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Discussion in 'Roleplaying Board' started by RavenJeanGraves, Dec 27, 2010.
The Blood Ties RP
Yasmin walked out of Gamorrah with a sick feeling in her stomach. Usually visiting her cousin at the blackjack tables was fun, but given the news she’d just gotten she wanted to run over to the gardens a vomit. She had to find him, but it wasn’t something she could accomplish alone. She'd have to scrounge together a small group of the right kind of people. She just hoped there were others here who were as nuetral as she.
Scanning the Strip for someone who could be coerced into a mission for the right amount she saw mostly hookers, NCR and drunks. But even in a city as corrupt as New Vegas she knew there'd be a few with a good head on them (or even a drug-fucked one would work, if they had the skill). She just had to find them.
David looked around at the flashing neon in the night of New Vegas, His tired eyes observing the Lucky 38, then the securitrons, and then the people walking around. It has a year since he had left the capital wasteland. He had left friends, and he was alone again. He sat down on a bench. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, the night breeze blowing through the holes and tears in his tattered Enlave Jacket. He remembered doing this in Springvale, and he wanted to open his eyes and see his friends, but he knew they weren't here. He had left them behind to find a new life. His jacket was too old and covered in stitches to repair any big tears to be recognised as enclave, and he was from the east coast, so he couldn't be traced back to the west coast enclave, except for his grandfather, who was a sergeant at Navarro, but he doubted anyone was looking for him. He relaxed and thought about what happened in the past year.
INSIDE THE GAMORRAH
When entering the Casino, the number one rule was to give up the weapons. Of course, if you were tricky enough as the ginger haired man known as Holdout would tell you, sometimes you could sneak in things. So when Carib got frisked lazily by the Omerta, it wasn't too hard for Carib to conceal his Tom Brown Scout Knife. True they took the carbine, the Tomahawk and the silenced 10mm, but Carib still had something. Probably wouldn't mean much, but a knife was better than nothing, and with his skill, hell, he could take these muppets and grab the nearest gun. But he wasn't hear to fight.
They didn't ask him to take off his desert helmet with the mask, nor drop the duster and armor underneath. He looked like a Veteran Ranger, but there was no Bear insignia nor numbers. The armor underneath was weathered but functional and dented in some areas. His dark skin could be seen underneath in the areas were the armor wasn't attached.
The Omerta in is his smart looking white grimey business suit nodded, "Your clean. Welcome to the Gamorrah. Big Sal will see you now." He said in that faux mobster accent.
Carib walked past the man and held his bounty in a brown burlap bag. A bounty was being delivered.
When Carib passed through the Brimstone Lounge, he spotted one of the Made Men Cachino laughing while his hand was on the lap of one of the whores, his hand making their way for her crotch. From this distance you didn't have to have eagle eyes to see her dilated pupils from Med-X use. Carib had seen that vacant stare in one too many vets, even Rangers. He knew one female Ranger who had been hit pretty hard by machete from a Legionaire after witnessing her unit getting butchered. After seeing so much horror, Carib could see why people turned to chems.
Heading to the upper floor, men with Assault Carbines led him to the office of Big Sal, his second in command Nero was sitting on the couch.
"Ah," Nero said in his rough voice, "I see the hard case has somethin' for the family today,"
Carib placed the bag on the table and Nero gave him a look. With his hands at his side, Carib watched Nero open the bag and his face began to gleam. The ex-Ranger wasn't sure if that was a good sign or that the mobster remembered some joke. In the background the Mr. New Vegas was commenting on the new Legate Lanius. A moment passed and Nero folded the bag ends up and closed it.
"You did good. You literally brought me the head of that Fiend fuck Barn-Burner," Nero reclined back in his chair and smiled, "you do some good work, Ran-"
"I am not a Ranger anymore."
Nero nodded knowingly, though he seemed annoyed to be cut off, "Right, right. And a death claw changes its stripes. But whatever. As I was about to say before you were so gracious enough to correct me on honorifics, you did good, very good. So good I am adding a 150 cap bonus to the agreed sum 500. And... of course, your choice of women. On the house. Drugs, booze whatever. I also have other work. One that involves."
Carib nodded his head as he accepted the bottle caps, "Not interested."
