Heroes

Chapter 6: Robloxia's Cloaked Figure

It was Saturday morning. Lou was at his monthly doctor's appointment, Arianna was fixing a flat tire on her truck out in the driveway, Pascal was playing with a kite in the front yard, and I was on the front porch swing as I ate a bagel with strawberry cream cheese. It was a nice, September morning with clear skies, a nice cool breeze, and a temperature around 66 degrees Fahrenheit. As I ate, I was staring at the house across the street from us. It was a big, two-story, victorian-style house. The exterior was most light grey, the columns on each side of the porch steps were light grey, concrete stone, and the shutters, roof, and door were jet black. The paint looked like it was chipping off and the concrete steps were lumpy and cracked. The grass was dead and the trees had died. There was a beat-up 1995 Toyota Celica in the driveway also. The thing that also caught my attention, however, was the tall, well-built, cloaked figure who lived there. They wore a tattered, black, hooded cloak and torn, brown khakis. They wore black gloves and long black socks as if to not show any skin. When people walked or stood near them or they did the same, they would turn their head right, left, or down to prevent anyone from seeing their faces. Robloxia's cloaked figure was a mysterious person indeed. I watched Pascal as he continued playing enthusiastically with his kite. As he ran, he got his kite stuck in the telephone wire lining the road. Pascal began tugging at it before I walked over. "Don't do that. The metal poles on the kite could shock you," I said.

Pascal looked sad as he uttered, "But my kite."

"I know," I began, "I know you like your kite, but we can get a new one. If I try to get it down, it'll tear or shock me."

Pascal and I were about to walk away and find something else for him to do when I heard rustling. Pascal and I turned around. The cloaked figure that lived across the street was standing on their tip-toes trying to get Pascal's kite out of the wire. Not even a minute later, the figure grabbed the kite and handed it to Pascal. Pascal gasped with delight. I just stood there amazed at how they managed to be tall enough to reach the kite and nimble enough to get it out without ripping the kite or shocking their self. "Thank you!" Pascal yelled, grateful for the figure's help.

The figure nodded as they started to go back across the street. Arianna finished fixing the tire on her truck, Pascal was worn out, and I had finished my breakfast, so we started to go inside. I had one foot in the doorway when I heard a sound that sounded like a gun being loaded. I turned around. Across the street, there was an older gentleman in a black suit, black shades, and black shoes. He looked like he was in his 80s or 90s. He seemed to be a guest The man pointed a pistol at the cloaked figure. I stopped and turned to Arianna as I ordered, "Take Pascal inside now."

Arianna nodded as she led Pascal inside. I walked to the end of the driveway. The cloaked figure looked right, facing away from the guest. "Listen, Micheal," the figure began in a voice that sounded like a male's, "I don't want any trouble."

The guest chuckled. "Oh, Yamada, you've seemed to want trouble since the moment you first existed, you filthy crossbreed. I'm just helping you in case you've gotten tired of being a burden to everyone in existence. I'm just putting you and everyone else in the world out of misery," Micheal replied, trying to cut the figure to his core.

I just stood there, appalled. While everything that Micheal said was hurtful to the man, the word crossbreed eviscerated my heart. People, mostly during the war between bacon hairs and guests, called people who were a mix between the opposing races or a mix between purebloods and the opposing side they were on, crossbreeds. I've never personally been called one, but I know people occasionally are called that and it stings. To make matters worse, that word could've been the last thing that the figure ever heard. Though the word crossbreed didn't originate from racist beginnings, it later became derogatory as the war flared up, and even now, 31 years after the war ended. The figure shrugged and started to walk inside his house, not wanting to get into any conflict. As the figure walked up his porch steps, Micheal chuckled and pulled the trigger of the pistol, shooting the figure in the leg. The figure fell down. The figure had an angry tone of voice as he spoke through gritted teeth, "Damn you, Micheal."