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More Like Fate	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1411 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Max Payne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Part
I: The Wrong Choice

Chapter
I: Dearest of All My Friends

Most
people, unless they're the kid from the Sixth Sense, aren't used to
having people who're supposed to be dead showing up all of the
sudden.

Most
people aren't me.

That's
right. Dearest of all my friends, Machiavellian Backstabber
Extraorinaire, the one and only Vladimir Lem was standing at
my doorstep.

I
would have added the mandatory 'in all his glory', but that would've
been inaccurate.

His
plan of reigning in Hell obviously hadn't worked out as he'd hoped.

From
the look of things, Hell itself had spat him out.

Someone
had gone all Picasso on his face, forming a split lip, a black eye
and a healthy assortment of decorative cuts and bruises. The usually
slick blond hair was disheveled and draped in some sticky substance.
Mud or blood, I couldn't tell. He was unnaturally pale, not quite on
a zombie level, but getting there, with a thin layer of sweat
covering his forehead. He wasn't sporting one of those James Bond
styled suits he favored, either. Instead, his attire consisted of
ordinary black pants, a faded white shirt, and a flight jacket.

It
wasn't a good look for him.

Strange,
but my first instinct wasn't to reach for my gun.

Like
a driver trying to get a glimpse of a particularly gruesome car
accident when he should be watching the road instead, I let curiosity
get ahead of my better judgment.

But
since when had Vlad and my better judgment gotten along?

I'd
known he wasn't an upstanding citizen when I'd befriended him. Mob
bosses rarely are. Still, I'd fooled myself into believing he was
different somehow.

Honorable.

What
a fucking joke.

It
would have been nice if somewhere between “Don't talk to
strangers.” and “Just say no.” somebody inserted
“Never let the charming gangster convince you that you're
friends.”

Not
that it would've helped, really.

But
it would've been nice.

I
waited for Vlad to speak.

Unsurprisingly,
it didn't take him long to do so.

“Max,
my friend!” the exclamation was made with a mild slur. Vlad
only slurred when he was substantially drunk. After a brief pause, he
flashed his trademarked toothy grin. It played a strange contrast to
his battered face. Grotesque, almost. “How good to see you.”

I
couldn't quite return the sentiment.

Call
me old fashioned, but when I kill someone, I expect him to stay dead.

Apparently,
with Vlad, even that was too high an expectation.

I
wasn't sure what the protocol for speaking to someone who had
betrayed you was. That's usually where I found bullets to be a much
more efficient method of communication.

Thing
was, with Vlad, I already had implemented this method.

It
hadn't gotten through.

And
I hated feeling like a mindless rodent running in an endlessly
spinning wheel of death.

Instead,
I slid into that old routine we had.

The
one where we talked in code, really saying nothing. Verbal Ping Pong.

“Hot
date again?”

“Sizzling,
actually,” he replied, his mouth curving into a familiar smirk.

“Who
with?”

“An
old friend. I'm sure you'd get along.”

“You
have friends all over, don't you?”

“What
can I say? I have a magnetic personality.”

“I
think the word you're looking for is megalomaniac.”

He
made a bemused face before answering, “No, Max. I haven't lost
any words. But if I do, I'll be sure to tell you. You're the
detective, after all.”

We
could have played this game all night.

It
was time to be blunt.

“What
are you doing here, Vlad?”

“I
want to make amends.”

Sure.

And
Santa Clause was getting it on with the Easter Bunny.

“That,
and...” there was a momentary flash of hesitation in his
speech, “I could use some help.”

Who
couldn't?

“See,
I have this...” he slid
his jacket open to reveal a gunshot wound on his left shoulder,
a crimson highlight against the dull white of the shirt, “small
leakage problem.”

He
must have been truly desperate to come to me for help.

Desperate,
or completely out of his mind.

Or
both.

“Go
to a hospital. I hear they specialize in that sort of thing.”

“Hospitals
like to play 20 questions, and...” he sighed, “I'm not in
a playful mood.”

Well,
neither was I.

“You
honestly expect me to help you?”

“We're
friends, are we not?”

