alice dexter {d7} finished

I don't thieve. Not really. I do what it takes to survive. There's a lot more in-between those two definitions than most think, which is odd, considering survival is of the utmost importance in this universe I'm accustomed to. And it's a pretty shitty one, if I'm honest. Not my first choice. I don't want to work 'til I die, or die working, or die by force in a slaughterhouse designed as a game for the sickos in the Capitol. Not until I'm older, at least. I don't thieve in the way that most people assume when the word 'thief' comes to mind. I don't care for petty objects traced back to my red hands. I steal something much more valuable.

I steal lives.

Not in the 'senselessly killing every person that ticks me off' kind of way. I'm not into murder. It's a bit of a loose phrase but it's the only way I can explain it without having to go into the boring (and guilty) details. Just don't test me. Otherwise you'll be finding out those details the hard way, with your secrets balancing on the edge of my tongue. Then you'll make your choice: have me swallow them back down into darkness with a smile on my face or watch me spit them out for all to hear. But that's up to you to decide, of course.

Like I said: I'll ruin you. And, after that, your life.

----

"The Dexter girl? She's harmless."

"Sir," the lower-ranked officer insists with a disgruntled cough, "the amount of accusations and complaints we've received in the past... month, let alone year-"

The officer cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "She's too much paperwork, too much time, too much to produce very little - and besides, I've investigated it all. The girl hasn't actually done anything illegal."

"Well... technically she hasn't-"

"So there you go!" the officer shrugs, leaning back into his chair as the files flop from his hands onto the desk. "Nothing illegal, nothing in our jurisdiction. She just has a knack of getting people into sticky situations who apparently deserve to be there. Could make something of herself in these offices one day."

"But Sir!"

"You're beginning to sound like the girl has got you into a mess, Cadet" the elder laughs. "That wouldn't be the case, would it son?"

The younger of the two grunts back a "No, sir." Whether it's convincing enough, the other doesn't seem to care.

"Unless you'd like to re-do all the paperwork on those... fifty-something files?"

He's a broken record smashed by her hammer. "No, sir."

From underneath the open windowsill, the Dexter girl laughs and walks away.

----

There's a collection of photographs hanging from my ceiling, fluttering ever so gently as the wind sneaks in through my window. When I was smaller I thought that the breeze was compromised of invisible ghosts. But I wasn't scared of them. In fact, I was rather fascinated by my imagination's creations. With big, big, big eyes that were almost too large for my face I stared up at the curtains and smiled, waving hello to the transparent air. I still think my eyes are still massive, but people say I've grown into them. The colour of my hair seems to have leaked into my skull at the time of my creation, craters inked with chocolate that spurts from my scalp. Dainty fingers brush the edges of the prints, my personal favourite photos on display for all to see. The ones that haven't yet seen the light of day hide in my drawers, threatening to send my acquaintances tumbling down a slipper, dark slope.

Lips curl into that trademark smirk as my eyes dart to the closed drawer and soften as weariness settles in. The night is young and I've already read through the Treaty Of Treason - a habit that is half routine, half superstition, and a little bit of reassurance for my nagging conscience. It's quiet in here. Normally I don't mind the quiet of my room, but a hand still drags through my tangled hair. My thoughts are scattered, jaded: my parents are - I don't know. I don't care. The girl in the mirror across the room catches my eye and she looks exhausted. She looks guilty, even though she's done nothing wrong. I know I haven't. There's a reason why I read that damn book every day. There's a reason why I'm falling asleep in my own bed and not in a cell. I haven't done anything wrong, says the law. But I'm not convinced- Yes I am. Yes I am. 

The night is young but these worries are aging into my skin.

----

 "Come on Dexter," the officer pleads. "You know where I work. I could get you in serious trouble."

He's grasping at thin air and she knows it. 

"Actually," she states so matter-of-factly, holding herself so highly that she might float away and into the sky, "there's nothing about taking photographs that goes against any law or by-law in the District or entire country. Distributing photographic content depicting forms of treason, anti-Capitol behaviour, symbols or faces of rebellion, or anything  else that goes against the law, yes. But taking them? Nothing wrong with that,  sir."

He cringes.

"Come on, kid. Stop playing games."

She's bored. Huffing into the air, she sits on a bench outside of the District Square, doodling into the margin of her notepad. Her latest target sits behind her, backs facing one-another, whispering his replies underneath his breath so nobody else can hear them. This is the hardest part, the most strenuous element of the way she works. Fingertips flit through the evidence in her hands, the pat-pat-pat-pat sounds getting lost to the wind.

"Well by the looks of things I wouldn't want to play games with a cheater."

From behind her she hears an exasperated sigh, followed by a "What do you want, Dexter?"

Bingo. She's got him right where she wants him: in the palm of her hand.

"Nothing. Blackmailing an officer of the law is illegal - you should know that."

This is her element, the kind of game she knows she'll win. The photographs in her hands depict a certain blonde Peace Keeper fraternising with a woman that is most definitely not his wife. He could do nothing and live his life waiting, paranoia seeping through his system, too cautious to ever be relaxed - or he could stoop to her silly little game.

Of course, things go her way. Her photographs will remain a secret until they have to be brought up again whenever she needs a favour from a certain young officer. 

"Fine."

He's fuming. She's beaming.

"I guess I'll see you around, Cadet."