Station Breaker

19 Street Gang

My escorts climb and crawl through the alley, dodging piles of bricks, rusty rebar, box springs and whatever detritus people saw fit to leave here.

While Luca and his friends are quite agile at making it through the maze, I'm too slow to keep up. Thankfully, he stops periodically to make sure I don't get too far behind.

Overhead, I hear the sound of a helicopter passing by and press myself against the wall, afraid I'll stand out like a sore thumb from the air.

Luca waves me to a side alley even more narrow than this one. A tiny dark chasm between a concrete wall that's falling apart and rusted metal siding, I hesitate, not certain that I want to try to squeeze through.

When I hear the sound of lumber and other trash being knocked aside behind me, I decide to trust that Luca isn't planning to leave me stuck in an impossible situation.

Evidently, the police decided the story of a man parachuting down was credible enough to take seriously, despite the insistence of the little girl.

I have no idea how seriously they're going to take this or how far they plan to pursue, but I'm reasonably certain I'd rather follow these kids than take my chances with the Brazilian authorities.

I push myself through the narrow gap and feel my boot sink into something wet and fetid. I'm so thankful in this moment for the footwear that the other kid brought me, that I promise myself if I survive, I'll come back here with some kind of reward — and have the kids all checked for ringworm.

Who are these children? Do they belong to somebody? Do they live on the street?

They're incredibly dirty and look like they haven't had a change of clothes or a bath since their last birthday.

There's a sliver of daylight ahead of me as I make it through the darkest part of the passage.

My nostrils are assaulted and I look down and see a rotting cat.

"Gatinho morto," says Luca as he looks back, plugging his nose.

"Morto is right," I say, stepping over the foul carcass.

We reach the end of the corridor and step out onto a street. Concrete walls stretch in either direction, with sliding metal doors sealing off their yards.

I have no idea if this is a good or a bad neighborhood. Across the street, an old woman lays out rugs on a second floor metal railing, gives me a momentary glance then goes back to work.

My thermal suit isn't the weirdest thing in the world. It kind of sort of looks like something you might wear to go surfing. The only problem is the "iCosmos" logo on both sleeves.

Until I can steal something better, I need to figure out a short term solution.

In movies when you're on the run, there's always a convenient clothesline where you can steal something that's the perfect size.

People here don't seem to trust each other enough to make it that easy for me.

I'll need to figure out another way to get something that blends in.

The girl is walking down a street that leads even further away from where I landed. While I trust her instincts when it comes to avoiding the police, I have no idea where we're going.

I got a pretty good look at the city while I was free falling and could probably make it on foot to the airport by the bay, but I doubt I'd get very far looking like I do right now. And I still have no idea where this stadium is supposed to be.

"Dónde está el estadio de fútbol?" I ask her in Spanish.

"Campo de futebol?"

"Sí," I reply.

She shakes her head and says, "Sim," correcting me.

"Sim?"

She nods her head.

I nod and repeat "Sim," again. Alright, now she's taught me how to say "Yes" in Portuguese.

"Campo de futebol," she explains to the others.

They break out into a brisk run and I chase after them, hoping it doesn't look like I'm trying to run down a group of children.

"Maracanã campo de futebol?" I ask as I catch up with her.

She answers in a flurry of Portuguese I can't follow. All I pick up is the word futebol.

We turn a corner and she points to the campo de futebol and smiles, proud that she's brought Homem de Ferro to his destination.

Only I'm pretty sure this isn't the Maracanã stadium. The campo de futebol technically isn't even a soccer field, at least not one by my American standards.

It's a fenced in cement court with two soccer goals on either end and a group of six boys kicking a red ball around. Concrete tables with tile chessboards surround the court. The closest thing to a parking lot is a bubble-shaped Volkswagen car — the kind you only see outside the US — parked on the sidewalk.

"Maracanã?" I ask the little girl.

She gives me the universal shrug for "I don't know."

These kids probably have no idea what's a mile away, let alone the other end of the city. For them, their neighborhood is the world.

Imagine what they would think if they could have seen what I saw just a few minutes ago when the earth was hundreds of miles below me?

Before I can find an adult, she runs to the fence and yells in a very loud voice, interrupting the boys playing their game. "Onde está o Maracanã?"

One of the boys points to the East. "É dessa forma." He then looks at me, "Você é um jogador de futebol?"

I think he's asking if I play soccer. It's better to lie than say I'm an astronaut.

"Sim," I reply, nodding my head.

"Quer jogar com a gente?"

I laugh off the question, not sure what the hell he just asked me.

I start to walk in that direction, then realize I have three little shadows. As helpful as they've been, I can't let them go any further.

"Wait," I say, holding out my hands, telling them to stop.

Luca raises his hands, imitating me — imitating Iron Man shooting his repulsor rays.

"No. Espera aquí." I tell them to wait in Spanish and point to a table.

That seems close enough to make them stop.

Maybe they could help me out with one more thing. "Dónde hay un hotel?"

The girl thinks for a moment then yells my question to the boys back in the court.

One of them points to the south. "Cinco blocos."

That seems pretty self-explanatory.

I leave my little helpers sitting at the table, their legs dangling from the concrete benches as they watch me walk away and wave.

I pray this isn't a thing where they wait forever for their spaceman friend to come back.