“You
have an interesting definition of friendship, Vlad.”

Mine
didn't include attempted murder, for instance.

I
was funny that way.

“Max,
what happened between us - it was pure business, nothing personal.
You know that. You got in my way, and I had to... remove you. It's
not like I put you in my way. In fact, I did everything I could to
keep you out of it. You always take things so damn personally.”

Pure
business, nothing personal.

It
was a good motto to hide behind.

There
were just two problems with it.

One
- I wasn't buying it.

Two
- It made no difference whatsoever.

“You
killed Mona.”

Three
simple words.

Three
simple words that could once ignite hatred intense enough to consume
planets, galaxies.

But
as I said them now, I realized they had become hollow, like a bullet
shell long after it had pierced your heart.

Now,
no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't summon up the image of Mona's
face in my head. It kept eluding me, like a dream you awaken from too
soon. You try to hold on to every piece, every memory of it. You
might even succeed for a short while. But in the end, you can't stop
it from fading away into your subconscious, leaving nothing but an
echo.

Mona
had become an echo in my soul. A phantom pain. Just another old scar.

Maybe
she had always been nothing but a figment of my fragmented
imagination.

Vlad
was looking at me, eyes narrowed slightly. Possibly trying to
decipher my thoughts.

Even
I couldn't do that.

We
shared a few seconds of frozen silence.

Finally,
he spoke. His tone was calculated. Diplomatic, even. “Mona was
a big girl, Max. I support equal opportunities. And you killed
Winterson.”

“And
that makes us what? Even somehow?” Who knew, in Vlad's
twisted view of reality, this formula could actually have been
applicable. “Did you even feel anything for Winterson?”
it was beside the point, but I was suddenly curious, “Or were
you just using her?”

“Of
course I felt something. We had some good times together. I liked her
kid,” he smiled faintly, “I didn't love her. At least,
not your version of love. Not the kind that lasts forever or conquers
all. That's fairy tale love, Max. And Winterson wasn't a fairy
princess.” At least that was a point we could agree on.
“Neither was Mona. She didn't need a knight in shining armor.
She would have killed me as easily as I killed her. It was all fair
game.”

I
wondered if life was just one big game for Vlad.

And
if so, who made the rules.

Assuming
there were any.

“What
about Annie? You called her a princess.”

I
must have hit a sore spot.

He
looked like a kicked puppy.

Or
would have, if crocodiles had puppies.

“Annie...”
there was a slight waver in his voice as he said her name. Maybe
guilt wasn't a completely foreign word in Vlad's lexicon after all.
“She wasn't supposed to die. That was an accident.”

A
part of me wanted to believe him.

Another
part wanted nothing more than to stick a knife in and twist it.

Hard.

The
latter part was winning.

“Sure
didn't look like one from where I was standing.”

“It
wasn't a part of the plan. Kaufman improvised. Badly.”

“It's
always convenient to have someone else to blame.”

“Look,
Max – not everything went according to plan,” he looked
away, letting out a disgruntled sigh, “Things didn't... work
out exactly like I wanted them to,” frustration was becoming
prominent in his words, “It wasn't supposed to be this way.”

“Right.
You were supposed to be the hero, weren't you?” I recalled his
last words.

Well,
what would have been his last words, had he actually done the decent
thing for once and died.

A
harsh, bitter laugh preluded Vlad's reply. “I was. I was,
Max. If not me then who? Gognitti?” he practically spat the
name out, coating it with scorn, “Woden, maybe?” his
voice shifted, turning into pure, unadulterated hatred, “Do you
even have the slightest idea what sort of things he was responsible
for?” a dim, ghostly smirk passed over his features. “The
sort of things I had to do for him?”

His
eyes grew dark, displaying some unreadable emotion. After taking a
moment to collect himself, he began speaking again, using a
disturbingly apathetic tone. “He acted all high and mighty, of
course. The perfect politician. Never letting the dirt touch his
hands. He had me for that, after all. His own personal garbage
disposal man.”

Vlad
was growing whiter by the minute. Losing blood. It didn't stop him
from continuing his speech, now sounding like he's telling an amusing
anecdote. “You know, he called me a 'small time crook' once. Do
I strike you as a 'small time crook', Max?”

