The Tarkov Family


Plot/Overview:

In 2281, the Courier, James Edwards, destroyed the Legion and made peace with the NCR. He took over all of the Mojave, Two-Sun, and most Legion Territories. He sent people to rebuild and refurbish Nipton. In the year 2289, the town had a population of 100 and was still thriving. A Mafia family, The Tarkov's, had been formed there and were now well known. They owned a small bar/casino in the town of Nipton, and everyone was okay with the idea of a Mafia in their town, but not everyone was satisfied. They racked in caps and made money off the people of Nipton, they returned the favor by protecting them from raiders and other hostile threats. Their leader, Nikolai Tarkov, always would dream of controlling New Vegas and its empire. He would always dream of controlling a huge empire. In New Vegas, new casinos sprouted up, Freeside was refurbished into a good, crime free, nice town. New Vegas expanded its walls to all residents of the Mojave, black and white, tall and short. The trouble making fiends of Freeside were given homes in Black Mountain, which was cleaned of Mutants. The Great Khans and other factions helped everyone. As Nikolai was growing old, the chance of living his dream was now vanished. But his employees knew how much ruling New Vegas was to him, so they settled to Freeside to accomplish their leader's dream. You are either a resident of the Mojave or a Mafia man. You can either stop the Tarkov family or help them rule Vegas.
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Rules:

1)Be realistic

2)Don't be a jerk

3)Long Posts mandatory. Two paragraphs (three-four sentences per paragraph)

4)I am your leader

5)Please tell us if your going to go on a extended leave

6)The Apparel cannot be more than Leather Armor

7)Have Fun

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RPers:

Your mom=My brother(co-GM):



The Whacko:



Blackhand4(co-GM):



icouldntthinkofaname(co-GM):



DarkZerker:

Rango walked out of his New Vegas apartment that overviewed the Strip. "Vegas, baby," he said. Grabbing his sleek gray jacket and old cowboy hat of his father, he walked down the street towards his tall but aging work shop. Originally his father's it was. "Glad the electricity still 'runnin."

He sat down on his comfy velvet chair that over-looked his shop. Scrap metal and machinery littered the room, with oil and grease still on some too. Grabbing his wrench, he began working on his current assignment, a pre-war motorcycle. Admiring the machine, he began removing the rusted bolts and screws. After cleaning up the bike, he got some old rubber and cut it 8 by 12 strips for new tires." The engine's too old to run properly anymore, but it looks good enough to please the customer. That was hard work. I outta hire someone to help out around here." Grabbing a pen, he wrote,"Help wanted". He stuck it up on the window for bypassers to see. "Now, time to collect my caps."
The next day his customer came in."Howdy, is 'te machine up 'n runnin?" Rango replied," Kind of. Check it out fo yourself mister." The machine could not drive, but the mister did not mind, for it was to be for display. "Ain't no problem sir, here's the caps I owe ya'." 400 caps layed on his desk. "That's alot i've seen in a long time." Done with the day, Rango headed home and began sipping coffee and reading pre-war novels about westerns and even part of his dad's old bucket list.

My CS (because Mexican can't hyperlink )


Viktor Smirnov

I walked up to the Vegas Union Troopers

"Damn it, if Tarkov won't hand over the taxes, this towns coming under our total control." said the officer

"Over my dead body!" I screamed. I cut down the four troopers with my Garand and wounded the officer. I pulled out my Desert Eagle at the officer.

"Don't kill-" was his last words. I pulled the trigger and blew his brains out. The mafiamen chucked behind me. I quieted them and squinted in the distance. I could see the Vegas Union T-34 tanks rolling down the I-15.

He sat quietly at the booth of the Goodsprings Saloon, eyes shut and hands behind his head as he leaned back into his seat. He wore a dark blue polo shirt, buttoned up, and black pants. Brown boots lay on the table before him, next to the empty glass of water. Smoke slowly drifted from the cigarette that hung out of his mouth.

Suddenly, the sound of the Saloon's door could be heard slamming open. He did not bother to open his eyes, listening to the footsteps that approached the counter.

"Hey there lovely," a rough voice said, the murmuring of other patrons going silent and leaving only the sound of the blues playing. "I'm a very exhausted man, and was wondering if you have anything that could help me relax."

