DEFEAT
The words flashed over and over again on Ollie's MIND unit. Ever since his victory against Liz, he has suffered nothing but losses. Each defeat chipped away at his confidence, leaving a bitter taste of inadequacy.
This time (his third loss) was against a rugged-looking, much older man named Silas, grey hairs overtaking his head, dog tags hanging around his neck.
His OvK, the hulking Specter, had utterly demolished Ollie's Glaive with its ranged cannon. "Sorry, kid," the man said, his voice low and gruff. "It's nothing personal, I'm just skilled with weapons." He reached out his hand to shake Ollie's.
Ollie tried to hide his disappointment by feigning a smile and reciprocating the handshake. "Y—Yea, I get it. See you around, Pops."
"Pops?!" that man shouted. "I'm only 45! Damn kids these days." Ollie stared back at him, unclear of what the man was trying to say. Silas put his hands into his jacket pockets and headed towards the elevator. Ollie watches as Silas steps inside his prize for winning the duel. The doors closed, and it vanishes.
A wave of crushing frustration washes over Ollie. "How do I keep losing? This is driving me nuts!" he mutters, tears welling in his eyes. The persistent sting of defeat is almost as painful as his still-healing knuckles. He had trained, he had practiced, but each subsequent Pilot seemed to expose a new weakness that he hadn't anticipated.
His MIND sprang to life, and the receptionist from the lobby appeared as a hologram in front of him. "Mr. Greenfield, our records show that you have lost three consecutive matches. You are required to return to the previous floor. This is per CyberMask's explicit orders. Your elevator will appear momentarily. " She vanished, and the comm closed.
"No!" he screamed. "A whole damn floor?! That's, like, forever ago! Lyra would be so disappointed with me."
His phone buzzes, but he ignores it.
He follows the directions of the receptionist and enters the elevator.