Girls und Panzer: Battle Europa (OOC/Sign-up, Open)

[Monfrox]

This wasn't about whether the Super Pershing did or didn't know out a King Tiger. This was about the Centurion being not a WW2 tank.

[Wolfenium]

This wasn't about whether the Super Pershing did or didn't know out a King Tiger. This was about the Centurion being not a WW2 tank.

Well, technically the prototypes came out just before VE-Day. I mean, Boko Loli Alice used it for her uni team, and their's was stacked with WWII-era tanks that came too late to see action until the Cold War.

[Wolfenium]

Is silent here. ._.

[Minroz]

Is silent here. ._.

Hang on. I've just started drafting my next post. :3

[Minroz]

Posted. Sorry it took so long, guys.

So...would anyone here care to help my poor girls~? They can't do everything, y'know.

[Ormata]

Hey all!

Thinking of joining, currently, and all that fun stuff. I'm a newcomer to this 'universe' as it is, and am quite interested in acting like Mighty Jingles and playing a TOG II or some other heavy tank. Might try a tank destroyer of some kind if that doesn't happen.

By the way, what's your guys' outlook on non-anime character images? Are they OK?

[Sonitusia]

Hey all!

Thinking of joining, currently, and all that fun stuff. I'm a newcomer to this 'universe' as it is, and am quite interested in acting like Mighty Jingles and playing a TOG II or some other heavy tank. Might try a tank destroyer of some kind if that doesn't happen.

By the way, what's your guys' outlook on non-anime character images? Are they OK?

Since it's based on an anime, it's highly suggested, if not obligatory, to use pictures of such art style ^^""

[Ormata]

Hey all!

Thinking of joining, currently, and all that fun stuff. I'm a newcomer to this 'universe' as it is, and am quite interested in acting like Mighty Jingles and playing a TOG II or some other heavy tank. Might try a tank destroyer of some kind if that doesn't happen.

By the way, what's your guys' outlook on non-anime character images? Are they OK?

Since it's based on an anime, it's highly suggested, if not obligatory, to use pictures of such art style ^^""

I see. Bollocks, that's the one kind of image I don't have. Might I ask, what would the application process be, at this stage (Since it is 'Semi-Open')?

[Sonitusia]

Since it's based on an anime, it's highly suggested, if not obligatory, to use pictures of such art style ^^""

I see. Bollocks, that's the one kind of image I don't have. Might I ask, what would the application process be, at this stage (Since it is 'Semi-Open')?

Generally speaking, semi-open means we're only accepting good apps.

Though I may have to mention that we don't have many active members, so renaming back to 'Open' might be a better choice.

[Ormata]

Here's my application, then.
EDITED

Part One - Team Application

Name: Phobos Team
Armoured Fighting Vehicle: Sd. Kfz. 184. Elefant
Crew Setup:

• Maya Bailey (Commander)
• Lisanne Ulkeman (Driver)
• Mia Graham (Radio-Operator)
• Vionaika Beatrisa Lindo (Gunner)
• Silvia Kändler (Loader)
• Franziska Seitz (Loader)

Team Description: A varied team, mostly from Europe, Phobos is the result of an International School located in, of all places, Norway. They quickly bonded, for whatever reason but their love of Sensha-do, and shared many a school club throughout their term there. Chess, Strategy, and other clubs were their main joys, and they Sensha-do at that school, doing moderately well. They came to the Prussian school in the name of the competition.

Tank Description: Team Phobos’s tank is a Elefant, one of the larger and more annoying of the world’s tank destroyers. The tank is painted in a variety of colors, for camouflage, such as grays, light and dark browns, and greens. On the side of the rather large turret, it has, in white letters, “Suusje”, a name given by Lisanne. For armament, it has a 8.8 cm Pak 43/2 L/71 anti-tank gun with a very good penetration capability. The engine is, as-is, only enough to get 30 km/h.

RP Sample:
Since I never get a chance to show stuff, here’s some writing. Minimums make me laugh.

The Europia

---

Browns, greys, dark hues of a bland nature hung-about the area. The Europia was like that; old as sin. A thrice-decommissioned colony ship, she had a history as long as Earth’s. I’d heard we’d taken her because the scrap yards wanted to be paid to take her in, because there was more rust than metal, more radiation than reactor. A plethora of us Indies loitered about, waiting for our ride.

I’d give her one thing, though; her hanger was huge. It stretched on for a good mile and half, the dust from the Life Support making a brown, hazy fog. The clatter of equipment, the hiss of pneumatic valves, filled the air. The yells of flight supervisors was omnipresent, as was the cool calm of the veterans, the frenzied panic of the new guys. I’d heard they got a week of training before being shoved into the grinder. Us infantry weren’t much better, but at least our training courses didn’t decompress.

“Bloody ships everywhere. Y’need a tug to get about at any good speed. God, I’ll never stop wondering on the size of it all,” idled a kid, sauntering about like he was Terran. Flicking a fuselage, he wiped the engine grease and fine sediment from his hands, saying, “I see Kaiju Heavy hasn’t come through.”

“Blast it all, and blast them; I hope we get a better transport than last time. At Chernobyl we got a rust bucket that almost decompressed in atmo,” said one older man. His accent marked him as Second-Gen Spacer. His hair was streaked yellow-and-brown, his skin the color of caramel.

“Da. At Eres I was in a chertov kusok der'ma. The landing was fun. The shrapnel and breached hull were not,” I responded. My ye-olde muscovite accent showed, and I shouldered the bolt-shooter. A pain to carry, it was, but when it hit, they popped.

“Blasted shortages.”

A thought hit me, something I’d been wondering. “Johan, how’s your girl?”

“On Halley’s. We’re expecting our first in a few days, I figure.”

That brought some encouragement. A few guys patted him on the back, one asking to see. It was produced, and she looked a lot like Johan. The same brick-red was in their skin, same black hair.
“Nice, man. You talked recently?”

“Not since before that shower took out the comm antenna. She was having some trouble, then. Said it felt wrong. The doc was there, he said it’d be fine.”

A kid, little private, piped-up. “I’m sure she’s fine. They’re knowledgeable, there.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, don’t worry. She’s fine. Y’need to keep your mind on the job. The worst that’ll happen is the kid’ll lose his dad.”

A vertical hanger opened-up from the deck, ending our discussion, and upwards came our ride. It was a...newer ship. I couldn’t place the model, but the shape was like an Old Earth torpedo. Three cylinders jutted from the aft, the steady emission of green plasma marking it as a Rheinland vessel. A slight bulge was on the front, on the dorsal area, with a viewport included. The markings were painted off, though, with the slate black field and grey stars of the Independent Alliance in it’s place.

“Damn,” muttered an LT, his eyebrows raised in quiet appreciation. It was, by most standards, a well-proportioned vessel, a good vessel. At the very least it was a sterling thing, compared to our usual rides.

The doors closed, and the engines hummed loud as we lifted-off.

Railguns and Rockets

---

The first sound was like that of a roar, the clatter of metal-on-metal as the equip-cords strained. The suspended cannon that we had the pleasure of sharing the space with rocked, back and forth. It was apparently our support. I didn’t know how, mind, considering the caliber of the thing would damn-near have so little accuracy that the only thing I could think of was artillery. Shells rested in a nearby container, jostling with every other movement.

Rocking back onto a crudely welded bench, I leaned my rifle on the bulkhead, observing it all. Save for the obvious weld marks, the cut-jobs that make edges sharp, it looked like a good ship. Good hull. The thing was clean, and after running my hand over it, I judged the metal to be Kaiju Heavy. Bastards. The ventral cargo door was welded shut, reinforced with a massive piece of scrap metal. The missile bay, or rather, the now-christened ‘troop bay’, used to have some sort of rotating loading bay. The roughly corrugated metal, in the approximate middle, demonstrated that. We settled down.

The flight, well, you can’t say much on an hour flight that was as quiet as the grave, save for the ubiquitous noises one would find from equip-cords and metal. We didn’t talk, not much, anyways. When casualties were obviously high, considering how the evac ships came back with half-filled vessels, and ninety percent of those still breathing were unable to walk, you try to not think about how thing might happen.

The thoughts come anyway.

