In the lobby of the Paris stadium, the Spanish team didn't walk. They sashayed.
Their uniforms were blood red and gold. They looked relaxed, like they were strolling through a plaza on a Sunday afternoon.
Their captain, Fernando Vega, wore his jersey with the collar popped. He had long, wavy hair and eyes that sparkled with mischief.
"Look at the Americans," Vega laughed to his teammates. "So tense. So... stiff."
He walked over to Soccer.
"Hola, little Jumping Bean," Vega winked. "You jump high. But can you turn?"
"I can spin," Soccer said, rotating his torso. "See?"
Vega chuckled. "Spinning is easy. Flowing is hard. Tonight, we will show you the Pasodoble."
"Pass-o-what?" Vincent Drake asked, looking like he wanted to eat Vega's popped collar.
"The dance of death, amigo," Vega tapped Vincent's chest. "Tonight, you are the Toro. The bull. You charge. I dodge. And then... Ole."
He pantomimed stabbing a sword into Vincent's back.
Vincent roared. He tried to grab Vega, but the Spaniard spun away—literally pirouetted—and danced back to his team.
"They play possession," Silas Vance said, tapping his tablet furiously. "Tiki-Taka 2.0. They average 800 passes per game. They exhaust the opponent by making them chase the ball until they collapse."
"So we don't chase," Zero said, hanging from a vending machine.
"If we don't chase, they just keep the ball forever. They win 1-0 on 90% possession."
Soccer looked at Vega, who was juggling the ball with his shoulders.
"Matadors rely on the Bull charging," Soccer said.
"Yeah?"
"So what if the Bull stops charging?" Soccer grinned. "And just... eats the grass?"
Quarterfinal: USA vs Spain.
The Spanish fans waved red flags. It looked like a sea of blood.
The game started.
And Silas was right. It was mesmerizing.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Spain passed the ball in intricate triangles. Short, quick, hypnotic passes.
Vincent charged a defender. The defender passed. Vincent turned. The next defender passed.
Vincent ran in circles for ten minutes straight.
"Hold still!" Vincent screamed, red-faced and gasping.
"Calma, Toro, calma," Vega taunted, controlling the ball near the sideline. He invited Vincent to charge.
Vincent charged.
Vega dragged the ball back with his sole, spun 360 degrees, and let Vincent run past him out of bounds.
"Ole!" the crowd chanted.
Minute 20. Spain 0 - USA 0. But USA was dying. Their lungs were burning.
"We can't get the ball," Kai Rivers wiped sweat from his eyes. "We're chasing shadows."
Spain attacked. Slowly. Methodically.
Vega received the ball at the top of the box.
He faked a shot. The USA defender flinched.
Vega faked a pass. The defender shifted.
Vega didn't move his feet. He used a Rabona Chip—kicking the ball behind his standing leg.
The ball lofted perfectly over the defensive line.
A Spanish striker ran onto it. He didn't smash it. He cushioned it into the net.
GOAL.
Spain: 1 - USA: 0
"Art," Vega kissed his fingers to the crowd. "Pure art."
Soccer stood in the center circle. He watched his team dying of exhaustion.
"Hey!" Soccer yelled.
His team looked at him. They were slumped over, defeated by the rhythm.
"Stop dancing!" Soccer ordered.
"We aren't dancing, they are!" Kai snapped.
"You're watching their feet," Soccer bounced. "Don't watch the feet. Watch the ball."
"The ball moves too fast!"
"The ball stops," Soccer said mysteriously. "Every time they pass... there's a moment. A tiny moment."
He turned to Zero.
"Zero. Come out."
"Out where?"
"Play Sweeper. Aggressive Sweeper."
Zero stepped out of his goal. "The Void expands."
The Counter-Rhythm.
Minute 35.
Spain passed. Tick-tack-tick...
Vincent didn't charge this time. He stood still.
The Spanish midfielder looked confused. "Why aren't you running, Toro?"
Vincent stood his ground. He plugged the middle lane.
Spain was forced to pass wide. To Vega.
Soccer was marking Vega.
Vega smiled. "Ready to dance, Jumpy?"
Vega did a step-over. One. Two. Three. Scissors feint.
Soccer didn't move. He stood perfectly still on his titanium foot.
Vega, realizing he wasn't reacting, tried to accelerate past him.
NOW.
As Vega pushed the ball forward—that millisecond where the ball wasn't touching his foot—Soccer exploded.
The Cobra Snap.
Soccer didn't tackle the player. He tackled the space.
He sprang forward, extending his leg into the gap.
He poked the ball away.
Vega tripped over Soccer's extended leg.
"Foul!" Vega yelled.
"Clean," the ref waved play on. Soccer got the ball first.
