In the halls of Shangri-La Boarding School for the Youth, the decision has been made to form a Competitive Sport Tank Group, and someone has to be the Captain.
Sitting on the edge of your schoolyard, you stared out into the wilderness surrounding it. The Shangri-La Boarding School for Youths was your home away from home for the next four years, and you were already starting to hate it after just a week. Pulling at your too-starched collar, you winced at the sound of something clattering around. This school was falling apart, and if the sounds coming from the pier were any indication, and the beat-up transport that was wheeling off ten-ton trucks wasn't a shining sign of school excellence either. Face it: you'd been sent to the closest thing to a penitentiary school that would still let you go to college later, all according to Mom's damn plan. Sighing, you pushed your hair back before considering the pros and cons of going to the school barber, before swearing to yourself. Screw the barber, and screw the police- you could tie it up under your regulation flat-cap if you needed to.
Working your way down to the dorms, your eyes wandered out over Lake Michigan and the pale blue sky, before snapping your eyes to the front as a large circus tent caught your attention next to the dorm rooms. Underneath it, the ten-ton trucks were pulling up and throwing out piles of mechanical debris- tools, parts, cans of fuel and oil all mixed together. Some seniors were laughing, others were swearing like sailors as they used a crane to slowly pull a tiny tank out of the bed of another truck. Looking around, you gulped as one of the other tanks was slowly pushed in front of the main entrance to the freshman dorms. Swearing blithely yourself, you dove for the bushes and tried to run to ground around the edge of the building. As you approached the back door, you smirked to yourself. Nearly free and-
"Got one!" a sophomore yelled, grabbing you by that damnable collar and hauling you up out of the bushes. Taking a rabbit punch at his ugly mug, you missed as he shook you like a mouse, laughing.
"Let me down!" you roared, also like a mouse.
"Nope!" the upperclassman said, grinning as he dragged you out front, before plopping you down in front of the President. Since Shangri-La didn't actually have a Student Council, you weren't using the title in it's mortal sense, but more in that it was an apros description for a number of demons, of which this young man certainly qualified. Bullish, with long blond hair undercut at the sides to allow for a similar fold-and-tuck under the cap like you, he was an imperial figure barely constrained by the deep burgundy waistcoat and bright green watch-chain that played havoc with your style sense and his silver bolo tie.
Squinting, the President eyed you up one side and down the other, before pulling out a meterstick.
"Height… five-six. Weight… Jorgenson?"
"One-forty-five, President!"
Clicking his tongue, he threw a chair behind you before whacking your knee with the ruler. Falling back in surprise, you landed in the chair, just in time for Jorgenson the minion to spin you around at a large, hastily-assembled projector screen.
"Good morning, Class Forty-Five!" The President yelled. "As is long-standing tradition here at the glorious Shangri-La Boarding School, each Class will have a sport that they represent the glory and honor of our fine educational facility in! Normally, this would be decided by a council of your peers, but unfortunately for you there's been a discrepancy!"
Behind him on the screen, the picture flashed to a pair of towering, monsterous tanks.
"Due to the delightful quirks of Michigan educational law and the pressuring times of this economy, the School Board of Directors has assumed upon themselves that Shangri-La will now be in possession of one tournament-rated Panzerfahren team. With the help of our partner association at the University of Michigan Tech, we have acquired the seed of a team, and are seeking members!"
Silence from the dorm block, even though every freshman was on the roof or dangling out a window.
"Now, due to the unusual circumstances, it has been decided that we're going to be offering some incentives to help make up for the fact you're going to be stuck doing this for the next four years! Bucciarati, whip out the new duds!"
"Naturally!"
Moments later, you were getting thrown into a phone-booth sized changing closet, before Bucciarati was in there with you pulling your shirt off. "Hey, c'mon dude!" you yelled. "No bueno!"
This changed exactly nothing as your stiff, starched point-collar white blouse was changed over for a new gray one with a standing collar, and you were slipped into a dark navy five-button waistcoat soon after. Combined with your black slacks, you were looking solidly sharp even as you noticed the geometrical embroidery on the shoulders of the vest- almost like epaulets. A few passes with a greased brush got your hair in order, and the tawny flat-cap of before was replaced with the bastard child of a mortarboard, beret, and peaked cap with a burgundy ribbon and gray top with the school logo- a lamp over two diagonal sabers- front and center. Before you knew it, you were ready to go, being shoved out on stage in front of the President.