I heard a noise, my mind reeling. It was sharp, like the crack of a whip, then a dull noise, all deadened by the hull. A sudden, jerking motion sent half the guys to their feet; I had enough sense to grab ahold of a cord.

“Shit! Hell was that?”

The wheels turned, and my mind became frantic. Plasma didn’t work; that’d be a long-drawn-out whine, the crackle of energized steel as the power arced from the shot to the hull. Lasers...no, it hadn’t the simple, sharp feeling to it. Flak? Flak fit. Fear grew in the pit of my stomach, an aching feeling that grew steadily with more thought. Last time they tried flak on us, it didn’t really work. Missiles could be shot down, and conventional shells didn’t have the speed to reach us before we maneuvered. Railguns. The crack was the damned shot, the after-noise was the explosion.

“Fuck! Goddamn Húndàn are using railguns! Gāisǐ de húndàn! Xīwàng wǒ yǒuyī bǎ qiān,” one man yelled, sapper’s stripes on his shoulder. His face was full of sharp angles, despite his short stature, and his eyes were permanently narrowed, proclaiming some Imperial descent. His face was, also, red with anger, clutching his rifle.

Then there was another explosion, different, somehow, with an initial shock and a lot of smaller, lighter ones, decreasing and increasing randomly before ending. The clank-and-clatter of debris hitting the outer hull could easily be heard.

A sharp spike of fear went through me, with the realization. There wasn’t anything the pilot could do; there was a reason railguns were used. The shells were halfway to the target before sensors could care to give a damn. He couldn’t see the pilot, yet he felt that the ship was moving with sudden, small jerks. He was mentally stalled, uneasy, afraid beneath a veneer of professionalism.

Another jerk, and another, and another. It kept on happening, the after-explosions continuing. The sounds of rending hulls, collapsing, flying apart. The sounds of shorn metal colliding with the hull became, quickly, a cacophony of sound. The others were restless, moving with jerks, mentally considering it all. They couldn’t do anything, weren’t trained for this. The ship couldn’t fire back. They were impotent.

I was incapable. That sort of shit scares a person, gives you fear behind the eyes that you don’t dare show to another. There’s something annoying about having to sit with your thumbs up your ass, whistling and waiting for the damn hull doors to open. Waiting to die. Waiting to kill. It’s a bastard thing, to have to wait before you can be useful. Before you can feel useful.

The rush of other motions led me to believe of something else; we’d entered atmo. The jerking motions were countered, nearly overridden, by more fluid, more natural forces. We were jostled around, just as much.

The LT got up, yelling something before being thrown back down, his hand searching the air for the equip-cord. Righting himself, he grabbed ahold of one, and even now I can see his white-knuckled fingers. I suppose the man was a bit older than me; he had more stubble, a surplus Rheinhart helm, a dirty jumpsuit with armor cobbled on, and a damned assault rifle. He roared out an order.

“Present! Rise, bastards, c’mon, c’mon!”

The ship jerked, suddenly, to the right, rolling. The LT ragdolled, his head snapping down onto the bulkhead. His body crumpled, the forehead bloody. I saw that the thin, shitty metal had caved-in onto his skull in jagged, sharp pieces. An uneven wave of blood spilled onto the metal.

We didn’t know what to do. A few of us weren’t too into getting up; it meant we were ready to go, and that normally meant death. Talking about how badass, how unafraid of death one was was easy. Acting it out was harder. A few of us were getting up because of the LT, and those guys paused. Curses passed around in whispers.

The sergeant saved them. Man wore an old EVA suit, with armor on, and a damn claymore strapped to his back. He had a Scot’s accent, and a Scot’s attitude.

“Bloody hell,” he said, leaning over the LT and checking his pulse, before closing the man’s eyes. He looked at the rest of us, sizing-up our courage. “Well, get up, then. Once we land, I want you out of the ship. If you stay, you die. I’m not the one to kill ye, but that artillery will.”

During the speech, I noticed a beeping sound, coming from the cockpit. It sounded steady, yet I noted it was getting louder, faster. It became a frenzy of noise, and then the pilot jerked his joystick. The ship veered down, and we held on for dear life.

“God damn it all!”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” The private from before was freaking out, arms looped through a pair of equip-cords, his hands on the sides of his face, rocking on his knees. I could see the sweat from my seat, beading on his face.

“Get yourself together, man!”

Then the ship dropped out of the sky. Dull thuds resounded outside, like a giant punching the earth. The air battered the ship as we fell. I felt myself be lifted from the seat, and pulled myself back onto it, knuckles white.

Then blackness.

Hamburger Meat

---

When I came-to, I first smelt. The smell of sparks, of burning wiring, filled my nostrils, and I quickly stopped smelling. It smelled like sulfur, like death. I waited, for a time, letting my eyes adjust to the lack of light, noting other odors. Then, lolling my head to the right, I saw why. The corpse of another, that private from before, was there, a piece of steel through his chest, horizontally. The piece of metal, along with a good portion of his chest, was plastered with crusted blood. His chest looked like...hamburger meat, churned and mush. He’d already passed, his still body just...being. Flies hadn’t yet gotten in. I resisted the urge to hurl, as a wave of heat passed over me, and instead turned away, bringing my attention to untangling myself from the cords. Best way to not hurl is to not see, I told myself.

After too long, I untangled, and noted the mass of torn, convoluted metal that was once the roof. It was shorn, sharp edges hanging down. I really didn’t want to get caught in that. Then I noted a rather bad method. The escape hatch, fitted with explosive bolts, had been on the roof. It was now twisted, broken. I doubted it would actually fire, much less fire in the correct direction.

An idea came to me, and I reached into a pouch. I’d been issued Thermite, by virtue of me having a brain and enough sense to keep the wiring dry. Remote detonation was always hacked, and having Thermite blow in one’s pocket wasn’t what most wanted, so their resorted to wires. Taking out the package, about as big as my hand and just as thick, I began to figure where to place the slab.

A few unsuccessful tries of the broken metal made me start to think that the ‘tape’ wouldn’t work. It was a mild adhesive, and didn’t work well in uneven places, like this. Instead, I wedged the piece in-between two torn pieces of metal, making a sandwich, and spooled out the wire.

I knew I needed some sort of cover; the broken remains of the ship gave few options. The ripped metal that thrusted from the floor, blown inwards, didn’t look safe at all. The ripped ridges on the top and sides would make insuring the wire would not be cut a bitch, and it was too thin to actually protect me. The only thing with actual mass was the dead body, and I shook my head.

Sometimes life sucks, and herein was the understatement of the century.

Moving myself aside of the corpse, I applied some force onto his ruined back. A shhlick sickened the air, made me want to hurl some more. Closing my eyes, I applied some more pressure, making the dried blood lose it’s seal on the metal. Rigor mortis hadn’t yet set-up, and the corpse’s skin gave unsettlingly. For the briefest moment, some crazy part of my mind worried that my hand might sink through the man. I shook it away, kept pushing until I could wiggle my way into the open space.

Giving a little prayer, I pressed the detonator.

A massive wave of heat hit the air, making it hot, dry. It almost felt like it pierced my throat, and the intensity in such a confined space was a bitch. Heat was oppressive, on my hands, and I was worried that it might catch fire.

Then a breath of fresh air, and the smell of the dead rushed in, filling the space. My eyes widened, as I didn’t breath-in, and I saw bright, bright flashes of light from outside. Deafening noise came, the sound of gunshots and artillery, of laser machineguns.

I didn’t know if I wanted to leave.

Then there was another noise, that of a click. Clanking and bouncing came, that of plastic on metal, and I saw at my feet an object that I did not particularly want. It was oval-shaped, patterned, and painted a field gray. A grenade.

Time seemed to slow. It just hit the floor, in front of me, too far to throw out and too close for it to not perform hell on me. Shrapnel seems to bounce-about in an enclosed space. I wasn’t particularly intrigued with that event happening. If I stayed-put, my kneecap would, all reality, go down, and losing one of those would be hell. It would be especially hell with the fighting outside. I’d have to go through that, and doing that minus a leg would mean guaranteed death.

