(Arc 3)
Hard work, talent, time. The 3 keys to success as a footballer. Countless hours of training. Countless hours of resting. And countless hours spent to become the greatest. Season Bail, the demonic baller, a man who aims to dominate and control. His time has come; be afraid of Brazil.
(SCENE CHANGE)
Around the world — or, more precisely, in a forgotten laboratory buried somewhere in Indonesia — a certain scientist busies himself with what lesser minds might call a "solution." The parasite in question, Bicox‑004, or the Beetle Mutation Parasite, has become his latest fascination.
And who is this scientist?
A question only the slow‑witted would still be asking.
Vansuga Hitsugi. Thirty‑four. Male. Born in some insignificant corner of Idaho. A birthplace as unremarkable as the humans who inhabit it.
At present, Vansuga collaborates with a so‑called dark wizard — a man whose "magic" is merely a crude shortcut to what Vansuga could achieve with proper instruments. Together, they aim to eradicate the Bicox parasite entirely. A noble goal, perhaps… if one were shackled by morality. Vansuga, fortunately, is not.
Behind the curtain of righteousness, his experiments flourish.
Ducks, pigs — whatever organism happens to be available — are subjected to infection, mutation, and observation. The wizard's genetic conjurations allow for rapid cloning of Bicox‑004, producing endless samples for Vansuga's amusement and study.
The results are deliciously grotesque. The more the host consumes, the more beetle‑like it becomes. The parasite essentially turns the host into a sort of breeding ground for bacteria and laying eggs. Milo Bao, of course, is a naturally occurring hybrid — a biological anomaly Vansuga finds "moderately interesting." Oilo, a cyborg with a mere 25% beetle DNA, is hardly worth a note.
But the infected hosts? Now they are fascinating.
One duck reached a 35% beetle conversion. A pig, a far more cooperative subject, achieved a remarkable 65% transformation before its body collapsed under the strain.
A shocking discovery to the uninformed. To Vansuga, it is merely the beginning.
He adjusts his glasses, scribbles a note, and interrupts the wizard's excitement with a bored sigh.
"More research must be done," he mutters — not out of caution, but out of hunger.
For knowledge.
For evolution.
For the next beautiful mutation.
(RETURN SCENE)
Returning to Red Bull Arena in Harrison, New Jersey, the stadium vibrates with the rising energy of the crowd as Season and his teammates prepare for their match against Ohio Valkyries FC.
Inside the locker room, the air is thick with tension and the sharp scent of turf and sweat. Season's gaze drifts to someone he wouldn't call his best friend, but he was the teammate he appreciated the most. — Foo Buckwheat, the team's last line of defense. Eighteen years old, Cuban‑Mexican, and already a legend in the making.
Foo isn't just a goalkeeper. He's the goalkeeper — the kind who turns impossible saves into routine ones, the kind who stands alone in the box like a fortress carved out of silence. His body is mapped with scars from a childhood no one talks about. He rarely speaks, rarely smiles, rarely lets anyone in.
But around Season? Foo softens. His guard drops. His breathing steadies. He feels safe — maybe for the first time in his life.
An orphan thrown into the chaos of the big city, Foo never had friends, never had a home, never had a reason to trust anyone. Even now, surrounded by teammates, nothing's changed.
Except Season. Season is the one person Foo would defend with his life — on and off the field.
And today, as the roar of Red Bull Arena shakes the walls above them, Foo Buckwheat stands ready in his gloves, unaware that this match will test him in ways no goalkeeper has ever faced.
While everyone around them is stretching and engaged in lively conversations, Season and Foo are busy scrolling through funny skits and memes on their phones, occasionally sharing a glance or a chuckle. However, Season secretly wishes to be more social. Foo, on the other hand, thinks Season's desire to socialize is focused only on him, which lightens his mood a bit. Then, the locker room door swings open.
"Gentlemen! Attention, please." Coach Josh's voice cuts through the chatter like a whistle. The room falls silent instantly.
"Good. Now listen up, squad. Today is a big match for us. We're going up against a Champions League team — we cannot blow this. I believe in every one of you, but belief isn't enough. Let's set the record straight and dominate this match."
The team nods, energy rising. The head striker steps forward, puffing his chest.
"Listen up, team! Let's get this victory and stand tall and mighty!"
He raises his fist. The team follows.
"ONE! TWO! THREE!" "FIREBALL!"
Their chant echoes off the lockers as they file out, cleats clacking against the floor, hearts pounding, ready to step onto the turf of Red Bull Arena.
Season and Foo rise last — not rushing, not speaking — just walking side by side into the storm waiting above them.
With each step Season takes, something in the air shifts — faint, but wrong, like a shadow moving where it shouldn't. Foo feels it before he understands it, a quiet tightening in his chest, his fingers curling into a fist on instinct.
It's not that Season looks different. It's the presence around him — a pressure Foo has felt only a few times in his life, long before he ever set foot in America. A presence he hoped he'd never feel again.