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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
- 5
- 6
Chapter V: The Lion's Den
The ride was
applying a tranquilizer of inertia, coated with steady motion. The effect was
soothing, like a leisurely rocking cradle.
A lullaby's
trouble-free melody accompanied it, mixing with the soft scent of nostalgia. It
was flawless in its simplicity; children, after all, had no need for the
nuances, the endless complications that adults insisted on imposing upon
themselves.
Perfectly
harmonious.
Only� not quite.
Something wasn't
right. It was a little detail � so small, so insignificant that you really
weren't supposed to pay any attention to it whatsoever.
Yet you couldn't
help but do just that.
One note was off.
Not an important note. Just a note.
But there was
something vaguely unpleasant about it, a shallow tint of an over-the-shoulder,
gnawing sensation that couldn't be locked away or ignored.
It kept repeating
over and over, scratching across the surface of my consciousness, its mark
growing deeper and more irritating with each passing moment.
A slowly spreading
rash without an antidote or cure.
Eventually, the
sickening note was all I could hear.
It was jarring, a
dull knife slicing across bone and brain matter, weaving towards loss of
sanity.
Irresistible.
A note of death.
In a way, this
deformed lullaby was even more soothing than the original.
Something
flickered in the corner of my eye, but I couldn't quite catch it.
A hushed whisper
sounded, twisting into a near-kiss at the edge of my ear.
Something horrible
lurking just outside of my sight range.
If I could just
turn my head an inch sideways, try and -
"Max?"
The hand placed on
my shoulder finally began taking corporeal form, my vision detaching from the
worm-ridden trail of a past that refused to be cut off. It refocused onto a
colorblind, rainy windshield holding the present at bay.
"Are you
alright?"
I turned to look
at Vlad. A knitted brow and a pursed mouth painted an uncharacteristic mask of
concern on his face.
Alright?
Now that was a
condition I hadn't suffered from in years.
And the
indefinable state between sleep and wakefulness had always been the worst.
The real-life
demons provided feeble competition to the murky, formless ones crawling in the
back of my mind for what seemed like an eternity, or more.
I moved my head in
a mild semblance of a nod.
"Yeah. Just
thinking."
The smile he slid
on had a well-concealed shred of uneasiness to it.
He wasn't buying
it, but neither of us was in the mood for excessive haggling.
The silence was
carefully maintained, to the point of grooming, as I kept my gaze on him,
gradually hooking a question mark onto it.
"Last stop,
Max," he tilted his head towards the car door meaningfully, emphasizing
the statement by reaching for the handle.
"Oh."
Terrific. I hadn't
even noticed we'd come to a stop. So much for my keen sixth sense.
Even the core five
weren't fully operational.
Following Vlad's
lead, I stepped out of the car, finding myself under the security blanket of a
meager and rather unimpressive rain, though the dark-shaded, foreboding clouds
gathered above allowed it some delusion of grandeur.
The neighborhood
wasn't particularly familiar, or singular in any shape of form. In fact, it was
the polar opposite. It had that air of fairy dust about it, with parallel lines
of grey buildings plagued by the cookie cutter syndrome, constructed
specifically for the purpose of being easily forgotten. A shroud of
invisibility hung over the rooftops and alleyways, handing out free John Doe
IDs to those in need.
To keep a lower
profile in this vicinity, one had to adopt a snake-like posture.
The car keys were
calmly tossed over, and my hand had the courtesy to react in my stead, making a
smooth catch and placing them in my jacket pocket.
If only my mind
agreed to cooperate with such ease.
Planting obscure
tracks into the wet asphalt, we made our way towards a house residing in the
corner of the street.
It was nothing
special.
Far from new, yet
not truly ancient. Stuck in the two-story space between small and large, and
miraculously, not even fitting into the 'medium' range. Amorphous and not
particularly appealing, but lacking the defining characteristic required to
make downright ugly.
The windows were
barred shut, an inviting sign by all means. A crooked (to the point of becoming
nearly vertical) sign decorated the space above the heavy wooden door, its
lifeless neon letters � the ones that weren't smashed or stolen by sneaky neon
fetishists (the most dangerous kind, without a doubt) � covered by dust and
grime, failing to combine into anything coherent.
The place was the
very definition of abandoned.
A ghost house in
the dead end of the city, all but faded out of existence.
