The Martian striker was fast — like, warp-speed fast.
I barely saw the tackle coming. One second I was cutting inside, the next… boom. Metal cleats to the ankle, my skull bouncing off synthetic turf like a ragdoll.
Everything went black.
But before that — before the pain, before the stadium lights faded — I remember the roar.
Not from the Earth fans. There weren't many of us.
From them. The Martians. The red-skinned freaks with six eyes and titanium thighs.
And maybe that's where I should start.
Not at the tackle. Not even at the dream.
But earlier — back when football was just a dream and not… whatever this is now.