? Barbara was taught to look deeper than that. 

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re interesting, has anyone ever told you that?”

“They don’t usually use such kind words, no.”

She pats his back. “Well, I think I can leave you to it.”

Chapter Text

Contrary to what others thought of him, Hobie disliked lying.

It was one thing to not tell people certain details, but being completely dishonest— to know the truth in your head but have lies come out your mouth— it has always left a bitter taste. As life would have it, however, Hobie has found himself lying quite a lot throughout the years. He lies when civilians ask him if things will be alright. He lies when officials try to shake him down and make him yap about his mates’ operations. 

He’s become good at it, if he does say so himself. He’s at least better than the other spiders, who stumble at the slightest dishonesty.

So, in essence, he had no trouble lying to the lady in the wheelchair. Did he hate pretending to be a struggling student so that he could get her library card? Well, yes, it was practically emotional manipulation, but it was for a good cause! What else was he supposed to do, eh? Tell the librarian here that he needed to use the computer to find out where the hell he was, no , he didn’t have a library card, no , he couldn’t register for one. Why? Well, he doesn’t actually exist in this world. Yes, Ms. Librarian, his name was Hobie Brown and he’s from a different universe. Be serious here. 

(Even if he wasn’t from an alternate reality, he would never get a library card. Cards are really just ways for the government to track you. Why would he do that to himself?)

So, he convinced the ginger to lend him her card, and yay! A free hour of internet access. He was surprised that she didn’t leave right after, but welcomed her presence. It would be nice to have someone to confirm what he reads online. (Hobie will thank his spider-friends for showing him how to use ‘Google’ when he sees them again. Despite them making fun of him for being from an older timeframe— calling him old and such even though they’re all literally the same age his world is just set back and behind on some technology — knowing how to use the internet turned out to be a useful skill.) 

Based on the signs he’s seen on stores, and the words of the girl he met yesterday, he was somewhere called Gotham. The search results give him the full location: Gotham City, New Jersey . It doesn’t take long for many things to catch Hobie’s eye. He looks at the section labeled ‘people also search’:  

Gotham City Sport Teams; Top Ten Places to Avoid in Gotham City; Gotham City Celebrities; Current Status of Arkham Rogues; What You Need to Know About Gotham City’s Heroes & Rogues 

(Part of Hobie being as bold as he is, is that he can tell when people begin feeling uncomfortable with him, no matter how good they are at hiding it. 

Sometimes, they’re uncomfortable from the jump— he’s unapologetically Black and non-conforming. It’d be stupid to believe he’s never experienced making someone uncomfortable with just his presence. It never stops him from being who he is. He refuses to mold himself to be more digestible to those unlike him. When he finds someone being uncomfortable because of biases, he makes it a goal to make them more uncomfortable, be bolder, louder . He smiles when they leave because it means a space is now closed for them. It means he wins . 

Sometimes, they become uncomfortable when they realize Hobie doesn’t pull his punches, verbally. He doesn’t hold back on his criticism against the systems that actively work against them. They become uncomfortable because he doesn’t let anyone dodge accountability. They want someone to cater to them, and Hobie’s just not that. It’s why his circle never grows too big. 

But this lady, she fits none of these descriptions. She offered her help, and the conversation flowed freely until he mentioned—)

“Gotham… heroes?” 

Hobie noticed the shift, the ever so slight change from openness to anxiety. 

Hobie found himself at a loss. Why would someone become uncomfortable with the mention of who they claim to be heroes? It brings into question how good these ‘heroes’ actually are. 

‘ Gotham City is known for three things: being home to America’s richest man, Bruce Wayne, home to America's worst crime rates, and of course, home to an array of vigilantes who fight in the war against crime.’

Yeah, there’s multiple problems with that sentence. Highest crime rate in America but home of the richest man? How does that even happen? Corruption, capitalism, poverty traps, uneven distribution of wealth. Does every world need to have horrible governments? Why can’t Hobie ever find one where society works for the people, instead of against?

