therealljidol week 29: your favorite piece by another contestant

[j0ydivided]

This is inspired loosely by "Buyer Beware" by yachiru (linked at the end of the piece). I'd really suggest reading it -- it's amazing -- but you shouldn't need grounding in that world to enjoy this.

Satisfaction

She hasn't been dead long. The body is still warm, and the red lipstick she's wearing is still wet, when Jim and I arrive.

A call -- a tip from an anonymous source. A Jane Doe.

"Overdose," the voice on the phone had said. It was one of Them, I could tell -- crackly and cold, coming over the line, neither male nor female, just there. "No foul play."

They spit out the address for the alley we'd find her in, then hung up the phone. No other details, and we couldn't trace the call -- they'd put the safeguards in place for that.

"Fucking figures," said Jim, when I told him what call we were on. "The fucking Fae, again."

"Shut it," I said -- you never knew who was listening, after all.

"It's not right," he said. "Taking it away, selling it back to us..."

"Only some of us," I said. "Not all of us."

"Most of us," he retorted. "Come on. Let's go kick the body, make sure she doesn't kick back, ask around, try to find the supplier."

"We won't."

"I know," he sighed. "But fuck, Tana, we have to try."

I didn't grow up in a world with magic. We had stories, about the days before -- but they were just stories. Changelings and curses and never going out on Midsummer's Eve or Halloween -- they were rumors, whispers. No one believed them, anymore.

"Fairy tales," we said. The name meant, this is bullshit.

It started small. You heard stories -- someone had disappeared, someone else had gone under. There was an epidemic, some new drug, they didn't know what. Some kind of opioid, they posited, on the news.

By the time we realized the truth, it was too late.

Imagine: being able to distill happiness or joy, inject them as a drug. Imagine being able to snort excitement or euphoria.

Imagine what you could do, if you could sell them to the populace.

That was how the war started.

We never stood a chance.

The body was right where they said it would be. A Jane Doe. No ID -- whomever found her stripped the wallet, all of her valuables. Her pockets were turned inside-out, empty. Her purse was a few feet away, the contents dumped out. The lipstick she was wearing, a broken compact full of blush, another one, popped open, spilling concealer everywhere. A tiny vial, the smug of deep velvety black still inside.

"Addict," grunts Jim, when I point it out to him. "Goddam."

We call the coroner. There's nothing else we can do. I can still see the black, running along under her skin like an electric current. Her eyes are rolled back in her head.

"I just hope it was worth it," he sniffs.

I shrug.

"You ever tried the stuff?"

"No," he snaps, "do I look fucking stupid?"

"Know your enemy," I say.

"No," he repeats. "Shit's more addictive than heroin."

I shrug, pull on gloves, and start bagging evidence.

"Have you?" asks Jim, after a moment. He's put a sheet over the Jane Doe -- I think irrationally about her lipstick as he does it, the brilliant red of her hair.

"Have I what? Tried H?"

"Yeah," says Jim. "'Know your enemy'," and he pitches his voice high as he says it, an imitation of me.

"No," I say quickly. "Never wanted to. Never..."

Happiness wasn't my indulgence, I think. Never had much use for that.

"Fuck 'em," says Jim. "Fuck it. We don't need that shit. Life's too short. I can find my own, elsewhere."

He gives me a meaningful look, one that I don't quite understand.

"My daughters," he says, after I'm too slow to respond.

"Your daughters. Right," I repeat. "Your pride and joy."

"Mmhm."

I don't know what else to say, and so we stand in silence until the coroner arrives.

We didn't realize we were at war, at first. The epidemic hit -- the new wave of addicts -- and we didn't connect the dots. The President declared a new "war on drugs", ignoring that the old "Just Say No" campaigns had never worked, and nonprofits and addiction centers alike talked about how we were supposed to deal with addiction, as if there was a path we could stay on that would keep us safe.

We were stressed, all the time. All of us -- everyone knew an addict. If you weren't addicted, your friends were, or your parents, your grandparents, one of your siblings -- your niece or nephew or the woman who babysat all the kids on the block.

