Post by Ivan Braginskiĭ on Aug 19, 2011 18:26:49 GMT -8
OOC
Player Name: Blair. But since a character goes by the same name, feel free to call me Ivan or Vanya to avoid confusion. Also, I’ve only recently picked up Fall-Out 3 and am a little new to its storyline and more minor details. I have, however, seen my share of post-apocalyptic...stuff. Just bare with me. .u. Also, Kidnap the Sandy Claws.
Rated M for slightly disturbing content. I apologize if I went a little overboard, it was difficult conjuring up a good story depicting why Ivan is so unstable.
Finally, I am aware that both Ukraine and Belarus have yet to be claimed and simply jotted down their part in Russia’s history as it came to me. When the time comes that they are reserved, I will be happy to work with their players and make changes as we see fit.
I hereby certify that I am over the age of 16: Yes. I am 17.
Instant Messengers: SleepUntilSpring (Skype)
IC
Nation: Russia
Name: Ivan Anatol’evich Braginskiĭ (Vanya, Traitor)
Vault of Origin: Vault #69 (Las Vegas)
Age: 20
DoB: December 30
Sex: Male
Height: 6’4”
Weight: 160 lbs
Appearance:
Ivan Anatol’evich Braginskii could scarcely recall a time when he hadn’t had a pleasant view of the tops of people’s craniums. Standing at a rather impressive six feet and four inches, the full-blooded Russian cuts an imposing figure, to say the least. Perhaps it's those striking violet optics, contrasting so vividly with his pale flesh, or perhaps the hollow, near-perpetual smile stretched across his lips that never quite reaches the corners of his eyes. Maybe it could be totally attributed to his stature, or maybe it is a combination of these features that makes him so unapproachable. Whatever the case might be, one of the Slav’s most distinguishing characteristics is the aura of dread that seems to hang about him wherever he goes and whatever he does. Ivan's true nature is hidden behind a falsified bliss, his troubles and turmoils engulfed in the chambers of a broken heart.
His face is seemingly ageless, childish and soft from his years spent underground. He has a prominent nose, which only adds to his youthful appearance, and smooth, short, ashen hair. The dull clothing he dawns in layers lies strangely on his large frame and is generally topped by a tan overcoat that succeeds in smothering even he, fitted for his height and not for his current build (which, needless to say, has seen better days). Lack of sustenance and harsh living conditions have taken their toll on this seemingly gentle giant and he, at the given moment, is constituted of little but skin, bone, and muscle.
Among Ivan's favorite items of apparel is an aged, pink scarf. This wind-tattered stretch of material was presented to him by his elder sister during childhood and hangs just blow his knees when wrapped about his neck-- a place from which it rarely, if ever, moves. Perhaps it is the sentimental value of the fabric, or perhaps the deep, jagged scar nearly encompassing his neck; regardless, Ivan will not be seen without it.
Caravan: N/A
Position in Caravan: N/A
Town: Las Vegas (Outskirts)
Job: N/A (Ivan has no regular job at the given time. That said, he is skilled at repairing a variety of items [guns, electrical appliances and apparatuses, radios, clocks] and vehicles, and he takes pride in assisting those who need it. Ah, good old Russian generosity.)
Pet: There used to be yak. Then there was famine. Now, no more yak.
Personality:
Over the years, through all the hardships and struggles, Ivan has become a shell of the great man he had always strove to be. Perhaps he was never destined for more than such. Time and time again the fates have dealt him grievances, and time and time again he has overcome them to stand where he is today, alive; but, not without paying the price in, ultimately, his sanity. With the world in its present state, when mankind was at its most fragile and danger lurked around every corner, when so many people and loved ones had been torn from his grasp that he could no longer find trust within another, it had only been a matter of time before he cracked. Ivan is afraid; he is afraid of the day that final slit will be cut in the paper-thin fabric of his psyche, and he will have to watch as it unravels between his fingers.
Ivan has his good days and he has his bad days, just like anyone else. On his good days, he is so very much like that innocent and carefree child he was never given the chance to be. He is generous and hospitable and gentle, happy to share in the company of others-- despite their general opposition to share in his own. From an early age, strong senses of family, culture, and honor have been cultivated within the Russian, and to know sacrifice for any one of these is considered by he to be nothing short of a privilege; his love for his motherland is seconded only by that for his parents and siblings. He is loyal and vengeful and will fight with every ounce of his character for those precious to him.
The separation between he and most others is the differentiability between his good and bad days and his shaky, unorthodox perception of the world. Ivan was nurtured in a place of fear (Las Vegas was truly the gutter of the United States), where only the strong survived and trust was weakness. It is due to this upbringing that his understanding of trust and love and human interaction is limited; he is simply unable to distinguish the right from the wrong. Ivan is paranoid, always questioning the motives of others. He allows no one in without an assured escape route. The same walls he built in a desperate act of self-preservation during childhood have trapped him in the lonely confines of his own mind. He is protective of the things he believes belong to him to the point of obsession. If any one of his possessions is threatened, the Russian is quick to act-- merciless, brutal, and unfeeling. He can be incredibly manipulative, and he never fails to strike fear into the hearts of those he encounters, be it intentional or not.
Ivan desires nothing more than to be reunited with his sisters. He wants to create a place where nothing will harm them, where the fear they have lived with every day since the beginning of his memories is rendered obsolete. He wants to carry out the remainder of his days in peace, to create a haven for himself and those closest to him, and at the end of the day, to know he will have something to cherish. Something that will never leave. Something loyal, in the crudest form of the word, to he, that he might care for, watch grow, flourish. Like a sunflower. No one, nothing-- radioactive or not-- will be getting in the way of this dream.
