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More Like Fate	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1412 -:- 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 IV: A Shot in the Dark
�What -� the words
exited my mouth with a grit, chafing irritably against my teeth. They reached
Vlad engulfed in a red flare of rapidly igniting fury, which curiously
corresponded with the sharp, stinging pain in my back. �- was that?�
The
less-than-pleasant situation we were immersed in made me wish I hadn�t mentally
complained about the taste of stale Coke only minutes earlier. Murphy�s Laws
were rarely forgiving, and always quick to catch up.
Vlad was spread
out on the floor with the dignity of a lounging jungle cat, while I was in a
position not entirely dissimilar, though lacking in the feline department, on
top of him. His gangster reflexes served him well, and his Eagle had already
made its way to his grip, vigilantly overlooking the world from its serenely
horizontal position.
We were out of the
sniper�s reach, but that was the only positive point I could find in the entire
ordeal. The worst part, though there were many candidates for that desirable
role, was that this scene played in caricatural correspondence with the one
from my dream. It probably wouldn�t have been so bad if my body hadn�t decided
to play along with this sick fantasy, beginning to respond in a completely
independent, inappropriate manner.
I made a silent
vow to never fall asleep again.
�Wait, don't tell
me - I think I know this one,� Vlad didn't seem all that affected by the solemn
state of affairs, perhaps due to the severe glass deficiency he was suffering
from. He faked a pensive face, finally exclaiming - �a gunshot.�
My lack of
amusement persisted.
�Where did it come
from?� I expanded upon the question, maxing out on my remaining patience
supply. It was growing thin.
"Agun,
maybe?� he employed his muse-out-loud voice. �Could be the bullet fairy again,
though. You never know.�
�Vlad,� I
attached a lethal edge to the near-hiss. With the glass shards threatening to
transform me into piece of postmodern art � I'd never been a fan of that
particular art school - I was even less inclined to play his games than usual.
�What is going on?�
�Max, I have no
idea.� His expression contained all the innocence of a catholic boarding school
for girls, preferably one run by Sister Maria from the Sound of Music, and then
some. The light smirk that followed marred that effect somewhat. �Scout's
Honor.�
�Scout's Honor�,
I'd learned over the years, was Vlad Code for 'Sorry, but I can't be bothered
to make up a convincing lie at the moment, please leave a message after the
beep'.
The only message I
was inclined to leave was of the bottled kind. Optimally one directed at his
head.
Unfortunately,
this wasn�t the time to carry out this wishful line of thought. Neither was it
the time to conduct a formal interrogation.
I gave a disgusted
grunt, which was immediately reflected at me in the form of a concern-proof
grin. Carefully crawling off Vlad, I rose to a crouching position, taking out
my gun in the process. The cool metal being felt instantly at home in my hand,
becoming nearly a living, organic extension of it.
It was bullet
time.
Vlad followed my
lead, rolling from his laid-back state into a ready-for-action crouch with the
kind of effortless efficiency designed purely for showing off; probably
cherishing the fact that had I attempted a similar maneuver, I�d have ended up as
an unattractively bloody heap adorning the floor.
The kitchen
counter transformed into a preliminary line of defense as my inner cop launched
into briefing mode. "We exit through the front door, that�s our only
option. Shoot through whoever is thoughtful enough to be waiting for us-�
�Max," he cut
me off, pausing for a perfectly timed frown. "We should wait.�
�Wait?� I
echoed, irritation mixing with skepticism for on optimal effect. �I don't have
a desk to hide under, Vlad.�
�As long as you've
got your spinach and painkillers, we're covered.�
�We can�t afford
to play the waiting game, we need to keep initiative ��
�We�ve already
lost initiative. We still have the advantage of being on home territory,
though.�
�That'll be a
great comfort when the army of henchmen starts busting in.�
�You worry too
much, Max. I doubt there�s an army out there. Probably only a few men. Maybe
just one.�
It wasn't wise to
question my paranoia, but being the source of a sizeable portion of it, Vlad
had little to lose in that area.
�How did you reach
that conclusion?�
�Call it a hunch,�
he offered helpfully, narrowly avoiding a salesman grin.
�A hunch.�
The day I started believing that Vlad operated on hunches would be the
day I opened my own nail salon. 'Payne & Polish' did have a catchy ring to
it, I had to admit.
�An educated
guess, then,� he corrected, eradicating manicure related daydreams.
That sounded more
like it.
Whether I liked it
or not, Vlad clearly had a better idea of what we were facing, even though he
wasn't keen on sharing it with the rest of the class.
