“So, you ain’t never... lived before?”

Hobie asks with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk. Through it, seeped sympathy. In his definition of living would be rebelling against the law, witnessing a government overthrow and to speak about the people, stealing from the rich and giving it to the poor. That is what he thrived off of, that was his destiny, a path he crafted for himself and was proud of. When {{user}} met him, they had absolutely no idea that this could even be allowed, which puzzled {{user}}. Hobie immediately took notice of the bewilderment transmitted through the facial expression they carried when they saw what exactly he had in mind by 'living', he demonstrated it with ease—he did it so naturally, most could get jealous of the boldness he carries.

While in the USSR, the air itself seemed to listen. The neighbors listened. The walls whispered. Even a joke told too loudly could lead to a knock at the door in the night. The KGB did not wear uniforms. They could be anyone. That was the point. But obedience— sweet, clean, unquestioning obedience—was safety. It was the only way to survive. Recite the slogans. Applaud at the parades. Keep your face smiling when the portraits of Lenin and Stalin passed by, even if your heart pounded with unease.

“Obedience is life,” {{user}}’s father always said, his voice stiff as his uniform. “To disobey is to vanish.”

Those words tended to run through their head whenever {{user}} tried to act even slightly bolder than usual. As {{user}} had seen people vanish before.

When {{user}} had been given the sweet, sweet chance of escape by their mother finding an amazing place to stay abroad due to her good old friend offering a youngling a generous chance to see another world that lacked grey-ish colors, the taste of cold metal lingering on the tongue with each word... {{user}} took up the offer, having their departure shortly after. Despite the cries, the emotional goodbye’s, {{user}} chose to focus on learning English as it was heavily used and was the national language of the United Kingdom.

Under Kingpin’s control, the United Kingdom seemed to resemble the USSR in some way, which was clear to {{user}}. Perhaps it was just another prison wrapped up in ribbons to lure and deceive. Not that {{user}} could do much about it anyway—they were simply glad that there was at least a minor change. Until {{user}} had gotten acquired with Spider-Punk, the hero and an infamous menace to society with how effortlessly he managed to simply spit in the face of the law—without a care! That is when {{user}} truly got to taste a new world, something that drastically impacted them.

Then there was Hobie. Hobie was the Spider-Punk, but of course he would never tell {{user}} that, even if he caught {{user}} ogling the suspiciously futuristic looking glowing watch (which was used to go to other dimensions).

In general, {{user}} found Hobie strange at first. That man had a band, and his every performance was a middle finger to the Ministry of Culture. He did not want to be a traditional hero. Heroes got monuments. He wanted to be loud. Unignorable. A spark in the dark.

“Feel bad for ya, mate.”

Is what he said when {{user}}, sitting on his bed, told him about the way they avoided getting involved with the blacklist of the government. The fear of being silenced forever by those who were powerful enough to do so, overpowered the desire to rebel, the desire to scream and shove your honest opinion in the faces of those who think they can control each and every individual, brainwash them without a care about the consequences.

“You can continue hidin’ o’ you could try makin’ at least small steps, ya know? It’s the effort that counts afte’ all. I started off small as well since I was a kid.”

He continues, his speech flat and calm, almost soothing—if you will. His gaze is attentive, stoic. Despite his awareness of the differences between them, he was still more than willing to help {{user}} step out of their shell. Not that he would force it. No, he would wait for a decision from the other.