If the Russian is hurting, no one will know it. He fears no one but himself. Hidden behind that ever-present smile is a man dangerously teetering on the edge of sanity and psychosis. His strength makes him a formidable opponent, and his instability makes him a dangerous ally.
Strengths:
Coercive
Manipulative
Protective
Determined
Physically Strong
Generous
Skilled in Mechanics
Relentless
Weaknesses:
Childish
Paranoid
Alcohol
Sadistic
Mentally and Emotionally Unstable
Vengeful
Not Trusting
Equipment/Weapons:
If there is a battle that cannot be won using brute strength and a rusted, metal pipe, Ivan has yet to encounter it. The rod is heavy and worn, stained with a dark crimson one can only assume to be blood and eaten away in several places by an unknown, radioactive substance; but it swings like a dream, truly. His second weapon of choice is a well-seasoned shotgun normally found suspended over his shoulder; Lord help whatever poor soul he's aiming at. While by no means a technological masterpiece, he developed somewhat of an attachment to it after prying it from the hands of a half-eaten corpse and restoring it until it sparkled and fired like new. Also on his person at all times are several carefully concealed knives, just in case.
History:
Upon the onset of war, anybody who was anybody fled Russia for the assured safety of America’s vaults, and Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was no exception. When strong ties to the Tambov Gang (one of the Russian Federation’s premiere mafiyas) landed Anatolii both the resources and the money for a place of safety in Vault 69 of Las Vegas, California, he was quick to book two seats on a getaway flight bound for the West Coast-- one for himself, and one for his bride, Helina. It would be a dangerous move, but not an unwise one. Las Vegas was known to be riddled with Italian mobsters. Who would think of searching for him amongst the degenerates? He and his wife were apprehensive, but at the same time, they knew they would find a better chance of survival within the States They would start over again in a new country. They would raise a family to the best of their ability, and they would find a way back to the Motherland. The days leading up to their departure were full of sorrow and uncertainty; but, where there was uncertainty, there was hope.
The two young Russians made the journey to America with little event, dwelling deep within the catacombs of Vault 69-- far from the war and the mafia. They had three children together. Helina spent her days faced with the daunting task of raising them while her husband worked to secure a means of supporting his family. Jobs were scarce, and he was an intelligent, strong man, but men like that were not needed. Those positions had already been filled by those with such qualifications plus the funds to back them.
Ivan Anatol’evich Braginksii was born to Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii and Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya in the bustling city of Las Vegas, Vault #69, during the early morning hours of December the 30th. Preceded three years by his sister, Yekaterina Anatolʹevna "Katyusha" Braginskaya, and succeeded by another baby girl two years later, Natalʹya Anatolʹevna "Arlovskaya" Braginskaya, Ivan would be the couple’s only son. It was during Ivan’s childhood that he and the rest of the Braginksii household experienced their share of poverty-- of not knowing when or where their next meal would be coming, of huddling together for warmth before the radiating glow of a space heater. Life was simple. Life was hard. Back in Russia, a mere mention of one’s relation to a Braginksii would get one into the most exclusive of eateries and access to some of the finest clubs and treatment; but here, a mention of the name spelled nothing but death, or worse.
Due to the questionable conditions outside their small place of residence, Anatolii and his wife did what they could to ensure their childrens’ safety. They falsified their papers, going by the last name of Konstantinov for security purposes, and covered their tracks well. Anatolii put his days of the Tambov Gang behind him, realizing how dangerous his association with the Russian Mafiya would be whilst surrounded by Italians. He lived in a constant fear. The day that his past was uncovered would be the day that he and his family were better off amongst the coprses back in Russia. Rarely, if ever, did the three small Slavs journey from the confines of their apartment deep within Vault 69. They worked in the vault. They played in the vault. Anatolii and Helina were contented with the prospect of living out their lives in solitude, and were determined that their children did the same. Despite the longing for their children to see sunlight, to see life and to know the caress of a cool breeze, they accepted that such could not exist. There was nothing out there for them. It was a lonely life, a poor life, an uneasy life; but, they did the best with what they had. The small family grew very close to one another, because family was all that mattered.
Being the middle child, Ivan was showered with attention from his sisters and parents, babied and coddled-- most often from Natal’ya, which needless to say got a bit creepy after a while. It was normal for a little sister to look up to her big brother. It was not so normal to request sleeping with him night after night or bringing up the occasional topic of marriage. Regardless, his sisters were both his family and his closest friends, playmates from the very beginning. They relied on each other. They protected each other. They did everything in their power to ease the burdens of life off their parents, through chores and good behavior and whatever else their busy guardians might ask of them.
Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya was a very beautiful, very strong woman. She was a diligent mother and, if she did say so herself, quite the gardener. She crafted a small, wooden box in a corner of the living room (to brighten it up a bit) where she would spent her free time planting and watering and pruning, not to mention giving her small collection a good dose of artificial sunlight. On especially slow days, Helina would take it upon herself to cancel her children’s normal lessons with the hopes that they might assist her in her endeavors, maybe even construct their own tiny gardens. Yekaterina appreciated these days because they allotted her time to pursue her own hobbies, generally finding a nice, quiet place to sew. Natalʹya did little but trail her older brother as though they were attached at the hip, regardless of where they were or what they might be doing. It was Ivan who looked forward to these occasions the most. Much to Helina’s relief, at least one of her children had inherited her green thumb, and she nurtured this trait whenever she was given the opportunity. They would sit side by side for hours, mother and son, talking and sharing stories of the beautiful Russian sunset and the fields and the mountains and the vast, sweeping plains. They would discuss plants, and she would describe how beautiful they appeared in the sunlight, and how she couldn't wait for him to behod it with his own eyes. Her favorites were sunflowers, she would say, and Ivan would agree.