"It's an inevitability," said my friend Will, when I asked him out to coffee, tried to talk to him about how I'd noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands shook, when I saw him. "Everyone else is doing it, and you think, fuck, why not me? Why not give in? You should think about it, Tana."

"Nah," I mumbled. "I don't even know what that shit is."

"Happiness," said Will, his face reverent. "Like -- when you were a kid, on Christmas morning. D'you remember how that felt?"

"Of course," I said.

"D'you remember the last time you felt that way?"

I couldn't.

"See?" he said, as I stumbled through an excuse. "It's no use. You'll never feel that way again -- not without this."

He held out a vial, something with a trace of black at the bottom of it. "Come on, try it."

"No, Will," I said. "I can't -- I'm worried about you."

"Suit yourself," he snapped, and I guided the conversation back to safe topics, safe territory.

When he overdosed, a month later, I wasn't even surprised. It was what happened: you got addicted; eventually it wasn't enough, and you ODed. Game over. No Narcan to pull you out of the hole; no rehab that worked.

"Shame," said everyone, at Will's funeral. "He was such a bright kid."

I said it along with the rest of them, and tried to forget, that I didn't know the last time I'd been happy -- truly happy.

This is how they won: they waged a war against us we didn't know about, something we had no hope of winning, never revealing their hand until every third person was an addict; until we were trying to develop piss tests for Happiness, Joy, Pride -- whatever was out there.

They waged a war against all of us.

They won.

The coroner arrives as we finish bagging evidence.

"Dead," he sniffs, bending over Jane Doe. "Overdose."

"No shit," mutters Jim. "Jesus, where do they find these people?"

"Any ID?"

"No," I say, before Jim can step in. "Anonymous tip. Jane Doe. Wallet was gone before we got here, purse dumped out on the pavement. There'll be a missing persons report -- we'll check the database downtown."

"Of course," grunts the coroner. "Same as always. Waste."

"We're gonna find the supplier," says Jim, eyeing the Doe in her bodybag. He's thinking about his daughters -- I can tell. It's something about his face, the expression, that gives it away. He's thinking about Melly and Bee, the statistics. One in three...

They're ten, too young to be targeted, but soon enough, he'll have to start checking their pockets when they get home, warning them against the dangers of talking to strangers -- beyond simple kidnapping and into, "do you want to end up like...", whatever case of the week, whatever Doe's death we're investigating at the time.

I shiver a little, thinking about it.

"You all right?" asks Jim.

"Yeah," I say. "Just sick of this shit. You know how it is."

Jim nods, turns his focus back to the coroner. "You done here, Mr...?"

"Linn," he says. "Doctor Linn. Yeah. You can go, take her belongings back down to the station."

They revealed their hand, once the epidemic was too big to ignore.

The Fae. Driven underground by the presence of iron; now back to rule over us, in ways big and small.

They controlled the drug trade.

Magic, said the rumors. This was why we couldn't stay ahead.

They stole our feelings.

We tried to fight back, tried to invent ways to protect ourselves, but none of the old ways -- salt, iron, running water -- worked anymore.

"Technology," They said, in the news. They opened their eyes a little too wide; smiled, revealing too many, too-sharp teeth. "We learned to use it, too."

We didn't have magic. They did.

We never stood a chance.

"Let's go look," says Jim, after we've loaded everything into the car. "See if we can find the supplier."

"Jesus," I say. "It's not as though she's going to have stood there and snorted it right in front of the shop she bought it at..."

"She might have," says Jim, defensive. "Fuck, you know what they're like."

He means, addicts. I can tell by the inflection on the word.

"Yeah," I say. "I know -- but she didn't seem like..."

He shrugs. "Takes all kinds," he says. "She might have been dragged there. We should look for marks, find out where she ODed, if she was brought here."

"Jim," I say. "It's no use. She doesn't -- we're not going to find the supplier. Whoever did this -- they were professional. She might have ODed miles from here. They might have called when she started to seize. I doubt they waited until she was fully dead -- her lipstick was still wet when we got here."

