Everything is still a blur. A day has passed, and I'm still here in this bed, starting blankly at the ceiling of a hospital that I thought I'd have moved on from. This is the same hospital I wasted away in after I made one of the worst decisions in my life. And that is saying something - considering how many god damn idiotic choices that I've made. When I decided to shoot Winterson, and let Mona escape, I made a promise that I knew I couldn't keep. I wrote a check that I knew I couldn't cash. I made that damn decision to protect Mona - out of sheer lunacy, or love... hell is there even a difference? I knew I wasn't going to be able to save her. I just knew that one of us was going to end up burying the other, far before their time - or maybe at exactly the right time, depending on your perception of fate. But... I just can't believe that this is the truth. Everything I've done in my life after the fight at Woden's mansion seemed too real. Far too real to be just a dream. I turn my gaze outside, looking to the barren streets of the city that I thought I had moved on from. Is it really New York City I'm staring at? Is it really only just a year or so after I was... well... I was shot? The thought - just thinking that is enough to cause an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. Not too different from the feeling when you're half past intoxicated and about to commence a hour long session of "purging your inner demons". Or vomiting, if you're the less poetic type.

My mind has been wandering for far too long now. I'm trying to avoid the one lingering thought that I can't shake. Mona is alive. Here I was, thinking that I saved the day, only to have my "Damsel in Distress" die in my arms. Turns out, I very well could have been the one to "die" in her arms. But what exactly am I going to do now? If I accept this as reality, where will I go? My apartment is gone, the NYPD is probably going to find some way to throw me in prison for the rest of my life, and Lem will certainly do everything in his power to send me to hell for good if he finds out that I'm still alive. I need to think about this. I need time. I need -

"Oh shit... no... Max you have to get up. You have to get up now, and you have to go!"

Bravura's blunt and apprehensive voice is the last thing I wanted to hear right about now. What the hell has gotten him so riled up?

"The Impalers, Max! They're here! ... Dammit... Max you've got to get out of here!"

I stand corrected. That was the last thing that I wanted to hear. How the fucking hell did they find out I was here this quickly? A fucking day? Is Lem really that powerful now, that he has sources that can find out things like this at this fucking quickly? Of course, there is the other point - if I really have been here for over a year, then I guess it wasn't so fast after all. But still... this is fucking bullshit. This whole situation is bullshit, but I have no time to do my usual complaining or sarcastic routine. I get out of the bed only to find I can't even support my own weight. I crash down to the floor with a loud, abrupt thud. Bravura has the decency to offer to help me, but I've been through much fucking worse - I can pick myself up off the god damn floor.

"Dammit Max! Hurry up, you've got to - oh shit, Max, too late - hide!"

Before I can react, Bravura promptly shoves me into the closet at the back of the room. I hit the wall with a nice bang, and immediately I want to kick down the door and punch Bravura in his god damn smug face. But after hearing the door on the other side of the room open, I quickly realize that would be a big mistake.

"Where the fuck is he, cop?"

Sounds like a real tough guy. I can tell already that he's the type who speaks as deeply as possible and flexes like a tool to try to compensate for the fact that he's actually a giant wuss.

"He's gone. He left about ten minutes ago... I tried to stop him, but I couldn't."

Lying through his fucking teeth. And actually doing a convincing job - not bad at all. Of course, the dipshit he's dealing with and his lackeys would probably be too stupid to believe otherwise anyways.

"I don't believe you, cop!"

Oh good! He doesn't believe you, Bravura! Give him his fucking cookie! Good job, asswipe, you fucking believe in something. Congratulations! I wish that I was in better shape, because I would fucking kick down this door and beat the ever living shit out of this pathertic excuse for a man.

"It doesn't matter if you believe me, Costa, he's not here."

Wait, Bravura knows this fucker? Great.

"Shit... This ain't over, cop! Let's fucking go, guys. He can't be far!"

With that, the band of dipshits makes their long awaited exit. I can't believe that worked. But this is just the beginning. Lem knows I'm alive now, and clearly he has his men looking for me. This is bad. Understatement, yes. With that, Bravura opens the closet door, and on his face I can see a looked of mixed amazement and relief.

"Jesus, Max. I can't believe the cocksucker bought that!"

Before I can react, the door on the other side of the room suddenly opens once again, only this time it's been kicked - to reveal four gun-toting gangbangers dressed in grey sweater vests and tattered jeans. I assume that this is the same band of dipshits that we thought had left. Without warning, they open fire on us. Instinctively, I reach for Bravura's belt, praying he has his pistol. He does. I draw his pistol, and reflexively, I pull the trigger. The four bastards dropped quicker than a drunk who took one too many shots of tequila. Four shots, all to the head- it's good that if anything, I still have the ability to end other people's lives. I just wish that I had the ability to fix my own.

"Holy shit, Bravura. I thought you got rid of those fuckers!"

No answer.

