| “Hello, gentlemen. I'm Miklos Lipton. A violent psychopath with big dreams of ruling Los Santos' underworld. Long story short: RUN.” |
Armenian Dream is the 18th mission in Grand Theft Auto: King of The Hill
It's the fourth mission given to Miklos Lipton by Perry Harris.
It's the final mission in Chapter II.
Plot
Afghanistan
The desert air is thick with dust, and the chaos of gunfire and shouting surrounds Miklos as he sprints through the barren landscape. His heart pounds in his chest, his mind racing. The faint crackle of comms in his ear is nearly drowned out by the cacophony of war. The voice of his best friend, Tony Meech, cuts through the noise.
Tony: Fuck it! Miklos, come in! I'm doubling back! We're not leaving this shit!
Miklos: What?! Meech, we've been ordered to pull out! Abort the fucking mission! That's an order!
Tony: To hell with orders, Miklos! We didn't crawl through this shithole for weeks just to walk away with nothing. We blow that cache tonight, or they'll use it to kill more of our guys tomorrow!
Bullets zing past Miklos' face as he dives for cover behind a crumbling wall, he peeks over in horror watching Tony run back towards the cache.
Miklos: Meech, listen to me! It's too hot! We've lost half the unit already! We'll get another chance, just not tonight. Fall back with me!
Tony: There won't be another chance, Lipton! You know that! You've got to trust me! Back me up now!
Tony's voice cracks with desperation, and Miklos hesitates, gripping his rifle tightly.
Miklos: Fuck! Meech... don't do this. It's suicide!
Tony: If we don't do this, it's on us. On me! I'm going! Cover me!
Miklos watches helplessly as Tony sprints into the darkness, his figure illuminated by the flashes of enemy gunfire. Miklos breathes hard, and shouts, climbing over the wall and sprinting after him.
BAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHMMMMMMM
An ear-splitting explosion rips through the night. The comms go dead. Miklos reels back in shock. He screams out Tony's name, but there's no response... just the ringing in his ears and the growing realization that his best friend is gone.''
The desert fades, replaced by Victor's voice echoing in the void, his words cutting deeper than any bullet.
Victor: Maybe if I were to kill the most important people in your life, everyone who has ever meant anything! Maybe then I'd listen to you, because maybe then you'd have some idea how I feel!
Miklos: Everyone you're talking about has already been killed. You're not the only one who knows what it's like to lose somebody.
Victor's voice grows louder, the words looping and overlapping as the nightmare spirals into chaos. Miklos struggles to breathe, drowning in his guilt and grief. Just as the pressure becomes unbearable—
Yellow Jack Inn
diddledurdurdurdurrdurrDEETDEETDEETDURR
Miklos jolts awake, drenched in sweat, the sound of Perry Harris' car horn blaring from outside his trailer. The harsh sunlight filters through the dusty window, and the heat of the day is already oppressive. He sits up, his heart still racing from the vivid nightmare. Outside, Perry's sleek black Gauntlet sits idling, its engine rumbling.
Perry: Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty! We've got shit to do!
Miklos rubs his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. He glances out the window and mutters under his breath.
Miklos: Crissakes, Perry...
He stumbles out of the trailer, still groggy, his mind replaying Victor's words and the haunting memory of Tony Meech. Perry leans casually against his Gauntlet, smirking as always.
Perry: You look like you've seen a ghost!
Miklos: Ughhh... More like I just woke up in hell...
Just as Miklos begins to approach Perry, Victor stands from a table and waves him over, looking like he's gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and his body is wrapped in bandages, but his unmistakable smirk shines through.
Victor: King! Buenas tardes!
Behind Vic, the rest of his close crew, Gal, Little Homie, and Clifton, sit around a rickety table outside the Inn, playing cards with a beat-up boombox blasting banda music. Gal rolls his shoulder trying not to wince, muttering something under his breath. Little Homie tries to look tough too, but winces every time he plays a card, almost as beat up as Vix. Clifton, with a heavily taped leg nursing a bullet wound and a bandaged face hiding a new scar, leans on the table, barely holding it together. They all wave at Miklos as he approaches.
Perry saunters up to the boys, looking out of place in his clean black tailored suit.
Perry: But, gentlemen! Why the long faces?
