KGG, you're good, but the app is a tad sparse.
Name: "I'm Emilia Jorgeir, nice t'meetcha."
Age: "I'm 43 standard years old by the Cyanian calendar. Ageslow is a wonderful thing."
Gender: "I'm a woman, if that wasn't apparent."
Species: "I know that there's quite the number of humanoids out there, but you shoulda taken a DNA scan of me when I came in, right? I'm human."
Nationality/Allegiance: "I was born n' raised in the Cyanian Empire - Gods save the King - but I don't serve in the Navy anymore. Happens when you piss off the wrong noble. Anyway, I was born on Freyr, but I work for money now. Still, I try to avoid working for species that either want humans dead or under mind control."
Physical appearance: "Take a picture, it'll last longer. 157 centimeters tall, caucasian human. Brown hair that I still keep short, lightly tanned skin. Cybernetic eye prosthetics that people tell me look like ancient welding goggles, only with green lenses - my eyes were green. There's nicer ones that look just like glass eyes, but you have to take 'em out every once in a while, and that's creepy. And they can't handle high-G turns that a fighter has to take, or the punchings a variable fighter has to make. My left arm and both legs are prosthetics, too. I used to wear glasses, and I keep 'em on me, but with these prosthetics I don't need 'em. I have some scars on my back and chest, and a few around my eyes - the prosthetics took longer than usual for my face to accept them, which almost put me out of service. Almost. I also have a lot of scars on my left shoulder area and left side - my legs were surgically removed, my arm? Not so much. I've got a tattoo of a pirate starship sailing through a burning cloud on my back - I think I got it when I was promoted to Captain, and one of a squadron of fighters on my right upper arm, flying above a green ocean."
Identifying Marks: "I keep a microwave pistol made out of an ancient Earth slugthrower - a Luger - on me at all times. Oh, and I have these big fuckin' welding goggle eye prosthetics. That's pretty obvious. I can make 'em glow, too, but it gives me a headache if I leave 'em on for too long."
Skills: "One doesn't last this long with a fighter without knowing how to handle it. And one doesn't get to be a leader of a whole squadron by merely being able to 'handle' it. I am good at flying a ship, especially smaller ones. I have great aim, and a great sense of when to shoot and when to keep your gods-damned fingers off the trigger. I don't fly pretty, but I fly pretty well. In walker and mechanical mode it's even uglier to look at - I don't 'fight like a heroine' as some people say. That's not the fucking point - I fight to win."
"Of course, I also know how to maintain the thing - mechanics aren't easy to come by in the outer fringes, and my Piggy's so souped up half the half of them that can tell between an exhaust port and a porta-potty wouldn't know what to do with it. So I've come to learn and know my way around machines. Don't expect me to know my way around a cruise liner, though. Not many of them on the fringes anyway. So I keep my Piggy in pristine shape, at least mechanically. Bharazas always have stains on the outside, and nothin' can fix that. Dirty birds."
"I've got skills unrelated to vehicular combat, too. I can fight well and fight hard, thanks to cybernetic implants, I can connect to most modern electronics thanks to my brain stem implant, I can jump four meters in the air, I've got strong muscles, strong bones, I can fish well enough to catch king sharks, I can sail a sailboat by myself, I can swim like a fish, that sort of thing. Speaking of fish, I opted out for the more expensive nanobots for electrosensory abilities. I'm no shark but they're pretty damn sensitive even out of water."
Personality: "I'm what the kids call 'cynical'. I have been called 'more classless than a Communist utopia' which may have caused my *ahem* dismissal from the Imperial Navy. I've been called rude, because I don't have much in the way of a mental or verbal filter. I've even been called crass, which I take offense to because crassness implies a lack of intelligence. I've also been told that I protect my squadron like a beast possessed, and that I have a good heart. Not sure about those, but that's what I've heard. Hey, why are you asking about this anyway? Shouldn't there be a psych eval in my résumé?"
Weaknesses: "You're asking me that, on this planet? You better be real damn good at keeping secrets, and have real damn good soundproofing."
"And shut the fucking door. Alright? Okay. I can take a punch, I can give a punch, fine. I'm not all that good with weapons. Sure, I can swing a sword, but any dumbass can do that, and I didn't pay much attention to swordsmanship in officer's training - I was under the firm impression that once I got into sword range I'd have either shot the bastard, kicked the bastard, or be dead. I may be wrong about that. And as strong as the prosthetics make me, I'm still not a hulk, so I'm not physically that strong. I can't sit still, I have to be moving - I think that's from training. And... I suppose I may not be good with any firearm bigger than a pistol or a PDW outside of mech weapons. And that's the computer doing the work, so it hardly counts."
