#[ loveshot : recieved. ]

[fatalled]

🕯 kyungseok @ talia

inner thoughts.

talia ochoa is not someone that kyungseok finds useful. how in the world she made it to level ii, he'll never know. there were a lot of choices made by cerberus that he simply would never understand. there were many agents that kyungseok couldn't believe even made it past the application process. talia ochoa being one of them. ( along with the fact that she hung around a level iii who seemed to be about as useless as her. ) for one, she isn't a good field agent. her powers require for her to be sleeping. how is that going to help stop a heist? a transport? a hostage situation? oh, wait a second, let me just catch some shut-eye. one minute in and she'd get taken out in seconds flat. level ii seemed to be filled with agents that just simply can't do much, hm? kyungseok can't work with that. he can't have someone who has no defenses — no attack — nothing. dreams? give him a break. at least some of the level iii's have powers that can do something. and then she is simply too sensitive. if kyungseok could even get past the weakness of her abilities, he'd try to help to improve her. there was always something you can do, some way that you can be better. she seems to crumble when the conversation turns into criticism. if she can't handle one conversation with him, how is she going to handle the world? if she can walk out on the catwalk with no issue but can't listen to him when he tries to help her, he has no use for her. like, apologies that he isn't out here ogling her legs, he's trying to save the people of the city. & the people the city deserve better than talia ochoa.

meme weekend — currently accepting !!

[fatalled]

❔if you weren't in your current occupation, what would you picture doing instead? [any muse!]

"well, there's the obvious answer. and then there's my answer." kyungseok pauses, the fist of his right hand resting against the palm of his left. in this glittery world of the abyss, it is easy to sink into an oblivion. and kyungseok finds himself looking over that edge these days, looking down and holding onto this inexplicable urge to jump. there was a specific name for it, that urge, that voice. l'appel du vide. that siren song to just — go. the only issue is ... where would he go? what would happen to him if he did? that fear keeps him from taking that leap. kyungseok has always held a level of control — always. he knew the next step to take, he knew what he needed to do next but lately? it's getting a little more difficult to know. instead, he flashes the smile that the cameras love. this isn't the time or place to be wondering such things. "the obvious answer is that i would've followed my dad into politics." & he waits for the laugh. that reeling, rocking motion as they shake their head. it's hard to picture, the pressed suit and the perfect tie and the talk about freedom, universal ideas, or something else coded into perfect little words. he could have done it. he lived, it felt like, an entire life sitting behind a desk preparing for an entire future of sitting behind a desk. he hardly recognizes that person anymore. his life before, his life after. they were two completely different people. one died and the other lived. kyungseok died — and loveshot kept going. "i don't think i would've last very long there. i might have the face for politics but i don't ... i don't do well in cramped places." he takes the pause to take a drink. here, you were served with enough alcohol to knock an eye out and he is on his third of whatever these blue drinks were. they are almost neon with how bright they seem. "and then there's my answer. if i weren't a hero, if i didn't follow my dad's dreams ... if i just went on to do what i wanted to do to — i'd probably be an artist." the reaction is another laugh and kyungseok laughs with them. an artist? really? you? i can't see it. no one did. that's why he left it at artist instead of the details. a soft, casual shrug of his shoulder, like it was something he dismissed when he was much younger. but no — he really wanted to be an artist. he would have gone into sculpting, he would have learned how to carve marble, how to etch life into something that could not move. he had books upon books of studies and sketches, hands flexing with shifting muscles to the way soft light diffuses against the ripple of cloth. and when the edges of his mind begin to curl from the nightmares, he fell back into old habits of folding and unfolding the muscles or rememorizing how the planes of the face changed with subtle light. they didn't ask to know about that. & really, they didn't ask to know the answers at all. they want a shot at him. how unlucky for them that he doesn't sleep with civilians. "but ... i'm a hero. i can't see myself as anything else. it is what i was born to do, born to be. i don't think i'd be happy doing anything else." & that practiced, political smile hides that lie.