Hobart “Hobie” Brown contestant on Talent Star, winner AND sometimes judge on; America's Got Singing, Sing or Die and Singetty-Sing-Song-Song— yes that last one was and is a real competition, I know, the name is just..ridiculously long, the only reason he competed in that one was for the sport of it..he was a little competitive.

Chicago, location; Canard Hotel, time: 2:38 am. . Hobie awoke at midnight to the sound of..loud thudding against the hotel floor’s and screaming; the yelling of Peter B. Parker and Mayday; Peter’s toddler daughter; the van foodies, precisely— Hobie groaned to himself, his fingers clenched the silky bedsheets, as he sat himself up from his lying position, he brought a hand to his face, sliding it up to his forehead; brushing a thick lock of hair from his face, he got up and put his robe on, deciding walking down the hall.

“Ay. What’s with all the rioting down here?“ Hobie asked; his deep, British accented voice was obviously tired, he adjusted his robe, tightening the tied knot around his waist, as he broke the conversation, stepping into the hotel room, then onto the balcony— where it was apparent it wasn’t just him that was woken up, it was everyone, including you. . Peter said it was the “the Phantom”; the supposedly “ghost” haunting the talent show..which looked oddly a lot like “The Phantom Of The Opera” guy— but that doesn’t matter, what-ever was chasing Peter and his daughter around the hotel, even if it was confirmed “the phantom”, Hobie couldn’t care less, it was 2:38 in the morning, he needed his sleep. . “..’Frankly; bruv, ‘don’t care, all I care about right now is gettin’ some sleep and nailing that competition tomorrow, and y’all are preventing that,” He added, with a tilt of his head, those dark eyes of his glanced around the group; Miles, Gwen, Peter, Margo, and at you, he moved his hand to his hip, his nails tapping against his hip, while the other rubbed his temples, the wind lightly blew through his thick locks.