He
wasn't looking for an answer, and I didn't provide one.

Faster
than you could say 'emotionally disturbed individual', condensed rage
took apathy's place. “I was in the Circle for thirteen years.
Thirteen years, Max. Yet they treated me like a doormat,”
he sneered, “You do not walk all over me and get away
with it. Woden deserved to die. They all did. And I deserved to
take his place at the top.”

I
found it strangely comforting to know that out of the present
company, I wasn't the only one who could have benefited from
extensive psychotherapy.

Vlad
obviously had some unresolved issues of his own.

“And
I would have - but then you had to show up,” he made a dramatic
gesture with his hand, “and ruin everything. Max Payne –
human action figure with bullet dodging superpowers – how the
fuck do you dodge bullets, Max? Did they teach you that at vengeance
camp?”

Cute.

“You
just had to play hero. You just had to go on your
little revenge trip – it's the only thing that gives your life
meaning, isn't it? It wasn't even your war!”

The
sound of a door opening across the hall brought a Coup de Grâce
on Vlad's rant.

“Mr.
Payne! Do you know what time it is? This is an outrage!”

The
voice, a winning combination of nails against a chalkboard and a
banshee shriek, belonged to Ms. Wilkins, the widow who lived next
door.

It
just wasn't my day.

Vlad
didn't seem to appreciate the interruption, either.

He
slowly turned his head in her direction. “Dearest miss, you
have my sincerest apologies. I'm simply having a highly important
conversation with my friend Max here. It's quite literally life
and death,” the menacing undertone was hard to miss, “It
won't be much longer. May we proceed? With your permission, of
course?” he gave her a grin that under other circumstances may
have been charming, but now looked like it belonged to a long lost
relative of the Addams family.

The
sound of a door slamming shut followed.

Then
a few moments of blessed silence.

“Well,
that was a little anticlimactic,” Vlad muttered.

“You
don't say.”

Vlad
leaned on the door frame. He looked burnt out. Defeated. A lion
without a mane. When he spoke, it was a somber near whisper. “Why
did you have interfere, Max? Why did you have to make it your war?”

“You
stabbed me in the back, Vlad, what the hell did you expect? A 'thank
you and good luck taking over the world' note?”

“I
didn't stab you in the back. I shot you in the head. There's a
difference.”

It
was kindergarten logic.

It
just about made sense.

I
almost laughed.

“It
doesn't matter. You won, I lost,“ he stated dispassionately. A
darkly melancholic smile made a brief appearance before clearing away
into a blank expression, “and I've lost everything. What
more do you want?”

The
things that I want, by Max Payne, 2^nd edition.

A
smoke.

A
whiskey.

For
the sun to shine.

To
wake up in my old bed, with my wife beside me, and find out it the
last six years had been nothing but a nightmare. A really long
nightmare.

Revenge?

I
think somewhere along the line, I must have lost the taste for it.

And
I hadn't even noticed.

I
had no answer for myself, let alone for Vlad.

Luckily,
he had no problem carrying a one sided conversation.

“I
don't regret it, Max. I don't believe in regrets. I saw an
opportunity and I took it. I'd do it all over again,” he was
making a visible effort just to keep his eyes open, but sounded
remarkably lucid. “But... I do regret sacrificing our
friendship,” he drew a ragged breath, “I am sorry for
that.”

If
I'd constructed a list of phrases I could never believe him capable
of pronouncing, this one would have gone right after 'The Godfather
is overrated' and 'Beer is way better than Vodka'.

Then
again, with Vlad, 'never say never' was a tailor made catchphrase.

“How
the hell am I supposed to believe you?”

He
attempted a grin. It looked more like an injured wild animal baring
its teeth. “I always tell the truth, Max, even when I lie.”

Scarface.

Fitting.

'Go
to hell, Vlad, they must really miss you there,' was what I could
have said.

'Have
fun bleeding to death,' was another option. It had a nice, simple
ring to it.

Or
I could have gone with the classic 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a
damn.' He would've appreciated the reference.