Miklos: Why do you think?! Perry!? You've not been helping at all!
Victor: The Armenians are on to our arses, too, as you know!
Gal: Yeah, I guess he didn't tell you it's all Vix's fault, huh?
Victor: Gal... It was a mistake! Heat of the moment! Accidents happen!
Little Homie: And now we face the consequences.
Perry: Oh, this isn't such a grave situation as you made it sound, Miklos. Seriously, all of you, grow up you kids. Honestly, I'm not even needed here. Grow some balls and fucking kill the Armenians, is that so hard?
Perry saunters away toward his Gauntlet, brushing off the tension as he pulls a cigarette and lights it.
Miklos: Are you EVER going to help us?
Perry: Miklos, my friend. Achievements don't feel so good if you watch the walkthrough.
Perry hops into his car, revving the engine, and peels away leaving the crew in a cloud of dust.
Victor: Now what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Miklos: It means we're gonna have to do this without Perry, as usual.
Victor: Crissakes... That lousy sack o' shit... Well, we've made it this far.
Miklos looks over at his crumpled Baller, its once-pristine exterior now riddled with bullet holes and scratches, hanging on by a thread. The bumper droops like it just had a stroke, with its left headlight missing and the other cracks. He groans, pulling out his phone and calling Mors Mutual Insurance. After what seems like an hour, skipping robots, a chipper lady finally answers.
Mors Rep: Thank you for calling Mors Mutual Insurance. How can we assist you today?
Miklos: Yeah, uh... Miklos Lipton. M-i-k-l-o-s. Yeah, my Baller? I hit a deer. A big one.
Mors Rep: Oh dear! Well, Mr. Lipton, you've always had excellent credit with us. And as a former service member, you qualify for a military discount. Your payout will be processed immediately!
Miklos: Thanks. I'm looking for something new. Something gritty that can take a hit... For hunting...
Mors Rep: Might I suggest the brand new 2013 Vapid Caracara 4x4? Rugged, durable, fast both on the streets and off-road! Reinforced steel frames, large wheels, and custom-fitted with a bull bar for those pesky deer! And one is available for immediate pickup at our Pillbox Hill Garage!
Miklos: Perfect. Get it ready.
Miklos pockets his phone and turns to the Aztecas.
Miklos: Alright, boys. Let's head to Los Santos.
Victor: You're serious? That hunk of metal ain't gonna make it. The Baller's fucked... My trucks fucked... Little Homie only rides push-bikes... Clifton is an illegal, he doesn't even have a license let alone a car...
Gal: Hey, this baby's got another fifty miles in her. At least. Maybe.
They all turn and groan, except Miklos, who looks confused as Gal shakes his keys.
Clifton: ¡Mierda! Este coche es una broma...
Victor: Translation, King... It's a piece of shit.
Gal: Ay, shut up, Homie. She's got soul.
The Aztecas pile into Gal's ancient Emperor with Miklos squeezing into the passenger seat. The interior smells like sweat, smokes, and stale beer, the dashboard is covered in cracks, and the floor mats are barely holding together.
Victor: So, Miklos, what's the plan?
Miklos: Step one: Pick up my new ride. Step two: Figure out how to kill the Armenians before they burn this whole operation to the ground.
Gal: And step three?
Miklos: Step three: Pray we don't all end up dead in a ditch.
The Emperor lurches forward as Gal floors it, belching black smoke from the exhaust. They bounce down the dusty road toward Los Santos, swapping stories and shooting the shit to distract themselves from the weight of their situation.
Los Santos
Victor: You know, Miklos, for a guy who's supposedly king of the hill, you sure have a lot of enemies and so little friends.
Miklos: Comes with the territory. If you reach for the top, suddenly everyone wants what you have.
Gal: Sounds like my first marriage.
Everyone bursts into laughter, even the stoic Little Homie cracks a smile.
Clifton: Esa fue buena, viejo.
The ancient Emperor rattles into Los Santos, miraculously making it to the Mors Mutual garage. As Miklos steps out, he stretches, cracking his neck as he glances at the pristine black Vapid Caracara waiting for him.
Gal: Mierda... that's one hell of a ride, Jefe. Wanna swap?
Miklos: You wrecked my Baller, Gal... But yeah, she's a beauty. And she's about to get a hell of a baptism.