Hobie’s going to have to look into him, this so-called richest man of this America. Hobie has yet to see a good-moraled rich person, and he doubts it will start now, so who would he be to pass up on the opportunity to mess with this bloke? The richest man of this America, right here in the same city as Hobie. Secondly, if this man has as much money as these sources claim, then chances are Hobie will be able to find (steal) some resources from him. Heaven knows how much rich people love messing with technology. ‘ Innovation!’ they say, but the same technology never reaches the hands of the lower class. Tsk.

For now, however, he needed to look into the ‘protectors’ of this city. Spider-Punk— or Spider- Man , since there were no other spiders to differentiate from —can not enter this city without knowing whose territory he’s stepping into. He’s already left evidence of his arrival, his webs, behind. If enough luck is on Hobie’s side, then the webs will have dissipated before anyone could really study them. 

The first hero listed on this site was ‘Batman’. Hobie scrolled through the blurred pictures of him. His theme matched the city: murky and having a sharp lean. Of what is known he’s a human, but with how well of a fighter he is, some speculate him having secret powers. He’s been around for a while, and brings fear to criminals of the city. Hobie doesn’t have an opinion of him, yet, but if he’s trying to bring down crime and protect his city, then Hobie can respect that. 

A couple scrolls down, passing vigilantes named ‘Nightwing’ and a reportedly controversial ‘Red Hood,’ Hobie comes across the first vigilante that really caught his eye. It was just a boy— like a small boy. ‘Robin’ , they call him. He looked as though he was still in grade school. Like, he should be on the playground instead of on the streets at night doing what? ‘Being a side-kick to Batman, he is the eyes and ears, while Batman reigns his fist.’ 

Scrolling, he finds older, but still young , vigilantes. None of which could be older than Hobie. Additionally, they all supposedly work for this ‘Batman’, report back to him and such. 

Hobie’s chest is heavy.

“Say, don’t you think these other heroes a bit young?”

Hobie hears when her heart misses that beat. He sees it too, when her defense rises higher. It doesn’t show in her voice— she’s good, he’ll give her that —but her body speaks a different language. She tries to not give a reaction, which tells Hobie that anything she says has a level of disingenuity to it. 

“Guess we’ll never know.”

There would be no reason to get this defensive, unless of course, they had personal connections. So when she taps his back and leaves, he’s surprisingly unsatisfied. Hobie needs to know how deep these connections go. Who is she, this girl with ginger hair whose hand twitches with the mention of her city’s protectors? She know Batman? Know his soldiers? He wants to know. 

But, Hobie sighs , her personal connections have nothing to do with him. Regardless of his suspicions, she is really just a random girl who has the right to her secrets. He can’t—won’t —insert himself in her life with the intention of learning about someone else. That would go further than lying, which Hobie already hates.

Even if she actually knows Batman, there is nothing he can do with that information. Hobie automatically crossed out the thought of working with him. The man employs children, makes them fight his battles. Hobie has no idea how these kids ended up in this situation but he’s sure it’s not the best of stories. He has no intentions of being on good terms with the masked protector of this city. 

So, he lets her go, and returns back to his research. 

He refocused on Batman: his sightings, the theories surrounding him, some of his history. From what he sees, he’s a dodgy geezer, yes, but a dodgy geezer with really good tech. 

Could he steal from him? Lure him out or something of the like? Hobie considers this. The vigilante is definitely strong, but he reportedly has no powers. Hobie’s sure he could take him in a fight, with his spider-enhancements, if it ever went sideways. It won’t be easy, but it's definitely an option. And it’s a way better option, in his eyes, than working with him.

He closed the site and searched, ‘ Batman allies’.

Other than the kids he’s in charge of, he also leads the… Justice League of America? Seriously ? 

Looking deeper into them, he finds very interesting people among them. Aliens, superpowered humans, magicians, descendants of Gods. They’re like the Avengers that he hears of from his mates’ worlds. They most definitely have the technology he needs to get back home. Only issue is there is no official location of where they operate. Also, he would be a mad man to attempt stealing from them by himself. 

