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Ace Combat: Symphony of Sevres (OOC)

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Rupudska
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 20621
Founded: Sep 16, 2010
Left-Leaning College State

Ace Combat: Symphony of Sevres (OOC)

Postby Rupudska » Fri Dec 04, 2020 9:55 pm

Up, down, flying around
Looping the loop and defying the ground
They're all frightfully keen
Those magnificent men in their flying machines!


Image

IC

"The future is in the skies." - Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

"The War to End War", right? What a joke.

When the Huns took Paris in 1918, they didn't know what they were about to unleash on the world. Or perhaps they did, and knew that even if they couldn't win before the Yanks came marching in, France would never survive.

1919 was a bad year to be in France. The war had been won, but Germany had held onto Paris from April to their surrender in November, and everyone was pointing fingers at everyone else as to which political party, which ethnic group, which family was to blame. It all came to a head on December 12th, a year, a month, and a day after the end of the last war. Radical members from the SFIO split from the party, formed a communist one, and seized control of Le Havre. It all spiraled outward from there - first the Nord-Pas-de-Calais, then most of the Channel coast, and by mid-1920 France was as much a damned checkerboard of power blocs as China, with it spreading as far as the colonies.

The Americans tried to help, they really did, but they had been pulling out their troops almost from the beginning, and while words of support were fine, suggesting to
actually help the French government was political suicide, as proven by Wilson's crushing defeat. No one else had the energy to help, and as anti-communist as Germany already was, the Kaiser was uninterested (and by treaty un-allowed) to involve what remained of the Reichswehr.

The French Republic held on to control of Paris just long enough to lay claim to a chunk of Anatolia before the communists chased them into Algeria and declared their People's Republic of France. The next few years saw colonists and locals all across French Africa waging wars of liberation and fury against the Communists and Republicans alike, Germany quietly being given back the Ruhr, and the Republicans solidifying their hold on North Africa and Syria, while fortifying Cilicia from what remained of the Communist's Mediterranean fleet - with help from Britain and, irony of ironies, the Ottomans.

The rest of the world was not idle in this time. America's slide to isolationism continued as her economy continued to soar. A man by the name of Benito Mussolini all but seized power in Italy under his nationalist party and began the long road of building an empire. Greece, united in thought and mind under the King and Venizelos, pushed more and more for the realization of its Great Idea - indeed, it was partly Greece's assistance in crushing the Turkish nationalist movement that has allowed the Treaty of Sevres to be enforced so. Poland, barely two years old, inflicted a stunning defeat on the Soviets and expanded eastward.

Austria soon followed Italy in its march to nationalist fervor as the Fatherland Front gained power, as did Portugal, while Spain, falling to a civil war of its own, went the opposite direction. The German Empire, concerned as it was about Communist influence, was equally worried about fascists, and set about repairing burnt bridges with its enemies from the last war. The remnants of Franco's forces fled the continent. Some went to Corsica, where some of the fascists from France's civil war fled themselves, while others went to the French colonist-led states of east and central Africa, which welcomed them with open arms and recruitment papers.

The 1920s ended with Europe divided among communists and fascists, republicans and monarchists, and totalitarians and puppets. China's warlords slowly eat themselves alive, and Africa is beginning to see the sparks of national identity itself. The American stock market crash in October was disastrous, but President Hoover managed to prevent it from becoming catastrophe. Though it did not save his presidency, the Republicans can at least claim they did their damndest and succeeded. Without a slump to pull America out of, President Roosevelt's plans may be overly ambitious, but he seems intent to steer his charted course.

Here in Constantinople, though, a government of iron hands, or even a strong government, is but a distant dream. As Wyatt Earp put it in a graduation speech he gave to the city's police force academy, it was as if the Wild West had left America and moved to Anatolia. The government's propped up by the League of Nations and the Ottomans both, mostly as a buffer against Greek expansionism, but influence spreads inward by the day and the Greeks already essentially control the Gallipoli Peninsula except for the coast of the Straits themselves.

Besides the government, the Republic of the Marmara's people are ruled, in some capacity or another, by dozens of rebel groups, political cliques, and simple gangs. Two of the three largest are from outside sources. Largest of them is the National Organization of Bosphoran Fighters, or EOBA. Essentially a branch of the Golden Dawn Party, itself an offshoot of the Freethinker's Party, the EOBA seeks little more than unification with Greece. A lot of organizations seek that, especially in Marmaran Thrace and in the south, but the policies EOBA seeks to inflict on the people of Marmara are a step beyond even fascism - like the Golden Dawn, the EOBA is not nearly as tolerant of Jews as the Freethinker's Party is, though both are equally opposed to the existence of other minorities in what they see as rightfully Greek land. The EOBA hates anyone and anything that isn't Greek, Greek Orthodox, and their own twisted strain of Greek Orthodox. Even If that requires cleansing the streets of Constantinople.

The next largest are the Grey Wolves. In many ways, the Grey Wolves and EOBA are similar. Both are irredentist, extreme nationalist organizations with opinions on members of races besides their chosen one ranging from secretly genocidal to openly genocidal, both have the alleged support of outside forces (though the Nationalist Movement Party disavows any connection to the Grey Wolves), both regularly burn books in the streets, and both have had members arrested for trying to burn people instead of simply shooting at them from cars and aircraft. The Grey Wolves differ from the EOBA in three ways, really - the Grey Wolves are run by and for Turks, the Grey Wolves are Pan-Turkic, and the Grey Wolves are virulently Islamist. While not nearly as extreme or fundamentalist as some fringe organizations in eastern Anatolia and northern Iraq, it nonetheless shares in their desire to force Islamic law down the throats of anyone under their control.

Last and strangest of the big three is the Constantine Club. The Grey Wolves want to revitalize the Ottoman empire, the EOBA seeks a return to Byzantine rule, the Constantine Club seeks to turn the clock back farther, back when Rome was the center of the universe for everyone west of the Urals and north of the Sahel. They see Constantinople as a good enough starting point, hence their name. Unlike the other two, it cares not for skin, race, or even gender amongst its members - only wisdom, knowledge of the system of the Roman Republic, and complete loyalty to the Club is required. As a result, its members are on average more educated than the others - fanatics, yes, but historians and those with a fascination for history have been drawn into its legions, along with the elite who see a bit of senatorial skill in their veins.

In attempting to maintain control, the Republic of the Marmara's government is willing to stop at almost nothing, so long as support continues to come from outside. In that vein, they have ironically taken a Byzantine approach in hiring mercenaries by the score to bolster its military, and like the Constantine Club, anyone is accepted that passes the requirements. Adventurers, mercenaries, sellswords, anyone - men and women, black and white, adult and even a few children, allegedly, in the army, navy, and air force.

You are a member of the latter - the 27th Hetaireia Squadron, a squadron consisting of anyone flying anything capable of serving in a military fashion. Like all Hetaireia squadrons, there is little standardization of equipment, and no standardization of role - everything from counter-insurgency to bomber escort, should the need arise.

And with tensions brewing the world over, and alliances being formed in the open and in darkened rooms, the need will no doubt arise. 1935 is going to be one hell of a year.

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Welcome, brothers in arms, to the 27th Hetaireia (Mercenary) Squadron (Aeneas) of the Republic of the Marmara Air Force. It is December 1, 1934. Due to the small size of both the Republic and its military, along with the Wild West-esque nature of its governing ability (plus the strength of the three competing groups on the streets) it has called upon mercenaries both from and out of militaries around the globe to plug whatever gaps in capability they may have - and there are many gaps. The situation in the world is tense - Italy has spent the better part of a decade building up its industrial strength, as have Greece and Yugoslavia to lesser extents, and Europe is divided amongst republicans, communists, monarchists, and fascists. The world fears another European war, but none more than Marmara, which lies directly in the path of whoever wants to get into (or out of) the Black Sea.



This is an Ace Combat RP where you, the players, will participate as a mercenary air squadron. You will be given missions and awarded a paycheck after each sortie, the amount of which is predetermined plus additional bounties granted for each kill (land, sea, or air). This is a realistic take on Ace Combat so act accordingly. Know the limitations of your aircraft. An Airco DH.4 is unlikely to damage a B-17 flying at 35,000 feet. For that matter, it probably wouldn't be doing much of anything at 35,000 feet besides dropping like a rock. This also means a realistic gun pod/bomb/rocket count. I also ask that one use appropriate jargon to the best of their abilities, in appropriate amounts. This RP will feature some semi-realistic and unrealistic exotics, to fit with the dieselpunk flair - electric guns, grenade launchers, super-battleships, there might even be zeppelins.

Kills will be allowed for the player to dictate so long as self-moderation is employed. Not every cannon/bomb/rocket should find its target, and unlike the games you are not a master Ace with no equal. If this trust is abused then I and my Co-OP will be forced to intervene, something which I hope to avoid.

You may have a maximum of two pilot characters, plus however many characters are needed to fly the aircraft you select. However, you will need to make an app for each one - I'll be more lenient with flight crew apps, however. NPCs can be controlled by players to a small degree so long as they are not important to the story. Major NPC's will be controlled by OP, Co-OP, or anyone given permission to do so.
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Here are the planes of note of the world, at least the ones that are 'reputably' for sale via the means through which you obtain planes. Isn't mass production great? As long as you have the money, you can get just about any plane in the world! Your current price limit is $45,000. Variants start at an extra 5 thousand, except for planes that cost less than 15k, in which they cost $2500. The first in line is the least expensive, the next one down costs $1k/$500 more than the first one, the next $750/250 more than the second, etc. Prices are subject to change, so keep that in mind. The parenthesis has two numbers - the number of crew needed, and the price. The brackets afterwards are the variants.

Exotic weapons and mods - which includes any RL weapons designed and built after January 1, 1935, excepting ones that came standard/built-in to aircraft variants built after that date costs money to purchase for your craft, though if they require reloading, the ammunition for them does not. If you buy a new plane that isn't by the same nation, you will most likely need to buy a new exotic weapon. They are in the spoiler below this one.

If you lose your airplane, you will be reimbursed for half the price of the base model. Try not to lose too many unless you want to be ground crew.

TIER I
Attackers:
Bombers:
Fighters:
Naval Fighters:
Night Fighters:
Torpedo Bombers:

TIER II
Attackers:
Bombers:
Dive Bombers:Fighters:Multiroles:Naval Fighters:Night Fighters:Torpedo Bombers:
TIER III
Attackers:Bombers:Dive Bombers:Fighters:Multiroles:Naval Fighters:Night Fighters:
Torpedo Bombers:
TIER IV
Attackers: Bombers:Dive Bombers:Fighters:Heavy Fighters:Naval Fighters:Night Fighters:Torpedo Bombers:
TIER V
Attackers:Bombers:Dive Bombers:Fighters:Heavy Fighters:Multiroles:Naval Fighters:Night Fighters:Torpedo Bombers:
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Great Powers:
  • Britsh Empire:
  • People's Republic of France:
  • French Third Republic:
  • German Empire:
  • Kingdom of Italy:
  • Empire of Japan:
  • Soviet Union:
  • United States of America:
Middle Powers:
  • Argentina
  • Australia
  • Brazil
  • Canada
  • China
  • Ethiopia
  • Greece
  • Hashemite Arabia
  • Mexico
  • The Netherlands
  • Ottoman Empire
  • Persia
  • Poland
  • Portugal
  • South Africa
  • Spain
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  1. Thou shalt obey OP, my word is law.
    • Co-OP, to be determined, his word is also law.
  2. Oh, just make decent posts. I've long since passed the need to care about post length, so long as you don't spam one-liners.
  3. No godmodding. Simple as that.
  4. Three strikes and you get shot down.
  5. If you are inactive for a week or more, please TG me before replying with your current character. I may ask you to create a new one. Or just pester me on Discord.
  6. Keep it PG-13.
  7. I expect a certain amount of research to be done on the plane you're selecting. Know what you're buying, and know what it is and is not capable of.
  8. Every time you reference Top Gun, I get a quarter. From you.
⑨. Have fun, and as always, stay frosty.

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Everything in grey in the character app is optional.
Code: Select all
[floatright][size=200][background=black][color=#FFBF00](SURNAME, INITIALS)[/color][/background][/size][/floatright]
[floatleft][box](Image go here, optional, you can also use Appearance below instead if you want, recommend a pic less than 800 pixels tall)[/box][/floatleft][blocktext][b]+++Name:[/b] (Include nicknames and titles)
    [b]+++Age (18 at youngest):[/b]
    [b]+++Sex:[/b]
    [color=grey][b]+++Sexual Orientation:[/b][/color]
    [b]+++Appearance:[/b] (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but put in height and weight regardless)
    [b]+++Identifying Marks:[/b] (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but describe anything hidden in the image, like tattoos)

    [b]+++Rank (O-1 to O-3):[/b] (O-3 is first come first serve and I WILL nitpick your app if I don't know you well)
    [b]+++Call sign:[/b]

    [b]+++Aircraft:[/b]
    [color=grey][b]+++Aircraft Appearance:[/b][/color]
    [color=grey][b]+++Emblem:[/b][/color]
    [color=grey][b]+++Modifications:[/b][/color]
    [b]+++Funds:[/b]

    [b]+++Psychological Analysis:[/b] (personality)
    [b]+++Weaknesses:[/b]
    [color=grey][b]+++Likes/Dislikes:[/b][/color]
    [color=grey][b]+++Interests:[/b][/color]
    [b]+++Fears:[/b]

    [b]+++Nationality:[/b]
    [color=grey][b]+++Ethnicity:[/b][/color]
    [color=grey][b]+++Languages Spoken:[/b][/color]
    [b]+++Religion:[/b]
    [b]+++Birthplace:[/b]
    [b]+++Permanent Residence:[/b]
    [color=grey][b]+++Criminal History:[/b][/color] (If any)
    [b]+++Skills:[/b] (Don't go overboard)
   
    [b]+++Bio:[/b]
    [b]+++Why You're Here:[/b]

    [b]+++RP Example:[/b] (Members of WoF, who have been invited via Discord, or who were in Ace Combat: Broken Line do not need to provide this)

[b][color=#FFB300]STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE[/color] (DO NOT REMOVE)[/b][/blocktext]
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Upgrades will be available for older aircraft (newer planes can be upgraded as well with increased costs) with the goal of keeping low-Tier planes competitive for longer against more advanced, stronger foes. There is no strict system to follow when upgrading (official stats to consider) and this will simply be for RP purposes. Note, however, that an upgraded plane should perform better than stock aircraft of the same Tier, but will still be outclassed to some degree by those in the next Tier, for the most part. A heavily upgraded plane might be equal, but keep in mind that some planes just cannot stay competitive forever. If you try and send a heavily-modded SPAD against a Focke-Wulf, all you're doing is providing it with target practice.