�You better not be
getting us killed.�
�Relax, Max,� he
smiled, hand reaching to pat my shoulder but stopping half-way as he caught the
not-quite-warm gaze I directed onto him. �I'm not planning on dying wearing a
Hawaiian shirt.�
A truly reassuring
statement if there ever was one. Somebody ought to have put it on a banner.
I sighed, letting
frustration battle reluctant agreement. It was a short and unspectacular fight,
not one to go down in history books. Frustration turned out to be a sore loser,
spreading throughout my body and highlighting the original additions to it,
cruelly accenting the sting they inspired.
Spinach was in
short supply and a bit too healthy for my taste anyway, but painkillers weren�t
such a bad idea. I pulled a bottle out of my jacket, sending a few pills on a
direct route to my mouth. The bitter taste formed instantaneously, mirroring
reality with an unflinching accuracy. It took several moments for the sharp
pain to start easing in, eventually becoming a faraway ache belonging to
someone else.
Vlad was giving me
a narrow sideways look.
"Max, the
first step is admitting that you have a problem.�
�Vlad, you are
going to have a problem soon, if you don�t shut up. A sharp, painful kind of
problem.�
�You know - you�re
a little edgy today,� his expression bordered on worry that might've appeared
authentic to those individuals who had the privilege of not knowing him. �No
pun intended.�
It's remarkable
how many creative torture methods your mind is capable of conjuring up within
the course of a minute.
We continued to
wait, and I spent the vacant time mentally inflicting each new method I came up
with on an unsuspecting Vlad, until the silence was finally breached by muffled
footsteps behind the front door.
Then a knock.
Vlad and I
exchanged glances.
A moment later, he
raised his brow and spoke.
�Knock knock.�
Unbelievable.
�Who's there?�
�A polite
henchman.�
�A polite henchman
who?�
�A polite henchman
who's about to get his head blown off.�
�Vlad, that's not
really how these jokes work.�
�I never could
understand them, really. Must be an American thing,� he peeked out from the
counter's corner, leveling his gun at the door. "Ours are funnier."
�Mr. Payne!�
I've never been
that big a believer in the supernatural, but it was hard to avoid the thought
that someone up there really had it in for me.
"Mr. Payne! I
demand to know what's going on!"
Vlad gave me a
suggestive, almost hopeful glance, passing it fluidly onto the
all-problem-solving Desert Eagle.
I shook my head.
Somewhat half-heartedly.
He shrugged.
"Mr.
Payne!" the pounding on the door was matched only by the unyielding
intensity of the harpy's voice. The sniper must have interrupted one of her
favorite soaps, to judge by the militant tone. "Open the door this very
minute or �"
Before the huffing
and puffing had a chance to reach its full potential, a single gunshot erupted
behind the door.
The silence that
came afterwards brought a chill to my spine.
It seemed to have
reached Vlad as well, his mouth curling into a thin, crooked line, gaze
redirecting to the floor.
The waiting
strategy had gone out of the window, catching a few remaining glass shards on
its way.
I signaled for
Vlad to stay put, receiving nothing but a simple nod for a change, and began to
advance slowly in the door's direction. No bullets intercepted my route,
perhaps due to advanced henchmen etiquette. The only obstacle was the silence
clouding the air, imitating tear gas with its suffocating weight.
Reaching the door,
I waited the customary second, then leaned over and opened it in an abrupt
motion.
The sight that
greeted me wasn't the body of an overly nosy neighbor who'd thrown one tantrum
too many.
The hallway was
empty.
Well, it was until
the bullets started flying.
Nice of them to
wait until the door was open, at least.
I managed to dodge
out of the way in time, the metal stream passing a few inches away from my
face, burning its course through the shady atmosphere until it found a suitable
resting spot in a conveniently placed wall.
Crouching at the
side of the door, I silently awaited further development.
I didn't have to
wait long. A hazy figure raced through the doorway, its speed not quite
standard henchman material.
The henchman of
the hour was clad in baggy clothes and a ski mask, wielding what appeared to be
a Glock. True to Vlad's estimation, he was alone. He also happened to be
sporting a pair of rollerblades.
You see something
new every day.
The pace he was
traveling in caused the bullets departing from my Beretta to suffer the same
fate his had a moment earlier. In a move ripped straight off a Tony Hawk video,
the inventive henchman jumped onto the counter, swiftly sliding over it in
Vlad's direction.