"We have to try," he says, and so I follow him as he runs, down the blind alley, over the uneven, weed-eaten pavement.

"I want to find that fucking supplier," he grunts, as he finishes. He's doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing in place. "Shit, did you see her? Girl can't have been more than nineteen."

"I know."

"The Market?" asks Jim. "It's our best bet, Tana."

"Yeah," I say, because it is. "Find out if we can get any leads on what stall."

They took our happiness, our joy, our euphoria -- all the good emotions, and all the bad ones, too.

Wrath. Anger. Jealousy. Irritation. Loneliness. Sadness.

They took everything, and they left us nothing.

"If you want to feel anything, anything not muted..." went the rumors, and that was how the numbers boosted.

"One in three," was the official line, but I'd seen the overdoses, I knew what it was like. More like one in two. More like, slowly everyone you know will be beholden to Them.

They sold their goods at little stalls, in the Market and elsewhere.

They had humans, to do it.

I never asked what they paid them, what could possibly make it worth it.

I never asked.

I paid what they told me to, and I didn't ask questions.

My hands are shaking, by the time we reach the Market.

It's time, or nearly time.

I disguise it as nerves. "Your clothes inside-out, Jim?"

"Yeah," he says. "Got my regulation iron, too," and he pats the pistol on his hip. It won't do anything -- not against them -- but it's a damn sight better than nothing, especially when They aren't who we'll be dealing with today. They have humans to do their dirty work. They pit us against each other. They always have, and I know They always will. I've watched it play out, over the last eight years. There are no surprises left for me, anymore.

I'm not an addict, I tell myself, because it's easier than admitting the truth. I don't need it -- except I do.

How long can you go without feeling anything? Jim talks about pride, about wanting to find the sellers, cut off the source, and I can read between the lines: any man who denounces it as strongly as he does has tried Pride, at least once in his life, probably cut with Satisfaction and a hint of Smug.

He was quick to run to the Market -- a little too quick. He's making a beeline for a stall, one where vials pass covertly from hand to hand, where coins dropped into a box guarantee a few minutes of Happiness, of Contentment, a vial that provides a quick hit -- snorted or injected, or rubbed into the gums.

"Come on, Tana," he says. "I've had a lead on these guys for a while" -- and it's not my supplier, not the one I use, so I chase after him.

My first hit was Satisfaction. I'd gotten promoted, made Detective, and I couldn't feel anything, anymore. Will's words echoed in my head: when was the last time I'd felt happy? When was the last time I'd felt anything?

That was how They got us.

I knew, from rumors, where to buy the stuff. Sat, everyone called it.

It was harder to overdose on, than H. I didn't touch the hard stuff. Sat kept me going, was what let me get out of bed in the mornings.

The first hit was pure wonder -- a surge of feeling purer than anything I'd felt in years.

I told myself I wouldn't go back.

We rush the booth. Jim shouts something about us being detectives, and I stand behind him, ready to act as backup. He watched someone pass a vial, from hand to hand, or so he said, and that's enough cause -- he handcuffs the vendor, confiscates all their wares, and hauls them to where backup is waiting.

They don't sell H. I don't see it -- no vials of inky black. They're not the ones that killed our Jane Doe, whoever she is. They have some Euphoria, a weird colored blend I'm guessing must be Nostalgia, something that looks like Affection crossed with Pride -- but no H.

There's a bunch of vials of Sat. I pretend not to notice, not to count them. The shaking has gotten more pronounced, now -- harder to play off.

"I forgot to flip my clothes inside out," I blurt, when Jim glances over at me, raises an eyebrow without saying anything. "I'm afraid..."

"Get the shit and get out of here," he says. "Meet me back at our car."

Relieved, I run off without say anything.

I've never touched the hard stuff. I've heard the rumors -- that it's like every Christmas morning you had as a kid, distilled into one potent drop -- and I'm not ready for that.

I can handle being hooked on Sat. The withdrawals are rough, but they're more like missing cigarettes than the pure cocaine rush that is Happiness.

