Chapter Text
It started at the homecoming party.
It was a hot summer night in early August, and the Champions Mansion was full of laughter and excitement from the players freshly returning from the 2026 World Cup. Naturally, the USA players coordinated a homecoming party for all of the players, which would be the first party in the new mansion (the original mansion sunk in the Atlantic Ocean on the way to New York, (or New Jersey, no one really knows).
It was intended to be a homecoming party and a celebration for Spain, the winning team, but after some voiced opinions (from people that definitely weren't Ronaldo), it also became a retirement party for the departing players. The front of the room was decorated with framed photos of retiring players, as well as each team’s tables having a framed photo of their retiring players as centerpieces. On the wall near the entrance, Neymar, Messi, and Ronaldo’s (not actually Ronaldo, just a photo of his botched statue bust) photos were hung on the wall with shining gold frames.
Near the front of the room, Kylian Mbappe and Jude Bellingham chatted across their respective tables about the upcoming Madrid game, both players occasionally glancing at other tables (Kylian didn't miss a chance to glare at Vini Jr, while Jude spent the downtime mocking Kylian and making faces at Erling Haaland, who laughed back).
“JUDE!” Harry Kane yelled, snapping Jude out of his silent conversation with the Norwegian across the room. Jude turned to the British man, who sighed and practically mumbled, “Joowah shu Erling ishuu gay dohs?”
“What did you say?” Jude furrowed his brows. He usually understood Harry, but he wasn't paying attention enough to decipher his speech this time.
“I SAID,” Harry yelled. “DO YOU WANT SOME DRESSING WITH YOUR POTATOES?”
The room went silent, as Jude glanced around. He barely suppressed a laugh as Erling caught his eye, holding a hand over his mouth to prevent laughing. “Uhm, sure, mate. Sorry.” Jude took the gravy from Harry, whose face was more red than Erling’s national jersey.
“On that note…” Christian Pulisic quickly drove the attention away from the awkward translation error. “Welcome everyone to the champions mansion’s World Cup homecoming party!” A couple awkward claps followed, to which the American awkwardly chuckled and continued, quickly muttering. “And of course… congratulations to Spain on their win.” The Spanish players smiled and waved in the middle of the room, Ferran Torres holding up the World Cup trophy. Christian sighed. “Anyways—”
The American captain was interrupted by yelling from none other than the Argentina table. Two players held back a (handcuffed) Enzo Fernandez, who growled at the Spaniards, yelling, “IT’S RIGGED! IT’S ALL RIGGED!” At the Spanish table, Cubarsí quickly scrambled away from the Argentinian, hiding behind Cucurella(‘s hair). Enzo struggled against the other players, bumping into the Argentina table violently and knocking over the silver framed photo of Lionel Messi.
The retired Argentinian himself kept a tired expression on his face, as a familiar football-shaped puppet emerged from underneath the table.
“Almost as rigged as America getting Donald Trump to reverse a red card, just to getwhooped by Belgium!”
The puppet had seen better days (except for the day it had been kicked off of the mansion boat by Ronaldo and almost drowned), but for the most part, he was relatively put together, the only additions being a small silver metal and a blue and white robe around its base. At the comment, laughter erupted from every table—except for the American and Belgian tables.
“Hey!” Kevin De Bruyne stood to defend his team, but no one noticed. The Argentinian football puppet caught the Belgian’s glare, but by that time, the writers decided that Kevin had used his maximum vocabulary for the day. He eyed the puppet, and scowled. “Kevin.”
Pulisic almost defended his team, almost, but remembered they did have that red card overturned, so instead he pulled a classic American politician move and changed the subject. “Well, that did happen, but let's at least thank New York's Mayor Mamdani for the new AC, all of the food and decorations for this party, and especially for rebuilding our mansion after someone–” he eyed the puppet, “–caused our last mansion to sink.”
Both Lionel and his puppet glared, as the Argentinian man himself decided he would do the talking. “Actually, it was Ronaldo—”
“And speaking of Ronaldo,” Pulisic interrupted yet again, “here to do his retirement speech, which he forced onto the program, Cristiano Ronaldo!”
Silence came after, as eyes laid on the empty (and vandalized) seat at the Portugal table.
The American faked a shocked gasp. “Oh no!! Cristiano didn't show up!! Just like he didn't show up to Portugal’s warm up game against us!! Who could have guessed that?” Pulisic let the absence sit, ignoring the restless Spanish team before continuing. “Anyways–”
“Yo, tio!” Lamine Yamal stood, interrupting the American. “Are you gonna let us talk, or are you gonna stand in our way just like how your president stood in the way of our World Cup celebration?”