"As you can see, Panzerfahren club members are going to be given a special uniform to help differentiate them for our instructors, and in addition certain privileges will be established for them. For starters…" the President said, grinning. "Access to the opposite gender's dorm common areas for purposes of team coordination."
Hoooly shit, that was a motivator right there. The boys dorms had been designed with sporting architecture in mind, giving them a basketball court, twenty foot rock wall, rappelling spaces, two general-purpose workshops, and even a two-lane bowling alley. However, the dormitory kitchen was, in a word, terrible. Expecting teenagers to reliably cook their own food without adult supervision was, in a word, dangerous; and more importantly with how few of them could even read a recipe it was always a crapshoot how meals turned out. By contrast, the girls dorms were lighter on entertainment, but had an actual cooking team and several lounges that were rumored to be the most comfortable areas on campus with the newest furniture and even, heaven help you, sound systems.
"In addition, to promote the readiness of night matches and to make sure there is enough prep time for the vehicles, there will also be an extension of curfew from 2100 hours to 2330 for members during the competition season, which starts in a month." The President said, smiling. "Enrollment will be open shortly!"
Pulling you off the stage, the President looked at you, grinning. "Still feeling an objection to joining the Panzerfahren team?"
You think about it for a minute, before shaking your head. "Color me convinced." You said, smirking.
"Good, because you're the captain now." The President said, dead serious. "I can't run this and keep the Seniors on track, and the President of Vice can't either or the juniors will start revolting and try and hold a coup d' etat since they can't get into the girls dorms and your boys can."
"What about the Head of the Council?" you asked, waving your hands. "I've only been here for a week!"
"The entire reason the sophomore leader is called that is because he doesn't have enough personal power yet to 'tard wrangle the jock clubs into line and get them to work together." The President scoffed, slapping you on the back. "I'll throw some of my boys at it- probably Janowski. He's pretty good, and can keep the gas cans and ammo racks full. All you need to do is get the rest of the freshies to drive and shoot, and we'll be fine."
You stared at him. You were not fine. "Can I take back joining up?"
The President laughed. "No, because this entire conversation is on tape and the paperwork's already completed. Now get out there, kid, you'll do fine!"
You weren't so sure, but you slapped your face and grit your teeth. Fine. Fine. You can do this!
VOTES
What dorm do you sleep in?
[] Male dorm
[] Female dorm
[] Depends on what uniform you're wearing honestly, nobody remembers all the freshmen yet.
What is your best physical characteristic?
[] Strength. Be they barbells or bags flower, you can lift, carry, haul, and throw with the best of them.
[] Reflexes. You can see the invisible and catch anything around you that flies whether it wants you to or not.
[] Precision. Some people have trouble threading a needle. You can do it blindfolded, upside-down, in your sleep.
What is your best school subject?
[] Math. Everything returns back to math.
[] Science. Logic, reason, and the processing of information are what separate humans from beasts.
[] Literature & Composition. The human condition is the soul of man, and without it they are naught but dust.
[] History. Every effect has a cause, and the chain of dominos goes back further than writing can ever find.
So this Quest is a pretty large step away from my usual Quest format, and there's a very good reason for that. Since I like to do recreational design for tabletop wargames and role-playing games, I've been looking for a way to playtest said constructions during The Quarantine Times. Enter @open_sketch and her rather ingenious way to test prototype builds and campaign writing on the fly, by running it as a Quest here.
Therefore, enter this Quest as the first playtest of Bonnie Blue Ribbon, my latest and greatest attempt to hybridize the sports anime feel with the battle high school energy using the medium of tanks. Anyone who's familiar with Girls und Panzer will recognize the seed corn of this idea, and the system is designed to be fast and frantic or calm and campy depending on how the players are handling things.
Schedule-wise, this Quest is going to try to stick to an update every few days in battle, after which will be a week or two of downtime for me to correct any problems, continue typesetting the rules for ease of use, and write the next encounter. After each battle, I'll also be posting the GM docs on each battle for crowd analysis so y'all can use your heads to work this out too. Playtests don't work unless everyone's willing to speak their mind, and I hope dearly everyone can bring something to the table to make this a better system.