Ivan remembered his mother for her bright, red lipstick and perfect, ash-blond, shoulder-length curls. She was the kindest woman he would ever come to know. Her skin smelled of flowers. She always dawned a brightly colored sundress, and an even brighter smile; but, beneath all the layers of happiness she adorned for her children and husband, Helina was very sad, and she was very, very scared.
Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was the picture-perfect example of a Russian male. Tall, strong, and always garbed in the cleanliest of clothing, he took great pride in his home, body, and country. He harbored steadfast generosity and a vast knowledge of mechanics of which he, no doubt, passed onto his only son. Ivan had always admired him. On most days, Anatolii would shuffle off during the early morning hours to work, so Ivan had little chance of seeing his father before dusk-- unless, of course, he made a point in waking before the sun rose and caught him during breakfast. This was a rather frequent occurrence, in hindsight. The two would spend quite a chunk of time chatting, discussing, and otherwise having a pleasant morning meal. After a joint clean-up, Anatolii would slip on his large, dark trench coat, peck Ivan on the cheek and ruffle his hair with the words, “Protect the house while I’m away, won’t you, my Vanyushka”, to which the boy would always reply, “With all my strength, papa”. Anatolii would smile, and close and latch the door behind him.
Ivan remembered his father for his golden hair, always neatly combed and styled, his pants always pressed, and the faintest of grins ever-present on his lips. He smelled of vodka and a dab of musky cologne. Whatever troubles swirled in the confines of Anatolii’s mind would remain locked away. At home, he was a patient man, he was a gentle man, because this was the way he wanted to be seen by his family; but, at the sound of the work bell, Anatolii became the kind of man he never wanted his children to know. He became the man that got them food and water and a safe place to dwell. He was very paranoid, and did whatever he had to to get the things his family needed. No one outside of the Braginksii household could be deemed trustworthy.
Despite Anatolii’s loyal allegiance to the Tambov Gang and their cause, he worked tirelessly to keep his wife and offspring out of the way, and thus, out of danger. He abandoned the thrill of a mobster lifestyle and settled for remedial, low-paying jobs wherever he could find them. But this did not ensure his safety. It ensured no one’s safety. On what seemed from the beginning like an average day at work, Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was caught in the cross-fire of a gun fight between police and a fleeing convict-- this was the story delivered to his wife and children, anyway. He was pronounced dead on scene, passing away a poor and fearful man full of regret. Ivan was twelve years old.
The death of such an influential member of the Braginksii household took its toll on those remaining. Not only did it mean a cessation of income, but it also severely crippled a large chunk of the tightly-knit family’s foundation. A piece of their hearts went with him. Following Anatolli’s death, every waking hour was spent in fear and desperation. Fear of foreclosure on their apartment, fear of falling beneath the influence of the Mafia, fear of losing each other. Each day meant another desperate search for jobs, and another desperate attempt to hold together their badly rattled existence.
It wasn’t long after his father had passed that Ivan’s mother slowly began unraveling at the seams. She clung to her children, held them close to her chest, and protected them from danger and the outside world she so very much feared. Helina did what she could for money-- anything at all in that hell-hole of a Vault. She degraded herself. She begged. And Ivan watched, her children watched her slowly falling apart. He could recall it so clearly, even now, awaking from the couch during the early morning hours to find his mother just getting in. Her make-up was smeared, eyes red, hair and clothing disheveled. She would look at him and smile and take his hand. “What are you doing up so late, dorogoĭ?” The woman would ask, leading him to bed with the gentlest of touches. “I was waiting for you. Why are you crying, materyeĭ”, Ivan would inquire as she gingerly tucked him beneath the sheets. “Am not crying, little Vanyuska. Mommy is here. Sleep now.” Never once did he see his mother cry.
The weight of the Braginksii family’s financial struggle eventually became too great for Helina to bear on her own, and when Ivan was sixteen, he and his sisters joined the workforce. Times were difficult. He did all that he could to provide and protect his family. By day, the Russian found his calling in repairing various household items (ovens, lighting fixtures, radios, clocks) for whatever pay he was offered, whether it be in food or polker chips or currency; but, this alone was not enough. As day fell into darkness, Ivan would make his melencholy journey into the reccesses of a fast-paced and loathsome but high-paying night crowd, doing anything and everything for just a little extra cash. Some nights he would cater parties; he would drift among the guests with a plater of champagne in hand, pocketing tips. Other nights, he would find himself in environments of the less dignified sort. But that was alright. Everything was alright, because this was what had to be done to keep his family on its feet. It was for them. All for them. Only for them. He would admire the bedspread, soft against his skin in that small, dimly lit room. He would revel in the comfort and smile, because Ivan was not there. He was in a field of flowers of all different sorts-- anemones, sunflowers, zinnias, poppies, daises, geraniums, and forget-me-nots. His mind went to that place where no one could harm him. It was a beautiful place; it was here that his sisters smiled, and his mother thanked him for the good work that he’d done.
Once he returned home, he would indeed get that praise he so very much desired-- an empty smile from his mother, and his big sister, and his little sister as they laid their offerings amongst his own. They did not ask one another how the money was made. They did not tell one another how the money was made. Each night, they would simply come home and place whatever earnings they could scrounge up in a small safe deep within the recesses of a hall closet. And that was alright with Ivan. He did not want to listen to such stories when he could already read them on the faces of his loved ones.