So I did the next best thing. Unthinking, I shove the body forward, sliding it off the bloody steel and onto the floor. Coincidentally, that also meant onto the grenade, though the burst of strength wasn’t enough to beat the detonator. The body was a foot above the grenade when it exploded, the impact lifting it for a brief moment, blood splattering downward, before the corpse slumped down. Some if it went through, yet not much, and thin strokes of blood painted the metal.

What was worse was the noise. In an enclosed space, shrapnel bounces, yes, but so does noise. It sounded like a god, a giant, mashing his hand onto the ground. It was deafening, sounded like a clap of thunder. A pain shot through my head, on either side. My hand shot up to my head, clutching an ear, and I felt a trickle of fluid down my hand. The world’s sounds dulled, and I felt myself sway a bit.

A smattering of debris and shrapnel, whatever wasn’t avoided by the meatshield, hit the ground. A hot flash of pain shot through my foot, and I glanced down. A piece of shrapnel, a sliver maybe, had gone through the left side of my right foot, and moist blood welled in the gash.

My training kicked-in, and taking out a spray-can, I shook it, briefly. Aiming it into the wound, I pressed, the foam encompassing the cut, stopping the bleeding. The foam condensed, becoming the thickness of about an inch. It would do.

Looking at the vertical hole, light filtering through, I saw that the edges were jagged. I didn’t relish getting cut on my hands, much less pulling myself up on it. Thinking quickly, I knelt-down, next to the ruined corpse, and took-off his jacket. It used to be leather, thick leather, a commodity that few had, prior to the explosion. The front was destroyed, and it had a hole through the middle, but it would work.

I draped it over the ridge of the hole, putting my hands on the outer lip. It cushioned the sharp edges, yet I didn’t want to dawdle. The uncomfortability of it all saw to that. So I lifted myself up, into the light.

Hidden Surprises

---

There was a dull, throbbing noise, somewhere nearby. It was set-apart by the dull, throbbing noise in my head, that pain, by the fact that I felt waves of air along with it, in-synch. That’s what I noticed first. They were irregular, different.

I looked to my left, as I stood, almost falling down before steadying myself with my rifle. A cluster of explosions, in a line of death, came-in. Flames spurted upwards, in long plumes of fire, and black smoke emanated from the remains of the targets. There was just a wall of thick, black smoke on the ridge. I heard the roar of aircraft overheard, loud, obnoxious.
Jumping down onto the grass, I felt the gray, long, slender strands bend under my weight. There was brown-gray soil underneath. I hazily recalled something of a chemical attack, when the rock was taken. I didn’t know it was that bad. My reflections were cut short, as I lost balance. Stumbling, I fell to the ground.

The grass was wet, a thick coating of moisture on its surface. I felt that same water bead on my face, and put my weight on my hand, hoisting myself up.

Click.

I felt my weight shift, as the ground went down, slightly, with that noise. It sounded sharp, smart, crisp. It sounded newly mechanical. Keeping extra careful to not fall on my ass, I used my other hand to clear the grass from my view.

It looked circular, half a foot tall, with an indentation in the middle. The device was painted green-black, dark, matching the shadows. My mind raced to a landmine, something of the sort. Most likely anti-personnel, if that was all it took to prime.

I hadn’t gotten the training for mine-clearing. Trainers themselves were rare, not to mention the equipment, which was also rare. Time was another issue. The idea was that, always, we’d get there before mines were laid. Never did work, damned fool strategy.

Then I heard another sound, one that nearly mixed with all that white noise. Rustling, lots of it, dull and somehow resounding. If felt strange, sounded strange. Looking about, I nearly fell, my center of balance shifting.

I felt a hand, on my back, steadying me. Looking back, I saw a man, a soldier, and noted the patch on his shoulder. Sapper Division, 12th. They’d been inserted a damn long time ago. He had the stubble to prove it, not to mention a hastily-done bandage on his forearm.

“Steady on, steady on. I’ll get you out.”

Taking out a little half-sphere, the sapper lightly tapped the flat portion onto the side of the mine. The smell of electricity was suddenly present, the smell of ozone. It hummed, suddenly, before that hum became less-so, fading into the background. The man then took-off a screen protector for a monitor, about the size of a book. He started to tap on it, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Then the unwanted happened. He jerked, suddenly stiff as a board. His face became a mixture of agony and pain, and he fell forward, onto the mine.

Part Two - Character Applications

---

Name: Maya Bailey https://i.imgur.com/TIePXvc.jpg
Age: 19
Role: Commander
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: Calm, collected, and focused would be how most would describe Maya. A self-professed artist who tirelessly scrawls doodles on her homework, she is forever attempting to find ways to improve her drawings. A patient person, necessary for her chosen tank, she is extremely methodical to her approaches, another virtue necessary for her chosen tank as any mistakes are amplified greatly over time.

Biography: Born in New York, to a pair of engineers, Maya was, to be sure, a very, very serious little girl. She did not laugh much, though The Three Stooges never did fail, and when the rest played at the playground, she would always stay in the classroom. As a result, she had the twin experiences of having extraordinarily concerned parents and having a skin color that was akin to something like paper.

Her parents, wanting a daughter who had at least five good friends and not having enough time to spend with Maya, sent her to a Boarding School with only the most basic knowledge. They were, needless to say, very, very lacking in common sense. Maya, as a result of this, grew-up about the ‘problem children’ of the world, and when she came back for Middle School, after, as the Boarding School, they could “Find no issues whatsoever with the child in question”. As a result of this, she would interact most unladylike with other pupils, fitting neatly into the ‘problem child’ category. Having an underdeveloped sense of ‘proper’ and ‘improper’, she would become plagued with reports of, as she called it, ‘playfighting’. As a result of this, she would be sent to International School in Canada, and later to Rauschen Girls High School.

---

Name: Lisanne Ulkeman https://i.imgur.com/GaqGdqi.jpg
Age: 15
Role: Driver
Nationality: Dutch
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: An inquisitive young lady, whose curiosity often overrides common sense, Lisanne is very much energetic in life. Her creed is that, nearly, everything must be tried at least once, with the exceptions of hard drugs and murder. This has, as one may have expected, a marked issue with one’s standing with the police, and as such, Lisanne has developed a “Fuck the Man” attitude, of sorts. She does not trust people just because they stand above her. One could liken her to the fictional character of Tiny Tina.

Biography: Born in Leeuwarden, Netherlands, Lisanne was the stereotypical Dutch teenager. She did heavy amounts of weed, and floating through most of her early life of a lack of cares for the world. However, one thing that did grip her attention was that of naval vessels. She loved naval vessels, save for those run by the Maersk Line (Which she says “Just don’t have class”) and massively enjoyed being on them. She would, often, go out to fish with her dad, who was a former Naval enlisted man, and took pride in the fact that she always, always, always had to get something bigger than him. As a result of this ‘casual obsession’, she would go on to love military things in general, and made her first K-98K reproduction rather early in life. Lisanne would, then, love Sensha-do.

However, as a result of her love with marijuana, and after some time of her vacationing in America (To laugh at them, she said) she would be arrested for having some pounds of the substance with her. As a result of this, and several other items on her person, her parents were rather disappointed in their little girl. Not even bothering to have her come home, she would be sent to the International School in Canada, meeting others on the way, and then to Rauschen Girls High School.

---

Name: Mia Graham https://i.imgur.com/KrJGh1t.png
Age: 19
Role: Radio Operator
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: As one of the older in Phobos, Mia exudes a quiet calm about her. That is to say, most of the time she does not give attention to vagueries, mysteries, or generally interesting distractions, and focuses upon what she says what she will focus on. As such, she provides a much-needed calm place, aside Lisanne, and very much is like a sister to Maya.

Biography: Born in Wisconsin, though who knows where because nothing is in Wisconsin, Mia was a very, very smart person. That was, in fact, measured; she was extremely intelligent. Her parents, as a matter of course, sent her to a school in Canada. The school, a reputable Boarding School, also had better programs than that of Mia’s home, which had a grade school and integrated Middle-High School of the total sum of 100 students. One might stop guessing as to her parents’ decision then.