Strange, but it
felt a bit like home already.
We stopped by the
front door. Following the Proper Paranoiac Protocol - one I was exceedingly and
personally acquainted with - Vlad glanced sideways and over both shoulders,
making sure no intrusive signs of life, particularly those of a rollerbladed
breed, decided to manifest nearby, before giving the door a thorough knock.
Silence.
Another knock.
"There's
nobody home," assured a familiar, heavily accented voice.
Since there was no
way of knowing whether the lights were on, it was hard to dispute the
statement.
Vlad decided to
attempt it anyway.
"There are
two kinds of people in the world, my friend. The ones who come through the
door, and the ones who blow it open."
After a brief
moment of hesitation, the door wisely opened.
The redheaded man
behind it was wielding a large grin and a larger AK-47.
I decided against
using up any of my few remaining surprise tokens.
Obviously, it was
magical resurrection season.
And at the rate
things were going, I'd probably need them for later, anyway.
The grin,
something akin to relief prominent in it, was directed at Vlad.
The
ever-so-friendly Kalashnikov, however, had all of its undivided attention on
me.
At least I wasn't
running the risk of feeling left out.
"Let me
guess," Vlad awarded the redhead with an amused smirk, "your name is
nobody?"
The answer was
preceded by a shrug and a smile, "You've got to hand it to the Italians.
They know their westerns, if little else." He slanted his head sideways,
letting the smile fade a little. "You look good, boss." Eying the new
and unusual addition to Vlad's wardrobe with distinct suspicion for a decent
stretch of time, he tacked on a somewhat hesitant, "Under the
circumstances."
The shirt couldn't
have been that bad, could it?
Must've been a
Russian thing.
Before the
subliminal message in his boss's eyes could read 'murder' or something of the
sort, the cowboy smoothly redirected his interest in my direction, the
liveliness of his expression not budging an inch, "Sheriff."
"Mike,"
I mirrored the elaborate greeting. Lowering my gaze onto the infamous assault
rifle, I appended, "AK."
Sadly, the rifle
chose not to respond at the moment.
Its owner made up
for it, though. "How's life? Catch any bad guys lately?"
I sent a brief
glance over to Vlad, receiving a faintly raised eyebrow in return.
Was it called
'catch' when they were the ones dropping over?
Still, I figured
bringing this up in the present company would only result in semantic wars,
with uncompromising, blood-soaked campaigns led by terms such as 'legally
challenged', 'morally ambiguous', or the ever popular 'misunderstood'.
It wasn't worth
the effort.
"It's been
slow on that front," the answer seemed to fit both questions, so I left it
at that. "How about you?"
"Me or
Rosy?"
"Rosy?"
"Her name,"
his look took a turn towards pointed as he tilted the gun in emphasis, "is
Rosy."
Futilely seeking
illumination from Vlad, I encountered a fence-sitting expression which managed
to be both chiding and understanding, depending on the viewing angle.
Apparently, in the
land of Russian cowboys, the moniker 'AK' was considered to be a grievous
insult.
I sighed.
"Both of
you."
"I'm good.
Rosy has been a bit underworked lately, though," the statement was soaked
in definite regret. Grief, almost. The cheer picked back up in an instant,
though, as he gave 'Rosy' an encouraging pat, "But now you'rehere, it's
all going to change, right?"
Vlad interjected
into the conversation before I had the chance to establish a thorough
heart-to-heart with the lugubrious rifle, steering it away from the hot topic.
"Mind if we
come in?"
After exchanging a
condensed telepathic broadcast with his boss � I wondered if the duo had the
capacity of injecting movie quotes into the realm of optical communication as
well - the redhead nodded, lowered his rifle and stepped out of the way,
allowing us to step inside.
"Nice
glass."
"Thanks."
Once the heavyset
door shut behind us with a dim thud, I came to the realization that we'd just
walked into a modern-day variant of Plato's cave.
The darkness
seemed to have a presence of its own, a soul-swallowing entity mercilessly
consuming the entire room. It effortlessly rivaled the inside of a whale, and
was probably sufficient to arm a generic evil empire of choice.
Or maybe it was
just trying to be hide-and-seek friendly.
