The disclaimer. So this is the part where "leithalweapon" reiterates the fact that he does not own me - Max Payne, or anything regarding the rights to my story? Or maybe it's the part where he jokes about how he wishes he did own the rights, correct? That's just FAN-tastic. I need a drink...
A cold, dry bed. A dull, shoddy room. A window that provides a glimpse to the cold, dry streets of a dull, shoddy city. This is a place that is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I feel like I've been here before, and yet I feel like I'm in a entirely different world. I look around, and quickly I feel a stinging headache. The type of headache expected after a long night of flying three sheets to the wind with nothing but a bottle of whiskey and a bad case of manic dehydration. I've definitely been there before, but I can't help but wonder why this is such a new experience...
Where was I last night? I thought I was sober. I thought that after that dysfunctional series of screw ups that was my time with the Brancos I decided to cut the middleman out of my life. Well, the middlemen. Every time I tried to show at least a slight amount of common sense, Alcohol and Painkillers quickly snuffed out any chances of that ever occurring. So, once I got my priorities in order (if that even has happened at all), I decided it was time for my "Sai fora da minha vida, Cabrao!" moment, and I quit cold turkey. That would have been much more difficult, had I not been spending my initial rehabilitation period in a god damn inferno of bullets that were sent with love from the UFE. But now, as I lay here in this foreign place with no idea where the fuck I am, I have to ask myself if I am getting a stern check of reality in the form of a cold, hard relapse.
"Max...? Max! Oh, my god... you're awake! How..."
Now I'm really starting to wonder where the hell I was last night. Maybe in the loving embrace of a bottle of rum, or the friendly company of a bottle of vodka... because this is the type of reaction received after waking up from a god damn coma. Maybe this is what I deserve for this little relapse of mine, maybe I had this coming...
"Max! God dammit... you shouldn't even be alive..."
Maybe it's the fact that I still feel like I'm under the ever powerful influence of not knowing what the hell is going on or where the hell I even am, or maybe I've finally lost my god damn mind. But that voice...
"You son of a bitch... do you realize how badly you've fucked up this time?"
Now I know that this is a bad dream. No, make that a nightmare. I've had nightmares before where I've seen this bastard, but this is different. The last time I saw Jimmy Bravura in a dream, he was trying to kill me with a god damn loaded weapon. Now he's trying to kill me with guilt by telling me how much of a fuck up I am. I'm not gonna let this dream get any more screwed up than it already is.
"Alright... I get it. This is a bad dream... right. Real funny. Time to wake up!"
But I'm not waking up.
"... Max... shit Max... you really are out of it Max... god dammit..."
I don't like how that sounds. I try to reach out and grab Bravura to see if he really is there, or if he's just yet another figment of my unstable imagination. I find I don't have the strength. This isn't good.
"Damn... damn... Alright Bravura... since I'm not waking up in my own god damn bed in my own god damn house, you're gonna tell me just what exactly is going on, and you're gonna do it right now!"
I sound like a caged animal that's all bark and no bite. Even as I speak, I find my voice slowly fading. It's pathetic and embarrassing... and after the answer that I already know I'm going to receive, I doubt I'm going to feel much better.
"Max... you don't even remember before... they destroyed your apartment Max... god dammit..."
That's a nice way of saying that they blew my apartment up into motherfucking smithereens. The Cleaners were never really a subtle bunch. But I do remember that happening - a god damn decade ago. And I don't even remember before... what does that mean? This is easily the worst hangover that I've ever had.
"Cut the bullshit Bravura. Tell me what happened."
I don't even know if this is a good idea. I'm probably going to wake up in a cold sweat with a bad case of insomnia that won't go away until I get this god damn dream out of my head.
"Max... do you remember Vladimir Lem? Do you remember confronting him at Alfred Woden's Mansion?"
I wish I didn't.
"Yeah... I killed Lem. I killed Lem, but Woden died, and so did..."
I stop myself from saying her name. This dream is getting too real. I need to stop this before -
"Max. That never happened. I understand you're having trouble remembering things, but this is ridiculous. Max, there's no easy way to say this... Lem shot you. The bullet went clean through your skull. You've been in a coma for the past year and a half."
That is complete bullshit. But I guess it would explain the headache. This is making even less sense than -
"Lem escaped afterwards. Max... he took over the Inner Circle. Obviously, you realize what this means..."
Yes, I actually do. It means I am staying the hell away from any form of liquor or drug that has been or will ever be made. This dream is fucked up. But if that were to have happened, Lem would have become the most powerful criminal in the history of New York City... even if the so called "secrecy" was no longer there.
"Max, Lem has built a criminal empire... he's... untouchable now that he controls the Inner Circle. The NYPD has been powerless to try to stop him..."
Why can't I have a normal dream, where I actually don't wake up afterwards wanting to down a bottle of anything followed by a stiff chaser of bullet to the skull?
"But... the Brancos... Passos... Giovanna... the UFE..."
"Max... you're not making sense. Maybe you should get some more rest, I'll fill you in more later -"
Not fucking likely.
"No! I mean... Bravura, I've got so many questions, and dammit I need answers. If Lem is alive, why hasn't he tried to kill me yet?"
Stupid question.
"Max... he thinks you are dead! Hell, I thought you were dead! He shot you in the head Max... clean through the skull... you're lucky to be alive... hell you're lucky you're not braindead!"
Maybe I should get some rest to avoid asking another dumbass question like that one. But I can't... I need answers...
"... What about the Cleaners?"
"They ditched the whole 'cleaner' gig - they now are pretty much just Lem's muscle. Their street name is the Impalers - and they have a reputation as being violent, ruthless, and... well... you know..."
Is that supposed to be cute? Vlad's Impalers? They couldn't think of a better name than that? Hardly a thought that is appropriate for a situation like this one, but leave it to me to find a way to make a situation more ridiculous than it has to be. I have a lot more to ask, but there's one thing that I have to know...
"... And... uh... when I went to Woden's mansion... was I... alone?"
My stuttering made me sound like a drunken idiot. I guess that makes sense, because that's what I was. Or am. Or soon will be again after this ordeal.
"When you went to Woden's mansion... you weren't alone. Apparently, you were -"
That was all the clarification that I needed. But now, an even more important question - one that threatens to make me believe that either I'm hallucinating this all, or I really am experiencing this...
"Is she alive, Bravura? God dammit, is she alive?"
"... Max... from what little information we have... yes, she is still alive..."
... Mona.
So that's Chapter 1 of my first "fanfiction" done. Was it any good? Let me know what you thought!