Mateo stood at the edge of the hanger as the darkness retreated and watched an even, shadow-less light settle over things. This was the light that came before the star, like a herald of its strangeness, a thin, silvery light not dissimilar to the hue of his bike. For a few seconds this strange light filled the junkyard with its clarity, and Mateo could see that it was abandoned and not in use. He could see now the telltale signs of old soup cans, sawn open with a pocket knife, of needles and glass, of formless rags, of damp and rust. The machines had collapsed, crumbling in, and it was impossible to tell what had once been made here. It was a rathole, too far out of town to see popular use.
The star arrived as quietly as he had, slipping through the sky and falling to the earth in the space of a moment. There was the moment of greater light, as it grew brightly in the sky, and the moment of scarring, where it ripped downwards like a knife wound, bleeding fire, and then it came. Mateo got a blink of it before it hit the water: a plain white ellipsoid, with a tail of white rubber sheathed in fire. It entered the reservoir with a crash and plume of white water as high as a building, which slapped back down against the reservoir and then fell like rain.
Mateo stood at the edge of the hanger and watched the frothing water, agog. A star had fallen. Directly in front of him. Soon they would all come. Chief Executive Rajore and his brother Dandelion, the Concrete Kid, UnderKing of Tinjouki. Both would have dispatched Mantled at the first sign of it, and some of them were fast, faster than any zus. The Mayor would send Beetles to cordon it off, the media would send anchormen to stand next to the reservoir as it was drained, then beside the shell, patting it and posing endless theories. But before their broadcasts the news would have rippled out across the city, spreading slowly. A new star, a new Mantled. A new chess piece in the game of cat and mouse. He thought of the zus. Surely, it would be here any minute. Unless he worked for Rajore. Then he’d be sending word. Either way, he wasn’t here yet.
Right now Mateo was alone.
He thought about the Wall. He thought about his brother Poro, who was gone, about his poor sister struggling to make ends meet. He watched the steam rise out of the reservoir and his imagination came alive. This wasn’t just a power, it was the power. The power that changed lives. The power that built worlds.
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He walked to the reservoir, wobbling slightly, and saw it was fairly deep—at least 10 meters. Mateo hated the water. He stood frozen at the edge, watching the strange white shape, struggling to think of what there was to do. But there was only one thing to do, really. What else but try? He had never thought he’d see a star fall in his life, never mind all alone. It was the stuff out of a storybook. If he wanted the Mantle he would have to move quickly.
Scrambling, Mateo tugged off his boots, then his pants and his shirt. Before he got the chance to think too much he waded out into the reservoir, wincing at the cold and wondering idly what chemicals would have drained into it from the abandoned junk yard. Never mind that now.
He swum out to the centre of the reservoir, above the star, and then down, flipping his legs above his body, plummeting. At the bottom of the reservoir the star sat serenely, seemingly inert. Its white was unmarred by the dirt it had swept aside, unburnt by the cloak of bright fire it had worn on its journey to the earth. Mateo felt he was in a dream. He moved slowly, languidly, circling the fallen star, finally approaching it. He pressed a palm to the side of the white ellipsoid. With a hiss, it cracked open. The sides of the shell fell away in two perfect halves, silently drifting down to rest in the silt at the bed of the reservoir.
Sat within the star there was a young boy. His legs were folded in a stance of meditation, and he looked to be around the age of six or seven. He didn’t breathe or otherwise move, but his eyes were open. He was watching Mateo, faintly curious, as a cat will look from her window. After a moment the boy opened his mouth, and large bubbles escaped the edges of his lips and wobbled up through the water. The boy was holding something in his hand, something scarf-like and shimmering. The light warped and buckled around it. Colours bloomed and perished in its aura. Even underneath the water, Mateo could smell the unmistakable stink of starlight. He had to fight the temptation to breathe in and fill his lungs with water. His lungs were screaming now.
The pause lasted only a fraction of a second. For a single moment of indecision, Mateo met the boy’s crystal green eyes. Then he looked again at the fabric in his hands. He blinked. There were few who saw this sight and lived to tell the tale. There were no guarantees. No matter. He ripped the fabric from the hands of the child and kicked for the surface.