AN: Okay, so this is my triumphant return to fic writing after a 5 year break from it… I felt it only fitting that I write a fic for a show that was cancelled 6 or 7 years ago. Makes sense, right? Whatever. If there are any fans out there, like me, let's try to revive Dead Like Me. I really miss those characters. This is also un-beta'd. I'm from the era before beta readers were the new big thing. I'm not going to start now. That, and the only semblance of a beta reader I ever had broke my heart recently. Let's not mince words here, folks.
Disclaimer: I don't own DLM. If I did, it would be running still, and it would be more pornographic (like True Blood). That, and I might change its name to "Dead Like Mason" and make him the main character. But none of this is true, so obviously I don't own it.
Gone with the Wind
Daisy Adair had woken up that morning the same as she had any other morning; dazed, slightly hung over, the softness of her naked body wrapped in satin sheets comforting and warm. But within moments, a small smile appeared on her angelic face, as she realized that this morning was unlike any other. This was the day that her new life, as a proper actress, began.
After months in Hollywood, Daisy had finally gotten her big break. And all it took was a blowjob. Daisy prepared for her big silver-screen debut. She meticulously chose her outfit and did her hair. She wanted to be in prime condition, her best form, for today she would be shooting beside Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable. She was a vision, as she stepped out into the balmy Georgia air. She made her way to Selznick International Pictures, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.
When she arrived, she was one of twenty-four girls who were to be extras in the scene 'The Taking of Atlanta.' The work was easy; just running back and forth screaming and looking anxious, until the shot that the Hollywood bigwigs had requested was achieved. Clark and Vivien were nowhere in sight; it was a disappointment, but that was Hollywood. Daisy held her head high and did her job.
She decided to stick around after the other extras had gone, hoping to snag some costume jewelry or perfume as a parting gift. All that running had made her exceptionally hot, so she sat around in the dressing room in nothing but her pale pink, lace bloomers and brassiere. She stared at her own face. Flawless, she thought, utterly flawless. I'm going to be a star. And this face, this exquisite face, and my talent, my undeniable talent, are my tickets to the life I deserve.
She didn't even notice the other in the room, until he positioned himself behind her so that she saw his reflection in the mirror. She jumped, turning around and getting a better look at the intruder.
"How unceremonious," she laughed nervously, replacing her look of concern with a confident smirk. She turned her body to face him and took him in, calming herself down through force of will alone.
"I do apologize, Miss," the gentleman shook his head. He was an average-sized man, fit, with rich dark skin and bright eyes. She thought him to be a fine looking man, but he was clearly not an actor. He lacked l'air d'un personnage impressionant; he was horrifically unexceptional, forgettable, and plain, all things she hated. And now he was invading her space, and she wasn't completely clothed, and she was alone.
She reached, discreetly, for a bottle of perfume.
"No need for that, Miss. I'm not here to bother you," he said, thinking to himself, What a lovely young girl. It's a pity. But she has her fate, and I have mine. She'll get her lights someday.
Daisy stiffened, feeling wary about his presence, the look he gave her, the way he spoke to her. It wasn't predatory, or threatening… It was more like he knew something that she didn't, and her not knowing was absolutely terrifying.
"So what do you want, Mister?" she asked, placing the perfume down, "I've got an idea. How about my autograph? I promise you, sir, it'll be worth something someday."
"No thanks, Miss. I actually just came back here to have a cigarette; I wasn't expecting to see anyone back here. I do the lights for this studio," he explained, so practiced in the art of lying that even an actress couldn't tell that he was being completely false. She looked at him as he took his cigarettes out of his brown corduroy coat pocket with hungry eyes. He recognized an opportunity, and jumped on it, asking, "Would you like one, Miss?"
"I don't smoke," she lied, unconvincingly, "It's very unbecoming for a lady."
"Just one won't kill you," he replied, "And I promise not to tell anyone."
She caved. "Maybe just one. I had a hectic day today. Butt me."
He held out his cigarette case and she gracefully removed one. He lit a match and extended it to her, expecting her to take it from his hand and light her own cigarette. Instead, she got up and crouched her body forward, pursing her lips and touching the end of the cigarette to the flame. She inhaled a few times, smoke filling her lungs, and receded back into her seat. He shook out the match and tossed it aside.
