#arc.devone3

@arcmoonsoo

catastrophizing ( v. ) : the art in which you let yourself to be consumed by your innermost demons. you make yourself helpless and let your world crash down around you.

the country’s burning, the government’s committing genocide of its people, ( war-like men dreaming themselves boys, war-like soldiers dreaming themselves heroes, war-like dreams going up in flames and leaving nothing but empty, empty, emptiness behind ) and here you are, boy, dreaming yourself a true man.

it happens in a blur: the pairing up, the objective, the details; the details leave him dizzy and they slip from both his fingers and his memory. but he knows this, he must retrieve a precious object.  

moonsoo’s face is a blur. he studies the smudges and bleeding of skin with surroundings as much as his vision allows. it's like trying to make out a submerged object with water spilling behind his goggles. it's too much to process, and there's a few ( a lot ) of words caught in his throat. ( where do we begin? how should we do this? ) and in all of that is primal doubt. this is his - no, their - first mission. this is where everything matters. where he matters. where they make themselves legends or die trying.

“we should...” he hesitates, grip shaky on a pair of binoculars. the two were primed as art connoisseurs. his glimpse into the window of the mansion gives little away; backs of royally-dressed individuals and window pane. 

was it really as simple and easy as just walking in, posing as one of the invited, and getting out with the sculpture? he likes to think so. 

the theory of positivity begins with confidence and banishing away the festering doubt, else it becomes an open, spreading wound. lowering his head, he dips further behind the bush. 

the arc painted a sobering reality of what true men were. true men tore apart the sheep among their kind and bloodied themselves. true men would pay no mind to hesitancy or trust in their doubt when it came to their life or yours. it was always their life. and the dead, weak sheep men were a disservice.

“so, there's people in there. a lotta people. maybe it's better we don't make ourselves known.” and they're racing against time, and he takes a breath with each passing second. it makes the world turn and flash and maybe he prefers it like that. but he doesn't want to regret. but he can't fail. he wars with himself and spans a battlefield across his thoughts.

“and i have a feeling that this thing’ll be locked down. tight. we can try sneaking in.” he scans the upper level windows for any openings and purses his lips. shut, but still a possibility.