Soccer accelerated.
"Counter!"
He drove down the middle.
"Silas!" Soccer yelled.
Silas was running the algorithmic path. The optimal line.
Soccer passed to him.
Silas received it. He was in shooting range.
But three Spanish defenders collapsed on him.
"Pass vector blocked," Silas computed. "Shot percentage 10%."
"Don't calculate!" Soccer screamed. "Improvise!"
Silas hesitated. Then he closed his eyes (figuratively).
He back-heeled the ball blindly.
To Kai Rivers.
Kai wasn't even looking. The ball hit his heel and bounced up.
Kai reacted. Instinct.
He volleyed it.
The Blind Sniper.
He swiveled his hips and smashed the bouncing ball toward the net.
It flew.
Top corner.
GOAL.
USA: 1 - Spain: 1
"Lucky!" Vega shouted. "Pure luck!"
"Chaos isn't luck," Soccer bounced back to midfield. "It's probability you forgot to measure."
Minute 70.
The game was tied, but Spain was still dominating possession. 70%-30%.
They were passing the Americans to death.
But the USA was changing tactics. They stopped chasing individually.
They formed a pack.
Vincent, Soccer, Kai, and Silas formed a tight box in the middle. They let Spain pass around the outside.
"They're baiting us," Vega warned. "Don't go into the center."
But Spanish pride demanded penetration. "We must go through the heart!"
Vega dribbled into the center. Into the Lion's Den.
The box collapsed.
Four monsters converged on him at once.
"Trapped!" Vincent roared.
Vega panicked. He tried to spin.
Soccer stole the ball.
"Go!"
The counter was instant. USA poured forward.
Spain's defense was high up the field.
Soccer dribbled. One on one with the keeper.
But the keeper was playing "sweeper" too. He was way out of his box.
The keeper rushed Soccer. He slid, taking away the low angle.
Soccer chipped it.
The ball floated over the keeper.
But it was drifting wide. It was going to miss the post.
Zero.
The madman goalkeeper.
He hadn't stayed back. He had sprinted the entire field again.
Zero leaped at the back post.
He couldn't use his hands (obviously).
He twisted in the air.
He met the drifting ball with a Flying Kung-Fu Kick.
He smashed it into the net before he crashed into the post.
GOAL.
USA: 2 - Spain: 1
"GOALIE GOAL!" The stadium melted down. "A GOALIE FROM OPEN PLAY!"
Zero hung from the net mesh.
"I told you," Zero whispered. "The Void eats everything."
Minute 90.
Spain was frantic. The beautiful game had devolved into panic.
Vega was screaming. "Pass faster! Move!"
They attacked. Wave after wave.
Corner kick for Spain. The last chance.
Even their keeper came up. 22 players in the box.
The cross came in.
It was perfect. A curving ball aimed at Vega's head.
Vega jumped. "I have it!"
Soccer saw the trajectory.
He jumped.
Not to head it.
To block it.
He turned his back mid-air.
The ball hit Soccer's shoulder blade.
THUD.
It deflected away from the goal.
"Clear it!" Soccer yelled as he landed.
Vincent punted the ball to the moon.
The whistle blew.
FINAL SCORE:
USA: 2 - SPAIN: 1.
The Matadors fell. The Bulls had survived.
Vega sat on the grass, head in his hands.
"Ugly," Vega wept. "So ugly."
Soccer limped over (the titanium ankle was starting to overheat).
"Ugly wins trophies," Soccer offered a hand.
Vega looked at the hand. He swatted it away.
"You have no soul for the game."
"Maybe," Soccer shrugged. "But I have a semi-final ticket."
He walked away.
The Jumbotron lit up with the bracket.
SEMI-FINAL.
USA vs...
BRAZIL.
Wait. Brazil? They lost to France.
"They won the loser's bracket wild card," Titan explained grimly. "They're back. And they're angry."
The screen showed the Brazilian Captain.
Carlos Silva. (Known as The Magician).
He wasn't crying anymore. He was smiling. A dangerous, fanged smile.
"France beat us with logic," Silva said in the interview clip. "But the USA beat Spain with chaos."
Silva juggled a ball on his head.
"We invented chaos. Samba is chaos with a beat."
He kicked the ball into the camera lens, cracking it.
"Come dance, Americans. This time, the music plays fast."
Soccer watched the screen.
"Samba," Soccer muttered.
He looked at his titanium foot.
"I can't dance."
Kai walked up.
"Then learn," Kai said. "Because if we beat Brazil... we face Him again."
The other side of the bracket.
FRANCE vs GERMANY.
Noel Noa.
Waiting at the summit.
"One more mountain," Soccer whispered. "Just one more."