#ezangold1

The first thing I noticed was how wrong the sky looked. It wasn’t blue. Not really. It was… alive. Rippling bands of cyan light swirled above the stadium like someone had tipped the ocean over our heads and frozen it mid-wave. Every gust of wind carried the faint smell of salt and metal, and I swear I could taste electricity on my tongue.

We’d been told they’d come from the stars. Now, watching them arrive, I wasn’t sure if they came from above or from inside something we’d never known existed. The air shimmered. And then they stepped through.

The Cyan Collective.

They moved like reflections in water, human shapes, but too fluid, too graceful, each step stretching a fraction longer than it should, as though their bodies were suspended in some unseen tide. Their uniforms weren’t fabric; they were woven light, sheets of cyan energy bending around muscle-like forms. Eyes like pale aquamarine glass swept the pitch, and I knew instantly: they were assessing us. Measuring us.

And we were supposed to beat them.

I adjusted my jersey, the golden fabric clinging to every contour of my chest and shoulders. The reflective sheen caught the unnatural light pouring from the sky, turning the gold almost molten. The Golden Army stood around me, thirty bodies in peak condition, each one gleaming, sweat already streaking in liquid sunlight down bronze skin.

We looked invincible. We had to.

A low hum began, deep in the ground beneath my boots. It wasn’t the crowd, they were silent, locked in the same stunned trance as me. This was something else. The Cyan Collective was singing, not with mouths, but through the field itself. The grass shivered under my cleats. My bones picked up the vibration before my ears caught the sound.

That’s when I realised the hum had a rhythm, slow, deliberate like a countdown.

“Stay sharp,” I muttered to the guy on my right, Jeris, who was rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a dream. His golden laurel tattoo shimmered faintly at his neck, pulsing once with each beat of the Cyan hum.

Their leader stepped forward. Taller than the rest, skin like liquid turquoise metal, no hair, no flaws, just smooth alien perfection. Their face didn’t change expression, but their eyes locked on me, and I felt that hum shift. Lower. Stronger. Directed at me.

“Golden One,” a voice spoke, not in the air, not even in my ears, but inside me. I clenched my jaw. “You carry the signal.”

I took a step forward, just enough to make my boots crunch against the grass. “We carry our own signal.”

If the alien could smirk, they didn’t. But the hum shifted again, now wrapping around the edges of my mind like a silk noose. It wasn’t hostile. That was worse, it was curious.

They were here for a pre-match “ceremony,” the officials had said. Just a formality before the real thing next week. A cultural exchange. But I could feel it, every second they were here, they were scanning us, learning our movement, matching our breathing patterns. The Golden Army might be the most disciplined, dominant team on Earth, but these cyan ghosts… they were predators.

One of them glided past me, stopping just behind Kellan, our striker. Without touching him, they leaned close enough that the cyan light haloed his gold. I saw Kellan’s chest rise and fall in perfect sync with the alien’s, his jaw going slack for just a second before he blinked hard and stepped away.

They were testing us.

The hum stopped. The Collective gathered at the centre circle. We followed the gold and cyan, splitting the pitch into two molten halves. The leader lifted a single hand, fingers long and almost translucent against the cyan glow. From the sky, a beam descended, not hot, but blinding, hitting the exact centre of the field.

The grass there… shifted. Bent. Rearranged itself into symbols none of us had ever seen before, loops and arcs etched into the turf with impossible precision. They looked almost like plays on a tactical board, but far too complex, as though each curve carried meaning beyond movement.

A gift? A warning?

No one moved.

Then the leader stepped back, letting their fingers fall to their side. The symbols flared cyan for a heartbeat, then sank into the earth, leaving the pitch smooth and untouched. Like nothing had happened.

But it had.

“Prove your signal,” the voice said again inside my mind. This time it wasn’t a request. It was a challenge.

My heart was hammering now, not from fear but from something sharper, an itch under my skin, a hunger to meet their precision with dominance of my own. I wanted them to see the Golden Army in full force, to know that our gold wasn’t just a colour. It was a crown.

Without thinking, I raised my right arm, flexing so the sleeve tightened across my bicep. The floodlights caught the gold, and I saw it reflected in their eyes, a beam of defiance. Around me, my team shifted forward, muscle by muscle, like a living wall of molten metal.

“You’ll see our signal,” I said, not caring if they heard me in words or just in the way my stance carved the air between us. “On match day.”

The leader tilted their head. For the first time, I thought I saw movement in their face, an almost imperceptible narrowing of those pale cyan eyes.

And then, as if pulled by an invisible tide, the Cyan Collective stepped backwards. One blink and they were gone, the ripple in the air sealing like water. The hum faded, the light dimmed, and the sky returned to its false, ordinary blue.

The crowd erupted. But I barely heard them. My blood was still pounding with that alien rhythm, my skin still tingling where their gaze had passed over me.

Next week, under this same sky, we’d face them not just in strength, but in will.

Gold against cyan. Signal against signal.

And I would make damn sure they remembered the moment they first looked into my golden eyes… and understood that the Golden Army never bends.

The Cyan Collective has arrived. The sky turns strange. The Golden Army stands ready. Victory isn’t optional, it’s survival.