Max Payne Novel: Prologue

[James Davis]

Well, this is the prologue to my "novelization" of Max Payne. I used pretty much the same idea as Xenomorph described in his post. Everything is described in first person. The very first part of the prologue was taken from the back of the first Max Payne player's manual. Other than that, I basically took all the dialogue from the game and used my own words for interpretation in between. Please feel free to give any suggestions or comments. The book is still going through the process of editing and thus, you are my editors in a sense. I could not get the text to space at the beginning of each paragraph, hopefully this will not lessen the effect of the novel. Hope you enjoy.


Prologue


In the backseat of a moving car, I am cut loose from the city. It watches me pass with sharp, neon eyes. The night has gilded the skyscrapers in silver. Every brick wall is covered with graffiti, the image of a green “V” with a syringe in the middle repeated over and over. V for Valkyr. The Drug. The red and blue of the police car’s lights flash on the white snow. The city is dead, an overcast of dark clouds, its death shroud.
Something goes clank in the night, and the sound is close enough to a gunshot to take me back to the beginning. My last meeting with Alex before I went undercover. Sitting in a crummy diner opposite me, he had grinned, a friendly bear, but I had seen it in his eyes. We hadn’t been on the side of the winners in a long time. Alex leaned over the table, crumbs of doughnut in his goatee, his breath reeking of coffee and something else. A hint of booze. He was playing it safe, talking shop.
“To get to the source, we need to get to Jack Lupino. For that, you need the trust of the small-timers in the Punchinello family. Joey and Virgilio Finito, Lupino’s number one man Vinnie Gognitti, all the wiseguys.”
I was there in body but not in mind. My eyes had stared through Alex, seeing him but not seeing at the same time. It must have been there. The sign of things to come. Clear in the fear in Alex’s eyes, in the darkness of the coffee I was drinking, in the way my Beretta dug painfully into my side. But we were blind to it then, closing our eyes to it. Refusing to see. Later that night, I blended into the world of crime. Max Payne as a DEA special agent was erased from the vast network of databases, and replaced with a new version of me: Max Payne, the career criminal with a mile-long rap sheet.
A couple of days ago it had all come crashing down like a card house touched by a breath of wind. The bad things came, like a winter storm. Pushed over the edge, I found myself in that cold no-man’s land between right and wrong.
There would be no road-signs to guide my way. I was on a crash-course with the Mafia, and nothing to lose. The NYPD was trailing me by the dotted line of empty shell casings that I left behind. I was trying to look for the answers, but every gunshot, instead of closure, was just a hole with more questions leaking out. A spreading labyrinth of questions, like a pool of blood spreading on the snow.
The car stops in the traffic lights. Outside, the neon lights paint the snow red, like the whole city was in flames. But inside, in the shadows of the car, it’s all done in blues. I know I’m lying to myself. No amount of painkillers can keep this ache away. No lie can hide it. I’m not really in the backseat of this car. It didn’t start in the diner with Alex. It started three years ago in my bedroom, and I haven’t left that room since. It stands in my memory, a dark shadow among shadows, the killer dead at my feet on the floor.
Michelle lying on the bed, bullet holes like rubies on her chest. Our baby’s cry cut short, the absence of it heavy in the air. That gunshot, like an exclamation mark to end it all, the answer to all my questions, had already rung out a long time ago, even its echoes gone. The gun was fused to my hand from that moment on. That room inside me everywhere I go.
It follows me especially now as the city presses close to the windows of the car, its monstrous heartbeat under the tires. My squinted eyes in the rearview mirror, my hands numb and held awkwardly behind my back, everything that came after that room is a hopeless mess, a chaotic swirl, rising nausea that tastes like rust in my mouth.
To make any kind of sense of it, I need to go back three years. Back to the night the pain started…