A chorus of oooos echoed as Lamine sat back down. Christian's face went red, as he stood on his own chair. “Hey, we are hosting this party, just like how we hosted the world cup, so back off!”
“We hosted the cup too, vato! Don't take that from us just like how you colonizers took Texas in 1836!” Mora stood from the Mexican table, joining into the confrontation.
“Oh, I bet you just learned that in school, didn't you, Gilberto?” Pulisic stepped down from the chair. “Right after you got eliminated by Bellingham of all–”
“Hey–!” Jude stood.
“HEY!” Erling stood, more abruptly than his British friend. “Take that back.”
Kylian stood to attack, but Lionel had had enough of the arguing, and stood from his seat. “Why don’t we all just sit down and–”
“Zip it, abuelo!” Lamine stepped away from his table. The other three sat down–Kylian still glaring at the Norwegian.
“Lamine…” The Argentinian warned.
“You aren't the boss!” Lamine stepped closer. “Maybe you were in 2022, but–”
“You really think you're the shit after winning ONE world cup?” Messi’s puppet emerged, the felt football speaking in Lamine’s face. “Messi could still wash your sorry Spanish ass any day, the exact same way he washed you as a baby! So–”
“Please, mano!” Lamine smirked, pushing the puppet out of the way and towering over the Argentinian. “You've been washed since 2022, tio! The only reason VARgentina made it to the final was—”
“Careful…” Torres warned.
“–because papí Fifa fixed the matches so his golden goose could make it to the final.” Lamine was practically touching noses with the veteran player. “Because you couldn't have made it any other way, could you, abuelo?”
Lamine smirked as the Argentinian bared his teeth—the most expression anyone has seen him show for a while. Before he could respond, however, the lights flickered…
“What the hell?” Lamine stepped back.
…and went out.
The room was now pitch black and echoed with sudden commotion. However, the commotion was short lived, as a piercing scream echoed throughout the ballroom. Everyone froze, dead silent as the lights flickered back on.
And the room stayed quiet.
Because right there, motionless in the middle of the floor… was Lamine Yamal.
Christian gasped, running over to the Spaniard as Lionel’s eyes widened in shock. He looked up to see accusatory glares, as he (and his puppet) backed into a table. “It wasn’t me! I swear! I didn’t even touch him!”
“That’s what you said in the semi-final, mate.” Jude’s eyes narrowed.
“Shut your trap, you homewrecking bastard!” Kylian yelled, now wearing his Napoleon-esque hat as he silenced the room. He ran to Lamine, only to be pushed aside by Erling.
“Lamine!” Erling shook the young Spanish boy. “Lamine, talk to me! Please!”
“You bitch, Erling!” Kylian grabbed Erling’s collar, failing to lift the 6-foot Norwegian.
“ME?!” Erling stood on his own, towering over the Frenchman.
“YES, YOU!”
“What did I do?!”
“If YOU hadn’t won custody, this wouldn’t have happened!” Kylian pushed Erling hard—which did nothing. “If you hadn’t left me for that BRIT–”
“Leave Jude out of this!” Erling yelled, and the room gasped. The Norwegian’s pupils flickered red as he stepped closer. “At least he doesn’t hold my teammates HOSTAGE! For all I know, YOU could have killed our son!”
Another gasp from the crowd.
“Will you two quit it?!” Neymar—who had apparently been here this whole time—pushed the two apart. “Lamine is dead, and you two are more focused on arguing than—”
“No he isn’t!” Pulisic—who had apparently been checking on Lamine this whole time—interrupted. With almost perfect timing, Lamine unconsciously gasped, and Christian pointed. “See?”
The divorced couple bent down to check on their son (apparently?), as the American examined the crime scene. “There’s no signs of blood, so there couldn’t have been any close proximity injuries like a stabbing or a gunshot, and he's still alive, so poison is off the list. The lights weren’t off long enough for Messi to choke him, so I believe Messi is innocent!”
“Innocent, unlike how Messi was in the game against Egypt…” Mo Salah muttered from the back, but somehow, everyone heard him.
Christian ignored the comment, continuing his crime scene analysis. “There doesn’t appear to be any fractures, so—”
He turned over the body, and paused. On the side of Lamine’s neck sat two perfectly shaped bite marks.
He loudly gasped. “I’ve got it!”
Lionel bent down, looking as well. “Looks like bite marks.”
“I bet these are bite marks!” Christian stood proudly.
Lionel glanced at Lamine, then back at the American. “That’s what I said–”
“Don’t fear, everyone!” Christian interrupted, dramatically tearing off his USA uniform to reveal a suit. “Secret Agent Pulisic is on the case!”