Mateo stared at the offer, throbbing on the screen. The price was listed at 10,000 X. His hand was shaking as he clicked the dial and the offer expanded. There was a large wall of text, and then a green and red acceptation/rejection box.

Greetings, Mateo Soto. Please do not be alarmed to receive this offer: your personal details were acquired as a matter of extreme priority by our intelligence department and will go no further than myself and the department. It is of the highest possible importance that you return the stolen item. The urgency of this is far greater than you can know.

My name is Goell. I have the honour to be a personal attendent and Intelligence Chief to His Majesty, CEO Rajore. The item you have acquired is of EXTREME value to the very highest membership of the Executive Branch, and while we are committed to liaising its return peacefully, I hope it is understood that were this to be impossible the Executive Branch would be compelled to take more extreme measures. These measures are well within our capabilities. To put it plainly, Mateo, we know where you live and we know who you love.

There is no need for any violence. To guarantee the safe and smooth return of the stolen item I am approved to suff your mouth with gold, figuratively speaking. The list of offers bellow have been approved by the highest members of the Executive Branch. I believe you will find them highly attractive:

1. Your information will be deleted from the Executive archives, and the safety of yourself and your loved ones from our operatives will be guaranteed.

2. You will meet exclusively with myself, a lay-operative (without Mantle) in a place of your choosing. We are comfortable that this location be well outside the typical zone of influence of the Executive Branch. I will be available to provide any information you are currently in need of, within reason.

3. We are aware that you have recently received starfall and bound the enwombed Mantle. Congratulations. At the exchange, our operative (myself) will provide you with the methods and resources by which a Mantled typically enriches and diversifies their Mantle—free of charge. The value of this third offer is incalculable.

4. We will orchestrate a winning ticket to the state lottery and put it the hands of your sister, redeemable for 500 X immediately, and will orchestrate the promotion of her husband, Sevit, to lower management at the Gougsu Industrial Yard. Your sister also has a stalker, which you are not aware of. As a sign of good will, he has been arrested and charged with terrorism.

We are hopeful that this set of guarantees will motivate you to come peacefully to the exchange. If not, please be aware that I will hand over your case to the Black Operations devision of my department, and that they will employ a wildly different acquisitions strategy that will almost certainly result in the death of yourself, and likely also the death of your sister, brother-in-law, primary sexual partner, and childhood friends. The Executive Branch find this strategy both morally disgusting and wasteful, but our commitment to reacquire the stolen item is resolute and we will not hesitate to do what is necessary. You have six hours to respond once opening this message, and twenty four to arrange the meeting.

Welcome to the exalted group known as Mantled, Mateo. Few survive joining it. To those who do, more than you can possibly imagine awaits.

You will need allies.

Mateo stared at the screen a while longer. He re-read the message. Twice. Then a guy came over and wrapped his knuckles on the box, insisting it was his turn to use it. Mateo relented and stepped away. He had six hours to make a decision, but he knew what he would do. The message was genuine—the blood box system was Mantle built and therefore extremely difficult to tinker with. He had no doubt this ‘Goell’ could fulfil all of their promises. If it was a trap, there was nothing he could do. At least his sister would be safe. He checked the time. It was 3.15 PM. He had to be at the pool for 4, and then he’d have a few more hours to come back to a box and set the place. He’d do it tonight. He went upstairs to change, brushed his teeth, jogged down to the street and jumped on the Okü, racing off along the pavement.

When he pulled into the the pool at 4 o’clock the only guy there was Thrift, lain with his boots up on the arm of the largest and most popular sofa, reading a paperback. A mop was leant against the arm of the sofa. Clearly Thrift had been half way through mopping up the rain water before it bored him and he crashed out.

Mateo jogged down the slope of the pool and over to the ‘kitchen’ table, a huge, antique table cut with plants and patterns and shapes that looked as if it had been a temple door at one point. No No stealing it, alone, strapping it to his back and then driving it over in the middle of the night, had impressed Prince so much he had bumped him straight up to half-patch. On the table were kitchen and cleaning supplies, boxes of food, cans of beer and soda, as well as a few spare bike parts. Mateo grabbed a pan of cold coffee and put it on the stove. It was a rhata stove, so he simply held his hand against the stove pipe and vented a steady stream of heat. He called over and asked Thrift if he wanted any.

Thrift already had coffee. Mateo joined him, steaming mug splashing at the brim. Thrift lifted his legs and let him sit before putting them back, and Mateo switched on the TV, put it on mute and flicked over to the news channel. It was another piece on terrorists groups and the suppression of terrorist agitprop—the hot topic ever since the Earth Right attack. Thrift finished his page, then put the book face down on the floor and slurped his coffee.