- - -

When I look back now, I’m able to really appreciate how good my life had been up to that point. But now it’s gone. It was a simple case of me taking things for granted. I hadn’t realized what I had until it was already gone and buried in the moist ground. In essence, I had flown too close to the sun.
I was still in the force back then. NYPD, Manhattan, Midtown North Precinct, Hell’s Kitchen. It was a tough rap but I held on to it for a long time. The job gave me a certain confidence that I had never felt in myself before. I had seen the best of people, the worst of people, and everything in between. I started out as a rookie cop, walking the streets and pushing papers until I had enough experience under my belt to get a job working as a homicide detective. My record was substantial and most importantly, clean. There was no reason for the force to deny my request for homicide detective. Plus, I liked the sound of it: Detective Max Payne. I thought it kind of had a ring to it that felt good to listen to.
Through all the turmoil and confusion of my life, I found time for a slice of paradise. Michelle came into my life, bringing with her all my happiness and all my joys. She became the island of sanity in the seas of an insane world. I fell in love with her over the next year and a half. Our marriage is a moment frozen in time for me. Sometimes, on the cold, dark nights when I stare at the dripping ceiling of some broken down hotel room, I can still see us standing together, smiles shining through the chocolate cake smeared on our faces.
But there was a job to be done. Michelle received a job working as a secretary down at the DA’s office. And as for myself, I was a detective. Crime wouldn’t stop and take a break on my behalf. My marriage was the golden lining of my life. I loved my wife, and I loved my job.
Then the baby came, and my job became seven and a half pounds more important.
But along with the perks, there were hundreds of demons along for the ride. Working homicide gave me a peek through the keyhole into hell. Some of the things I saw would be enough to make a grown man break down, enough to make you question reality and the sense of right and wrong. From the first day on the job I was determined to stay in homicide, no matter what it took. I was committed to the job from that moment on, committed to helping those who were unfortunate to come in contact with the small and larger evils of the world. I knew it was going to be tough, especially in the city that never sleeps. Suicides, murders, gang wars all ran rampant through New York, keeping me on my feet and keeping me awake at night. The job came with long office hours and time spent away from home.
I met face-to-face with criminals who were spat straight from the fires of hell. People who could tell you about dismembering a body as plainly as if they were telling a bedtime story to a child. But these stories weren’t fit for nightmares. Not fit for this world.

