Epilogue

California, Three Weeks Later

His name was Miguel de Santiago, and he had worked the gas station off US 5 for nearly a decade. Since he'd emigrated from Mexico back in the eighties, he'd found himself whiling away his huge amount of free time flicking through the American papers – simultaneously picking up the language and following the country's news.

He'd been deep into an article in the New York Times regarding the tumultuous events of the past few weeks, when a battered red open-top Cadillac had pulled up at the station.

The man behind the wheel stared at him blankly with steely eyes and calmly said, "Fill her up, please."

Miguel nodded. He tended not to judge his clients. Out here in the desert it was best not to wonder too much about who pulled up on the dusty, cracked tarmac. But there was something about this man that sent a chill down his spine. He knew a killer when he saw one, and this man was a killer. Skinny, his flesh seared red by an inexperience of the desert sun, malnourished and scarred, but a dangerous man none the less. He looked like he'd been to the other side, and he'd lost something out there.

But maybe he'd gained something, too.

He began to fill up the Caddy's tank.

Lately he'd been reading about the events that had taken over New York and the surrounding area – the assassination of an important politician had led to a huge scandal that had probably cost the President his re-election. The rumours had it that the politician had been involved in the cover-up of a botched chemical weapons outbreak, a factory malfunction that had led to the Miasma crisis. Shortly after the Senator's death the American Medical Association had released a vaccine for the virus, and the escalation had ended. Now the crisis had been deemed over, but the scandal was just beginning.

Miguel himself was unaware that he was a distant relation to a young woman named Maria Escobar, who had been the first victim of the virus that had caused this trouble. He would never know just how close he was connected to that long dead girl from the other side of the country on that morning, filling up a stranger's tank.

"There, senor," he said with a smile. "Five-fifty, please."

With barely a glance the man handed over a few notes. As he did it, Miguel noticed for the first time the distinctive crescent scar on his right cheek.

He choked, shuddered and finally mumbled, "Gracias."

The man drove off along the shimmering highway and out of Miguel's life forever.

He wondered if he'd checked the meter again.

One Year Later

It was a soft summer's day, not as sweltering as last year's summer, but pleasant.

The graveyard twittered brightly with life – birdsong, insects, the gentle rustle of the hot breeze in the crisp, dewy green grass. I stood over a slightly crumbled, tarnished stone, and the weight of all those years that had passed since I'd stood here once before on a grim, overcast day, a hundred years ago, hit me hard.

My fingers skittered over the soft, worn marble surface of the gravestone, over the gold-engraved letters reading MICHELLE PAYNE.

I did it, honey, I thought as my fingers brushed against the icy cold. I did it.

I'd almost forgotten the events of a year ago – that fateful night when I left New York. All except in the darkest depths of the night, when I'd wake up in a cold sweat, choking back the screams. It had been another life – and the man responsible was dead and forgotten.

It was all a blur, after the police helicopter picked me up off the Rapture, just minutes away from death. They'd rushed me to a prison helicopter, gave me a few weeks surgery. Don't remember much of that, but they fixed me up as well as they could. I remember the bright lights, the voices. An old doctor saying it was a miracle I was still alive.

And then, one day, just as I was coming round, two men in black and white suits, telling me that if I gave them a little information I'd be set free. They were FBI agents, close associates of the late Troy Novak. They were eager to clean what was left of Novak's mess up with little trouble, and to convict a few high-class members of West's conspiracy. They knew I had information in my head that could seal the deal. I'd been on the Rapture that night. I'd seen the great and the good of New York get in on the act.

I played along. I didn't want to. I wanted to get away from New York and away from all the killing and chaos. I wanted to get away from Max Payne.

I signed the forms. I got their convictions.

I was snuck out of the city one night, put on a Greyhound bus and told that a Hertz dealership had a Caddy waiting for me down in Boston. I was urged to get as far away from the city as possible, that their Californian branch could sort me out with a civilian job, a new identity.

And then it was all forgotten, the old life a dream I was rapidly forgetting.

I had just one last loose end to tie up before saying goodbye to Max Payne for ever.

I gently laid the lilies down in front of the grave. A breeze rustled through their white petals, a single pale shaving blowing away, floating gently across the still silence of the graveyard.

With a small shard of stone, I gently scraped two words into the grave, and then laid down my empty Beretta.

The words were MAX PAYNE.

I stood up, stared up at the sky. The sun was coming through the clouds, white beams kissing the vivid green lawn.

Redemption, I thought, and I smiled.

I walked out of the graveyard and back to the car.

The End

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading the story up until this point. In response to Darth Red's earlier review, a lot of the chapter titles, particularly in this part, were taken or inspired by music I was listening to at the time and seemed appropriate. I may do another Max Payne story again in the near future, hopefully soon. Until then, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.