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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.

Chapter List
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Chapter
II: Mental Pictures

There
are some dreams that feel more real than reality itself. Where every
smell, every color and every sensation feel absolutely authentic.

And
then there are dreams that make you wonder whether reality and
yourself are even on speaking terms.

This
dream belonged to the second group.

I
was standing on a road in the middle of a desert. Only it wasn't
exactly a desert. It looked more like how a six year old would
imagine a desert, all broad lines and bright yellow colors. Except
that it was night, and raining mercilessly. Even my dreams suffered
from a Noir affliction.

There
was something disturbingly familiar about this place.

The
truth split my skull open, a Viking axe driving a brutally obvious
point home.

I
put my hands on both sides of my head and pushed. The crack in my
skull clicked shut.

I
was in a cartoon.

Something
sped past me, a blur of blue traveling faster than sound. The
object's speed decreased for a moment, and it looked in my direction.
I realized what it was then - the notorious Accelleratti Incredibus,
also known as the Road Runner. “Beep, Beep!” it declared
in an inappropriately cheerful tone, then picked up the pace and
disappeared from view.

The
blue bird's presence signified that its nemesis, Wile E. Coyote, was
nearby. I surveyed the surroundings. My suspicions were confirmed as
I spotted the predator standing on an edge of a conveniently placed
cliff. He appeared somewhat different than I'd remembered, though.
Blonder. And he was wearing a white suit.

A
large wooden box stood behind him. The label read 'ACME Arms'. The
Coyote turned around, rubbed his hands together with malicious
determination, and opened the box. The first item he took out turned
out to be, unpredictably, an arm. He shook his head irritably and
tossed the object away.

The
next item was apparently the one he'd been looking for. A shiny
cartoon pistol with a huge barrel and some kind of switch attached to
the handle. It had three settings: 'BAIT', 'BANG' and 'BOOM'. The
Coyote spent a minute gazing at the pistol lovingly. Then, flipping
the switch so it pointed at 'BAIT', he aimed at the sky and fired.

A
flare shot up, exploding to form the words 'BIRD SEED' in the sky.

An
excited “Beep! Beep!” followed instantly. A cloud of dust
appeared in the horizon, drawing nearer rapidly and eventually
pulling into a screeching stop a few step from the Coyote. The Road
Runner conducted a thorough visual scan of the predator, blinking
with enthusiastic curiosity.

The
Coyote smiled in a manner only the most gullible would perceive as
good-natured. Still smiling, he held up a sign in his pistol-free
hand, 'Road Runner, dearest of all my friends, prepare to die.'

The
Road Runner's response was a inquisitive tilt of the head.

Switching
the setting to 'BANG', the Coyote aimed his pistol at the bird and
pulled the trigger.

The
gun went off, but instead of the expected bullet, a flag emerged. It
read 'Bang! You're dead!'

The
Road Runner stuck its tongue out, producing a sound too annoying for
any metaphor to do justice to. It then quickly performed a 180 turn
and sped away.

The
Coyote didn't appear to be very amused. He let out an exaggerated
sigh and dropped the flag pistol.

Never
lacking a backup plan, he reached into his suit and extracted another
gun. It was the real thing this time around, not ACME manufactured. A
Desert Eagle, to be precise.

Well,
we were in a desert.

The
Coyote closed a single eye and took aim, striking a pose taken
straight out of a typical gangster flick.

There
was a loud bang.

The
gun discharged a small cloud of white smoke. The Coyote blew on it
nonchalantly, spreading it through the desert air. He calmly put the
gun back in his suit and folded his arms.

The
Road Runner kept jogging for a few seconds, then stopped. It looked
down slowly.

There
was a large, perfectly round hole in the center of its chest. The
bird's eyes widened and it turned around to look at its executioner.

Giving
a mildly apologetic shrug, the Coyote held out another sign. 'Pure
business, nothing personal.'

The
Road Runner stared at him, then fell face down onto the ground.