Nero cocked a blonde eyebrow, "What the fuck, you haven't heard Big Sal-"
"I am not interested." Carib repeated, and added, "no disrespect to Big Sal, but I am not interested in any work involving 'family'." Carib had heard about one of the Omerta's taking the money and running and that he was hiding out. Omertas were notorious about family loyalty, even though each one had his own share of schemes and dreams. Of course, stealing from the family was a death sentence in itself. However, outsiders working for the family on family matters often ended up in the loosing end. The Omertas had a nasty habit of whacking help if they felt they knew too much about the family matters. And besides, Carib didn't like the Omertas. Sure killing a Fiend chieftian probably earned Carib karma points for the light, but that was because Barn-Burner had been a bad one. He was on the same scale as the infamous Fiercesome Four - Cook-Cook, Violet, and DriverNefi. So killing one serial rapist who had a penchant for arson and chems was a service. However, he didn't have any love for any of the Vegas families period, but the Omertas were the ones he disdained the most. They were shifty, perhaps as much as Benny the head of the Chairmen. The White Gloves were just too polite, too nice. And Carib remembered what happened when folks were too nice - they usually ended up being insane or cannibals.
While Nero began to rise, Big Sal pursed his lips and nodded, "Fine." he splayed his arms, palms up showing it wasn't a problem, "by all means if you should change your mind, you know where to find us. I hope you keep an open mind. Much money to be mad and many rewards for men such as yourself. Men who turn lead into gold." That last came out almost like a croak.
Big Sal did have a point, men such as Carib did have a way of turning lead into gold. California was way to civil and the Baja campaigns were running dry. The Mojave was the new frontier, the new lawless land. And everyone wanted a piece. NCR, the Legion and the mysterious Mr. House who stayed locked in his ivory tower like the Great Oz.
As to Big Sal's invite on a new more lucrative job,Carib didn't reply, he walked out and headed to the Brimstone Lounge. If he had to stay here, he might as well grab a non-irradiated Nuka-Cola and something to eat as well. He was hungry. Heading to the bar, a man with dark skin and his hair sleaked back like some pre-war gentleman smiled a gapped tooth smile at Carib.
"What can I get you, Ranger? Whiskey?" He asked politely.
"Got any Nuka-Cola and perhaps brahmin steak with mole-rat stew, please." Carib dropped a few caps, "and don't call me Ranger." The tone was level, but the Bartender had heard it one too many times on the lips of dangerous men, men whose life was defined by blood.
"Su-sure sir. Will you be paying in NCR dollars, bottle caps or Legion coin?"
The Bartender nodded nervously, he went to the back and got the Ex-Ranger his food. He was happy to see the dangerous man was at least leaving a five cap tip.
Brad used to be a great khan, but when papa khan was convinced that the legion would be good for the khans, he left. You see, he hated the legion more than anything else. So he headed to vegas with all the ncr money he saw on dead troops that other khans killed.
Brad was sitting at a blackjack table at gomorrah. He had won plenty, but he wasn't here for the cash, just the thrill of gambling. He was getting tired from a long day of blackjack, so he took his winnings, got them cashed out into caps (3000) and left.
Gonzalez stares at the graveyard in Camp Forlorn Hope, seven fresh graves before him... his patrol. He survived, they didn't. I'ts getting dark, he's been there for hours and didn't even realized it, no one would dare to approach him in that time, they just left him alone watching from a distance, no one had comfort words since everyone was in a simmilar situation... drepressed, broken, that was the morale at the camp, nothing but setback after setback. The wind would cover the graves with dust pretty soon, making them look ancient, like from a completely different war even, just in a matter of hours... that was the way of the wasteland.
It is night time when Gonzalez enters the command tent. Major Polatli approaches him. "When was the last time you took a leave liuetenant?" Gonzalez couldn't remember, at Camp Golf he never felt the need of taking leaves, it was a his perfect post, the lake, the sun, it was like vacations for him, he even put up a few pounds while in there. Sometimes he would just go to a chair at the top of a ridge over the lake, just to stare at the horizon, only occacionally he would notice the legion campfires at the distance, reminding him of their threat again, just in case he happen to have forgotten about it.
"I hate to loose personnel even if it's for a while, but you seem to need it rigth now." "I'm fine sir" "I didn't say you weren't... but it'll do you good, clear your head, then you can come back refreshed."
And so Gonzalez made his way to Camp Mc Carran and then to the monorail, took some more money with him and left the weapons and armour at Mc Carran, wearing only the fatiges. Once in the monorail he closes his eyes for a moment, and sees the same he sees whenever he he does... the faces of the dying soldiers, the knife repeatedly going in and out a legionaires guts, the strong smell of blood. Gonzalez wakes up, he's reaching the strip.
