carry me home [ongoing]

falter

Halo had grown to hate the sound of cheering crowds and high end fog machines. Whatever they were supposed to represent; victory, glory, pride, to him they only meant one thing. Another loss. Another tally on the 0 - whatever track record.

He had no idea what he was doing wrong, or if it was even him at all, but it certainly felt like it. The Miami Heat had been on a downward trend for months already, but their performance had never been so abysmal before he joined.

It seemed like no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many hours he practised, the result was always the same. The opponent was just better. They had something he didn't, and at this rate Halo was convinced there was no way of achieving it himself.

His teammates were even worse off it seemed, it was like they had stopped trying. They made silly mistakes, claimed they'd do better next time, and let it slip even more game after game.

At homestands, Atlas was brought in front of the crowd. There was only so much he could say.

"Defeat." A robotic voice echoed through Halo's headset for what seemed for the thousandth time, and he got to his feet to pack up his equipment. As he was wrapping the wire around his keyboard, he glanced to the front of the stage, where Atlas was forced to do another interview.

He felt a pang of pity in his throat, but swallowed thickly and headed backstage where he would wait to leave with the rest of the team. Behind the curtain was a screen that showed the live broadcast, for the tech people to monitor exactly what the viewers were seeing.

Halo avoided watching it in moments like these, but everything was thrown off balance when he heard the sound of someone crying. It was Atlas, on stage, cheeks wet, struggling to speak. His tears were hidden as he looked downwards and finished, "Thank you for being there for us. We will make it right, we will work harder. I promise."