So, he goes back to Gotham’s main attraction. 

‘Where does Bruce Wayne live?’

If he gets caught by Bruce Wayne, what’s the minted bloke going to do, call the cops? Hobie’s dealt with cops before and it never ends with him in handcuffs. It would be a smooth operation. He’d enter, find what is needed, and get out with his head. 

‘Wayne Manor is located in Bristol, Gotham…’

Manor? Hobie cringes. Yeah, he’s not going to feel bad about stealing from him. 

Underneath the ‘news’ tab, an article catches Hobie’s attention: ‘Children of Bruce Wayne return home to Gotham after a trip to Morocco!’

He has kids? 

Hobie’s curiosity gets the best of him here, and he finds himself looking into the children of Bruce Wayne. Most of them are adopted, or being fostered, save for his biological son, the youngest. He can’t find any actual good information because most of it is just attention grabbing American Media crap. 

Times Up! 

The computer shuts off on him, the hour from the lady’s card having been over. 

“Think that’s about all I need to know,” he says to himself. “Right on time too! I’ve got a mate to visit.” 

Hobie doesn’t think he’s ever broken a promise. If he did, he’s lost it in a pile of memories his brain can’t touch. Either way, the Hobie Brown of today doesn’t break his promises. That’s why it’s nothing surprising when he finds himself back in this neighborhood, looking for the girl he met yesterday. 

He leans against the wall of the store. This should be around the same time he saw the girl yesterday, and she said she spent a couple hours here before he approached her, but when Hobie got there she was nowhere to be seen.

As he watches people pass, something in his mind ticks at him. She was in no way obliged to return here and meet him again. Hobie was just really hoping she would. She had a look in her eyes that he knew all too well: the look of someone fading. It could’ve been her hunger, it could’ve been her situation (making some coins every day was definitely not enough to live healthy or happy). Whatever it was, Hobie didn’t like seeing it on someone so young, someone who seemed so undeserving of evil. 

He saw a hint of aspiration in her eyes when he gave her the money. Some may call her vain, but Hobie understands: to constantly have to beg other people for basic needs, it’s humiliating and draining. He only wishes for that spark he saw, the one of hope, the one that saw a future, to grow. If that meant showing up to this corner everyday and playing a tune or two, he’d gladly do it. 

Hobie doesn’t know how long it takes for him to realize she’s not showing up. Maybe he never did realize it. Maybe he’s still hanging onto the hope of her being alright and that’s why he enters the store.

The sound of a bell welcomed Hobie. He couldn’t tell from the outside— probably because the dark colors blend into every other store —but the smells that pass his nose let him know immediately where he’s at. 

He’s quick to find the man sweeping the floor. 

“Hello,” Hobie greets, “you ‘round here a lot?”

The man pauses his cleaning and glances at Hobie. His apron is stained, telling stories of the sweets he’s made. The short curls make his face pop out more, a face of moles and darker freckles on brown skin. “Yes, this is my bakery. You need something?” His voice is gruff, but Hobie knows how to tell gruff from mean . He knows the baker is showing trust to Hobie when he turns his back to continue cleaning. 

“Ah, so you was here yesterday, yeah?” The baker nods. “‘Av you seen the girl that sat outside over there yesterday? Said she comes by here a bit. Red hair, brownskin, brown eyes. Had on a black jumper last time.”

“Oh, the homeless girl? She’s usually around here by now, don’t know where else she would be,” he shakes his head, “This the only place that lets her mope around outside.”

Hobie’s jaw locks. “Well, ain’t that a bummer,” 

The baker sets the broom against the wall and finally gets a good look at Hobie. “Were you the one who came by yesterday and played that song?” 

Hobie smiles at him. “I play alotta songs.”

“Well, whoever played that song, I hope he knows the people love it. Came over here just to tell me how much they loved the guy playing the guitar outside,” his accent becomes more clear with every word. Hobie knows for certain he’s from an island, most likely latino as well.

