Fic: More Like Fate (Chapter II)

[fantasticpants.livejournal.com]

Title: More Like Fate (Chapter II: Mental Pictures)
Fandom: Max Payne
Rating: Let's say R to be on the safe side
Pairing: Max/Vlad
Comments: There's a little something in this chapter for fans of a certain cartoon obsessed wise guy.

Chapter II: Mental Pictures

There are some dreams that feel more real than reality itself. Where every smell, every color and every sensation feel absolutely authentic.

And then there are dreams that make you wonder whether reality and yourself are even on speaking terms.

This dream belonged to the second group.

I was standing on a road in the middle of a desert. Only it wasn't exactly a desert. It looked more like how a six year old would imagine a desert, all broad lines and bright yellow colors. Except that it was night, and raining mercilessly. Even my dreams suffered from a Noir affliction.

There was something disturbingly familiar about this place.

The truth split my skull open, a Viking axe driving a brutally obvious point home.

I put my hands on both sides of my head and pushed. The crack in my skull clicked shut.

I was in a cartoon.

Something sped past me, a blur of blue traveling faster than sound. The object's speed decreased for a moment, and it looked in my direction. I realized what it was then - the notorious Accelleratti Incredibus, also known as the Road Runner. “Beep, Beep!” it declared in an inappropriately cheerful tone, then picked up the pace and disappeared from view.

The blue bird's presence signified that its nemesis, Wile E. Coyote, was nearby. I surveyed the surroundings. My suspicions were confirmed as I spotted the predator standing on an edge of a conveniently placed cliff. He appeared somewhat different than I'd remembered, though. Blonder. And he was wearing a white suit.

A large wooden box stood behind him. The label read 'ACME Arms'. The Coyote turned around, rubbed his hands together with malicious determination, and opened the box. The first item he took out turned out to be, unpredictably, an arm. He shook his head irritably and tossed the object away.

The next item was apparently the one he'd been looking for. A shiny cartoon pistol with a huge barrel and some kind of switch attached to the handle. It had three settings: 'BAIT', 'BANG' and 'BOOM'. The Coyote spent a minute gazing at the pistol lovingly. Then, flipping the switch so it pointed at 'BAIT', he aimed at the sky and fired.

A flare shot up, exploding to form the words 'BIRD SEED' in the sky.

An excited “Beep! Beep!” followed instantly. A cloud of dust appeared in the horizon, drawing nearer rapidly and eventually pulling into a screeching stop a few step from the Coyote. The Road Runner conducted a thorough visual scan of the predator, blinking with enthusiastic curiosity.

The Coyote smiled in a manner only the most gullible would perceive as good-natured. Still smiling, he held up a sign in his pistol-free hand, 'Road Runner, dearest of all my friends, prepare to die.'

The Road Runner's response was a inquisitive tilt of the head.

Switching the setting to 'BANG', the Coyote aimed his pistol at the bird and pulled the trigger.

The gun went off, but instead of the expected bullet, a flag emerged. It read 'Bang! You're dead!'

The Road Runner stuck its tongue out, producing a sound too annoying for any metaphor to do justice to. It then quickly performed a 180 turn and sped away.

The Coyote didn't appear to be very amused. He let out an exaggerated sigh and dropped the flag pistol.

Never lacking a backup plan, he reached into his suit and extracted another gun. It was the real thing this time around, not ACME manufactured. A Desert Eagle, to be precise.

Well, we were in a desert.

The Coyote closed a single eye and took aim, striking a pose taken straight out of a typical gangster flick.

There was a loud bang.

The gun discharged a small cloud of white smoke. The Coyote blew on it nonchalantly, spreading it through the desert air. He calmly put the gun back in his suit and folded his arms.

The Road Runner kept jogging for a few seconds, then stopped. It looked down slowly.

There was a large, perfectly round hole in the center of its chest. The bird's eyes widened and it turned around to look at its executioner.

Giving a mildly apologetic shrug, the Coyote held out another sign. 'Pure business, nothing personal.'

The Road Runner stared at him, then fell face down onto the ground.

There was an air of the macabre about the whole ordeal.

I tried to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a sign appeared in my hand, 'You broke the rules!'.

He lifted a single brow and returned a signed answer - 'Rules are meant to be broken.' He began to walk away.

The old 'if you see a gun in the first act' saying applied to cartoons as well, as it turned out.

He accidentally stepped on the dropped pistol.

'BOOM!', a deafening explosion rocked the desert.

The Coyote opened his eyes and sent me an 'oh shit' look. He sighed and looked down.

He was standing on thin air.

His facial expression amazingly accomplished a moment-long tour through the five stages of grief before he plunged into the abyss.

Gravity was a force to be reckoned with.

The episode ended.

Three red circles closed in around me, and chipper theme music boomed in my ears, conducting a coordinated assault on my brain from all directions.

It was time for a new episode.

I was back in the desert, and something was running down the road again.

It wasn't the Road Runner this time.

It was Captain Baseball Bat Boy.

“You're in the wrong cartoon,” I told him when he passed by me, realizing I could speak now.

