Half Hero ⚡️ {Superhero Adventure Scifi}

Chapter 32: Pure Tomfoolery

It was hard not to laugh at the sight of Mac's massive frame on a powder pink moped. He looked like a hairy rhinoceros on a motorized tricycle as we zipped through the rural jungle-lined streets of Malaysia.

We'd lifted two scooters from behind a restaurant and hightailed out of whatever port town we'd ended up in. My mom would have pitched a fit if she knew I was riding without a helmet. 

The heat enveloped you like a wet blanket slung over your shoulders. Every breath felt like a struggle because the air was so soupy. Still, the fragrant breeze and rolling hills full of lush tropical greenery was an enchanting backdrop, as long as you were willing to battle oncoming traffic to live long enough to see it. People in Malaysia drove like they were involved in a badly orchestrated mass suicide. 

For hours we'd been coasting alongside one of Malaysia's biggest highways to avoid the tolls (also, mopeds aren't allowed on major thoroughfares for obvious reasons.)

Mac pulled off the road toward a sprawling collection of decaying suburbs. Fields of crops and groves full of emerald palm trees lined the road, dotted with the occasional body or ramshackle establishment, but not much else. We breezed over the cracked asphalt toward a small blocky building covered in black and red signage. 

"I need gas," he grunted, climbing off his scooter arthritically.

The rundown petrol station had a crowd of natty cars teeming around the only available pumps. A huge bus that looked seconds from coming apart at the seams was parked on the other side of the short lot. Bunches of people were packed around the sagging exterior, chattering into phones or with each other. 

"I'll watch the bikes," I volunteered as he strolled away.

Mac lumbered past a family exiting the main shop, opting to hold the door while the mother fussed over her son. The boy, who was about as big as a thumbprint, stumbled over his mother's feet to get a look up at Mac. The mother turned her head inside a colorful scarf to shepherd her boy away from the giant, while the father absentmindedly shouted into a flip-phone.

The boy hopped off the walkway into the parking lot and our eyes met. He stared openly at my pale skin baking under the unforgiving sun, and I did the first thing to come to mind, made a funny face. The boy dissolved into adorable giggles when I crossed my eyes and blew my cheeks out like a pufferfish, using my hands to mimic swaying gills on the side of my head. He tried to copy, finding my hand movements a little too challenging. A shy smile crept into his mother's lips as she watched our brief exchange, and I waved as they passed me by.

I was still watching the mother and her son wander at the edge of the lot when Mac reappeared. He was carrying a portly gas tank topped off with gasoline and a misshapen plastic funnel.

"Poor bastard," Mac remarked, following my line of sight. "Their bus broke down and they're about forty miles from their village."

Mac flicked the seat of his bike up to find the gas cap and began fiddling around to open it. I flashed him a sideways glance.

He sighed, threading the funnel into place. "Alright, before you ask I'll just tell you, I speak fifteen languages in total," Mac replied, bobbing his head as if we were talking about the weather. "And I have a Ph.D. in Linguistics from Oxford."

I cocked my head to study his features while Mac started pouring gas. "Was that before or after the army?"

"I was never in the army," he shrugged his burly shoulders. "Not officially, at any rate. I was recruited out of school for other types of governmental projects."

"OK well, let's definitely unpack that statement," I replied, "but should we help them first?"

Mac finished topping up his engine and moved on to my motorbike next.