An illusion is fragile. It relies on the observer believing a lie.
Ahmed Hassan stood on the ball. He posed like a dancer. The French crowd chanted Olé!
"He's playing with his food," Kai Rivers hissed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Disgusting."
"He beat us," Silas said, watching the replay on the giant screen. "He dropped his center of gravity 12 centimeters to fake the pass. By the time he shot, my brain was predicting three different outcomes simultaneously."
Soccer stared at Hassan.
The Egyptian captain wasn't running fast. He wasn't overpowering. He was flowing.
"Water in the desert," Soccer whispered. "You think it's there, but when you reach for it... you eat sand."
Soccer walked to the center circle for the restart.
Vincent Drake stomped up next to him. "I'm going to break his legs. If he can't walk, he can't dance."
"No," Soccer said.
"Why not? Violence is universal language."
"Because if you swing and miss at a ghost, you fall over," Soccer tapped his titanium ankle. "And if the Dragon falls... we look stupid."
Soccer looked at the ground. The turf was lush, expensive European grass.
"He likes to glide, right?" Soccer asked Silas.
"Yes. Low friction movement."
"Gliding needs a flat surface."
Soccer smiled. It was the smile of a boy about to throw a rock into a calm pond.
"So let's wreck the road."
Restart. Minute 15.
USA possession. But not for long.
Kai Rivers tried to dribble down the wing. An Egyptian defender stripped him clean.
"Counter!" Egypt screamed.
The ball flew to Hassan in the midfield.
Here we go.
Hassan received it. He looked at the approaching Vincent Drake.
"The Bull returns," Hassan laughed.
Vincent charged. But this time, he didn't run smoothly. He ran heavy.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Vincent pounded his feet into the turf with every step. He was 200 pounds of angry muscle purposefully creating tremors.
Hassan smirked. "Loud steps make for easy reads."
Hassan prepared the Mirage Step. He shifted his hips left. He would glide right.
But suddenly, the ground shook.
Soccer landed.
He had sprinted from the blind side, leapt into the air, and stomped down with his titanium ankle directly next to Hassan.
CRACK.
It wasn't a tackle. It was an impact.
Soccer planted his enhanced leg with the force of a hydraulic press.
The vibration traveled through the turf. The ball, resting on the grass, hopped. Just a millimeter. A tiny, vibrating judder.
Hassan's foot went to glide over the ball for the feint.
But the ball wasn't where it was supposed to be. It had hopped up.
Hassan's toe clipped the top of the ball.
Trip.
The illusion shattered.
Hassan stumbled forward, his rhythm broken by the micro-vibration.
"Oops!" Soccer chirped. "Earthquake!"
Soccer used the recoil from his stomp to spring forward. He poked the ball away from the stumbling Egyptian.
"He disrupted the surface tension!" Silas yelled, analyzing on the fly. "He used kinetic impact to destabilize the dribble!"
"MINE!" Vincent roared, scooping up the loose ball.
Now, the monsters had it.
The Counter-Attack: Minute 20.
It was 4-on-3.
Vincent drove down the center. "Out of my way!"
An Egyptian defender stepped up. Vincent, seeing Soccer's disruption tactic work, didn't shoulder charge.
He stopped.
He stepped on the ball, turning his back to the defender.
He shielded it. The Wall.
"Kai!" Vincent bellowed.
Kai was making a run on the right. Vincent rolled the ball backward.
Kai received it.
"Too slow," Kai muttered, but he accelerated.
He cut inside.
The Egyptian defense collapsed toward the Golden King. They knew his threat.
"Soccer!" Kai flicked a pass through the traffic.
Soccer received it at the top of the box.
He controlled it with his right foot. He was facing the goal.
Hassan had sprinted back. He was angry now. The smile was gone.
"You ruined my flow," Hassan hissed, sliding in from behind.
Soccer sensed the slide.
I have a new flow.
He planted the left foot. Titanium Load.
He didn't shoot. He hopped straight up.
Hassan slid underneath him.
Soccer landed back on his feet, the ball still untouched.
He was inside the box.
The keeper charged.
Soccer looked at the goal.
He pulled his leg back.
The crowd gasped. The sound of the kick was imminent.
But Soccer didn't kick the ball forward.