- - -

My nightmare began on a sultry evening in August. I had just finished with some paperwork at my desk and was ready to head out the door, brandishing a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of my jacket. It was a Friday and the weekend was stretching ahead of me, looking more promising than ever. The case file lay closed on my desk. It contained a number of various reports, crime photos, and other random bits of paperwork pertaining to the murder of a family in Queens. The Brooksburg family had been found dead in their small home. Looking at the crime photos of Mr. and Mrs. Brooksburg and their two children was beginning to make my head swim. I needed to let it sit, let the fresh air clear my mind.
My footsteps clicked on the marble floor as I passed out of my “office” which was located in the far left corner of the police offices. In actuality, the area around my desk was a small, closed in cubicle but because it was in the corner of the building, I had the good fortune of having two real walls, one containing a tack-up board covered in newspaper clippings, the other dominated by a window. The other two walls were made up of cubicle-like walls, the bottom halves were wooden and the upper halves were set with clear glass.
I passed by a maze of these small “cubicles” and messy desks littered with coffee cups and empty cases of doughnuts. I saw Valerie Winterson sitting at her desk a few rows down. A determined look covered her face, illuminated by the slight blue glow of the monitor as she typed out a police report.
Winterson was a hard worker. Lots of the other guys in the precinct made fun of her behind her back, saying that she was too uptight, too buried in her work. But myself, I saw Winterson as a cop to be admired, an asset to the force altogether. She was training to be a detective and had applied for the position recently but had heard nothing as of yet. But I was certain that she would get it. Winterson would always pull through in the end.
“You going home Max?” Winterson smiled from behind the monitor of her computer, her lips bright and colorful. Winterson was not an incredibly beautiful woman. She was not the type to turn heads wherever she went, but she was pretty and intelligent. She was the kind of woman someone’s mother might describe as a “good catch”. Her sandy colored hair was tied back in a bun as it usually was. Winterson had dark circles under her eyes and she had deeply chiseled cheekbones. At the corners of her mouth and eyes, a careful observer would be able to notice a slight development of early wrinkles, which was one of the reasons some of the other boys in the NYPD labeled her as “unattractive”. But she had brains that could outwit most of the guys on the force. Despite her slightly aged appearance, it was really hard to believe that Winterson was actually a few years older than me.
“Yeah. My vision was starting to blur from having to fill out the paperwork for the Brooksburg murder. I figured I’ve tortured myself enough for the day. Michelle and the baby will be waiting for me at home.”
Winterson’s features slackened a little at the mention of the baby and Michelle. There was a rumor going around the station that Winterson had “the hots” for me. I had known Winterson for quite a while, even before the baby had arrived. In the back of her mind, maybe she wished that the marriage between Michelle and me wouldn’t work out.
Winterson nodded understandingly and dropped her eyes back to the computer. “Make sure you take it easy on the streets. Heard the traffic was backed up for miles in some areas.”
“That’s a big 10-4 Detective Winterson.” I said. She laughed and I noticed her cheeks were turning red.
“Oh, Max, stop it. I hate it when you kid with me. I haven’t heard anything yet anyway," she giggled.
“Not yet.” I grinned. “But soon. I’d bet my badge on it.”
“Really?” she made a slight clicking sound in her throat, “Max, you’re such an angel. Michelle is a lucky woman. Have fun with the baby.”
“I will.” I said, giving a slight wave before exiting the offices and heading down the stairs to my left. I could hear the sound of laughter coming from the rec-room where some of the boys were watching cartoons. Only in New York.
I was about halfway down the stairs when I passed my boss, Jim Bravura heading up the stairs back to his office, a bag of chips in hand.
“Payne, make sure you get the papers for the Brooksburg case on my desk by seven on Monday. Not a minute after. You understand?” He growled. Bravura was a really nice guy. One of those people who act real tough like an *****, but on the inside they really aren’t that bad.
“Sure thing Jimmy boy. You can expect them on your desk ASAP.” I said jokingly.
“I don’t want them on my desk ‘ASAP’, Payne. I want them there by seven. And don’t call me Jimmy boy. Jesus H. Christ, Payne. Sometimes I don’t know.”
“Have a good weekend Jim.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled again. “You too.”
I pushed through the doors at the bottom of the steps and took a right past the reception desk, nodding to the female officer working there. I headed for the doors and was just about out when I heard someone behind me.
“So when are you coming to work for me, Detective Payne?” I knew the voice even before I turned around. It was the same voice I had heard everyday for the past five years of my life. It was Alex, my friend and long-time partner from the DEA. We had worked on many collaborative NYPD-DEA assignments over the years. The partnership was rare, but not unheard of. Plus, we were the best. Can’t argue with progress. But Alex was always busting my chops, trying to get me to switch sides.
I took the last cigarette out of the pack and put it in my mouth. I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a smooth, silver lighter. I flipped the lighter open and lit the cigarette in my mouth with one fluid motion. I turned around and looked at Alex, grinning and shaking my head
“You’d make me work undercover in some hellhole. Sorry Alex, Michelle and the baby come first.” I showed him the cigarette box. “See! My last smoke. Its bad for the baby.”
“Its not bad if you smoke em’ here.” A sly smile slowly spread across his face. I retaliated, widening my grin.
“Michelle made me promise. I told her I’d quit cold turkey after the baby was born.” Michelle and I had had a baby that July. I poked Alex’s shoulder for fun. “So, if you know what’s good for you, Special Agent Balder, you’ll keep your nose where it belongs,” Then hastily added, “up Jim Bravura’s ass.”
Alex roared with laughter, the sound of a lawnmower coming to life, his beer-belly bouncing like a holiday store Santa Clause. He wiped hot tears form the corners of his eyes. He pushed thick glasses up from the brim of his nose.
“That’s you, Max, a regular Boy Scout.” He slapped my back, nearly sending me to the waxed tiles. I pushed open the large, wooden front doors of the station.
“So, how’s the baby doing?” Alex asked, his tone becoming conversational. “She keeping you up at night?”
“Not as much as I expected,” I answered, “Michelle’s had to do a few midnight feedings, but other than that she’s an angel.”
Alex smiled, “And Michelle? How’s she holding up?”
“She was a little tired when she first got home from the hospital, but she’s doing fine now.”
“Well that’s good, Max, that’s great. I’m glad to hear it. By the way, have you talked to B.B. recently?”
“No, I haven’t seen or talked with him since last Thursday.” B.B. was the third member of our little partnership triangle. He worked in the DEA as Alex’s informant. He and B.B. had been friends for years before I even met Alex. One night out of the week, all three of us, along with some other guys from the force would get together at someone’s house for a friendly game of poker.
Alex shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to catch him later. I’ll let you get home, Michelle will be wondering where you are.”
“See you, Alex.” I walked down the stone steps taking a long drag on the cigarette and letting a long stream of gray smoke out through my nose. Alex called after me.
“Still on for poker Thursday night, right?”
I waved over my shoulder smiling.
“Like taking candy from a baby.” I had no way of knowing, but it would be the last time I smiled for a long time.