The only signs of
a resistance put up by the forces of light were the pale, anorectic rays which
spent their limited energy breaking and entering through the cracks formed
between what appeared to be wooden plates nailed onto the windows. They sliced
the room in several places, creating pallid, ghostly outlines of an
undistinguishable interior.
The house couldn't
have been haunted, though.
Even the most
low-maintenance ghosts had higher standards.
And I doubted they
were willing to risk choking on the dust, which casually replaced oxygen in
this claustrophobic atmosphere.
It took some time
for both my lungs and eyes to adapt to the hazardous conditions.
"I think
you're taking the concept of invisibility a bit too far, Vlad."
"The gods of electricity
have abandoned this fine establishment."
"Have you
tried praying to the gods of bill paying?"
"They have a
very strict sacrifice policy. Besides, you know I'm an atheist."
In the gap
following Vlad's speech, I used my newly acquired night vision to become
acquainted with the shadowy surroundings.
This must have
been a bar of some sort in a former life, or so testified the vast interior, as
well as the round tables randomly scattered about the place (some missing vital
parts and therefore resembling post-apocalyptic mutants, others ugly on their
own inborn right), and the key witness - a massive wooden bar at the side of
the room. A large, malformed heap of dust lodging by a window had perhaps, in
some point in ancient history, constituted for a jukebox.
Vlad, having
already grown his own set of nocturnal eyes, advanced towards the bar, soon to
be joined by the redhead and his feminine rifle. I trailed after them, trying
not to be swallowed by the dust storm that the movement caused.
Having found a
spot he was happy with, Vlad stopped, giving Mike an inquisitive look.
"How's the
babysitting going?"
"It's�
uh," Mike shifted from foot to foot in a distinctly un-cowboy-like manner,
"the usual."
"Bodycount?"
"Not
yet."
"Impressive
enough."
"� Except a couple
of rats."
"Are we
talking figurative or literal?"
"Literal.
Zver' is scared of them. Big time phobia."
"Don't tell
me he shot them."
An uncomfortable
silence took the dust's place as a temporary suffocating method.
Eventually, Vlad's
altogether not-too-happy sounding voice replaced it, "That's charming. Did
you dispose of the bodies?"
"Don't worry,
boss," a touch of pride returned into the cowboy's speech. "They're
sleeping with the fishes."
"I hope
that's figurative," Vlad's mouth curved into an uncomfortable line as he
surveyed the dusty cavern. "Where is the Wild Bunch?"
Mike made a 'come
with me' gesture, shuffling off in the direction of a nearby door.
Conforming to the
persuasive instance of body language, we followed the cowboy into a backroom.
It froze up in our
honor, as is somebody had just pushed a pause button on it.
The scene we�d
walked in on was kidnapped straight out of the William Tell legend, with only
minor alterations.
The traditional
crossbow was replaced with a rather modern gun, and the apple's place was taken
by an avant-garde vodka bottle.
Other than the two
central characters required to play out the scene, four more men were spread
around the room, contented with their roles as very-far-from-innocent bystanders.
One of them was holding on to a top hat filled with bills, which, had it
possessed the gift (or curse, depending on your point of view) of speech,
would've implied there was a wager of some sort involved.
And because
obviously this wasn't challenging enough, the one-man-firing-squad had a
bandana, the color of which foreshadowed the likely outcome of this ordeal,
tied over his eyes.
"That's what
happens when there's no television," Vlad commented mournfully.
I shook my head
empathetically, �Kids these days.�
The scene
defrosted within an instant, and miraculously, all the guns in the room found
themselves pointed at me.
Even the
blindfolded one, though its reaction had been a tad belated.
�We�re all friends
here,� Vlad informed the trigger-happy denizens of the room in a tone laced
with calm authority. He moved his head in a slight yet concise motion, and the
surrounding firearms reluctantly returned to their natural habitat. "You
do remember we�re supposed to be keeping a low profile here?"
The aforementioned
William Tell tapped the silencer attached to his gun helpfully.
"Thought of
everything, I see." Deciding not to press the issue further, he brought
his hand to my shoulder, adapting a posture mimicking that of a teacher
introducing a new student to the class, "You boys know Max, don't
you?"
A wide spectrum or
expressions was unleashed in my direction, ranging from confusion, through
silent alarm, to ocular homicide.
It seemed that
most of them had either crossed my path at one point or another, or heard
stories of such crossings.