Vlad was only
beginning to rise when the rollerbladed foot crashed into his gun hand, causing
the proud Eagle to fly� an impressive feat for a wingless bird � finally
conducting a crash-landing in the corner of the room. The collision didn't come
with a bone cracking sound, luckily, but it did entail a loud grunt that blended
pain with anger.
The henchman
performed a fancy spin in the air, his own landing turning out to be
considerably more elegant than the Eagle's.
That is, until he
encountered a stray pizza box in his path.
Home territory had
its advantages after all.
He proceeded to
slide several feet after the tumble - towards me, conveniently enough. I closed
the gap with a few hasty steps.
Kicking the gun
out of his hand, I gripped his shirt, dragging him upwards and against the
wall.
Behind me, I heard
Vlad collecting his gun, muttering something of a dubiously pleasant nature
under his breath.
I tore the ski
mask off, revealing the sallow face of a man not older than twenty five. Eyes
of a pale aquatic shade provided the kid with a vaguely amphibian appearance,
and overly pierced eyebrows only added to the impression, resembling odd
metallic scales. The blue dye his hair suffered from was the mandatory touch of
overkill.
Freakboy � the
most appropriate name I could find for the kid with the fishy affliction �
blinked several times before focusing his watery gaze on me.
"You have
loud neighbors," he informed me, matter-of-factly.
"Tell me
about it."
Before he got the
chance to do just that, I skipped right to the main course. �Who sent you?�
He narrowed his
eyes as he considered the question, which was apparently more complicated that
I'd thought. Finally, his lip curved upwards in what attempted to be a smile,
but resembled a twitch. �God.�
This made him
either an exceptionally well-armed Jehovah�s Witness, or the long lost member
of the Blues Brothers.
Though it did make
a certain sense. God and I had more than a few scores to settle.
�Max, let me have
a go at him. I have a knack for that sort of thing,� Vlad sounded quite eager
with the prospect. Overeager, even.
Good cop, bad cop,
then?
Well, 'bad ex-cop,
worse gangster' was the more proper term, but it didn't sound quite as good.
I supposed it
couldn't hurt. Well, if you ignored Freakboy's perspective, that is. �Knock
yourself out.�
Stepping back, I
let him inherit my improvised interrogation post. He took the position at a
stride, carrying a posture of relaxed ease.
�Gunther, dearest
of all my friends!� the grin that spread across Vlad's face was sprinkled with
precisely the right amount of edgy instability, like a carefully sharpened
knife, complete with the overly sparkling surface. An effect he'd doubtlessly
spent some time perfecting. �Long time no see.�
�Lem,� Freakboy,
apparently also known as Gunther, acknowledged blankly. Slowly sliding his gaze
over the 'revenge shirt', he added, "New look for you."
"A little
variety never hurts."
Vlad and Freakboy
seemed to have hit it off rather well. Must've been their mutual penchant of
speaking in riddles. I would've looked for flaws in my questioning technique,
but somehow it was always easier to run an interrogation when you happened to
be familiar with the subject.
Vlad would have a
bit of explaining to do, when this was done with.
�Let's talk about
guns," Vlad suggested with a childish enthusiasm. "You like guns,
don't you, Gunther? I've heard you are quite the fan.� He sent his free hand to
scratch his chin, carrying on with his speech without leaving room for input or
feedback, �See, I like guns, too." At that, he raised his shiny metal
Eagle at a tilted angle, bringing it closer to Freakboy's face. All that was
missing was a display case. "You're familiar with the Desert Eagle, I take
it?"
�Yes. Very
exotic," Freakboy graced the gun with a visual study containing roughly
the same amount of interest that the common high school student has for an
anthology of algebra books throughout the ages. "Do you know what the jam
rate on that thing is?�
�I�ve never had
any problems with it," Vlad gave the Eagle a curious glance, lifting a
single eyebrow. "It�s good of you to show concern, though," he placed
his gun-free hand on Freakboy's shoulder, giving it an appreciative squeeze.
The kid's gaze took a journey from the gun to the trespassing hand, then back
again, careful not to reveal any emotion on the way.
"Do you know why
I like it?� he kept the question in the rhetorical realm as he went on,
�It�s simple, really. A bit of a cliché." I'm sure this came as
quite a shock to all parties present. He took in a breath, creating a pause of
the theatrical nature.
Freakboy's
expression, while still battling for impassiveness, was losing stability.
Stability and Vlad
didn't mix all that well.
�Size does
matter," he exclaimed finally. Passing his thumb over the grip of the gun,
as if caressing the cheek of a loved one, he continued, "With a gun like
this, one bullet is always enough. It's economical that way. Straight to the
point."