There
was an air of the macabre about the whole ordeal.

I
tried to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a sign
appeared in my hand, 'You broke the rules!'.

He
lifted a single brow and returned a signed answer - 'Rules are meant
to be broken.' He began to walk away.

The
old 'if you see a gun in the first act' saying applied to cartoons as
well, as it turned out.

He
accidentally stepped on the dropped pistol.

'BOOM!!!',
a deafening explosion rocked the desert.

The
Coyote opened his eyes and sent me an 'oh shit' look. He sighed and
looked down.

He
was standing on thin air.

His
facial expression amazingly accomplished a moment-long tour through
the five stages of grief before he plunged into the abyss.

Gravity
was a force to be reckoned with.

The
episode ended.

Three
red circles closed in around me, and chipper theme music boomed in my
ears, conducting a coordinated assault on my brain from all
directions.

It
was time for a new episode.

I
was back in the desert, and something was running down the road
again.

It
wasn't the Road Runner this time.

It
was Captain Baseball Bat Boy.

“You're
in the wrong cartoon,” I told him when he passed by me,
realizing I could speak now.

“Beep!
Beep! What?! Payne!”

So
it wasn't exactly Captain Baseball Bat Boy, either. It was none other
than his number one fan, the not-so-wise-guy Vinnie Gognitti. He was
still wearing that costume.

“Payne!
Payne! You gotta help me! The Russian is gonna get me!”

I
hated to break it to him, “I think he already got you.”

“What
are you talkin' about, Payne?!” he shook his head in disbelief,
“Help me get this head off!”

I
did.

Half
of Vinnie's own head came off along with it.

There
was no blood involved, no scattered brain bits. None of the things
you would expect from a head cut in half, really. It was a cartoon,
after all. He just lacked half a head. It was comical, in a way.

“Fuck,
Payne! This really sucks!”

“You
shouldn't swear. It's rated G in here. You know, for kids.”

“Fuck
the kids, Payne! I don't have a fuckin' head!”

There
really was no good answer to that.

“Caress
me, Payne!”

“What?”

I
must have heard him wrong.

“Caress
me!”

Or
not.

“I
don't think so.”

“C’mon,
Payne! Just first base!” he grinned, somewhat hysterically,
“get it? 'cause I'm wearing a Captain Baseball-”

“I
get it,” I cut him off, “But I think I'll pass, thanks.”

“It's
the head, isn't it? You don't want me because of the stupid fuckin'
head,” he whined, “I know it's not exactly a turn on, but
maybe I can superglue it back-”

“No,
it's not the head,” I felt the need to reassure him.

“Then
what? The action figures? I told you, I’m a collector!”

“Look,”
I went through a list of excuses, “it's not you, it's me.”

“Don't
give me that shit, Payne! I know what it's all about! It's the
Russian, you got a thing-” before I could discover what thing
I had, Vinnie sent a frantic look over his shoulder, “-oh,
shit! Shit! The Russian is coming, the Russian is coming!”

“Where?”
I didn't see anything. It was probably just in his head. Although
which part of it, I couldn't tell.

“Everywhere!
He's everywhere! Hide me, Payne! You gotta hide me!” he sounded
impressively panicked for a guy who really didn't have all that much
left to lose.

“You
can hide in the TV,” that seemed to make sense, him being a TV
character and all.

And
with that, I ended up back on the couch. Vinnie waved at me anxiously
through the television screen. I waved back, slowly. Then the credits
began to roll.

The
show was over, and the news came on.

“Lieutenant
Colonel Ryan Stark, a decorated hero of the Gulf War, was found shot
to death in his apartment, along with two other soldiers. No further
information can be disclosed at present time.”

“Heroes
everywhere,” I turned my head to find the source of the
comment, Vlad, sitting on the couch beside me. “You multiply
faster than Playboy Bunnies,” he snorted, lip curving upwards.
He shifted his gaze from me to the screen, “this is boring,
Max. Put something more exciting.”