- - -

I rolled down my car windows to let in a blast of fresh air as I drove through the quiet suburban streets. I inhaled deeply as I drove, breathing the fresh air of early sunset, my last cigarette discarded about twelve miles back. I passed my neighbor as he drove by in his pickup truck. I gave him a friendly wave. Life was good. The sun setting on a sweet summer’s day, the smell of freshly mowed lawns, the sounds of children playing. A house across the river on the Jersey side, a beautiful wife and a baby girl. The American dream come true.
But dreams have a nasty habit of going bad when you’re not looking.
I parked the car in the driveway and strolled up the path to the front door, whistling tunelessly. It was the kind of whistling that will come out of a man who feels like the world is at his fingertips, every moment to be enjoyed and savored.
I slipped the key into the door just as the sun was casting a golden glow over the world. The door swung easily as I stepped inside.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Something was wrong; the house was dead silent. I closed the door behind me, letting it click shut; the sound was unusually loud. The sun went down with practiced bravado. Twilight crawled across the sky, laden with foreboding. Shadows slowly crept across the hardwood floor. Then I saw something that got my pulse beating like the drum roll at an execution. The dining room was directly in front of me, down the hall. But the dining room furniture was overturned, tables and cupboards blocking the doorway.
I pulled back my coat and removed my Beretta from the holster under my left armpit. The warm steel felt like skin against my fingertips.
“Michelle, honey, anybody home?” I whispered the phrase more than I shouted it. Something had happened, or was in the process of happening. Whoever it was could still be in the house. In the house with Michelle and the baby.
I didn’t like the way the show started. They’d given me the best seat in the house. Front row center. I moved forward slowly, my shoes clicking on the polished wood beneath them. I brushed by my black leather jacket hanging on the coat rack to my left. The jacket that Michelle had given me for my birthday, two months before the baby was born. I never got around to wearing the ugly thing, but I told Michelle I would, just to please her. Plus, it was made from real quality leather, it probably cost a fortune. I planned to wear it when it got colder.
I slowly advanced, both hands holding the Beretta with an iron grip. Then, something on my left caught my eye. Something ugly had been tattooed on the wall. A map of things to come. It was a poison syringe, a magic tag full of diabolical meanings. Someone had sprayed it across the wallpaper in black paint. The syringe ran diagonally through a giant letter “V”.
I was beginning to like the situation less and less. And I was becoming more and more nervous by the second. Someone had been in the house. A dozen questions ran through my head. Where were Michelle and the baby? Did she know what happened here? Was she gone when it happened? Was she even home yet? Maybe she was at the police station looking for me to tell me what happened.
I tore my eyes from the mark and passed under an archway leading into a hall that connected the dining room and the living room. I peeked over the dining room furniture, struggling to see something over the obstruction. Nothing. All I could see was the sky turning a dark yet beautiful orange as the remaining light poured through large windows at the far side of the room.
“What the hell?” I muttered.
My heart jumped into my throat as the phone rang, its shrill cry deafening in the silence. I quickly picked the phone from the receiver sitting on a bureau table beneath a shattered mirror. I didn’t even wait for someone to say something, I just began talking.
“Listen, someone’s broken into my house, call 911.”
“Is this the Payne residence?” The voice on the other line was raspy. It was the voice of a woman who sounded like she smoked her entire life. It was the sound of dry leaves rustling on a windy night. The sound of her voice made the small hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I figured she was just some weird sounding salesperson trying to sell something over the phone. That must have been how she knew this was the Payne residence. I didn’t care. I should have.
“Yes, someone’s broken into my house, they are still here. You have to…”
“Good," the voice hissed, cutting me off, "I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
“Who is this?” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. The sound of the line going dead was the reply to my question.
“Hello?” I couldn’t believe what was happening. I didn’t want to believe. I placed the phone back in its cradle on the table. That’s when I saw the blood. Small blotches of it on the wall next to the phone.
That set me in action. Adrenaline pumping, I turned and threw open the doors to the hallway closet behind me. The Pump Action Remington Shotgun lay on the top shelf, five cartridges in a small box next to it. I snatched the gun, then the cartridges, quickly slamming them into the chamber as my mind raced. I sprinted into the living room, jumped over the sofa that had been overturned in the doorway, and climbed up the stairs to the bedrooms. I head a crashing sound as I reached the stairs. And voices, there were voices. I could hear the baby crying. Then I hear Michelle’s voice break over the racket.
