Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2019-09-29 09:58 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2019-09-29 09:58 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfiction: Who'll Have Mercy (Man of Medan)
I really wasn't expecting to write more than one Man of Medan fic, but I'm fascinated by the Curator and I couldn't resist trying to do something with him.
Why does he have such an incredible arse? There was no need for the probable personification of death to have such a well-defined arse. That's not relevant to the fic; it's just something I've been thinking about a lot.
Title: Who'll Have Mercy
Fandom: The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man of Medan
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: Conrad meets the Curator.
Conrad’s in a library, apparently, which would be pretty unusual even if he hadn’t been heading out into the Pacific a few seconds ago. How did he get here? Where’s the boat? He had a good look around after boarding, and he’s pretty sure he’d have remembered if there had been any fancy libraries or old dudes below deck.
“Ah, Conrad,” the old dude says. “Good evening. You’re enjoying your expedition, I trust.”
An old British dude, apparently. There definitely weren’t any of those on the Duke.
“Uh, how did I get here?” Conrad asks. “I know I haven’t drunk that much.”
“You do drink a fair amount, on the whole,” the guy says. “Enough to perhaps cause concerns in later life, if you make it that far.”
“Cool,” Conrad says. “Great. That’s not ominous at all. How the hell do you know how much I drink?”
Actually, this guy knows his name as well, doesn’t he? Conrad glances around for an exit.
Something on the wall draws his eye. It’s framed like a painting, but it’s moving, so Conrad guesses it’s a screen.
Uh. Hold on. He’s pretty sure that’s the Duke of Milan on there.
And then the angle shifts, and that’s Conrad, speaking to Jules on deck.
“Okay,” Conrad says, “who are you and why are you spying on our vacation?” Did this guy somehow manage to abduct Conrad from the middle of the ocean? How?
“Oh, I wouldn’t be concerned,” the guy says. “Not about that, at any rate. You see, I am the Curator: the curator of stories. Stories such as this one.” He gestures to the not-a-painting. “You’ll find yourself back there soon enough, and our little chat will seem like nothing more than a dream.”
So Conrad’s dreaming. Okay; he’ll buy that. Makes more sense than suddenly teleporting from somewhere in the Pacific into some old British pervert’s library. And this place does feel kind of unreal.
“You’re saying our trip’s gonna be a story worth telling?” He sits down and kicks his feet up onto the Curator’s desk. The Curator winces. “And what’s a story without a little romance, am I right? I’m guessing I get together with the hot boat captain.”
“One could argue the romantic element already exists,” the Curator says. “What of your sister and Alex?”
“Well, I mean, yeah,” Conrad says, “but, come on, we all know they’re a side show to the real couple of this piece. I can guarantee you I’ll have Fliss screaming my name within twenty-four hours.”
“Yes,” the Curator says. “Yes, you very well might.”
-
He’s speeding away. He’s going to make it. He doesn’t feel great about leaving the others on board with those assholes, but he’ll send help, he’ll fix this. Julia will be fine. They haven’t been hurting the women.
He’ll send help, he’ll get Jules home, and then he’ll hold ‘I heroically rescued you from pirates’ over her head every time they have an argum—
He doesn’t realise at first what’s happened. It’s like someone’s just hit him, but there’s no one else on the speedboat, and suddenly his body’s not working right, his head’s not working right, he’s bleeding, he—
Has he—
Has he been shot?
No. No, no, he just has to focus, he has to—
He has to push through this, he has to get help, he—
This whole thing’s his fault and everyone’s counting on him, he can’t—
He’s trying so hard to focus. He’s trying so hard to keep his grip.
He can’t be dying. He can’t afford to be dying.
-
He’s gasping and trembling and coughing up blood on the floor of the library, and then he blinks and the blood’s gone, his vision isn’t fading, he can think again.
He’s still trembling, though.
“So soon?” the Curator asks, leaning over his desk to look down at him. “Really, things were just getting started.”