Maybe it was a
case of the opposites attract, then.
"Unless, of
course, you happen to be Max Payne, and possess a lead skull. But obviously
you're not, because that's Max Payne right there,� he tilted his head
backwards, in my direction.
I raised my hand
helpfully.
Good to know I was
needed.
"Do you know
what else it's good for?"
Rhetorics were the
name of the game, and Freakboy wasn't playing.
Yet another pause
stretched by, and I spent it trying to come up with some answers myself.
Dry cleaning?
Window decoration?
Showing off?
"Russian
roulette."
A silence arrived
from Freakboy's end, followed by a disbelieving smirk.
�You can't play
Russian roulette with a semi-automatic. It defies the definition.�
�No?� Vlad flashed
a look of mock surprise that faded into lighthearted amusement. �I like to defy
definitions, Gunther. Introduce some house rules now and then, you know. It
livens things up.� He leaned forward, casually invading Freakboy's personal
space until they were close enough to exchange breaths, then half-whispered,
�Though maybe not in this case.� Retreating from Freakboy's face, he resumed
speaking in a conversational, distracted manner, �I�ve already played it this
way, more than once, so there's no need to worry. Of course, I've always won,
but I'm just like that - I get lucky sometimes,� he performed a 'what can you
do?' styled shrug.
Freakboy was
beginning to display some interesting facial contractions.
�Who knows?� a
devious smirk clung to Vlad's features before settling into a hard, stony
expression. His tone achieved a degree of coldness that could have put icebergs
of Titanic sinking reputation to shame, as he brought the tip of the gun to
Freakboy's forehead, �Maybe it will jam.�
This was almost
Broadway material, only without the ridiculous admission prices. And the cats.
Though the latter
was debatable.
Freakboy's eyes
made a frantic turn in my direction, broadcasting 'Is he serious!' on all
wavelengths. I kept my vague amusement hidden under a grim poker face; the one
most people knew as my usual expression.
"Ready?"
Faster than a fox
with a flaming tail, Freakboy's gaze shot back to Vlad. It stopped cold,
transfixed, split by the gun barrel. He opened his mouth, presumably for
replying purposes. Nothing of the audible sort came forth, though, leaving him
gaping in a suitably fish-like manner.
Vlad's finger
tickled the trigger with an air of hyperactive impatience.
Freakboy's mouth
and eyes closed.
The moment
stretched on, probably becoming an eternity in Freakboy's lexicon.
Vlad let out a
warm chuckle.
�Just kidding. You
are right, of course. The odds are a little uneven. I wouldn't want to
show poor sportsmanship," he graced Freakboy � now with ten percent less
skin pigment � with an amiable smile. "How about a slightly different
game, then? I ask a question; you answer it - good for you. You fail to answer
it�" he shrugged, the epitome of calm. "I use the contents of your
head, considering you have any, that is, to decorate that wall behind you.� He
inclined his head in said wall's direction, providing a visual reference for
all those interested. �Don't think it would make much of a difference to the
wall texture.�
Somehow, in the
middle of his little theatrical production, he'd found a timeslot to criticize
my apartment design.
While impressive,
it was uncalled for.
�How about it,
Gunther? Sounds fair?�
Freakboy was more
interested in playing the part of an authentic Egyptian mummy than in voicing
his opinion regarding the rules of the game.
Vlad took that as
a silent agreement.
�God, is it?"
Vlad's expression indicated he was facing the philosophical dilemma of the
century. "The only god I'm familiar with is the complex."
Still with the pensive demeanor, he went on, "It doesn't narrow things
down much, though."
Launching his
twist on the 20-question genre, he began, "Is it Thorn?"
No comment was
received from the interrogation subject, who kept behaving like a good little
museum exhibit.
Vlad tapped a finger
over his forehead before pointing it at the kid, �The black and white bitch?�
The mummy's eyes
lit up, racing towards spontaneous combustion. �Don't you fucking dare
-� the outburst, soaked in righteous fury, was severed by its originator, only
a little too late. Freakboy's cerebral skills obviously failed to match his
ballistic ones.
Vlad raised an
eyebrow. �It's only semantics, Gunther. No need to get so upset.� The
well-meaning wrapping on the smile he put on failed to conceal his obvious
amusement. "I'm sure she'll appreciate you standing up for her, though.
It's very gentlemanly of you."
The gentleman in
question looked more preoccupied with turning a few shades paler, probably
trying to find new and exciting ways of mentally kicking himself.