"We have drinks." the voice of Trudy could be heard saying, coldly. "What's your choice?"

"No dear, I was looking for something a little more... special. What about say... that pretty girl in the corner?"

His eyes opened, looking lazily toward the counter. A man in a dirty brown business suit could be seen leaning on the counter, a assault rifle strapped to his back. The mans eyes were locked onto a girl wearing some casual jeans and a shirt, 14 years at the most.

"This isn't a damn [censored]-house," Trudy's eyes stared coldly at the man, "Now, I suggest unless you want every patron in this saloon to put a hole in you, that you kindly take your business elsewhere."

He slowly slid his feet off the table, sliding out of the booth quietly and beginning to walk toward the man. The man suddenly grabbed the assault rifle from his back and pointed it at Trudy, a sneer now on his face.

"Listen here honey, my business isn't just my business!" His thumb switched off the safety as he took aimed at Trudy's face, "My business is that of the Tarkov Family! If you are getting in the way of my entertainment, then your getting in the way of OUR entertainment."

"Your family sure is lacking in discipline then," the Booth-Sitter said cooly as he came two feet away from the man. The man let out a yelp, turning and immediately pointing the assault rifle at the Booth-Sitter's chest.

"HEY PAL! Get down! Can't you see this thing is loaded and ready to fire! Look at how big it is! I CAN BLOW YOU APART!"

The Booth-Sitter gave off a smirk, slowly pulling a hand out of his pocket and unfolding it to reveal a red poker chip with the number 38 engraved in it. He began to toss and catch it.

"Funny guy, didn't a girl ever tell you?"

"Tell me wha-" he was interrupted as the Booth Sitter tossed the chip high in the air, grabbing the man's assault rifle and pushing it to face the roof as he swung his foot at the mans shin. A gunshot emitted from the rifle, the man letting out a loud grunt as the Booth-Sitter let go of the barrel and grabbed the mans head, slamming it down onto his knee with as much strength as he can. He then let go, his hand quickly catching the poker chip as the man collapsed onto the floor, blood rolling down his nose. The Booth-Sitter turned, beginning to walk toward the exit.

"Wh-who... wh-who the hell do you... th-think you are?" the man grunted loudly as the Booth-Sitter opened the door, turning his head. A cocky grin formed on his face.

"You can tell the mother of your family that a mean boy beat you up today. His name was Chip-Toss Dillinger. If you want a rematch, i'm heading to Primm. Oh, and about your big gun. Size doesn't matter. It's all about technique and pacing."


With those words, Daniel left the Saloon.

Helee Madson

Herlee stepped up to the bar, the windows cracked from the riot last night. He opened the glass door to the bar, the empty room full of dust. The bartender, Mike, was washing the counter and polishing his beer bottles when he slowly turned to Herlee. H had known he was there, but waited until he sit at the revolving stool.

"Hey, Mike. Uhh, looks like your place got a little screwed up, mind the language," Herlee stated, glaring around the old bar. It had cobwebs hanging from the corners, a hole in the ceiling (which we could fly) and the bartender looked to be part of his store, or attached to it. He was an old man with a bartender outfit, glasses with broken lenses, and wrinkled skin. He had a complicated personality, he was mostly grumpy, but very humorous, seeing he was a comedian in his twenties, and whenever he was in a good mood, he could cheer anyone up.

"Yeah, it is pretty screwed up. The Tarkovs sent some men over here, ruined the whole joint. I think I'm going to tick, I can't take more of this," Mike said, taking his glasses off, squinting and pinching his nose. He sighed, opened up the gate on the island, and sat down near Herlee. "Heard they have another major assault in a few days. I need a favor from you, Herlee,"

"What's that?"

"Don't let them in here."

Character Sheet


Aiden Kim

Freeside was orderly and clean, as usual after the Courier took control. Crime...at least crime that effected the citizens, was gone. He was the only criminal. The only criminal the world was convinced that he was legitimate. Either way, it was for the future.

He walked into his massive department store and immediately, the men and women who were tending to the massive store immediately dropped whatever they were doing and headed towards the main "foyer" where they all respectfully bowed. Without a word, he headed with three bodyguards and a secretary(his girlfriend) up a broken escalator.

