East's Soviet Re-Application

Discussion in 'Accepted/Denied Applications' started by '77 East, Jun 13, 2020.

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  1. '77 East

    '77 East Rictal-Approved
    WW3 RP Operator

    Jul 17, 2017
    - OOC Section -





    How is your activity? / How would you rate your interest in Stasiland?:

    Seven out of ten.

    Any previous infractions at the community? If so, can you explain?:

    Non-nullified infractions:
    • 24 hour ban for posting a copypasta in OOC [HL2RP]
    • 3 day ban for 'harassment' [TS3]. Charge was bogus and the guy I supposedly 'harassed' even said so.
    Everything else I have successfully appealed after the charge.

    Previous WW3RP / RP experience:

    Despite being on Neb since 2017 most of my RP experience comes from prior communities that dealt with the HL2RP schema, all the way up from 2010 although most were short-lived knockoffs. There's been many, although I wasn't on LP despite being recommended a dozen times (instead I was on SCG, but this is no place to rant about shiftily-run military servers).

    Post-Launch, most of my experience on the server has been on opfor factions, although I have observed my own share of Soviet encounters.

    How familiar are you with the Soviet Union (ideology, history etc.)?:

    Studied the October Revolution and the earlier foundation of the Bolshevik regime, although most of my knowledge on '37 - '91 (military-wise, anyway) comes from documentaries and scrounged books.

    Are you aware of the new concept? What are some of the differences between this iteration of WW3RP and the old one?:

    Stasiland has distanced itself from the primarily S2K-focused iteration of WW3RP, NJSOC have buried themselves within the insurgency/civilians and the Soviets (without the heavier backing that they were used to) keep themselves busy with maintaining their peacekeeping mandate instead of engaging in open conflict. NATO act as a foil to the authorities and run their own limited counter-operations, with an aim towards sabotage over outright skirmishes.

    What do you think this faction will be doing on the server?:

    The Soviets (circa the on-server garrison) maintain a strict peacekeeping force in the local area purely for strategic, civil enforcement and counterinsurgency aims. Given the lack of supplies and reliance on pacifying the local population, manhunts and other cross-conflict duties will likely be shared with the Stasi, as will certain operations. NVA attachments may help them in their duties.

    While the Stasi act as undercover police or issuing 'boots-on-the-ground' raids, the Soviet garrison will prioritize accomplishing it's peacekeeping and other issued objectives, in addition to defending territory from the foreign NATO detachment aiming to undermine both their sector and intra-environment objectives.

    - IC Section -

    D R A F T E D
    [fig 1. A photograph of the remains of Teutoburg forest, est. 1987.]

    1900 HOURS - 28/03/87.

    "Сэр, вы все еще можете говорить?"
    [Sir, can you still speak?]

    "Майор, скажи что-нибудь!"
    [Major, say something!]

    Major Degtyarev had been hit in the throat, hard.

    Five point five six to the windpipe will splatter anyone's life, and this was no exception beyond the literal sense. The Major gurgled something too incoherent for Sergeant Sergeyev to hear, slumped over by the charred remains of an oak tree. Maksim Sergeyev spent the next three seconds with his hands seized around Degtyarev's throat, arcs of tracer leaping from tree to tree, only to remember that stemming the bleeding was beyond his measure. He counted to three and poked his head out from the crisp black bark.

    A gunman in casual threads ran beyond a burnt-out bushline. Maksim shouted and grabbed with his other hand the Makharov pistol clung to his belt. More tracer. He briefly caught the man in his sights but he was dodging like a skitzy rabbit and vanished again. A driver of a nearby transport truck fired a shot out the window, only to lower his handgun to switch on the headlights. The gunman opened the passenger door, leaned across and shot the driver through the head. He was in the midst of trying to climb back out when Maksim unloaded his Makharov into the window. Most of the rounds missed, but the body crumpled out of the cab. The tracer turned elsewhere, so the sergeant re-directed his attention to the Major.

    Degtyarev had bled out ten seconds beforehand.

    Maksim cursed. Nevertheless there was much shouting and sporadic chaos; enemy fire came ripping through the canvas hoods of the convoy, flinging up streaks of dirt to make the scene lively and noisy. A nearby machine gun crew of insurgents had a stoppage; they were cursing softly and hitting the weapon. Maksim discarded his handgun, grabbed the Major's AKS and hid by the wheel of a dilapidated truck. During the next rattle of fire, he shot both the crew in the back. For a moment, nobody noticed. Then he heard shouts, orders, radio chatter. Two men scuttled across and dragged the bodies from the gun. Maksim briefly considered shooting them too. No, not wise. There were dozens around and he had only two spare magazines. They moved on.

    The rest of his battalion were bogged down trying to reach the convoy. Sergeant Sergeyev gripped the rifle and ran for better cover, flinging himself over a dirt embankment. A dozen shots blared nearby but he couldn't tell if they were directed at him or someone else; such was the desire to find shelter he had almost lost his rifle in the manuever, feet skidding harshly into the dugout. More distant tracer brightened the evening. Maksim was on his stomach when the outline of a mortar crew came into view, the distinct thud of shells evident. He raised his rifle, they were reloading.

    As the mortar operator dropped a shell in, Maksim shot him. Another pointed a flashlight at the Sergeant, nearly blinding him with it's intensity before he sprayed the AKS at the vague area the flash was blaring from. A bullet took the man's kneecap, and he clattered to the floor. Maksim rammed in another clip and sprayed again, this time hitting the loader in the throat and legs. He wasted the third magazine, but then again he always made sure, that's what a good soldier did. It was better than being lit up like a mannequin in the night.

    Sergeant Sergeyev crept over to the abandoned radio attached to it's dead owner, smashed the valves in with his rifle's buttstock, and called it a night. With the engagement having died down, it was a simple task to walk a wide half-circle from the dugout back to what was left of his own battalion.

