There's a saying that when a nationwide tragedy occurs, people remember precisely where they were and what they were doing when they first heard the news. I can say with certainty that it's true. For me, I was busying about in my family's bakery in Miami, Florida. It was July 1st. It started as a typical day. The exterior of the shop was decorated in red, white, and blue awnings in anticipation of the Fourth and the interior had American flags squirreled away in every nook and cranny. They were the same old decorations from the previous year and the years before that. The awnings were a bit faded from the sunlight and the miniature flags were permanently curled from being stashed inside a dusty box for most of the year. But it didn't matter. Folks seemed to like them, and they made my father happy.
The same familiar faces were beginning to crowd around the counter in the afternoon. To them, it was a typical day too. My father, Carlos, didn't even have to turn his head all the way around to know who was next in line and he already knew exactly what he or she would want. Still, that didn't stop him from chatting every one of them up. Because of this, the line was snaking back and forth through the front parlor. From the back kitchen, I listened to my father's daily small talk and gained glimpses into the lives of our neighbors...whether I liked it or not.
"Good afternoon Mrs. Henderson!" he said in his usual chipper voice, "One Cuban loaf, I presume?" The woman responded with a hum as she shuffled to the register. "And how's your grandson doing?" my father asked.
"Excellent!" she said, "My son-in-law took him to get tested, and sure enough, he's an Ultra!"
"An Ultra?" my father said, "No kidding!"
"Yep!" Mrs. Henderson said, "He's just a Class-D. Nothing 'Allegiant-worthy' or anything."
"Still," my father said, "That's wonderful news. Maybe he can join the Ultra League or the Ultra Guard"
Mrs. Henderson laughed, "Ha! I don't know about that. Tommy's ability wouldn't translate well into athletics like the Ultra League, and I don’t think the Ultra Guard would have any use for it either. My daughter told me what his ability was called. Aura...Aura-something." The old woman paused for a bit as the cash register popped open with a ring, "Aural-chromatism!" she exclaimed, "That means Tommy can see sounds as if they were flashes of color."
"How interesting," my dad said with a bemused tone of voice, "Well, if he develops the ability to keep our power on consistently, please let us know! These recent power outages are driving us crazy!"
Mrs. Henderson chuckled in a raspy voice. "I certainly will! My daughter is worried that he'll fall into one of those awful Ultra gangs she's been hearing about on the news."
"Who? Tommy? Joining the renegades?" questioned my dad, "Not Tommy. That kid's got a good head on his shoulders, plus he's got a good support system at home. But I'll keep him in my prayers just in case. Hope you have a happy Fourth of July!" The doorbell chimed as Mrs. Henderson exited the shop. "And good afternoon to you too Mr. Garcia!" he said to the next person in line, "Big plans for the Fourth?"
"Just the usual," Mr. Garcia said, "Barbeque with the family. Watching the parade. And you?"
"We're going to see the firework display in the park," said my father, "Ever since Cassie was a little girl, it's been a tradition in our family. Although, she might be getting a bit too old to enjoy it now."
"And how is Cassandra doing?" asked Mr. Garcia, "She's...what? Sixteen? Seventeen years old?"
"Eighteen," said my father as he retrieved some rustling wax paper to wrap a pastry in.
"Wow! Already?" said Mr. Garcia, fumbling through his wallet full of loose change, "Is she working here or is she in college?"
"Both!" my father said proudly, "I swear, I don't think that girl sleeps. Sometimes I wake up at three in the morning and I still see her bedroom light on. I don't know where she gets the energy from." My father then called to me from the front of the store. "Cassandra! We need some more Cuban loaves, please! We're running low!"
"Okay!" I shouted from the kitchen in the back, wiping flour from my brow, "I'm on it!" My little voice had difficulty traveling the short distance from the back kitchen to the front parlor, especially when there was so much noise that day. I then returned to kneeing the dough, trying my best to not let sweat drop into it.
Working in the kitchen was my primary job...when I wasn't operating the register, cleaning tables, processing orders for more supplies, unloading deliveries, or running special errands for customers who couldn't reach us. It sounds like a lot to manage, but in all honesty, it was enjoyable. Ever since I was five, my dream was to one day take over the family business when my father retired. If I was to be the proud owner of the "Cruz Family Bakery" I would have to master all of these responsibilities.