“What you been up to?” he asked, watching Mateo.

“Met the fence,” said Mateo. “And met the courier. Almost fucking died, actually.”

“Oh?” Thrift sat up. Thrift was a soft soul, the de facto mother of the group. Mateo filled him in with the same story he’d told Wisely, and Thrift cooed at the right moments, going so far as to gasp when Mateo killed the Peep. He didn’t mention the offer from the Executives.

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“Holy shit,” said Thrift. “Smoke you thug. That explains what put you on Wisely’s wheels. How’s it slide?”

“The Okü? It’s lovely. It’s a nice bike.”

“Better than your Dayzl?”

“Fuck no.”

They chuckled. Thrift rode a Kantek, an old cruiser which he’d souped up with modern coils to make it ride pretty fast. It was full of gizmos and tools and other junk that Thrift insisted they needed to make the jobs go smoothly. He was the only one who understood them. He adjusted his glasses and moved his legs, sitting straight, then putting them on the coffee table.

“Well, fuck. Can’t believe he let you take his bike.”

“I paid him,” said Mateo.

“Ah. You gunna buy a new one?”

“I dunno. Not for now, Wisley’s out for a month. I dunno if I can get my Dayzl back safely. The Kid probably crawled all over that place.”

“More likely sent his goons there. Still, you should avoid it.” Thrift glanced up at the door. “Who is that? Is that Glow? Oh and Dove. Okay. Why do I always end up baby sitting?”

Glow and Dove arrived on identical silver Rurfs, plain, solid chrome bikes that a lot of rhata rode. They were unstylish but cheap and reliable, and Thrift had gone to town on them to speed them up a bit. He called up to them.

“Hey kids!”

Glow called back and Dove waved. Dove was a dark, tanned, broody girl who snapped to life when she smiled. She was 16 and she liked to boss Glow around, but with the olders she almost never said a word. She rode very well. Prince had been dedicated to training her up but with Prince gone the kid was kind of in limbo.

“Why you on Wisely’s bike, Smoke?” Glow asked, coming and standing in front of the tv. Dove came up with a mug of coffee and pushed him out the way.

“Mine’s fucked. I’ll tell you later.”

“Oh,” said Glow.

They watched the TV and drank their coffee. Mateo and Thrift spoke like old friends, discussing family members, politics (criminal gossip), women, clothing, and the best place to go for a night out in Gwae; while Glow and Dove watched and listened with the respect due their elders, fetching coffee; occasionally so brave as to add a small piece of commentary, which Mateo and Thrift graciously permitted. Slowly the rest of the chapter arrived and joined the discussion, and they were swept up in a fierce debate over the best method for enticing girls in the park when Underarms finally arrived.

He was covered in blood.

Mateo saw him first. He jumped to his feet and sprinted over, roughly grabbing his friends jacket and pulling him close. Underarms had been struck on the head badly, three or four times, or maybe he’d hit the pavement. A bruise on the right side of his skull was swollen, his lip was split, and his right eye was bloodshot, swelling as he stood there.

“Dove,” Mateo shouted behind him. “Drive to Toulie’s and get ice. Now.”

Dove sprinted off. Mateo took another look at his friend. There was far too much blood. The bruise looked nasty, but the split was small and the black eye wasn’t bleeding. This was someone else’s blood. Underarms sat down on the sofa where Mateo had been, staring off into space. Paunch clicked off the tv and went down on his haunches in front of his friend. He took his hand and folded it between his own, squeezing. Underarms looked down and smiled.

“Fuck me,” he said. “Pit I. I’ve- I’ve just seen. Killed-.” He stammered and gave up, staring at nothing.

Thrift sat down on the ground besides Paunch. Mateo hovered, awkwardly. No one spoke. They just stood or sat around Underarms, comforting him in their own, awkward ways, and watching the shock slowly drain away.

With a squeal, Dove drifted through the huge, open door and jumped off her bike. She tossed the bag of ice to Jake who wrapped it in a towel and gave it to Underarms. Dove had also bought a bottle of whisky and she held it conspicuously for a while, hoping someone would notice, and then when no one did she placed it on the floor. Underarms spoke again, his voice hoarse but measured.

