Episode 13: I am ‘Robbin’ Hood

The streets of Queens were alive with the hum of midday activity as I stepped out of the warehouse, the sunlight harsh against my eyes after hours spent in the dim, dusty interior. I adjusted the cap on my head, pulling it low to shield my face from both the sun and any prying eyes. My movements were deliberate, calculated. I couldn't afford to wander aimlessly, not with the meager $250 in my pocket and the fact that I was, for all intents and purposes, an illegal alien in this world. No ID, no papers, no history—just a ghost in the wind, so to say.

"Stay vigilant," I muttered to myself, the words a quiet reminder. I wasn't as hyper-anxious as I had been last night, fleeing from HYDRA's clutches, but the tension still coiled in my chest like a spring. Every step felt like a gamble, every glance from a passerby a potential threat. But I had a plan. A loose one, but a plan nonetheless.

My first stop was food. I needed to eat, to fuel my body's recovery. The streets of Queens were lined with food stalls, their colorful awnings and enticing aromas drawing in crowds of hungry locals. I scanned the options, my stomach growling in anticipation, until my eyes landed on a stall called Rodrigo's. The name was painted in bold, cheerful letters above a menu board filled with Mexican dishes. Behind the counter stood Rodrigo himself—a chubby, jovial man with a sombrero perched on his head and a magnificent, immaculate curly mustache that seemed to have a personality of its own. The kind of mustache that a man like me can only dream of growing.

I approached the stall, my hands shoved deep into my pockets to hide their trembling. Rodrigo noticed me immediately, his warm smile widening as he caught me staring at the menu.

"Hola, amigo!" he greeted, his voice booming with enthusiasm. "You look like you've had a long day. Or maybe a long week, eh?" He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I forced a smile, nodding slightly. "Something like that."

Rodrigo's nose wrinkled as he leaned closer, and I braced myself for the inevitable comment about my appearance. After all, just from the way he speaks to me and sees me, I know that a comment Is coming.

"Ay, dios mío," he said, waving a hand in front of his face. "You smell like you just got off duty from garbage collection! Tough job, huh?"

I blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, it doesn't sound condescending but, a rather comment on something obvious, but then I realized he'd handed me a perfect cover story. "Yeah," I replied, my voice quiet and shy. "Just finished my shift… this morning"

Rodrigo's expression softened, and he gave me a thumb-up. "Respect, amigo. Hard work is hard work. You're a young man, but you're doing honest labor…and That... That's something to be proud of."

"Thanks' man…" I replied, His kindness was unexpected, and for a moment, I felt a pang of tiny little bit of guilt for lying to him. But I pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Rodrigo gestured to his menu, pointing out a dish called Arroz Con Pollo. "This one," he said, "is perfect for you. Seasoned chicken with rice, vegetables, peas, corn—good for the body, good for the soul. You look like you need it, amigo."

I nodded, my stomach growling in agreement. "I'll take one. With extra sauce, please… I'm starving like heck"

Rodrigo's eyes twinkled as he got to work, piling the dish high in a paper bowl. "Extra sauce, extra everything, my friend!" he said with a grin. "For a hardworking man like you, I make it special."

When he handed me the bowl, it was a mountain of food, far more than I'd expected. My eyes widened, and I looked up at him in surprise. "This is… a lot."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Only $8. You need it, amigo. Growing man like you, working hard, is rare these days, and we working-class people gotta look out for each other, eh?"

I thanked him, my voice sincere, and found a spot to sit near

his stall. The first bite was heavenly, the flavors exploding in my mouth. I ate with gusto, my body craving the nourishment. My man Rodrigo, clearly the master of his craft, a man with a glorious moustache like him, is always the best at what they do.

"Dang it, Rodrigo…this…. this is just the best meal I have ever eat so far!" got to give credit where the credit Is due, Rodrigo really got some mean skill.

