Noel Noa didn't play football. He performed surgery.
The USA team sat in the stands, watching France vs. Brazil. It was supposed to be a clash of titans. Brazil was creativity, flair, rhythm. France was precision.
It wasn't a clash. It was a massacre.
Minute 10: Noa received the ball. Three Brazilian defenders surrounded him, dancing the Samba.
Noa didn't dance.
He took one step. A mechanical, perfectly efficient stride that bypassed the defender's rhythm entirely.
Thump. Goal.
Minute 22: Noa stood still. He waited for the pass. When it came, he volleyed it from thirty yards out. No spin. No curve. Just a laser beam.
Thump. Goal.
Minute 40: A Brazilian defender slide-tackled Noa. Hard.
Noa didn't dodge. He planted his foot. The defender bounced off Noa's leg like he'd hit a concrete pillar. Noa didn't even look down. He dribbled past the fallen player and chipped the keeper.
Thump. Goal.
Halftime Score: France 3 - Brazil 0.
The Brazilian team looked broken. They were crying. Their beautiful game had been deconstructed by a machine.
"He has no heartbeat," Silas Vance whispered, adjusting his taped-up glasses. "I'm tracking his biometrics from the broadcast data. His pulse never exceeds 120 bpm. Even while sprinting."
"He's bored," Soccer said, munching on popcorn.
"Bored?" Kai Rivers asked, staring intently at Noa. "He's dominating the best team in South America."
"Yeah. And he's bored." Soccer pointed. "Look at his eyes. He's not looking at the ball. He's looking at the clock. He wants to go home."
Vincent Drake crushed a soda can. "He treats them like traffic cones. It pisses me off."
"Why?" Zero asked from the row above (he was hanging upside down again). "Efficiency is the highest form of respect. He is ending their misery quickly."
Soccer stood up.
"Where are you going?" Titan asked.
"To find a rock," Soccer said. "A really sharp one."
"We are in a stadium, Soccer. There are no rocks."
"Metaphorical rocks, Coach. I need to find something that can scratch glass."
Day 2: The Video Room.
Team USA sat in the dark. The screen replayed Noa's hat-trick on loop.
"Weakness analysis," Silas stood at the board. "I have run the simulations 500 times. Noa has zero structural weaknesses."
"Everyone has a weakness," Vincent growled. "Even Superman has kryptonite."
"Noa's shooting range is 40 meters. Both feet are equally dominant. His balance is perfect. His tactical IQ is maxed out."
Silas drew a red X over the screen.
"Statistically, we lose 99.8% of the time."
"What's the 0.2%?" Soccer asked from the floor.
"Meteor strike destroys the stadium," Silas deadpanned. "Or Noa has a stroke."
Silence.
"He's mechanical," Kai murmured. "He plays the most optimal move every time."
"Optimal," Soccer repeated.
He stood up and hopped on his titanium ankle.
"Machines break if you jam the gears."
"Jam them with what?" Dylan squeaked.
"Dirt," Soccer grinned. "Grit. Things that aren't supposed to be there."
He walked to the board. He grabbed the marker.
He drew a circle around Noa.
"He expects optimal play, right? He expects the defender to be in position A, so he moves to position B."
"Yes."
"So," Soccer drew a chaotic squiggly line. "What if we aren't in position A? What if we're in position... Potato?"
"Position Potato isn't a tactic," Silas sighed.
"It is now," Soccer tapped the board. "We have to be illogical. If he expects a pass, we dribble. If he expects a shot, we pass. If he expects us to defend the goal... we defend the corner flag."
"Defend the corner flag?" Titan raised an eyebrow. "Are you high?"
"He aims for the corners," Soccer explained. "He always hits the side netting. Perfect geometry. So... what if we just stand inside the goal posts? Like statues."
"Cover the corners?" Vincent frowned. "Then the middle is open."
"Exactly," Soccer grinned. "And if he shoots down the middle... Zero catches it."
Zero's eyes lit up in the darkness.
"The Void likes the center."
"It's risky," Titan rubbed his chin. "Playing two defenders inside the net?"
"We're playing God, Coach," Soccer said. "Risky is the only way."
Match Day. USA vs France.
The stadium was a sea of Tricolor flags. The noise was deafening. 80,000 people screaming ALLEZ LES BLEUS!
Team USA walked out. They were booed so loudly the ground shook.
Soccer walked to the center circle. He looked at Noel Noa.
Noa looked impeccable. Not a hair out of place. He stared through Soccer like he was made of cellophane.
"Hello Dust," Noa said calmly.
"Hello Vacuum Cleaner," Soccer replied cheerfully.
Noa blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Vacuum cleaners suck up dust. But sometimes they choke on a big rock."
Noa turned away. "Boring."
The whistle blew.
FRANCE KICKOFF.
Noa tapped to his midfielder. France moved.
It was precision engineering. Pass. Move. Pass. Move.
USA's "Defense" (which was mostly just aggression) chased the ball. Vincent tried to body-check a midfielder, but the Frenchman passed one-touch before contact.
"They're too fast!" Vincent yelled.
France reached the final third.
Noa received the ball at the edge of the box.
This was his killing zone.