As a Quest, and as a QM, do note that I'm mildly particular on voting. During narative time and character creation, please refrain from plan voting. During battles, however, plan voting is instated, as well as write-ins. Please don't abuse this power, and remember it is only for battle sequences.
With that all said, first up are the 0.1 rules draft, and the working charts sheet. Godspeed, everyone!
OPENING CRAWL Ellie: Alright, I’ve passed the Spot check, and the enemy is broadside on to me. Gonna take the shot! GM: Alright, roll the shot, range mod is -2. Ellie rolls the shot, and gets a 14 on her dice Ellie: Got fourteen, minus two for range, so… twelve. The GM smiles, and moves the to...
Grumbling to yourself, you headed back to the girls' dorm popping open your waistcoat along the way. The fall heat was real, and trudging in you drew nothing but stares. Probably because you were sweating like a pig, since your plan for today had been to just wear a soft t-shirt under your uniform instead of a bra because you weren't that far unpacked yet. Getting back to your room and stripping down in front of the air conditioner and box fan at full blast felt absolutely heavenly.
Homework though? Homework was terrible. You didn't get sent here because school was easy, you got sent here because you were honestly a bit of a fuckup. Math homework was hell, literature- on a typewriter no less since neither you nor Leki, your roommate, had a computer- was best described as torment, and the sweet solace of history only slowed things down for a few minutes until science was clobbering you over the head.
Looking at your near-mute roommate, you shared a nod. The only thing to cure this solace was muffins. Changing out of the slacks and special stuff, you decided that it would be absolutely fine to head down to the bakery in a sports bra, hoody, and sweats. Fuck it, and especially math homework. Once you were there, a blueberry muffin and a cup of tea were waiting, along with a nice couch and a blanket. You weren't kidding when you said the female dorms were amazingly comfortable to live in! Still, as you curled around your drink, and Leki curled around you, you smiled.
"You know we're gonna have to start wearing pants for this at some point, right?" Leki deigned to say after both of you had finished your muffins. "What with the guys."
You shushed her. "I plan on going there, not bringing them here. No boys allowed!"
"Fair enough." She said, smirking.
/-/-/-
Waking up in the morning, you signed lightly, before falling out of bed gracelessly. You'd had the sense to grab your new uniform parts yesterday from the school commissary, and as you pulled on the new shirt and the oddball hat everyone in the dorm stopped to stare at you. Like it as not, you were special now. Different.
Dare you even say elite?
It was no matter as you chugged through the school day, side-cocked square top of your hat defying all expectation and reality. After the last class let out with a roar and people went to find clubs to join, you just marched down to the Tank Tent, ready to start your new job as Captain. When you got there, though, there were a passel of seniors- identifiable by their bright green hat accents and general disdain- hard at work, with one of them wearing a mirror copy of your dumbass hat. Noticing you, he walked up smartly, sticking out his hand.
"Lars Janowski, at your service."
"Celeste Ageneterre." you said as you tried to loosen up. "How are we looking?"
"Get over here to the office and I'll start explaining." He said, leading you to a card table, filing cabinet, and old laptop. "Right now, we've got five old Renault Ft-17s, a selection of weapons, a ludicrous amount of fuel we're going to go through like vodka at a bachelor party, ammo for said weapons, and nine spare power packs. All the ATF paperwork's been filed, stamps paid, et cettera. The issue right now is people."
"We need crew, don't we." You said, voice dry.
"An Ft-17 takes a two-man crew, so we need another nine people, plus maintenance crew of… eh call it thirty; thirty-nine total. The idiot horndogs we'll get can be fobbed off on maintenance until they shape up or drop out, the rest we'll put with you in the tanks. Which leads us to our next big question- coaches."
Opening up the series of dossiers on the card table- it wasn't your desk yet, honestly- and looking them over, you found a mess of pictures and information.
"I'll give you a few minutes to look them over." Janowski said, walking off. "MERIDITH! WE'RE GETTING RECRUITS IN THIRTY! GET THE CHAIRS OUT!"
Digging in, you got to reading. Most of the information was dry and clinical- last place of employment, excerpts of resumes and letters of recommendation, old logos and brag patches and things you couldn't make heads or tails of… but then there were the portraits. Those caught in your mind.