Wehrner and Noah, the primary supplier to mercenary squadrons in the Republic of the Marmara, has an office and storefront located within Constantinople, as well as several dozen throughout the Ottoman Empire and Europe, especially in its home country of Scotland. This system is subject to change as needed.


ENGINE
- Engine Efficiency
($2,000 + $250 per additional engine + $250 x Tier)
Minor upgrade to improve both fuel efficiency and engine responsiveness without sacrificing speed or performance.

- Engine Overhaul
($2,000 + $500 per additional engine + $1,000 x Tier)
The engine is completely rebuilt from the ground up, granting a boost to maximum speed and performance.

- Engine Replacement
($5,000 + $750 per additional engine + $1,500 x Tier)
The engine is replaced entirely with a more powerful/reliable/efficient engine of the same type that will fit. Stability issues may arise, however, for airframes that cannot handle the change output or weight, and depending on the engine range or speed may also be impacted negatively. Caution is advised.

SURVIVAL
- Airframe Durability
($5,000 + $1,000 x Tier)
The internal structure is strengthened to better withstand more vigorous maneuvers, and/or heavier equipment.

- Additional Armor
($5,000 + $750 x Tier)
Armor is added around the cockpit and critical parts of the aircraft. The degree to which it impacts performance depends on the airframe.

- Radar Countermeasures
($2,000 + $75 x Tier)
For such an advanced technology, it sure is odd that simple strands of aluminum are enough to fool it.

- Self-Sealing Fuel Tanks
($2,000 + $500 x Tier + $100 x Number of tanks)
A tank lined with several layers of rubber and fabric, vulcanized rubber, and natural rubber that swell when the tank is punctured, sealing up said puncture. Can't stop every bullet.

WEAPONS
- Anti-Tank Cannon
($7,500 + $500 x Tier)
A large cannon that fires rounds powerful enough to destroy medium tanks and anything more lightly armored than that. Heavy.

- Hardpoint Increase I
($5,000 + ( $1,000 x Tier x 2) )
Two additional hardpoints are added to the plane if possible. Weight limits still apply.

- Hardpoint Increase II
($10,000 + ( $1,500 x Tier x 3 ) )
Two additional hardpoints are added to the plane if possible. Requires Hardpoint Increase I. Weight limits still apply.

- Heavy Anti-Tank Cannon
($10,000 + $1,000 x Tier)
...how did you even fit this on the plane?

- Machine Gun Pod
($5,000 + $250 x Tier)
A pod with a single machine gun, the same model as the largest one on your aircraft that isn't mounted on a turret or a rear cockpit. Note that is "gun" and not "cannon".

- Dual Machine Gun Pod
($5,500 + $300 x Tier)
Obviously.

- Heavy Machine Gun Pod
($7,500 + $500 x Tier)
A pod with a single M2 Browning machine gun, or whatever equivalent is used by the nation that built your airplane. Heavy, of course.

- Torpedo Mount
($10,000 + $1,000 x Tier)
Enables your plane to carry torpedoes at a tremendous cost of maneuverability.

EXOTICS
- Anti-Aircraft Rocket
($5,000 + ( $500 x Tier x 2) )
A decently-sized unguided rocket with a large warhead, designed primarily to take out bombers.

- Anti-Ship Missile
($10,000 + ( $1,000 x Tier x 2) )
A rocket-propelled bomb guided to the target via joystick.

- Guided Glider Bomb
($7,500 + $750 x Tier)
An anti-ship bomb primarily, it is guided to the target by the pilot via a remote-control joystick. A plane needs to be able to power the joystick, the remote controller, and carry the bomb.

- Long-Range Anti-Aircraft Missile
($15,000 + ( $1,500 x Tier x 3) )
An anti-air missile with a range of 30 kilometers and capable of obliterating most bombers. Guided via joystick, radio control, and a telescope.

- Multi Machine Gun Pod
($7,500 + ( $500 x Tier x 2 ) )
A pod with eight (8) M3 Browning machine guns in it or the equivalent from the nation that built your plane. Heavy, noisy, and obliterates anything in its path that isn't a tank.

- Radar Pod
($10,000 + ( $1,000 x Tier x 2 ) )
A vision of the future, radar allows enemy aircraft to be detected beyond visual range or at night. A plane needs both a pylon to attach the pod, and a strong enough engine to generate the electricity needed to run both it and the display.

- Short-Range Anti-Aircraft Missile
($10,000 + ( $1,000 x Tier x 2 ) )
An anti-air missile guided via a wire control, with a range of "only" a handful of kilometers. Looks like a toy.

- Tesla Cannon
($15,000 + ( $1,500 x Tier x 3 ) )
A cannon that fires a beam of ions that create a tremendous potential difference. The result is a literal bolt of lightning leaping from the cannon's tip to the target, and anything near it if there's enough metal nearby. It is, sadly, enormous, and if you get the angle wrong you may just end up frying your own plane.

- Torpedo Missile
($12,500 + ($750 x Tier x 2) )
An anti-ship missile that functions as the above one except, upon closing within a few hundred meters of the target, it drops into the water and continues onward as a normal torpedo.

* 10% reimbursement for disassembly or 50% buyback during aircraft trade-in.
* Upgrades lost due to destruction of aircraft will not be replaced or refunded.
* Quality Assurance Guaranteed!
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This is how much your kills are worth. Note that this may change as needed, and that special circumstances may arise that do not follow the set bounty list. Keep track of your kills. OP and Co-OP will double check if things don't seem to add up, but we'd like a bit of self sufficiency. Also keep in mind that shared kills are shared evenly.

AIRCRAFT:
- Fighter (F#)
$500 x Tier Level

- Attacker (A#)
$300 x Tier Level

- Dive Bomber (DB#)
$250 x Tier Level

- Torpedo Bomber (TB#)
$300 x Tier Level

- Bomber (B)
$1,250

- Heavy Bomber (HB)
$2,000

- Reconnaissance (R)
$1,500

- Light/Medium Cargo (CAL)
$250

- Heavy Cargo (CAH)
$350

- Kamikaze Drone (UKAV)
$450

- Zeppelin (Z)
$2,500

- Zeppelin Carrier (ZCV)
$7,500

- ACE (ACE-F#)
$5,000 x Tier Level + $1,250
GROUND:
- Vehicle (G)
$125

- Light Armor (APC)
$250

- Tank, Light (TL)
$300

- Tank, Medium (T)
$400

- Tank Destroyer (JT)
$450

- Tank, Heavy (HT)
$500

- Tank, Electric (TE)
$1,500

- Landship (TB)
$5,000

- Artillery, Light (AL)
$300

- Artillery (A)
$750

- Artillery, Electric (AE)
$2,000

- Artillery, Heavy (AH)
$1,000

- Artillery, Superheavy (AS)
$2,500

- Artillery, Rocket (AR)
$1,250

- Mounted Machine Gun (MGM)
$100

- Machine Gun Nest (MG)
$250

- Heavy Machine Gun Nest (HMG)
$450

- Anti-Air (AA)
$375

- Anti-Air, Flak (AAF)
$500

- Surface-to-Air-Missile (SAM)
$1,000

- Cargo/Storage (C)
$250

- Structure, Light (SL)
$100

- Structure, Heavy (SH)
$400

- Structure, Super Heavy (SX)
$750

- Infantry (I)
$50 (Only killing a group/clustering of infantry counts for the bounty, for the purposes of the RP any ground hostiles not in vehicles are counted as Infantry regardless of them being troops or not)

- Cavalry (CAV)
$100 (In the case of Cavalry, driving the horse away from the combat zone will count as half a kill)
NAVAL
- Cargo (N)
$250

- Light (NL)
$500

- Frigate (NF)
$1,000

- Destroyer (ND)
$2,000

- Light Cruiser (CL)
$5,000

- Heavy Cruiser (CA)
$10,000

- Battlecruiser (CC)
$15,000

- Battleship (BB)
$20,000

- Dreadnought/Superdreadnought (DB)
$25,000

- Aircraft Carrier (CV)
$25,000

- Submarine (SSN)
$1,500

- Submersible Aircraft Carrier (SSV)
$30,000
Last edited by Rupudska on Sun Jan 24, 2021 12:16 pm, edited 6 times in total.
The Holy Roman Empire of Karlsland (MT/FanT & FT/FanT)
THE Strike Witches NationState
Best thread ever.|Ace Combat!
MT Factbook/FT Factbook|Embassy|Q&A
On Karlsland Witch Doctrine:
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties

Questers wrote:
Rupudska wrote:So do you fight with AK-47s or something even more primitive? Since I doubt any economy could reasonably sustain itself that way.
Presumably they use advanced technology like STRIKE WITCHES

User avatar
Rupudska
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 20621
Founded: Sep 16, 2010
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Rupudska » Fri Dec 04, 2020 9:55 pm

Last edited by Rupudska on Sat Dec 26, 2020 11:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
The Holy Roman Empire of Karlsland (MT/FanT & FT/FanT)
THE Strike Witches NationState
Best thread ever.|Ace Combat!
MT Factbook/FT Factbook|Embassy|Q&A
On Karlsland Witch Doctrine:
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties

Questers wrote:
Rupudska wrote:So do you fight with AK-47s or something even more primitive? Since I doubt any economy could reasonably sustain itself that way.
Presumably they use advanced technology like STRIKE WITCHES

User avatar
Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14851
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Sat Dec 05, 2020 7:18 am

A well-done piece of work! Expect an app within the next day or two.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

User avatar
Confederation of the Equator
Diplomat
 
Posts: 604
Founded: Jun 13, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Confederation of the Equator » Sat Dec 05, 2020 1:45 pm

Seems pretty great, I think I have an idea for this one, should app soon.
In loving memory of Vanquaria, slain unfairly by a pathetic moderator team. We stand strong.

User avatar
Wolfenium
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 10564
Founded: Jan 17, 2010
Father Knows Best State

Postby Wolfenium » Sat Dec 05, 2020 8:13 pm

I'll work on an app soonish.
Name: Wolfenium| Demonym: Wolfener/Wolfen| Tech Level: MT/PMT/FanTech (main timeline) or FT/FanTech
Factbook (under revamping): MT | PT
Characters: Imperial Registry of Houses (PT: Historical Archives)
Embassies: Wolfenium's Diplomatic Quarters - Now open to Embassies and Consulates
National Symbols (Applies for both MT/PMT and FT): Flag (Elaborate)|Anthem


/人 ‿‿ 人\ { Make a contract with me, and save me from the Homu-devil! )

User avatar
Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14851
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Mon Dec 07, 2020 12:33 pm

HARRIS, C.E.

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+++Name: "I've never been about nicknames. Clark is fine enough. Clark Harris, in full."
+++Age: "Verging on thirty."
+++Sex: "If you're offering."
+++Sexual Orientation: "I like my Greek and Turk women to be tall, tan, and taut. In terms of knockers and dumpers and thighs, I like 'em big and capable of murder by suffocation. The French paid me in women one month, back when I was deployed to the Congo, so I assume that you're asking a similar question. Yes, I will accept prostitutes as payment for the first month; after that, I need real money. I don't care if it's Mexican silver dollars or a whole bag of gold flakes, or paper script or what-have-you; I need money."
+++Appearance: "Definitely not built to be a jockey, like some of the other pilots I see around here. I'm six feet even, and I weigh in at one-hundred seventy pounds, even as well. Not a fatty, but not in the Olympic shape I was once in."
+++Identifying Marks: "I am sporting a fair number of scars. Most notable is my lack of a pinky finger on my left hand, and I have a special four-fingered glove that throws me off. Pinky got torn off in Nicaragua; got stuck in the wreckage and a Marine supposedly sliced it off with his knife so that they could pull me free. Shrapnel left a pock mark a half-inch below my right eye. Surgical scars run all around my back and chest, from where the Navy doctors have had to cut me open. On my neck and right breast, the skin is coarse and rugged leather; burn scar from my crash in Nicaragua."

"Clothing-wise, I usually wear my Marmaran uniform around. That RAF-style of a grey-blue pair of trousers and a jacket, with the trousers tucked into a pair of knee-length, sheepswool-lined leather flying boots. Sometimes I wear a black tie and white shirt; other times, I incorporate a scarf or ascot in place of the tie, or even a turtleneck. You'll never see me walking around with my top button secured. Some might call it pretentious for a mercenary to wear any sort of award on their uniform, much less ribbons from prior service. Above my left breast, I have a rack of four cloth ribbons. The top ribbon is for the Distinguished Flying Cross; next is the Nicaraguan Military Merit, followed by its Haitian counterpart. Lastly, I have a ribbon denoting a Navy/Marine Corps Commendation; oddly enough, I got that for a 'successful demonstration of how to land a malfunctioning aeroplane, for the benefit of the future aviators who will serve in the United States Armed Forces.' Above the rack are my wings. Got 'em the day I left Flight School."

