your drugs is my love [rook]

[cameron]

b r i s k e

it was like fucking four in the afternoon when she stirred awake, needle still poking out of the bend of her left arm, a naked and bruised boy laying near her on a dirty, ripped mattress. the faint scent of vinegar and smoke filled the room. across the room under a torn poster of a teloscope she spotted some rolled tobacco, and briske was pretty goddamn sure she couldn't make it through the rest of this late afternoon morning without lighting one of those babies up. she plucked the syringe from her arm and crawled across the floor, matted blonde hair mostly blocking her view, until she reached the makeshift cigarettes. snatching up a few, she scanned the room for a lighter, finding one beside the passed out boy's face. standing, she made her way over to his mattress, bent over and grabbed the lighter. she lingered a second, extending her neck to check his tool box. impressive. she scored some good ass last night.

in the corner of the room briske found her clothes, crumpled up, having been immediately exposed of when she passed through the doorway. she wiggled into her shorts and buttoned up her jacket. no shirt, no shoes, no underwear. oh well. she wasn't one to complain about specifics. she turned one last time to eye her one night lover when she noticed a small chunk left in a bag in front of the mattress. the fucker would never notice it was gone, would he? and even if he did, who gave a shit? not briske. she dumped the chunk into the spoon, lit its underside, and sponged it up into the syringe.

and she was out of the room in no time, an easy, itchy feeling coming over her, creeping slowly up to her heart. nice and dizzy, she traipsed down the hallway and to the staircase of the apartment building she seemed to be in. when she reached the stairwell, she looked down. whether it was the drugs or the truth, the stairs seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. it would take years to get down there.

twenty minutes later, briske finally reached the bottom of the four story building, and pushed open the exit door. bright light struck her hard in the face, and shit it was uncomfortable. she quickly made her way into an alleyway to escape the rays, passing by a slumbering dude with a nice big bottle of something in his hand. with a grin, she took it out his hands, lit a cigarette, and took a swig. she continued down the alley, her body numb but alive as ever. the alley ended, and she was let out into a seemingly busy street, a nice big church positioned directly across from her. tossing her cigarette and lighting a new one, she crossed the road with absolutely no regard for anyone else walking. who fucking cared of she bumped into a few people, they never did her any favors. why should she?

briske reached the church steps and fell down, laughing at the mere irreverence of her presence on some holy grounds. it was fucking hysterical. no one could deny that.

pushing herself off the ground, the girl made her way to the front doors. stained glass covered the windows around them, and she shoved her fist through a pane without another thought. more laughter. she was a fucking riot. and then she saw someone else, a few yards away, sitting on the other side of the church steps. probably some goodie goodie churchgoer. briske found the idea of asking a church lady for drugs on the church grounds absolutely and painfully terrific. she couldn't let that opportunity go to waste. so she ambled up to the girl, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, "you got some crack or some shit? I could really use a goddamn fix." It took everything in her power to not bust out laughing. briske was the epitome of great. she should have her own comedy hour at a bar or some shit. that would be a class act.

[rook]

izzy rodríguez

Peacekeepers generally have a high tolerance for wasters. Drug raids aren't as common as they were during the rebellion, or so I'm told by those ancient enough to remember it. In fact, the raids they execute these days seem to only target the cartels that get too big for the Capitol's liking. There's an invisible line for growth, and when a cartel crosses it, they get shut down. It's usually because they have enough power to influence the majority of a District, and that, of course, is a threat to the Capitol. They can't allow anyone to have any form of control except them.

It's only natural for us to be waving on the side of caution, dipping our toes in the water and hoping that we're doing a damn good job of masking how big we're actually getting. It's mad to think that continuous growth is possible on a finite plane, we know there's a ceiling, and we know that too much growth can resolve in crash - be that through lack of demand or being raided. It's smart to hang in the middle, not stock too much, not sell too much. That's the business plan at present - survive.

So the past few months I haven't been selling. Boss has me as a mole, or a street rat. Ear to the ground kind of work. Listen in on other deals, follow some dodgy looking people. Information can be as valuable as drugs in this town, if you sell it to the right people. Not saying I would, but our rival cartels would pay a lot of money for what I know. It's too bad I'm a loyal creature, else I could be living a much better life, albeit at the cost of having to look over my shoulder every waking second.

Business has died down, and this week I've been told I can do some small deals again. Nothing big, just some herb, morphine, or ketamine. I have some E too but I won't deal that out here in the open. Like I said, PK's turn a blind eye to it most of the time, but if they sniff a bit of MDMA or Heroine, it's a sign that the cartel's sourcing strong stuff. Keep them blind to it, that's what I've been told to do.