At eighteen, sometimes, if he thought long enough, the Slav could recall a time in which he must have felt the way others felt-- when someone cut him, he would bleed; when someone held him, he would smile; when someone wounded him, he would cry. But after many years and many turmoils, life had broken him down, and his heart had become too heavy to laugh. He couldn't understand why some had so much and why his hard-working family had so little. He couldn’t comprehend how each and every day his sisters and his mother had the strength to walk back into the world and repeat the same hollow schedule all over again. Eventually he began hating himself for the tears of self-pity he shed, and he grew tired of the pain. So he killed it. He killed the agony residing within him so that he might smile all the time. No one would make him feel ever again. Ivan Braginskii was an expert at not feeling. He could take his heart, and he could turn it off, melting the rings of solid ice encompassing the organ for his family and his family alone.
It was near the end of Ivan’s nineteenth year that Helina grew very ill. She had been sick for quite some time, simply too proud and scared to admit such before it was too late. For the remainder of her days, she was bound to her bedroom, and her children kept at her side. They prayed to whatever God there was, they told her stories, and they brought her the flowers she had once so diligently cared for. She did not suffer long. At the turn of the year, Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya was taken by disease-- yet another life stolen from Ivan and his sisters, yet another blow to the young man’s psyche. Perhaps the final one.
It was surprisingly silent the night several men arrived at the Braginksii home to collect Helina’s body. Still it lay beneath the smooth covers of a bed, as though warmth might reach it yet-- still, Ivan had not left her side. The three men watched the young man with sorrowful eyes as they approached her resting place. They inquired if he was ready for them to take her, to which he replied, no. They could respect this, and they left him be for at least a quarter of an hour. Again, they returned, and asked if he was ready. Again, he replied no. With slight frustration, they respected his wishes and left him be. Now thirty minutes into a visit that should have taken less than five, they returned and requested he move. Ivan refused. Yekaterina pleaded, and the men grew angry. Move, they demanded. Nyet, Ivan replied. On his last frayed nerve, one of the men took him by the upper arm and tore him from his place at his mother’s bedside, ordering the others to take her away. To take his mother away. Forever. Just like they had his father, leaving he and his sisters there all alone. So Ivan killed them. Without feeling and without mercy, he took hold of glass of water on the nightstand, shattered it against the hard surface, and stole their lives in cold blood. All the while, Yekaterina screamed. All the while, Natalʹya held her back; she would stand with her brother no matter what.
Ivan would not let anyone leave him again. Like a child, he could have never imaged the irony of such a goal. When the deed was done, the apartment quiet and slick blood splattered against the walls and their clothes and the flooring, the three siblings cried. They cried together for what Yekaterina knew would be the last time, because Ivan had to leave. She did not know where he should go, but he could not remain there, not when the Mafia took such care with head counts. Ivan wouldn’t survive the week. He had to leave. Now. Not just the apartment. Not just their district, or the vault. He had to leave the city completely if he wanted the slimmest chance of survival.
His sisters handed him food, water, and a few means of defense. They washed him clean of blood and packed him whatever clothing they could fit in a small backpack. Natalʹya pleaded to go with her brother, to which both Ivan and Yekaterina shook their heads. It was safer inside-- not by much, but it was safer. They kissed him and hugged him. They said their goodbyes. They had no choice but to inform the police of their brothers deeds; in fact, he insisted the two did so. He could not allow them to take the fall.
The last he saw of his only remaining family was their tear-stained faces as the door to his home was shut in his face. Without options and quickly running out of time before law enforcement arrived, Ivan took his elder sister's advice and made a break for the vault door. That was the nice thing about Vegas-- people came in, and people came out (under the watchful eye of the mafia, of course). But Ivan would not be one of these people. Within the Vault, he was as good as dead. He would not be returning.
But once outside Vault #69, once outside of Las Vegas, would he fair much better?
Writing Sample:
Ivan sat there. For days, the Russian remained atop a small outcrop overlooking the vast field of ruined vehicles, desert wasteland, tattered pavement, and crumbling structures between he and Las Vegas. Still he could see the vibrant, kaleidoscopic lights of the distant city and, if he listened hard enough, hear the rumbling of motors and the beeping of slot machines and the clatter of voices. He ate what he was able; he took shelter where he could find it, dwelling amongst the rubble and fallen buildings. Perhaps he was hoping, praying to some higher being that his sisters might emerge from the wreckage, smiles on their faces to bring him back home. Perhaps he was waiting for the radiation to take him, or perhaps for the mangled and mutated animals he had only seen in nightmares to carry him away.
On the third day, after nothing of the sort had occurred, any exposed skin blistered and burned from the sun, eyes red, lips chapped and bleeding, Ivan got to his feet. Violet hues were empty as they cast upward. This was not the warm caress of the sun his mother had spoken of. This sun hurt. He did not see the rolling pastiers, or the bustling cities, or the fresh breeze, or the Land of Opportunity. He saw hell. This was hell. And Ivan smiled. He smiled just as he always had when tears blurred his vision and his wounds seemed too great to soothe. It seemed to lessen the pain of abandonment and the bite of his tender, sun-scorched flesh.
“Where are you going, Vanyuska?” A voice sounded.
“I do not know”, he replied aloud, wearily. “My face hurts, and I am so hungry and tired. I do not want to die. I do not want to leave Yekaterina and Natal’ya here all alone. I want to live. I want to see them some day.” Ivan tightened the soft, pink material of his scarf around his face. Exhausted violet hues peered into the distance, searching the landscape.
“Then you will not die. You will keep walking.”
A dry breeze rustled his hair, and the Slav allowed these words to fill him.
“Da. I will.”
With that, he wandered in a heat-induced delirium into the new and empty world, back turned to the welcoming glow of those city lights. He walked in step with the apparition of his mother. Ivan had no distination as he began his journey. Sweat beaded down his face and neck. His body ached. The Russian was confused, distraught. Equipped with only a couple of knives, enough food to keep him sustained for several more meals, and a promise to one day return for his sisters, Ivan Braginksii left behind the only home he had ever known and entered the great beyond.