"Bravura.. You alright?"

Of course he isn't. I've been here before. At this hospital, I've seen Bravura get shot before my eyes. I already know however that this time is different, though. I only now just notice all the blood. On my gown, my face, and on the wall behind me. I was so caught up in the moment, I didn't even notice the blood... Bravura's blood. He had fallen during the fight, But I was too caught up to notice. Now, as he lays slumped on me, I see that he was shot multiple times - in the back a few times, and the back of his head twice. Bravura just died, just like that. Gone was the previous reality I had - keeping contact with Bravura after my resignation from the NYPD until his death from complications due to a heart attack. Not the best end, but much better than this one.

"You might not have been the best person, Bravura, but you didn't deserve this."

My words are pointless. He's dead. He can't hear me. And yet I feel obligated to speak, to say that he deserved a better fate. Just like I feel I do. I don't think I deserve to be in this state. In this state of confusion, not knowing if this is real or not. I'm no saint, but I think I at least deserve the fucking common courtesy of knowing what is real and what isn't. It's all pointless now though. I can't sit here and complain like this any longer. These fucking goons could have more friends on the way now, who knows how many of these fucks there are? Not me, and I'm not in the mood to find out. I grab one of the thug's pistols and take the ammo from their pockets. They won't be needing those, not where they are going at least. Of course, judging by my luck, I probably won't be too far behind. I get up, and walk to the door. After checking the hallways to see that they are devoid of any people at all, I make my way for the nearest exit. At this point, as I make my way down the hall, I'm too pissed off to notice how terrible my physical conditioning is. Too pissed off to care. If anything, it's convenient that I'm here at Memorial Hospital again. I've been here so many times that I know the layout like the back of my hand. Well, that might not be the best way to describe it now, because judging by how little I know about my true reality, the back of my fucking hand could be entirely different from what I think it is. I turn to my right and head down another overly drawn out corridor, looking for the nearest staircase. I find it, and after kicking down the door, I begin to descend. My pace slows as I hear a man's voice. I can't quite make out what he is saying, but it sounds like it is along the lines of "He's coming this way" or maybe "Time to get fucking shot in the face guys". Well, alright - the second one was ridiculous but the way I feel right now, pissed at the world with a gun in my hand, these fuckers better hope that's all I do to them; save them the suffering I feel I should give them. As I approach the door at the end of the stairway, I see through the narrow window that there is in fact a few dumbass Impalers waiting for me on the other side. I could bide my time and think of a strategy to take them on, but I'm just not in the fucking mood.

"Oh shit! It's him! Shoot him!"

I hear the thug scream as I kick down the door as hard as I possibly can. For a moment, all of my troubles, my confusion, my befuddlement - it all goes away as I do one of the two things I know how to do so well. Murdering people. Do I really need to say what the other thing is? Here's a hint - it involves a certain type of drink that makes you feel really shitty if you don't drink enough of it, and even shittier if you do. Anyways, the thug who I should refer to as Cpt. Obvious - the one who told his buddies to shoot me, because really, what the fuck else were they going to do? Give me a fucking angry stare? Insult my current shitty state? - The thug who told his buddies to shoot me was the first to taste lead. One bullet right between the eyes. As I turned my aim to the next poor bastard on his left, I feel the ever familiar sense of my perceptions slowing. The world as I know it slows to a pace that is painfully lethargic - time crawls to a plodding rate. I shoot this poor bastard in the throat, he clutches it and falls on this back. The next guy is trying to take cover behind a stretcher, and is not doing a very good job. I shoot his exposed leg, and watch as he falls over, screaming in pain, only to be snuffed out by my next shot - a well placed bullet to the forehead. The last guy, who by now is much closer to me than I had anticipated, for some reason decided that he was going to try to fight me hand to hand. He has a baseball bat - why the fuck does he have a baseball bat? He swings, but I am able to dodge by ducking as low as I can, and rolling behind him. As I stand up, he turns around, and I point my gun to his pathetic fucking face.

"How did you find out I was alive this quickly?"

Might as well ask.

"You fuckin' stupid Payne? We knew it was you all along, we was just havin' troubles with the NYPD lettin' us in to see you's is all."

That's bullshit. He's lying to me, trying to seem like he knows what's going on. He clearly doesn't. He's just another hired gun, fighting for a cause he doesn't understand. Like me - or at least what I thought was me, when I went to Brazil to work for the Brancos. There's no point in asking him anything else, He won't give me a straight answer because he doesn't have one.

"Well isn't that just fan-fucking-tastic? Too bad your 'knowledge' can't stop a fucking bullet!"

I pull the trigger. His head pops like a wet melon, after hitting the floor from a high fall. Poor bastard, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. As I approach the exit, I take a moment to think about my next move. I realize that what I need to do is simple, and yet it's the most complicated thing I will ever attempt in the history of my pathetic existence. I need to find Mona. And I need to do it now.