“Really?”

The baker hums. “I think he should do it again.”

Hobie laughs, and eyes the bakery. He can’t really tell what the baker’s game is here. Is he simply asking Hobie so he can get more customers, or is he luring Hobie into something more ill-willed? 

“I’ll do it, but not because you told me to. I want something out of it. Hm? How ‘bout some free food?”

The older man raises an eyebrow. “Gotham is the last place you should be asking for free food. What if I put rat poison in it?”

“Well, now that you’ve said that, I know for sure you won’t.” 

“ Or , I could’ve said it to lower your guard.”

Hobie’s smile is bright. “Nah, you wouldn’t do that.”

“How you know?”

How does Hobie know? It’s a feeling in his chest. It tells him to trust and allow people the opportunity to be a positive part of his life. This feeling in his chest… it’s something that grew once he realized he wasn’t alone. It’s not the spider , so maybe it’s his heart?

He finally tells the baker, “I’m a mighty good judge of character.”

(Hobie doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he should let go of this feeling in his chest, or if he should cling onto it for his life. It grew when he realized he wasn’t alone, that he was one in thousands that shared a similar burden but now, here, now in this random world with no number, no identification, in a world where Hobie is sent for no other reason but a watch malfunction — Hobie is alone, and he’s not sure if his heart will tell him the right things with no one else here to guide him.) 

Chapter Text

The next morning was better than the last. The baker didn’t give him rat poison, despite his words. Instead, he fed Hobie stew and bread. He was beyond grateful, Hobie, because he was really only expecting a cupcake. It was a lot to give, for someone who was just strumming their guitar at the front of your store.

He woke up with a full stomach and plans, a rare occasion for the spontaneous punk but this world has already thrown Hobie out many comfort zones. He can not afford too much spontaneity in this unfamiliar world where he can not guess all the consequences. So, he plans, he plots, and he moves. 

He knew where Bruce Wayne lived, the obnoxiously large mansion outside the city, and the train he could hop on to take him to Bristol. He checked early to make sure he had enough webs in his shooters to go through with this. (It’s another thing he has to be conscious of: what he’s going to do when he runs out of webs. His answer is automatically barbed wire, it being a backup back home, but barbed wire is, of course, harder to use than webs. But making more webs would mean more sneaking, more energy, more time wasted in this city of gloom—). 

It’d be incredibly inconvenient if this Wayne fellow didn’t have anything Hobie needed, (he’d most likely get put on some kind of wanted list for disturbing such an upper man; though that idea only attracts him more than makes him reconsider), but Hobie’s heard how the streets speak of him, the orphan whose shadow is now bigger than his parents’. This is definitely a world where a rich man would have connections to high end stuff. If not, then, well, he would simply excuse himself.

Of course, Hobie had no way of knowing Wayne’s schedule, but seeing as he’s such a busy man, Hobie is counting on him not being home. Not that it makes much of a difference whether or not Wayne sees him, but the less witnesses, the more conviene for him. Overall, Hobie predicts that the worst possible outcome would be him landing in jail, but honestly what cage can hold a spider? None of his world; and certainly not any of this world, oblivious to the spiders that roam freely between the dimensions. 

And so, he’s calm when he sticks himself to the train he stalked down. He’s calm as he stays there until the locomotive makes its stop in Bristol. He’s calm, even as he walks past all these upper high class people, their eyes running away from his. His heart has no fear as he stands in front of the gate of the vampiric castle. 

Jason is used to being at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

He means, even before the forbidden topic of discussion (involving a warehouse, and a little boy losing the stars in his eyes), his luck has always been, eh, cómo dice… dogshit. He lives in Gotham, that enough is the wrong place, wrong time, always. 

Anyway, the point is, Jason is usually not where he’s supposed to be. For instance, now, where he’s in the very same mansion he promised himself he would stay away from all those years ago. The same place that little boy used to call home (but that little boy doesn’t exist anymore— that’s what he keeps telling himself. That little boy died, along with the bright stars that everyone said would lead him to happiness). 