Player Name: Blair. But since a character goes by the same name, feel free to call me Ivan or Vanya to avoid confusion. Also, I’ve only recently picked up Fall-Out 3 and am a little new to its storyline and more minor details. I have, however, seen my share of post-apocalyptic...stuff. Just bare with me. .u. Also, Kidnap the Sandy Claws.
Rated M for slightly disturbing content. I apologize if I went a little overboard, it was difficult conjuring up a good story depicting why Ivan is so unstable.
Finally, I am aware that both Ukraine and Belarus have yet to be claimed and simply jotted down their part in Russia’s history as it came to me. When the time comes that they are reserved, I will be happy to work with their players and make changes as we see fit.
I hereby certify that I am over the age of 16: Yes. I am 17.
Instant Messengers: SleepUntilSpring (Skype)
IC
Nation: Russia
Name: Ivan Anatol’evich Braginskiĭ (Vanya, Traitor)
Vault of Origin: Vault #69 (Las Vegas)
Age: 20
DoB: December 30
Sex: Male
Height: 6’4”
Weight: 160 lbs
Appearance:
Ivan Anatol’evich Braginskii could scarcely recall a time when he hadn’t had a pleasant view of the tops of people’s craniums. Standing at a rather impressive six feet and four inches, the full-blooded Russian cuts an imposing figure, to say the least. Perhaps it's those striking violet optics, contrasting so vividly with his pale flesh, or perhaps the hollow, near-perpetual smile stretched across his lips that never quite reaches the corners of his eyes. Maybe it could be totally attributed to his stature, or maybe it is a combination of these features that makes him so unapproachable. Whatever the case might be, one of the Slav’s most distinguishing characteristics is the aura of dread that seems to hang about him wherever he goes and whatever he does. Ivan's true nature is hidden behind a falsified bliss, his troubles and turmoils engulfed in the chambers of a broken heart.
His face is seemingly ageless, childish and soft from his years spent underground. He has a prominent nose, which only adds to his youthful appearance, and smooth, short, ashen hair. The dull clothing he dawns in layers lies strangely on his large frame and is generally topped by a tan overcoat that succeeds in smothering even he, fitted for his height and not for his current build (which, needless to say, has seen better days). Lack of sustenance and harsh living conditions have taken their toll on this seemingly gentle giant and he, at the given moment, is constituted of little but skin, bone, and muscle.
Among Ivan's favorite items of apparel is an aged, pink scarf. This wind-tattered stretch of material was presented to him by his elder sister during childhood and hangs just blow his knees when wrapped about his neck-- a place from which it rarely, if ever, moves. Perhaps it is the sentimental value of the fabric, or perhaps the deep, jagged scar nearly encompassing his neck; regardless, Ivan will not be seen without it.
Caravan: N/A
Position in Caravan: N/A
Town: Las Vegas (Outskirts)
Job: N/A (Ivan has no regular job at the given time. That said, he is skilled at repairing a variety of items [guns, electrical appliances and apparatuses, radios, clocks] and vehicles, and he takes pride in assisting those who need it. Ah, good old Russian generosity.)
Pet: There used to be yak. Then there was famine. Now, no more yak.
Personality:
Over the years, through all the hardships and struggles, Ivan has become a shell of the great man he had always strove to be. Perhaps he was never destined for more than such. Time and time again the fates have dealt him grievances, and time and time again he has overcome them to stand where he is today, alive; but, not without paying the price in, ultimately, his sanity. With the world in its present state, when mankind was at its most fragile and danger lurked around every corner, when so many people and loved ones had been torn from his grasp that he could no longer find trust within another, it had only been a matter of time before he cracked. Ivan is afraid; he is afraid of the day that final slit will be cut in the paper-thin fabric of his psyche, and he will have to watch as it unravels between his fingers.
Ivan has his good days and he has his bad days, just like anyone else. On his good days, he is so very much like that innocent and carefree child he was never given the chance to be. He is generous and hospitable and gentle, happy to share in the company of others-- despite their general opposition to share in his own. From an early age, strong senses of family, culture, and honor have been cultivated within the Russian, and to know sacrifice for any one of these is considered by he to be nothing short of a privilege; his love for his motherland is seconded only by that for his parents and siblings. He is loyal and vengeful and will fight with every ounce of his character for those precious to him.
The separation between he and most others is the differentiability between his good and bad days and his shaky, unorthodox perception of the world. Ivan was nurtured in a place of fear (Las Vegas was truly the gutter of the United States), where only the strong survived and trust was weakness. It is due to this upbringing that his understanding of trust and love and human interaction is limited; he is simply unable to distinguish the right from the wrong. Ivan is paranoid, always questioning the motives of others. He allows no one in without an assured escape route. The same walls he built in a desperate act of self-preservation during childhood have trapped him in the lonely confines of his own mind. He is protective of the things he believes belong to him to the point of obsession. If any one of his possessions is threatened, the Russian is quick to act-- merciless, brutal, and unfeeling. He can be incredibly manipulative, and he never fails to strike fear into the hearts of those he encounters, be it intentional or not.
Ivan desires nothing more than to be reunited with his sisters. He wants to create a place where nothing will harm them, where the fear they have lived with every day since the beginning of his memories is rendered obsolete. He wants to carry out the remainder of his days in peace, to create a haven for himself and those closest to him, and at the end of the day, to know he will have something to cherish. Something that will never leave. Something loyal, in the crudest form of the word, to he, that he might care for, watch grow, flourish. Like a sunflower. No one, nothing-- radioactive or not-- will be getting in the way of this dream.
If the Russian is hurting, no one will know it. He fears no one but himself. Hidden behind that ever-present smile is a man dangerously teetering on the edge of sanity and psychosis. His strength makes him a formidable opponent, and his instability makes him a dangerous ally.
