They weren't here to take me in; they were here to take me down. But they weren't going to do that without a fight.

User Rating: 9.2 | Grand Theft Auto III PS2
The sirens flooded the night, banshee-like wails warning me to stay away - or perhaps calling me to them. I needed a car. My previous one had taken one too many and now lay upside down beside me, charcoal frame still crushing the man who had unwittingly been walking down the alley only thirty seconds before. I had to escape, and fast. One more body on the final toll would make no difference. Luckily I had a few shells left. Liberty City was going to pay. The alley vanished behind me and my feet took on a demon of their own, propelling me across the road where two cars narrowly avoided hitting me. I let the first go - a minivan was of no use to me. The second driver wasn't quite so lucky. A quick wrench on the handle and his collar and he was lying on the road, cursing at me. "Hey man, that's my car! What are you doing?" I answered his question with my shotgun. The engine roared with a ferocity to match the sirens, and as I turned onto the road ahead, two police cars skidded over the sidewalk and came for me. Somewhere else I could hear the rotors of a helicopter and knew I didn't have much time. They wanted me down and part of me didn't blame them. The prostitutes. Pedestrians. Dozens of innocent city-dwellers killed in the most horrible of fashions, from a sniper blast to the explosion and flames of a rocket to their car. Hundreds of casualties. Cops, too. And now they hungered. The next road brought less freedom than I hoped. Another cop car rammed into my side and sent me spinning into the other lane where a fish truck blared its horn and smashed head-on into my already crumpled car. Cops cars were converging from all over. That helicopter hovered overhead. A large army transport screeched to a halt and no doubt there would even be something far more sinister on its way. I kicked my door open and slid an uzi out of my belt. They weren't here to take me in; they were here to take me down. But they weren't going to do that without a fight. "Put your hands up!" someone cried through a megaphone. "Put down your weapons!" The speaker was kneeling behind his car, an overturned fish truck beside him. Several blasts with the shotgun blew the tank and incinerated him. The rest of the cops started firing. The bullets began to take their toll, though comfort came with half a dozen police falling to my shotgun. As its empty carcass clattered on the ground and the uzi lifted to spit its own fire, a tank crashed through the furthest police cars towards me. The cacophony of screams, explosions, and gunfire filled my ears. Troops began pouring from the tank. They had a purpose, and with it fulfilled, I wouldn't live out the night. They raised their guns. I jammed down the trigger and charged towards them.

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