Likes/dislikes: "I like beer, I like rum, I like flying, I like fighting, I like a warm meal and a bed with someone to share it with, noisily. I like working with my hands, I enjoy the use of holodecks and holonovels (and the regular ones, because you can't EMP a paperback). I root for the underdog. I like old music. I like fishing, I like sailing, I like the beach."
"I don't like the Cipa Navy, I don't like dealing with their ships, I don't much like the looking at 'em in general. I don't like being stuck in one place for long, I gotta keep on the move. I don't like bein' bored, though I'm good at keeping from bein' bored. I don't like to see innocent people getting hurt."
Interests: "Besides machining, I do a bit of woodworking as a hobby, and I like to use adventure holonovels. Oh, and fishing. And sailing. Nautical activities and the like."
Fears: "Spiders. I hate spiders, and spiders hate me, and that's okay because if I ever see a spider or something spider-like, I'll kill it, no hesitation. Spiders can fuck right off. There's also death by decompression. Sure, you're trained to handle it in the Imperial Navy, but it's the farthest thing from pleasant, feeling like an overfilled balloon. I also don't like the idea of being dead in the water or somehow being unable to maneuver due to damage to my ship - that fear may have also been trained into me, but I probably would've ended up being piss-myself terrified of it anyway. Same with being paralyzed."
Bio: "Pfft, what? You want my life story, too? Well... okay, I guess, but you're paying for all the Dark n' Stormies it'll take to share it all."
"Right then. I was born on Freyr on Bala Bala Island, a quiet little spit of land twice the size of Manhattan in the middle of the ocean whose most remarkable features are proximity to some of the better deep-water fishing on Freyr and a regional spaceport. My family had been there about as long as there had been humans on Freyr, some two hundred years, and we made a decent amount of cash catching elephant crabs and Freyan razorback marlins and selling the meat, shells, and beaks. Damn good meat, but I digress."
"Besides fishing and crabbing, my family had a history in the military, mostly in the Cyanian Navy. Pappy had even served in the Royal Naval Commandos in the campaign to take back Antediluvia from the lizards, and Grandma had served in a fighter squadron to provide him air cover - she got shot down, that was how they met. I guess their stories rubbed off on me, especially hers, and that's how I ended up in a fighter's cockpit."
"Training was interesting to say the least. So was getting there. Freyr is pretty far from Mars, but you still have to get to Mars to take flight officer's training for fighter school - officer schools are evenly spread out no less than three month's worth of travel apart from each other, and Freyr is two and a half months away from Mars. It was a long journey on a retired liner, and I was put in second-class with the rest of those that could afford it. I almost used Pappy's service to get myself into first with the nobles and upper crust and the like, but he had very plainly told me that I'd best save it for a situation that really needed it, like squeezing into higher ranks - knowing people and being related to heroes helped more than money or even social class ever could. So I did. Nearly got put in steerage a few times after I backed out of a meal or two, but I managed."
"The Officer's Training Program, unlike most government services, gave no shits about how blue your metaphorical blood was. Officially. In reality, it was another matter, but at least they didn't sort you by social class. The commissioner was more than welcoming and willing to get me into officer training, though the way he looked at those of us from lower economic classes made me think he just considered himself a sugar daddy. I consider it a miracle I didn't kick him in the nuts."
"One part people don't often mention is the amount of modification they have to put into you to let you fly fighters. They cut off your legs so you don't have to worry about G-forces as much in atmo. Reinforced bones with carbon nanostructures. Increased blood/oxygen saturation to let you breathe in thinner air, plus heart implants to increase cardiac efficiency. Training via a combination of testing, practicum, and mental electrostimulation. Cochlear implants to protect hearing, biojel injected to the vestibular system to improve balance. A codec transceiver implanted into the larynx. Nanobotic injections to grant electrosensory abilities for control and detection, and lastly an implant at the base of the spine to connect to the fighter's control system directly in emergencies."
"From there I went to the Fighter Corps, which officers shared with conscripts and enlistees until after we got through advanced flight training. Some stout-looking guy in front of me got turned down after the medical exam - something about his eyes. I wore glasses, and I got in after they gave me laser eye surgery to fix my eyes to the basic flying level needed - kept the glasses though - so I think they just didn't like him. Or maybe some noble didn't like him. Who knows."
"Training was tough on us. Many dropped out; because they couldn't think in three dimensions, because they got scared, because they pissed off a noble, or because they pissed off a DI - and if you did the latter, not even being the Duke of Mars could save you. I know, because our DI said that the previous Duke of Mars had tried, and that's why he served his service flying cargo ships. We were taught to move and act as a group, but not be afraid to strike out on one's own if the need or opportunity arose. We were taught to never stop moving; even the toughest fighter can't take much punishment and even computers have more difficulty hitting a moving target."