---

Name: Vionaika Beatrisa Lindo https://i.imgur.com/tTAbieW.jpg
Age: 17
Role: Gunner
Nationality: Spanish
Ethnicity: Hispanic
Personality: Fiery, passionate, and angry, Vionaika also posses the trait of patience. She can wait for long periods, before, as she likes to say, “A menos que el poder”. Her logic behind this can be summarized by the fact that she very much likes to cause havoc within the enemy ranks, and also most certainly knows that waiting to fire gives a better chance to cause that havoc.

Biography: Born to a Filipino hydroponics engineer and Spanish botanist, Vionaika would first stay in the Philippines, then Spain. Her parents would, while she was young, bring her to work, as it were. Being always surrounded by green plants made her, as one would suspect, hate plants very much, and she soon grew enthralled with all the delicate little ways of how to burn, cut, or otherwise kill the plants. Vionaika would quickly go into chemistry, where she also found a love of fire.

Vionaika would, later, be sent as an exchange student to America. Here she learnt, at the very least, passable English, and also learnt of the joys that America had. One of these was a lack of care in carpet bombing, a technique she had always found to be hilarious in concept and practice, and the other was sugar in everything. As a result, she would stay in the States for some time, before being accepted into the International School in Canada on her chemistry scores. She would, then, join the others.

---

Name: Silvia Kändler https://i.imgur.com/sL6orM8.jpg
Age: 17
Role: Loader
Nationality: German
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: An obsessive-compulsive teenager who must have everything perfect, Silvia has, since, become a perfectionist in subconscious, as it were. She trains to the point where muscle memory does not describe, fully, what she does, and Silvia takes some pride in that. A constant reader, artist, drafter, one might wonder where she gets the time to sleep. Forever with a coffee mug in hand, Silvia also has time, somehow, in her day to cook, which often ends, just as miraculously, well. Forever tense and getting ready for something she does not know about, her mind may be described as a “clusterfuck” of clashing ideas.

Biography: As a child, Silvia fit the medical definition of “Troubled”. She constantly worried, constantly chewed her fingernails, and had multiple bouts of nervous fits. As a result of this, she went, several times, to a therapist, and this did help, to an extent. While she kept being worried, the nervous fits faded away into gradual history and she no longer chewed her fingernails. However, this was, often, not good enough, as her family doctor recommended, for her heart. As a result, she was given multiple things to do, as it were, to attempt to find-out what, precisely, was the matter, and she quickly fixed herself on the idea of Sensha-do. Finding it to be, in most circles, almost expected, she studied for that as well.

Acting like a cogwork machine, however, was not healthy either, her parents decided, so they sent her away, with Henry to act as aide-de-camp. She, quickly, became affixed on most arts, and read voraciously at the school. Her parents took this as a good sign, and kept her there. She has, since, joined with Phobos.

---

Name: Franziska Seitz https://i.imgur.com/jMLsSXr.jpg
Age: 16
Role: Loader
Nationality: German
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: Born to steelworkers of the Krupp lineage, Franziska shares their attention to detail. Shee dislikes most sports, to begin with, preferring the joy of being inside. Sensha-do neatly takes care of this, and she dislikes thinking of it as a ‘sport’. In fact, everything Franzi likes, yet is a sport, she thinks of as nor a sport. An extremely loyal person, she, admittedly, is only in Sensha-do because she needs to watch-after Silvia.

Biography: Born to steelworkers, of Krupp in Essen, Franzi had a life of homeschooling. She stayed home, learnt something of the family business, and became good friends with the local village ‘strange person’, as it was, Silvia Kändler. As a young girl, it may come as a surprise that she rapidly developed feelings for Silvia, though it is unknown if the same could be said of her, and tasked himself with helping her, as it was.

Her parents, also rapidly, noticed this, and when they sent her away, sent Franziska along with her. As an intelligent young lady, she found applying and entering the school rather easy, and would go on to stay with her, as she joined Phobos.

[Sonitusia]

Phobos team

This is a really nice app, just one flaw that I saw right off the bat before I review it further: This is an all girl's school. We do have a character or two that are boys in this RP, but they're, well, not 'boys'.

[Ormata]

Phobos team

This is a really nice app, just one flaw that I saw right off the bat before I review it further: This is an all girl's school. We do have a character or two that are boys in this RP, but they're, well, not 'boys'.

Ah. Well, I had figured that, as they were coming to the area for the competition, they would be allowed in.

Also I didn't pick-up on the fact that Anton is a 'boy' and not a boy, though the difference is, to be frank, lost on me.

[Sonitusia]

This is a really nice app, just one flaw that I saw right off the bat before I review it further: This is an all girl's school. We do have a character or two that are boys in this RP, but they're, well, not 'boys'.

Ah. Well, I had figured that, as they were coming to the area for the competition, they would be allowed in.

Also I didn't pick-up on the fact that Anton is a 'boy' and not a boy, though the difference is, to be frank, lost on me.

Well senshado/tankery is also a girl's sport in this universe, so that's another problem xD

[Ormata]

Ah. Well, I had figured that, as they were coming to the area for the competition, they would be allowed in.

Also I didn't pick-up on the fact that Anton is a 'boy' and not a boy, though the difference is, to be frank, lost on me.

Well senshado/tankery is also a girl's sport in this universe, so that's another problem xD

Permit me to observe that there are many sports that are, stereo-typically, for boys or girls, yet boys or girls play them. Furthermore, since this is not a contact sport or one that requires physical exertion, the rule of "Different genders different leagues" does not necessarily apply, as it does in contact sports due to the different body types boys and girls have.

Jus' saying. If you really want me to throw-in a different person for the second loader, I will, but bleh.

[Wolfenium]

Well senshado/tankery is also a girl's sport in this universe, so that's another problem xD

Permit me to observe that there are many sports that are, stereo-typically, for boys or girls, yet boys or girls play them. Furthermore, since this is not a contact sport or one that requires physical exertion, the rule of "Different genders different leagues" does not necessarily apply, as it does in contact sports due to the different body types boys and girls have.

Jus' saying. If you really want me to throw-in a different person for the second loader, I will, but bleh.

No bois. unless is trap. :3

But seriously, it's not that we want to bar males from participating. It's just how the anime works. I know we have male characters in our teams, but I prefer to see them as exceptions than the norm, and feminine tendencies in said boys to confuse readers is mandatory.

[Ormata]

Permit me to observe that there are many sports that are, stereo-typically, for boys or girls, yet boys or girls play them. Furthermore, since this is not a contact sport or one that requires physical exertion, the rule of "Different genders different leagues" does not necessarily apply, as it does in contact sports due to the different body types boys and girls have.

Jus' saying. If you really want me to throw-in a different person for the second loader, I will, but bleh.

No bois. unless is trap. :3

But seriously, it's not that we want to bar males from participating. It's just how the anime works. I know we have male characters in our teams, but I prefer to see them as exceptions than the norm, and feminine tendencies in said boys to confuse readers is mandatory.

I see.

Well, original application is edited.

[Wolfenium]

Here's my application, then.
EDITED

Part One - Team Application

(Image)

Name: Phobos Team
Armoured Fighting Vehicle: Sd. Kfz. 184. Elefant
Crew Setup:

• Maya Bailey (Commander)
• Lisanne Ulkeman (Driver)
• Mia Graham (Radio-Operator)
• Vionaika Beatrisa Lindo (Gunner)
• Silvia Kändler (Loader)
• Franziska Seitz (Loader)

Team Description: A varied team, mostly from Europe, Phobos is the result of an International School located in, of all places, Norway. They quickly bonded, for whatever reason but their love of Sensha-do, and shared many a school club throughout their term there. Chess, Strategy, and other clubs were their main joys, and they Sensha-do at that school, doing moderately well. They came to the Prussian school in the name of the competition.

Tank Description: Team Phobos’s tank is a Elefant, one of the larger and more annoying of the world’s tank destroyers. The tank is painted in a variety of colors, for camouflage, such as grays, light and dark browns, and greens. On the side of the rather large turret, it has, in white letters, “Suusje”, a name given by Lisanne. For armament, it has a 8.8 cm Pak 43/2 L/71 anti-tank gun with a very good penetration capability. The engine is, as-is, only enough to get 30 km/h.