I felt like a part
of the gang already.
�Max is here to
help us, so we need to learn to play nice together. What happened in the past
stays in the past."
He passed his gaze
around the room, collecting an assortment of unenthusiastic nods and
half-hearted mumbles.
"I'm glad we
agree."
With that taken
care of, he turned back to me, sliding into one of his more theatrical
expressions.
"Max, allow
me to present the most notorious, fearsome and efficient gentlemen of fortune
to grace the east coast."
Gentlemen of
fortune.
It was good to
know that political correctness has slipped into the ranks of organized crime
as well.
"Anton
Kamikaze."
William Tell, a
tall fellow who seemed to violently dislike the concept of shaving, sniffed in
acknowledgement from underneath the crimson blindfold, clearly anxious to
return to his exercise in luck stretching.
"Ivanushka
Durachok."
The bottle bearer
was, unsurprisingly, the youngest of the group. He undoubtedly considered this death
defying act to be a rite of passage of sorts, instead of the ancient Rome
styled entertainment it really was.
Judging by the
sourness added to his already far from ecstatic expression, the baby-faced
Russian didn't appreciate the name he was given, but due to the bottle-shaped
obstacle, his newbie status, and perhaps a language barrier, had little to no
choice in the matter.
"Kostya
Bessmertniy."
The resident
bookie was a gaunt, nearly skeletal fellow with rodent-like features. At his
introduction, he unleashed a mouth full of crooked teeth into a smile that
might have been going for friendly, but instead winded up embodying the essence
of shifty.
"Cheburashka."
This one was
lacking in the height department, but more than made up for it with the sheer power
of the liquid fury his face was busy contorting into. His ears reached colossal
proportions, and the buzz cut he was sporting wasn't entirely helpful in that
respect, either. With the infernal scowl (I couldn�t tell whether it was his
default expression, or special-made for me), he looked like an exceptionally
vicious cross between Mickey Mouse and the Tasmanian Devil.
Cute, in a strange
sort of way.
"Zver'"
The man � if that
was indeed the proper term for him � could have posed as an authentic Neanderthal
in a prestigious museum exhibition somewhere. Instead, he'd obviously chosen a
more exciting career, and had gathered his share of trophies to show for it. A
raw scar embellished the area where most people would�ve preferred to have a
nose. Another one graced his left cheek, imitating a black snake.
Not the most
aesthetically agreeable individual I�d had the fortune of encountering, all in
all.
His greeting came
in form of an animalistic sneer. I failed to detect much affection within it,
but I decided not to take it too close to heart.
It was clear that
his love belonged solely to the fluffy, morbidly endearing teddy bear depicted
on his T-shirt.
I stared at the
furry creature for a second or two, then looked at Vlad.
"We don't
talk about that," he half-whispered.
That, I figured,
was probably for the best.
"And last but
not least - Autist."
The expansive hand
gesture led to a disheveled blonde leaning against the wall in the far corner
of the room. He was clad in a dreamy expression, mouth stuck in a fly garage
position. His hand was stretched out in front of him, throwing and catching
some item in a distracted rhythm.
It took me several
moments to realize the object he was so absent-mindedly flipping happened to be
a large and rather menacing combat knife.
True to his name,
he offered little in the way of response.
With the awkward
round of introductions done with, Vlad turned to the cowboy slash babysitter,
who had so far been doing an upstanding job staying conveniently invisible.
"What did you
bet on?"
Mike's face was
desperately trying to match the color of his hair as he struggled against the
confines of this incriminating cookie jar moment. "Bullseye," he
admitted at last.
"Always the
optimist," Vlad smiled pleasantly. He didn't bother to lower his voice for
the next sentence, "I say his eye is more likely."
Language barrier
or not, the bottle carrier gave a definite grimace at that.
Mike simply
shrugged, probably deciding that any word he said could and would be used
against him in a court of dubious law.
Vlad chose to let
him off the hook regarding his misadventures in babysitting, though, instead
going with a plain, "Get me a first aid kit." Changing direction and
striding towards the unfortunate target practice subject, he paused to eye the
bottle intently. "You better not be wasting good alcohol for this."
"We drank it
all already, boss," reassured William 'Kamikaze' Tell.