The athmosphere of the place has a special something that make him forget the bad things of these last days, maybe the Major was right. Mark leaves the monorail building and enters the Tops. For a while he forgets all his troubles and enjoys the place, a good meal and a show or two. Then he heads to the Gomorrah, he’s never been there but the privates keep telling what a nice place it is, not his kind of place really, but at least if he pays a visit he can see for himself, and after what happened in the last days some company wouldn’t hurt, actually he probably deserves it.
On his way there there he realizes that it would be the kind of place that is fun to visit with friends, he’s been alone all that time, all other NCR’s on R n’ R seem to be moving in groups, but he’s alone. And like a kick to the face it hits him, he lost many friends in a short period of time… now he’s depressed again.
The weapons screening at the door goes fast, NCR soldiers are not allowed to carry weapons in the strip, and he’s not the kind of person that would go against regulations. Once inside he notices a men in ranger combat amour, this strikes him as weird, what would a ranger in full armor be doing there? Upon a closer inspection he notices that the markings and insignia have been erased, now he fears someone killed a ranger for the armor. Only when the ranger removes his helmet and mask to eat he recognized who he is. The man has scars across his face and, although hiding it well, appears to be recently injured and not in full shape.
With full confidence that the other person will recognize his weird sense of humor he then says: “Damn you look like shit! …though you’ve always been ugly anyways so a little face paint and you’ll be good as new.”
Yasmin dropped her sunglasses down to shield her eyes from the bright dessert sun and the neon lights, which felt even brighter. Plus there was too much water in her eyes that she felt comfortable to see. She casually strolled the strip looking for someone who knew how to carry a gun and didn’t look aligned.
Then she saw one.
Sitting on a bench alone, ripped up coat and faraway look on his face. If that look wasn’t drug induced, and she’d seen enough of it to recognise that it wasn’t, he was just what she needed.
Putting a bit more of a sway in her hips and ignoring the hungry stares from two particularly lonely looking NCRs, she walked over to the bench and sat down next to him. “Hey friend, you looking to make a few caps? Contract free, I swear.”
Carib had just used the steak knife to cut a chunk of juicy steak when he heard a very familiar voice. One he hadn't heard since the Dam had been won and a voice he knew well from his time at Camp Gulf. He smiled in spite of himself and the pain he was feeling, "Nah, Mark. I am like fine wine, aging well. A few scars here and there build character."
He knew the man well, and though Carib had few remaining close friends within the military, Lt. Gonzalez was pretty damn close. He was a good man, and though not a Ranger, Carib liked him.
Carib turned to look at his friend and offered him a chair, "So... what's an Officer in the NCR military doing in a shady dump like this? Cashing in some much needed vacation time."
Mark clears his throat. The truth is a bit painful to tell and there was no need to worry an old friend. "Yeah, well, you know... had to make use of those days sooner or later" Mark looks away for a second. "All the privates keep talking of how good this place is, had to check it out for myself."
Loosing men is something that an officer has to be prepared to accept, but all of their men dying at once... men who were looking up to him to get them trough safely and alive. And why did HE had to survive? No one, nor NCR nor Legion survived that ambush, but why did he? Was there a purpose? A reason?
These thoughts were invading his mind every second, at first it was disbelief, then the pain started to be felt little by little as he tried to rationalize what happened... maybe he shouldn't try to make sense out of it, but he kept trying anyways.
Brad noticed a woman talking to a man in a tattered jacket and sat down on a bench near them. He started thinking about her but immediately pulled himself together. He'd lived his whole live with the idea that he'd never get a girl. He had brown hair which was kind of shaggy, no facial hair, a thin figure, and he was 6 feet tall. That may seem okay, in fact he liked the way he looked, but to the khans, that was nothing. All the females at red rock went for the buff drug abusers. No girl would go out with him, so he had a lot of spare time. He spent it reading science books he snuck out during raids on the ncr. His handiness with electronics made him even more of a scocial outcast. It was a wonder he didn't leave earlier.
He saw a street vendor and ordered a nuka cola, which usually cheered him up when he was down. He wondered if there was something he could actually do with his life other than sit at a blackjack table for the rest of his life.
Tom looked at New Vegas, he was standing in front of the gate to it in Freeside. He had managed to get himself a fake passport in off of Mick at Mick and Ralph's, he used a bit *force*, but he didn;t scare him to much.
Tom walked over to the securitron at the front and showed him the passport. The securitron ordered the other securitrons to open up the gate. Tom walked through the gate, wondering how long many of the peple of Freeside had wanted to do exactly this, whereas Tom got it done in next to a couple of hours.