RP Sample:
Since I never get a chance to show stuff, here’s some writing. Minimums make me laugh.

The Europia

---

Browns, greys, dark hues of a bland nature hung-about the area. The Europia was like that; old as sin. A thrice-decommissioned colony ship, she had a history as long as Earth’s. I’d heard we’d taken her because the scrap yards wanted to be paid to take her in, because there was more rust than metal, more radiation than reactor. A plethora of us Indies loitered about, waiting for our ride.

I’d give her one thing, though; her hanger was huge. It stretched on for a good mile and half, the dust from the Life Support making a brown, hazy fog. The clatter of equipment, the hiss of pneumatic valves, filled the air. The yells of flight supervisors was omnipresent, as was the cool calm of the veterans, the frenzied panic of the new guys. I’d heard they got a week of training before being shoved into the grinder. Us infantry weren’t much better, but at least our training courses didn’t decompress.

“Bloody ships everywhere. Y’need a tug to get about at any good speed. God, I’ll never stop wondering on the size of it all,” idled a kid, sauntering about like he was Terran. Flicking a fuselage, he wiped the engine grease and fine sediment from his hands, saying, “I see Kaiju Heavy hasn’t come through.”

“Blast it all, and blast them; I hope we get a better transport than last time. At Chernobyl we got a rust bucket that almost decompressed in atmo,” said one older man. His accent marked him as Second-Gen Spacer. His hair was streaked yellow-and-brown, his skin the color of caramel.

“Da. At Eres I was in a chertov kusok der'ma. The landing was fun. The shrapnel and breached hull were not,” I responded. My ye-olde muscovite accent showed, and I shouldered the bolt-shooter. A pain to carry, it was, but when it hit, they popped.

“Blasted shortages.”

A thought hit me, something I’d been wondering. “Johan, how’s your girl?”

“On Halley’s. We’re expecting our first in a few days, I figure.”

That brought some encouragement. A few guys patted him on the back, one asking to see. It was produced, and she looked a lot like Johan. The same brick-red was in their skin, same black hair.
“Nice, man. You talked recently?”

“Not since before that shower took out the comm antenna. She was having some trouble, then. Said it felt wrong. The doc was there, he said it’d be fine.”

A kid, little private, piped-up. “I’m sure she’s fine. They’re knowledgeable, there.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, don’t worry. She’s fine. Y’need to keep your mind on the job. The worst that’ll happen is the kid’ll lose his dad.”

A vertical hanger opened-up from the deck, ending our discussion, and upwards came our ride. It was a...newer ship. I couldn’t place the model, but the shape was like an Old Earth torpedo. Three cylinders jutted from the aft, the steady emission of green plasma marking it as a Rheinland vessel. A slight bulge was on the front, on the dorsal area, with a viewport included. The markings were painted off, though, with the slate black field and grey stars of the Independent Alliance in it’s place.

“Damn,” muttered an LT, his eyebrows raised in quiet appreciation. It was, by most standards, a well-proportioned vessel, a good vessel. At the very least it was a sterling thing, compared to our usual rides.

The doors closed, and the engines hummed loud as we lifted-off.

Railguns and Rockets

---

The first sound was like that of a roar, the clatter of metal-on-metal as the equip-cords strained. The suspended cannon that we had the pleasure of sharing the space with rocked, back and forth. It was apparently our support. I didn’t know how, mind, considering the caliber of the thing would damn-near have so little accuracy that the only thing I could think of was artillery. Shells rested in a nearby container, jostling with every other movement.

Rocking back onto a crudely welded bench, I leaned my rifle on the bulkhead, observing it all. Save for the obvious weld marks, the cut-jobs that make edges sharp, it looked like a good ship. Good hull. The thing was clean, and after running my hand over it, I judged the metal to be Kaiju Heavy. Bastards. The ventral cargo door was welded shut, reinforced with a massive piece of scrap metal. The missile bay, or rather, the now-christened ‘troop bay’, used to have some sort of rotating loading bay. The roughly corrugated metal, in the approximate middle, demonstrated that. We settled down.

The flight, well, you can’t say much on an hour flight that was as quiet as the grave, save for the ubiquitous noises one would find from equip-cords and metal. We didn’t talk, not much, anyways. When casualties were obviously high, considering how the evac ships came back with half-filled vessels, and ninety percent of those still breathing were unable to walk, you try to not think about how thing might happen.

The thoughts come anyway.

I heard a noise, my mind reeling. It was sharp, like the crack of a whip, then a dull noise, all deadened by the hull. A sudden, jerking motion sent half the guys to their feet; I had enough sense to grab ahold of a cord.

“Shit! Hell was that?”

The wheels turned, and my mind became frantic. Plasma didn’t work; that’d be a long-drawn-out whine, the crackle of energized steel as the power arced from the shot to the hull. Lasers...no, it hadn’t the simple, sharp feeling to it. Flak? Flak fit. Fear grew in the pit of my stomach, an aching feeling that grew steadily with more thought. Last time they tried flak on us, it didn’t really work. Missiles could be shot down, and conventional shells didn’t have the speed to reach us before we maneuvered. Railguns. The crack was the damned shot, the after-noise was the explosion.

“Fuck! Goddamn Húndàn are using railguns! Gāisǐ de húndàn! Xīwàng wǒ yǒuyī bǎ qiān,” one man yelled, sapper’s stripes on his shoulder. His face was full of sharp angles, despite his short stature, and his eyes were permanently narrowed, proclaiming some Imperial descent. His face was, also, red with anger, clutching his rifle.

Then there was another explosion, different, somehow, with an initial shock and a lot of smaller, lighter ones, decreasing and increasing randomly before ending. The clank-and-clatter of debris hitting the outer hull could easily be heard.

A sharp spike of fear went through me, with the realization. There wasn’t anything the pilot could do; there was a reason railguns were used. The shells were halfway to the target before sensors could care to give a damn. He couldn’t see the pilot, yet he felt that the ship was moving with sudden, small jerks. He was mentally stalled, uneasy, afraid beneath a veneer of professionalism.

Another jerk, and another, and another. It kept on happening, the after-explosions continuing. The sounds of rending hulls, collapsing, flying apart. The sounds of shorn metal colliding with the hull became, quickly, a cacophony of sound. The others were restless, moving with jerks, mentally considering it all. They couldn’t do anything, weren’t trained for this. The ship couldn’t fire back. They were impotent.

I was incapable. That sort of shit scares a person, gives you fear behind the eyes that you don’t dare show to another. There’s something annoying about having to sit with your thumbs up your ass, whistling and waiting for the damn hull doors to open. Waiting to die. Waiting to kill. It’s a bastard thing, to have to wait before you can be useful. Before you can feel useful.

The rush of other motions led me to believe of something else; we’d entered atmo. The jerking motions were countered, nearly overridden, by more fluid, more natural forces. We were jostled around, just as much.

The LT got up, yelling something before being thrown back down, his hand searching the air for the equip-cord. Righting himself, he grabbed ahold of one, and even now I can see his white-knuckled fingers. I suppose the man was a bit older than me; he had more stubble, a surplus Rheinhart helm, a dirty jumpsuit with armor cobbled on, and a damned assault rifle. He roared out an order.

“Present! Rise, bastards, c’mon, c’mon!”

The ship jerked, suddenly, to the right, rolling. The LT ragdolled, his head snapping down onto the bulkhead. His body crumpled, the forehead bloody. I saw that the thin, shitty metal had caved-in onto his skull in jagged, sharp pieces. An uneven wave of blood spilled onto the metal.

We didn’t know what to do. A few of us weren’t too into getting up; it meant we were ready to go, and that normally meant death. Talking about how badass, how unafraid of death one was was easy. Acting it out was harder. A few of us were getting up because of the LT, and those guys paused. Curses passed around in whispers.

The sergeant saved them. Man wore an old EVA suit, with armor on, and a damn claymore strapped to his back. He had a Scot’s accent, and a Scot’s attitude.

“Bloody hell,” he said, leaning over the LT and checking his pulse, before closing the man’s eyes. He looked at the rest of us, sizing-up our courage. “Well, get up, then. Once we land, I want you out of the ship. If you stay, you die. I’m not the one to kill ye, but that artillery will.”