She's a bold one, he thought, she'll make a good reaper.
"Thanks, mac," she said, winking, "So, what's your name?"
"My name?" he thought for a moment, and decided to say the truth, "Antone."
"Nice to meet you, Antone," she smiled, and for a flickering moment, he felt awful about what he had to do. "My name's Daisy, Daisy Adair."
"Enchanté," he replied. Her face lit up.
"Ah, vous parlez français! Alors, je ne parle plus. Je n'ai jamais eu l'occasion. Quand avez-vous appris?"
"D'accord," he responded, thinking it ironic that French was his first language. How could he explain to this young lady that he had learned from his grandmother, who had in turn learned from her masters, when they were both slaves in Louisiana in the early 1800s? There was no way. So he lied. "I'm teaching myself. I want to move to New Orleans. France, someday, but for now New Orleans."
"Ah, I see. Well as my papa always said, 'The only thing standing between you and the top of the mountain is the mountain,' or something like that," she took another drag, "I want to be an actress, on the big screen. So I saved all of my money and came here about six months ago. This is my first real job."
"How proud you must be," he said, taking a pull from his own cigarette, "Living out your dreams. And you were wonderful, I watched you."
He hadn't, but she didn't know that. "Why, thank you," she grinned with satisfaction, but not arrogance, as she took her last drag from the tiny cigarette. She threw it to the ground and stomped it out with her high-heel-clad left foot.
He finished his cigarette in silence. She got up and brushed fallen ashes off herself.
"Well, it was nice to chat, but I think I'd best be going now," she extended her right hand theatrically. He hesitated, staring at it, then enveloped it in his own, patting her hand gently. She looked at him, and he looked at her dainty fingers, noticeably lacking any rings. An effervescent light exuded from her fingertips like a spark between them. She felt strange suddenly, and pulled away from him. She looked at her hand as though she expected to see it had been scathed, but of course it hadn't. She was confused, but stepped away.
"Au revoir, ma chérie," he half-heartedly waved and walked away, leaving her alone in the dressing room. The door shut with a click. She sat down and pondered what had elapsed, staring at her own face in the mirror again. She felt like a weight had been lifted.
It was only after she got dressed and filled her purse with small trifles that she smelled the smoke, and felt the darkness. She opened the door to the dressing room, burning her fingers, and inviting a cloud of smoke to invade the space. She coughed and fell to the ground, thinking of escape, but remembering that this poorly constructed studio had few windows (artificial light was preferred to natural light in the movie business) and almost no ways to escape. She panicked, and tried to get up and run, but was overcome by the smoke and chaos. She realized then that it was all over; this was her last performance.
As the flames consumed her, she didn't think about her wasted youth. She didn't think about her career, or her family, or her stolen costume. She didn't think about Antone, or their interaction. The thought that pervaded Daisy's mind was more profound than all that.
She thought of her scores of illustrious lovers. The rich and famous and beautiful, men of all ages and shapes and sizes, but all with a certain je ne sais quoi about them that made them irresistible and beloved by millions.
But their charm and good looks weren't enough for Daisy. Despite what she told herself and others, she wanted something more than a break into the business of acting. She wanted more than a one-night-stand with a celebrity, more than a photo in a newspaper of her on the arm of some Hollywood cake-eater.
Why has no one ever loved me? she thought, feeling herself surrender to the inevitable. She fell to the ground and closed her brilliant blue eyes. And just like that, she was gone with the wind.
Anton watched the building burn and crumble to the ground from across the driveway, sighing sadly. That was a beautiful young girl, with a bright future. No, not a bright future; she was going to be a reaper now, and that was anything but bright. She had inherited his curse, by virtue of being his last reap. It seemed so arbitrary, so paradoxical. He shrugged it off, glad at least to be done with it all.
He turned from the scene, turning to see a cityscape of pure, blue, flickering lights. He head trumpets playing a jaunty tune and recognized the streets of New Orleans before him, bright and lively. He smiled and walked through the threshold, evaporating into a blue mist.