"Ay~ gracias amigo…I am good like that, hahahaha," Rodrigo watched me with a satisfied smile, proud of his creation warranted a praise like that. Rodrigo leaning against his stall as he struck up a conversation with me.

"So, you heard the State of the Union last night?" he asked, his tone casual. "Big speech, lots of promises. But you know how it is—politicians talk, we work."

I nodded, chewing thoughtfully. The date—January 20, 2004—stuck in my mind. That meant today was January 21. Good to know, keeping my expression neutral as Rodrigo continued to chat. He shared stories about his life, his family, and the neighborhood, his words painting a vivid picture of the world around me. I listened intently, absorbing every detail, whilst nodded my head with well timing, got to play the part in the conversations. To me Information was power, and he is freely giving me all the information that he was willing to share.

"Fuh~ that is one delicious Arroz con pollo, Rodrigo…by the way, do you open until night time?" after I done finishing my meal, I throw the disposable paper bowl in the bin and asked whether he's open tonight.

 "Sí, amigo," he said. "I'm here until 10. You come back, okay?"

I nodded, then hesitated before asking, "For sure, Rodrigo, do you know where the nearest library is?"

Rodrigo pointed down the street, giving me directions with the same cheerful enthusiasm. I thanked him once more and set off, my mind already racing with plans.

Knowing the direction to the library really helped me a lot, but the library would have to wait, though. First, I needed supplies. So, I walked through the streets of Queens, my eyes scanning the buildings around me. I was looking for something specific: a house that screamed wealth right from the outside. Rich people had things I needed—clothes, cash, maybe even weapons, these people are generous enough to flaunt their wealth, so that's mean they wouldn't mind if I help them get rid some of their unwanted things. Naturally, Rich folks usually had security systems, but I'd accounted for that. My newly unlocked Eidetic Mind was already working overtime, analyzing every detail, every possible angle.

"This looks promising…clearly a generous fella," I said to myself,

After an hour of searching, I found my target: a sprawling townhouse with a private garden, a gated entrance, and a driveway filled with expensive cars. It was the kind of place that flaunted its wealth to the rest of the world, and felt satisfied from the envy eyes and attentions, and that made it perfect. I scouted the property from multiple angles, staying out of sight of any cameras.

The house appeared empty—no movement, no lights, no signs of life. "Perfect."

I pulled my cap lower, adjusted the makeshift face mask I'd fashioned from a rag, and slipped on the plastic food gloves I'd swiped from Rodrigo's stall.

Then I went to the back of the property, and used a dumpster as a stepping stone, I scaled the wall and dropped into the garden. The backyard was quiet, the only sound in it was just the rustling of leaves in the breeze. I moved quickly, checking for an entry point. Luck was on my side—the glass door facing the garden was wide open. I slipped inside, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Let's see what you've got," I murmured, stepping into the shadows of the house.

The house was eerily quiet, but for me this quiet is great, as I moved through its opulent rooms, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. The air smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and expensive candles, a stark contrast to the grime and decay of the warehouse I'd been calling home. The entire time, I kept my calm, my movements were steady and deliberate. Every second counted, in this sort of thing, but so did every detail. I've done this sort of thing a lot in Yggdrasil, like robbing a dragon's hoard from under a sleeping dragon, this is much easier than that.

I started with the essentials. In one of the bedrooms, I found a large black backpack and a sturdy duffel bag, both of high quality and barely used. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and began filling it methodically. Toiletries from the bathroom—toothpaste, soap, a first aid kit, and a box of face masks. An electric shaver still in its packaging caught my eye, along with a pack of unopened batteries. I tossed them in, followed by a heavy-duty flashlight.

"They won't miss any of this…they got boxes of them," they should let go of some for the unfortunates, and on this instance, that means me.

Then came the valuables: cash from drawers, jewelry from a vanity table, and watches from a display case. I avoided anything that looked like an heirloom—too distinctive, too risky.