During the speech, I noticed a beeping sound, coming from the cockpit. It sounded steady, yet I noted it was getting louder, faster. It became a frenzy of noise, and then the pilot jerked his joystick. The ship veered down, and we held on for dear life.

“God damn it all!”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” The private from before was freaking out, arms looped through a pair of equip-cords, his hands on the sides of his face, rocking on his knees. I could see the sweat from my seat, beading on his face.

“Get yourself together, man!”

Then the ship dropped out of the sky. Dull thuds resounded outside, like a giant punching the earth. The air battered the ship as we fell. I felt myself be lifted from the seat, and pulled myself back onto it, knuckles white.

Then blackness.

Hamburger Meat

---

When I came-to, I first smelt. The smell of sparks, of burning wiring, filled my nostrils, and I quickly stopped smelling. It smelled like sulfur, like death. I waited, for a time, letting my eyes adjust to the lack of light, noting other odors. Then, lolling my head to the right, I saw why. The corpse of another, that private from before, was there, a piece of steel through his chest, horizontally. The piece of metal, along with a good portion of his chest, was plastered with crusted blood. His chest looked like...hamburger meat, churned and mush. He’d already passed, his still body just...being. Flies hadn’t yet gotten in. I resisted the urge to hurl, as a wave of heat passed over me, and instead turned away, bringing my attention to untangling myself from the cords. Best way to not hurl is to not see, I told myself.

After too long, I untangled, and noted the mass of torn, convoluted metal that was once the roof. It was shorn, sharp edges hanging down. I really didn’t want to get caught in that. Then I noted a rather bad method. The escape hatch, fitted with explosive bolts, had been on the roof. It was now twisted, broken. I doubted it would actually fire, much less fire in the correct direction.

An idea came to me, and I reached into a pouch. I’d been issued Thermite, by virtue of me having a brain and enough sense to keep the wiring dry. Remote detonation was always hacked, and having Thermite blow in one’s pocket wasn’t what most wanted, so their resorted to wires. Taking out the package, about as big as my hand and just as thick, I began to figure where to place the slab.

A few unsuccessful tries of the broken metal made me start to think that the ‘tape’ wouldn’t work. It was a mild adhesive, and didn’t work well in uneven places, like this. Instead, I wedged the piece in-between two torn pieces of metal, making a sandwich, and spooled out the wire.

I knew I needed some sort of cover; the broken remains of the ship gave few options. The ripped metal that thrusted from the floor, blown inwards, didn’t look safe at all. The ripped ridges on the top and sides would make insuring the wire would not be cut a bitch, and it was too thin to actually protect me. The only thing with actual mass was the dead body, and I shook my head.

Sometimes life sucks, and herein was the understatement of the century.

Moving myself aside of the corpse, I applied some force onto his ruined back. A shhlick sickened the air, made me want to hurl some more. Closing my eyes, I applied some more pressure, making the dried blood lose it’s seal on the metal. Rigor mortis hadn’t yet set-up, and the corpse’s skin gave unsettlingly. For the briefest moment, some crazy part of my mind worried that my hand might sink through the man. I shook it away, kept pushing until I could wiggle my way into the open space.

Giving a little prayer, I pressed the detonator.

A massive wave of heat hit the air, making it hot, dry. It almost felt like it pierced my throat, and the intensity in such a confined space was a bitch. Heat was oppressive, on my hands, and I was worried that it might catch fire.

Then a breath of fresh air, and the smell of the dead rushed in, filling the space. My eyes widened, as I didn’t breath-in, and I saw bright, bright flashes of light from outside. Deafening noise came, the sound of gunshots and artillery, of laser machineguns.

I didn’t know if I wanted to leave.

Then there was another noise, that of a click. Clanking and bouncing came, that of plastic on metal, and I saw at my feet an object that I did not particularly want. It was oval-shaped, patterned, and painted a field gray. A grenade.

Time seemed to slow. It just hit the floor, in front of me, too far to throw out and too close for it to not perform hell on me. Shrapnel seems to bounce-about in an enclosed space. I wasn’t particularly intrigued with that event happening. If I stayed-put, my kneecap would, all reality, go down, and losing one of those would be hell. It would be especially hell with the fighting outside. I’d have to go through that, and doing that minus a leg would mean guaranteed death.

So I did the next best thing. Unthinking, I shove the body forward, sliding it off the bloody steel and onto the floor. Coincidentally, that also meant onto the grenade, though the burst of strength wasn’t enough to beat the detonator. The body was a foot above the grenade when it exploded, the impact lifting it for a brief moment, blood splattering downward, before the corpse slumped down. Some if it went through, yet not much, and thin strokes of blood painted the metal.

What was worse was the noise. In an enclosed space, shrapnel bounces, yes, but so does noise. It sounded like a god, a giant, mashing his hand onto the ground. It was deafening, sounded like a clap of thunder. A pain shot through my head, on either side. My hand shot up to my head, clutching an ear, and I felt a trickle of fluid down my hand. The world’s sounds dulled, and I felt myself sway a bit.

A smattering of debris and shrapnel, whatever wasn’t avoided by the meatshield, hit the ground. A hot flash of pain shot through my foot, and I glanced down. A piece of shrapnel, a sliver maybe, had gone through the left side of my right foot, and moist blood welled in the gash.

My training kicked-in, and taking out a spray-can, I shook it, briefly. Aiming it into the wound, I pressed, the foam encompassing the cut, stopping the bleeding. The foam condensed, becoming the thickness of about an inch. It would do.

Looking at the vertical hole, light filtering through, I saw that the edges were jagged. I didn’t relish getting cut on my hands, much less pulling myself up on it. Thinking quickly, I knelt-down, next to the ruined corpse, and took-off his jacket. It used to be leather, thick leather, a commodity that few had, prior to the explosion. The front was destroyed, and it had a hole through the middle, but it would work.

I draped it over the ridge of the hole, putting my hands on the outer lip. It cushioned the sharp edges, yet I didn’t want to dawdle. The uncomfortability of it all saw to that. So I lifted myself up, into the light.

Hidden Surprises

---

There was a dull, throbbing noise, somewhere nearby. It was set-apart by the dull, throbbing noise in my head, that pain, by the fact that I felt waves of air along with it, in-synch. That’s what I noticed first. They were irregular, different.

I looked to my left, as I stood, almost falling down before steadying myself with my rifle. A cluster of explosions, in a line of death, came-in. Flames spurted upwards, in long plumes of fire, and black smoke emanated from the remains of the targets. There was just a wall of thick, black smoke on the ridge. I heard the roar of aircraft overheard, loud, obnoxious.
Jumping down onto the grass, I felt the gray, long, slender strands bend under my weight. There was brown-gray soil underneath. I hazily recalled something of a chemical attack, when the rock was taken. I didn’t know it was that bad. My reflections were cut short, as I lost balance. Stumbling, I fell to the ground.

The grass was wet, a thick coating of moisture on its surface. I felt that same water bead on my face, and put my weight on my hand, hoisting myself up.

Click.

I felt my weight shift, as the ground went down, slightly, with that noise. It sounded sharp, smart, crisp. It sounded newly mechanical. Keeping extra careful to not fall on my ass, I used my other hand to clear the grass from my view.

It looked circular, half a foot tall, with an indentation in the middle. The device was painted green-black, dark, matching the shadows. My mind raced to a landmine, something of the sort. Most likely anti-personnel, if that was all it took to prime.

I hadn’t gotten the training for mine-clearing. Trainers themselves were rare, not to mention the equipment, which was also rare. Time was another issue. The idea was that, always, we’d get there before mines were laid. Never did work, damned fool strategy.

Then I heard another sound, one that nearly mixed with all that white noise. Rustling, lots of it, dull and somehow resounding. If felt strange, sounded strange. Looking about, I nearly fell, my center of balance shifting.

I felt a hand, on my back, steadying me. Looking back, I saw a man, a soldier, and noted the patch on his shoulder. Sapper Division, 12th. They’d been inserted a damn long time ago. He had the stubble to prove it, not to mention a hastily-done bandage on his forearm.

“Steady on, steady on. I’ll get you out.”

