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Fan Works
And farther out than the City, father inland, where struggling Orga who could not afford the services of the City dwelled, the man who built an empire destroying Mecha was beginning to destroy himself. A little nip here, a swig now and then; eventually drink would consume him as casually as he consumed it.
Literature
The Buyer's habit keeps getting heavier. He needs a recharge every half an hour. Sometimes he cruises the precincts and bribes the turnkeys to let him in with a cell of junkies. It gets to where no amount of contact will fix him.
He was twelve now. Or fourteen. He couldn't be sure, but he was certain it was an even number. He ran full time, and took his wages in flects — or money that he used for flects. The only recent memory that stood out was the removal of his granna's body by the Magistratum.
"How long has she been dead?" the Magistratum medicae asked him, pulling a gauze mask down from his grimacing mouth.
"My granna's dead?"
"Choked on her own vomit..." the medicae faltered. "She's decomposing. Must have died weeks ago. Didn't you notice?"
Zael shrugged. He'd just scored a flect and wanted to use it. It itched in his pocket. These men and their questions were keeping him from it.
"How long has she been dead?" the Magistratum medicae asked him, pulling a gauze mask down from his grimacing mouth.
"My granna's dead?"
"Choked on her own vomit..." the medicae faltered. "She's decomposing. Must have died weeks ago. Didn't you notice?"
Zael shrugged. He'd just scored a flect and wanted to use it. It itched in his pocket. These men and their questions were keeping him from it.
— Ravenor
Denis and Josie were lovers. Not that they actually made love. Not any more. They hadn't made love for the last four years; neither of them had been capable of it. Denis was into Bliss, and Josie was a Game head.
Denis huddled in the shop doorway, tugging the remnants of his plastic mackintosh around his knees for warmth, his hangdog eyes scanning the street for a "roll." Even though it was cold, he was sweating. His stomach had bunched itself into a fist and was trying to punch its way out of his body. He hadn't eaten for two days; his last meal had been a slice of pizza he'd stolen off a drunken astro. But it was a different kind of hunger that was gnawing at him now. He took out a long-empty polythene bag and licked pathetically at its already well-licked insides. Denis had a second-class degree in biochemistry. Though if you asked him now, he probably couldn't even spell biochemistry.
Josie was sitting by his side, laughing. She had been laughing for nearly an hour. Her long, once-blonde hair was matted into a series of whips which lashed at her pale, grimy face as she tossed her head, giggling idiotically. Of the two, she was the really smart one. Josie had a first-class degree in pure mathematics. Only right now, she couldn't even have counted her legs.
Denis huddled in the shop doorway, tugging the remnants of his plastic mackintosh around his knees for warmth, his hangdog eyes scanning the street for a "roll." Even though it was cold, he was sweating. His stomach had bunched itself into a fist and was trying to punch its way out of his body. He hadn't eaten for two days; his last meal had been a slice of pizza he'd stolen off a drunken astro. But it was a different kind of hunger that was gnawing at him now. He took out a long-empty polythene bag and licked pathetically at its already well-licked insides. Denis had a second-class degree in biochemistry. Though if you asked him now, he probably couldn't even spell biochemistry.
Josie was sitting by his side, laughing. She had been laughing for nearly an hour. Her long, once-blonde hair was matted into a series of whips which lashed at her pale, grimy face as she tossed her head, giggling idiotically. Of the two, she was the really smart one. Josie had a first-class degree in pure mathematics. Only right now, she couldn't even have counted her legs.
— Red Dwarf: Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers
I learned to run from anyone with an unnaturally white smile. Denner resin slowly bleaches your teeth, so if a sweet-eater lives long enough for their teeth to grow fully white, chances are they have already sold everything they have worth selling. Tarbean is full of dangerous people, but none as dangerous as a sweet-eater filled with the desperate craving for more resin. They will kill you for a pair of pennies.
Live-Action TV
"Dawson was home alone 24-7, climbing the walls. Withdrawal, I guess. He didn't have patients to leech pain off anymore... so he started inflicting it on himself. Spent a week just whittling away at himself, a cut here, a gouge there. I mean, the guy was a doctor. He knew how far he could go without it getting fatal. But it was never enough. None of it was enough."
— Rolo Haynes, Black Mirror, "Black Museum"
Garak: Living on this station is torture for me, Doctor. The temperature is always too cold, the lights always too bright; every Bajoran on the station looks at me with loathing and contempt. So one day, I decided I couldn't live with it anymore — and I took the pain away. [...] I created a device which allowed me to trigger the implant whenever I wanted. At first, I only used it a few minutes a day, but I began relying on it more and more until finally I just turned it on... and never shut it off.
Bashir: How long has it been on?
Garak: Two years.
Bashir: And now the implant is breaking down.
Garak: That's correct.
Bashir: Then why not just shut the damn thing off?
Garak: It's too late now. My body has become completely dependent on the higher endorphin levels generated by the implant.
Bashir: How long has it been on?
Garak: Two years.
Bashir: And now the implant is breaking down.
Garak: That's correct.
Bashir: Then why not just shut the damn thing off?
Garak: It's too late now. My body has become completely dependent on the higher endorphin levels generated by the implant.