"Do I carry a piece? Is the Pope a Catholic? I've collected numerous guns over my time; got four bolt rifles, two lever guns, a Mexican Mondragon that's not worth a shit, three shotguns, and ten handguns alone. You think that's a lot to transport and lug around the world? Not if you know how to move luggage. I keep my collection in a big-enough crate, locked tight and chained to my rack in case someone tries to jack 'em. What I carry most, is my .45; A Colt 1911. Worn on the belt, kept in a holster. It's your standard blued-steel US Government piece. Interestingly enough, I usually keep a longer weapon in the cockpit whenever I fly. I sawed off the barrel and stock of a Winchester M12, and put a sling on it. It's a good thing to keep on your person if you touch down on the wrong spot."

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): "O-2. Nothing special."
+++Call sign: "Jazzman."

+++Aircraft: "Currently, I'm running ground attack in a Fokker CV. I'm not married to it, but it's a short-term investment until I can afford a better craft, or die. The CV is a decent plane, ten-years-old yet still capable of competition with the higher-tiered aircraft."
+++Aircraft Appearance: "Got it painted in an olive drab scheme."
+++Emblem: "Other than the Marmara roundel and my identification code, nothing."
+++Modifications: "Like I said, I'm not married to the CV. That said, I've got some cash left over for mods. I've made this thing out as a powerful ground attack platform. Engine's been broken down and rebuilt for an overhaul, since the stock engine wouldn't get us airborne with the additional weight. Airframe's also been strengthened as to hold more firepower, enough to take on both man and machine alike. Two additional hardpoints, in addition to the stock bomb racks on either wing. The hardpoints each carry one M2 heavy machine gun. That beast will do a number to ground vehicles lighter than a medium tank, and in the event that I get intercepted, it'll rip apart almost any plane out there. This Fokker is heavier than sin, but I can get her into the air fine, and once I'm up there I can bring her down on any ground advance in the flip of a coin. I can't fly against the latest closed-cockpit monoplanes, but I can sure sting the fuck outta you."
+++Funds: "About $750 left over. Drinks are on me!"

+++Psychological Analysis: "Analyze myself, huh? I will do my best to be brutally honest. For starts, I'm not one to mind my trap; if it doesn't make sense to me, I will say something. The best asset that I have is my life, and while my line of work puts me in harm's way as a rule, there's nothing to gain from being suicidal. I have no qualms about calling someone out if I feel they're making a shit gamble. It goes without saying, rank does not necessarily inspire my respect or extreme obedience. I respond well to thoughtfulness; not the milquetoast definition that you'd find in Sunday School, but thoughtfulness in the aspect of interpreting ideas and people and situations in an attentive, mindful way - with a clear endgame. I have met far too many good officers - competent thinkers and leaders, embodiments of courage and respect - be sidelined by their supposed 'betters.'"

"I have no misconceptions about the nature of my work. I won't even hide the fact that what I do - flying bear for hire - is morally gray. The probability that any flight I take, be it a reconnaissance flight or a shoot-'em-up, will end in my death. I'm also ending the lives of men, and sometimes women. I know this, and I can't hide from that truth. I accept it, but that don't mean I can't feel something. You won't catch me saying I'm perfect or anything, but I know in my heart - as strange as it may sound - that military aviation is my calling. The Navy invalidated me to the pasture, told me I would be too broken to ever fly in combat. Did it stop me? No it didn't. I got back in the seat, so that should tell you about my penchant to endure the worst."
+++Weaknesses: "I've broken my body severely on two different occasions; the first time, I was invalidated out of the Corps. The second one put me in a Commie-run hospital in Pointe-Noire. Not a fun experience, especially if you're flying for the other side. Pain is a big issue for me, and I take morphine to give myself enough of a reprieve to do my job. It's changed me; at this point, I absolutely cannot go without shooting up before my body acts up. In terms of drugs, I must say that I am one susceptible asshole. I'll do it all; the uppers, the downers, the all-arounders. Cocaine has been a treat of mine, ever since they gave it to the squadron in Nicaragua to keep us awake. Constantinople introduced me to the hookah and the hashish, and believe, I have successfully fallen for them. As for what else bothers me, that's my fucking business and not yours."
+++Likes/Dislikes: "Ask me."
+++Interests: "Hobbies, huh? I like playing piano in my downtime, or enjoying some fine alcohol or hashish as I play poker with the boys. Constantinople is a neat city; bazaars and old churches and mosques, plenty to get out and see. Especially the brothels. If I ain't flying or sleeping, you can find me trying to be a social creature. If there's hunting to be done, bring me along."
+++Fears: "Losing the ability to feel or use anything below my neckline. No arms, no legs. Scares the shit out of me just thinking about it, and it could definitely happen. Hell, I was temporarily paralyzed after my crash in Nicaragua, and I spent months fighting malaria AND getting my sea legs back."

+++Nationality: "If my citizenship hasn't been revoked yet, then we'll say American. Once in a while, I'll get letters from the State Department warning me about the dangers of mercenary work, and the harm my activities could do to American neutrality. I go through all the hoops I need to in order to not involve my mother country. So far, it's only those 'advisory' letters; no 'cease-and-desist' or 'good-luck-finding-another-home-country' letters yet."
+++Ethnicity: "Several generations of Scots-Irish, muddled up with Moravian and English influences in my blood, the former coming from the Moravian settlement in Salem. Some of them came here as debtors; others were religious separatists. Debtors and heretics came together, so here I am. Some Cherokee mixed in here and there, given the proximity my early ancestors shared with the Cherokee at the time. Your typical American mutt, but most people would just call me white. My black friends call me a 'honky'."
+++Languages Spoken: "It goes without saying that I'm an English-speaker, whelped and whipped. Despite being a hillbilly, I've learned to be cosmopolitan in who I can - and can't - converse with. When it comes to the Romance languages, Spanish is the main one I've mastered to a degree of understanding a variety of dialects and being able to draw upon said dialects, but I can understand French and Italian, even Portuguese, to know what's up. Working in the French colonies helped me hone my conversational French. In French-speaking towns, they know I'm a foreigner but I'm a foreigner who knows enough not to be out of place. I can sit through and understand an entire briefing, no matter how complex or wordy, and know the operation down to a 'T.' When it comes to basic commands and derogatory insults in Turk and Greek, I'm your guy - but don't expect me to read and recite Greek poetry, or translate Turk broadcasts for you. My flight crew is mostly Greek, so they are helping me to hone my Greek. The whores around Taksim Square also fill a role in teaching me a new language. On the whole, regardless of how I might have to talk in order to be understood, I know what's what."
+++Religion: "Can't say I believe in much anymore, in regards to supernatural ghost-men in the sky. I was raised Baptist, but in all honesty, the shit I learned in Sunday School feels mighty irrelevant nowadays."
+++Birthplace: "Morganton, North Carolina."
+++Permanent Residence: "I am a traveler. Wherever I find a rack, it's mine until I roll on. At the present, I split my sleep quarters between two places; the pilot barracks at the airfield, and a brothel over on Giraffe Lane, in the Red Light District."
+++Criminal History: "Never been charged with anything. The Burke County Sheriff held me for three nights after I dropped anti-racist leaflets on a Ku Klux Klan rally in New Hanover County. I got paid to do it by a politician, and he worked some magic that got me free. Back in '32, I got thrown into a firing line by Communist askaris in Pointe-Noire. That was on account of my aircraft being identified as a 'frequent flyer' over their territory, in regards to dive-bombing the absolute Jim Christ out of their formations until I got shot down. Instead of getting shot, a random Commie diplomat interrupted the firing squad with the intention of trading me off in a prisoner exchange."
+++Skills: "Y'all hired me because I'm a pilot, and not the commercial kind. Combat flying is the lot I happened to fancy most in life, specifically attacking ground targets. The US Marines got me started, and for the past eight or so years, I've been a consistent combat pilot. By machine gun or bomb, you can trust me to hit an enemy movement in such ways that they lose the tempo to stay combat-effective. Yeah, shooting down other planes can be a real blast, but ground attacks are the new age of warfare. No matter how many men or rifles or horses or tanks someone might have, a good-enough pilot with a sturdy craft and the right arms will whip them nine times out of ten. Few pilots can say that they ever stopped a thousand-man cavalry charge in the desert, or ended a battle with the destruction of a single bridge."

"Besides flying a plane, I know a few other things. Though I don't often fight with the grunts, I know my way around conventional firearms. That includes shooting them and cleaning them. Back in the Corps all aviators were required to pass through the School of Infantry, so in the rare occasion that I have actually had to fight groundside and give orders to other men - of the three or so occasions it's happened - I can prove myself a functional ground officer, albeit in mostly a defensive role. The various ground crews I've worked with over the years taught me a wealth of knowledge and experience on maintaining my plane and performing different kinds of mechanical work, so I am quite handy with my tools. I can get you gas from anywhere, as well. All I need is a funnel and a hollow rubber tube, and a gas tank to pull the black gold from. I don't like cars terribly; too many gears, but I can drive if needed."

"Want to know what else? Talk to me later."

+++Bio: "Here's the story of an Appalachian highland hick named Clark Harris. My story starts in 1904; I come from Morganton, North Carolina, the son of a miller. We owned a sawmill in a place where you could make more money hauling trees from the wilderness, than you could if you tried planting crops in the clay. The more I think about that place, the more it feels like it stays about thirty years behind everywhere else. I didn't see my first automobile until I was fourteen; hell, most of our textbooks - and Morganton's schools was sparse on those - came back from the 1860s. We were salt-of-the-earth people; we learned how to read and write from the Bible, and by the blisters and cuts and sores on our hands. The most consistent schoolhouse was the church, and that was only for Sunday School."

"It took my own poking-around to learn about the world; talking to people, and such. One of my adult cousins, back when I was seven or eight, came to visit town. Edgar Brown, on my mother's side; served in the Philippines with the Corps. Once he got some moonshine in him, he'd talk all about the far-away places he'd seen, the different kinds of people he met, and all of the futuristic marvels he'd seen. I was hooked, and wanted to know more than just Morganton, or the mountains. That cousin left me some books; mostly atlases and military history pieces whose names I forget, but the fact of the matter was that from an early age, I made up my mind that I wouldn't stay in Morganton forever."

"Come my eighteenth birthday, I graduated from what passed as a high school, in '21. The Great War only stoked my curiosity and desire to experience that whole other world, albeit thanks to fantasies and day-dreams concocted in the safety of my community and home. I had the fortune, and virtue of good grades, to earn an appointment to the US Naval Academy. A big deal in a family without college graduates. School took me to Annapolis, and there I was exposed to whole new kinds of people, thoughts, ideas, and experiences. I was a working-class mountain kid, stuck among a bunch of kids who were part of generations of families that pushed through Annapolis. While the other Plebs knew how to sail and play crochet and sing in Latin or whatever, I never much fit in with those rich-kid things; I spent my summers running about the mountains, working at the mill, and playing lookout for the moonshiners. I was a sore thumb for four years, but I found extracurricular activities to be quite broadening, in a manner of speaking."

"I joined the swimming club on campus; had only swam competitively a few times, but my coach at the time and some of the older midshipmen made up their minds that I had some talent in it. I trained almost consistently in the pool for three years, and trialed for the '24 Summer Olympics in Algiers; originally, Paris was slated for '24, but the Commies made damn sure that no Olympics would be happening in Paris that year. By a stroke of pure-fucking-luck and at the expense of a few people who were genuinely more talented than me, I made the cut for the team and got to travel outside of the US for the first time in my life. For me at the time, it was a superb blast. Although I didn't bring back any medals, I learned French, met some lifelong friends, and I can tell you that I wouldn't trade those Olympics for anything. Did you know that I am a close friend of Tarzan himself? Yeah, I swam with him during the Olympics."

"Since I graduated, we can assume that every dog has its day. I was given the rank of Second Lieutenant in the US Marine Corps, and to my satisfaction, they assigned me to Aviation. At the time, it was about trying something I'd never done before and seeing if I could make a go of it. The first time I sat shotgun in a Jenny, I was hooked to the thrill of soaring through the clouds, and the sting of the sharp winds. Made Aviator by mid-1926, and spent the rest of that year on my first deployment in Haiti. Out in those Caribbean islands, it was a bush war between us and the rebels, with most of the fighting happening off the beaten path. The job of us aviators was to support the grunts once they made contact with a significant enemy force, which meant looking for smoke signals popped by the grunts - or in the case of night attacks, a flare or other illuminating source over or in the target area. Bombing from a high altitude over the jungle is redundant, unless you have twenty bombs with two tons of bombs each that can cover every single nook and cranny, but a DH.4 has to draw in close. The pilot has to know where the enemy is, and given the relative close-quarters with the infantry, you have to time your attacks just right as to avoid bombing your own guys. I flew something around ten missions, between June and December. Good times; hell of a place, and I got a Haitian Merit Medal to boot."