�Care to tell me
the lovely young lady has planned?�
�The only thing I
care to tell you is to go fuck yourself, Lem,� Freakboy had finally purchased
the 'nothing to lose' policy, though sadly it didn't come with built-in
originality.
�Words wound,
Gunther," Vlad brought his free hand to his heart, tone dripping with
almost lifelike hurt. "Didn't your mother teach you that?" Before the
invisible audience had gotten a chance to be enlightened regarding the
educational techniques of Freakboy's parents, Vlad spoke again, bringing some
psychological warfare into the mix, "I've got sad news to break to you.
Your boss doesn't care the slightest bit about you. She only sent you here
because you're expandable.�
"You don't
know what you're talking about," the kid actually managed a convincing
smirk, curving crookedly against his pale face.
The denial barrier
was clearly as strong as ever.
Vlad shrugged,
looking increasingly bored with the whole ordeal. Which made it the perfect
time for a monologue, obviously. �Life throws difficult choices at us, Gunther.
It can be cruel like that." Mercifully short this time, at least. "So
here's a choice for you. You can be a gentleman, or you can stay alive."
Freakboy's scaly
eyebrows drew together, forming a resolute line of the chainmail variety, �I'll
take door number one.�
The due maintained
an unflinching eye contact for a stretched out moment.
It was finally
sliced as Vlad's mouth drifted into a faint smile. �Well, I must say I admire
your choice. And they say chivalry is dead." The smile grew harsher, a
meaningful look sent to the Eagle, �I guess they do have a bit of a point
there, though. It�s been nice catching up, Gunther.�
Taking a step
backwards, he kept the gun in level with the kid's forehead, assuming a posture
I was personally acquainted with. A little too personally.
Freakboy closed
his eyes for the second time.
Despite the
blandness of the apartment, I had little desire for Vlad-designed wall
decoration, especially of the brain matter sort.
�Vlad.�
He turned his head
in my direction, transmitting a mildly irritated 'what?' signal.
As I prepared an
answer for him, I belatedly noticed Freakboy's hand moving.
Too little, too
late.
An
earth-shuttering noise roared around me, turning my eardrums into sandpaper.
The world turned a
brilliant white; a blinding negative of my usual reality.
The white quickly
receded to reveal the exact same picture as before, with Vlad and Freakboy in
their respective positions. Only the sounds weren�t playing in correspondence
with the frozen visual input � a gunshot followed, soon echoed by a rather
emotional, Russian-accented, "Fuck!".
Afterwards came
the suffering noise of glass crushing under the slide of rollerblades, a
whooshing sound -
Then silence.
The picture began
to rebuild, washing in with a tide of vicious vertigo.
A bullet shaped
hole decorated the wall, but from the look of things, the contents of
Freakboy's head did not accompany it. The head owner himself was nowhere to be
found, though he did leave a calling card in the form of a flashbang, now lying
purposelessly on the floor.
I wondered if this
stood up to the standard of Vlad's beautiful exits meter.
Probably not. It
suffered from a distinct lack of fireworks.
Vlad stood in the
same spot, though perhaps 'stood' was an overestimation. He seemed to be
straggling to remain connected to the floor, his eyes open to minimal slits.
I couldn't help
but empathize, mostly due to the fact I was in a similar condition.
The first thing to
penetrate the nauseating silence was Vlad's voice.
�Max, I was
bluffing, damn it!�
�It's hard to tell
with you.�
�I think you�re
missing the point of bluffing," he muttered, firmly attaching the
palm of his hand to his forehead, eyes still at their half-closed state.
Flashbangs and hangovers didn�t play well together, apparently. "We can
make up our own sign language if you want. Next time I'll be sure to scratch my
nose before I bluff." He kept massaging his forehead, concluding with a
quieter but not less impassioned "Fuck."
A few moments
passed.
"Assassins on
rollerblades," I commented into the empty air.
"Haven't you
heard? It's the new thing. All the cool kids are doing it."
I preferred pigs
on wings. At least they had the cute factor.
"Because
regular assassin work gets so monotonic."
"I blame
computer games."
Who didn't?
"�Rollerblades."
"Could've
been Hula-Hoops."