Victor: You sure about this, King? This ain't no bar brawl. It's a death wish.
Miklos: I see no other option than taking them all out before they get us first. It's time to end this.
Victor's face tightens with concern, his bruised eye twitching as he exchanges a glance with Little Homie and Clifton.
Victor: King, you really gonna take on an army of Armenian assholes alone?
Miklos: Yes. And honestly, it's probably for the best. The fewer people involved, the fewer mistakes.
Victor: No way! We're coming with you, King. If only to make sure you don't get yourself killed. You're not doing this alone, ese, that's why you have us.
Little Homie adjusts his bandana, nodding with determination, while Clifton loads a fresh magazine into his SMG, saying something in Spanish Miklos doesn't understand, as usual.
Gal: Oh, and I've been saving this beauty for a special occasion. Here, Jefe. Take this.
Gal walks to the trunk of his rusted Emperor and pulls out an MG, handing it to Miklos with a grin.
Gal: My old friend Cesar gave this to me... "El Chupa" You'll put it to good use. I'll take my car back and round up more of the Aztecas, but you boys better raise hell before I get there.
Miklos: Don't be too long, or you'll miss all the action, Gal.
The Aztecas cheer, piling into the Caracara. The engine roars to life, and they head out, ready to face whatever comes next.
Boneyard
Miklos drives into the heart of Armenian territory at the Boneyard in his Caracara, the engine growling as he steps out casually hefting the MG. The area is crawling with guards, their eyes narrowing as they move around nervously. The tension is palpable, the air electric, a powder keg a spark away from igniting.
'Behind Miklos, Victor climbs out with a Carbine Rifle slung over his shoulder and his gold plated pistol in his pants, his bruised face held up, defiant. Little Homie hops out next, his bandana pulled tight around his nose, gripping a Stubby Shotgun and swaying behind them. Clifton, loud and proud, steps out last, carrying a SMG in each hand. The three Aztecas flank Miklos, each with their game face on.
Miklos: Hello, gentlemen. I'm Miklos Lipton. A violent psychopath with big dreams of ruling Los Santos' underworld. Long story short: RUN.
Miklos fires shots into the air, and people scatter like ants, but some of the mobsters stand their ground, weapons drawn. From the shadows of the warehouse, Alan Nazarian emerges, his movements calculated, a cigarette dangling from his lips illuminating his face.
Nazarian: So, you're the new upstart in the underworld, huh...
He takes a long, slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke.
Nazarian: Do you have your mommy's permission to be out so late?
His men chuckle, their laughter grating on Miklos, who remains stoic.
Miklos: I see the cigarette is part of your "cool guy" act.
With a sneer, Nazarian flicks the cig to the ground in front of Miklos.
Nazarian: Barab glir. You're nothing, boy. And you'll never be anything more.
Miklos: Oh, I'll be something soon enough, grandpa. This is getting stale. Step up and fight. Let's skip to the part where you regret being born.
Nazarian: Eliminate him.
Miklos: I'll bet you a hundred bucks you didn't come up with that line yourself!
Alan ducks back into the warehouse, pulling a revolver and barking orders as his mobsters open fire.
Victor: This is for Manuel! Viva Los Aztecas!
They dive for cover, Miklos unleashing a torrent of bullets from the MG. Vix moves with wild precision, shouting in Spanish as he lays down suppressive fire. Clifton eliminates targets with rapid shots, his sharp eye never missing. Little Homie blasts his shotgun ripping down two mobsters at once.
Victor: These cockroaches don't know when to quit!
Miklos: That's fine. More for us.
The battle intensifies as Armenians arrive in a convoy, their headlights piercing the dusty air. Miklos shifts his aim, obliterating one truck with a well-placed burst. The flaming wreckage forces the others to halt, creating chaos among the mobsters.
Little Homie: That's how it's done, Jefe!
Miklos: Don't celebrate yet.
The firefight rages on, bullets ricocheting off junkyard debris. An Armenian truck screeches into the Boneyard, spilling out even reinforcements. Miklos grits his teeth, turning his MG toward the truck and unloading, the sheer firepower turning it into Swiss cheese. Bullets riddle the gas tank, sending it into the air as flames lick at the edges of the wreckage.
Nazarian: Choratsats ookhti poots! Kill them already!