Vlad gave a sigh
of great relief, "Alright then." He patted the rookie on the chest
reassuringly, meanwhile slipping into a smile that somehow failed to project
the same reassuring qualities. "Have fun."
Motioning for me
to join him, he headed for a second door positioned on the other side of the
room.
Surprisingly making
it out without being shredded to pieces by the loving gazes (though I was
pretty sure that someone � probably the Tasmanian Mouse � had drilled a hole
through the back of my head with his eyes), we winded up in a narrow,
light-deprived corridor.
It ended in a
stairway.
Somehow, I doubted
it led to heaven.
Vlad came to a
stop there, turning around and leaning against the railing.
Sometimes, I
wondered whether he was capable of standing on his, without the benefit of
advantageously positioned scenery.
I assumed a spot
beside him.
�Playing with guns
isn�t very healthy, you know.�
"I'm a firm
believer in Darwinian elimination." He shot a pointed look to the end of
the hallway; not that the dwellers of that room required further help in the
ballistic department.
Forming a narrow
pathway of air through the dust speck terrain as he exhaled with deliberate
slowness, he allowed a few seconds to pass idly before turning an appraising
look on me, "What do you think?"
"You're
missing a Sporty Spice."
"I know. It's
tragic. I was just about to tell Mike to open an auditioning process."
"So that's
your leftover mafia, huh?"
"The ones who
didn't have the pleasure of running into the Max Payne pest control
services," there was no accusation in there, merely a cynical breed of
fact relaying, "or didn't scatter in the wind while I was away."
His face settled
into a sardonic smirk.
"The most
loyal and the most insane."
On cue, the sound
of shattering glass erupted from the nearby room.
Since it wasn't
accompanied by the thud of a body hitting the floor, I could only assume that
lady luck had found a vacancy in her busy schedule to pay a visit to the young
Russian.
The round of
applauds and appreciative whistles that followed confirmed the notion.
Although, with
this sort of crowd, you never knew.
"It's a good
pick."
�It�s the only
pick.�
Mike came out of
the backroom then, carrying the requested kit, along with impressive wad of
cash. He made his way over in a jaunty stroll.
"Optimism
pays off," he attempted to mimic his boss's Cheshire qualities as he
handed him the kit, clad in a tight veil of self-satisfaction.
"Blind luck
has never been in short supply here," Vlad smirked in reply, failing to
look significantly impressed.
Still gleaming
like a nuclear plant on the verge of overheating, the cowboy announced,
"We're going double or nothing."
"Good thing
optimism isn't your sole income," Vlad disconnected from the railing,
shaking his head. "We're going upstairs. It's a safer investment."
Mike departed with
a frown while we headed for the second floor.
"Since when
have you been playing it safe?"
"I like my
risks calculated, Max," he glanced at me, the corner of his mouth taking a
curve upwards, "Optimism doesn't usually build into that."
We arrived
upstairs, entering the first door on the right.
This room was
Spartan enough (which might have stemmed from Vlad's penchant towards keeping
Trojan horses as pets), with a lone wardrobe, a bleak nightstand and a rather
miserable looking chair composing the interior design. While comparatively
dust-free, it still carried the touch of the entropy that enwrapped the house,
in form of a leak that adorned the colorless ceiling. A traditional tin bucket
was placed under the improvised waterfall, currently filled about half way.
A large bed stood
by the wall, looking like it was made for Father Bear, which brought upon an
interesting image of Vlad as the notorious Goldilocks.
It was almost too
perfect a fit.
"What are
your thoughts on porridge, Vlad?"
He raised his brow
slightly at the question. "I believe it's a part of a worldwide conspiracy
to torture children around the globe. You know, along with that purple dinosaur
of yours. Pure evil."
Damn.
So much for that
theory.
And I'd liked it
so much.
His eyebrows went
a notch higher. "Why?"
"Just
wondering." He wasn't the only one who could feint innocence, after all.
Paying no attention whatsoever to the exponentially growing mix of curiosity
and annoyance encompassing his expression, I let my eyes wander over the room
in a quiet examination. "Whose place is it?"
Still enjoying his
bout of resentment over being left in the dark on porridge-related matters, he
placed the kit on the nightstand, then sat down the bed, turning a sulky glower
on me. He was unable to maintain it for long, though, eventually extracting a
cigarette pack from his pants pocket, lighting one up and sending it to lounge
at the vacation spot in the corner of his mouth.