The first was a young woman, dark, frizzy hair raked back in a stiff bun with a cigarette hanging out of her lips and a light smirk over a dark blue jacket in long cut. Angelique Cerdan, the daughter of a pair of pied-noir, graduated the Universitie d'Toulon, spent three years as a member of the South France team, but couldn't get into the National Team and instead going into coaching. Her letter promised a spirit of fire and elan, and her resume made her out to be a large proponent of light units, independent actions, and maneuverer doctrine. Equally importantly, she'd also serve as one of the school's French teachers, giving you a class you'd probably ace provided you didn't screw up your tank-work badly.
Next up was her opposite in almost every way. Short, with sandy-auburn hair and a devilish smirk, August Becker was a German from the highlands with a reasonable track record. Graduated out of Vienna Polytechnic, two years as a driver on the tracked rally circuit and eight in an amateur team in Dresden to good successes. Short stint in the Czech Republic as a substitute driver for the Brno team, and he got into coaching shortly after to absolutely no success with their older Soviet tank parks. His letters were energetic, with a more tempered air and marvelous determination, which combined with his resume suggested a focus on teamwork-based operations, battlefield tactics and deception, and a firm understanding of the mechanics of your tank. Also, like Cerdan, he would likely serve as a language teacher to your GPA's relief.
Following that was a bit more of a mystery choice, hailing originally from Ukraine of all places. Yekatarina Dryagina was probably the most successful tanker on her own merits here, spending two years on the Ukrainian National Team in an unlisted position, before moving down into coaching and back up into a couple of private teams. Still, over fourteen years in the job, there was a solid record buried in there even if there wasn't an attached educational listing. Also unlike the other bios, there was no pictures, or even descriptions. Janowski had included a 'probable' photo of her on the shoulders of one of the top gunners in the Ukrainian National Team from '12, but the key word was probable: her tank's ID number wasn't even noted in the bios. Her cover letter emphasized she would teach a competitive, group-focused style based around close coordination to overcome superior enemy vehicles, maneuvering in all terrains, and sound foundations for field repair and vehicle improvement.
Rounding things off were the coaches from closer to home. Luke DuBois was a member of the Midwest Tankery Confederation, and currently was a gunner for the Lima Armory Demonstration Team that was looking to get out of the tank for a few years to clean out his medical record after a failed Air-Dropped Tank System test ended up breaking both arms and his skull. Since a closed-head injury larger than a concussion was a four-year competitive benching, it made a good deal of sense. Six years with the demonstration team and a degree from Ohio State (in anthropology of all things) made him a solid pick, plus the invisible benefit of speaking English as his first language. Unfortunately, he'd be a coach only, so there wouldn't be any grade-boosting off him, but on the plus side he was the most well-rounded of the teachers and promised to coach according to the MTC guidebook, which had won the US National team two World Cups back in '97 and '03.
Following him was Cameron Nicols, a Newfie with a head of shaggy hair and a devil-may-care grin that screamed death and destruction. While his was the shortest record- four years in the University of Montreal and two in the Quebec Char de Combat Escardon Deux- he also had tank command for three wins to two losses in the America-Canada International, one Canadian Cup, and had been on the podium for all his years of university. While not a teacher for classes, he did promise to bring to the table a style that was focused around team strategies and tactics, timed assaults and terrain use, and most importantly in his eyes battle coordination through poor weather and enemy interference.
Once you were done reading the dossiers, you stood up with a groan, before taking the time to roll your arms a few times and walk over to the main area. Smirking, Janowski just looked at you, before pointing over at fifteen of your classmates now wearing the Tankery Team Hat.
"I got you some rookies." Janowski said, grinning. "The horndogs are washing the tanks."
Staring at the crowd, you sighed. "We have nine open slots- this is nearly double that!"
"And you'll get more tanks the more you fight." Janowski said, shrugging. "If nothing else, bringing in wins should shake loose some sponsorship, and even if you don't win a medical bench should help. Rules are three weeks off for a concussion, and there's no getting around that."
You winced. Right, medical benching. Had to account for that.
"Either way, pick a driver, and have fun." He said, grinning. "I'm gonna go see if my boyfriend's free, make sure you get those recommendations sent up the chain, and remember nobody's actually allowed to do anything until the instructor gets here."
"Right, right." You said, trying to smile. Going over to the crowd of rookies, you tried to smile, failed, and sighed before plopping down in a chair. "Anyone who wants to be a driver, right side of the tent. Everyone else, left."
