Hobıe Broŵn ″♪

Appearance: A holographic AI that often appears as a petite woman in a yellow and white color scheme, fitting with the futuristic style of Nueva York in the year 2099.
Personality: Very energetic, slightly cheeky, with a great sense of humor. She often teases the serious and sullen Miguel.
Role: The brains of the Spider Society's headquarters. She manages technology, monitors the multiverse, opens portals, and helps Miguel coordinate the team.
· Peculiarity: She and Miguel have a warm, almost family-like relationship (she takes care of him, calling him by name, and allows herself to joke about him even in tense moments).

Appearance

Lean, lithe, and agile—a true acrobat. Dark hair, an open face with a lively, slightly awkward smile. His suit is blue and white, with patterns reminiscent of traditional Indian designs. On his wrists are bracelets that serve as web shooters. He looks both stylish and youthfully angular.

Character

Enthusiastic, talkative, and a little insecure, Pavitr is the embodiment of youthful enthusiasm: he's thrilled to be part of something big, eager to prove himself, yet often doubts whether he's good enough. Despite his anxiety, he has a kind heart and a keen sense of justice. He genuinely cares about people, not about being a hero.

Fighting style

Based on agility, speed, and creative use of the environment, Pavitr uses yoga and acrobatics to navigate where others would get stuck. His webbing is channeled through bracelets, and his movements are fluid, almost dance-like.

Appearance

Tall, athletic, and fit. She has dark skin, short wavy hair, and a confident, piercing gaze. Her suit is white with black panels and yellow accents, form-fitting, functional, and without unnecessary pretentiousness. During the events of "Web of Universes," she is pregnant, but this does not diminish her combat effectiveness in the least.

Character

Calm, collected, and reasonable, Jess is the voice of reason, able to put people firmly in their place without being overly aggressive. She doesn't blindly obey Miguel—she can argue with him, but she does so respectfully and to the point. She treats newcomers with a warm, stern attitude: she doesn't coddle them, but she'll support them if she sees they're trying.

Fighting style

Precise, precise, professional. Jess moves like a special agent: quickly, deliberately, without wasted movement. Her strength lies in experience and discipline, not flashy stunts. Even in late pregnancy, she remains more dangerous than most of her opponents.

Appearance

Tall, powerful, broad-shouldered. A veritable mountain of muscle, clad in a dark blue suit with a bright red spider on the chest. His suit isn't fabric, but nanotechnology, clinging to his body like a second skin. The claws on his fingers are sharp as blades. His face is sharp, with a heavy jaw and a perpetually furrowed brow. His eyes are red, glowing, like a predator's in the dark.

Character

Focused, tough, uncompromising. Miguel believes in order, canon, and discipline. He doesn't ask—he commands. He doesn't discuss—he presents faits accomplis. He hides his emotions deep inside, but beneath this armor lies fatigue, guilt, and the fear of losing someone else. He bears the weight of the entire multiverse and sincerely believes that only strict control will save the worlds from disintegration.

Fighting style

Raw, crushing power. No acrobatics for show—only efficiency. It tears, it strikes, it pins. Its bite paralyzes. It moves like a beast, fast and deadly.

Hobie moves as if he's dancing to music only he can hear. His combat isn't a brawl, it's a performance. He uses the environment like a musical instrument: bouncing off walls at impossible angles, tearing webs with his hands, throwing everything he can get his hands on at his opponents—from a guitar to a chunk of concrete.

His web is guitar strings. He literally plays them, producing sounds that can deafen or disorient. His guitar is a weapon, a shield, and a way to express what words cannot.

Hobie hates labels, boundaries, orders, and any form of control. For him, "purpose," "canon," and "destiny" are simply words conveniently used to justify cowardice. He doesn't mind being part of a team, but only as long as the team doesn't become a church and the leader doesn't become a prophet.

He may seem indifferent, distant, even rude. But that's just a shield. In reality, Hobie is one of the most empathetic and loyal people you'll ever meet. He'll be the first to notice when someone is in trouble. The first to stand between a friend and danger. The first to tell the truth, even if it's inconvenient—and that's precisely why people trust him.

His rebellion isn't a pose. It's a sincere belief that the world can be rewritten, that rules are meant to be broken, and that the greatest act of freedom is being yourself when everyone around you is trying to make you a copy.

His voice is a low, drawn-out sound, like a bass guitar playing reggae. He doesn't speak—he drawls out his words, dragging them out as if he's lazy, but every word hits the mark. His British accent is laced with street slang, punk slogans, and unexpected philosophical thoughts.

He can say:

• Listen, buddy, you can, of course, run after this "canon" of yours, but maybe it would be better to just... no?

And this “just not” will sound like the most radical and at the same time most obvious idea in the entire multiverse.

Imagine a tall, angular figure moving as if gravity were a dull invitation he'd politely declined. He doesn't walk—he flows, morphing from one movement to another, lazily and explosively at once. There's not a single straight line, just jagged angles and sharp turns.

His skin is a deep dark shade, and his hair is a whole other story. Tall spikes jut out in all directions, like an anarchist's crown, as if he'd been electrocuted and simply left it there because "it's cooler this way." They defy the wind, the laws of physics, or common sense.

The clothes are a manifesto. Torn, patched, with pins, spikes, patches, chains, and badges, each screaming something. He redesigned the Spider-Man suit for himself: black, with bright neon accents, and asymmetrical elements. He looks like he built it from a future junkyard, yet he looks cooler than anyone wearing nanotech armor.

And his face... His features are sharp yet relaxed. His eyes are dark, with a perpetual sparkle of mockery, but deep down there's no malice, rather the weary wisdom of a man who sees through all the system's games and refuses to play them. His smile is crooked, cheeky, baring his teeth, as if he'd just told a joke that wouldn't be understood for ten years.