"Used to
belong to a friend of mine," cue for a spacious wave into a hypothetical
horizon, "from the good old days. He didn't have any living relatives,
and," a pause was created, making way for a cigarette puff, as well as a
brief stretch of floor examination, "I guess I was the next best
thing."
"I came over
one night, we had a," this momentary pause seemed to be of a more evasive
variety, and the next word resembled a band-aid glued over the truth,
"conversation, and he said he wanted me to take over once he was gone. He
was drunk as hell, of course," the short-lived smirk had a tint of gloom
to it, "but it was as close to a will as he ever made. He died not long
after that," there was a touch of accelerations attached to that bit, as
he raced for the finish, "So, unofficially, I suppose you could call it
mine."
"And
officially?"
"I'm not sure
it exists."
"Fitting."
He tilted his head
in token agreement, swiftly returning to a vertical position and walking over
to the rain-absorbing bucket, where he let the cigarette perform a suicide jump
into the watery grave. He fixed his gaze on me then, eyes glittering in the
pale light. "Alright, lie down. Let's do some field surgery"
I didn't like the
excessive enthusiasm I detected in his voice.
"I can do it
myself."
"Are you sure
you're that flexible?"
"I have a
rubber girl in my family tree."
"That's
hot," he assessed appreciatively. "I have a rubber duck." He
tilted his head in my direction, igniting a persistent look, "Max, come
on."
There was
something about that particular tone of his that made it distressingly
difficult to argue further, and, as an added bonus, made you feel foolish for
having attempted it in the first place.
I hated that
tone.
But resistance had
already become futile.
I lowered myself
onto the Several Kings Size bed, fighting off the irrational buildup of dread
which found its disturbing ancestry in the sinister aura inside a dentist's
office.
But even Vlad
couldn't have been that sadistic.
Could he?
I watched from my
limited angle as he dragged the wretched chair over, taking a seat beside me.
"This is
going to hurt me more than it'll hurt you," he exclaimed shamelessly.
"Why do I
have a hard time believing that?"
"Because
you're a skeptic at heart?"
"It's a smart
thing to be."
Especially around
certain individuals.
"True. But
there's nothing wrong with a little faith here and there."
"Faith in what?"
"Mankind?"
he smiled vibrantly.
The snort I gave
expressed my opinion on that subject eloquently.
"Well, I
didn't say the good of mankind, did I?"
Before I'd gotten
the chance to muse over what Vlad's belief system encompassed, he got chatty
again.
"So how has
that," he performed a short sniff, stopping short of any specific sound,
"P.I. business of yours been treating you?"
"It's a
living," I summarized. I would've been a little more inclined towards the conversation
if I hadn't known it was simply a device meant to distract me from the upcoming
pain.
"Sounds more
like survival to me."
"What's wrong
with �" all sounds became momentarily entrapped as I encountered a feeling
resembling a jagged lighting strike in my lower back. To Vlad's credit, this
wasn't nearly as bad as it could get with this sort of injuries. Still,
the next word lost several decibels, barely making it through the pain filter,
"survival?"
"Nothing,"
he replied flippantly, punctuating with another quick, smooth removal.
"But it wouldn't kill you to live a little."
After sharing his
pearls of wisdom, he tossed the homeless pieces into the bucket, then proceeded
to extract a few more errant shards, thus effectively slaughtering my end of
the debate.
I was beginning to
wonder whether seeing the glass as half empty would help.
That line of
thought came to a sad and unexpected end as a distinctly hostile piece was
eradicated, and, if to judge by the reaction of my nerve center, took a few
internal organs along for the ride.
A deep, low groan
escaped before I could even attempt to capture it.
Great.
My eyes were
closed � an instinctive reaction to the not quite pleasurable sensation - but I
could hear him grinning.
I braced myself
for the inevitable, and wasn't disappointed.
�Really, Max, I'd
expected a higher pain tolerance level from an invincible superhero like
yourself. This is a little pathetic.�
There really was
only one answer I could give.
"Fuck you,
Vlad."
"Is that a
promise?" he inquired hopefully. Another expedition of glass mining cut me
off from my available retort supply. My back felt like a raw steak, going for
medium rare. One wouldn't have been able to deduce that from the aggravating
brightness inhabiting Vlad's voice like a rainbow in the middle of a hurricane,
though. "All done. Lose the shirt."