He stabbed his foot onto the ball, rolling it violently to the left.
Into the path of...
Zero?
No. Zero was in goal (thank god).
Into the path of Silas Vance.
The Calculator had run up from midfield. Nobody tracked him because he looked like an accountant lost on a football field.
Silas arrived at the rolling ball.
"Vector confirmed," Silas whispered. "Target: Bottom Left."
He passed the ball into the net.
Precision. No power. Just perfect geometry.
GOAL.
USA: 1 - Egypt: 1
Time: 22:00
"Calculation correct," Silas adjusted his glasses as the ball hit the net. "The probability of scoring increases by 400% when the goalkeeper is looking at the wrong player."
Soccer jumped on Silas's back.
"Good job, Nerd! You run weird but you aim good!"
"Get off," Silas groaned under the weight. "You are heavy. Did Klaus fill your leg with lead?"
"Titanium!" Soccer laughed.
Hassan stood up, dusting off his jersey. He looked at the divot in the ground where Soccer had stomped.
"Brute force," Hassan spat. "You Americans destroy beauty."
"Beauty is nice," Vincent Drake walked by, shoving Hassan's shoulder. "But destroying it feels better."
Minute 35.
The game had turned into a brawl.
Egypt couldn't establish their rhythm. Every time Hassan tried to dance, a USA player stomped, shoved, or simply ran through the passing lane.
Soccer was everywhere.
Boing. Boing. Boing.
His movement was erratic. He chased loose balls like a dog on espresso.
But Egypt wasn't top tier for nothing.
Hassan adjusted.
"Spread out!" Hassan signaled. "Make the field wide!"
Egypt pushed the ball to the wings. Away from the congested center where Vincent and Soccer were stomping around.
An Egyptian winger blew past Marcus Kane (who was sitting in the stands—wait, no, reserve squad). He blew past the random defender Titan put in to fill the roster spot.
Cross.
High and curving.
It went over Vincent's head.
An Egyptian striker jumped.
Zero came out to punch it.
But the striker didn't head it at the goal. He headed it back across the face of the goal.
Hassan was there at the far post.
The Mirage was back.
Hassan didn't header it. He volleyed it.
The Desert Storm Volley.
He hit the ball with the side of his foot while mid-air.
It swerved wildly.
Zero was out of position. He tried to scramble back.
He reached out.
Fwip.
The ball hit the net.
GOAL.
Egypt: 2 - USA: 1
The stadium erupted. The chant of E-GYPT! E-GYPT! filled the Paris air.
Hassan ran to the corner flag. He put a finger to his lips, shushing the nonexistent American crowd.
"I told you," Hassan yelled. "Tourists go home."
Soccer stood on the midfield line. He was breathing hard. The intensity was higher than Nationals. The air felt thinner.
Kai walked over. He looked furious.
"They're faster on the wings," Kai said. "Our defenders are traffic cones."
"We knew that," Vincent grunted. "Titan built a glass cannon. We shoot hard, but we shatter if they touch us."
Soccer looked at the score.
2-1.
They were losing. In front of the world. In front of Noel Noa.
Soccer closed his eyes.
He thought of Eagle's Peak. The silence. The wind.
Why are we losing?
Because they were reacting. They were trying to stop Egypt's dance.
"We stopped hunting," Soccer said quietly.
"What?" Silas asked.
Soccer opened his eyes. They were grey and cold.
"We're trying to defend. We suck at defending. We're trying to stomp on their sand castles."
Soccer turned to Zero, who was drinking water in the goal.
"HEY GHOST!" Soccer shouted.
Zero looked up.
"Can you throw?" Soccer asked.
Zero stared. "Throwing is rudimentary."
"Throw it far," Soccer said. "Ignore the midfield. Ignore the sand. Throw it to the mountain."
Soccer pointed to himself.
"Long ball?" Kai frowned. "That's ugly football. That's desperate."
"Desperate creates accidents," Soccer smiled. "And I love accidents."
Minute 45. Stoppage Time.
Egypt had a corner. They tried to make it 3-1 before the break.
Hassan crossed it.
Zero caught it. The Event Horizon swallowed the ball.
"NOW!" Soccer screamed, already sprinting toward the other end.