"Training lasted a full year, and I was then put in the 237th Strike Fighter Squadron, the 'Orks'. We were assigned to the New Rhodesian sector, in the Scutum-Centaurus Arm no more than a thousand lightyears from the boundaries between Cyania, the Tarkellians, and the Cipas. It was dead center in a region of space that had changed hands between the three powers and more local ones almost nonstop for centuries, and New Rhodesia itself had frequently fallen victim to such changes in ownership - however it had originally been a human colony, founded before even the fall of Rheim, and so Cyania fought the hardest to keep the system."
"I won't bore you with war stories, but I will say I did damn well for myself. We sailed around on the HMS Uruk-hai escorting transports through dangerous regions most of the time, occasionally providing close-air support, engaging in counterinsurgency, and of course, bashing the Cipa's lizard faces in - attacking their transports, salting their fields, sinking their ships, sometimes even stealing them if we could get away with it. Strangely we didn't deal with the Tarkellians much - their main base world in the region had been blown up a few weeks before I was assigned to the squadron, and I guess they were licking their wounds."
"I rose through the ranks. Once I made Captain they took me down to New Rhdoesia's capital of Praetoria to get prosthetic eyes, all the better to see and aim with. It took a while to get used to them, though maybe it was because I had just lost my arm to a Cipa cruiser's laser lances and was getting used to the arm, too. Once I got used to them though, I got even better, ending up commanding my own flight of fighters on board the Uruk."
"I was two weeks from Major and command of second flight when it happened. We were transporting a noble VIP from New Rhodesia to Gavarkis, some three hundred lightyears away. It was a simple mission, with a simple problem - a pair of Cipa destroyers dropped out of warp to ruin everyone's day. We dealt with them quickly and efficiently in the 237th's own special, brutal way, while looking out for our own - I like to keep the safety of my crew a priority over the safety of the cargo for the most part, and this noble wasn't a big deal in my mind. The transport was damaged, but it was nothing serious - engine four had been taken out and the galley had been smashed by a Cipa fighter slamming into it."
"Had that been it, things would have been fine because the noble in question was a forgiving man, but after we dealt with the destroyers a trio of heavy cruisers appeared, and we weren't equipped to handle that much. The VIP ship was destroyed, and most of my squadron lost with it. I managed to just barely save the VIP, but the effort damaged my engines and I was left adrift in space while the Cipas decided whether or not to finish me off themselves or let the cold of space take me. They decided on the latter, but only after hanging around for three days and capturing as many escape pods as they could."
"For three more days the two of us sat in that cockpit, and the noble barely survived because he refused to eat until I had. We were rescued by a wrecking crew which took us back to Rhodesia, where the noble's family decided to be assholes and, much to his chagrin, play pin-the-blame-on-the-surviving officer. I was at least given an 'honorable discharge' and got to keep my Piggy thanks in part to me pulling my grandfather's service on them, but we both knew that I was being kicked out, and there wasn't dick I could do about it because, hero or granddaughter of a hero or no, I was just the daughter of some fisherman on a fringe planet."
"And thus was I set adrift in the wind, left to wander the fringes of Cyanian space, where I slowly made my way north to the edge of the galaxy and the edge of the Great Void. Honorable my discharge may have been, but noble gossip is a powerful force to reckon with, and getting a new job with the Empire legitimately is difficult. So here I am."
Reason for Being on Thrawn B7: "I need the money, what's it to ya?"
RP Sample: "No."
CAPTAIN TO ENTERPRISE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Name: Pig Sticker
Make and model: Bristil Br-233 Bharaza Mk III
Appearance: "
You know what it is, bitch. She's
bottle green with a white stripe down the back but markings are otherwise similar to this one."
Length, Width, Height: "14.23 meters long, 3.84 meters tall, and with a wingspan of 14.78 meters with them fully extended. Mech mode's 12.68 meters tall, walker's about 9 meters tall."
Weapons and Shielding: "6 positron cannons, four under and two over-wing pylons and two fuselage pylons. She's got military-grade ablative armor and a Kremaltek Type III shield generator. No I'm not telling you how thick the armor is."
Propulsion: "She's got a Rolls-Royce Severn axial sublight jet and a Sado-Wyy S302 SL drive for faster-than-light travel. Even the Mk V Bharazas don't pack that much in the trunk."
Cargo capacity: "Fuck, I mean... I could put a big duffle bag in the WSO seat, maybe a few beer cases? The Bharaza wasn't exactly designed to have much extraneous space. I got a fuel pod that can double as storage for up to 30k kilos, but even with the compartmentalization, that's less fuel for me, so I don't like using it for long."
Seats: "Two, technically."
Special Features: "She's been updated beyond what a Mk III should be capable, hell even the current Mk Vs are inferior to her in most ways. The WSO's role has been filled by my drone. And a whole lot of other... shall we say not fully licit mods."
ALL I ASK IS A TALL SHIP