“No! Not my baby! Don’t hurt my baby!”
Three gunshots rang through the house. The baby’s crying was cut horribly short.
“Michelle!” I didn’t want to believe it. I refused to believe it. I raced into the bathroom, the first door at the top of the stairs. There was a door in the bathroom that led into our master bedroom. I stepped into the bathroom and slipped on the floor, slicked with blood. I quickly stumbled to my feet and threw myself past the shower stall at the wooden door leading into our bedroom. The door pushed in a little. But only a little. I was thrown once again to the bloody floor.
“Michelle!” I shouted her name. I was greeted by nonsensical babbling on the other side of the door. A rough, man’s voice was gibbering over the commotion. Then I heard her voice among the chaos.
“Please! Max please!” Three more gunshots rang out. Then silence. I peeked through the crack in the doorway hoping to catch a glimpse of her; instead, I could only see what was blocking the doorway. Our huge bookcase that had lain against one of the bedroom walls had been tipped over and was now preventing me from entering through the bathroom. I raced back into the hallway and tried the first door to my left. It too would lead into our bedroom and it too was unable to open. The only possible entrance was through the baby’s room. I raced towards the door at the end of the hallway, my feet thumping on the carpeting.
The door flew open before I reached it. A man was standing there. A man I had never seen before. He was short, bald, and dressed in a blue hospital uniform, the kind that a male nurse would wear. His face was covered in a rough bristle of facial hair. His eyes were bloodshot and stared wildly about. The man was also grinning, spittle dripping down his mouth. He had to be on something. In his hand was a pistol.
I raised the shotgun and dropped to one knee.
“Freeze! NYPD! Drop it!” I shouted the words but I didn’t think he heard me.
“It’s coming,” he babbled, his eyes rolling in his head “Death is coming!” He fired a shot. The bullet flew over my head shattering a picture frame against the wall behind me. I pulled the trigger to the shotgun without hesitation; he had given me a reason to fire.
The bullets ripped into his midsection as they spread outward from the barrel. At such a close range the bullets tore through his insides, ripped through his back, and came to rest inside the wood of the doorframe. The junkie’s eyes went blank as he flew backwards against the doorframe. His insides, liquefied from the force of the bullets, slowly seeped out from underneath his body onto the carpet.
I cocked the shotgun and stepped into my baby daughter’s room just as a second assailant burst through a door on the left side of the room. I didn’t wait to listen to his jabbering or give him a chance to fire his weapon. This time I fired first. I didn’t miss. The shotgun bullets tore into his shoulder and the right side of his face. Splattering crimson on the open door and the blue-cloud wallpaper of the baby’s room.
My heart barely had time to slow down before I looked to the right and felt my stomach go on a roller coaster. The baby’s crib was tipped over. Blood decorated the inside mattress. There was a small form swaddled in blankets lying on the floor next to the crib and a number of building blocks scattered about. A small, frail arm poked from beneath the covering. I reached down and felt the wrist of my only child, feeling for a pulse but already knowing the answer, hot tears pouring down my face. A music box played Rockabye Baby from the closet.
I turned and strode through the open door that led into a hallway that Michelle and I had converted into a study the year before. A dresser stood on the right. Ahead of me was an oak desk where Michelle and I sometimes worked on papers brought home from the office. Michelle’s diary was open but I didn’t have time to read it. The door to my left opened into our master bedroom.
“The flesh of fallen angels!” A gruff voice cried out from the other side of the door just as I was reaching for the knob.
I already feared what I would find on the other side. I took a deep breath and burst through the door, staying low. Directly in front of me was a big walk-in closet. Although it was draped in the shadows of the setting sun, I could make out a huge form inside. I fired two shells, cocking the shotgun after both shots. The spray of bullets shattered the final assailant’s face in a spray of blood and he fell backwards into the closet, into the shadows. The empty shells pattered to the carpet. Then I saw Michelle lying on the bed.
I rushed to her side, cradling her head in my arms, sobbing. Her eyes were closed like she was sleeping, but the dark bullet holes on her chest told me otherwise.
“No, no, no, please Michelle, baby.” I whispered in her ear.
Outside, the setting sun draped the house, inside and out, in a crimson light as red as blood.