Taking out a little half-sphere, the sapper lightly tapped the flat portion onto the side of the mine. The smell of electricity was suddenly present, the smell of ozone. It hummed, suddenly, before that hum became less-so, fading into the background. The man then took-off a screen protector for a monitor, about the size of a book. He started to tap on it, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Then the unwanted happened. He jerked, suddenly stiff as a board. His face became a mixture of agony and pain, and he fell forward, onto the mine.

Part Two - Character Applications

---

Name: Maya Bailey https://i.imgur.com/TIePXvc.jpg
Age: 19
Role: Commander
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: Calm, collected, and focused would be how most would describe Maya. A self-professed artist who tirelessly scrawls doodles on her homework, she is forever attempting to find ways to improve her drawings. A patient person, necessary for her chosen tank, she is extremely methodical to her approaches, another virtue necessary for her chosen tank as any mistakes are amplified greatly over time.

Biography: Born in New York, to a pair of engineers, Maya was, to be sure, a very, very serious little girl. She did not laugh much, though The Three Stooges never did fail, and when the rest played at the playground, she would always stay in the classroom. As a result, she had the twin experiences of having extraordinarily concerned parents and having a skin color that was akin to something like paper.

Her parents, wanting a daughter who had at least five good friends and not having enough time to spend with Maya, sent her to a Boarding School with only the most basic knowledge. They were, needless to say, very, very lacking in common sense. Maya, as a result of this, grew-up about the ‘problem children’ of the world, and when she came back for Middle School, after, as the Boarding School, they could “Find no issues whatsoever with the child in question”. As a result of this, she would interact most unladylike with other pupils, fitting neatly into the ‘problem child’ category. Having an underdeveloped sense of ‘proper’ and ‘improper’, she would become plagued with reports of, as she called it, ‘playfighting’. As a result of this, she would be sent to International School in Canada, and later to Rauschen Girls High School.

---

Name: Lisanne Ulkeman https://i.imgur.com/GaqGdqi.jpg
Age: 15
Role: Driver
Nationality: Dutch
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: An inquisitive young lady, whose curiosity often overrides common sense, Lisanne is very much energetic in life. Her creed is that, nearly, everything must be tried at least once, with the exceptions of hard drugs and murder. This has, as one may have expected, a marked issue with one’s standing with the police, and as such, Lisanne has developed a “Fuck the Man” attitude, of sorts. She does not trust people just because they stand above her. One could liken her to the fictional character of Tiny Tina.

Biography: Born in Leeuwarden, Netherlands, Lisanne was the stereotypical Dutch teenager. She did heavy amounts of weed, and floating through most of her early life of a lack of cares for the world. However, one thing that did grip her attention was that of naval vessels. She loved naval vessels, save for those run by the Maersk Line (Which she says “Just don’t have class”) and massively enjoyed being on them. She would, often, go out to fish with her dad, who was a former Naval enlisted man, and took pride in the fact that she always, always, always had to get something bigger than him. As a result of this ‘casual obsession’, she would go on to love military things in general, and made her first K-98K reproduction rather early in life. Lisanne would, then, love Sensha-do.

However, as a result of her love with marijuana, and after some time of her vacationing in America (To laugh at them, she said) she would be arrested for having some pounds of the substance with her. As a result of this, and several other items on her person, her parents were rather disappointed in their little girl. Not even bothering to have her come home, she would be sent to the International School in Canada, meeting others on the way, and then to Rauschen Girls High School.

---

Name: Mia Graham https://i.imgur.com/KrJGh1t.png
Age: 19
Role: Radio Operator
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: As one of the older in Phobos, Mia exudes a quiet calm about her. That is to say, most of the time she does not give attention to vagueries, mysteries, or generally interesting distractions, and focuses upon what she says what she will focus on. As such, she provides a much-needed calm place, aside Lisanne, and very much is like a sister to Maya.

Biography: Born in Wisconsin, though who knows where because nothing is in Wisconsin, Mia was a very, very small person. That was, in fact, measured; she was extremely intelligent. Her parents, as a matter of course, sent her to a school in Canada. The school, a reputable Boarding School, also had better programs than that of Mia’s home, which had a grade school and integrated Middle-High School of the total sum of 100 students. One might stop guessing as to her parents’ decision then.

---

Name: Vionaika Beatrisa Lindo https://i.imgur.com/tTAbieW.jpg
Age: 17
Role: Gunner
Nationality: Spanish
Ethnicity: Hispanic
Personality: Fiery, passionate, and angry, Vionaika also posses the trait of patience. She can wait for long periods, before, as she likes to say, “A menos que el poder”. Her logic behind this can be summarized by the fact that she very much likes to cause havoc within the enemy ranks, and also most certainly knows that waiting to fire gives a better chance to cause that havoc.

Biography: Born to a Filipino hydroponics engineer and Spanish botanist, Vionaika would first stay in the Philippines, then Spain. Her parents would, while she was young, bring her to work, as it were. Being always surrounded by green plants made her, as one would suspect, hate plants very much, and she soon grew enthralled with all the delicate little ways of how to burn, cut, or otherwise kill the plants. Vionaika would quickly go into chemistry, where she also found a love of fire.

Vionaika would, later, be sent as an exchange student to America. Here she learnt, at the very least, passable English, and also learnt of the joys that America had. One of these was a lack of care in carpet bombing, a technique she had always found to be hilarious in concept and practice, and the other was sugar in everything. As a result, she would stay in the States for some time, before being accepted into the International School in Canada on her chemistry scores. She would, then, join the others.

---

Name: Silvia Kändler https://i.imgur.com/sL6orM8.jpg
Age: 17
Role: Loader
Nationality: German
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: An obsessive-compulsive teenager who must have everything perfect, Silvia has, since, become a perfectionist in subconscious, as it were. She trains to the point where muscle memory does not describe, fully, what she does, and Silvia takes some pride in that. A constant reader, artist, drafter, one might wonder where she gets the time to sleep. Forever with a coffee mug in hand, Silvia also has time, somehow, in her day to cook, which often ends, just as miraculously, well. Forever tense and getting ready for something she does not know about, her mind may be described as a “clusterfuck” of clashing ideas.

Biography: As a child, Silvia fit the medical definition of “Troubled”. She constantly worried, constantly chewed her fingernails, and had multiple bouts of nervous fits. As a result of this, she went, several times, to a therapist, and this did help, to an extent. While she kept being worried, the nervous fits faded away into gradual history and she no longer chewed her fingernails. However, this was, often, not good enough, as her family doctor recommended, for her heart. As a result, she was given multiple things to do, as it were, to attempt to find-out what, precisely, was the matter, and she quickly fixed herself on the idea of Sensha-do. Finding it to be, in most circles, almost expected, she studied for that as well.

Acting like a cogwork machine, however, was not healthy either, her parents decided, so they sent her away, with Henry to act as aide-de-camp. She, quickly, became affixed on most arts, and read voraciously at the school. Her parents took this as a good sign, and kept her there. She has, since, joined with Phobos.

---

Name: Franziska Seitz https://i.imgur.com/jMLsSXr.jpg
Age: 16
Role: Loader
Nationality: German
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Personality: Born to steelworkers of the Krupp lineage, Franziska shares their attention to detail. Shee dislikes most sports, to begin with, preferring the joy of being inside. Sensha-do neatly takes care of this, and she dislikes thinking of it as a ‘sport’. In fact, everything Franzi likes, yet is a sport, she thinks of as nor a sport. An extremely loyal person, she, admittedly, is only in Sensha-do because she needs to watch-after Silvia.

Biography: Born to steelworkers, of Krupp in Essen, Franzi had a life of homeschooling. She stayed home, learnt something of the family business, and became good friends with the local village ‘strange person’, as it was, Silvia Kändler. As a young girl, it may come as a surprise that she rapidly developed feelings for Silvia, though it is unknown if the same could be said of her, and tasked himself with helping her, as it was.

Her parents, also rapidly, noticed this, and when they sent her away, sent Franziska along with her. As an intelligent young lady, she found applying and entering the school rather easy, and would go on to stay with her, as she joined Phobos.