The dizziness was
beginning to wear off, and I used the reprieve to edge in closer to him,
gripping onto my gun like a toddler to his comfort blankie. At the moment, it
was the only thing that made the tiniest amount of sense. �How about some
explaining, Vlad?�
Hand still pressed
against forehead, he studied me for a while, taking a deep breath before
replying. �The Inner Circle
is gunning for me. Didn't I mention it?�
�I must have
missed it.� The comfort blankie was rapidly turning into a potential murder
weapon. �Would that be the same Inner
Circle you slaughtered back in the day?�
�Slaughtered
is a big word, Max,� the smile he accompanied the statement with was a bit too
close to cheerful for my taste. It diminished, leaving a darker expression in
its wake. �The Inner Circle
is bigger.�
�So they�re after
you now." This failed to surprise me, for some reason. "When were you
planning on letting me in on this little tidbit?�
�I was going to
get around to it eventually, Max. I was,� he made a small pause, transforming
his face in the vague direction of discomfort, "waiting for the right
time, that's all."
�I guess now's the
right time." Interrogation mode kicked back into gear. "So
that," I gestured at his shoulder, "was a present from them,
then?"
"Well, they
forgot to get me one for Christmas, so I suppose they felt they owed me something."
"And now they
followed you here."
"Nobody
followed me." He turned to study the floor, scoffing assurance making way
for puzzlement, then for slow realization as his gaze crept in the front door's
direction. "They were probably watching you."
"Watching
me?"
I thought that was
a job reserved for older siblings.
Or Vlad himself.
�You�re a wild
card, Max. You can turn the entire game around. You have a track record for
that, after all." There was a hint of accusation hidden in that statement,
effectively masquerading within a factual tone. �They want you around so they
can utilize you, but keep a watchful eye in case you feel like going on one of
your roaring rampages of revenge again. That�s probably why you're not serving
life right now. Or not six feet under, for that matter."
It made sense, as
much as I hated to admit it.
I knew I shouldn't
have let my paranoia take that nap.
"Ms.
Wilkins," I heard myself mutter, my mouth beating my mind to the
punchline.
"Annoying and
a spy. A winning combination."
"We shared
some special moments. I feel betrayed," I remarked dryly, then spent a
moment watching his face go from nonchalant to more nonchalant.
Amazing.
"You just
can't trust people these days."
The number of
questions still in need of asking could supply a whole season of Jeopardy.
I needed to cut to
the chase.
"What are you
going to do?�
�I was thinking
more in terms of what we are going to do, actually.�
�We? How
did you figure that?�
Vlad constructed a
pseudo-thoughtful face. �Guilt by association, Max. I thought you�d be used to
it by now." Throwing a glance to the shattered window, he elaborated,
"It's only a matter of time until our little Fritz friend tells his boss
we�re together in this. I doubt the Circle would be very interested in the fine
details of our � association.�
The dots began to
connect, tracing the outline of an all-too-familiar picture.
�You planned it
that way, didn't you? You wanted me in your deck.�
�Come on, Max, it
isn't like that. You're my friend." Cue for an extra-wide, extra-charming
grin, with sugar on top and chips on the side. It didn't have the desired
effect on me, for some strange reason. "The fact that you can single
handedly eliminate armies-" he made an ambiguous gesture with his hand,
"that's a perk." His speech rhythm slowed somewhat, "I told you
I needed help, Max." His eyes moved sideways for a moment, returning to me
before he spoke. �I just meant it on a slightly more global scale, that's all.�
That was a yes.
I had to use up my
last reserves of self control to stop myself from rewarding him with a hard
punch to the jaw, or from blackening his other eye. It was tempting to a ridiculous
degree, but would have failed to accomplish much. Instead, I grabbed him by the
collar of his shirt � my shirt - shoving him against the wall, into the spot
previously occupied by the strange interrogation subject. I employed enough
force to draw a wince from him, as his shoulder connected with the hard
surface.
It might not be as
dangerous an activity as insulting guns, but sometimes, when you push a wall
too far, it pushes back.
�You know what
would make all that associative guilt go away, Vlad?� Still holding onto
the shirt, I brought the gun to his temple, locking my gaze onto his with a
stark intensity. �Just one pull of a trigger.�
There was only one
problem with this notion, inspirational as it was.
We both knew I
would never act on it.
His expression
told me as much, switching from a brief phase of annoyance to project casual
amusement.
Well, actually,
there were two problems.
The second was the
tip of his gun pressed softly against my stomach.
A stalemate.
�That's an
interesting idea, Max, really. But you've only just finished patching me
up." He moved his shoulders in a light jolt that substituted for a
full-blown shrug. "It would be counterproductive, don't you think?" A
bare tint of seriousness slipped into his tone, "Besides, it isn't like you.�
Funny, how he felt
he could judge what was like or unlike me, when I myself had no
idea anymore.
I let my face
front my feelings by creating a bitter smirk.
�You know me that
well?�
"Well enough.