Shrugging,
I flipped the channel randomly. I landed on some kind of wildlife
show. It featured a leopard devouring a zebra.

“Actually,
I was thinking more along the lines of quality porn. But this is
alright too,” he looked at me, pausing to form a thoughtful
frown. “Laws of the Jungle, Max. Survival of the fittest. It
works, you know,” a light smile punctuated the last sentence.

“Too
bad we're not in a jungle.”

“Yes,”
he sighed empathetically, turning back to the television, “too
bad.”

We
continued watching the show. Packs of gazelles doing their morning
jog; an eagle on a rodent hunt; two horses galloping side by side,
for a moment looking almost like one horse with eight legs; a giant
snake swimming in the ocean, making a nearly successful attempt to
swallow a whole ship. Was this National Geographic or Harry Potter?

“I'm
a lion, Max. King of the jungle,” Vlad said matter-of-factly,
and completely out of the blue.

Even
though this was a dream, I found the statement ridiculous.

“A
lazy, self-centered bastard who lets his women do all the work?”
I smirked, “I can see that.”

He
gave me a look that bordered between annoyance, amusement and hurt,
“I'm not lazy.” His expression went to a more
philosophical realm, “do you know what you are?”

“No.
But I bet you do.”

“You're
a lone wolf who believes he's a dog,” there was an undercut of
sadness in his voice. Quieter, but with more intensity, he added,
“you don't have to be.”

Great,
now I was being psychoanalyzed in my dreams. By a man who thought he
was a lion, king of the jungle. Backwards logic clashed with irony,
apparently with the sole purpose of giving me a formidable headache.

I
didn't bother replying, and instead proceeded to watch events unfold
on the television screen, which now featured an overzealous
televangelist telling me to change my ways, to save my soul.
“Redemption is but a step away!” he claimed.

It
was always a step away.

The
quiet dragged on a little too long, and when I looked back, the couch
was empty. It wasn't even the same couch. It was the one I'd bought
on sale a few months after my wife and I had gotten our new place.
Before our baby girl was born.

Before
they were both murdered.

“What
are you watching?” inquired a voice from behind me.

It
was my wife's voice. My dead wife's.

I
turned around and saw her standing there.

God,
I'd forgotten how beautiful she was.

“Nothing
important,” I told her. Nothing was important, with her
around.

“Then
come to bed,” she slowly formed a smile. The kind that was both
sleepy and seductive. I loved that smile.

“Sure,”
I smiled back, “be there in a moment.”

In
dreams, transitions are meaningless.

A
moment passed.

I
was making love to my wife.

It
was slow and natural. We knew each other inside out, held no secrets,
never needed to. Everything was so fluid, so easy. So right.

She
let out a small giggle from time to time. She sometimes did that
during sex. It never bothered me. I liked it.

We
rolled on the bed, lost in our own private world.

“I
love you,” she whispered in my ear.

I
closed my eyes and kissed her, knowing this was the last time. “I
love you too.”

When
I opened my eyes she was different. Then I realized it wasn't my wife
anymore. It was Mona.

She
was dead too.

She
was straddling me forcefully, one hand on my chest, the other holding
a gun. Her head was tilted backward, mouth open in a silent gasp.

I
kept my hands were on her waist, struggling to hold on.

We
were surrounded by mirrors. They created a sense of vertigo around
us, distorting an already distorted reality.

Her
moans echoed through my head, through my body, through my soul.

“Max...”

I
moved to her rhythm, but she was running away from me, and I couldn't
keep up.

“You're
a real angel, Max,” she pointed the gun at me, “this is
goodbye.”

I
felt Mona fading away through my fingers, and then she was gone.

Vlad's
Guardian Angel took her place. I didn't know who she was. I could
barely even make out the features of her face. Yet somehow I knew she
wasn't among the living, either.

The
logistics of having sex with a woman with flaming hair and wings
turned out to be a little awkward. Especially considering the fact
that we were apparently hanging in mid-air, with no ground in sight.
At least I didn't suffer from fear of heights.

