Ambrose Dempsey D1 {FIN}

Ambrose Peralandra Dempsey
Forty-Two Years of Age
Male
The First District Of Panem
odair
FC is Ioan Grufford
Theme: All The Right Moves by Onerepublic

“Do you think he’s going to give us any information we don’t already know?” Rubbing at tired eyes with a free hand, Detective Taverson regarded his partner with an annoyed stare. “How should I know Wilson? I’m sick and tired of seeing these blasted Dempseys in here. They’re like cockroaches. Smash one and three more crawl out of hiding to back talk me during investigations.” “Does he know why we’ve brought him in?” “I don’t know, and I honestly don’t care, I’m trying to find the family files.”

Wilson shrugged and moved over to the two way mirror that separated the peacekeepers from the interrogation chamber in which the man named Ambrose Dempsey sat with his well-manicured hands carefully folded in his lap, the fingers elegantly knitted together atop the dark suit pants that he wore. There was an almost regal air about him, from the way that his spine was straight up along the back of the chair, to the way his head was held aloft, burnt sienna eyes blinking softly with a practiced, evenly measured timing. “He’d doing it again.” “What?” “The staring, Tav. Mr.Dempsey is just looking at the mirror like he can see us. It’s unsettling.” “So? Stop watching him then.” Wilson nodded in agreement, but nonetheless kept up his vigil.

What made a citizen like Ambrose? By all accounts, the Dempseys were among the poorest families in the richest district, an irony that was not lost of the officer, given that the amount of attention they received was equal to that of tributes families or other socialites. However, despite their social standing, the patriarch of the Dempsey family kept himself well-dressed and very composed. Not a single strand of dark hair on his head was out of place, carefully combed over and moussed up or something; the only thing Wilson could think of to explain the way certain pockets of hair were frozen stiff, giving his head the appearance of having several blades pasted over the side of his face like blood drying on the battered skull of a head that had been bashed in.

But that wasn’t the only thing that seemed sharp about his personage. Thin ears tapered to points where they met his hair, and his nose a bit long and pointed near the tip. Wilson noted that the lips were flat and bloodless, pale like the rest of the skin on his face. And of course, his eyes. They were the type that could bore a hole in wall if he stared at one place long enough, dark and dead, frozen with a cold ferocity that was only augmented by the thinness of the hair strips above them. “You think he tweezes his eyebrows?” I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” Taverson replied irritably. Ambrose yawned, and Wilson caught a glimpse of shiny teeth before his own face scrunched up in imitation. Those things were really contagious.

“Nice suit he has, if a little frayed at the sleeves. Looks like a classic. Probably a family heirloom, not like they can afford a lot.” The clothing in question was deep shade of black that looked like it was made out of velvet. A tie hung about his neck like a hangman's noose, a faded violet that hung listlessly like the bloated tongue of a desiccated corpse floating aimlessly facedown in a polluted river or the ocean that bordered district four. “Wilson, if you stare at him any longer I’m going to arrest you for being a creepy stalker. Come away from the window and tell me what you think about these psych reports.” Wilson nodded, before finally taking a seat next to the detective and taking the papers that were being brandished in his general direction.

***