queens of thieves {zoë/bird}

[я𝑜𝓈𝑒]

{ z o ë }

you left with the key ;

Dusk had rolled stealthily over the land, leaving the streets dark except for a few streetlamps dimly illuminating the cobblestone path. This is the hour that the crooks crawled out of the shadows to stalk their prey. This is the hour that people like myself empty out their satchels and sacks and begin the hunt. We, thieves, are panthers, slinking into the night with silent grace, tracking valuable treasures with their keen sight and sense of smell. Treasures, which are not rightfully ours. But we slip them into out bags of pure selfishness.

I am no different from other thieves. And I am not less selfish nor am I more deserving of the things I steal. I am one of the worst crooks, wearing a heavy crown of avarice, forged from treasures and trinkets I covet. The obsidian crown that sits upon my scheming head is the crown of the queen of thieves. And it is rightfully mine. No shame sits cold and bitter in my heart for bearing the crown. I forged it myself. And now I will wear it.

There is no shame in being a thief.

I could never return to my original state - an impoverished girl with a twig-like frame and eyes filled with resentment for my mother (though that has not changed). Thief is ingrained into my head and infused into my bones. It is a title that is inked into my skin; there is nothing that can scrub it away. Even when my skin resembles a shriveled raisin, the ink, though blurred, will remain. There is no running from that.

So I will not even try.

My instincts are instincts of a thief; it is my nature. Even as I walk down the cobblestone street, I glide effortlessly, silently, and my vision is trained on the girl who walks in front of me. The way I scrutinize her as if she is prey - she is - and analyze her bag is utterly natural. (Just as the steady beat of my heart is natural.) Thoughts of what it contains circulates through my mind. Money and house keys are the first (and most preferable) things that surface into my brain.

I pause for a moment, just to reach into the pocket inside my boot to pull out my pocket knife. I grip the cold handle tightly in my palm, holding the knife low to my side. My body is not prepared - or capable - of plunging the knife into the innocent girl's flesh. Never before have I dared cross the bright crimson line into violence, and I will not step one foot even a centimeter over the edge.

"You. Drop everything," I demand of her. My voice leaves my mouth as a low growl.

And my eyes are orbs dancing with daggers.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

B I R D

I've been alive for sixteen-and-something years, but not once have I been victim to the equivalent legerdemain magic my own hands possess. I'm a poor girl, you could say — a girl who's entirely too vulnerable and delicate to walk the roads of District Nine alone at night. I've always wandered around light-stepped and steeped in an air of innocuous immaculacy, wearing the expressions of your typical bona fide citizen, pasted against the scenery like wallpaper.

I'm a person entirely too boring to be real. Too clean to be honest. Too fragile to be weak. But most people seem not to notice these absolute flaws in my pretense.

There are shadows in these streets where dishonest men lurk, hidden in the spaces where the light of stars could never reach. You'd think that an unassuming sixteen-year-old girl would be the first kind of prey in sight for these sorts of people. It's even a little maddening that there's one missing piece in an otherwise perfect masquerade of a spring-green innocent. I should be an invitation for thievery in this character of mine.

But maybe it's the rule of magnetism ingrained into each muscle movement that keeps them at bay. Maybe it's that all alike people repel each other, each gesture acting as a fine telltale to those that share the same double-time heart. A coded message is broadcasted with each pulse of blood in these veins: stay the fuck away.

I have never been robbed, you know. Not until now.

"You. Drop everything," she growls. Her face is half-hidden by dusk, her eyes alight from the streetlamps.

And the girl's holding a blade in her hand, fingers clenched stiffly around the handle. It's innate the way she's cornered me alone, and it's innate the way she carries herself like something waiting to pounce. But it's not quite as natural the way she holds the knife — not like an extension of her arm, but like a fuse waiting to blow. She certainly has the competence to carve into my skin, split the necessary veins, and watch my blood seep into the pavement below us. We are always capable of ruthlessness.

But I wonder if she'll do it.

People always want something from me, like they do from all people in life. There's no cap with emotional desires. I could cry for her, I could cower in terror, I could put on a right show of begging for mercy.But the way she holds her weapon is indication enough that she does not want to feel like a killer. She only wants the money: nothing more, nothing less. The fear slides off from my face.

She is just a poor girl.
But there's an underlying truth to this cliché.

"Desperation isn't a good look for you," I open my bag, and throw it at her feet. There's nothing valuable in there for her; only a fool carries a crown in a hovel of hayseeds. I've never been one to care about riches, never been one to steal more than I needed. I am no thief. Not like she is, anyway.

"Are we done, miss? Or do you wanna pat me down for some change?"

I've never been robbed before. But if this is all she's got, then I have to say I'm a little disappointed.