Music
Ashes to ashes, funk to funky
We know Major Tom's a junkie
Strung out in heaven's high
Hitting an all-time low
We know Major Tom's a junkie
Strung out in heaven's high
Hitting an all-time low
Danny ran into some complications
He falls asleep during conversations
He's gotta search the street when he's on vacation
The worst thing is that I'm in the same situation
And all I do is sit and think about you
If I knew what you'd do
Collapse my veins, wearing beautiful shoes
It's not living if it's not with you
He falls asleep during conversations
He's gotta search the street when he's on vacation
The worst thing is that I'm in the same situation
And all I do is sit and think about you
If I knew what you'd do
Collapse my veins, wearing beautiful shoes
It's not living if it's not with you
— The 1975, "It's Not Living (If It's Not With You)"
Like a ghost, don't need a key
Your best friend I've come to be
And please don't think of getting up for me
You don't even need to speak
I've been here for just one day
You'll already miss me if I go away
So close the blinds and shut the door
You won't need other friends anymore
Your best friend I've come to be
And please don't think of getting up for me
You don't even need to speak
I've been here for just one day
You'll already miss me if I go away
So close the blinds and shut the door
You won't need other friends anymore
— Dido, "Don't Leave Home"
Tabletop Games
When the smoke came, she drew on it like she was gulping for air. Ah, sweet crystal! Sweet, sweet end of pain! Once, it made her feel invincible and energetic (and crabby as hell). Then it just made her crabby. Now it just kept her from feeling like she wanted to die. She didn't think about the strange woman anymore: nothing mattered except the end of the grey, flat despair of life without meth.
— Vampire: The Masquerade — Clanbook: Followers of Set
In his burned-out state, Trevor sits at the low end of the Adept scale. Although his Arete and magickal knowledge should allow him to do more than he does, it's an open question as to whether or not he could do anything more than stir smoke, alcohol or tricks of the light.
— Mage: The Ascension — The Orphan's Survival Guide
This overweight alcoholic is nearing the end of his rope. [...] Biloc's brutality to the animals and Black Spiral Dancers has earned him their undying hatred. A few times, he has been so drunk that Aubrey Dututre has had to step in and perform the show. Biloc's days are numbered and the show is actively searching for a new animal trainer. It is only a matter of time before an unfortunate accident with the wolves takes place...
— Character Notes for Bill Biloc, Midnight Circus
As a Hellstrider fells his enemies, each slain soul is rewarded by the Dark Prince. Intoxicating energy courses through the warrior's veins, invigorating his form with a potent draught of pain and despair which leaves him shuddering in delight. However, such pleasure does not last for long, and it is addictive in the extreme. A battle's end, all that remains are the pangs of suffering and a gnawing hunger that consumes all thoughts bar one — to feel Slaanesh's stimulating embrace again. Not even the dream of becoming a mighty Lord of Chaos survives, sacrificed as the cravings take hold. So it is that the Hellstriders have cursed themselves to the eternal hunt; they must fight to feed their addiction to pain and torment, or die from the withdrawal — there are no other choices.
— Warhammer: Warriors of Chaos Army Book (8th edition)
"I do not know at which point I ceased to be the master and became the slave, but they have me fast in their chains. I need the powder every day now or my eyes weep and my hands shake. And they have me do things for them, as I once had them do for me — steal things, hide things, play turncoat to my own liege lord. I have thrice-damned my soul and betrayed my friends, my city and my empire to our greatest of enemies."
— Doctor Anton Wiessang, Master Necromancer, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Children of the Horned Rat — A Guide to Skaven
Video Games
You had thought your will was strong enough, but now you wake from sleep, already standing over the box, your hands reaching out—
The light's delights.
Open the box. Let it bathe you. Its warmth is long-needed sleep, clear crystal air, a lover's embrace—
Over too soon.
The light has enfeebled you. It's raising terrible lesions on your skin. You can't survive much more of this. But oh, the Sun, the Sun...
The light's delights.
Open the box. Let it bathe you. Its warmth is long-needed sleep, clear crystal air, a lover's embrace—
Over too soon.
The light has enfeebled you. It's raising terrible lesions on your skin. You can't survive much more of this. But oh, the Sun, the Sun...
"If I had two caps to scrape together, I'd buy the materials to make my own, but my damn hands won't stop shaking. This guy named Dixon. Something about him seems sketchy, but I can't stop now. Last time I stopped, I felt like I was going to turn inside out. At this point, I'm mostly buying his stuff just so I don't feel sick. Speaking of which, do you have any spare caps?"
— Jacob Hoff, Fallout: New Vegas
"Make it quick, will ya? I'm coming down and I gotta get my fix."
— Paulie Cantelli, Fallout 3note
"Dr. Klein takes his medicine daily, tiny doses of Filth. He fancies himself immune, but there is no immunity to the slime that flows along ninety-nine dimensions his science cannot see. Dr. Klein is part of the soup. Now he is more, and now he is less. He has plumbed depths you cannot possibly fathom. His skull is a tentacular snow globe.
Shake it, sweetling. Shake it!"
Shake it, sweetling. Shake it!"
— The Buzzing, The Secret World
I'm thirsty, but the water doesn't work. It should be more... blue.
You take it like medicine at first, the lyrium. Your whole body sings with it, like the Maker's own fire. You're not scared of anything, not even abominations. After, it even takes away the nightmares. But the ration's too small. If they don't give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.
The senior templars all have that look, that cloudy look in their eyes. "Sign your confession," they said. I'm trying. I can't think of what name to sign.
You take it like medicine at first, the lyrium. Your whole body sings with it, like the Maker's own fire. You're not scared of anything, not even abominations. After, it even takes away the nightmares. But the ration's too small. If they don't give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.
The senior templars all have that look, that cloudy look in their eyes. "Sign your confession," they said. I'm trying. I can't think of what name to sign.
— Confessions of an unknown templar, Dragon Age: Inquisition