Next to the flattened dough on the kitchen table was an opened book. "Introduction to Macroeconomics" was its title. The edges of its pages were stained with oil or caked with a splattering of flour. My eyes glanced across the book's contents as I worked the dough, smashing it flat with a rolling pin, pausing every few minutes to flip a page before continuing. There was a quiz that night over chapter 7 and I needed to catch up. Fortunately, the college course was online, so I could still finish the inventory before taking the quiz.
My secondary job at the bakery was keeping my younger sisters out of trouble. Clarissa, the second eldest after myself, was at the register that day, so my father could manage her. But Clarissa was shy and reserved like me, so she was no trouble. The real challenge was my two youngest twin sisters, Caroline and Catherine, who were in the kitchen with me, tossing lumps of dough and flour at one another.
"Move or get out of the kitchen!" I barked as I scooted around them to simultaneously remove the baked bread from the oven and replace it with the soft dough. Things were a bit more overwhelming on this particular day than usual. My mother was out running an errand and wouldn't be back for a while. Until then, I had to be the mother, which meant I had to speak in that tone of voice my mother would use whenever I or my siblings got in trouble. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't any good at it because my younger sisters just giggled and continued playing.
"How about you make yourselves useful?" I said as I returned to my book trying to glance over the next page, "Why don't you crack some eggs and-" SPLAT! An egg landed on my book.
"That's not what I meant!" I shouted. Caroline and Catherine immediately scampered away with mischievous grins on their faces. I sighed and tried to wipe away the goopy mess of yolk and bits of shell from my book. If only mom was back from her errand already. The lightbulb in the kitchen then began to flicker on and off.
"Oooooo boy! Will you look at that!?" came a voice from the front. I tilted my head to get a better view. My dad and several customers were gawking at the TV that was on a stand in the corner next to the ceiling. On most days, when there wasn't a major game on, my father had it set to the Allegiant channel. He and the customers were watching the latest broadcast. After a trumpeting fanfare, the signature theme of America's Class-A Ultra heroes, footage was shown of Minute-Man and Lieutenant Lonestar in action, doing battle with a band of super-powered gangsters called renegades. Even though I couldn't see what was happening, my dad provided enough commentary to paint a vivid picture in my mind.
"Boom!" he said, smacking the counter, "Another renegade down! Do these punks think they can outrun Minute-Man? What a joke!"
"Look! One's getting away!" said a customer.
"Nah! No sweat!" chuckled my father, "He'll be stopped in his tracks any second now by-" he paused. Then all of a sudden, "Pow! What did I tell you?! Lieutenant Lonestar's got 'em! Look at that, he's hugging the concrete like he's made of lead." A few customers clapped and whistled.
"Where's Commander?" one patron asked.
"Somewhere in Alaska, I think," said my dad, "It's unusual to see all three of them at the same scene. They should be airing whatever he's doing next after the commercials. It takes them a bit to edit the highlights" Before the advertisements began, my father raised the volume to hear the Allegiant theme in all its glory.
As fun as Allegiant TV was, I didn't need the extra noise that afternoon, especially with two younger siblings hooting and hollering behind my back. Their ruckus, the timer going off, my father's shouting from the front, the chatter of customers, and the TV made it a disorienting situation. I found myself re-reading the same page in my textbook multiple times in order to comprehend it, but my eyes were starting to glaze over, and I felt a bit faint.
"Not again," I muttered to myself. This tended to happen if I overworked myself. That day I stayed up for nearly 21 hours straight. That time was spent working in the kitchen, helping my younger sisters with their homework, and then finishing my report. It seemed that all of that stress was beginning to catch up to me. Gripping the corners of the table, I closed my eyes as my chest rose and fell rapidly. "Concentrate, concentrate," I told myself, "Breathe. Just breathe."
As my vision became opaque, I tried to recenter my thoughts. All of my favorite Allegiant heroes - like Commander or Estrela of Brazil - had faced far worse situations than I had without so much as breaking a sweat. Yet here I was feeling overwhelmed by some noise and lack of sleep. Commander's responsibility was to defend our nation from any threat, and he never gave up...even when he had to single-handedly save a midwestern town from a category five tornado. I then thought of my responsibilities. The Cruz Family Bakery has been open since we first arrived in Florida generations ago. If it was to remain open, I had to get a grip...now!
Suddenly, the lights in the bakery flickered and flashed and then all went dark. The squawking from the TV was silenced and the customers began to groan as my sisters squealed in terror.