"The last two weeks of December, and the first week of January, I had some R&R after Haiti. Paid a visit to the folks to let them drag me all over Morganton and brag about me being an officer, and once that was done, I joined some friends of mine on their holiday vacation to Vermont. Nice as hell, that ski resort was. A good place to relax and get drunk while staring at the mountains. Even managed to do a bit of flying up there, in the form of two air races that I found out about on the pure chance of mentioning my career to a waitress. Of course, I had to rent a plane. From the airport in Burlington, we raced as far south as Northfield, and circled back to the airport in a thrilling, almost break-neck experience. Won the first race and got a cash award; on the second, my engine gave out, and I landed in hard fifth and had to use most of my prize to pay off the plane's owner, but all in all I am glad I flew those races. Funny enough on the last race, my engine problem made me put down around Northfield, right on the parade ground of a military college. The situation was straight out of a Chaplin comedy; here I come flying in, aiming for the tiny-ass green. All those cadets were mustered up for their daily march to the Mess, and here I come wailing through the wind. Those poor kids scattered all over the place, and then once I was settled and landed, I got swarmed. Ended up having to identify myself as an Marine Aviator, and I have never seen a group of people snap to attention and throw salutes as quickly as they did."

"'27 was supposed to be a good year; instead, that was the worst year of my entire life. By the close of January, the Marines were deployed to Nicaragua in order to back the government forces, who were getting whipped by Sandino and his rebel army. When I reported back to Quantico, I made some requests for the deployment and got my wish quicker than I thought, by copping an assignment to Major Ross's squadron. That was some pioneering shit we did; we put tactical dive-bombing in the textbooks during those months down in Nicaragua. We did strafing runs and some bombings in Haiti, but Nicaragua brought those tactics into direct support of ground operations against an organized enemy. I flew at Ocotal, during our forty-five-minute swoop-down on the heads of Sandino and his boys. The US government gave me a Distinguished Flying Cross for my part in that action; a brand-new award high up there in importance with the Medal of Honor. The Nicaraguans gave me their own Merit Medal, as an additional bonus. See, the year was going great."

"It was a month after Ocotal, the accident happened. Night-flying was never my forte, so on a dusk-time landing approach after an observation flight, I neglected to mind my space with the trees surrounding our airstrip. The landing gear caught the top branches and brought me straight-down at eighty feet, almost a perfect nose-dive. I broke both legs, my left arm, three ribs, collarbone, and enough lacerations to leave me pretty pale. The grunts pulled me out of the wreckage, saved my life and got me to a field hospital. I spent six months in the Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego, mostly courting Lady Morphine and letting doctors and nurses slice me open and rebuild my body. The fucking Navy brought me 'flight tests' in between surgeries; mind you, I was dosed to high-heaven. I 'failed' those tests, and as a result I was 'medically retired' and told that I would never fly again."

"Predictably, I floundered for a little space of time after getting out of Balboa, despite the fact that I could walk and do the stuff I used to do, with the added displeasure of chronic pain. Going back to Morganton was crushing; as hard as I tried to leave home and see the world, it seemed that Fate had other plans. At least, that's what I thought at the time. Father got into moonshining once I left for Annapolis, and had a pretty wide network in which he would run his hooch all over the state and beyond. Somehow, he managed to wrangle up a goddamn Sopwith Camel; never told me how he got it, but he sure did put me to work with it. Now, that's an old-ass platform that was modified to carry tens of liters of hooch, on the wings and on the belly. With all that weight on it, it was a bitch to get into the air, a bitch to keep in the air, and a bitch to put down. And mind you, I was having to fly to the coast and elsewhere, landing on airstrips shittier than anything in Haiti or Nicaragua. I ended up buying some parachutes and reading into ignition devices; rigged up a whole bombing trigger so that I could air-drop hooch instead of landing. Made it all a whole fuck of a lot easier."

"I worked for him until the beginning of '29. I looked for opportunities elsewhere; there was the inherent danger of me growing comfortable in Morganton and staying until my last breath. Since I had a plane, I could anywhere I wanted and do whatever I pleased. I never deserted him, but I took on my fair share of odd jobs. I flew observation flights and took aerial pictures for a variety of different land surveyors and state agencies, like the Department of Transportation. Buncombe County once paid me a hundred dollars to track down a kid-eating mountain lion, and I never got the full amount because the dumbass hunters up there bungled every single chance they had to bag that thing. Even used my plane as a set for a...uh...we'll just say a 'less-than-reputable' moving picture. All the while, I was training some other poor sap to fly, once I departed."

"I left in February, made my way down to Wilmington where I brushed shoulders with fellas and gals of all stripes down by the portside. It took a raucous night of drinking with the crew of a recently-docked French merchant ship for me to find my new job, and fortunately, it set me on my current path. They gave me passage to Algiers. The Communists and the forces of the Third Republic were actively fighting over Algeria; it was far hotter than Mainland France, with pitched tank battles and dogfights. It was - and I guess, still is - a fast-paced desert conflict. It's damn perpetual, the fighting in Algeria, but it's certainly not going to flip red - or black, for that matter - anytime soon. Provided that a ground attack pilot doesn't have to worry about fighters pulling an intercept on them, our breed is especially deadly in this far, open land. I consider myself to be a deadly guy, and Algeria is where my profile started to be developed. The other pilots started to recognize me; some liked me, others didn't. The boots on the ground, on the other hand, were very hospitable. Oftentimes, there'd be maybe only one or two planes backing up the infantry in my area, rare for the whole squadron to fly around together. One time, I flew a series of solo runs in support of this besieged Legion fort, going up against what I estimated to be a brigade's-worth of native desert cavalry. I spent two hours strafing and dive-bombing human and horse waves, and going back to my airfield to hastily have my plane re-fueled and re-armed. The infantry and artillery units learned to identify me by my plane, and the guys who held that fort damn well remembered the plane that just kept coming back to help them out. Going to drinking holes, those guys - officers and enlisted men alike - would pat me on the back and invite me over to their tables. A lot of good times, in Algeria."

"Since '29, I've bounced quite around between my work with the Third Republic, mainly in their overseas colonies in the hot spots like the French Congo, and smaller contracts elsewhere - the kind that tend to pop up if a friend knows you are in the area. I spent the majority of the time between '29 and '31 flying out of Brazzaville against the Kongo-Wari and the Red Frogs that were backing them. My flight was mostly French officers; officially we were mercenaries, but I swear, the whole damn flight line stunk to high heavens. And by stink, what I mean is that there was more going on than the simple application of airpower against ground targets. However, you sometimes come across the kind of stink that you simply can't clean up, and you just have to stay in the cockpit and do your job. That's what I did, until this officer named de Florac approached me, told me that I'd be better served elsewhere. I knew what he meant, didn't take me but a moment. The last episode in the Congo involved me getting brought down by ground fire during a dive-run on a rebel base some ten miles from Republican lines; a heavy machine gun, or several, lit me up during a dive. Had to crash land and immediately found my landing site converged upon by fifty rebels. They pulled me out, kicked my ass a bit, and then within five minutes, I pissed them off enough to get thrown against a wall, facing the barrels of ten rifles. The officers in the bunch stopped the whole thing, made a fuss that killing me wasn't against the law, and then I was sent upstream, where a gaggle of Reds and Republicans were exchanging prisoners. So, I got to leave the Congo in good order."

"South America was next. Started out as just another convalescent trip, going to Santiago and soaking up some sun and social life. A friend of mine, politician who cavorts with Huey Long, offered me a job to support the Paraguayans in their war with Bolivia. The air war was intense here; the Bolivians were bringing in the latest European planes, and had a decent core of German pilots to develop their air force. On paper, the Bolivians had the advantage, but for all of the raw power and mechanical might they mustered to take the Chaco, the Paraguayans just wouldn't let them have it. My squadron was, of all things, American. A good group of dudes, and all of us had flown either for the Army, Navy, or Marines. We flew Potez 25s, running different missions depending on the orders; bombing, patrols, air support, reconnaissance, resupply. Pretty much, we did whatever the Paraguayan command wanted a plane to do. I managed to bag four aircraft kills of all things; I knew for sure about three, but I didn't know about the last one until after I arrived in Constantinople. The first two were Bolivian Vespas running reconnaissance. Caught 'em both from behind and lit them up until they left the sky or blew up. The third and four, actual dogfights. Third was a Vespa bomber over Puerto Casada that I engaged while in transit to the front. Fourth fucker - A Curtiss - came at my squadron during a bombing run near Boqueron; I saw him catch fire, but I never saw him go down. Disappeared into the clouds. I learned later that the plane I'd shot down was flown by a German ace from the Great War."

"I've been in Constantinople for roughly two months now. The offer came by way of an official recruitment offer from the Marmaran government, which in the grand scheme of things, it's not an uncommon thing. You know, I've bumped into a fair number of old acquaintances I know from my past work. One or two grads from Annapolis found their way here; we regularly go out to drink. I have to also mention Colonel de Florac, who is also here in Constantinople, in the same unit nonetheless. He is one of the more familiar faces here; the two of us flew together against the Kongo-Wari, and outside of flying I'd join him on his hunting excursions from time to time. Don't know many of the others. Got some young ones here, and some who're older than me. Lord knows how long I'll be in Marmara, but I'll make a time of it."
+++Why You're Here: "Money!"

+++RP Example:

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Last edited by Cylarn on Mon Dec 28, 2020 9:00 pm, edited 31 times in total.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

User avatar
Rupudska
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 20621
Founded: Sep 16, 2010
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Rupudska » Mon Dec 07, 2020 5:34 pm

Looks good so far.
The Holy Roman Empire of Karlsland (MT/FanT & FT/FanT)
THE Strike Witches NationState
Best thread ever.|Ace Combat!
MT Factbook/FT Factbook|Embassy|Q&A
On Karlsland Witch Doctrine:
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties

Questers wrote:
Rupudska wrote:So do you fight with AK-47s or something even more primitive? Since I doubt any economy could reasonably sustain itself that way.
Presumably they use advanced technology like STRIKE WITCHES

User avatar
Bolslania
Minister
 
Posts: 2469
Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Tue Dec 08, 2020 9:52 am

Mueller, H

Image
+++Name: "Hermann Mueller, Captain, most people call me 'Fritz' for the obvious reasons."
+++Age : "I am twenty four years old"
+++Sex: "What do you think"
+++Sexual Orientation: "I am sexually attracted to women."
+++Appearance: 5'11, 135 pounds
+++Identifying Marks: "I got these scars from a small flak round bursting near my plane, cutting me up a bit. Its the main reason I installed a canopy. I have bullet scar in my leg, missed anything important but I was grounded for 4 months while my muscle rebuilt. I did survive a crash in my first plane with only a few cuts and bruises."
+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): I have attained the rank of O-3, or captain."
+++Call sign: "Wolfbat"

+++Aircraft: Aero A.32
+++Aircraft Appearance: Nothing special besides desert camouflage and Letter identification
+++Emblem: Marmara Roundel
+++Modifications: "I had a glass canopy installed for me and the gunner, while the gunners rotational capability is reduced, he is still able to cover the rear of the aircraft well. I also installed radios on all aircraft under my command. As well as rocket hardpoints attached to the underside of the wings.
+++Funds: "After purchasing this new aircraft and modifying it I have about 500 dollars left."

+++Psychological Analysis: "Well I'm not one to evaluate myself but here's trying, I can stay reasonably calm under pressure, I don't know whether that's a personality factor or just years of flying. I like to think I'm fairly intelligent and confident in my abilities. If you haven't noticed I'm fairly direct as well. I prefer not to think about what could happen every time I strap in and take off, I find that thinking about the possibility of death increases the chance that you get killed. I saw it once, new pilot, he flew well and would've been a useful asset. However on his second mission he was thinking to much about dying, and when we got jumped by some fighters he broke formation, got himself, his gunner, and the next plane out killed. So no, I don't think about it."
+++Weaknesses: "I can be a touch over-aggressive sometimes, how I'm still alive is luck and skill I guess. There are times I don't think about dying enough, so I'm not always as cautious as I should be. "
+++Likes/Dislikes: "I'm not one to tolerate stupidity, willfulness, or failure. However I do like to play games of chance and touch up on my less practiced skills such as maintenance and firearm handling, however usually Dmitrievich handles maintenance as he is more skilled in this topics, I do like to assist him where I can."
+++Interests: " I like flying outside of combat as well, just flying somewhere, no objectives, no payload. Just the sky. Otherwise I never grew up with the time to appreciate the written or sung word."
+++Fears: "I'm not keen on failing or being immolated. Otherwise I've been flying so long and seen so much death that I don't even think about it anymore, I guess somewhere I still want to survive and not die, but that higher level of fearing death is no longer present, I barely even bat an eye when I see a colleague of mine go plummeting into the ground anymore. Just another day in the office. "

+++Nationality: "I think you can tell. I'm German"
+++Ethnicity: "*Shrugs* I don't know, All I know is that my family has had the name Mueller for many generations and married a family with the name Kleinman."
+++Languages Spoken: "Deutsch ist meine erste Lange, however I speak English as well. Ben de türkçe konuşuyorum"
+++Religion: "I kill people for a living, I'm not exactly a good Christian. Or a good anything."
+++Birthplace: "I was born in Rostock, Germany"
+++Permanent Residence: "I currently live on base, I guess the shop in Rostock is a permanent residence."
+++Criminal History: "Besides being morally questionable I am not a criminal"/b]
[b]+++Skills: "I can fly a plane with the best of them, and I earned this rank from leadership capabilities and tactical intelligence. When it comes to weapon I know how to use and somewhat maintain one but I am no expert."