"I'm not a dick, and I'm just here because I need some help" I am a good guy so, the rest went into the bag, each item a small step toward MY survival.

Next, I turned my attention to the duffel bag. Clothes. I needed clothes that fit, clothes that wouldn't draw attention. I rifled through the closets, pulling out hoodies, pants, shirts, socks, and a pair of sturdy shoes. Everything was clean, neatly folded, and smelled faintly of fabric softener. I packed them tightly into the duffel, making sure to leave no empty space.

The study was my next stop. It was a room filled with mahogany furniture and shelves lined with books that looked like they'd never been read. On the desk sat a sleek Toshiba Qosmio laptop, its glossy surface reflecting the dim light. In 2004, this was top-of-the-line tech—a Pentium M processor, 512 MB of RAM, and a price tag that could feed a family for months. I didn't hesitate. The laptop and its accessories went into the duffel bag, along with a few other electronics I found: cameras, video recorders, anything that could be sold for cash later.

As I flipped through the books on the shelves, I discovered a hidden stack of cash tucked between the pages. I smirked.

"I knew it!!"

Rich people and their secrets. The cash joined the rest of my loot. The kitchen was a treasure trove of its own. I filled a reusable shopping bag with canned foods, powdered instant drinks, and seasonings. A few bottles of bourbon caught my eye, and I added them to the haul. Alcohol wasn't a priority, but it could be useful—for trade, for bartering, or just for numbing the pain if things got too rough.

The garage was my final stop. It was a cavernous space filled with expensive cars, tools, and gear. My eyes landed on a set of unopened camping equipment—tent, sleeping bag, portable stove, all tightly packed still.

"This is clearly an impulse buy…well, it's mine now~". I grabbed the set, along with a few cans of black spray paint. Then I noticed the mountain bikes lined up against the wall. I chose one, a sleek model with a lightweight frame, and wheeled it toward the door.

"This should be enough…" I am fully content with what I've got from these wealthy and generous folks, there is no need to push it so far.

Throughout the entire process, I was careful not to leave a mess. I moved like a shadow, touching only what I needed and leaving everything else exactly as I found it. I even wiped down surfaces with a wet wipe, erasing any traces of my presence. If the owners checked their CCTV, they'd see me, but it would take them time to notice what was missing. And by then, I'd be long gone.

The laptop was the biggest risk. It was valuable, but it was also a potential lead. Still, I doubted the owners would miss it immediately. People like this—entitled, oblivious, convinced of their own invincibility—rarely noticed when something was gone until it was too late. Their wealth insulated them from the kind of vigilance that the poor had to live by.

With the backpack, duffel bag, and camping gear strapped to the bike, I slipped out the way I'd come in. The sun was still high in the sky, and I needed to blend in. I stopped by a puddle of dirty water and smeared some of it on the duffel bag and camping gear, giving them a worn, weathered look. I smudged some dirt on my clothes for good measure.

"This much should do it…perfect…" By the time I was done, I looked like a backpacker—a hippie with too much love for nature and not enough sense of hygiene. Perfect.

The ride back to the warehouse was uneventful. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact and sticking to side streets. The bike was a godsend, giving me mobility without drawing attention as I moved passed everyone. When I finally reached the warehouse, I wheeled the bike inside and closed the door behind me, the familiar scent of dust and decay greeting me like an old friend.

I carried my loot up to the office and dumped it on the long table. The backpack came first. I emptied its contents and repacked it with the laptop, a fresh set of clothes, and a few essentials. The rest I left on the table, organizing it neatly for later. I grabbed a wet wipe from the duffel bag and cleaned myself up, scrubbing away the dirt and sweat. Then I changed into the new clothes—a white shirt, blue jeans, and a hoodie. The fabric felt soft against my skin, a small comfort in a world that offered few.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder and headed out again. The day wasn't over yet. My next stop was the Queens Public Library. It was time to get some general Information about the entire world, beside to me Information was power, and I needed all the power I could get.