"Best not be selling today, Blue." Comes a voice from in front of me. Speak of the devils and they shall spawn before you. Like a taboo, there's a Peacekeeper with a uniform so white you would almost think he was clean. I don't look up at him. I know his voice. Low, coarse, ground. Like bad coffee. His name is Jel, and in all honesty he's not that bad of a person. He's pretty honest, but that isn't to say he's innocent or on my side in any way.

I've had run-ins with Jel before. He used to be a guard at the Detention Center, so he's no stranger to fighting, not with all those riots that broke out a decade ago. The man's into his forties, and his face is rippled by the scars of long gone acne. His eyes are tested but his gaze patient. He is hardened by service, but he's as soft as they come when you get past his weathered exterior.

"Why would you say something like that, Jel?" I ask him, playing blind innocent like always. My tone is playful, almost like I want him to know I'm selling.

I sit at the steps of an abandoned chapel, the faith it once held has long been abandoned, leaving behind a decrepit shell of a religion that time has forgotten. It's tower stabs at the grey skies, cursing them in damnation. Flecks of rain freckle my cheeks, but my gaze rests on Jel's tempest face.

"Don't give me that, Rodríguez. This quarter's seen a rise in high category substance. If you're selling, you keep it low-grade, you got me?" He says, and I can't help but thing he's warning me, and not scolding me. Even if he doesn't want to admit it, he's watching out for me. Old bastard's got a soft spot for me, or maybe he's hoping I'll have his back if he has mine. Wouldn't count on it..

"Whatever man, you're killing my vibe." I wave him away, but he frowns resiliently. I sigh. No one wants to buy when there's a peacekeeper looming over you. He stays around too long and my whole day is ruined.
"Don't you have someone else to oppress?" I spit.

His cliff-face stare doesn't loosen at all, but he does eventually turn away from me and walks back down towards the market. I don't move from my spot, watching him all the way. I'm paranoid he's got eyes on the back of his head. Wouldn't surprise me. The guys always alert, makes me wonder if he ever switches off from the job. Thing is, I kind of like him. He's a nice guy until he's not.

A crow lands edgar-alan on the headstone adjacent to me. Crows are strange birds. Selfish, and willing to abandon everything they pretend to be loyal to only to save their own hides. They peck at the dead, mock the injured. Their eyes are empty, but their mouths are always full. Most people say pigeons are rats with wings, but they're wrong, it's the god damn crows. Diseased, bile fuelled agents of death.

Several peck at the bleak grass of the church grounds. My hands start to shake as I wait for business. It's bitter cold, almost winter now. The nights are getting shorter and people all around me are dying in the poverty of it. Winter itself is like a plague in District Six. Those who are too poor are infected by the cold and die out like cells on a petri-dish. Toss them in the trash because they don't thrive.

This world needs incubating.

I haven't used in a few weeks, but for some reason I feel very paranoid. I'm not even sure if it's because of the cold that I'm shaking. Maybe the gravity of Jel's warning is sinking in. I want to call his bluff, but maybe we have been getting too big as a cartel, and the policing forces are aware of it. Selling anything too high grade and getting caught could be a cuban-missile-crisis of a chess move. You can be damn sure it would blow up in my face.

A hand on my shoulder startles me, I turn sharply, my left hand moving to my belt to draw-, but it's just an embarrassingly drunk (or hungover?) blonde bimbo dressed like a Friday night with legs.
"You got some crack or some shit? I could really use a goddamn fix."

Crack. Shit. Could sell all sorts today but crack might not be wise given Jel's shadow is still cast over the church. I glance up at the tower half-expecting the forsworn Peacekeeper to be looking down at me from above, passing judgement from a spiral tower.

I don't actually have any crack on me, but I could get some from a depot if I wanted to. I relax, slumping back down onto the step.

"Not selling crack today." I inform the clutz of a girl, "Morphine, Smoking Herbs, some E's. No slackjaw."

Supply on slack is getting low, regardless of risk, the stock for it just isn't there to sell at the minute, despite our rivals having plenty of it. Wouldn't surprise me if the boss lady decided to make a move for it. Cold War tensions between cartels don't stay cold for long when there's something the other side wants badly enough to die for.

I frown at the dizzy girl who seems to already be high or dazed or maybe just mentally unstable.
"I ain't selling to you if you're gonna show me up here."