“Beep! Beep! What! Payne!”

So it wasn't exactly Captain Baseball Bat Boy, either. It was none other than his number one fan, the not-so-wise-guy Vinnie Gognitti. He was still wearing that costume.

“Payne! Payne! You gotta help me! The Russian is gonna get me!”

I hated to break it to him, “I think he already got you.”

“What are you talkin' about, Payne!” he shook his head in disbelief, “Help me get this head off!”

I did.

Half of Vinnie's own head came off along with it.

There was no blood involved, no scattered brain bits. None of the things you would expect from a head cut in half, really. It was a cartoon, after all. He just lacked half a head. It was comical, in a way.

“Fuck, Payne! This really sucks!”

“You shouldn't swear. It's rated G in here. You know, for kids.”

“Fuck the kids, Payne! I don't have a fuckin' head!”

There really was no good answer to that.

“Caress me, Payne!”

“What?”

I must have heard him wrong.

“Caress me!”

Or not.

“I don't think so.”

“C’mon, Payne! Just first base!” he grinned, somewhat hysterically, “get it? 'cause I'm wearing a Captain Baseball-”

“I get it,” I cut him off, “But I think I'll pass, thanks.”

“It's the head, isn't it? You don't want me because of the stupid fuckin' head,” he whined, “I know it's not exactly a turn on, but maybe I can superglue it back-”

“No, it's not the head,” I felt the need to reassure him.

“Then what? The action figures? I told you, I’m a collector!”

“Look,” I went through a list of excuses, “it's not you, it's me.”

“Don't give me that shit, Payne! I know what it's all about! It's the Russian, you got a thing-” before I could discover what thing I had, Vinnie sent a frantic look over his shoulder, “-oh, shit! Shit! The Russian is coming, the Russian is coming!”

“Where?” I didn't see anything. It was probably just in his head. Although which part of it, I couldn't tell.

“Everywhere! He's everywhere! Hide me, Payne! You gotta hide me!” he sounded impressively panicked for a guy who really didn't have all that much left to lose.

“You can hide in the TV,” that seemed to make sense, him being a TV character and all.

And with that, I ended up back on the couch. Vinnie waved at me anxiously through the television screen. I waved back, slowly. Then the credits began to roll.

The show was over, and the news came on.

“Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Stark, a decorated hero of the Gulf War, was found shot to death in his apartment, along with two other soldiers. No further information can be disclosed at present time.”

“Heroes everywhere,” I turned my head to find the source of the comment, Vlad, sitting on the couch beside me. “You multiply faster than Playboy Bunnies,” he snorted, lip curving upwards. He shifted his gaze from me to the screen, “this is boring, Max. Put something more exciting.”

Shrugging, I flipped the channel randomly. I landed on some kind of wildlife show. It featured a leopard devouring a zebra.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of quality porn. But this is alright too,” he looked at me, pausing to form a thoughtful frown. “Laws of the Jungle, Max. Survival of the fittest. It works, you know,” a light smile punctuated the last sentence.

“Too bad we're not in a jungle.”

“Yes,” he sighed empathetically, turning back to the television, “too bad.”

We continued watching the show. Packs of gazelles doing their morning jog; an eagle on a rodent hunt; two horses galloping side by side, for a moment looking almost like one horse with eight legs; a giant snake swimming in the ocean, making a nearly successful attempt to swallow a whole ship. Was this National Geographic or Harry Potter?

“I'm a lion, Max. King of the jungle,” Vlad said matter-of-factly, and completely out of the blue.

Even though this was a dream, I found the statement ridiculous.

“A lazy, self-centered bastard who lets his women do all the work?” I smirked, “I can see that.”

He gave me a look that bordered between annoyance, amusement and hurt, “I'm not lazy.” His expression went to a more philosophical realm, “do you know what you are?”

“No. But I bet you do.”

“You're a lone wolf who believes he's a dog,” there was an undercut of sadness in his voice. Quieter, but with more intensity, he added, “you don't have to be.”

Great, now I was being psychoanalyzed in my dreams. By a man who thought he was a lion, king of the jungle. Backwards logic clashed with irony, apparently with the sole purpose of giving me a formidable headache.

I didn't bother replying, and instead proceeded to watch events unfold on the television screen, which now featured an overzealous televangelist telling me to change my ways, to save my soul. “Redemption is but a step away!” he claimed.

It was always a step away.

The quiet dragged on a little too long, and when I looked back, the couch was empty. It wasn't even the same couch. It was the one I'd bought on sale a few months after my wife and I had gotten our new place. Before our baby girl was born.

Before they were both murdered.

“What are you watching?” inquired a voice from behind me.

It was my wife's voice. My dead wife's.

I turned around and saw her standing there.

God, I'd forgotten how beautiful she was.

“Nothing important,” I told her. Nothing was important, with her around.

“Then come to bed,” she slowly formed a smile. The kind that was both sleepy and seductive. I loved that smile.

“Sure,” I smiled back, “be there in a moment.”

In dreams, transitions are meaningless.