It
was probably what I should have said. I wouldn't have suffered any
pangs of guilt over it. He deserved it. He deserved worse. Logic,
justice, common sense were all rallied up on my shoulder, frantic
little angels pleading with me to make the right decision.

But
the world had become complicated again. Life, death, choices, right
and wrong. Vlad's presence had the annoying tendency to make white
bleed into black until there was no possible way to distinguish
between the two.

Maybe
it was loneliness manifesting itself in some sick, masochistic
fashion. Maybe it was some sense of misguided kinship, a 'for old
times sake' gesture. Or maybe, when you're sleep deprived, other
parts of your brain awaken. Parts you've forgotten all about. And
parts you have never even known to exist.

“You
watch too many goddamn movies, Vlad,” I sighed, knowing I was
going to regret this. “Try not to bleed on the furniture.”

He
gave me an eerie look. I couldn't pinpoint what it held. Surprise?
Disbelief? Something else entirely?

“You're
a true friend, Max,” his words were accompanied by a crooked
smile, but lacked the usual ironic edge.

Right.

A
true idiot was a more accurate description.

“Can
you walk?”

“Of
course.”

'Of
course' turned out to be more of a 'sort of' that became a 'not
really' after two and a half steps. I had to reach out and steady
him, which ended up with us being in a proximity I found
disconcerting.

He
didn't seem to mind, though.

It's
amazing how many things you can perceive in just a split second.

The
tip of his nose brushing against my cheek.

The
stark contrast between cool skin and hot breath.

The
chill shooting down my spine. An electrical surge with a vindictive
streak.

The
violently rapid heartbeat that I suddenly shared for no apparent
reason.

The
taste of Vodka, blood and sweat performing a lethal dance on the edge
of my tongue.

A
startlingly familiar sensation put into a whole new context.

The
only problem with split seconds is their habit of coming to an end.

With
the dawn of a new second, my brain returned from its momentary
slumber.

The
realization that Vlad's lips were pressed against mine hit me like an
Acme anvil.

I
pulled away abruptly.

He
made a sound. An anemic hybrid between a chuckle and a cough.

How
drunk was he? Or was it the blood loss?

Some
kind of psychotic game?

“I'm
not your hot date, Vlad.”

“Don't
sell yourself short,” his sly smirk resurfaced, “I've had
worse.”

I
decided taking the fifth was the safest course of action for the
moment.

Slinging
his arm over my shoulder, I helped him get to the bedroom. The fact
that he wasn't saying anything wasn't helping. In fact, the silence
was even more unnerving than his nonstop chatter. It was charged with
restless static energy, contained too many unwanted implications. I
had to break it.

“Take
your shirt off and lie down. You can manage that. I'll go get
the first aid kit.”

I
made a tactical retreat into the bathroom, not wanting to give him
commentary time.

Washing
my hands, I inevitably encountered my reflection in the mirror.

It
was glaring back at me, wearing the good old 'What the fuck are you
doing, Max?' face.

Why,
helping the man who'd tried to kill me and killed the woman I'd
loved, of course.

What
are friends for?

My
reflection offered me a mocking, demented grin.

No
doubt about it, I was insane.

My
only consolation was that there were no Pink Flamingos after me.

Yet.

To
make matters worse, there was blood on my lip.

Vlad's
blood.

I
wiped it away with a swift motion, removing a bothersome bug off the
windshield of denial.

I
had an entire section in my brain reserved for that sort of thing.

I
filed it under repression, where it belonged.

“Still
bleeding here, Max!”

Somehow
I was getting the feeling that repression was going to get more
complicated from now on.

Bidding
my reflection farewell, I grabbed the first aid kit and headed back.

Vlad
had taken the jacket and shirt off. They formed a heap on the floor,
his Desert Eagle crowning it, keeping a watchful eye.

Vlad
himself was lying on the bed, his eyes closed and breathing rate
erratic.

I
pulled a chair next to the bed and mounted it.

I
wasn't surprised to find out that while I still held the record for
battle wounds, Vlad wasn't all that far behind.