- - -

That was three years ago. Everything ripped apart in a New York minute. Including my life. Everything after the murders was a senseless blur. I vaguely remember sitting on the front lawn of my home with a blanket draped around my shoulders and a hot coffee cup in my hand. I remember Alex trying to comfort me as I stared blankly as the medical unit wheeled away the white-sheeted form of my wife. Then another group passed by, one of the young technicians holding a small white blanket in his arms. Seeing that small white form was somehow a thousand times worse than anything I had ever seen. That’s when I remember breaking down. Investigations followed. Funerals followed. Darkness followed.
The killer junkies had been high on a previously unknown designer drug, Valkyr, “V”. That explained the image sprayed on the wall of my house. Police reports had shown that the junkies had escaped from the hospital after being arrested during a New York drug bust. They had been too drugged up to take directly to the police station, and were taken to the nearest hospital for observation instead. They had somehow slipped past hospital and police personnel.
At the station, in the weeks that followed, everyone offered me their sympathies. I didn’t want them, but appreciated them none the less. The funerals took place on a rainy Thursday afternoon. I remember standing in the rain looking blankly at the group of solemn mourners standing in the wet air, getting drenched. Alex and B.B. were there. Winterson was there too. Most of the force was there dressed in police uniforms with shining badge and boot. Jim Bravura wasn’t there. After the funeral, I told Alex I would be transferring to the DEA.
It took us three long years to get a break in the Valkyr case. Then finally, two months ago, a dime-dropper tipped us off that Jack Lupino, a mob boss in the Punchinello crime family, was trafficking. That was the cue for me to move in. The Punchinello Crime family was mixed up in a number of illegal activities. Everyone knew it, but nobody dared to do anything about it. It was common knowledge that if you went up against Angelo Punchinello, you and your family would disappear. My family had already disappeared, my world had already disappeared. My life was buried in the ground and I had nothing to lose.
I went undercover, infiltrated the worst Mafia family in New York.

[Joonas]

Nice, nice. Nice. NICE!

[Ivan]

Joonas said:
Nice, nice. Nice. NICE!

You read that in ten minutes? You are pretty Fast.fast.Fast.FAST!

[TheArtist]

BEE-YOO-TEE-FULL!!!!!!!!!!!!

[James Davis]

I'm glad everyone likes it so far. Any suggestions? Is there anything about it that needs to be improved? I'm up for suggestions.

[Mariamus]

there was just one thing that jumped in my eye when I saw it

That was three years ago. Everything ripped apart in a New York minute. Including my life. Everything after the murders was a senseless blur.

"Including my life" isn't neccesary, It's more like saying the same thing twice when you already have the "everything ripped apart..." sentence.
that's just about the only thing I could pinpoint.

[James Davis]

Thank you. You are right. I have taken out the "including my life" part in the final manuscript. Keep those suggestions coming.

[Crack 6K]

That was great!!! Can't wait to read more.

It's hard to pinpoint anything. It was a little jarring when the original dialogue from the game popped up, but I suppose that's because I know those lines very well.

Liked that you brought up and explained some of the characters from later in the game and in MP2 early. Keep up the good work!

[James Davis]

I hope that the lines from the game were not too jarring. I am glad you liked how I placed some of the characters from Max Payne 2 into the story of Max Payne 1.