Strengths:
Coercive
Manipulative
Protective
Determined
Physically Strong
Generous
Skilled in Mechanics
Relentless
Weaknesses:
Childish
Paranoid
Alcohol
Sadistic
Mentally and Emotionally Unstable
Vengeful
Not Trusting
Equipment/Weapons:
If there is a battle that cannot be won using brute strength and a rusted, metal pipe, Ivan has yet to encounter it. The rod is heavy and worn, stained with a dark crimson one can only assume to be blood and eaten away in several places by an unknown, radioactive substance; but it swings like a dream, truly. His second weapon of choice is a well-seasoned shotgun normally found suspended over his shoulder; Lord help whatever poor soul he's aiming at. While by no means a technological masterpiece, he developed somewhat of an attachment to it after prying it from the hands of a half-eaten corpse and restoring it until it sparkled and fired like new. Also on his person at all times are several carefully concealed knives, just in case.
History:
Upon the onset of war, anybody who was anybody fled Russia for the assured safety of America’s vaults, and Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was no exception. When strong ties to the Tambov Gang (one of the Russian Federation’s premiere mafiyas) landed Anatolii both the resources and the money for a place of safety in Vault 69 of Las Vegas, California, he was quick to book two seats on a getaway flight bound for the West Coast-- one for himself, and one for his bride, Helina. It would be a dangerous move, but not an unwise one. Las Vegas was known to be riddled with Italian mobsters. Who would think of searching for him amongst the degenerates? He and his wife were apprehensive, but at the same time, they knew they would find a better chance of survival within the States They would start over again in a new country. They would raise a family to the best of their ability, and they would find a way back to the Motherland. The days leading up to their departure were full of sorrow and uncertainty; but, where there was uncertainty, there was hope.
The two young Russians made the journey to America with little event, dwelling deep within the catacombs of Vault 69-- far from the war and the mafia. They had three children together. Helina spent her days faced with the daunting task of raising them while her husband worked to secure a means of supporting his family. Jobs were scarce, and he was an intelligent, strong man, but men like that were not needed. Those positions had already been filled by those with such qualifications plus the funds to back them.
Ivan Anatol’evich Braginksii was born to Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii and Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya in the bustling city of Las Vegas, Vault #69, during the early morning hours of December the 30th. Preceded three years by his sister, Yekaterina Anatolʹevna "Katyusha" Braginskaya, and succeeded by another baby girl two years later, Natalʹya Anatolʹevna "Arlovskaya" Braginskaya, Ivan would be the couple’s only son. It was during Ivan’s childhood that he and the rest of the Braginksii household experienced their share of poverty-- of not knowing when or where their next meal would be coming, of huddling together for warmth before the radiating glow of a space heater. Life was simple. Life was hard. Back in Russia, a mere mention of one’s relation to a Braginksii would get one into the most exclusive of eateries and access to some of the finest clubs and treatment; but here, a mention of the name spelled nothing but death, or worse.
Due to the questionable conditions outside their small place of residence, Anatolii and his wife did what they could to ensure their childrens’ safety. They falsified their papers, going by the last name of Konstantinov for security purposes, and covered their tracks well. Anatolii put his days of the Tambov Gang behind him, realizing how dangerous his association with the Russian Mafiya would be whilst surrounded by Italians. He lived in a constant fear. The day that his past was uncovered would be the day that he and his family were better off amongst the coprses back in Russia. Rarely, if ever, did the three small Slavs journey from the confines of their apartment deep within Vault 69. They worked in the vault. They played in the vault. Anatolii and Helina were contented with the prospect of living out their lives in solitude, and were determined that their children did the same. Despite the longing for their children to see sunlight, to see life and to know the caress of a cool breeze, they accepted that such could not exist. There was nothing out there for them. It was a lonely life, a poor life, an uneasy life; but, they did the best with what they had. The small family grew very close to one another, because family was all that mattered.
Being the middle child, Ivan was showered with attention from his sisters and parents, babied and coddled-- most often from Natal’ya, which needless to say got a bit creepy after a while. It was normal for a little sister to look up to her big brother. It was not so normal to request sleeping with him night after night or bringing up the occasional topic of marriage. Regardless, his sisters were both his family and his closest friends, playmates from the very beginning. They relied on each other. They protected each other. They did everything in their power to ease the burdens of life off their parents, through chores and good behavior and whatever else their busy guardians might ask of them.
Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya was a very beautiful, very strong woman. She was a diligent mother and, if she did say so herself, quite the gardener. She crafted a small, wooden box in a corner of the living room (to brighten it up a bit) where she would spent her free time planting and watering and pruning, not to mention giving her small collection a good dose of artificial sunlight. On especially slow days, Helina would take it upon herself to cancel her children’s normal lessons with the hopes that they might assist her in her endeavors, maybe even construct their own tiny gardens. Yekaterina appreciated these days because they allotted her time to pursue her own hobbies, generally finding a nice, quiet place to sew. Natalʹya did little but trail her older brother as though they were attached at the hip, regardless of where they were or what they might be doing. It was Ivan who looked forward to these occasions the most. Much to Helina’s relief, at least one of her children had inherited her green thumb, and she nurtured this trait whenever she was given the opportunity. They would sit side by side for hours, mother and son, talking and sharing stories of the beautiful Russian sunset and the fields and the mountains and the vast, sweeping plains. They would discuss plants, and she would describe how beautiful they appeared in the sunlight, and how she couldn't wait for him to behod it with his own eyes. Her favorites were sunflowers, she would say, and Ivan would agree.