No offence, Max,� he sent my gun an offhand glance out of the corner of his
eye, the kind one would give a bothersome fly, and let a sardonic smile slide
in place, �but you're a little predictable.�
Something about
Vlad inspired childish reactions. And that's all it was, really - a childish
reaction, a 'predict this' sort of thing.
That was the cover
story my mind was trying to sell me, at any rate.
I kissed him.
There are moments
in life that begin as one thing, and end up being something completely
different; often a U-turn away from where you'd originally intended to go.
Reasoning,
rationalization and repression were all shoved into a dark, moldy corner as
pure sensation took over.
It was only lip
contact at first, but there was nothing slow, gentle or hesitant about it. It
had none of last night's transparent, thread-thin balance. Instead, it was
shaped and fueled by raw, unhinged energy, sliding rapidly out of control. It
was that same violence that was such an integral part of me- of us,
making a spontaneous evolution into a new, experimental form without asking for
anyone's approval on the matter.
I let my eyes
close, visual perception becoming a distraction, a link to the reality
surrounding this temporary insanity. An unnecessary reminder that anything but this
existed.
Vlad parted his
lips, whether by choice, instinct, or something else, I couldn�t care less. His
breath interlined into mine, inappropriately warm. His tongue edged against my
own, igniting brief, ticklish sparks.
It was a teasing
gesture.
A dare.
For once, I had no
problem taking him up on it.
With nothing but a
primal force to back me up, I guided my tongue into his mouth, relishing the
halted, stunned reaction on his end. It failed to last, naturally. He regained
his ground in a matter of moments, paying me back equally.
Things slowed down
a little, clouding into mutual exploration, floating on a tide of lost
lucidity.
I didn't have the
slightest idea what we were looking for.
Points of
weakness? A consensus? Illumination?
Did it even
matter?
This wasn't new,
the part of me still capable of minimal mental processing realized then; wasn't
the result of the bullet still nesting inside my head - a souvenir from that
fatal night - derailing what little was left of my life, and sanity.
It had always been
there between us, somewhere deep down. A fiery substance lurking under a thick
surface of oppressive ice. It'd only been waiting for an opportunity. For an
excuse.
Now it'd finally
found it.
The boiling point
was just around the corner, and cracks were beginning to form on the protective
layer of common sense.
My tongue
continued its journey over his lower lip, letting it linger over the healing
cut awhile. It caused him to produce a muffled sound, futilely engraved into
the air we shared. If pain was the driving force behind it, it might have eventually
evolved into a hiss, but the situation blocked its progress.
Pain. The term
didn't connect to anything concrete, but it was familiar. Too familiar. It
brought back things I didn't want to remember. Things like time and space.
Right and wrong.
I forced myself
into a stop, just barely. Pulling back was like tearing away from an odd fever
dream, the slow slide into wakefulness feeling more surreal as anything my
subconscious could through at me. It was the kind of dream that left fragments
of its inexplicable essence buried deep inside of you, without the possibility
of surgical removal. The kind of dream that made you wonder whether lucidity
was only an artificial disease humanity inflicted upon itself to cover up the
truth.
Slowly opening my
eyes, I began regaining my breath � it felt strange now, separated from his.
Fractured.
Vlad and I were in
the exact same position, our guns in their childish comfort zones, playing
pretend.
A reality check
had arrived, long overdue.
Vlad was still
Vlad.
I was, to some
degree, still me.
I didn�t need to
be a detective to figure out how wrong this was.
My old
schizophrenia was stopping by again, a dimmed laughter behind an illusory
curtain.
Why did all the
wrong things in my life have the annoying tenancy of feeling so goddamn right?
It might have been
my imagination overacting, but Vlad didn't seem his usual composed self,
either. Genuine bewilderment, or at least as close to it as I'd ever seen him
display, lingered over his face. It made him look different. More like a real
person, instead of the overblown gangster persona he had nailed onto himself.
He pressed his
lips together, tongue revisiting the scene of the crime with a rare
uncertainty.
At least I'd
discovered an effective way of shutting him up.
An urge to resume
the kiss, and do other things, arose, but I strangled it before it had a
chance to grow into action. As double edged swords went, this one was a little
too sharp on my end, cutting a little too deep.
I already had my
share of cuts.
Vlad was still
regarding me with that close-to-awkward expression, though it seemed to be in
the process of becoming something different, more unnerving.
The same look he'd
had on the other night, only without the blood loss and alcohol to pin it on.
For a moment, it
was as if he was staring right into me.