This winning
combination of sentences resulted in an acute lack of eagerness to follow
through his instructions.
"Or you can
keep bleeding. Your choice, obviously."
It wasn't an easy
one.
Eventually, I
managed to pep-talk myself into choice number one.
Somebody had to
spare my already abused jacket from the bloodstains.
Shoving the pain
into a far corner of my mind, I sat up, removing the jacket and the shirt before
lying back down.
He attended to the
wound cleaning first, doing it with an unnervingly quiet proficiency, then
pulled out a few bandages, placed his knee on the bed for a better reach, and
began attaching them to the hotspots across my back.
"No stitches?"
"The cuts
aren't really that deep. And you're pretty enough without them, trust me."
"I thought
you'd relish the opportunity anyway."
This prompted a
solitary chuckle. �I'm not that big a fan of this whole eye for an eye
business. It gets monotonic, and I prefer my revenge more elaborate."
Whether he was confusing 'elaborate' with 'bombastic' (Vlad's fondness for bad
puns must've, like many parts of him, carried an infectious quality) was left a
point for debate as he went on, "Besides, you saved my life." He
paused, presumably in order to form some manner of expression I wasn't let in
on, then added, "Repeatedly. So really, it wouldn't be very honorable of
me.�
"Vlad, I
wouldn't put honor and you in the same room together."
When you struck a
nerve with Vlad, the chain reaction was easy enough to miss. There was no
change of expression, or in the tone of voice.
In fact, it wasn't
noticeable by any standard detection method known to man.
But if you knew
him well enough, and only a handful of people could claim that dubious
privilege, you could almost feel a subtle shift in the surrounding atmosphere.
Sense the nearby temperature plunging into a frosty abyss, shamelessly
overlooking all laws of physics in the process.
It�d just dropped
several degrees.
The chill came
with a brief silence, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an air of
elaborately balanced detachment, careful not to sway in any particular
direction. "Just because my honor isn't your favorite brand doesn't mean I
don't have any, Max. It's all a matter of taste, after all."
He was hiding
behind generalizations again, his cover of choice.
More edge went
into the following set of words, "So how about you save all that
judgmental energy for the next killing spree?"
A good offense as
the best defense was clearly what he�d been going for, but I was tired of the
ping pong wars.
Blatantly ignoring
the offered bait, I let my tone soften a bit, "Why don't you explain your
honor, Vlad?"
The abrupt change
of tactics brought upon an ambience of confusion on his end. He didn't seem to
have a good comeback for that. "It's -" the choppy snippet was
followed by a quiet gap that soon became a chasm. Mild turbulences were created
in the cool air as several threads of attempted speech died before they began, running
into invisible barriers, trapped between uncertainty and frustration. This was
as close to stammering as Vlad got. Finally, he compromised for a blank but
surprisingly honest note. "I can't."
For some reason, I
couldn't bring myself to grill him further about it.
"Write an
essay and hand it in by tomorrow, then."
An expulsion of
air loosely resembling a snort was his only response.
The icy demeanor
seemed to be in the process of slow melting, though.
He applied the
last few bandages quietly, the only sound effect at hand being the unsteady
dripping of rain through the structurally-challenged ceiling. He tapped his
fingers over my shoulder several times before regaining his speaking ability.
"Max?"
"Hmm?"
"Why
porridge?"
I battled the urge
to grin. It was reassuring to find out that I still possessed the innate talent
of driving him crazy.
"I was just
curious, Vlad. You read too much into things."
The answer clearly
failed to satisfy him. "So you won't tell me."
"No."
"Fine."
I resisted
countering with a 'fine' of my own, tempting as this childish response was.
With the critical
porridge talk over, I'd become aware that while Vlad's bold venture into the
realm of field medicine was officially over, his hands still lingered in the
vicinity of my back.
I couldn't find
the exact definition for what he was doing, with no dictionary in sight, and
only my body's input on the subject.
Whatever it was,
it felt good.
His hands, despite
previous displays of iciness, were remarkably warm, an antithesis to the room
temperature.
His thumb brushed
against my spine, while the other hand was performing something closer to a
massage at the base of my neck.
He was leaning
closer to me; close enough that I could feel his breath connecting with my
shoulder.