Ivan remembered his mother for her bright, red lipstick and perfect, ash-blond, shoulder-length curls. She was the kindest woman he would ever come to know. Her skin smelled of flowers. She always dawned a brightly colored sundress, and an even brighter smile; but, beneath all the layers of happiness she adorned for her children and husband, Helina was very sad, and she was very, very scared.
Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was the picture-perfect example of a Russian male. Tall, strong, and always garbed in the cleanliest of clothing, he took great pride in his home, body, and country. He harbored steadfast generosity and a vast knowledge of mechanics of which he, no doubt, passed onto his only son. Ivan had always admired him. On most days, Anatolii would shuffle off during the early morning hours to work, so Ivan had little chance of seeing his father before dusk-- unless, of course, he made a point in waking before the sun rose and caught him during breakfast. This was a rather frequent occurrence, in hindsight. The two would spend quite a chunk of time chatting, discussing, and otherwise having a pleasant morning meal. After a joint clean-up, Anatolii would slip on his large, dark trench coat, peck Ivan on the cheek and ruffle his hair with the words, “Protect the house while I’m away, won’t you, my Vanyushka”, to which the boy would always reply, “With all my strength, papa”. Anatolii would smile, and close and latch the door behind him.
Ivan remembered his father for his golden hair, always neatly combed and styled, his pants always pressed, and the faintest of grins ever-present on his lips. He smelled of vodka and a dab of musky cologne. Whatever troubles swirled in the confines of Anatolii’s mind would remain locked away. At home, he was a patient man, he was a gentle man, because this was the way he wanted to be seen by his family; but, at the sound of the work bell, Anatolii became the kind of man he never wanted his children to know. He became the man that got them food and water and a safe place to dwell. He was very paranoid, and did whatever he had to to get the things his family needed. No one outside of the Braginksii household could be deemed trustworthy.
Despite Anatolii’s loyal allegiance to the Tambov Gang and their cause, he worked tirelessly to keep his wife and offspring out of the way, and thus, out of danger. He abandoned the thrill of a mobster lifestyle and settled for remedial, low-paying jobs wherever he could find them. But this did not ensure his safety. It ensured no one’s safety. On what seemed from the beginning like an average day at work, Anatolii Nikolaevich Braginksii was caught in the cross-fire of a gun fight between police and a fleeing convict-- this was the story delivered to his wife and children, anyway. He was pronounced dead on scene, passing away a poor and fearful man full of regret. Ivan was twelve years old.
The death of such an influential member of the Braginksii household took its toll on those remaining. Not only did it mean a cessation of income, but it also severely crippled a large chunk of the tightly-knit family’s foundation. A piece of their hearts went with him. Following Anatolli’s death, every waking hour was spent in fear and desperation. Fear of foreclosure on their apartment, fear of falling beneath the influence of the Mafia, fear of losing each other. Each day meant another desperate search for jobs, and another desperate attempt to hold together their badly rattled existence.
It wasn’t long after his father had passed that Ivan’s mother slowly began unraveling at the seams. She clung to her children, held them close to her chest, and protected them from danger and the outside world she so very much feared. Helina did what she could for money-- anything at all in that hell-hole of a Vault. She degraded herself. She begged. And Ivan watched, her children watched her slowly falling apart. He could recall it so clearly, even now, awaking from the couch during the early morning hours to find his mother just getting in. Her make-up was smeared, eyes red, hair and clothing disheveled. She would look at him and smile and take his hand. “What are you doing up so late, dorogoĭ?” The woman would ask, leading him to bed with the gentlest of touches. “I was waiting for you. Why are you crying, materyeĭ”, Ivan would inquire as she gingerly tucked him beneath the sheets. “Am not crying, little Vanyuska. Mommy is here. Sleep now.” Never once did he see his mother cry.
The weight of the Braginksii family’s financial struggle eventually became too great for Helina to bear on her own, and when Ivan was sixteen, he and his sisters joined the workforce. Times were difficult. He did all that he could to provide and protect his family. By day, the Russian found his calling in repairing various household items (ovens, lighting fixtures, radios, clocks) for whatever pay he was offered, whether it be in food or polker chips or currency; but, this alone was not enough. As day fell into darkness, Ivan would make his melencholy journey into the reccesses of a fast-paced and loathsome but high-paying night crowd, doing anything and everything for just a little extra cash. Some nights he would cater parties; he would drift among the guests with a plater of champagne in hand, pocketing tips. Other nights, he would find himself in environments of the less dignified sort. But that was alright. Everything was alright, because this was what had to be done to keep his family on its feet. It was for them. All for them. Only for them. He would admire the bedspread, soft against his skin in that small, dimly lit room. He would revel in the comfort and smile, because Ivan was not there. He was in a field of flowers of all different sorts-- anemones, sunflowers, zinnias, poppies, daises, geraniums, and forget-me-nots. His mind went to that place where no one could harm him. It was a beautiful place; it was here that his sisters smiled, and his mother thanked him for the good work that he’d done.
Once he returned home, he would indeed get that praise he so very much desired-- an empty smile from his mother, and his big sister, and his little sister as they laid their offerings amongst his own. They did not ask one another how the money was made. They did not tell one another how the money was made. Each night, they would simply come home and place whatever earnings they could scrounge up in a small safe deep within the recesses of a hall closet. And that was alright with Ivan. He did not want to listen to such stories when he could already read them on the faces of his loved ones.
At eighteen, sometimes, if he thought long enough, the Slav could recall a time in which he must have felt the way others felt-- when someone cut him, he would bleed; when someone held him, he would smile; when someone wounded him, he would cry. But after many years and many turmoils, life had broken him down, and his heart had become too heavy to laugh. He couldn't understand why some had so much and why his hard-working family had so little. He couldn’t comprehend how each and every day his sisters and his mother had the strength to walk back into the world and repeat the same hollow schedule all over again. Eventually he began hating himself for the tears of self-pity he shed, and he grew tired of the pain. So he killed it. He killed the agony residing within him so that he might smile all the time. No one would make him feel ever again. Ivan Braginskii was an expert at not feeling. He could take his heart, and he could turn it off, melting the rings of solid ice encompassing the organ for his family and his family alone.