When he got to the top and through another set of stairs and finally to a large set of double doors came a near sterile white room, untouched by lack of maintenance throughout the department store before it turned into a department store. At the back of the room were two gilded doors and a futuristic desk with the name, "CEO Aiden Kim" written on it. He sat down immediately and yawned.

After all, it was 7:00AM. And for the rich of New Vegas, too early.
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Aiden sighed as one of his members of the board presented him with a file. In the file was standard stuff, developing Goodsprings, the new shipment of weaponry to the Tarkov family, yada yada. Without signing, he raised an eyebrow.

"Is that all you got?" He asked. The board member looked flustered and stuttered for a moment before Aiden retorted again. "If it isn't your best, why should I sign it?"

The board member didn't retort at all and left. Soon, Evelyn, Aiden's secretary and girlfriend, rushed in. She panted for a bit before talking. "Aiden...one of our regulars reported a disturbance in the Goodsprings Saloon. Apparently, some man was going to [censored] a young girl."

Aiden sighed. "I have to make my round trip to Nipton to meet with the Tarkov Family so...reimburse the girl, pay for all the bar damage, and assassinate the man who did it. Now, prep my transport caravan to Nipton."

Rango finsihed up his western novel. It was about a man who had to hunt down currupt criminals he once rode with. "Amazing book" he said to his cat (please?). Sipping the rest of his coffee, he decided to visit the tops. He was loved there, for his vice attitude and connections with swank. "Ring-a-ding bro" Rango said, clicking his fingers at the staff. "Long time no see! How's that business of yours?" Swank replied, kind-of drowsily. "Ain't ever been better. I got 200 caps I wanna spend here. Imma head up to the theatre and maybe hit the tables bro." With that, Rango walked towards the Ace's theatre. Inside, he saw a guitarist that looked like a cowboy play western tunes. Rango ventured towards the bar table and asked for a newspaper. Walking to his booth with a Nuka-cola, he sat down and started reading, the music still playing. "GUNFIGHT BROKE OUT: GOODSPRINGS NOT SO GOOD." Oh the media he said, noticing there was few bullet holes in the picture. He continued reading, then stopped when he reached why the fight started.
"This sick world. Sometimes I wished I could do something about it" Rango said silently , but not enough for the passing guitarist to not hear. "Then how a'bout you do?" he said. "Wha--who--who are you?" asked Rango surprisingly. "Sir, I don't have a name. I'm a cowboy, er well I once was. Now I'm here, wasting my time in New Vegas. The Mojave is getting currupt with these Tarkov clowns and other organisations and scum. If you'd really want to do something, you would be doing many good, including me. I've ventured this wasteland. There's alot of good folk who need help, and you look like a man with experience, are you not?"
Rango shook his head. By then the guitarist sat down with him. Rango thought about those days when he was very young and fighting alongside his dad when raiders attacked their ranch. He had the scarrs and bruises to prove it. Since the day his dad dissapeared one night at the ranch, he had nowhere to go except Vegas, where he could put his farming skill to use, particully fixing things. "You know mister, I never did much here in Vegas that I felt special doing. Maybe turning in a gold-plated pistol, suit, and shades for a revolver, bandanna, and cow-boy suit may be just what I need." Instantly, the guitarist handed Rango his old but powerful Mysterious Magnum. "Was my father's, but it's just rusting in my holster nowadays. Fix her up and use it when trouble starts. use it wisely." The guitarist got up and walked back to the stage, singing "Big Iron" by Marty Robbins. Rango exited the Tops Casino, a few caps in his pocket. He kicked open his shack and got to work on his revolver. Replacing the bolt with a newer one, greasing the loader, and polishing the metal casing, the revolver looked new and beautiful. Rango locked his shack, for he figured he wouldn't be returning to it anytime soon.
Once inside his apartment, he grabbed his father's old cowboy hat, the only item he had of his father, and the only item he would never loose. He put on his hat, grabbed a elegeant cloth and made himself a bandanna, and walked out the door to the clothes shack in FreeSide.
At the clothes shop, he saw what he wanted. It was the http://images.wikia.com/reddeadredemption/images/2/21/John_Marston1.jpgof a pre-war famous criminal. It was priced at 100 caps. That would leave him 45 caps left. He bought it. Now fully dressed up as a cowboy, he decided he needed a repeater. "I have a repeater, but it's 200 bucks for it's condition" said the caravan lady right outside of the store. The repeater was old, but serious and cool looking. I can pay you in other ways then currency" said Rango, desperately. "Whoah there cowboy. Well, I have this old machine on the back of my Brahim I need repaired for reselling. You fix it, if you can, I'll give you this repea----Deal!" Rango got to work on the pre war bicycle. The metal was easy to fix up, and he repaired the wheels with some of the metal lef over. It wasn't the pleasent thing to ride, but it's looks would get away with it. "Well sir, here's that repeater. Got it from some merchant south of here in Nipton. You oughtta head there someday." "I'm heading to GoodSprings first, so maybe I'll happen to stop by ok?" With that, the caravan and Rango, now dressed up as a cowboy(which he felt like his dad), walked off towards GS on I-15. Deathclaws were said to be along this rode, but Rango did not know of this...