[Xenomrph]

I like what you did with it, and I noticed how differently you approached it from how I did -- I decided very early on that I wasn't going to fabricate *any* dialogue; 100% of the dialogue in my novelization would be straight from the game.
Mine is written almost more as a "walkthrough" to the game, play-by-play, enemy by enemy, than anything else. I wanted to stay as absolutely true to the game as I possibly could.

Good job, though!

[James Davis]

I originally started off with less narrative dialogue. But after a while, I realized that the book would be way too short. I wanted to keep in a lot of the action that we see in the games, but I also wanted to dive deeper into Max's mind and explain what he was doing and why he was doing it. Then, after witnessing the second game, I decided to add some characters in the first novel that weren't in the game. I wrote a lot for the prologue in order for the reader to get a good sense of what kind of person Max was before this tragedy befell him. I wanted to strengthen his relationship with his wife and child as well as his friendships with the other police officers. I'm glad you liked it.

[Xenomrph]

I also wanted to dive deeper into Max's mind and explain what he was doing and why he was doing it.

Yeah, I am trying to do that with mine, as well, but mainly through going into his mind, not from adding dialogue. That's just my style and intentions.

[James Davis]

The only problem is, if you don't add more dialogue, then there are very short conversations between the characters since there is really limited dialogue in the game. Plus, if you look at novelizations of other games, such as the Halo or Resident Evil series, you will notice that the authors have taken the liberties of adding new dialogue in order to add more dimensions to the plot. I do not feel that I am disgracing the story of Max Payne by adding in dialogue. If I am able to contact someone in regards to publishing (Take 2, maybe) then I can always ask if they want me to take out the new dialogue. But for now, it stays.

[Kevin's girl]

Two words: Great job! I'm really enjoying it so far.

Everything you added expands on Max's character and it makes the novel that much more interesting. I like everything you've done with it so far. Nice.

[James Davis]

I am very glad that everyone is enjoying it so far. I would love to post more chapters but I am a little wary of putting them on the internet for free access. But then again...if viewers' responses are high enough. I might post more later...

[Xenomrph]

While I can see why you chose to add in more dialogue, I've personally chosen the route of only putting in what was in the story itself. At the end of the day, my version should still be reasonably long.

[James Davis]

Yes, but you at least understand why I am adding dialogue. Remember, Resident Evil...Halo...they all have dialogue that wasn't in the game and focus on events that also were not a part of the game's main story. The thing with novels is you have to make it both true to the game, but also make it logical.

[Xenomrph]

While I agree on that point (having read the Halo novel, personally), I just haven't seen the need to add dialogue to my Max Payne novelization. I figure that adding internal thoughts/monologues on Max's part is sufficient to get points across and make things mesh together.

[James Davis]

I am merely using artistic methods of making the novel more interesting. I just feel that if there were no extra dialogue, there would be painfully little dialogue in the book.

[James Davis]

Although I have not completely finished editing the first chapter of the novel, I will post it. But only if viewers want me to.

Hey great novel, have you talked with rockstar about it yet? It's awesome so far.I cant wait till this book comes out . Id give it five stars but ii havent read the rest of it. mariamus did a GREAT job with sadie, im just surprised there isnt a offical book yet. I dont even like graphic novels but Max payne(and sadie) kinda got me started on it.

[Mariamus]

Aww thanks

I doubt Take2 will recognize Sadie. I think they know she exists, but either they won't do anything about it, or they'll try to take her from me.
I don't think they want me on their payroll! LOL

[James Davis]

I have indeed contacted Rockstar in regards to the Max Payne novel, however they have stated that they are not yet ready to invest in any non video game projects involving Max Payne at the moment. This includes TV shows, book, and movies. Thus, I have asked them if they would be interested in posting the novel as an additon to their website. This just shows how even a novelist can run into trouble with publication when it comes to companies who hold the rights to things. I suppose if they again decline, I may post the entire novel, when it is edited, on either this website, or I will create a seperate website strictly dedicated to the book.

[Ivan]

You might do yourself a homepage. 'Cause if you post a novel here it's going to be 10+ pages of the Forum..inculding that you set your posts to 40 a page.

[James Davis]

The problem is that I have almost no experience as far as creating a web page is concerned. But Since Remedy seems adamant about the whole thing, I probably will post the completed novel on a web page. The problem is creating one.