It was near the end of Ivan’s nineteenth year that Helina grew very ill. She had been sick for quite some time, simply too proud and scared to admit such before it was too late. For the remainder of her days, she was bound to her bedroom, and her children kept at her side. They prayed to whatever God there was, they told her stories, and they brought her the flowers she had once so diligently cared for. She did not suffer long. At the turn of the year, Helina Maksimovna Braginskaya was taken by disease-- yet another life stolen from Ivan and his sisters, yet another blow to the young man’s psyche. Perhaps the final one.
It was surprisingly silent the night several men arrived at the Braginksii home to collect Helina’s body. Still it lay beneath the smooth covers of a bed, as though warmth might reach it yet-- still, Ivan had not left her side. The three men watched the young man with sorrowful eyes as they approached her resting place. They inquired if he was ready for them to take her, to which he replied, no. They could respect this, and they left him be for at least a quarter of an hour. Again, they returned, and asked if he was ready. Again, he replied no. With slight frustration, they respected his wishes and left him be. Now thirty minutes into a visit that should have taken less than five, they returned and requested he move. Ivan refused. Yekaterina pleaded, and the men grew angry. Move, they demanded. Nyet, Ivan replied. On his last frayed nerve, one of the men took him by the upper arm and tore him from his place at his mother’s bedside, ordering the others to take her away. To take his mother away. Forever. Just like they had his father, leaving he and his sisters there all alone. So Ivan killed them. Without feeling and without mercy, he took hold of glass of water on the nightstand, shattered it against the hard surface, and stole their lives in cold blood. All the while, Yekaterina screamed. All the while, Natalʹya held her back; she would stand with her brother no matter what.
Ivan would not let anyone leave him again. Like a child, he could have never imaged the irony of such a goal. When the deed was done, the apartment quiet and slick blood splattered against the walls and their clothes and the flooring, the three siblings cried. They cried together for what Yekaterina knew would be the last time, because Ivan had to leave. She did not know where he should go, but he could not remain there, not when the Mafia took such care with head counts. Ivan wouldn’t survive the week. He had to leave. Now. Not just the apartment. Not just their district, or the vault. He had to leave the city completely if he wanted the slimmest chance of survival.
His sisters handed him food, water, and a few means of defense. They washed him clean of blood and packed him whatever clothing they could fit in a small backpack. Natalʹya pleaded to go with her brother, to which both Ivan and Yekaterina shook their heads. It was safer inside-- not by much, but it was safer. They kissed him and hugged him. They said their goodbyes. They had no choice but to inform the police of their brothers deeds; in fact, he insisted the two did so. He could not allow them to take the fall.
The last he saw of his only remaining family was their tear-stained faces as the door to his home was shut in his face. Without options and quickly running out of time before law enforcement arrived, Ivan took his elder sister's advice and made a break for the vault door. That was the nice thing about Vegas-- people came in, and people came out (under the watchful eye of the mafia, of course). But Ivan would not be one of these people. Within the Vault, he was as good as dead. He would not be returning.
But once outside Vault #69, once outside of Las Vegas, would he fair much better?
Writing Sample:
Ivan sat there. For days, the Russian remained atop a small outcrop overlooking the vast field of ruined vehicles, desert wasteland, tattered pavement, and crumbling structures between he and Las Vegas. Still he could see the vibrant, kaleidoscopic lights of the distant city and, if he listened hard enough, hear the rumbling of motors and the beeping of slot machines and the clatter of voices. He ate what he was able; he took shelter where he could find it, dwelling amongst the rubble and fallen buildings. Perhaps he was hoping, praying to some higher being that his sisters might emerge from the wreckage, smiles on their faces to bring him back home. Perhaps he was waiting for the radiation to take him, or perhaps for the mangled and mutated animals he had only seen in nightmares to carry him away.
On the third day, after nothing of the sort had occurred, any exposed skin blistered and burned from the sun, eyes red, lips chapped and bleeding, Ivan got to his feet. Violet hues were empty as they cast upward. This was not the warm caress of the sun his mother had spoken of. This sun hurt. He did not see the rolling pastiers, or the bustling cities, or the fresh breeze, or the Land of Opportunity. He saw hell. This was hell. And Ivan smiled. He smiled just as he always had when tears blurred his vision and his wounds seemed too great to soothe. It seemed to lessen the pain of abandonment and the bite of his tender, sun-scorched flesh.
“Where are you going, Vanyuska?” A voice sounded.
“I do not know”, he replied aloud, wearily. “My face hurts, and I am so hungry and tired. I do not want to die. I do not want to leave Yekaterina and Natal’ya here all alone. I want to live. I want to see them some day.” Ivan tightened the soft, pink material of his scarf around his face. Exhausted violet hues peered into the distance, searching the landscape.
“Then you will not die. You will keep walking.”
A dry breeze rustled his hair, and the Slav allowed these words to fill him.
“Da. I will.”
With that, he wandered in a heat-induced delirium into the new and empty world, back turned to the welcoming glow of those city lights. He walked in step with the apparition of his mother. Ivan had no distination as he began his journey. Sweat beaded down his face and neck. His body ached. The Russian was confused, distraught. Equipped with only a couple of knives, enough food to keep him sustained for several more meals, and a promise to one day return for his sisters, Ivan Braginksii left behind the only home he had ever known and entered the great beyond.