Tom glared down Vegas, there appeared to be a whorehouse to his right, named Gamorrah, and on his left was a large top heavy tower, it had been a long time since Tom had seen anything this fancy before. He wandered through the street, hookers were dancing on the pavement, Tom wasn't bothered for that, he hated things like that, as well as anything to do with drugs, he would never touch them.
He stopped, and looked around the street again, he thought he must look extremely out of place in Vegas, were money was everything, Tom would be surprised is he had 50 caps worth of stuff on his person. He glanced at a table from afar, at first it only looked like a woman and a man chatting, with another man sneaking a peek frm afar. Tom looked again at the table, Tom knew that man, he squinted, he realised he probably looked like a crackpot, but he didn't care. He pulled the scrap of the Enclave Officer outfit he had aquired out of his pocket and lifted it next to his view of the man. JESUS CHRIST! Tom just realised who it was, it had been a year and half since he had seen David, and he knew why he hadn;t recognised him now, it had been so long.
Tom started strolling down the street to David, he had some things to discuss with the vague man, nothing bad, just what had been happening lately. Tom arrived at the table and looked at the woman, not caring who it was. "Where've you gotten yer' self up to mate, i've been wandering some more, never you managed to get yer' self over to Vegas, turned out that man I was after was getting his way to Russia, not bothered for that".
Tom took a second look at the woman who was wearing shades, he looked back at David, he wondered what he had been getting up to.
IN THE BRIMSTONE, THE GOMORRAH,
"Well I hope its everything you dreamed. I don't know, aside from the food, the place kind of reminds me of hell... perhaps its the colors. Or the skimpy clad dancers. The Tops seems more, homely." Carib drained his Nuka-Cola and placed the empty bottle on the table, giving a healthy burp. He winced slightly, his still healing ribs stung.
His mind briefly flashed to the last bounty he collected. He remembered the young Fiend he had literally throttled to death with his bare hands, the boy coughing up blood, his eyes out of focus from chem withdrawal. The rest of the Fiends had died, Carib had suffered four cracked ribs and a graze to his right arm. The Fiend boss, Barn-Burner had been trying to crawl away, the Tomahawk lodged in his back. However, it was the boy who had come at him with a machete was getting the worst of it. Carib didn't even hear the curse beneath the lad's breath when he heard the neck snap.
Standing over Barn-Burner, Carib plucked the tomahawk from the man's back and began to hack at him. Blood was everywhere. But Carib had kept hacking, because he knew what he saw in their little makeshift cellar. He knew what they were doing. And Carib went back to that cold, cold, cold place in his heart. The place a sniper goes when he's about to make that million cap kill. A place of total concentration. Carib had been there many times. Be it fighting raiders or slaying a Legionary. If Carib had the time and the resources he'd hunt down and dismember all the Fiend chiefs. Turn Motor-Runners crew into dog chow. However, it wasn't happening. Attacking one chief by himself nearly got him killed. Going after Cook-Cook, Violet or even DriverNephi was a bad move. In time he'd have them or someone else would.
His eyes re-focused and he looked at Mark. Carib was having more of these de-focused moments.
Carib looked at the officer and got a sense of his weariness. It was something any soldier could sniff out. True, Carib was a senior NCO when he had left the Rangers, but he worked among officers enough to know their moods. Mark was a solid officer, no fink as they said on the Strip.
And without prying into the details, because Carib knew a war was going on and knew both the Legion and the NCR were hurting.
The Lieutenant probably lost a few men and was probably dealing with survivor's guilt. Carib remembered a lecture Old Chief Hanlon had told the Veteran Rangers at Camp Gulf. Hanlon was alright, and he was one of the few remaining senior Rangers around. General Oliver never really cared for the Rangers on a whole, or at least that was the impression, ever since the Dam, he had been hell bent on making sure the Rangers role was minimal. Such politics were what they were, politics and Carib didn't care for them.
Breaking the silence Carib added, feeling unusually talkative, "So, how goes life with the NCR military in the war against, Caeser? Is ol' General 'Wait-And-See' making any progress?"" Carib was chewing on a piece of brahmin steak as he asked, his pointed comment regarding General Oliver.
Yasmin looked at the man who had just walked up and started talking to the man on the bench and raised an eyebrow at him. After a quick assessment of him, she decided he looked capable enough to be of use.
“What about you? You up for a little scavving? It’ll pay well and the danger is probably minimal.”
Tom wasn't in the Mojave for a job, on the way there he decided he just wanted to settle down, but he knew this would never happen, due to his liking for wandering. "I ain't up for no job, I came here for this guy here...", Tom thought to himself for a couple fo seconds, then looked at the person who gave the proposition, "I ain't no mercenary, and I ain't no yank either as you can probably tell by the accent, but I mate take this job of yours, all depends, what's the specs, what am I to do, and what'll come back my way for doing this...job?"