That got you six drivers. Good? Maybe? Hell, you were clueless here! Either way, you had to pick one of them! Oh hell why did you ever agree this might be a good idea!?
-/-/-/-/-/
VOTES
(Plan voting is allowed for this one due to the second vote item)
Is your driver a boy or a girl?
[] Boy
[] Girl
Vote for coaches; choose up to 3. GM will choose from top 2 with consideration from discussion.
[] Angelique Cerdan (FR)
[] August Becker (DE)
[] Yekatarina Dryagina (UA)
[] Luke DuBois (US)
[] Cameron Nicols (CA)
It had been the better part of a week before your Coach came in on one of the school's bumbling LVTs. News had come in yesterday that the School Board had chosen Mlle. Cerdan, and you were eager to see what she arrived in. By now, everyone was reasonably used to the new uniforms, and you had them up and at the ready.
True to form, once the roll-off ramp went down, your new coach came out in her tank, sedate as could be. With a long hull and two-part rear turret, you had no idea what the heck this tank was supposed to be or do. Still, head out the commander's hatch was that long shock of spring-coil hair- and then, moments later the head and body attached to it were jumping out of the tank to land down in front of you.
"Team Captain Agenterre, if I'm not mistaken?" Cerdan said with a confident smirk. Was being a little weak in the knees in front of a new teacher normal? You couldn't tell, as you tilted your head down to look her in those almond eyes. You could only describe Angelique Cerdan as pert, now that she was in front of you, all five-foot-two-in-boots of her piercing stare. Small, maybe, or lithe, not much more than a whisp of a human that could contort herself into a machine of mayhem.
"That would be me, yes." You said, nodding.
"Excellent! Since today is a Friday, I'd like you and the entire team in your fatigues here at eight hundred tomorrow morning." Cerdan directed. "I've got two weeks to go before your first match, and it'll be a cold day in Hell before I waste that much time!"
Later, that was the exact moment you identified where everything started in on a rather quick jaunt vaguely downwards, right to hell.
Next morning started off at eight in the morning, all right- and when you didn't have the entire listed team in front of the circus tent you were calling a garage, well, Cerdan was a mite bit peeved.
"Marc!" she roared at her gunner and your fifty-five percent attendance (quite good honestly for a call time before 9am) in rage. "Tirez un sonique rond!"
Then the tank fired something- not the main gun though- and suddenly there was a bang to burst the heavens, like a sound you'd never heard before. Grabbing your ears, you just screamed a very little bit from the shock. Picking up a microphone, Cerdan grinned maniacally.
"MUSTER TIMES MEAN MUSTER ON THE FIELD! NEXT ONE GOES OFF IN YOUR DORM IF YOU'RE LATE!"
Two and a half minutes later you had the full team in front of you, as well as several death glares coming out from the dorm.
"Good morning, everyone!" Cerdan said, grinning maniacally. "In the future, I expect everyone to be here and ready to go well before muster! If we are late again, I will move up to full size blank rounds, instead of measly sonics from the mortar!"
You flinched, the team flinched, and the dorm flinched.
"Today, we are going to cover basics of operation! Drivers will be with Isabella, commanders will be with Marc! We will spend two hours on the basics of operation, then we will cycle you into your tanks. I will be overseeing."
Thus, your tank education begun. As a tank commander, you started off with Marc, and as pleasant as he was the lesson got old quickly. The SA 18 was a venerable gun, and equally importantly kind of a potato- Marc advised at least a few tanks in your group taking the other available gun, a Hotchkiss 25mm cannon with- in his words- adequate performance as long as it wasn't pressed at too long of a range. It wasn't long after, though, as you crammed yourself into a turret with one of said guns, that you reconsidered deeply going back to the stubby little SA 18.
It was there, crouched down with your ass in a seatbelt-webbing sling and your right arm pressed against the turret ring while your left was accomidating itself around the recoil guard and the turret crank, that you then learned what the next step was going to be after a water break.
"Now that we have familiarised ourselves with the vehicle, we are now going to practice the manual of arms!" Cerdan chuckled, before walking over to one of the tanks. "There are three basic things you must be able to do- evacuate the tank after a rollover, change from a riding position to a buttoned position, and conduct an evacuation after internal or external ignition."