“I
came, I saw, I conquered,” she breathed the words out,
concluding with an enigmatic smile.

Then
she let go.

I
fell.

It
was more of a drift than a fall, really. It was liberating.

I
wasn't sure how, but I ended up on top of Vlad.

He
wasn't dead.

He
was naked, though.

We
were in Woden's manor. It was in ruins. Nothing had changed from the
last time we'd been there. Pieces of debris were scattered around,
the smell of smoke hang in the air, and there were even a few
renegade flames that went unextinguished. There was one difference –
there were no bodies. The place was completely empty. Vlad and I were
the only ones left in this ghost house.

“I
told you we could kiss and make up, Max,” he pulled me in for a
long, breathless kiss to prove his point.

“I
guess I didn't think you were being that...” I looked for the
appropriate word, which wasn't easy under the circumstances,
“Literal.”

“You
just weren't paying attention. You never pay attention.”

I
certainly was paying it now. Our lips collided again, more hungrily
this time. Breaking the kiss, Vlad moved on to the side of my neck,
using an interesting combination of teeth and tongue against my skin.

He
suddenly stopped.

“Max,
why are you on top?” he sounded surprised, like he'd just made
this startling discovery, “I deserve to be on top.”

“Vlad,
is it anatomically impossible for you to shut up?”

“There
aren't many things that are anatomically impossible to me,” he
smirked mischievously, leaving me with little choice but to do the
same. “In here, at least,” he added, motioning his head
in some general direction, “but why would I shut up?”

“Because
it's my dream,” there was something childish about this
argument, but hey, he started it.

“It
is a dream... But it's not a fairy tale.”

“I
can see that.”

He
wrapped his leg around mine, and we resumed kissing. He tried to roll
me over, but I pushed him back down. He awarded me with an irritated
scowl.

“Come
on, let me be on top.”

“No,”
I liked him just where he was.

“You
can be so damn uncompromising about these things, Max.”

“Do
you actually talk this much during sex?”

“Sex,
Max?” he arched a brow, “this is what we grown-ups call
foreplay. And I'm not really even me. I'm just a projection of
your subconscious. So you won't really know until you've tried.”

My
subconscious never talked this much.

“It's
not going to be easy with you, is it?”

“Max,
dearest of all my friends,” Vlad flashed a grin worthy of a
Cheshire Cat. It slowly disappeared. “Easy is no fun.”

There
was an explosion in the distance. It didn't seem all that important,
really. But I gave him a questioning gaze nonetheless.

“Fireworks,”
he smiled conspiratorially, running his fingers through my hair,
“every good sex scene should have fireworks.”

Thunder
struck, and rain began to fall. I thought there was a ceiling
above.

I
was wrong.

The
rain poured down on us with a vengeance.

I
gave an involuntary shudder.

Vlad
noticed this. “It's only rain,” he whispered reassuringly
into my ear, then began to nibble on it.

It
didn't feel like just rain. It was a thousand tiny knives shoving
straight through my skin and into my soul. It was an unshakable
chill. The feeling of inevitability sneaking up on me.

I
had made a choice, though I had idea when, where, or what it was. The
path was set.

I
pressed closer to Vlad, sharing body heat. He had plenty of that.
More than plenty. It was almost as if he was burning from the inside.

There
was something lurking in the back of my mind. Something I needed to
ask him.

“Is
it the end of the world yet?”

He
gave me that unreadable look of his, not responding right away. I
could see a reflection of the flames dancing in his eyes. “I'm
not sure, Max. Maybe.”

I
nodded.

“Where
do you keep your clean shirts?”

“What?”

“Where
do you keep your clean shirts?” he repeated, slower this time.

“You're
not making sense.”

“That
makes the two of us then, doesn't it?”

Reality
dragged me back by the collar, coughing and wheezing, and not quite
ready to let go.
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