The final two minutes of the 2v3 match against Team Vipers were a suffocating eternity. The score was locked at 2–2, and the next goal meant survival for Team Strays or disqualification. The air in the cage crackled with raw, desperate energy.
Team Vipers restarted the ball, and it immediately went to Vik.
Vik's face was a mask of cold fury. The humiliation of being tied by two broken players in a 3v2 was a betrayal of his own technical mastery. He decided he was done with cooperation. He was going to win this alone.
Vik took the ball and launched himself forward. He was a man possessed, his movements becoming fluid, impossible poetry. He burst out with the ball with speed and found himself facing Troy, the immovable object.
But Vik didn't slow. He dropped his shoulder, flicked the ball up with his heel, and executed a perfect Rainbow Flick right over Troy's towering head. The crowd gasped at the audacious skill. Troy spun, humiliated, the physical beast neutralized by pure technique.
Marcus gasped to himself in disbelief, "WHAT THE HELL!!!!"
Vik collected the ball and was now charging toward Marcus. The Glitch flared in Marcus's mind, the sudden, overwhelming urge to copy the move, to learn the mechanics of the Rainbow Flick that defied gravity.
Marcus resisted. He fought the perfect blueprint, forcing himself to choose survival over showmanship. He knew he couldn't win the skill battle. He had to win the physical one.
He dropped low, committing to a brutal, reckless tackle, aiming to take the ball, the legs, and anything else. Vik, anticipating the violence, jumped high over Marcus, floating right over the top of Marcus's desperate lunge.
Vik was clear. Open goal. Just a distance to cover and then an open goal
But the sheer rage and humiliation of the last five minutes had consumed him. Instead of moving in for the calculated finish, Vik stopped at a distance from the net and shot with insane, uncontrolled power.
The ball was a blur of violence. It rocketed toward the goal, bypassing the air completely, only to slam violently against the iron post with a sound that echoed like a breaking bone.
The ball rebounded wildly. Vik stood frozen, his chest heaving, staring at the post in disbelief. He had let the rage, the same fatal flaw that destroyed Marcus, cost him the game.
Troy was the first to move. He snatched the loose ball and saw his chance, Vik was out of position, paralyzed by failure.
Troy sprinted forward, charging toward the final two defenders. For the first time in the entire game, he made a calculated, necessary pass. He slotted the ball to Marcus, forcing him to beat one Viper defender and draw the attention away from the goal.
Marcus received the pass, dribbled once, and drew the defender in. Without hesitation, Marcus flicked the ball back to Troy. The cooperation was surgical, perfect, and born only of survival.
Troy was alone, the goal wide open. He didn't rush. He slowed, stopped, and stared right at the shattered figure of Vik. Troy pulled the ball back, spun, and scored the winning goal with a simple, calculated backheel, a final, vicious taunt that won them the game.
Team Strays 3–2.
The whistle shrieked, swallowed instantly by the chaos of the crowd. The match was over. The team of two had won the 2v3. Team Strays' existence was secured. They now had a 1-win streak and the right to draft a player.
DECISION TIME:
Marcus and Troy walked toward the tunnel, the silence between them now heavy with the shock of success. They had survived, but the alliance remained purely transactional.
"I still don't like you," Troy finally grunted, his eyes fixed ahead. "But the pass you made for that last goal… it was right. It made us comeback in the game."
They reached the designated discussion area near Sable's post.
"Who do we take?" Troy asked, his tone now businesslike. "We've got to pick between the technical liability, the safe defender, or the guaranteed scorer. Who is it?"
Sable presented the available players from the defeated Vipers: Vik (The Technical Maestro), a good midfielder and defender named Rex, and a Lethal Striker named Kobe.
Marcus didn't hesitate. "Vik." The name spilled out, cold and certain. "We shouldn't even consider anyone else. He was a nightmare all game long. Imagine him in our team."
Troy scowled. "Did you miss the last two minutes? He played selfishly and cost them the game. We already have one selfish player in the team. We don't need another technical risk."
"No," Marcus insisted, his own inner fury rising. "We saw all game how he passed, how he made plays. One mistake doesn't mean he's a bad player. He will be the perfect addition to the team. He's the only one who can fill the tactical space Luca left."
"I think we really need a striker right now," Troy countered. "I do the defending. I don't even know what you do all game long, just pass to me. A striker can make the balance."
Marcus swallowed his rage. He knew he had to play his last card. "Could you please stop mocking me? And for that punch you hit me with? Consider that a trade for me making this decision. Let us have Vik."
Troy stared at Marcus, then laughed, a sudden, harsh burst of air. "Whatever, man. Fine. Deal with it. Just don't say anything to me if he messes up our next match."
Sable, watching the exchange, logged the decision.
The Rogue Record updated instantly, sealing their fate:
Rogue Record: Match Report
Team Strays (Winner)
Team Vipers (Loser)
Final Score : 3–2
Win Streak:
1 (Needed 2 more)
Notable Moment :
Troy scores backheel winner.
Vik hits the post in the final minute.
Post-Match Transfer
Vik joins Team Strays.
Team Vipers is left with 2 players.
Team Strays now had an active streak of 1 match and had to win two more to challenge the Contenders.
Vik, his head bowed in shame, was ushered toward them. He stood beside Marcus and Troy in silence. Marcus, trying to show a gesture of alliance, tapped him gently on the back. Vik flinched, too embarrassed, too emotionally drained to respond.
Marcus looked from the silent, beaten Vik, to the hostile, physical Troy. They were a team of two exiles and a shame-ridden genius. The next two wins would be fought not with skill, but with the combined wreckage of their damaged egos.