But as it happens, where Jason thinks he should be, and where Dick thinks he should be, are two dimensions apart, since he is only here because of the older man who, despite Jason’s aggressive efforts, will not leave Jason alone for the life of him, good God . Jason is only here in this ghostly mansion because Dick quite literally dragged him up here— from a warehouse he wasn’t supposed to know about, mind you — on the condition that if he stayed for more than an hour, Dick would leave him alone for a whole week, including during his night time job. Jason’s not ignorant to the game Dick is trying to play— trying to condition him into being comfortable in that house— but, honestly, he doesn’t have it in him to reject his brother’s efforts right now. A week without all the “oh, Jason, how much do we miss you, the family and I” s  is worth the price of an hour of irritation. 

So here he is again, in this vampiric mansion. He’s been here for close to forty minutes, with Dick being his only company, and Alfred’s special bay leaf and honey tea his only tranquilizer in the much-too-quiet living room. 

“Twenty minutes, and I’m out Dickless,” Jason reminds the other man. 

“You know, you don’t have to remind me of the time every five minutes,” Dick says before sipping the tea Alfred left for them.

“I’m just making sure you don’t forget,” Jason huffs. A beat passes before he adds, “Why’d you ask me to come here anyway? Today, I mean, you try to drag me here all the time but why right now?”

Dick raised one of his (annoyingly nicely trimmed) brows. “Are you suspicious about it or something?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Y’all only call me here when there’s a disaster, or to try to force the others and I to get along. So which is it today? Is the world ending again? Are the others going to pop up in five minutes? Are you going to force me to talk to them? ‘Cus all this is…” he pauses his ramble, “too easy.”

“Too easy?”

“Just sitting here with you, in this house, doing nothing. The price is too low for such an amazing prize.”

“If you ask me, I’d say the prize is not really a prize at all. I mean, not talking to me for a whole week —”

“Oh, the bliss,” Jason cuts off Dick and redirects the conversation, “But you’re avoiding the question. Why am I actually here?” 

Dick placed his cup back on its saucer. He looked Jason in the eyes and, damn, Jason has never been good at maintaining eye contact but the way Dick looked at him then— with the eyes of an older sibling, who only sees the innocence of their younger brother— Jason wanted to look anywhere but there. 

“I just wanted to drink tea with you,” Dick finally says, “Like before.” 

“Before?” Jason resists a scoff. “Before,” he repeats it with a sigh. It’s to keep himself calm, but to Dick it must seem like Jason was in disbelief, because his ‘i-feel-bad-for-you’ eyes just wouldn’t go away. Jason turns away from Dick, preferring to look out the window. 

Just eighteen and a half more minutes. And then he’ll be left alone. 

“I enjoy your company,” Dick says out of nowhere.

Jason immediately frowns and whips his head to Dick. “Why?” And he hated the amount of genuinity that comes out of his voice. 

Dick thinks hard on it for a while, before finally smiling. “I don’t know.” 

Seventeen more minutes, Jason. Then you’ll be left alone. For a week! You won’t have to think about stupid Dick Grayson, even stupider Bruce Wayne, and all his stupid family, for a whole week. Just finish being in this house for sixteen minutes and fifty-five seconds. 

Jason closes his eyes and tries to focus on something—anything other than his family. That’s not all there is to him, you know. He keeps coming back to them, like an elephant with a broken chain on its leg, but Jason’s aware that he has more going on in his life than the burden of being a Bat. He’s got more people relying on him than they would like to admit; the kids over on Crime Alley count on him for more than just physical protection. He admittedly shows up to many of the games and recitals for the street kids reentering school in the East End, and his war against illiteracy is fiercer than the police’s “war on drugs,” he can tell you that much. He specifically starts thinking about this one kid he’s come to know. 