Deliberately opening all the hatches, Cerdan started to demonstrate.
"Exiting the tank after rollover will come later today, as well as fire evacuation. However, it is standard practice to ride 'unbuttoned', as it improves situational awareness. This is where you, the crew, are comfortably situated around the tank in such a way to see and operate the vehicle to the best of your ability. Marc, can you get the PTRD?"
"oui."
As Marc returned with a staggeringly ugly gun that he set on the ground a few dozen feet from the tank, Cerdan grinned. "You will grow to hate that gun. Either way, the weapons on all your tanks have a system attached- a warning laser. When your tank is lazed, like so-" she said, as Marc swept the muzzle over the tank "-the safety alarm will sound. You have four second from the start of the alarm until you are fully under secured armor, or your tank is automatically disqualified. Either you will be safe, or you will be removed."
You were singularly unhappy with the drills. Still in the Hotchkiss-armed tank, you had to go from standing in the sling, gun between your legs, ass on the rim of the two-part turret hatch, to inside the tank in four seconds. There were degrees of not fun you'd experienced in your life. There were a lot of degrees of not fun you'd experienced in your life. Slamming your crotch right into the fucking breech of the gun? New worst one!
You were not afraid to say you were tearing up for a while after that. Cerdan didn't say anything at least, when she stuck a head in your open rear hatch and saw the clean spot your leg had scraped on the recoil guard on the way down. When the next buzzer sounded, though, your driver yelled 'fuck' and you just winced at the sound of head meeting armor plate.
"Tank got you too?" you asked morbidly.
"Right in the back of the fucking head!" your driver said, turning around to face you with half a black eye and a squint at the dark interior of the tank. "Where'd it get you?"
"Right in the cooch." You grumbled. "Fucking recoil guard."
Your driver winced in sympathy with you, before she shrugged. "There's a reason boys tend to have short careers at this, isn't there."
"Tell me about it." You sighed. "And I'm the bloody captain!"
"Well then I'm Sabah. You?"
"Celeste. Think we have to start up the drills again?"
"Yes." A third voice- Cerdan's- said from outside the tank. "Crew bonding can happen over lunch."
Four hours later with lunch and mass ice-pack assuagements, the team was in pretty low spirits. Naturally, this was when you all got to learn how to drive your tanks. Specifically, to drive them down to the range that had finally had the backstop finished. Piling in with Sabah in the front, you slowly started down the way in single-file, frantically trying to keep one ear glued to your headset and both hands on the turret as you practiced riding along unbuttoned. Not helping matters was Cerdan's off-key rendition of La fouile as we went along the two-mile drive, broadcast by radio at us every step of the way.
Once you were at the range, one of the waiting trucks threw you a crate of training ammo- paint rounds with a lead core- and you got to work… loading your tank. For ease of use, the 25mm rounds came packaged in stripper clips (which in no way interfaced with the gun, sadly) and you had to find places to stash the clips. Finally, after ten minutes of finagling, you just got out, had Sabah fold down her seat, and you put the whole damn crate in through the driver's area to sit under your sling. After that came your ear protection, and the shooting.
Safe to say, you were… not terrible? Your targets were cardboard silhouettes on steel plates, and once you got the hang of ducking down to sight with the scope and then coming back up so the recoil didn't whack you it got pretty fun. You were hitting the plates, which was honestly better than what you could say for the rest of the guys and girls here on average. The cardboard… you could probably re-use the cardboard. It was clean enough. Unfortunately.
"Alright, good news!" Cerdan said as the range time finished and everyone toodled back around to the roadhead to head home. "Once we get back to the school, you only need to do two laps of drop drills to make up for this abysmal shooting, then we can have dinner!"
Getting back inside long enough to start mucking around with the radio unit (mounted on a box outside the turret with a wire through the inside) you finally found the Command channel.
"Coach, what's a drop drill?"
"It's where you drive in a set pattern- in this case around the school- while someone with a marker tracks you and buzzes your tank every once and a while." Cerdan said, chuckling. "Either you learn to get in the tank fast, or you get knocked out and I have to come over to wand you back in."
"Oh no." you muttered.
"I heard that!" the Frenchwoman said, staring at you from the top of her tank. "Now get over to channel 5 so you can tell your tankers!"
"Yes ma'am." You said quickly, before you started mucking around with the radio set. Moments later, you had it set to broadcast. Now, how did you talk in the radio again?"