No bois. unless is trap. :3

But seriously, it's not that we want to bar males from participating. It's just how the anime works. I know we have male characters in our teams, but I prefer to see them as exceptions than the norm, and feminine tendencies in said boys to confuse readers is mandatory.

I see.

Well, original application is edited.

Accepted! We're going to need to figure out how you're going to come in, though. Everyone's currently making their way to the park for a practice match. Very, very slowly... I'll ask you in the TG.

[Wolfenium]

Info on Astrid's IFV.

The BMD-3O (Russian: Обновить, Obnovit'), also known as the 'Halbbruder' (German: Half-Brother). An upgrade of the BMD series IFVs by Prussia's Machabeli Industries from the current BMD-3A1 (itself an earlier modification by Machabeli), the Halbbruder is slated as a strong contender in the airborne IFV market, in direct competition to Kurganmashzavod's BMD-4M. Named after a rank in the military of the Teutonic Knights, the BMD-3O integrates the old BMD series with newly-available Western technology, bringing the vehicle in line with NATO standards as part of Prussian defence strategy. With a completely redesigned turret based on the M2 Bradley, the BMD-3O is armed with two primary armaments, a 30mm Mk44 Bushmaster II and a 100mm rifled gun (based on the 2A70 gun/launcher), capable of firing an indigenous development of the 9M117 Bastion ATGM, the Djerid.

Like many of Machabeli's products, the components of the BMD-3s inherited from the Soviet Union, particularly the 2A70 gun and the 9M117 Bastion ATGMs, were painstakingly reverse-engineered and replicated, with obsolete parts replaced with more advanced parts or redesigned. When unveiled in Prussia's 20th anniversary celebrations in 2011, many were quick to note the similarities with the Russian BMD-4. Some in Russia even accused Prussia of military espionage, with a stolen BMD-4 design disguised with a Bradley-esque turret. However, Machabeli and Prussia's defence ministry had steadfastly denied allegations, stating the difference in the upgrade package used for the BMD-3O. With an export variant upgrade package being marketed to countries in the former Soviet bloc (alongside with the BMP-3O), the company had already secured deals with Ukraine and Uzbekistan to modernize their BMD-1 and 2 stocks.

[Britanania]

Out of curiosity, is this still open? (I know it says it is, but I just wanted to check)

[Wolfenium]

Out of curiosity, is this still open? (I know it says it is, but I just wanted to check)

Yea, it's still open. :3

[Britanania]

Out of curiosity, is this still open? (I know it says it is, but I just wanted to check)

Yea, it's still open. :3

Sugoi!

So if I read the OP correctly, I app as an entire team, not just a single character, and that all of the player characters are from the same school, right?

[Wolfenium]

Yea, it's still open. :3

Sugoi!

So if I read the OP correctly, I app as an entire team, not just a single character, and that all of the player characters are from the same school, right?

Yes, you read right.

[Britanania]

Sugoi!

So if I read the OP correctly, I app as an entire team, not just a single character, and that all of the player characters are from the same school, right?

Yes, you read right.

Fantastic, expect an app up soon. My Internet has been rather slow/non existent lately, so the app may not be up until tomorrow lol

[Britanania]

Part One - Team Application

Name: Stag Team
Armoured Fighting Vehicle: Type 97 ShinHoTo Chi-Ha
Crew Setup:
Commander/Radio Operator: Nara Haruhi
Gunner: Yamanka Hikari
Loader: Kujo Reimi
Driver: Yoshikage Misa

RP Sample: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=383201

Part Two - Character Applications

Name: Nara Haruhi
Age : 17
Role: Commander
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Shy and soft spoken, Haruhi might not seem like an obvious choice as a Sensha-do commander. However, behind her sweet and shy appearance, Haruhi is a tactical genius who commands the respect of her team.
Biography: The eldest daughter of one of Japan's most respected tankery schools, Haruhi requested and was sent to Rauschen Girls High School to prove her worth and the worth of her family's tradition in the European Tournament

Name: Yamanka Hikari
Age : 17
Role: Gunner
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Loud, cheerful, and gregarious, Hikari is the virtual opposite of her best friend, Haruhi. Whilst not as brilliant as Haruhi, Hikari more than makes up for her lack of intelligence with her beautiful looks and battlefield instinct.
Biography: The Yamanka clan as followed the Nara clan in the tradition of Sensha-do for generations, and even before the introduction of tankery they served the Nara in the ways of battle. Hikari naturally followed Haruhi when she decided to join the European tournament as her loyal gunner, eager to assist her friend.

Name: Kujo Reimi
Age :16
Role: Loader
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Japanese-American
Personality: Goofy, quick to crack a joke, and all around likeable, Reimi combines a laid back attitude with the hard work of the team's loader
Biography: The daughter of an American mother and Japanese father, Reimi spent most of her life in the United States before moving to Japan in high-school to learn the art of tankery. A friend of Misa, Reimi decided to go to Europe because it sounded like a fun time.

Name: Yoshikage Misa
Age : 15
Role: Driver
Appearance/Pic:

Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Obsessive, loud, and the your typical Otaku, Misa is also a brilliant engineer with intricate knowledge of tanks, making her the ideal individual to drive Stag Team
Biography: Reimi's best friend, Misa is an Otaku with many hobbies, tankery being her main obsession. While she isn't a tactician like Haruhi or a soldier like Hikari, Misa knows tanks in and out and wanted to go with Reini and Stag Team in order to learn more from the European tank schools.

[Wolfenium]

Part One - Team Application

Name: Stag Team
Armoured Fighting Vehicle: Type 97 ShinHoTo Chi-Ha
Crew Setup:
Commander/Radio Operator: Nara Haruhi
Gunner: Yamanka Hikari
Loader: Kujo Reimi
Driver: Yoshikage Misa

RP Sample: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=383201

Part Two - Character Applications

Name: Nara Haruhi
Age : 17
Role: Commander
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Shy and soft spoken, Haruhi might not seem like an obvious choice as a Sensha-do commander. However, behind her sweet and shy appearance, Haruhi is a tactical genius who commands the respect of her team.
Biography: The eldest daughter of one of Japan's most respected tankery schools, Haruhi requested and was sent to Rauschen Girls High School to prove her worth and the worth of her family's tradition in the European Tournament

Name: Yamanka Hikari
Age : 17
Role: Gunner
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Loud, cheerful, and gregarious, Hikari is the virtual opposite of her best friend, Haruhi. Whilst not as brilliant as Haruhi, Hikari more than makes up for her lack of intelligence with her beautiful looks and battlefield instinct.
Biography: The Yamanka clan as followed the Nara clan in the tradition of Sensha-do for generations, and even before the introduction of tankery they served the Nara in the ways of battle. Hikari naturally followed Haruhi when she decided to join the European tournament as her loyal gunner, eager to assist her friend.

Name: Kujo Reimi
Age :16
Role: Loader
Appearance/Pic:
Nationality: American
Ethnicity: Japanese-American
Personality: Goofy, quick to crack a joke, and all around likeable, Reimi combines a laid back attitude with the hard work of the team's loader
Biography: The daughter of an American mother and Japanese father, Reimi spent most of her life in the United States before moving to Japan in high-school to learn the art of tankery. A friend of Misa, Reimi decided to go to Europe because it sounded like a fun time.

Name: Yoshikage Misa
Age : 15
Role: Driver
Appearance/Pic:

Nationality: Japanese
Ethnicity: Japanese
Personality: Obsessive, loud, and the your typical Otaku, Misa is also a brilliant engineer with intricate knowledge of tanks, making her the ideal individual to drive Stag Team
Biography: Reimi's best friend, Misa is an Otaku with many hobbies, tankery being her main obsession. While she isn't a tactician like Haruhi or a soldier like Hikari, Misa knows tanks in and out and wanted to go with Reini and Stag Team in order to learn more from the European tank schools.

You know, you are the third person to register a Chi-Ha in my RP. Not that I won't approve it by the tank alone, but you'd have to ask my Co-OP on this. He's using a Chi-Ha too. :V

Other than that, a bit more work on the girls' biographies and you're good to go. In particular, Rauschen's tank club is just one day old, with no prior news of the school setting one up. There's no way your team would have known it'll have one, or that they'll join the European Tournament.