"Another power outage?" I said to myself. That was the fifth one that week. Fortunately, they had all ended as quickly as they started. Any second the power would be restored. Light then flooded the kitchen and a cheer erupted from the front parlor. Power was back! The ovens were still warm and beeping incessantly. The TV was back on again as my father and several customers returned their attention to it. But oddly enough, I felt strangely rejuvenated. It was becoming apparent to me that following one of these power outages, I would feel energized as if I could work another 21 hours straight. So, I rolled up my sleeves and dusted my palms of flour.
"Alright, dad! Just put in the Cubans. It'll be about another-" I paused. There was an eerie silence coming from the front of the shop. The usual chatter had ceased. The only thing heard was the television. From around the corner, I saw the side of my dad's face. He was transfixed on the screen which was out of my line of sight. All the other familiar faces were glued to the screen too. Their eyes were wide with disbelief. One customer even put her hand to her mouth as if holding back a gasp.
Caroline and Catherine were chasing each other around the table. I grabbed them and told them to hush. For once, they listened to me. The unsettling silence from the front had an effect on them too. I quickly moved through the doorway and exited the kitchen. The usual trumpeting fanfare of the Allegiant channel was replaced with the dry, yet troubled, voice of a reporter, accompanied by images of fire and a towering pillar of smoke. Before I could even process what the reporter was saying, I read the banner at the bottom of the screen.
"COMMANDER IS DEAD"
Those words, along with the thick, blocky text used to convey them, were like a punch to the gut. I found myself staring at the TV, motionless, mouth agape, just like the others in my family's bakery. My face and hands were still chalky from flour and sweat, but it didn't matter. No one was looking at me, just listening to the solemn broadcast.
"Commander was in combat against three other foreign Allegiant: Warhammer of Russia, Dragon Lord of China, and Devastator of North Korea," the reporter said, "It is believed that the three enemy agents were targeting a secret nuclear facility on one of the Aleutian Islands near Alaska. Due to a separate situation occurring in New York City, Lieutenant Lonestar and Minute-Man were unable to reach the scene before the explosion. At the moment, it is believed that all four Allegiant at the facility have been killed."
A picture of Commander was displayed on the screen. Everyone in America, and no doubt the world, had seen his picture before. It was hard not to. He had shining blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a square jaw tilted proudly upwards. This time, however, seeing his picture was anything but triumphant. Unlike the other times, it wasn't accompanied by montages of him valiantly rescuing citizens from debris or healing their wounds with a mere touch. Now, it was a picture for his obituary.
Then, footage from the scene was shown. An Allegiant TV crew must've been filming the action from half a mile away. The footage was grainy, and every slight movement of the camera was like a jolt. We all watched as the fuzzy image of Commander, in his iconic white uniform and cape, fought against the equally fuzzy images of Warhammer, Devastator, and Dragon Lord outside the nuclear facility. The Russian Allegiant was swinging her hammer at Commander, striking him with the force of a thousand bombs. Before each blow would land, Commander would cause a pillar of stone to erupt between him and the weapon, blocking it. But the enemy's strike would blast the shield into a shower of shrapnel.
At the same time, Dragon Lord was belching fire upon him from on high. Commander raised his left hand and turned the flames into particles of snow. As if this weren't enough, Devastator, who stood far from the action, used his keen laser vision to cause nearby objects to explode violently. Commander's body turned to steel in order to withstand the bursts of orange and red fire. But Warhammer struck him across the chest and head, knocking him back several feet. Dragon Lord then sprayed Commander with a shower of acid from his jaws. The poor American Allegiant couldn't react to all of these attacks at once, even with his matter-manipulation powers.
And then, something awful happened. Commander suddenly dropped to his knees; hand raised as if begging for mercy. His pristine wipe cape was stained black and gray from the battle and draped to either side of him in tatters. His golden hair was disheveled and his head was stooped low in defeat. Warhammer and Dragon Lord ceased their attacks and slowly stalked toward him, like predators inspecting their fallen prey. The sight of this caused a few customers in the bakery to shudder in despair. My eyes were welling up with tears too. A once mighty hero, a symbol of our country's strength, was brought low.