+++Bio: "I'll keep this simple. I was born to a middle-class family in Rostock, when war started my father and eldest brother marched off, and neither came back. This alienated my mother enough to affect me, and neither of us have been particularly fond of the Kaiser or the Deutches Reich. My father had been a shopkeeper, which left my mother and I a source of income while I grew up. The economic troubles affected us to a certain degree, however we kept the shop and survived reasonably well. My mother and I agreed that I needed to leave and make my own way in the world, so I did that. I had always wanted to fly, and had spent the last few years saving money to attend flight school. After I completed it I was offered a position in the German Air Force, however I rejected it for personal reasons. Although the offer had sparked an interest in combat flying, so instead of signing up with some country's military, I joined the 27th when I was 20. I was equipped with an old WW1 Fokker C.VC attacker. Coming back from a sortie against a convoy, I had taken a hit to the engine, and somehow I was able to keep the thing flying, but the landing was rather heavy as I lost engine power on final approach and slammed in, luckily the plane stayed upright, although I needed a new aircraft. After completing a large number of sorties, and piling in and in need of a new plane, I was able to afford something a little nicer *Slaps the side of the Aero A.32* Although she's not exactly modern she performs just fine for my purposes. After 4 years I have attained the rank and command of the 27th's attacker aircraft."
+++Why You're Here: "Like I said, I wanted to fly and fight, but had no interest in serving a country. Plus this pays better."

+++RP Example:Imperialisium's "Imperium"

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Last edited by Bolslania on Thu Dec 17, 2020 12:22 pm, edited 11 times in total.
Military is a 9-9-6 according to this index
[_★_]_[' ]_
( -_-) (-_Q) If you understand that both Capitalism and Socialism have ideas that deserve merit, put this in your signature

Pro: Democracy, Science, Pro-choice, Civil rights, SocDem , Technocracy
Anti: Authoritarianism, Flat-earthers/science deniers, Conspiracy theorists, Karens, Hard-right conservatives

Margaret DeFrey approaches end of term, BDP Candidate Bonifác Kočí is likely to make the primaries, along with Oie Sibul of the Green Party| Lobbyists clamor for more military spending, however they see little success, with the newly signed budget of 2055 seeing the Military receive only 12.5% of the budget.

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Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14851
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Tue Dec 08, 2020 10:30 am

App's done.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

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Bolslania
Minister
 
Posts: 2469
Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Tue Dec 08, 2020 10:34 am

My app is ready as well
Military is a 9-9-6 according to this index
[_★_]_[' ]_
( -_-) (-_Q) If you understand that both Capitalism and Socialism have ideas that deserve merit, put this in your signature

Pro: Democracy, Science, Pro-choice, Civil rights, SocDem , Technocracy
Anti: Authoritarianism, Flat-earthers/science deniers, Conspiracy theorists, Karens, Hard-right conservatives

Margaret DeFrey approaches end of term, BDP Candidate Bonifác Kočí is likely to make the primaries, along with Oie Sibul of the Green Party| Lobbyists clamor for more military spending, however they see little success, with the newly signed budget of 2055 seeing the Military receive only 12.5% of the budget.

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Rupudska
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 20621
Founded: Sep 16, 2010
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Rupudska » Tue Dec 08, 2020 11:25 am

Cylarn wrote:[snibbedy snab :DDDDDDDDDDD]


Accepted, of course.

Bolslania wrote:[snibbedy snab]


RP samples in general should link to your posts in the IC, not the OOC, unless you yourself made the OOC. App is fine, but do you have any other RP samples?
The Holy Roman Empire of Karlsland (MT/FanT & FT/FanT)
THE Strike Witches NationState
Best thread ever.|Ace Combat!
MT Factbook/FT Factbook|Embassy|Q&A
On Karlsland Witch Doctrine:
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties

Questers wrote:
Rupudska wrote:So do you fight with AK-47s or something even more primitive? Since I doubt any economy could reasonably sustain itself that way.
Presumably they use advanced technology like STRIKE WITCHES

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Bolslania
Minister
 
Posts: 2469
Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Tue Dec 08, 2020 11:32 am

Rupudska wrote:
Cylarn wrote:[snibbedy snab :DDDDDDDDDDD]


Accepted, of course.

Bolslania wrote:[snibbedy snab]


RP samples in general should link to your posts in the IC, not the OOC, unless you yourself made the OOC. App is fine, but do you have any other RP samples?


One moment while I link in an IC post for ya

EDIT: App is edited
Last edited by Bolslania on Tue Dec 08, 2020 11:35 am, edited 1 time in total.
Military is a 9-9-6 according to this index
[_★_]_[' ]_
( -_-) (-_Q) If you understand that both Capitalism and Socialism have ideas that deserve merit, put this in your signature

Pro: Democracy, Science, Pro-choice, Civil rights, SocDem , Technocracy
Anti: Authoritarianism, Flat-earthers/science deniers, Conspiracy theorists, Karens, Hard-right conservatives

Margaret DeFrey approaches end of term, BDP Candidate Bonifác Kočí is likely to make the primaries, along with Oie Sibul of the Green Party| Lobbyists clamor for more military spending, however they see little success, with the newly signed budget of 2055 seeing the Military receive only 12.5% of the budget.

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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 20025
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Tue Dec 08, 2020 2:00 pm

BLÁZQUES-CONTADOR, A

Image
+++Name: Andrea “Bullet-belt” Blázques-Contador
+++Age (18 at youngest): 23
+++Sex: Female
+++Sexual Orientation: “Anyone with breasts and a good ass on them, really”
+++Appearance: 1.70m, 68 Kg
+++Identifying Marks: Some whipping scars on her back

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): “0-1, because the Marmarans certainly can’t turn down a good pilot, but they’ll be damned if they give me a rank”
+++Call sign: “Barricade”

+++Aircraft: Nieuport-Delage NiD-52
+++Aircraft Appearance: Painted normal camouflage, but with red/black details painted on the rudders
+++Emblem: Specifically NOT a Marmara roundel, just the CNT-FAI logo painted on both sides and the wings.
+++Modifications: Slotted with a more efficient engine
+++Funds: All gone

+++Psychological Analysis:
“Miss Blázques-Contador has all shown to possess all the disadvantages of her own sex, but she seems to have learnt a vice or two from male compatriots through the ravages of war, the poor thing. She is hot-headed and prone to bouts of hysteria and anger, especially towards men her superior in rank, position and age. She is quick to overshare and show emotions, whether positive or negative, and seems incapable to the measured sprezzatura inherent to maleness. She is, however, also quite direct, and entirely unpleasant to converse with, showing no interest in sewing or poetry. Instead, she seems more interested in the stopping power of various munitions and the exact build-up of engine parts, while her knowledge of these things is naturally limited. All in all, a great waste of such a bright young woman, who could have achieved so much in life. Her unwomanly interests in the male sciences would have made her an interesting partner, but her sickly preference for her own sex makes that unlikely. I suspect penis envy”
+++Weaknesses: Andrea is an undiagnosed perfectionist, and asks a lot of herself.
+++Likes/Dislikes: Likes horseback riding,
+++Interests: Engines, horses, gun smithing, political and philosophical literature
+++Fears:

+++Nationality: Spanish
+++Ethnicity: Caucasian
+++Languages Spoken: Catalan, Spanish, English
+++Religion: Atheistic
+++Birthplace: Calaf, Catalunia, Kingdom of Spain
+++Permanent Residence: Barcelona, Catalunia, Spanish Republic
+++Criminal History: Treason (pardoned), violence against a member of the clergy (pardoned), insurrectionism (pardoned), collaboration with a foreign power (pardoned), assault of a soldier (punishment suspended)
+++Skills: Engine repair and maintenance, firearm repair and maintenance, piloting, horseback riding and horse care

+++Bio:
+++Why You're Here: “Because there are still fascist dogs out there earning a neat coin off their services, and I will only rest once they have all been shot from the sky.


STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Last edited by Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States on Sun Dec 13, 2020 2:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 20025
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Tue Dec 08, 2020 2:02 pm

A work in progress. Having a Spanish female anarchist pilot is way more historical than some people might suspect, which is why I am adding this additional disclaimer. I can back up the historicity if required.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

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Confederation of the Equator
Diplomat
 
Posts: 604
Founded: Jun 13, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Confederation of the Equator » Tue Dec 08, 2020 3:38 pm

(MÉSZÁROS, I.)

Image


+++Name: Ion 'Tanárunk' Mészáros
+++Age: 43
+++Sex: Male
+++Appearance: 5'9". 166 lbs
+++Identifying Marks: "I somehow went through the Great War without any major injuries, despite the half a dozen nasty landings. I also survived Gherla with little more than black eyes and bruises. It was while instructing a... less-than-bright Czech rookie that my right leg got its burn scars."

+++Rank: O-2
+++Call sign: Viscol

+++Aircraft: Letov Š-231
+++Emblem: Larix decidua, an European conifer tree
+++Funds: "After everything, around $400 in currency that is still not worthless."

+++Psychological Analysis: (personality)
+++Weaknesses:
+++Likes/Dislikes:
+++Interests:
+++Fears:

+++Nationality: "I was born as a citizen of Romania, but the King has stripped me of my citizenship, so I suppose I am stateless."
+++Ethnicity: Caucasian (half Romanian, half Hungarian)
+++Languages Spoken: Romanian and Hungarian are his native languages, while proficiency in German was required for his career. Some knowledge of French, Russian, and English is in the middle aged man's head, but not enough to the point of fluency.
+++Religion: Orthodox Christian
+++Birthplace: Azuga, Kingdom of Romania
+++Permanent Residence: Prague, Czechoslovak Republic
+++Criminal History: "In 1922, Bucharest promised me amnesty for my wartime service with the Habsburgs. The foolish man that I was believed it to be genuine, and said foolishness led to my arrest upon arrival. They gave me a life sentence for treason, but I served 'only' nine years. How kind of them!"
+++Skills: (Don't go overboard)

+++Bio:

'Like everyone else unfortunate enough to be at their prime ten years ago, I thought it would be over by Christmas.
If only things had been so simple...'
- Ion's prison journal, 1924


WIP

+++Why You're Here: "What else do people become mercenaries for? The money I send every month is the only way I still exist in my daughter's mind, after all... Plus, I'll soon be an old man who can no longer take to the skies, and I'll be damned if I spend my last useful days instructing a bunch of Czech children!"

+++RP Example: Here it is

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Last edited by Confederation of the Equator on Tue Dec 08, 2020 6:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
In loving memory of Vanquaria, slain unfairly by a pathetic moderator team. We stand strong.

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Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14851
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Tue Dec 08, 2020 4:45 pm

Edited my known languages; removed Russian, as to add a smattering of Greek and Turkic insults/basic commands to Clark's vocabulary.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

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Reverend Norv
Minister
 
Posts: 2953
Founded: Jun 20, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Reverend Norv » Wed Dec 09, 2020 8:57 am

Going to tweak an old character from Excalibur Squadron for this: an aristocratic French gentleman/soldier/spy, a Huguenot Pied-Noir fluent in Arabic and Berber, a man with a foot in two worlds, a swashbuckling polyglot adventurer in the mold of Richard Francis Burton, with the misfortune to have been born a half-century too late. If you've ever seen those silly old romantic-adventure films about French officers in the desert, you've got the gist: this fellow will be both a subversion and a celebration of those period tropes.
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647

A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

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Lunas Legion
Post Czar
 
Posts: 30304
Founded: Jan 21, 2013
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Lunas Legion » Wed Dec 09, 2020 9:04 am

It'll probably take me a while to come up with an app, but I'm interested regardless.
Last edited by William Slim Wed Dec 14 1970 10:35 pm, edited 35 times in total.

Confirmed member of Kyloominati, Destroyers of Worlds Membership can be applied for here

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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 20025
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Wed Dec 09, 2020 11:41 am

Reverend Norv wrote:Going to tweak an old character from Excalibur Squadron for this: an aristocratic French gentleman/soldier/spy, a Huguenot Pied-Noir fluent in Arabic and Berber, a man with a foot in two worlds, a swashbuckling polyglot adventurer in the mold of Richard Francis Burton, with the misfortune to have been born a half-century too late. If you've ever seen those silly old romantic-adventure films about French officers in the desert, you've got the gist: this fellow will be both a subversion and a celebration of those period tropes.

I remember liking this character, I am looking forward to meeting them again. Even if it is from the vantage point of an anarcho-syndicalist, who might not care for the aristocratic air at all.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

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Bolslania
Minister
 
Posts: 2469
Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Wed Dec 09, 2020 11:55 am

We've got a pretty good cast so far

Ik Cylarn is the only app thats been approved but still the cast of characters yet to be approved is neat
Military is a 9-9-6 according to this index
[_★_]_[' ]_
( -_-) (-_Q) If you understand that both Capitalism and Socialism have ideas that deserve merit, put this in your signature

Pro: Democracy, Science, Pro-choice, Civil rights, SocDem , Technocracy
Anti: Authoritarianism, Flat-earthers/science deniers, Conspiracy theorists, Karens, Hard-right conservatives

Margaret DeFrey approaches end of term, BDP Candidate Bonifác Kočí is likely to make the primaries, along with Oie Sibul of the Green Party| Lobbyists clamor for more military spending, however they see little success, with the newly signed budget of 2055 seeing the Military receive only 12.5% of the budget.

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Reverend Norv
Minister
 
Posts: 2953
Founded: Jun 20, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Jean-Martin de Florac (WIP)

Postby Reverend Norv » Wed Dec 09, 2020 7:32 pm

DE FLORAC, J.-M. I.

Image
+++Name: "Jean-Martin Isidore de Florac, à votre service. You are welcome to call me Jean-Martin, though only if you are American and formality would drive you mad. I am, for two reasons, the Chevalier de Florac: first, because I am the hereditary lord of a long-lost fief in the Cevennes; second, because I have the good fortune to be a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. So, you see, both the Republic and the Ancien Régime can at least agree that I am a knight. As for my military rank, I believe that I formally remain a Commandant de l'Armée de l'Air - though my superiors would very much like you to know that I am in Marmara as a private citizen, on leave from the forces of the Republic."