A moment passed.

I was making love to my wife.

It was slow and natural. We knew each other inside out, held no secrets, never needed to. Everything was so fluid, so easy. So right.

She let out a small giggle from time to time. She sometimes did that during sex. It never bothered me. I liked it.

We rolled on the bed, lost in our own private world.

“I love you,” she whispered in my ear.

I closed my eyes and kissed her, knowing this was the last time. “I love you too.”

When I opened my eyes she was different. Then I realized it wasn't my wife anymore. It was Mona.

She was dead too.

She was straddling me forcefully, one hand on my chest, the other holding a gun. Her head was tilted backward, mouth open in a silent gasp.

I kept my hands were on her waist, struggling to hold on.

We were surrounded by mirrors. They created a sense of vertigo around us, distorting an already distorted reality.

Her moans echoed through my head, through my body, through my soul.

“Max...”

I moved to her rhythm, but she was running away from me, and I couldn't keep up.

“You're a real angel, Max,” she pointed the gun at me, “this is goodbye.”

I felt Mona fading away through my fingers, and then she was gone.

Vlad's Guardian Angel took her place. I didn't know who she was. I could barely even make out the features of her face. Yet somehow I knew she wasn't among the living, either.

The logistics of having sex with a woman with flaming hair and wings turned out to be a little awkward. Especially considering the fact that we were apparently hanging in mid-air, with no ground in sight. At least I didn't suffer from fear of heights.

“I came, I saw, I conquered,” she breathed the words out, concluding with an enigmatic smile.

Then she let go.

I fell.

It was more of a drift than a fall, really. It was liberating.

I wasn't sure how, but I ended up on top of Vlad.

He wasn't dead.

He was naked, though.

We were in Woden's manor. It was in ruins. Nothing had changed from the last time we'd been there. Pieces of debris were scattered around, the smell of smoke hang in the air, and there were even a few renegade flames that went unextinguished. There was one difference – there were no bodies. The place was completely empty. Vlad and I were the only ones left in this ghost house.

“I told you we could kiss and make up, Max,” he pulled me in for a long, breathless kiss to prove his point.

“I guess I didn't think you were being that...” I looked for the appropriate word, which wasn't easy under the circumstances, “Literal.”

“You just weren't paying attention. You never pay attention.”

I certainly was paying it now. Our lips collided again, more hungrily this time. Breaking the kiss, Vlad moved on to the side of my neck, using an interesting combination of teeth and tongue against my skin.

He suddenly stopped.

“Max, why are you on top?” he sounded surprised, like he'd just made this startling discovery, “I deserve to be on top.”

“Vlad, is it anatomically impossible for you to shut up?”

“There aren't many things that are anatomically impossible to me,” he smirked mischievously, leaving me with little choice but to do the same. “In here, at least,” he added, motioning his head in some general direction, “but why would I shut up?”

“Because it's my dream,” there was something childish about this argument, but hey, he started it.

“It is a dream... But it's not a fairy tale.”

“I can see that.”

He wrapped his leg around mine, and we resumed kissing. He tried to roll me over, but I pushed him back down. He awarded me with an irritated scowl.

“Come on, let me be on top.”

“No,” I liked him just where he was.

“You can be so damn uncompromising about these things, Max.”

“Do you actually talk this much during sex?”

“Sex, Max?” he arched a brow, “this is what we grown-ups call foreplay. And I'm not really even me. I'm just a projection of your subconscious. So you won't really know until you've tried.”

My subconscious never talked this much.

“It's not going to be easy with you, is it?”

“Max, dearest of all my friends,” Vlad flashed a grin worthy of a Cheshire Cat. It slowly disappeared. “Easy is no fun.”

There was an explosion in the distance. It didn't seem all that important, really. But I gave him a questioning gaze nonetheless.

“Fireworks,” he smiled conspiratorially, running his fingers through my hair, “every good sex scene should have fireworks.”

Thunder struck, and rain began to fall. I thought there was a ceiling above.

I was wrong.

The rain poured down on us with a vengeance.

I gave an involuntary shudder.

Vlad noticed this. “It's only rain,” he whispered reassuringly into my ear, then began to nibble on it.

It didn't feel like just rain. It was a thousand tiny knives shoving straight through my skin and into my soul. It was an unshakable chill. The feeling of inevitability sneaking up on me.

I had made a choice, though I had idea when, where, or what it was. The path was set.

I pressed closer to Vlad, sharing body heat. He had plenty of that. More than plenty. It was almost as if he was burning from the inside.

There was something lurking in the back of my mind. Something I needed to ask him.

“Is it the end of the world yet?”

He gave me that unreadable look of his, not responding right away. I could see a reflection of the flames dancing in his eyes. “I'm not sure, Max. Maybe.”

I nodded.

“Where do you keep your clean shirts?”

“What?”

“Where do you keep your clean shirts?” he repeated, slower this time.

“You're not making sense.”

“That makes the two of us then, doesn't it?”

Reality dragged me back by the collar, coughing and wheezing, and not quite ready to let go.