"Come on you piece of junk." Dillinger smacked the slot machine in front of him as it landed in the order of a Chery, a 7, and some weird green symbol that could of been either a car or a saucer from some alien movie in the pre-war days. Regardless, the machine did not hand over any chips. Dillinger's eyes narrowed as some music began to play loudly through Vick and Vann's. He slowly pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, setting it in his mouth and lighting it.

"Um sir," a man said timidly behind Dillnger as he stood from the Slot Machine, turning and looking to see a bald man in a poorly setup business suit, "No smoking here."

"Ehh?" Dillinger lifted his suitcase up, staring at the man and blowing smoke in his direction.

"The cigarette. If you can put it in a trashcan, or puff it out."

Dillinger tilted his head as he leaned forward, taking another puff. Then, his eyes widened. He blinked five times. "But... my mouth is the trashcan."

"Hu-" The man never finished his sentence as Dillinger tilted his head back and let the cigarette fall in his mouth. One second later, he gave off a shout of pain as he spit it on the floor and collapsed on his knees, coughing and gripping his tongue.

"HOT! ISTH HOT!"


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A hour later, Dillinger sat on a bench outside Vick and Vann's, a cigarette in his mouth despite his stunt. He looked to the sun, giving off a sigh. The casino was a act of intentionally losing all his money so he would have a reason to get some jobs... the problem was. The Tarkov's made bounty hunting tough in the area.

"This is why we plan every step of the way..."

OOC: Guess you've all gotten tired of posting here? Well, you know, I am too. So, if you guys still want to posts, I'll settle something with the co-GMs.

Noone got tired here. Well not me. We/I was waiting for YOU to post so the story could advance/major plot advancement could occur...

I had to wait for Names to attack Vegas, and I think she was getting bored with it. It makes me sad to waste such a great RP. But don't worry, I won't let this die.

Ready to post after you ))

OOC: Let's get this thing going again!

Herlee Madson

Herlee looked out the broken window after the bartender had asked him for a favor it was getting late, and he felt pity for him. He stood up, and tapped the man on the shoulder.

"See you tomorrow," Herlee reassured him, and opened the door of the bar, the bells of the door springing to life. He looked around the street, gang were travelling the paths, beating up hobos, chasing and scaring away children. Herlee hated to live there, so much crime, but he had to deal with it every day, and he had already gotten used to it. He crossed the street when everyone had passed, and he dodge a bike that was trying to run him over. When he got to his apartment, he took off his coat and threw it into the closet, and put his hat on the hanger. He jumped onto the bed, and fell asleep.

"So this is good springs?" said Rango as he stood on a high cliff overlooking the small settlement.
Rango made his way down. He had a few rips in his pants from the Deathclaws he dealt with. More like fled from, for those things were tough to kill with a revolver. His winchetser on the other hand...
Rango walked in the bar. He investigated the area and spoke to Trudy about the incident. She commented on his looks, which Rango ignored.
"I heard bad things going on in the Mojave, and I'm here to make it better. For my father's honor is one reason. There are probrably many more.
Rango cleaned up the bar, stood watch for a few more hours, and rented a small house and went to bed.