As Miklos and Victor split off, leaving Little Homie and Clifton to cover the rear, the duo push deeper into the Boneyard, the sound of engines revving echoes across the lot. Another wave of Armenians arrives, spilling out of SUVs and trucks, armed to the teeth. They immediately open fire, their sheer numbers overwhelming Miklos and Vix who drop to cover.
Victor: Shit! There's too many of them!
Little Homie: ¡Estamos jodidos! ¡Son demasiados!
Clifton: ¡Nos están rodeando! ¡No hay salida!
Miklos dives behind a stack of metal barrels, reloading his MG with gritted teeth as bullets ricochet off the rusted metal around him. Clifton and Little Homie are pinned down behind an old shipping container, desperately returning fire.
Miklos: We're not dying here! Hold the line, damn it!
Victor: I'm running out of bullets, King! What's the plan?
Miklos: The plan? Step 3! Survive, asshole! Just survive!
The Armenians press closer, their confidence growing as they outnumber Miklos' crew. Clifton fires wildly with both barrels, his leg wound slowing him down. Little Homie gets clipped in the arm, cursing as he falls back. Little Homie shouts in defiance, refusing to back down, the click bang click bang of his shotty sending waves of bullets everywhere.
Little Homie: ¡No me rendiré! Viva Los Azte-
In a second, Little Homie pauses... stubbles... and falls... Clifton sprints to his side.
Every things turned to shit, as usual. Its all fucked. Its all fucked! Miklos takes a deep breath, preparing to make one last stand when-
The roar of lowriders cuts through the chaos. Three sleek Azteca lowriders, painted in vibrant baby blue, come screeching into the Boneyard. It looks like firecrackers are going off in the hail of gunfire from the gangsters. In the lead car, Gal leans out of the passenger side window, an AK blasting in hand.
Gal: ¡CABRONES!
The lowriders skid to a stop, Azteca soldiers spilling out with automatic weapons. They unleash a hail of bullets on the Armenians, catching them off guard. The tables turn in an instant.
Victor: Oh, hell yes! Gal, you beautiful bastard!
Miklos: Took you long enough, Gal! What happened, you stopped for tacos?
Gal: No, I stopped for AMMO. You're welcome, cabrón.
Gal and his Azteca reinforcements charge into the fray, guns blazing. The Armenians scatter, their confidence shattered. Miklos, Victor, and the others regroup, pushing forward with renewed energy.
Miklos: Alright, boys! Let's finish this!
Warehouse
With the Aztecas at their side, Miklos and his team storm the warehouse, determined to take down Alan Nazarian once and for all. Bullets ricochet off metal shelves, crates explode into splinters, and the chaos intensifies as they make their way through the Armenian stronghold.
In the center of the warehouse, Alan Nazarian stands with a Heavy Revolver in hand, shouting orders to his men. He turns as Miklos enters, the young upstart flanked by Victor.
Nazarian: You screwed with the wrong people, lad! I'm going to kill ya!
Miklos: Still corny, old man. Got any original lines?
The final boss fight begins. Miklos takes cover, expertly returning fire as Alan uses every trick in the book to try and take him down. Smoke fills the air as explosions rock the warehouse. After an intense battle, Miklos closes the distance, knocking Alan's weapon from his hands and pinning him to the ground.
Nazarian: Ugh... I yield!
Miklos leans over him, breathing heavily.
Nazarian: Do it... You've won... End me... But my gang will avenge me!
Miklos pauses, then pulls Alan up by his collar.
Miklos: Get up.
Alan stumbles to his feet, clutching his ribs and staring at Miklos with wide eyes.
Nazarian: W-What?!
Miklos: You can keep the gang.
Alan's face contorts in confusion.
Nazarian: You... WHAT?
Miklos: I want you and your operation to be part of my organization. You can still run your racket, do whatever the hell you want... but from now on, you answer to me. I'm the king of the hill now.
Victor: King!? What the hell? We didn't agree to this! They killed my little brother! MY BROTHER!
Miklos shoots Victor a cold glare.
Miklos: Quiet.
Nazarian: B-but... you killed Eduard! You've been taking out my men! You've been fucking with my operations!
Miklos: Alan, if I'd just walked in here and said, "I'm your boss now," would you have obeyed?