+++Age: "I was born in 1896, so I have just turned thirty-nine. I am not sure whether I look younger or older."

+++Sex: "I am a man, yes. I am also a gentleman, which I believe matters rather more."
+++Sexual Orientation: "I prefer women, though I would like to believe that I am somewhat less - dogmatic on this point than some of my Jesuit-educated peers. It is one of the great unearned windfalls of my life that women have tended to prefer me too."

+++Appearance: "Unless I take some pains to hide it, I look like what I am: a scion of the French colonial military aristocracy. I am about 180 centimeters, about seventy-five kilos: neither large nor small. I do not have the build of a weightlifter or swimmer, but I am still trim and wiry and strong: a horseman's build, I fancy, with a fencer's wrists and forearms. My hair is reddish-brown, like bronze, and so curly that I have never been able to part it, so I just comb it roughly back; my hairline has begun receding from a sharp widow's peak, but there is no grey there yet. I don't have a matinee idol's square jaw or blue eyes, but I know that I am handsome enough, in a sharp-boned and aristocratic fashion: narrow lips, straight nose, high forehead. My eyes are dark grey, like steel. In Hollywood, I suspect I would play the villain."

+++Identifying Marks: "Life has left some marks on me. My skin is tanned to an even pale gold from the African sun. I have scars: an ugly cicatrice of knotted tissue across my belly, a long white line on one thigh, a circular scar just beneath my clavicle. You can thank the Boches, and the Touaregs, and my fellow Frenchmen. I lost the last digit of my left middle finger in a crash many years ago - for that, at least, I blame no one but myself. I still have a considerable income from my family's estates in Oran, and I like to dress well: finely tailored three-piece suits, or a silk burnoose and slippers when I have some time by the fireside; I am a child of Africa, after all. When I can wear my identity openly, as now, I bear my family's signet on my left pinky finger: a small, centuries-old bronze ring from mountains now lost to us. I carry a Smith and Wesson Registered Magnum, custom-ordered, in a shoulder holster - say what you will of them, but Americans have always made the best guns. Finally, I've been told that I have a certain way of moving: langorous but precise. Before I was ten years old, I had been taught both to dance the minuet and to hunt lions in the Atlas mountains. Unless I choose to suppress it, my bearing reflects those influences."



+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): "As of now, I am ranked at 0-2; no doubt there was some - concern - in official circles as to whether a higher rank might provoke awkward questions about my status here, and the extent of the Republic's interest in this corner of the world. Should the situation become critical, I suspect my rank may rise accordingly."

+++Call sign: "'Durendal.' A bit of silliness, that; a schoolboy's enthusiasm. I've had it since my very first plane. Strange to think of how young I was when I chose it."



+++Aircraft: "A Dewoitine D.27. An excellent plane, this, my first monoplane. They use it for aerobatics back in Algeria, and mon dieu, it is fast."
+++Aircraft Appearance: "What is there to say? It's a very small plane, and I have to sit with my knees halfway to my chest. I think it is oddly beautiful: a fat little dolphin, all smooth curves beneath an elegant parasol wing. I have painted it ocean grey - we do a lot of flying over water, one way and another."
+++Emblem: "My instructions on this point were - elliptical. 'Don't create evidence of our involvement, but let them know that we are here.' So I use the Marmara roundel, with the coat of arms of the Republic at its center."
+++Modifications: "The one problem with the D.27 is its armament - two Darne machine guns, 7.5mm, scarcely better than a rifle. I have added a machine gun pod, a 13.2mm Hotchkiss that can shred through modern armor. Then I overhauled the engine so that it could bear the additional weight and still perform like an aerobatics plane. The result is quite the little dogfighter: enough firepower to kill quickly, enough agility to fly rings around most biplanes, and so small that it's hard to hit even at very close range. Which is a good thing, because one good burst could turn this tin can into a colander."

+++Funds: "After the plane and its modifications, I still have six and a half thousand dollars of the - endowment, let us say - that Deuxième Bureau provided me. Not a bad reserve. And, of course, I have enough cash from my own inheritance and business interests to meet my personal expenses. This is a beautiful city: splendid views, excellent food, fascinating history. It would be a shame not to enjoy it."



+++Psychological Analysis: "Do you believe in psychology? I do. Jung more than Freud; perhaps that is because we are both Protestants, of a
a rather similar kind. More than that, though, I have trusted my life to psychology: to the idea that it is possible to know myself, and to know others, so deeply and so well that human actions become eminently predictable. We do what we must, because we could not do otherwise and remain who we are. A curious kind of predestination, this - but Calvin might recognize it all the same. And it works. As a spy, one must rely on psychology: one must be able to recognize the signs of betrayal long before the notion of treachery has even begun to form in the conscious mind of the asset. And one must try to know oneself, too: as clinically as possible, withholding both judgment and sympathy, never quite believing the story one must tell the world about oneself. One must be unscrupulous in manipulation, ruthless in clarity. For the wages of delusion are death.

"So who am I? At bottom, I suppose, I am my country's contradiction: a child of the aristocracy, and of the Republic. As an aristocrat, I believe in duty: the obligation of those who have much to defend those who have little; the absolute necessity of guarding those placed in one's care, no matter the cost. Noblesse oblige, as they say - come what may. But I believe, too, in good taste and good manners and fair play; in the value of beautiful things, and the inherent virtue of appreciating them; in loving literature and scholarship, and in living life by civilized rules. There is great humanity, I think, great decency, in the simple refusal to be barbarized by horror; to come through unspeakable carnage, and still to be able to appreciate a fine wine and a beautiful poem, or to be outraged by a man who cheats at tennis. It is folly, to be sure. But it is holy folly, and by such folly do we preserve a life worth living.

"But I am also a child of the Republic - and what does that mean, now that it has been driven to the very brink? Just what it always meant, and even more so: Liberté, égalité, fraternité. Not the classless, undifferentiated utopia of the communists, perhaps; but a willingness, nevertheless, to see value and virtue in every life; to believe that what truly matters are the things we can only do together. I fought for men in Paris, and for men in Algiers, and sometimes they lied; sometimes they even ordered me to do terrible things. Much of that clinical ruthlessness - that psychology - that I spoke of earlier, I learned at their behest. But the principles that those men stood for - that my friends died for - they were true. Despite everything, I do believe that. As a Protestant, as a child of Africa, I might never quite belong in this Republic that I love. But I know that the Republic stands for the ideal that one day I might - and all the world with me. That hope is worth fighting for - if necessary, worth dying for. I have will enough, iron and unyielding, to carry on in that hope, despite all the disappointments and all the scars. And I have love enough to carry on, too - withal that I have loved and lost, and share my heart but gingerly.

"And in the mean time? I keep my sense of humor, and my sense of wonder. There is poetry, and wine, and cuisine, and lovely sunsets, and stirring music, and beautiful women - for the world is a fine place. And what could be more French than that?"

+++Weaknesses: "I do not believe I have any single great weakness, any fatal flaw in the Greek tragic sense. Perhaps my soul is too shallow for that, too hollowed by long deceit. I have many small weaknesses instead, I think. I can barely drive a car, for example; I grew up with horses and camels. I learned to dogfight in the Great War, and while I have learned to enjoy the greater capabilities of the new planes, I am not sure I can use them to full effectiveness; I do not understand these instructions about harmonizing guns a kilometer away. I had a gentleman's education, which is a fine way of saying that I speak Homeric Greek but still sometimes do sums on my fingers. I am not quite as young as I used to be, and though I am trim and my stamina is good, I can feel the raw strength leeching out of my bones with each new birthday. I can be charming, and pull people's strings, and make them do what I want - but I have very few friends, and I often feel quite alone, and when I am called upon to inspire men I cannot shake the sense that I am lying to them. And I have nightmares: of the mud at Verdun, burning villages in the Rif, the old city of Constantine after the OAS was done with it. If I hurt people for too long, I get tired, and I shake, and I drink too much, and the nightmares get worse and worse until I don't sleep at all. Other times I don't shake at all, even when I should, or I sleep like a babe when I'm certain I shouldn't. Amira thought it was some great darkness in me, but I don't think so. Just another scar."

+++Likes/Dislikes: "I like beauty, mostly - and I try to be very open-minded about where I find it. Beauty is about balance, I think: about appreciation without overindulgence. So I like fine food and drink, whether that means sole meunière and Chardonnay, or kubbeh b'siniyyeh and a perfectly prepared mint tea. But I do not overeat, and I rarely get drunk. I am very fond of poetry, but I also use it to practice my languages: Baudelaire in French, al-Mutanabbi in Arabic, Goethe in German. I appreciate art and architecture and music of all traditions, and have greatly enjoyed seeing and hearing so much of it here in Constantinople, but I know that I have little talent for it myself. I like flirtation, even if it goes no further: if nothing else, flirtation is an appreciation of beauty, n'est-ce pas? But I am cautious about going beyond flirtation; a man in my profession must be, and I owe that much to Amira and Aure.

"There are other kinds of beauty, too. I know horses and hounds and hawks very well, and I find a deep satisfaction in working with each of them; cooperating with a magnificent creature is utterly different from controlling a machine. I like exercise: I play polo and tennis, I keep up my fencing, and I try to run at least a few kilometers every morning. And I do like flying - though I do not think that it fills a void in me as it does for so many others. After all, everything I do not like - cruelty, bigotry, fanaticism, iconoclasm, and all the fevered imbalance of modern barbarities - all those things are still waiting for me as soon as I Iand, as they have been since I first learned what it meant to be a Huguenot in France. Flight is a hallucination of freedom, nothing more. But oh, how sweet a dream while it lasts."

+++Interests: "I would like to believe that my interests are as broad as my tastes. I read a great deal, and find it relaxing to do so. I appreciate history, especially the classics; I take an interest in philosophy, too, and I try to stay abreast of the latest work in that field: Dewey, Russel, Wittgenstein. I have a great love of poetry - French, English, Arabic, and German - and try to read some before bed every night. Likewise literature; Proust's great work, published this last decade, is extraordinary. Psychology, too, is an interest - though more professional than recreational, I fear - and I closely follow Dr. Jung's latest work. I have found it surprisingly effective in the field. Likewise, I read at least two newspapers a day - usually the Times of London and Le Figaro, now in exile in Algiers. I am conscious of the moment in history which we all now are obliged to occupy; following current events is presently more a duty than a choice.

"As for other interests, outside the written word? I love art and architecture, as I said, and I spend much of my free time touring this city's magnificent artistic heritage. I have no talent with the brush myself, though. On the other hand, I play a tolerable viola: an unusual instrument, more prone to supporting roles than the violin, deeper-voiced and softer. My sports are fencing - mostly saber - and tennis and polo; there is more opportunity these days to practice the first two than the third. And I am at pains, no matter the labor or danger of the day, to keep up my correspondence. Aure writes me at least twice a week, and I am careful never to miss a prompt reply. I know that she must worry for me: so far from home, and with so much fire in the sky."

+++Fears: "I have lost a great deal - been shot down, blown open, cut up with a sword, even tortured once. I lost my country, too, or at least one of them - my ancestral lands, the physical connection to my past. I have my share of nightmares, and I would be lying if I said that I was not afraid of all the things that man naturally fears: pain, death, helplessness, grief. If I have courage, it is in fearing the realization of those things, and not their mere possibility: fearing being killed, rather than the risk of being killed. Most of all, oddly enough, I fear becoming nothing more than one of these wandering exiles who surround me here in the Hetaireia. I fear losing what anchors I have left in this world: those lovely miles of olive groves outside Oran, and what little remains of the Republic to which I've given my life, and above all Aure - small, serious Aure, with her mother's cheekbones and my mother's eyes, in whom now I see all the past and all the future that I have left. I have lost a great deal, but I would risk infinitely more for fear of losing my daughter."



+++Nationality: "I am French, bien évidemment, no matter what some French fascists might tell you."
+++Ethnicity: "I am un français - a Frenchman, not merely French. But others who call themselves Frenchmen might not agree. For though my roots in the Cevennes go back centuries, they are Protestant roots - Huguenot, and perhaps Waldensian before that. And I spent much of my upbringing at my family's estates in Oran, not in France itself; I speak Arabic and Kabyle Berber as easily as French. For some Frenchmen, even some who claim loyalty to the Republic, those facts disqualify me from full status as un français."

+++Languages Spoken: "French, of course, is my true native tongue, but Arabic and Kabyle Berber are not far behind; my Algerian Arabic is native, while my Syrian and Egyptian and Tunisian and Moroccan all have an Algerian accent and some Classical Arabic affectations. I speak English, German, Italian, Russian, and Spanish fluently; I can pass for a native speaker in any of those languages, complete with a slight regional accent for verisimilitude. My Vietnamese, Polish, Turkish, and Ngbaka are good enough for conversation, but never to pass for a native - though my Turkish is starting to improve as my stay in Constantinople lengthens. Enough of my schooling has stuck that I remain more or less literate in Latin and Ancient Greek, and I have found that speaking the Koine Greek of the Gospels lets me communicate well enough with Greek-speakers here. Languages have always come easily to me, and that fact has deeply shaped the course of my life; for in my line of work, facility with languages is very often the difference between life and death."

+++Religion: "I am a Huguenot, a French Protestant, from a long line of Huguenots. This is a bit like being a French Jew: it is to inherit so many centuries of stubborn independence of conscience that one's belief in God is rather less significant than one's refusal to roll over and go to Mass. It is an identity more than a faith. And so I rarely pray, besides the muttering to God of any man under fire; and while I usually attend Sunday services with Aure when we are at Mont-Olivet, I cease to do so while on assignment. But I do have a certain Protestant sensibility, I think; the resistance to arbitrary authority, paradoxically combined with the acceptance that some things are foreordained, predestined, out of one's control. And I am proud of my heritage; as one must be, if only out of sheer stubbornness, when it places one ever on the outside looking in."