Then, of course,
the smirk made a dashing comeback.
�You get points
for unpredictability, Max,� he conceded gracefully. �Should I take that as a
yes?�
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, you'll
help me?"
A raging headache
was heading my way. There was little I could do but make like a deer stuck in
the headlights and brace for impact.
Arguing further
was as fruitful as going head-to-head with a sleep-deprived ram. I doubted my
head could withstand the extra pressure.
And I had already
made my choice.
�Fine.�
The grin he gave
me must have been a personal record. Which, deductively, also meant a world
record. The display of teeth was blinding, making me long for a pair of
sunglasses. �I knew I could count on you, Max.� As I let my hand slide off the
shirt, he casually shoved his gun back into his belt, tucking the shirt over
it; its eclectic colors provided impressive camouflage. He proceeded to slap my
shoulder in a gesture of excessive kinship. "We should get going. You
never know when another German rollerbladed invasion might start.�
I sighed. My own
gun reluctantly found its way back into my jacket. "Go where?"
He tilted his head
sideways, eyebrows rising to the occasions, "I have a place."
"What
happened to 'losing everything'?"
"It's all relative,
Max," the tone had more Plato than Einstein in it, though that evaporated
in a matter of split seconds, too. "Come on, let's go."
He began to
advance towards the door, halting when he noticed my delay.
He spread his
arms, smiling widely.
�Don't you trust
me?�
I had a million
comebacks to that question. It was impossible to choose just one, so I settled
for a glare.
He retaliated with
a grin.
There was no
winning this one.
I exhaled, and
fell into step after him.
We exited the
apartment, making our way to the parking garage.
�Russian roulette,
huh?� A smirk formed against my will. �Do you keep a little black book to pull
out intimidation monologues from?�
I had no doubt
that he had one for last lines, at least.
�No. It's called
improv, Max. It's pretty fun, actually. Stress relieving.� He sent a pointed
look over. �You should try it.�
�Have you
considered a career in acting?�
�I have, but, you
know,� he waved his arm with an ever-dramatic flair; �there isn't much place in
Hollywood for Russians. We get typecast. KGB and mafia.� Heaving a purposeful
sigh, he shook his head, �Don't you just hate stereotypes?�
�Can't stand
them.�
We reached my car,
a dash of white painting a contrast against the dimly lit garage space.
I pulled out the
car keys, preparing to take the driver's seat.
�You're not in the
best shape for driving, Max."
It took me a
second to realize what he was talking about.
Somehow, in the
midst of all the chaos, I'd managed to forget about the glass-housing condition
my back was in.
I reached back,
fingers wrapping over a piece of glass.
Vlad's hand closed
over my forearm. When I turned my gaze to him, he performed a minimalistic
headshake. �Blood loss, as appealing as it sounds, wouldn't be very pragmatic
at the moment,� he assessed, sounding as if he was relaying a fact of life on a
children's television show. �We'll take care of it at my place. You'll just
have to keep playing Max Payne the Amazing Bullet Dodging Hedgehog awhile
longer.�
I had no intention
of taking the back seat with Vlad, figuratively or literally, which forced me
to compromise on shotgun riding. To avoid the joys of blood loss, I had to keep
my body leaned forward, a position as comfortable as your typical medieval
torture device.
Vlad, being at his
most empathetic, was all but lounging in his seat, apparently mistaking it for
a beach chair. With the Hawaiian shirt in the picture, there wasn't too much
imagination stretching required. I'd offered him a margarita, but then I'd have
to resist the urge of shoving the miniature umbrella down his throat.
The engine emitted
a roar, a caged beast heralding the beginning of a journey to a land far away.
Interestingly
enough, I did feel a bit like a hedgehog lost in a world made of fog, traveling
blindly, stumbling from one dead end to the next.
Seeing only the
hazy edges of the pipe dream reality I was trapped in.
I tried to keep my
mind of the road, to steer it clear of invasive thoughts.
In my world, once
things started on their snowball roll downhill, there was little you could do
to stop it.
It was only a
matter of time before the avalanche picked up.
Vlad turned the
radio on, tuning in to an oldies station. He'd always possessed the magical
ability of landing exclusively on Sinatra songs, and it seemed that he hadn't
lost the touch.
'Don't you
know, little fool, you never can win?
Why not use
your mentality - step up, wake up to reality?
But each time I
do just the thought of you
Makes me stop
just before I begin
'Cause I've got
you under my skin.'
I had a feeling
that repression had gone on an extended shore leave.
And it wasn't
coming back anytime soon.
- 4
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