Alan hesitates, swallowing hard.
Nazarian: ...No.
Miklos: Exactly. See? This way, you're alive, your operation continues, and I get what I want. We're all friends now.
Alan coughs, shaking his head.
Nazarian: Pretty weird way to show your friendship...
Victor: You were the chosen one, King! It was said you'd destroy the Armenians, not join them!
Victor tosses his Carbine to the ground with a loud clatter, his face a mixture of betrayal and disgust. He storms out of the warehouse without another word. Miklos doesn't flinch, keeping his gaze locked on Alan.
Miklos: You get to live. But don't forget. I rule now.
Alan nods, his face pale but resigned.
Nazarian: That's... Good. Yes, it is... Yes...
Boneyard
The scene outside the Boneyard is surreal. A mixture of victory and dread. The rain starts to fall softly, cooling the smoldering wreckage and washing away the blood as Alan and Miklos step out of the warehouse. The Albanians have either ran or surrendered, knees in the mud at their feet, hands on their heads. Nazarian tells them to stand up. Alan lights a cigarette, his hand trembling slightly, while the Aztecas start hollering and celebrating, their cries of victory echoing in the misty air.
But the cheers are suddenly drowned out by a panicked voice shouting in Spanish.
Clifton: ¡Ayuda me! ¡Ayuda me!
Miklos's heart sinks as he sprints toward the screams. He rounds a corner to find Clifton on his knees in the mud, desperately trying to stop the bleeding from Little Homie's chest. Blood pools around them, mixing with the rain. Little Homie's eyes are wide with fear, his breaths shallow and ragged.
Miklos: Little Homie! Fuck!
Clifton is shouting frantically in Spanish, his words incomprehensible through his panic. Victor storms over, his anger momentarily forgotten, and shoves Miklos aside.
Victor: Move! Let me-dammit, stay still, Jose! You're gonna be okay! You're gonna be okay!
Little Homie coughs, blood splattering his lips. He looks up at Victor, his voice weak.
Little Homie: Lo... siento... hermano... Viva... Los Aztecas...
And with those words, Little Homie goes limp, his eyes losing life. The rain intensifies, masking the tears on Victor's face as he cradles his fallen brother. Gal runs over, stopping in his tracks when he sees what's happened. He removes his bandana, holding it to his chest.
Clifton: La hostia... Jose!
Gal: Little Homie... mierda.
Clifton collapses to his knees, shaking as he mutters prayers in Spanish, hands covered in blood. Victor closes Little Homie's eyes. The Aztecas' celebration dies out as the gang members realize what's happened. Nazarian steps forward, his cigarette burning low in the rain. He looks down at Little Homie's lifeless body, his face grim.
Nazarian: This is the underworld. The young die. The rest of us just keep living.
Miklos looks at Victor, who glares at him with unfiltered rage.
Miklos: Victor, I—
Victor: Don't. Don't you dare. You spared that piece of shit Nazarian, and now Jose is dead? This is on YOU, Miklos! I trusted you! Just fuck off!
Victor buries his head, leaving Miklos standing in the rain, his hands trembling as he looks down at Little Homie's lifeless body. Gal puts a hand on Miklos's shoulder.
Gal: You tried, Jefe... But sometimes, shit happens.
Miklos nods silently, his jaw clenched as he walks away. He heads to his Caracara 4x4, tossing the MG into the backseat without a word. Rain pours over him as he climbs into the driver's seat, soaked and disheartened.
He starts the engine and sits there for a moment, staring at the dashboard. His reflection in the rear-view mirror looks hollow, like a man haunted by his decisions.
Miklos: This wasn't how it was supposed to go...
With a heavy heart, Miklos drives away from the Boneyard, leaving the Aztecas to mourn their fallen brother in the rain. The road ahead seems darker than ever.
The next mission, Know Your Enemy, is available.
Rewards
- New Weapon: MG
Objectives
- Pick up the Caracara 4x4
- Go to the Boneyard
- Kill all the Armenians
- Defeat Alan Nazarian
Gold medal ObjectiveM
- Time - Finish in 7:00
- Accuracy - Finish with accuracy of at least 70%
- Headshots - Kill 10 enemies via headshot
- Unmarked - Complete with minimum damage on health and armor
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