+++Birthplace: "I was born at my family's chateau above the village of Florac, deep in the mountains of the Cevennes. I have seen it only once since the area fell to the Reds in '24."

+++Permanent Residence: "Mont-Olivet - the estate in the hills above Oran where I spent much of my childhood. A sandstone manor on a hill, all Arabic arches and French verandas, surrounded by rippling lines of olive trees and vineyards for as far as the eye can see."

+++Criminal History: "I assume you have clearance from Deuxième Bureau? Eh bien, then. Off the top of my head, I am wanted by the Soviets for arms smuggling, under the name Yuri Andreyev; by the Greeks for espionage and sabotage, under the name Dietrich Brücker; by the Austrians for espionage, hijacking, and grand larceny, under the name William Cartwright; and by the Spanish for murder and war crimes, under my own name. My own view is that the only true crimes I ever committed were the orders that I carried out in Morocco and Vietnam and the Congo - and because we won those wars, the law says that they are not crimes at all."

+++Skills: "Unlike most of the Hetaireia, my skills do not lie first and foremost with combat flying. This is not to say that I am a novice. I was an air ace in the Great War: ten confirmed kills at La Malmaison and Paris. I flew close air support in Morocco and Algeria, and reconnaissance in Congo and Cilicia, and I took off and landed in desert wadis in Syria when I was coordinating Bedouin and Druze fighters during the revolt there. I have done plenty of flying over the last twenty years. But I have long been, in essence, a spy with a talent for flying - not a pilot with a talent for spying. Still - I have been at this long enough to have plenty of experience, and I have far more practice in doing without proper runways and airstrips than most younger flying officers. And my dogfighting, if antiquated, remains effective: I close much nearer than is now the fashion before I start shooting, and I rely more on aerobatics than on raw firepower. Those tactics were the norm in '17; today, they often take younger men by surprise. That has worked to my advantage, at least for now.

"On land, I have other skills. Languages are probably my greatest talent; as I said, I can pass for a native in English, French, Arabic, Berber, German, Italian, Russian, and Spanish. I speak four more languages well enough for conversation, though not for infiltration. I am well-trained and well-practiced in tradecraft: I can tap a phone, slip a tail, forge handwriting, and construct disguises - indeed, whole alternate personalities. I can force information out of a man, or resist those same techniques myself; I can pick locks, plan surveillance, improvise mechanical repairs, blend into crowds, befriend men, and seduce women.

"Regarding this last: charm is a far more dangerous weapon than is usually appreciated, but it is also largely a matter of practice, of trial and error. I have been at it for long enough to be able to intuit a stranger's background and insecurities and motivations from only a few moments of observation and conversation, and I know how to apply those inferences to influence behavior with the greatest possible efficiency. Psychology - you remember? And so I have quite a few old friends, contacts, smugglers, and former agents scattered from Vladivostok to Brazzaville, and most of them owe me a favor.

"What else? I fought on land at Verdun, and I remember something of small-unit tactics. I have travelled alone in the arid places of Syria and southern Algeria, and am experienced in desert survival and navigation. I have trained carefully with a pistol, since it is often all that I can risk carrying; I have trained even more carefully with a knife, which was the only weapon safe to carry in Italy and Austria. I am a capable boxer, an excellent fencer, an even better horseman. I am good with a rifle, mostly from big-game hunting in the Congo; there are four lions' heads mounted on the wall at Mont-Olivet. And - a difficult skill to define, this - I am to the manner born. I have educated opinions about wine, food, art, music, brandy, firearms, horses, clothing. I learned formal European etiquette - the social code of the last century - as my native tongue. And I am rich - which, if not a skill, does at least tend to prove very useful."



+++Bio: "I am from Florac - the particule alone should make that clear - a small village in the mountains of the Cevennes. France's Huguenots fled into those narrow dark valleys in the bloody days after the Edict of Fontainebleau. My ancestors rebelled against one French king as leaders of the Camisards, the Protestant rebels; a generation later, a different French king ennobled my great-great-great-grandfather for his part in hunting down the Beast of Gévaudan. The signet I wear today belonged to that ancestor, forged in 1768. My name - the name of the House of Florac - is his also. A generation after that, my family proved far enough from Paris and well-beloved enough of our Huguenot tenants to avoid the guillotine during the Revolution. And in fact, we have been Republicans ever since: for, signet ring or no signet ring, the Republic promises a place for Huguenots in a way that the royalists and reactionaries will never permit. Better an informal nobility than a formal bigotry.

"My grandfather made his fortune in Algeria, in the '50s and '60s - of the last century, of course - mostly in the olive business; then he was killed in action at Sedan, against the Prussians. Growing up, I divided my time between the chateau at Florac, and the estate at Mont-Olivet that actually produced our wealth. I learned a great deal in both places. My love of languages came first from my tutors; I was raised on Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Goethe as well as Moliere. I learned philosophy and rhetoric more than maths and accounting. My time was spent in shooting, riding, hunting, fencing, learning to dance the waltz and minuet. In Algeria, I played with the children of the estate steward, and learned Arabic and Kabyle Berber almost as early as I learned French, and haggled in the souk, and hunted to hounds in the Tell Atlas. Much of what I still believe in, I learned at that time: tolerance and fair play, good taste and good manners, and the importance of protecting those whom fate has placed in one's care. I learned to love places, and people, in all their vibrant specificity, and to mistrust the flattening effect of abstract ideals and sweeping generalities.

"When I was fourteen, a friend of my father helped to secure my admission to the Lycée Louis-le-Grand: France's Eton, a boarding school in Paris. That was a difficult transition. I was, for the first time, at the bosom of France: and I found it scornful of my rural accent, sneering toward my faith, incredulous at my affection for dusty old Algeria, convinced of its superiority. I studied hard, and kept up my languages, and learned to fake a Parisian accent perfectly by the time I graduated three years later. It was a lonely time, and it was the end of my childhood. There would be no more hide-and-seek among the olive groves.

"I went on to Saint-Cyr - the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr, France's West Point or Sandhurst. I was the third generation in my family to do so; it was the expected course for minor provincial nobility with a long military tradition. I had learned to dissimulate by then, to mouth Catholic pieties and mimic Parisian sophistication, and I fit in fine. I even made friends, and came to understand that true affection does not require perfect honesty; indeed, there is often some tension between the two. I won prizes for saber-fencing and polo. I came gradually to believe in the Republic after all: to recognize the great virtue not in what it was, but in what it might yet be. And when the war came, I studied all the harder: knowing that the day would come soon when I would be asked to do my duty for that great promise of liberty and equality and brotherhood, and intending to be ready.

"My father was killed in action at the Marne in September of '14. I went to the battlefield to retrieve his body and bring it back to Florac for burial. And I remember looking at his body, and looking around at the devastation - the violence done to the Earth itself, everything dead and ashen and brown - and thinking of the cool forests of Florac and the rolling vineyards of Mont-Olivet, and thinking that this was worth fighting for - killing for - dying for: to keep this horror from reaching the places that I loved. To preserve something gentle and beautiful and decent from all of this...unravelling. And in my mind, that cause became the cause of the Republic, somehow - I'm not sure how. But I have lived twenty years now, and done terrible things, all in the hope that it is so.

"I finished my studies in '16 and they put me straight into the line: a sous-lieutenant in the 2nd Infantry at Verdun. We went in up the Voie Sacrée: the living marching up one lane of the road, the broken and the dead carried down the other, each column without beginning or end as far as the eye could see. I was there for five months, just about. My platoon went over the top on October 4, and made it to a line of shell-holes halfway across No-Man's-Land before the fire stopped us. We could not go forward; we could not go back. We stayed there for nine days. Three quarters of my men died; the wounded could not be evacuated, and they drowned in six inches of mud at the bottom of their holes. A shell ripped my belly open. I held it shut with my hands. The next wave went over the top a half-hour later, and they made it twenty yards further than we had. So the medics got to me, and brought me out to the hospital, and I opened my eyes two days later quite surprised to still be alive.

"They gave me the Médaille des Blessés de Guerre and a few months' recuperation and they stitched up my belly and left this great mangled rope of a scar from one side of me to the other. And in April they sent me back into the line, even though there was still blood in my bandages every morning and I could not sleep at night without hearing the sound of wounded boys drowning in the mud. Two months later, at Reims, my men mutinied - May of '17, you remember. They would not, could not, go back into the line. But when they turned their rifles on me, I threw my revolver to the ground and tore open my uniform and showed them the bloody bandages still holding in my guts, and I told them the truth: because they deserved it, and because they would not believe anything else. It wasn't for the generals that we had to go back into the line, I said; not for the politicians or the tricolor or Marianne. It was for the villages that we all came from, the soft green gentle places that we loved. We went into the line - we held the line - so that the line would never reach our homes and loved ones. It was as simple as that.

"Then I fainted. The men picked me up, and when they went back into the trenches, they carried me with them. I remember how gently they held me. The generals gave me the Médaille d’Honneur Pour Acte de Courage et de Dévouement, and promoted me to lieutenant. But my wound had never fully healed, and it kept getting infected in the mud of the trenches, and my sergeant finally told me that I was no good to the men dead - no matter what I owed them, or what they owed me. So I put in for a transfer to the Aéronautique Militaire, and they sent me to pilot training.

"To fly - the exaltation of it, after two years in the trenches. To turn spins and loops and corkscrews; not to have to look down. At La Malmaison, I shot down three German fighters in three days, and when I crash-landed there were thirty-one bullet holes in my SPAD. I lost the last digit of my left middle finger - a fragment of the propeller snipped it right off. I was back in the cockpit three weeks later, and I was still there when the war ended - chasing the Boches out of Paris, where I shot down seven German aircraft in September and November of '18. I was an ace, and I received the Croix de Guerre, and they made me a captain even though I still could not sleep through the night. A week later, the Armistice came down. And then it all went to hell. I just didn't know it yet.

"You see, less that a month after the war ended, the Alawites rebelled in Syria, and my squadron was moved to Aleppo to respond. In retrospect, I wonder why I did not put in my papers like so many others and go home to Florac; I suppose I was still too shattered by it all to face home, to turn inward in that way. I was afraid, because I knew that home could not be the same. In any case, I flew reconnaissance under the desert sun for a few months before being shot down over Jebel Ansariyah. I wandered around the desert dying of thirst for three days before being picked up by an Ismaili tribe - they were on our side against the Alawites. We made our way back by camel to Aleppo, and once I learned enough Syrian Arabic - quite a bit different from Algerian - the Bedouin and I became fast friends, and they taught me a great deal about the desert: where to find water, how to navigate, how to spot danger on the horizon. I have fought a great many colonial wars since, and I have never again been fool enough to imagine that the rights and wrongs of those wars are simple.

"That adventure attracted some attention. In Aleppo, I had a visit from Colonel Jean-Claude de Treville, Deuxième Bureau de l'État-Major Général - a high-ranking official in French military intelligence, who has been my dear friend and political patron ever since. Treville was going to Warsaw, to help the Poles hold off the Soviets. This was still a few months before the Le Havre Mutiny. Treville offered me a place in Deuxième Bureau if I would go along with him. I said yes - because somehow, the idea of being a spy made me feel young again, and I had not been young since Verdun. And by that strange, silly reason hangs the tale of my entire life.

"Off we went to Warsaw. I learned basic Polish in three weeks of frenzied study, while the Russians stormed closer to the city and the Polish Army melted away. By the time they reached the Vistula, all pretense that we were merely observers had melted away, and French officers were helping to coordinate Polish troop movements and artillery. I stood on a ridge above the river, Soviet shells crashing left and right, and scribbled grid coordinates onto scraps of paper for runners to send back to the heavy guns. One of these medals, the Médaille Militaire, they gave me for that. But mostly, I remember how clean and honest and honorable it felt, for we were helping the Poles fight for what was indisputably theirs against men who were indisputably bullies, and everything my family had taught me let me know that I was on the side of God in this matter. And when we won, that seemed like confirmation - for what else could you call the Battle of Warsaw but a miracle?

"The day after the battle, I got a letter from Florac. A right-wing mob had burned down the ancient whitewashed Huguenot church, my mother said; then a left-wing mob had stolen all the horses from the chateau stables. She was taking the good china and my sister and going to the estate in Algeria. 'Just until things settle down,' she said. Treville and I went back to France, and the day our train pulled into Paris, the Communists took Le Havre.

"The next six months were a blur. I fought house to house at Amiens with men whose only uniform was a tricolor armband, and then flew a SPAD to cover the retreat to Paris, and then spotted for artillery from the steeple of a church in Saint-Denis, and then got shot in the back - through and through just beneath the collarbone - when we had to pull back into the city. I remember riding in the sweltering darkness of an armored train down to Marseilles and hearing bullets hammer against the wall at my back. In Marseilles there was another mutiny - a fascist cabal in the Army this time, the OAS, determined to sabotage the evacuation to Algeria and force us all to stay and fight for the Metropole - and we had to shoot our way through to the harbor ahead of a mob of thousands of women and children, with communist artillery coming down all around. An apocalypse, this: the end of a whole world. It was too overwhelming even for nightmares; there are times, in fact, when I wonder whether it is possible that I even saw such things at all, with my own eyes.