I can handle the shaking hands, the brain fog, the feeling of something missing, an ache that starts in my back teeth and moves its way forward until my entire face hurts.

I've seen what H does to people. I've seen what withdrawal from it does.

I know where to draw the line.

I count and recount the vials of Sat, waiting for Jim. Fifteen. Fifteen vials. The number looms in my head, indescribably huge. Half a vial is enough to keep me going for a day. Fifteen is a month's supply. I could get high every night, for a month, without having to worry about where it's coming from, how I'm going to pay for it...

They've raised the price on me, the last few times. They know they've got me -- I'm not going to find another supplier, not when they could blackmail me, not when I don't have a way of destroying them without destroying myself. They won't raise it too high -- there are limits, and if the price becomes too dear, I'll get clean and rat them out -- but it's still higher than I'd like to pay.

An entire month's supply, I think, staring down at the vials in their evidence bag. Shit goes missing all the time, who would know...?

I throw them in the backseat and try not to think about it.

Jim reappears, five minutes later, just as I'm thinking that I'm not going to make it; that I'm going to have to steal one of the vials to make it back to the precinct in one piece.

"Must be hard," he says, as he climbs into the car, and I think he's talking about the arrest we just made, about Jane Doe.

"Yeah," I say, "not knowing what happened to your kid, finding out she ODed on H."

"No," says Jim calmly. He buckles his belt. "I meant you. Being up close and personal with that much Sat, when you're going through withdrawals. Did you pocket any?"

I can feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. Nerves -- something They haven't taken from us. "Excuse me?"

"I said, did you pocket any?" Jim repeats. "Don't lie to me, Tana -- we both know you're an addict."

I exhale slowly. "No," I say. "But I thought about it."

Jim puts the keys into the ignition, starts the car. "I won't tell anyone, if you do."

I think about this, as he throws it into reverse. "I..."

I look over at him, prepared to say, I couldn't or maybe I wouldn't, and then I see it.

His clothes are still inside-out. We're outside the periphery of the Market, so they don't need to be, but they are. His pants pockets are hanging outside. In one of them, I can see the outline of a bottle.

"Jim," I start. "I..."

"Eliza," he says. His wife's name. "She..."

I've met her, once or twice. She's a nice woman -- a little weird. Touched by the Fae, the rumors around the station go, or else, she has some Fae blood in her.

"They had a blend," Jim says, his voice low. "Happiness and Satisfaction."

He doesn't use their street names, and I realize, suddenly, that I've misjudged him. He's never tried them.

All of us know someone addicted, though, and in his case, it's Eliza.

"Shit," I say. "Does she...?"

"Yeah," says Jim, anticipating the end of the question. "But she started with the hard stuff."

"Shit."

"If you want to steal the Sat," says Jim, "I won't tell anyone."

I hesitate, only for a moment.

"I can't," I say, finally. "There are lines."

I don't say, if I didn't have a vial waiting for me in my car, I'd take them all.

"Fine," says Jim, after a moment. "But you won't...?"

"I won't tell anyone," I reassure him. "I can't."

One in two, was my estimate. One in two of us is addicted, but now I know, it's closer to two in three, or three in four. The numbers are edging up; we're all addicted, helplessly dependent on the Fae for our fix.

"You sure?" asks Jim, as we near the station. "That'd be two weeks of Satisfaction, for Ellie."

"Yeah," I tell him, after a beat, but it's a lie.

The only thing I am sure of is that we have lost the war.

I chose yachiru's entry for the topic "toolbox" (titled " Buyer Beware").

Choosing a favorite entry by someone else this season was difficult, a bit like trying to choose one of your favorite children. Ultimately, I knew it was going to be one of hers, but the question came down to which.

"Buyer Beware" reminded me of Jonathan Lethem's Gun, with Occasional Music, in the best possible way, and ultimately, after spending a few days rifling through everyone's entries, it is what I came back to, again and again.

Thank you for reading -- and yachiru, thank *you* for the wonderful writing you do. I'm not exaggerating when I say you are one of my favorite Idolers, and it was a pleasure to write beside you this season.