Zero didn't hesitate. He took three steps and launched the ball. A massive, overhand throw that looked more like a javelin toss.
The ball soared. Seventy yards.
It cleared the entire Egyptian midfield.
It dropped out of the sky toward the Egyptian penalty box.
Two defenders were back there.
And Soccer.
Soccer watched the ball drop.
Calculation: Two defenders. Big. Heavy.
They boxed him out. They sandwiched him.
"You're not touching it, kid!" one grunted, elbows high.
Soccer couldn't jump between them.
So he jumped behind them.
He planted his left foot—Titanium Load 100%—and jumped backward, away from the ball.
The defenders jumped for the header. They collided with each other, missing the ball because they were too busy fighting Soccer's shadow.
The ball bounced.
Soccer landed five yards away.
He ran toward the bouncing ball.
Hassan was sprinting back. "Clear it! CLEAR IT!"
Soccer reached the ball at the edge of the box.
He didn't trap it.
He hit it on the bounce.
The Half-Volley Railgun.
He swung his right leg with violence.
He cut across the ball, generating outside spin. Trivela.
The ball screamed toward the goal, curling away from the keeper.
It looked like it was going wide.
"Miss!" the keeper shouted, pulling his hands back.
Then the wind—or the spin, or the will of the Assassin—grabbed it.
The ball curved back in. Sharp. Impossible.
It smashed off the inside of the post.
CLANG-RIP.
GOAL.
USA: 2 - Egypt: 2
The whistle blew for halftime immediately.
The vibration of the post was still humming when Soccer landed on the ground, rolling over.
He looked at Hassan, who stood ten yards away, hands on his head.
"Tourists take pictures," Soccer gasped, standing up and pointing at the net.
"But hunters take trophies."
Soccer bounced on his heels. He wiped the sweat from his eyes.
"Tie game, Sandman. Second half starts at zero."
He walked toward the tunnel.
High in the VIP box, Noel Noa put down his espresso.
He leaned forward slightly.
"That spin," Noa whispered in French to his teammate. "It wasn't calculated. It was instinctive."
"He got lucky, Noa."
Noa looked at the scruffy American kid limping slightly into the tunnel.
"Luck happens once," Noa said, standing up. "He has done it twice. That is not luck. That is chaos."
Halftime Locker Room.
Titan stormed in.
"Defending! Has anyone heard of it?!"
The room was silent except for the wheezing of the reserves who tried (and failed) to stop Hassan on the wings.
"We gave up two goals," Titan threw a water bottle. "If we do this against France, they score ten. Brazil scores twenty."
"We scored two," Vincent grunted, icing his shoulder.
"Because Soccer pulled a miracle out of his pocket! We can't rely on miracles!"
Soccer sat in the corner, eating an orange. peel and all.
"Coach," Soccer mumbled through the rind.
"What?!"
"Their defense... they don't like getting hit."
"Obviously."
"No," Soccer swallowed. "I mean... when Vincent charges, they crumble. But when Hassan charges, we crumble."
Soccer looked at Kai.
"Kai."
"What do you want, Savage?"
"You're invisible today."
Kai stiffened. It was true. He had barely touched the ball. The game was too physical, too fast.
"They're bypassing me," Kai defended. "The ball is flying over my head."
"So stop waiting for the ball," Soccer stood up.
He walked over to the tactical board. He picked up the marker.
He drew a circle around Kai.
"You're the sun, remember? Shine."
"Stop with the metaphors," Silas groaned.
"Vincent and I are making earthquakes," Soccer drew jagged lines. "We're breaking the ground. But the pieces... they need someone to put them in the net."
Soccer handed the marker to Kai.
"Be the Finisher. Don't dribble. Don't pass. Just stand in the rubble and shoot."
Kai looked at the board. Then at Soccer.
"You want me to poach?" Kai scoffed. "Like a garbage collector?"
"A king doesn't carry the stones," Soccer grinned. "He builds the castle."
Kai stared at the board.
Finisher. One touch. One kill.
"Fine," Kai adjusted his hair. "If you mongrels carry the load... I will execute the target."
"Good," Soccer turned to the door. "Second half. We don't play soccer."
He kicked the door open.
"We play demolition."