They pop up on the streets of the East End every once in a while, but seem to move around all of Gotham. Everytime they show up, they seem like a different person, sometimes using different pronouns, sometimes using different names, but still the same lost kid he wants to help. A couple days ago, she (as she’s going as now), returned to Crime Alley with more bucks than Jason knows she can make in a whole week. When Red Hood slightly mentions it, she says that “some dude helped her out,” which made Jason want to scream. She’s only recently turned seventeen, and Jason’s seen how smart she is. She can solve the full crossword puzzles on the back of the newspapers within the short conversations she has with Red Hood. When Red Hood asks why she bothers with the crosswords, she says it’s to keep her brain from stopping. (If life treated her right, Jason’s sure she would’ve been in college by now. She seems like the type who would enjoy that.)

Anyway, the point is that thinking about all his- the kids is what keeps him centered. He will never admit this out loud of course, because that just means he’s closer to being another Bruce Wayne than he wants to be, but it’s what keeps him from walking out early. He convinced himself that if he can make it through an antagonizing quiet between himself and a brother that won’t stop caring, then he can help all the kids on the streets. Don’t ask him how it makes sense, it just does . In his mind, that’s his driving conviction, and it keeps him centered, until of course, fate reminds him, ‘Jason Todd, you can never be tranquil with yourself. Nunca puedes.’

“Aye, did you hear that?” Jason asks Dick, and he knows the answer is yes because how can anyone not hear the loud shatter that came from upstairs? “It’s just us in here right?”

“It should be. Everyone else is at school or work, and Alfred is supposed to be grocery shopping right now,” Dick confirms. “But maybe someone came home early.”

“And didn’t go through the front door?” Jason questions, to which Dick raises a brow. Right. This is a house full of weird-ass bats. “Still.”

“We can go upstairs to check, if you’re so insecure about B’s security system.”

“Oh, I’m sure Bruce’s paranoia made the perfect security system. I still want to know who’s here right now.” 

Dick hums then decides, “Yeah, okay, but just ‘cus I wanna know who broke whatever thousand dollar vase or something upstairs. For blackmail material.” 

Jason sighs. Leave it to Dick to be a opportunist ass older sibling all these years later. “Okay, let’s go.”

Remember when Hobie said he should’ve learned how to sneak into places from Miles? He’s super-ultra-mega regretting it now. He’d gotten up here by climbing the near-by tree and shooting himself through the window, immediately breaking both the fancy vase and the room owner’s window upon entry. So now, with pieces of a shattered vase and glass scattered across the floor, and voices directly downstairs moving closer towards him, he realizes that he hasn’t planned this out as much as he originally thought he did. 

“Hello? Tim? Damian? You guys home? Cass?” A masculine voice calls from where Hobie assumed was down the hall. “You guys know we have a front door right?” The voice proceeds in a sing-song tone. “ Unless you’re sneaking someone in, which, you know, your lovely older brother can tell you that someone’s going to find out anyways so you might as well tell us from the jump.” 

Hobie takes a moment to finally take a look at his surroundings. It’s a bedroom, but honestly lacks the personality of one. He means, there’s a couple flowers livening up the area, but the tall walls are grey and the paintings hung are of the same gloomy city skies that Hobie just got out of. He’s sure whoever owns this room must have been born in this city, since it’s general vibe was obviously internalized. He quickly locks the door to the room and starts doing what he was here to do. 

Hobie pulls the handle of the drawer on the bedside table, hoping to find anything that may point to who this room belongs to, only to find it locked. Who locks a beside table? Hobie narrows his eyes and pulls harder on the drawer, using his enhanced strength to break the lock and open the drawer.  

In it, he finds a jewelry box, a broken pocket watch, and a folder. He ignores the other items and flips through the folder, finding files on various people: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and so forth. From his research, he knows that these are the children Bruce Wayne has taken in. Taking such personal files feels like an invasion of privacy— really, this whole break in is an invasion of privacy— but the voices are getting closer and he’s getting desperate. He grabs the folder, shoves it under his vest, and begins his ransacking of the drawers. All of them contain a bunch of clothes, and what seems like irrelevant paperwork. But based on that, he can at least confirm that he landed himself in the room of Bruce Wayne, and it makes him certain that there must be something else in here that he’s missing. 