Brad was getting bored, so he decided to listen in on the conversation the lovely lady, the man who appeared to be comatose, and his blabby british friend were having. He swigged the cola and thought "That sounds like just what I'm looking for, but they would never take me." "I don't even have a good gun" he thought, looking at his 10mm pistol with a laser sight. "hmm, maybe I should visit that silver rush place I keep hearing about.
At that moment somewhere in Mark's brain the decision was made to release a valve of steam. Complaining wasn't going to solve anything but it would work as that valve.
"The General? Are you kidding? I had even forgotten there is someone up there thinking strategy. We just seem to sit on our asses and let the Legion take the initiative. Did you heard about Nelson? And they even have that boat crossing at Cottonwood Cove they use to move slaves across, and no one is doing anything about it. Now they raid along the 93 and 95 and we have no one to protect the caravans. If they don't send us more reinforcements and we start pushing back the Legion we'll be lost by the time they hit the dam, it's like the General is waiting for a miracle to happen or something. In the meantime we just keep being slowly bled by legion skirmishes, the graveyard next to Camp Forlorn Hope is now officially larger than the camp itself."
When he finished talking, Mark felt he left himself be carried away a bit, but hell, after all he was entitled to.
Back at Golf, Mark was the kind of officer every soldier would like to have, he took things easy, and cared about the men under his command, always making sure they had what they needed, maybe an extra treat or two, making sure they rotated guards regularly and everyone had their due time of rest so they could stay sharp when on duty. Was a kind man as long as no one abused his kindness. Always trying to cheer everyone up, he had a soft spot for the people under his command.
On the downside he wasn't the kind of leader that inspired fear on his troops, whenever he tried disciplining his troops most times they wouldn't take him seriously, in the end he depended more on his NCO's for that. Maybe he wasn't the kind of leader his troops needed to survive a fight against the Legion, maybe if he had been tougher and harsher with them they would be alive now. When his troops heard that they were going to be transferred to Forlorn Hope, most of them were afraid, but they knew that the Lieutenant was going to look after them, make sure nothing bad happened to them, and in the end he failed them.
Carib laid reclined back in his chair, his plate clean, even the marginal steak grease had been soaked up and the mole-rat stew was done. He heard Mark bleed his heart out and was frankly surprised. The man had taken so many things in stride and then remembering his own time in the NCR, the Legion, the whole Mjave campaign, he sighed.
"Here," Carib nodded to one of the skimpy clad waitresses', "two shots of whiskey, please." he looked at Mark and could see the man was being eaten alive by this, and who wasn't. Carib left the NCR mainly because of what was happening. For Carib though, it had been the death of his wife. Carib knew all to well about Cottonwood Cove and about the raids on 93. The Legion had been moving a lot of ground and in-between the Convicts busting out, the NCR was spread thin. Some Denacus took Nelson and now the NCR was being squeezed in this region and all because the General didn't want to budge. He wanted to hold and wait. It was getting men and women killed and Carib was growing tired of collecting dog tags.
"Mark. The reason why I liked you is because your a good man. You love your men. And now, I see in your eyes your wondering what you could have done better to have kept them alive. You wonder if you should have been a task master. truth be told, I have been around long enough even task masters can get their men killed. Your not a Centurian, Mark. You are what you are, and that is why your men follow you. You never have sent anyone to do something you wouldn't do. Your compassionate and never lose that. Its far to rare.
So join me in a shot. And enjoy your leave."
The waitress gave a smile to Mark and Carib, though the smile seemed force. Carib seemed dangerous to her. The Ex-Ranger didn't mind, his scars tended to do that to people. He held the small shot glass, "To better days."
Tom looked over to the man who had now been looking at him for quite a while now and glared back. Tom wasn't bothered for any funny buisiness, he just wanted to make some money to settle somewhere, maybe get some bighorners and settle at goodsprings, or maybe set out further west, Tom had heard about a large town called The Hub, where everything was going okay, no problems.
Brad realized that one of them noticed him, so he quickly shifted his glance to the lucky 38 tower, but he still listened in on the deal. He wondered if the brit would take the deal, and wheter the man in the jacket would give any response at all.
Tom was wondering why the man who was now looking at the tower was so shifty. Tom wasn't worried, he knew how to handle himself, he was just suspicious, he didn't like people listening in on deals like this, these things tend to come back and bite you in the arse.