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Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne is a computer game developed by Remedy Entertainment in 2003.

Max Payne[edit]

Life knows two miseries; getting what you don't want and not getting what you want.

This hadn't been my first fall in the night, still just a prelude to the real deal, still a long way to the bottom.

I lied to myself that it was over. I was still alive, my loved ones were still dead. It wasn't over.

Max Payne 2 The Fall of Max Payne PC Game highly compressed is a 3 rd -person shooter video game developed by the Remedy Entertainment & published by Rockstar Games. The game is a follow-up to Max Payne. In Max Payne 2, player controls Max Payne, a detective for New York City Police Department. Max Payne 2 - Patch v1.01A patch for Max Payne 2 has been released. Available now via the links below, here's a detail of what's been fixed in the patch:Fixed game crashing to 'Exception: Bad Allocation' on Windows 98/Me during loading of certain levels (This may potentially fix other crashes as well)Improved loading times on low-end computersImproved Technical Support Tool to include. Oct 16, 2003 Max Payne 2 is a direct sequel to the original and picks up after the events of that game. Max, now a detective and wearier than ever of the world, once again has his hands full as he finds himself.

I didn't deserve to walk away. There are no happy endings.

A bomb went off in my head. The bullet lodged in my brain moved a fatal, microscopic distance.

Everything had started out as black and white. Somewhere down the road, the line went blurry. The colors started to run, got smudged and gray. Winterson had been above my suspicion. It felt like a goodbye.

There was a blind spot in my head, a bullet-shaped hole where the answers should be. Call it denial. I wanted to dig inside my skull and scrape out the pain.

Kissing her, I think of the cold laws of cause and effect.

Mona's appearance had triggered a dislocation. Schizophrenia. I felt elation, but with it, fear that all the past evils had come along for the ride.

Home, sweet home. Something in the night felt like a door had been opened, an echo of the past, an old monster snapping its eyes open in the depths of my brain. Closing your eyes forces you to look at the darkness inside.

A funhouse is a linear sequence of scares. Take it or leave it is the only choice given. Makes you think about free will: have our choices been made for us because of who we are?

Mona had come through here, the dead cleaners is a sign of her passage.

[Narration, after having seen Mona Sax, whom he thought dead] If you think nothing can get to you, you're lying to yourself. At best you're temporarily dead. A lightning bolt could re-animate you without a warning.

The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. But it's like looking down into the grave of your love, or kissing the mouth of a gun, a bullet trembling in its dark nest, ready to blow your head off.

Throw the rules out the window, odds are you'll go that way too.

Like all the bad things in my life, it started with the death of a woman. I couldn't save her.

The genius of the hole: no matter how long you spend climbing out, you can still fall back down in an instant.

All this time we got the fable of Sleeping Beauty wrong. The prince didn't kiss her to wake her up. No one who slept for a hundred years is likely to wake up. It was the other way round. He kisses her to wake himself up from the nightmare that has brought him there.

They were after me, it was my fault. You can't run from your past. You'll end up running in circles. Until you fall back down to the same hole you were trying to escape from, only the hole's grown deeper.

Death is inevitable. Our fear of it makes us play safe, blocks out emotion. It's a losing game. Without passion you are already dead.

There are no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask 'why me?' and 'what if?'. When you look back and see the branches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or forked lightning. If you had done something differently, it wouldn't be you, it would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.

The trouble with wanting something is the fear of losing it, or never getting it. The thought makes you weak.

Now, like all my loves, she is mine forever. She has brought me here, to this moment of clarity, where time slows down, and I choose to look back, to see myself. And in that act of seeing, I am reborn.

As surely as the bullet rips through the victim's flesh, organ and bone, it shatters the image of the man who pulls the trigger.

The past is a puzzle, like a broken mirror. As you piece it together, you cut yourself, your image keeps shifting. And you change with it. It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.

I didn't know what Mona wanted, if it was the same thing that I was after. To kill those who were trying to kill her. The bullet, real or imagined, lodged in her head routing her synapses. Driving her on.

This is what I see when I look back. These moments, blinding as snow, they kill you, change you. You die and live again, remade.

I had a bomb ticking in my head. No amount of painkillers would disable it.

'The things that I want', by Max Payne. A smoke. A whiskey. For the sun to shine. I want to sleep to forget. To change the past. My wife and baby girl back. Unlimited ammo and a license to kill. Right then, more than anything, I wanted her.

There are things in life you cannot choose: how you feel.

Like always, the dead had all the answers I was missing. It wasn't that they weren't eager to talk; quite the contrary, the dead had plenty to say and once they started, they would never shut up. Their words would keep you awake at night.

When you're waking up, the world is a blur. What was clear in a dream, suddenly makes no sense. No surreal rescues. No easy, magic way out. But you are awake.

With no way to deal with the past, I kept my eyes on the road, off the rear-view mirror and the road-kill behind me. I chased lesser mysteries, other people's crimes.

Einstein was right, time is relative to the observer. When you're looking down the barrel of a gun, time slows down. Your whole life flashes by, heartbreak and scars. Stay with it, and you can live a lifetime in that split second.

This is love. When someone drags you from the wreckage when you have given in, ready to just lie there and die. This is love. When someone, no matter what the cost, shows you there is hope, a choice, that you can put down your gun. This is love. Love hurts.

When entertainment turns into a surreal reflection of your life, you're a lucky man if you can laugh at the joke. Luck and I weren't on speaking terms, or maybe the place was just too damn lame to be funny.

Your past has a way of sneaking up on you. You'll hear broken echoes of it everywhere, like a bad replay. You'll get mad at everyone for reminding you about it, even if it's all in your head.

You come to, amidst the wreckage of your own making. Do you stay there, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to move, hoping to bleed to death? Or do you crawl out, help your loved ones, make sure the fire doesn't spread, try to fix it?

Firing a gun is a binary choice. Either you pull the trigger or you don't.

The explosion in my apartment had started a fire. The flames couldn't burn away my past. They only made the shadows behind me leap higher.

In a nightmare, every choice you make is a wrong one. I would wake up at night, afraid that day was a dream I'd forget.

I am afraid. But I start again from the beginning, trace my own steps to the scene of the crime.

The gilding on the mask had cracked to reveal the rot underneath.

The world was getting too small for comfort.

'Cleaners' was a misnomer. They were making a mess of it.