“I was on my way here, taking the 243, and a couple of capes flew by overhead. They were both dressed up and wearing their Mantles and I knew they were strong right away because I felt them as they came. It was like I was heavier, much heavier, and my heart was heavier too. I could barely even vent. Like that feeling in a nightmare you get, or what a mouse feels looking at a cat, man. I felt it. Felt cold.

“So they were fighting up there. Loud, cracking. Huge pieces of stuff sent crashing through the sky by one and then dismantled by the other and these sharp, screaming sounds sometimes too. I was just driving as fast as I could, watching in the mirror. Then they went over me, flying, and one hit the street. He smashed into the street and it bucked up in a wave, like he was in water, and the wave was coming for me but before it hit me it collapsed. It was Drutu Uyr, that E you see sometimes with Rajore on TV. Didn’t recognise the other cape. She was wearing this endless robe of red, like a liquid, that trailed off for ages through the sky, and she floated down next to the Drutu and I was just watching. She would gesture and just take chunks out of his body and blood was spurting. Uyr was gasping and staggering, then he jumped up and flew again, shakily. I figured this was my chance so I gunned the bike.

“Went fast as I could round the crater left by Uyr. I was almost away when there was another ripple in the road, only it hit me this time and I was thrown from the bike. Must have had my fucking visor up. I woke up, I don’t know, soon, and Drutu Uyr was dead. And the lady was standing over him and she had her hand in his chest. Like inside of his chest. She was feeding. It was disgusting. She didn’t even notice me.”

There was a long silence after Underarms finished. Paunch picked up the bottle of whisky, drank and passed it. It continued to circle. Underarms rejected it the first time but on the second pass he drank deeper than anyone.

“Drutu Uyr,” spoke Jake at last. “He’s that olmet cape who can like, switch out solids and manipulate them like water, right?”

“Yeah,” said No No.

“Isn’t he really strong?”

“He’s a Sun Trump,” said No No.

“What?” said Mateo, almost blurting it. Everyone turned to him.

“What do you mean, what?” said No No.

“What’s a Sun Trump?”

“A Mantled classification. Do you live beneath a rock?”

Mateo looked at Underarms, still covered in blood. He didn’t want to joke with No No right now. “Glow, go get a big bucket of water and heat it and get some rags and shit.” Glow ran off. Mateo looked at No No. “All I can remember is that it’s confusing.”

“Wow,” said No No. “Wheels and girls. That’s all there is for you, eh? A Sun Trump is very powerful. Look, Smoke, you know who the Fisher Fool is, right?”

“Of course I do,” said Mateo. “Well, I know he’s a Mantled that has been around for ages, that he sort of watches the city like it’s his private TV flick.”

“The Fisher Fool is an Egg Man,” said No No, pausing for significance and continuing to glance at Underarms uneasily. “A Mantled who has ascended to immortality. Most of them, probably all of the, are insane. And most of them choose to leave Creation and go beyond the sandfall to explore the cosmos or whatever. There are a few exceptions. Famously, some are thrown in the Pit and never get out. A few have sort of melted into the city somehow and are more like forces of nature with a kind of alien, spirit-like intelligence. Then you have the Fisher Fool. As far as anyone can tell, he’s never left Tinjouki. He’s even been spotted by civilians from time to time. Starfall had a picture of him eating beans in a cafe on toast in their September edition last year. It is said that once a new Mantled has proven himself, the Fisher Fool will send them a card…”

A vast, ringing sound filled Mateo’s head. He remembered the card he’d found earlier that afternoon. His hand went to thigh and he felt it there, that thin piece of hard paper. It had slipped his mind, with all that stuff going on. How had it slipped his mind? The Fisher Fool will send them a card. The journal had been empty. He’d thought he’d just missed a page, but maybe…

At some point he came to himself. No No was lecturing Jake. Underarms was wiping off blood with the wet rags, and Paunch was gently helping.

“And anyway,” said No No. “He’s not a ‘he’. The Fisher Fool is hermaphroditic. What I’m saying is that Drutu Uyr was in the Executive Branch and they disclose their cards, or at least claim to. He was in the Suns, I can’t remember where, but high up. After the Trumps you get your own Trump and move through the Types, sort of personalised characters that you pass through in a non-linear way. But Mantle theory here gets pretty abstract because capes that powerful rarely talk about it. Only the absolutely, most powerful get to their Type, people like Rajore and the Kid. If you finish the Types you become an Egg Man.”

Mateo was trying to pull himself together. “No No,” he said, glancing over. Everyone was looking at Underarms, but Underarms was looking at him. “What’s the first Trump?” he asked.

“The first? Sands. Sands, Towers, Wings, Suns.”