My body was doing
all within its power to disconnect from the mind, to let this sensation stretch
awhile.
My mind, to its
credit, was being a good sport, coming to the verge of shutting itself off.
I felt almost
ready to drift into sleep, the world beginning to fade away...
A deep rooted
instinct kicked in, jolting me back into reality.
"What are you
doing?" I had to force the words out of my throat, which felt unnaturally
constricted.
His reply came at
a low, captivating pitch, gliding into a nearly subconscious level with a
disturbing ease.
"Relax, Max.
It's open to interpretation."
Just about the
tagline to all things Vlad.
"Like hell it
is."
"Hell is pretty
open to interpretation."
And he was clearly
an expert on that front, too.
For a moment, I
was tempted to just let things roll. It couldn't hurt, could it?
The moment passed.
Who was I kidding?
"Vlad."
He detached his
hands, finishing the movement's arc with a shrug and giving a barely audible
sigh.
A retreat from the
bed area was quick to follow.
I raised myself
back to a sitting position, watching him as he opened the wardrobe and dug into
it, coming up with a fresh dress shirt.
A swift set of
precise motions found the foreign piece of attire he'd been clad in unbuttoned
and removed, and he releases it in my direction with a toss.
It took an
undignified flight, landing over my head.
Pulling the
makeshift headwear off, I discovered he'd already managed to slip the
vengeance-deprived shirt on, not bothering with the presentation front for
once.
Folding his arms,
he locked his eyes against mine, forming the human male equivalent of
head-to-head ramming.
We could've gone
on like this forever.
A dull sound
arrived from downstairs, immediately followed by a wail.
Lady Luck must've
been taking a nap this time around.
Who could blame
her?
Vlad smiled
mirthlessly. "I think they're going to need the first aid kit down
there."
I nodded.
He frowned,
refusing to exit the visual battleground until I did so myself by shaking my
head and turning away. He lingered a short while, then retrieved the popular
kit and headed for the door.
He walked several
feet before coming to a premature halt, gracing me with an over-the-shoulder
glance.
"I'm a little
too big a boy to be playing with mixed signals, Max. When you've moved past
denial and into, say, bargaining, be sure to let me know."
A few more steps
brought him to a dramatic final stand by the door.
"And take a
shower. You could use one."
Satisfied with
having the last word, he left.
Other than the
mandatory creak, the door closed soundlessly. The sentiment, however, was
without a doubt that of a spectacular slam.
From Ice Queen to
Drama Queen in less than five minutes.
Good thing he was
keeping the queen part consistent, at least.
Vlad's departure
left some room to try and make sense of the chaotic mess enwrapping my brain.
It wasn't quite
denial anymore, but I couldn't muster up whatever was required to pass to the
next stage, which left me with ambivalence.
It was an old favorite
of ours.
Maybe taking a
shower wasn't the most horrible in the land of ideas.
A few minutes
later, I was turbulently attempting to retract that deeply misled thought as
Vlad's 'elaborate' revenge unfolded in the form of liquid ice spilling over me
from the malevolent shower.
The gods of hot
water obviously didn't favor this house, either.
At least this
explained why Vlad had tried to incinerate himself in my shower earlier.
Narrowly escaping
from the evil frost demons, I ended up back in the surgery room, shivering and
shaking like an out-of-control washing machine with volatile tendencies.
Grabbing the first
piece of fabric I could get my hands on, I soon found myself wearing my old
shirt and jacket combination.
My teeth still
insisted upon clattering.
On the bright
side, I hadn't felt this awake in years.
A fit of unhealthy
curiosity hit me, and I opened the wardrobe door, gazing into the mirror
attached to it.
The realization
came slowly, tiptoeing into my consciousness with the stealth of an elite commando
unit, and the persistence of a veteran uninvited guest.
I'd missed it.
Not just the
shirt, its distinguished vengefulness notwithstanding, but also what came with
it. A counterfeit identity constructed around my own, becoming too real for
comfort.
The feeling that I
was playing by no one's rules but my own.
I kept watching
the reflection, for once feeling almost at home with the madness it presented
with its grin.
Maybe it was time
to start shedding the long dead shell I was trapped in.
This wasn't a disguise anymore.
This was what I'd
become.
And I wasn't going
to run away from it anymore.
- 5
- 6
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