But then, something equally strange happened next. Devastator, who was still standing away from the scene, turned his deadly gaze towards the nuclear facility. In half a second, a ball of fire engulfed the entire island, swallowing Commander, Devastator, and his two compatriots. What possessed him to do this? It didn't matter. His action had its desired effect. The cameraman zoomed out to reveal the full extent of the explosion. A black mushroom cloud slowly wafted up into the heavens, blotting out the sun and casting the area into a dismal night.
It was dreadful. All of it: the explosion, the news report, the shocked expressions of the people around me, all horrified by what transpired. But the worst thing was that image of Commander, cowering in defeat. It's true that all Allegiant have their breaking points - they can't use their powers indefinitely - but Commander wasn't any other Allegiant. He was larger than life. He was dogged and determined. No matter what was occurring, he was always there with a coy smile and old-fashioned words of encouragement.
The news broadcast then returned to the image of Commander. His smile and expression had forever lost their luster. But, something else was lost too. Something else died alongside Commander. None of us could quite articulate it at the time, but we all felt that a part of America died that day. The United States was the first nation to introduce the idea of Allegiant to the world many decades ago. Since then, Allegiant have not only been an integral part of our national security but of our national identity as well. Above all others, Commander was the most beloved of American heroes. With him gone, our sense of security was also gone.
Ringing cell phones then filled the small bakery parlor. They must've been ringing for a while, but now people were starting to pay attention to them. Concerned family members were contacting their loved ones. Frantic voices could be heard on the other side of the phone calls. One by one, customers began to retreat into quiet corners to talk, or simply excused themselves from the shop completely. A few haphazardly waved at my father behind the counter and said that they needed to go home right away. They left the shop and began jogging down the street and out of sight.
My father, who was just on the phone, put his arm on my shoulder and turned me around. The look in his eyes raised the hair on the back of my neck. Normally, his eyes were filled with a warm light. Now, they were cold and steely. I had never seen my father so afraid.
"Listen to me Cassie," he began, "Take your sisters upstairs. We're closing up the shop early. I just talked to your mother. She's on her way back, but we need to start preparing. Things are going to get bad tonight. I'll stay down here and get things situated, but I want you to take care of your sisters. Do you understand?"
My brain was lost in a fog. I didn't even realize that he had repeated himself to me two or three times until I felt his grip on my shoulders tighten.
"Do you understand?" he said again.
"Y-yes" I sputtered, "Yes, I understand"
He then turned me around and shooed me off. I gathered up my siblings and marched them upstairs. The entire way up, Caroline and Catherine were asking question after question.
"What's going on? What's happening? Are we in trouble? Why is daddy upset? Did we do something wrong? Where's mommy? Why are you crying?"
"No, you're not in trouble," I said, trying to mimic my father's cool confidence, "We're just closing up shop early today."
"Why?" they asked simultaneously.
I didn't know how to answer that. For a moment I struggled to summon the right words that wouldn't either frighten them or confuse them. "Because...people are wanting to be with their families now. It is almost the Fourth of July after all. Speaking of which, why don't you guys tell me what you're looking forward to the most about July 4th?"
"Okay!" said Caroline, "I'm looking forward to seeing the fireworks show!"
"Well, I'm looking forward to having hotdogs on the grill!" said Catherine.
That got them distracted long enough for me to situate them in their bedroom. As long as they were concentrated on other things then all the better for it. Clarissa glanced at me with a nervous look in her eyes.
"It's okay," I said to her, "Everything is going to be okay." It wasn't good to lie, but in this instance, I'd like to think that God would forgive me just this once.
My mother returned not long after her phone call with dad. I heard her weepy voice from upstairs and rushed down immediately to comfort her. My father had her in his arms, but her face was red and puffy from crying. I stood by the stairs and listened from afar. She kept sobbing about what was going to happen to our country and to our bakery and to us.
"Oh, Carlos," she said, blowing her nose, "You should see it out there. Everyone is so scared. It's awful. I was just told that the governor is bringing in the National Guard and the Ultra Guard. Everyone thinks there's going to be looting tonight."
"I know, Carmen," he said softly, "But we shouldn't feel afraid. We're together now and we're safe here."
"Safe?" she said, pulling herself away from him, "How are we safe with those renegades out there? Now that Commander is dead, they'll-" she stopped herself and blew her nose again. My father had no comforting words to give her. He just simply took her and held her close as she cried. I turned my attention away from them as if to give them privacy. I focused on one of the many American flags inside the bakery. The colors of its stars and stripes seemed desaturated. Everything seemed desaturated.
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