    * * *

    D E T A I N E D
    [fig 2. A guard standing outside the stencil-white stone walls of Chernokozovo, est. 1990.]

    Gross misconduct.
    That was their excuse.

    Maksim tilted his body down underneath the weight of fatigue. Pain throbbed against his bruised and under-clothed chest, that sadist Rykov had seized his fun, and the latest scars were their own vestigial proof. They were barely visible underneath the tinted beige glow of a nearby light, a sign of civilization buried next to the carved white stone and burly steel-plate celldoors.

    To say he was irritated would be a gross understatement. He'd fucked up, sure - after his earlier heroics, the battalion commander had seen fit to kick him upstairs and saddle the former Sergeant behind a desk. Not that the situation was deplorable, if anything it was kind to have a break from chasing mountain-turfed gunman up the Rhine, but the ignoble thing was that the position was rigged to fail. Given oversight of a 'Ration Dispensary Office', food shortages were common and everyone in the bureaucracy pointed their fingers squarely at him whenever something went wrong. Which it did, frequently. Not that he had any control over the shortages, ambushed convoys, deplorable foodstuffs or the supply lines.

    In the end, that one incident in '89 sounded the death knell for his posting. A gristly riot had broken out over accusations that a recent shipment of kolbasa had arrived tainted by disease. Those charged with handing out the shipments (squads of soldiers classified as misfits, no doubt) refused to respond to queries about it, and his own office had no authorization to re-clarify spreading rumors. Another check in the system, no one too close to the ground could have responsibility beyond doing what they were told to do. It was typical. Not helping the matter was the real possibility that the misfits had skimmed plenty off the top, exasperating the shortage. When crowds threatened to storm the dispensary stations, they were fired open with brutal efficiency.

    Despite having nothing to do with it beyond trying desperately to stop the carnage, Maksim was lampooned as the linchpin, the cause. The party would never admit to anything officially on the topic, but behind closed doors he was the sole progenitor. Thus, here he lied in an ordained prison of the state.

    Every strain of work outclassed the next. He had been here for close to a year, and it had already shattered his body. Ironically, food remained scarce even here - beyond the lucky ones catching an occasional bird or rat. Forks were more often used to stab people than shovel foodstuffs into one's mouth. Maybe Maksim would get lucky one day and steal a guard's ration. It had been done before, but the beatings that normally followed discouraged many. When their own supplies were threatened, the guards could channel sadism into an art. How poetic.

    Potential of escape lingered in the air, like a simmering, drifting hope. Many aspired, yet the many also failed. Prisoners - himself included, were locked in the abyss of an underground system. Even assuming they freed themselves from their cell or broke out of the canteen in a harsh display of violence, they would end up gunned down just like rioters outside these walls. Such was protocol.

    Maksim kicked at the wall opposite his shanty bed. The stinging jolt that followed reminded him how reinforced it was. Deep down, if he could have kicked it in, he'd potentially be able to take a few out before being mowed down in a hail of gunfire. The thought brought some slim relief, but also the clasping hand of mortality. Nothing in life is ever free, after all.

    His mind glazed over the various obstacles to freedom once again. Guards. Machineguns. Barricades. Lastly, the sprawling 'Underground coffin' that made up everything. The four-pronged system that caged him up. Guards could be taken out in an uprising, but organization would be a real bitch. There was bound to be a snitch somewhere. Their Machineguns were under-supplied, so theoretically if the situation was right, he had the advantage over poorly-trained guardsmen. After all, he knew how to hold himself in a fight. The Barricades were thimble wooden fences given most sandbags were earmarked for the front, and easy to break. But escaping this tomb? He didn't know.

    A nearby clank of rusty bolts served to echo the confines of his cell, and Maksim's mental briefing faded out before it could incriminate him. He tilted his head. Standing before him was another bureaucrat in a suit. He had no reason to be hopeful, but the man didn't strike him as representing a firing squad.​

    * * *

    D I S P O S I T I O N

    [fig 3. A collection of Sergeyev's paper-based mementos, est. 1991.]

    "Выглядит хорошо."

    The pasty-beige corkboard stared at him. Maksim stared back, but his slogged eyes merely drifted over the outset instead of gazing too deeply into the contents. It was the sole display of his earthly possessions.

    Promised a reinstatement, he was actually surprised when one followed through, although it came with a swift demotion and stripped privileges. He held no uncertainty about the fact he was likely under surveillance, and his newfound posting reflected the strings that had come with. He was abroad once again, but to a sector deemed so corrupted, semi-organized chaos was the common denominator of events. Staffed by 'говнюха', former criminals and the politically damaged, he had been jumbled in with the same people he had left in Chernokozovo. Metaphorically, anyway. It was farmland, a backwater deprived of everything one could want, even farmers. Most of the civilians were nothing more than gangsters.

    Issued unstable equipment, a flamethrower dating back before he was born (and with a half-shaved serial number), and thrown into a two-week seminar on explosives, he had been assigned to demolition duty. "Поиск и уничтожение, верно?" He'd thought it of it as a learning experience, but then again, it could easily be the pre-briefing for his own funeral. The cask-green tank stuck out brightly, and seemed hazardous. Something told him that he wouldn't get used to it's weight.

    Maksim pulled the outer rim of his patrol cap closer.
    It was time to assemble for another peacekeeping exercise.

    * * *

    Desired Rank (If any):

    Throw me wherever you need me.

    Desired Specialisation (If any):

    Assault Pioneer.
  2. GenericPlayer

    GenericPlayer i like firetruck and moster truck

    Jul 1, 2016
    Accepted as a Junior Sergeant, Assault Pioneer. Check the roster for your callsign.
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