He looked up. He calculated the trajectory. Top Right Corner. Probability 99%.
He wound up.
He shot.
A perfect curl. A masterpiece of physics.
It flew toward the top right corner.
But someone was standing there.
Dylan Foster.
Not the goalkeeper. Dylan was a reserve defender (in this formation). He was standing inside the goal, leaning against the post.
The ball hit Dylan in the face.
THWACK.
Dylan crumbled. "Ow! My nose!"
The ball bounced out.
Noa froze. His eyes widened slightly. Why was a player inside the net?
"Chaos!" Soccer yelled, recovering the rebound. "Position Potato active!"
Soccer sprinted.
"Counter!"
France's defense was disciplined. They tracked back instantly. Two defenders closed on Soccer.
"No way through," one sneered in French.
Soccer didn't try to go through. He stomped his titanium foot.
CRACK.
The vibration startled them.
He passed to Kai.
Kai was marked by the French captain.
"I have you, Golden Boy," the captain said.
Kai didn't dribble. He did something he hated.
He fell.
He deliberately tripped over his own feet, flopping forward.
"Foul?" the captain hesitated.
Kai, from the ground, poked the ball forward to Vincent.
"The Earthworm Pass!" Soccer laughed. "Kai is learning!"
Vincent received the ball. He was one-on-one with the last defender.
He didn't ram him. He stopped.
He looked at the defender.
"Boo," Vincent whispered.
The defender flinched.
Vincent tapped the ball past him and ran.
Goalie time.
The French keeper was world-class. He came out big.
Vincent had a clear shot.
But Noa was sprinting back. He was fast. Inhumanly fast. He caught up to Vincent.
"End of the line," Noa said calmly. He reached out to steal the ball.
Vincent shielded it. "Get off!"
Noa was stronger than he looked. He levered Vincent off balance.
Vincent stumbled. He lost control.
The ball rolled... to Soccer.
Soccer had trailed the play.
Empty net? No. A French defender slid to cover the line.
Soccer was twenty yards out.
He couldn't shoot a power shot—no time to plant.
He hopped.
He hit the ball with the top of his knee.
A bloop. A lob. A pathetic little arching ball.
It flew over the defender's head. It dropped into the goal.
GOAL.
USA: 1 - France: 0
Time: 12:00
The stadium went dead silent.
It was the ugliest goal in World Cup history. It looked like an accident.
Soccer ran to the corner. He did the worm celebration.
Noel Noa stood at the top of the box. He stared at the net.
"Illogical," Noa whispered. "That shot had a 3% success rate. Why attempt it?"
Soccer stood up, brushing grass off his jersey.
"Because 3% is infinitely bigger than zero," Soccer smiled.
The Machine Wakes Up.
Scoring on Noa was a mistake.
It didn't break him. It annoyed him.
"Reset," Noa commanded.
France restarted. The tempo changed.
They stopped playing beautiful football. They played angry geometry.
Pass. Pass. Pass.
Faster. Sharper.
Minute 20. Noa receives the ball.
He didn't shoot for the corner this time (where Dylan was still guarding with a bloody nose).
He dribbled into the box.
He juked Vincent. He juked Kai.
He faced Zero.
Zero spread his arms. "The Void is open."
Noa didn't shoot. He waited.
He waited until Zero shifted his weight by a millimeter.
Then he poked it. Through Zero's legs. The Nutmeg.
GOAL.
France: 1 - USA: 1
Minute 25.
Noa received a cross.
He volleyed it mid-air.
He aimed for the other top corner (where another USA player was trying to stand).
He hit the ball with such spin that it curved around the player's head and went in anyway.
GOAL.
France: 2 - USA: 1
Minute 40.
Noa solo run from midfield.
He didn't use tricks. Just pure, terrifying efficiency.
Goal. Hat-trick.
France: 3 - USA: 1.
The whistle blew for halftime.
Team USA collapsed on the sideline. They were gasping, dying.
Noa walked off. He didn't even sweat.
"He's adjusting," Silas wheezed, cleaning his fogged glasses. "He realized our strategy. He's adapting his angles in real-time. He's calculating the 'Potato' factor and neutralizing it."
"He's unstoppable," Dylan cried into a towel.
Soccer sat on the cooler. He looked at the scoreboard. 3-1.
"He's a machine," Soccer said quietly. "He fixes errors instantly."
"So we lose?" Vincent asked. "We played our chaos card. He beat it."
"No." Soccer stood up. His titanium ankle hummed.
"Machines fix errors based on logic," Soccer said. "They predict logical chaos."
He looked at his team.
"We need illogical chaos. We need... self-destruction."
"What?" Kai asked. "You want us to lose on purpose?"
"No." Soccer grabbed a water bottle and sprayed it over his head.
"I want us to break the game."
He pointed to the referee.
"There's a rule," Soccer said. "Offside. Fouls. Handball."
"Yeah?"
"We're going to use them all. Not to cheat. To stop the clock. To freeze him."
Soccer grinned.
"We're going to turn this beautiful game into a stop-motion horror movie."
"That's anti-football," Titan muttered. "The crowd will hate us."
"Let them hate," Soccer said. "Tourists hate rain. But rain washes away the dust."
He bounced.
"Time to get wet."