|look I wrote fic about Cinnamon
||[Jul. 26th, 2008|01:43 am]
Mission: Impossible Fanfic
You try everything you can to escape
The pain of life that you know (life that you know)
Strike a pose
Strike a pose
Dan had sent them to San Veronica to try and spark off a coup. He'd said that Generalissimo Mostra was a fascist and a tyrant and definitely not friendly to U.S. interests and they had to help the revolutionaries in the name of democracy. Cinnamon hadn't heard anything about any revolutionaries in San Veronica before that, but that was the thing about fascist dictatorships, they didn't exactly advertise their revolutionaries.
So they'd gone down to San Veronica, and Cinnamon had paraded around the capitol square with a "DOWN WITH MOSTRA!" sign and made a fuss, and nobody had paid much attention to that until Rollin, dressed as an armed guard and with a terrible fake moustache, had arrested her. Then Barney and Willy were supposed to get her out after a day, but two days had passed and she didn't see them and they didn't get a message to her. She'd gotten sick from the water, and hadn't had money to pay the prison doctor with. On the fourth day, she'd heard explosions and yelling, and then the guards didn't come anymore, but nobody else had.
The only thing trying to force the lock got her was a few broken fingernails and blisters that popped and bled. She'd thought about eating the cockroaches that scuttled in the corners of the cell. She'd curled up on the cool stones and wondered if trying to drink the dank water that collected on the walls of the cell would quench her thirst or just make her sicker. Finally, she'd patted down her hair, straightened her dress, tried to wipe some of the sweat and dirt off her face, and sat by the bars to wait for her body to be discovered.
She'd felt something wet against her mouth, something soft and warm under her head. Rollin, lifting her head through the bars with one hand, holding a cup of water to her lips with the other. Rollin had told her she was going to be all right, which was what you always said to people when they were dying anyway. She'd asked for a cigarette, and he said he didn't have any, and she'd said that even condemned prisoners got a cigarette and it wasn't fair. He said Dan had a packet of cigarettes and when he finished cutting through the bars she could have all the cigarettes she wanted.
She'd passed out before she got the cigarette. And when she woke up again, this time in a warm hospital bed with white sheets and no cockroaches at all. Rollin and Barney and Willy came to visit her and play cards, and Willy bought her a little teddy bear from the gift shop, and Rollin brought her chocolates and a note from Dan saying that he was very glad she wasn't dead and that he was sorry they hadn't been able to rescue her sooner, which was actually sort of sweet, coming from Dan.
And then her agent had called. She'd missed an Elle photoshoot and she was probably going to miss the Vogue one tomorrow--where the hell had she been and did she know how much she was contributing to his ulcer and did she want to be dropped from his client list? She apologized and promised she'd be there. When she hung up, she fantasized about exactly how much it would have contributed to his goddamn ulcer if her decaying body had been found in a puddle of shit in a San Veronica prison.
The doctor told her she had lost thirty pounds and had to stay in bed for at least a week so she could get antibiotics and electrolytes pumped into her body. Cinnamon told him she had a career to think about. The doctor said dysentery didn't give a fuck about her career, and that if she succeeded in ripping the IV out of her arm like she was trying to do, they'd just have to put it back in and strap her down like they did to mental patients. Cinnamon had had enough of not being able to move. She closed her eyes and pretended to rest.
Sneaking out of the hospital wasn't hard at all, or at least not particularly hard compared with some of the other places she'd had to sneak out of. She didn't have to pick any locks to steal a set of scrubs, didn't have to knock anyone out to get out the front door, didn't have to make sure that the taxi she took to her apartment was manned by an innocent driver and not a counterrevolutionary looking to kill a blonde.
She'd barely had time to splash her face and throw on a sweater before she'd had to leave again, praying that the Los Angeles freeways would be clear enough for her to speed to the shoot. Not even enough time to stop and get something to eat, and she was feeling warm and sick and dizzy and kept drifting in and out of lanes, and her hair was a mess and she didn't even have her concealer in the car so the dark circles under her eyes would just have to stay and they'd see how her ribs were sticking out and how much she was sweating and maybe they'd chalk it up to too much expensive alcohol or too much cheap cocaine or too many diet pills and maybe, just maybe, they'd postpone the fucking shoot and she'd be able to go back to the hospital and let them stick as many IVs in her as they wanted to, as long as she could lie still and quiet again.
"You look great," her agent said, and kissed her on both cheeks. He frowned. "Are your tits smaller? They look great," he added. "Very Twiggy."
"I'm going to throw up," Cinnamon warned him.
"You do what you need to," her agent said, and pushed her into wardrobe.
They had a clingy white silk Dior sheath for her. The material felt slick and tacky against her skin.
"I didn't think this was going to fit you," the wardrobe girl said. "That photoshoot in LIFE made you look so...curvy. I guess the camera does add ten pounds."
"Did it?" Cinnamon asked. "I don't read LIFE anymore. All those war photos, they're so depressing." She knew it made her sound shallow. She'd stopped reading LIFE because she didn't like looking at photos of Brumanian peasants with their heads blown off or Vietnamese children with their faces burned to a crisp and not knowing whether they were dead because her mission succeeded or because it failed.
Cinnamon smoothed the fabric against her stomach, wondering whether the bruises on her hips she'd gotten from tossing and turning on the pebble-strewn floor of the prison cell would show through when the camera flashed. Damn. It did look good. She turned, tugged the fabric tight against her body. Her stomach looked concave, her hips smaller than they'd been since she was fifteen.
"What's your secret?" The wardrobe girl stuck a pin into her back. "Oops," she said. "Sorry. Did that hurt?"
"I've been trained not to reveal secrets under torture," Cinnamon muttered.
"I guess you models are used to it by now," the girl said. She sighed, and stuck another pin into Cinnamon's back. "Oops. You know, I always wanted to be a model. It must be so glamorous, getting to travel and wear gorgeous clothes all the time."
"The traveling is fun," Cinnamon said. She felt her legs start to wobble. "I need some water."
"Your agent said you can't have any until the shoot is over," the girl said. "We don't have time for bathroom breaks, I guess."
Cinnamon let the girl lead her to makeup, let herself collapse into a chair across from a softly lit mirror. She wondered how many people there were on the other side before she remembered that it wasn't that kind of mirror. Nobody was going to interrogate her. There wasn't even going to be an interview this time. She closed her eyes so someone could cover up the dark circles and dab on rouge, make her look alive and glowing with health.
The set was covered with gray paper. There was an artfully distressed mattress on the floor, a disembodied set of bars stuck between her and the camera, and a big plastic cockroach on the floor.
Her agent shrugged. "Prison chic. Pretty creative, huh?"
Cinnamon sank to her knees and leaned against the bars. "I need a drink of water," she said.
She heard a pop. "Perfect," said the photographer. "You look really desperate. Very distraught. Clutch the bars, will you? Like you're trying to get out."
Cinnamon closed her eyes. It was only a matter of time before Rollin and Dan came to get her out again.