Conrad pushes himself shakily to his feet. Or he tries to, at least. Kind of gives up halfway there and just sits on the floor.
He takes a few breaths, trying to prepare himself. Honestly, though, he’s not sure he’ll ever really be prepared to ask this.
He forces it out. “Am I dead?”
“Hmm,” the Curator says. “I wonder.”
“Is this Hell?” Conrad asks. “’Cause I know Jules always said my Hell would be full of books, but I didn’t think she actually meant...”
He kind of tails off, half laughing, half sobbing. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s so fucking scared.
“I’m a little disappointed, I have to say,” the Curator says. “You usually at least make it onto the titular ship.”
“Usually?” Conrad asks. He needs something to make sense; he’s desperate for it. “What do you mean, usually?”
“You could always try again,” the Curator says. “See if you can’t do better next time around. Not that you’ll remember any of this, of course.”
Conrad swallows. He’s been feeling a little weird since he stepped on board the Duke of Milan. A kind of uncomfortable déjà vu. He’s been trying to cover it up with bad jokes. Honestly, he responds to most situations by making bad jokes.
“How many times has this happened?” he asks, quietly.
“Oh, enough,” the Curator says. “I imagine just about every possible permutation has played out by now. But the story must be told whenever someone cares to hear it, and that means, of course, that the characters must play their parts. I hate to disabuse you, but this isn’t a romance.”
Conrad’s heart is hammering so hard against his chest. He took a bullet, badly; it shouldn’t be beating at all. He doesn’t understand any of this.
“Now, won’t you join me to watch the fate of your friends?” the Curator asks, gesturing to a chair. “Julia was a little impatient in surfacing from her dive, I seem to recall, and then I believe it was you who persuaded her to be equally reckless in her choice of refreshment. I think you’ll find the result rather interesting.”
Why does he have such an incredible arse? There was no need for the probable personification of death to have such a well-defined arse. That's not relevant to the fic; it's just something I've been thinking about a lot.
Title: Who'll Have Mercy
Fandom: The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man of Medan
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: Conrad meets the Curator.
Conrad’s in a library, apparently, which would be pretty unusual even if he hadn’t been heading out into the Pacific a few seconds ago. How did he get here? Where’s the boat? He had a good look around after boarding, and he’s pretty sure he’d have remembered if there had been any fancy libraries or old dudes below deck.
“Ah, Conrad,” the old dude says. “Good evening. You’re enjoying your expedition, I trust.”
An old British dude, apparently. There definitely weren’t any of those on the Duke.
“Uh, how did I get here?” Conrad asks. “I know I haven’t drunk that much.”
“You do drink a fair amount, on the whole,” the guy says. “Enough to perhaps cause concerns in later life, if you make it that far.”
“Cool,” Conrad says. “Great. That’s not ominous at all. How the hell do you know how much I drink?”
Actually, this guy knows his name as well, doesn’t he? Conrad glances around for an exit.
Something on the wall draws his eye. It’s framed like a painting, but it’s moving, so Conrad guesses it’s a screen.
Uh. Hold on. He’s pretty sure that’s the Duke of Milan on there.
And then the angle shifts, and that’s Conrad, speaking to Jules on deck.
“Okay,” Conrad says, “who are you and why are you spying on our vacation?” Did this guy somehow manage to abduct Conrad from the middle of the ocean? How?
“Oh, I wouldn’t be concerned,” the guy says. “Not about that, at any rate. You see, I am the Curator: the curator of stories. Stories such as this one.” He gestures to the not-a-painting. “You’ll find yourself back there soon enough, and our little chat will seem like nothing more than a dream.”
So Conrad’s dreaming. Okay; he’ll buy that. Makes more sense than suddenly teleporting from somewhere in the Pacific into some old British pervert’s library. And this place does feel kind of unreal.
