Moscow 6

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Apr 18, 2020
москва 6

  • (1/31/2021) - currently looking for productive members across timezones willing to contribute and rep the set, come thru yall

Moscow 6 holds its roots in a small street gang: the Moscow Boys. Six members, including Nikolai and Boris Ivanovich, robbed boutique stores, mugged whoever they could, and tagged their territory to survive. They were able to survive through the brutality and ferocity of the Seven Hour War, but one by one, their members started disappearing throughout Moscow as began being taken by the Universal Union.

The brothers Ivanovich were able to violently evade capture during the subsequent occupation in a CWU Razortrain. After finding stability and safety within City, they founded the Moscow 6, honoring the memory of their lost comrades.

By chance, Nikolai Ivanovich meets Kris Rodelio, a seemingly mysterious and enigmatic figure toughened with experience and wealth. After a vortesscence deal, Nikolai speaks privately with Kris about his group and their goals. Having done his service in Metropolitan Security Council's 125th Defense and 327th Attack Regiments, Kris found himself nostalgic for the predominantly Asian gangs who used to roam the streets of Industrial 17, taking it upon himself the opportunity to support "...a new intersectional community of like-minded individuals with common goals and understandings." In other words, he needs someone like YOU to rep the set.

You might find some hastily-sprayed graffiti on the wall or a random note from time to time. You might ask around. You'll know where to find us, or we'll know where to find you. We need soldiers, to defend each other. We need fighters. We need producers and scavengers. We gotta stick together, and run these districts up.

Gang shit, step up.



Top Dogs:
Nikolai Ivanovich
Boris Ivanovich

Kris Rodelio (Owner)
David Israelivich

Jackson Anderson
Bobby Banks

Raymond Fitzgerald
Aleksandr Kuznetsov
Greshnev Yegor
Jamal Japotty



Moscow 6 was founded to fulfill a niche unseen as of recently in impulse HL2RP: a dark, fractious underworld of less-than-reputable characters. We strive to be accessible to all levels of roleplayers and grow together.

We want to build upon a steady and growing foundation of lore and form a community of people on some gang shit like us. We hope to provide lore-writing opportunities that allow individual development. Essentially, we wish to be a training ground for newer impulse players to guide them through their journey and progression in semi-serious and serious RP.

We invite you to grow with us.


The Initiation Procedure:
You're seated with Rodelio on a dingy, worn-out bed in the loyalist apartments.
"How was your trip to Moscow?" he asks, digging through a metal locker.
You respond: "My trip was nice, bloody cold though."
“Glad you got back safe.”
You come to the top floor of HQ. He types away, logging you into the encrypted SMS system and hands you your burner phone. You see scars from deep punctures in his wrist.
“Can’t do calls. And don’t get out of range from the city. Just keep it on your person. CPs usually can’t find it when they pat you down. MSC, LVM, LRC, ALD, all USE or HAVE USED similar systems. You should know how to access mic comms. If it detects your BSL or moves a certain distance away from you, wipes the ROM. Don't lose it.”
He glares at you intensely. A still silence broken by the noise of construction below. “Play it straight. Keep up or get burnt.”H e turns back to his computer. “Especially OpSec. They can trace graffiti through the cams, and they know handwriting. I’m sure Nikolai would want you leaving advertisements by flyer. Leave paper, no trail.”
"I'mma have to chef you real quick so I can get this shit inside you." He shows you the scars marking his collarbones. "Don't trip. We got medgel."
Adrenaline crawls under your skin.
Kris lights up a tea candle, takes out a large spoon resting upon a wire rack, and pours into a small beaker from a stock bottle of distilled water, coupled with a plastic pipette. He cracks open a bottle of wine and hands it to you.
Your weight and height were recorded in kilos. An approximate dosage of a faintly violet, mostly colorless of mix of shimmering crystalline powder from a small glass bottle was placed within the spoon. Water and buffering salts were added and the mixture was heated; cotton fibers were used to filter the resultant solution as it cooled down before being transferred into an intimidatingly long intramuscular syringe.
He seats you on the bed, props you up with pillows, forcefully pushes it into your thigh. He injects it before slowly taking out the needle and bandaging the wound.
A pocket knife clicks behind his back. "See you soon."
You see white. You may or may not remember this moment, as you wake up with a deeply aching and throbbing pain under a bandage on your collarbone.
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