Before he can get the chance to figure that out, though, the voices arrive outside the door. 

The doorknob rumbles. He heard one of the voices ask, “Does Bruce usually lock his door while he’s out?” 

“I don’t see why he would.” 

A pause; two. Three beats pass before one of the people behind the door begins trying to force the door open. 

Hobie immediately sticks himself to the wall and climbs to the ceiling of the room, where he laid flat on his stomach. Like a true spider, he watches from above as the two men finally enter the disaranged room. 

“What the fuck?” of the two lads, the one wearing a red t-shirt is the one to exclaim first. “What the hell happened here?” 

The brows of the second man, dressed in blue, are locked in place, a face of discontent. He said nothing but examined the room in clear nervousness. “Someone…” he drawled while facing the broken window. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Hobie can put together the following words himself: ‘ Someone broke into our home.’

Hobie put together who Blue-Shirt was rather quickly, if he does say so himself. The brown skin, ocean eyes, and wavy, shoulder-length, black hair matched the pictures of the beloved Dick Grayson perfectly. 

The man in the red shirt, however, he doesn’t recognize. He’s almost a foot taller than the other man, and much more bulky as well. His hair is black, but with a strip of white on one side. It reminds Hobie of a skunk. 

Red-Shirt’s eyes find themselves on the bedside table that Hobie broke the lock to. “They stole sum’,” he tells his mate. 

“Stole what?” Dick Grayson’s anxiety is rising, Hobie can tell. That’s the thing with these uppers; they never think they’ll get hit by anything. Never in a million years, he guesses, can this family think someone would have the nerve to rob them. 

“Ion know, but this lock’s broke. Somebody stole something,” Red-Shirt repeats. 

The two men look at each other, and seem to communicate telepathically (which, Hobie hopes ain’t the case ‘cause that’ll make things a lot more complicated for him). Dick Grayson runs out of the room ( to call the police, Hobie guesses), while the other guy continues checking around the room. He looks out the window, then in the closet, then under the bed. Hobie tries his best to not breathe too loud, but watching the older lad scramble around the room looking for the intruder makes him want to laugh. How come everyone always checks down, and side to side, but never… 

Up?

Hm. At first glance, Hobie thought the man’s eyes and skin were a similar brown, but now, with Red-Shirt’s eyes staring directly at Hobie, he realized his eyes are tinted green. 

The man’s mouth opened ever so slightly, shock admitting alongside his breath. Hobie can imagine what he looks like, a masked spider-person in the corner of the ceiling. 

In a split second, Hobie webs Red-Shirt’s mouth shut. With muffled shouts of disapproval coming from him, Hobie quickly jumps down from the ceiling and strikes, sending webs to the man’s feet. Red-Shirt quickly begins attempting to take the webs off, unsuccessfully of course. 

Hobie walks up to him. “Will you believe me if I say I’m actually, truly, sorry for the intrusion?” 

Hobie takes the lad’s angered muffles as a no . 

“Well, you’ll be stuck here a while might as well—” Hobie’s cut off by a sudden strike to his head. 

“Fuck! Ow , mate, are you for real? Did you just headbutt me?” Hobie slowly looks back at the man, who’s also reeling from his actions. “Really, it looks like that hurt you more than it hurt me,” Hobie laughs. “As I was saying, you might want to lay down for a bit. ” 

Hobie kicks the man down and strikes a large web to his chest. “Those aren’t going away anytime soon.” 

It takes a couple seconds of struggle for Reddie to realize the webs aren’t going to move or break to any of his force. 

“Aye, you know where ya’ ol’ china went?” 

No answer. 

“‘At’s alrigh’,” Hobie turns away from him. “But you’ve be’er ‘ope he ain’t hit the dog yet. I’ve got tings to do, you know?”

Dick wonders: “Since when did Bruce Wayne not answer the phone at first ring?” 