His
upper body was a tapestry of scars. Bullet wounds, knife slashes and
all in between painted a bloody life story. Most of them were old,
but some more recent, like a saber shaped burn on his right side.
Probably a reminder of the showdown in Woden's manor.

Some
had my signature on them.

A
tattoo decorated the center of his chest. It was faded, at least a
decade in age. All black, it depicted a nude woman with angel wings
and burning flame for hair. She held a rose in one hand, a gun in the
other. Two snakes interlaced around her ankle, shaping a sort of
twisted S. There was also some writing underneath.

Veni
Vidi Vici. The Vs were in bold.

I
couldn't help but snort.

“What's
so funny?”

“Ever
heard of Narcissistic personality disorder, Vlad?”

“If
the choice's that and chronic depression, Max, I'll take that. I
always thought that swapping those painkillers you like so much for
Prozak would do you a world of good.”

Well,
now he definitely wasn’t getting any painkillers.

I
turned my attention to the gunshot wound. It was clean enough, gone
straight through while steering off major arteries. Lady Luck was
obviously on Vlad's side. Made sense. He'd always had a way with the
ladies.

“Roll
over. I'll do the exit wound first.”

He
complied.

If
only he could play dead just as well.

“Do
all your dates end with stitches?” I took out the thread and
needle from the kit.

“Only
the really hot ones,” he mumbled.

“This
is gonna hurt.”

“No
pain, no g-” the first plunge of the needle extracted a sharp
intake of breath from him.

“You
know, that pun is really only funny once,” I drove the needle
in again.

“Fuck!
Max, are you trying to make this as painful as possible?”

“I
don't know what you're talking about.”

Hey,
I had to get my kicks from somewhere. Sometimes a needle can be as
effective as a bullet.

This
was almost fun.

A
few more needle prods elicited some fascinating bilingual strings of
obscenities.

“Really,
Vlad, I'd expected a higher pain tolerance level from a ruthless
gangster like yourself. This is a little pathetic.”

“Fuck
you, Max.”

“Exit
wound's done. Turn over.”

He
did, though it took him longer this time around. His movements were
getting sluggish.

Before
continuing, there was a point I wasn't exactly clear about.

“Say...
didn't I shoot you a couple of times and watch you fall to your
death?”

“Didn't
I put a bullet in your brain and watch the building you were in
explode?”

He
made a pretty good point.

“It
takes more than bullets to kill people like you and me, Max.”

“People
like you and me?” now this was interesting. “What kind of
people is that, Vlad?”

“Bigger
than life,” he made a theatrical pause, “Bigger than
death.”

I
wondered if he'd rehearsed that line in front of a mirror.

“I
had a pretty good death scene, though, didn't I?”

“I've
seen better.”

He
tried to give me a deadly glare. It didn't work, mainly due to the
fact that he could barely focus his eyes on me.

This
was definitely fun.

I
started working on the entry wound, but the entertainment value had
decreased somewhat. Vlad was beginning to drift off, and seemed to be
on the far side of pain.

“Who's
the girl?” curiosity reared its head again.

“Mmmh?”

“The
tattoo.”

The
answer arrived with a prolonged delay and a small quirk of his lips,
“my guardian angel.”

“She's
doing one hell of a job.”

He
jerked his head slightly in what was probably agreement.

Finally,
I completed the stitches. I pulled out a bandage and began wrapping
it around the wound.

“Max...
how do you dodge bullets?” he sounded dazed, like he was
talking through sleep. Maybe he was. I had no doubt he was capable of
performing sweeping monologues in his sleep.

“Spinach
and painkillers,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“Huh,”
the explanation seemed to satisfy him.

I
finished up the bandaging and threw a blanket over him.

Exhaustion
finally setting in, I sank into the couch and turned the television
on. White noise to block out unwanted thoughts. Which covered just
about any thought I was likely to have at the moment.

They
were showing a Looney Tunes marathon. An old Wile E. Coyote and Road
Runner episode. A timeless classic.

I
wondered if things would make more sense in the morning.

I
knew they wouldn't.

Between
the “Beep! Beep!”s and the faint sound of Vlad's
breathing, I drifted into sleep.
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