"Algeria was better, but not by much. The OAS was strong in the far west near Tunisia, and the communists incited risings among the Berbers of the mountains and the Tuareg further to the south, and then landed armored cars and trucks to support them. But in Algiers and Oran, the government-in-exile was able fairly quickly to restore order, and when I got to Mont-Olivet I found my mother and sister and childhood friends all safe and sound. Treville put back together what was left of Deuxième Bureau, and sent me to reconnoiter the country around Constantine and rally the Berbers there against the OAS. By the time I arrived, it was too late – far too late. Old comrades, men driven mad by Verdun and exile and the myth of the stab in the back – they took the city a few days earlier. I crept in under cover of darkness, and saw the bodies stacked like cordwood in the mosques and the synagogue, men and women and children, each with a small paper tag like we used in the Army for casualties. So that the OAS would know, when they were done, how many vermin they had exterminated.

“I scouted the mountains around the city, and helped to plan the assault, and I was there when we took it back. I tried to get out those that I could. But by the time we pulled down their tricolor and ran up ours, I knew there was precious little left of Constantine to save, and my heart was cold with dread for Oran and Mont-Olivet.

“The war in Algeria didn’t end, but by ’22 or so it had stabilized: there was fighting south of the Atlas, fast-moving desert fighting, but we controlled the coastal plain and the mountains where the people were. Treville sent me abroad instead, to sow confusion among our enemies. My first assignment was Vladivostok – there were still Whites out there in late ’22, and we wanted Lenin too busy with them to spend time building ties with the People’s Republic. So I brushed up my Russian and spent eight months running guns from Sapporo, mostly by aid to beat the blockade. That turned out to be lucky; in the chaos when the city fell, I was able to get out by plane, racing Cossack horsemen down the runway.

“Still, that operation accomplished its main goal, which was to keep the Reds busy. Others followed. I was in Cilicia for a while, trying to figure out why Turkish ultranationalists knew where to find our convoys between Mersin and Adana. That led to a bit of pure romantic silliness: a love triangle with a White Russian émigré and an Ottoman intelligence officer. The whole business was a farce. I dueled the Ottoman, got shot by the countess – who was actually a Soviet spy who had tracked me from Vladivostok – and was credited by Treville with succeeding only because I ended up as the last man standing.

“Morocco was after that. More war than spy work, that, and a grim war at that: the Rif tribes rebelled, and I spent four months flying ‘ground support’ – strafing villages before the goumiers moved in to clean up what was left. I started having nightmares again, and the fire at Verdun became the fire in the Rif when both were set before my mind’s eye. I asked Treville to give me something, anything else to do. He sent me to Fez, to figure out where the rebels’ guns were coming from. That was where I met Amira: she was Jewish, and Moroccan, and her family had been powerful merchants in Fez since the fifteenth century. She cracked the smuggling ring more than I did. At first, I thought we were using each other: I got her out from under the shadow of her family and the threat of an arranged marriage, and she got me to the gun runners. But by the time it was over, it was more than that, and she came back to Oran with me. Her parents were not pleased; but her father was – is – an odd man, as cosmopolitan in some ways as he is traditional in others, and pragmatic to a fault. When he saw that he could not change Amira’s mind, he gave his blessing. As for my family? Since 1914, I have been the Seigneur de Florac. My mother assented in prim Huguenot silence. My sister I honestly think was delighted.

“I know that I have told you scarcely anything of Amira herself. I am sorry for that. But the memory is – she was beautiful, and funny, and cynical, and fiercely protective of me: knew she was smarter than me, knew I’d get my romantic Gallic self into all sorts of trouble unless she was careful. She saw me very clearly. No one else ever actually has.

“We had a honeymoon in Greece, on a beautiful Ionian island. After two weeks Treville called me and told me to go to Sparta instead: the naval dockyard there was working on a new battlecruiser, supposedly very fast, and Deuxième Bureau wanted details: we owed the Ottomans a favor, in part because of my duel with their man in Adana. I bribed one engineer; Amira charmed another – quite chaste, but I blackmailed him anyway, with a newlywed’s vindictiveness. I was captured while trying to get close enough for a photograph, but only for about five minutes; before they could get me to a cell I made a break for it, and managed to set half the dockyard on fire to keep the guards too busy to pursue. This had the wholly accidental consequence of destroying the battlecruiser, putting me back in the Ottomans’ good graces and delighting Treville.

“Delighting Treville is always a dangerous thing to do. He repaid my hard work with a trip home: undercover, back to France, to extract a communist military planner who wanted to defect. Amira stayed back at Oran – she was pregnant with Aure – and I slipped ashore at Toulon dressed as a dock worker. Paris was horrible. Not brutal, you know – no guillotines, no lanterns laden with corpses, not even any grinding poverty: people seemed well-fed and well-clothed. But there was no light in it; no spark of flirtation or irreverence, no Parisiennes promenading in the latest fashion, no street artists hawking outrageous caricatures of politicians. The communists had done what all the bourgeoisie in the world had failed in: they had made Paris respectable, and its soul was gone.

“But the countryside was different. I got the defector out quietly, but his absence was noted, and we had to leap from a moving train outside Lyon to avoid communist police in the dining car. We ran hard, by car and then horse, across the Massif Central, and in the way I made it back to the only place I could think of: Florac. The villagers remembered me, and I wept when they explained that they remained as loyal to me as my family had always been to them. I stole back a few heirlooms from the chateau – now occupied by the local party chairman, to the disgust of all who still remembered the Camisards – and my old friends sent me down to Nice hidden in a truckload of cabbages. The defector and I rendezvoused with a seaplane and escaped the next week. I went back to Oran, and regaled Amira with the tale, and met my daughter.

“The next assignment was absurd. Treville would never have sanctioned it; but he was sick, fighting liver cancer, and though he finally won he was not at headquarters to countermand the order. I was to infiltrate a fascist conference in the Tyrol, where the Austrians and Italians were supposedly going to plan a joint strategy. I spent three months in Trent trying to figure out how to get close enough, and building an asset network who could report at secondhand. It was madness: informants everywhere, police raids constantly, hundreds of foreigners arrested on espionage charges never to be seen again. Like trying to work in a burning building. In the end, one of my informers got too scared, and the fascists broke down my door at four in the morning. I went out the window, broke my ankle on the landing, and began two months of castor oil, and water, and pliers. I promised myself I would last two weeks, to give my other assets time to escape, and I did; in fact, I got to three before the Italians started preparing to blind me, and then I broke and told them what they already knew anyway. They kept up the torture for a while longer anyway, and then threw me in a basement cell and left me there for eighteen months. I was released in a quiet exchange in ’31.

“It was not fun, of course. I don’t mean to sound more stoic than I am. But – somehow, it was not as bad as I had thought. I knew the game: they wanted to exchange me, or they would have shot me as soon as I broke. So it was just a matter of waiting, of surviving to a better day. I remembered my Virgil: Dabit deus his quoque finem. And I thought of Aure in her mother’s arms, and knew that everything that really mattered in my life was safe, quite safe, waiting for me to return.

“It wasn’t. Amira had died five months earlier: a riding accident. Aure was six, and she barely knew me. I was shattered. I lay abed for a week, and wept, to broken even to drink; then I drank for a few days, but after that my mother and Hamid, the estate steward who had known me since I was born, hid all the brandy and called Treville. He ended up staying for a month. And surrounded by family and friends, I healed. I saw that the world had still so much beauty in it – but not Amira, never never never again, never again her smile and her slightly too-mean joke and the loving worry in her eyes afterwards. I mourn her still; I will never stop mourning her. But I walked among the olives with my daughter’s hand in mine: the olives that my grandfather planted, and Aure with her mother’s cheekbones and my mother’s eyes, and I felt my grief softly cradled in a love that was gifted across generations, and smoothed the jagged edge of life and death. I stayed for a year, and taught Aure Latin, and in the end I even let her ride her pony, though my heart beat like a timpani at the thought. I let myself slow down, and imagine other lives, other ways of being. In the end, when I went back to work, it was because I knew that it was what I wanted – not just because I had been running since the Great War, and didn’t know how else to live. The Republic is not perfect, but I love it, and it is my daughter’s inheritance no less than those olive groves. There is work do be done on its behalf.

“My first mission back tested that faith. I was flying out of Brazzaville to help suppress the Kongo-Wara rebels, embedded with a group of other French officers flying under mercenary colors. If nothing else, I assumed I could get some big-game hunting in, and I did. But I quickly discovered that the scheme was intended to provide deniability for acts that Algiers had decided were necessary, but illegal. I was prepared to go along with the torture of insurgents, to a point; but when my supposed colleagues started dropping mustard gas on villagers, I blew the whistle to Treville. He pulled some strings and got the operation cancelled. But it was too late for me, by that time; some of the other officers had taken a liking to the mercenary life, and shot me down seven hundred miles upriver from Brazzaville. I put my plane down in a jungle clearing barely wide enough to land, and made it back to Brazzaville on a decrepit riverboat hauling rubber, fighting off malaria and dengue fever and a man-eating crocodile that accounted for three of our crew. It felt good: a good adventure, dangerous and difficult but challenging and new and full of remarkable people and sights and sounds. I spent five months back with Aure, and went back into the field. She started writing me letters when I left, at least twice a week, and she has kept it up ever since.

“My last mission – before this one, before Marmara – was Spain. I was posing as a mercenary again, fighting with the communists – yes, I know, but Franco had ties to the OAS, and they were considered a bigger problem. Besides, this way I could keep an eye on the People’s Republic and its influence in the Red Spanish forces. It all came off almost without a hitch, right up to the very end. I flew more than thirty missions, mostly air superiority or interception, and my antiquated dogfighting got more practice than it had in almost two decades – it is still antiquated, to be sure, but now it is at least both antiquated and effective. I also recruited an agent in the Red radio corps who sent me transcripts of every major broadcast from Paris. In the end, he shared this fact with the wrong women, and as I came in to land at the end of a mission half the guns on the airstrip opened up at me. I peeled away, ran hard for Gibraltar, glided in the last fifteen miles when I ran out of gas, and crashed on the promenade. The governor hosted me in quite good state for a week, and sent me home to Oran with his Brittanic majesty’s compliments, which ticked Aure quite pink when she heard about it.

“And now I am here: a new plane, a few thousand extra American dollars in my pocket, a lovely apartment in the backstreets of the Galata Hill, and tidy little letters from Aure twice a week, telling me how this year’s olive oil press is coming. My orders are to do what I can to keep Marmara on its feet, and I don't have to be too shy about who I am or why I'm doing it; direct intervention by the Republic would invite Greek escalation, but it's just as well if Athens knows that Algiers has taken an interest in Marmara's survival. No one in the shadows will believe that I am just on leave from my unit, and that is exactly how Deuxième Bureau wants it. My presence, however deniable, still sends a message.

"As I look back on it, I am grateful for this life that I have led – more grateful than I expected. There has been loss in it – of youth, innocence, country, love. There has been torture and nightmares and grief. But oh, I have known such riches too: of adventure and romance and love and family and friends. Should there be more to come, I have not had my fill of life yet; should my road end here, I think that few men could have done more living in thirty-nine years than I. Either way – I am grateful.”

+++Why You're Here: “The Republic called; I answered. Less poetically? This is my profession – not my first mission posing as a mercenary, and it will not be my last.”

+++RP Example:

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)
Last edited by Reverend Norv on Tue Dec 22, 2020 6:08 am, edited 6 times in total.
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647

A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

User avatar
Rudaslavia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1684
Founded: Mar 28, 2014
Corporate Police State

Postby Rudaslavia » Wed Dec 09, 2020 9:19 pm

I will certainly be spectating, especially given the big names already involved. However, I just don't know enough about air combat (or aircraft in general) to even begin bullshitting my way through an application, let alone an IC thread.

But goddamn, Rup, this is impressive! Awesome job!
Friends call me "Rud."

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Rupudska
Postmaster of the Fleet
 
Posts: 20621
Founded: Sep 16, 2010
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Rupudska » Thu Dec 10, 2020 8:16 pm

Half the credit goes to Wolfenium, since a fair amount of the worldbuilding is based on his ideas.
The Holy Roman Empire of Karlsland (MT/FanT & FT/FanT)
THE Strike Witches NationState
Best thread ever.|Ace Combat!
MT Factbook/FT Factbook|Embassy|Q&A
On Karlsland Witch Doctrine:
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties

Questers wrote:
Rupudska wrote:So do you fight with AK-47s or something even more primitive? Since I doubt any economy could reasonably sustain itself that way.
Presumably they use advanced technology like STRIKE WITCHES

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Cylarn
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14851
Founded: Nov 25, 2011
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Fri Dec 11, 2020 8:43 am

Get them apps done, folks. I like our prospective outfit of pilots, regardless of the diversity of roles and platforms.
Last edited by Cylarn on Fri Dec 11, 2020 8:43 am, edited 2 times in total.
✎ Member - ℘ædagog
If you are serving the US and its allies right now overseas, thank you for what you do.
Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

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Bolslania
Minister
 
Posts: 2469
Founded: Mar 07, 2018
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Bolslania » Fri Dec 11, 2020 9:01 am

At the risk of being "that guy", is my app approved or is there still something I need to fix?
Military is a 9-9-6 according to this index
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( -_-) (-_Q) If you understand that both Capitalism and Socialism have ideas that deserve merit, put this in your signature

Pro: Democracy, Science, Pro-choice, Civil rights, SocDem , Technocracy
Anti: Authoritarianism, Flat-earthers/science deniers, Conspiracy theorists, Karens, Hard-right conservatives

Margaret DeFrey approaches end of term, BDP Candidate Bonifác Kočí is likely to make the primaries, along with Oie Sibul of the Green Party| Lobbyists clamor for more military spending, however they see little success, with the newly signed budget of 2055 seeing the Military receive only 12.5% of the budget.

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