He remembers in his teen years, Bruce’s head was ready to pop just because Dick didn’t answer the phone at the first call. (Well, then missed first calls turned into seconds, then thirds, then fourths and fifths. Then Bruce stopped calling at all. Maybe Dick is to blame for this change in Bruce. But, still!!!) Now, someone has broken into Wayne Manor and Bruce is unreachable. 

Someone has broken into Wayne Manor . 

He can’t believe that sentence could be thought of. Who thinks of doing something like that?! He means, some of Gotham’s rogues for sure, but not… not like this. Into Bruce’s own room and stealing— what did they steal? 

Dick hangs up on the unconnected call to Bruce and starts dialing Barbara’s number. Halfway through, he hears a loud thump from upstairs. 

“Jay?” he calls out. 

No answer. 

“Jason?” he sounds again. This time, his answer is the repeating of thumps and the slick sound of— he doesn’t know what. 

His heart beating insanely, Dick finishes dialing Barbara’s number and starts running back up the stairs with his phone in ear. Not even halfway up the stairs, however, the left side of his body suddenly pulls himself back. He snaps his head to his arm to see his hand stuck to the handrail by some white… glue? Webs?

“Sorry, mate,” a new voice enters. Up the stairs, a costumed stranger stands with a hand to their hip. They’re tall, but lanky, and the huge eyes on their masked face makes Dick feel uneasy; as if they could see every part of Dick, as if they know something Dick does not. Dick sees the outline of a red guitar swinging on their back and wonders if it’s meant to be an instrument of music or violence?

“What-” Dick pauses, “Who are you?”

Just then, the call to Barbara finally connects. “Dick, I’ve told you to not call when I’m on shift. What-”

Before Dick could respond, something hits his mouth and shuts it: the same substance that’s stuck his hand to the railing. At the same time, his phone is snatched from his hand, and he watches it be swung back to the culprit up the stairs. 

“-happened now? …Dick? Dick? Grayson, you there?” The mystery person stares at Dick’s phone with what he guesses to be confusion? Then, without a word, hangs up on Barbara. 

“Well, I reckon it won’t be long til’ your crew gets worried for ya’. Listen, I got things I need to half inch off ya’, then I’ll be out your barnet. So just answer me question and everything will be easy, yeah?”

Dick doesn’t even try to say anything, doesn’t even try to dissect whatever the stranger just said, only looks at the mystery person with disapproval. They get down the stairs and rip off the web that was stuck to Dick’s mouth and… Dick is really trying his best not to cry because… ow . 

“Who are you?” Dick asked again. (Oh, his mouth is not going to heal from that web being ripped off anytime soon, is it? He can just feel the redness around his face.) He’s surprised to actually get an answer. 

“Spider-Man. My turn: do you know where Bruce Wayne keeps all his tech?”

“Why do you need that?”

“‘Cause I got a thing for taking rich men’s tings. Where does he keep ‘em?”

Dick searches for a response. This person may have been able to break into Wayne Manor, but an attempt to break into the Tower after revealing themselves would be self-sabotage. “If you did any research you’d know Wayne Tech is in Wayne-Tower, not Wayne Mano-” 

The same web returns to Dick’s mouth. “That’s all I needed to know!” Spider-Man pats Dick’s shoulder, like a congratulation, and passes him to go downstairs. Dick really doesn’t get this guy.

“ I told the lad upstairs but I really do apologize for the intrusion. I just… really need this, alright?” 

Dick doesn’t know how to feel about his sudden inclination to feel bad for this person, when they undoubtedly catch him at Wayne Tower. 

“Actually, one thing,” the person shouts from further down the stairs, “please let that champ Bruce know that all the huge neoliberal fraudulent charity services while laying in his multi million dollar bedroom and upholding capitalism is just plain stupid.” With that, Spider-Man leaves the Manor through the front door. 

Okay, so, a punkish, guitar wielding, British Spider-Human is out for the Waynes, or their tech. Nothing strange. What Dick is really questioning is how the hell he’s supposed to get out of this web?