“You’re saying our trip’s gonna be a story worth telling?” He sits down and kicks his feet up onto the Curator’s desk. The Curator winces. “And what’s a story without a little romance, am I right? I’m guessing I get together with the hot boat captain.”
“One could argue the romantic element already exists,” the Curator says. “What of your sister and Alex?”
“Well, I mean, yeah,” Conrad says, “but, come on, we all know they’re a side show to the real couple of this piece. I can guarantee you I’ll have Fliss screaming my name within twenty-four hours.”
“Yes,” the Curator says. “Yes, you very well might.”
He’s speeding away. He’s going to make it. He doesn’t feel great about leaving the others on board with those assholes, but he’ll send help, he’ll fix this. Julia will be fine. They haven’t been hurting the women.
He’ll send help, he’ll get Jules home, and then he’ll hold ‘I heroically rescued you from pirates’ over her head every time they have an argum—
He doesn’t realise at first what’s happened. It’s like someone’s just hit him, but there’s no one else on the speedboat, and suddenly his body’s not working right, his head’s not working right, he’s bleeding, he—
Has he—
Has he been shot?
No. No, no, he just has to focus, he has to—
He has to push through this, he has to get help, he—
This whole thing’s his fault and everyone’s counting on him, he can’t—
He’s trying so hard to focus. He’s trying so hard to keep his grip.
He can’t be dying. He can’t afford to be dying.
He’s gasping and trembling and coughing up blood on the floor of the library, and then he blinks and the blood’s gone, his vision isn’t fading, he can think again.
He’s still trembling, though.
“So soon?” the Curator asks, leaning over his desk to look down at him. “Really, things were just getting started.”
Conrad pushes himself shakily to his feet. Or he tries to, at least. Kind of gives up halfway there and just sits on the floor.
He takes a few breaths, trying to prepare himself. Honestly, though, he’s not sure he’ll ever really be prepared to ask this.
He forces it out. “Am I dead?”
“Hmm,” the Curator says. “I wonder.”
“Is this Hell?” Conrad asks. “’Cause I know Jules always said my Hell would be full of books, but I didn’t think she actually meant...”
He kind of tails off, half laughing, half sobbing. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s so fucking scared.
“I’m a little disappointed, I have to say,” the Curator says. “You usually at least make it onto the titular ship.”
“Usually?” Conrad asks. He needs something to make sense; he’s desperate for it. “What do you mean, usually?”
“You could always try again,” the Curator says. “See if you can’t do better next time around. Not that you’ll remember any of this, of course.”
Conrad swallows. He’s been feeling a little weird since he stepped on board the Duke of Milan. A kind of uncomfortable déjà vu. He’s been trying to cover it up with bad jokes. Honestly, he responds to most situations by making bad jokes.
“How many times has this happened?” he asks, quietly.
“Oh, enough,” the Curator says. “I imagine just about every possible permutation has played out by now. But the story must be told whenever someone cares to hear it, and that means, of course, that the characters must play their parts. I hate to disabuse you, but this isn’t a romance.”
Conrad’s heart is hammering so hard against his chest. He took a bullet, badly; it shouldn’t be beating at all. He doesn’t understand any of this.
“Now, won’t you join me to watch the fate of your friends?” the Curator asks, gesturing to a chair. “Julia was a little impatient in surfacing from her dive, I seem to recall, and then I believe it was you who persuaded her to be equally reckless in her choice of refreshment. I think you’ll find the result rather interesting.”
no subject
I. Love. This.
The whole idea of the characters being forced to live out these events in an awful groundhog day/Dead by Daylightesque cycle is... pretty horrifying, really. You've created a new wonderful, horrific, headcanon.
(He really does have a nice ass. It's kind of weird)
no subject
(I've heard multiple Let's Players comment on his perfectly sculpted buttocks when he stands and turns during the credits.)
no subject
Unf. Yes.
(Yeah, I noticed immediately. But I'm a pig and my eyes default to men's rears, so *shrug*)