"Come in, all tanks?" you asked carefully as Sabah dodged a pothole.
"Eh? Ah! We have radios?!" one voice asked. "How do we use them?!"
"They're in voice-detect right now, but we should probably switch to push to talk later." A second voice said. "We should also probably say our names."
"Probably, yes, but who wants to?" a third voice grumbled. "Still, I guess I should mention my name. I'm Michelle."
"I'm Iris!" the first, bubbly voice said.
"I'm Fonmin, I guess." Another person added.
"Well, that makes four of us. Who's the fifth?" you asked.
"Me." A guy of all things said. "Solomon."
"Wait, we have guys on the team?!" Iris squeaked. "Really- oww!"
"Anyway!" you said, frantically trying to hide your own blush that one of the TC's was a guy, and how did you not notice earlier! "Once we get back to campus, we have to do two drill laps around the school, and then it's dinner. Everyone good?"
Four varying calls came back, and we trundled on home to top off our gas tanks before doing the laps. It was pretty simple, except for one minor problem- if you got 'out' since you failed to get into the tank and properly dog the hatches (they got you twice on this because the fall-on-close lever didn't) then you had to do another lap. Wherever the asshole with the PTRD was, he was both sneaky, and fast- you never got buzzed on the same spot on the course twice, even if two or three of the tanks would get buzzed at the same time.
Four laps around the school shouldn't have taken an hour, but here we were. Pulling into the yard, covered in road dirt and grease, the smell of cordite wafting around us like a fog… and there it was. Food, glorious food. Smirking in front of it, though, was that blasted coach. Oh, why had you ever suggested her?
"Showers, then food." Cerdan said, grinning. Fortunately, there was in fact a field shower, as well as a giant cart full of fresh coveralls. "Trust me, you'll never taste it through the tank in your mouths."
Rolling your eyes, you headed to the field shower. While nominally for washing, y'know, the tanks, it was more than large enough to fit the ten of you in here- waitaminute!
"Solomon!" you yelled, half-undressed.
"Yes?" your one solitary male TC called back, walking over. Suppressing a chuckle at how he was somehow shorter than you, you stared him level in the eye.
"Get a tarp or something to corner off part of the shower." You commanded, trying to focus on the imperial tone and not on the fact you were ordering someone around while dressed in a sports bra and a pair of jeans that were falling off in slow motion. "We are not having co-ed showers, or so help me God I'm going to run you over with my tank!"
Sighing dramatically, Solomon and the other one guy in the entire team went off to rig up their private area while you made sure your bench had a nice, clean coverall for after the shower. Then came the shower, complete with warm-ish water and having to use dishwashing soap to get the cordite smoke off. Still, coming out of there you were fairly refreshed, and once dressed were practically banging on the table to get the food.
"Calm down!" one of the not-yet-tankers said, laughing. "It's all good!"
"Ahem!" Cerdan yelled from the leading tables. "Dinner tonight is a halal daube, ratatouille, et brandade de morue, with sides of couscous, tabouli, and stuffed grape leaves! A taste of my home, to you! It's been a good practice, and with two more weeks of this I'd say we'll stand a chance in the coming match! Speaking of which, I've already got your first match lined up- an exhibition match versus the Everett High School club. Briefing on the match will be next Tuesday after classes, but for now: bon apatite!"
And then you ate! Oh, god, they were going to have to roll you to class tomorrow…
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VOTES
What skills do you want everyone to focus on before the match?
[] Gunnery (grants one random Offensive perk)
[] Driving (grants one random Drive perk)
[] Observation (grants one random Terrain perk)
[] Coordination (Grants one random Leadership perk)
What do you want to do for pre-match preparation?
[] RUMINT: hit up the online message boards and see what you can suss out.
[] OPINT: check out their online presence, maybe call some people over at their school. [] SIGINT/HUMINT: only available at tournaments.
[] More training, damnit! (50% maximum chance for tank crew to get a new Perk)
Changes
- Added range bands
-Added gun definitions
-Added ammo types
-Reworked custom tank generation
-Tweaked some costs
-Changed some formulas
-Added assumption of sandwiches.
-Added perk list
NOTE: Because I can't be arsed to create standing doccuments for everything, the Perk Sheet is a living doccument. This means at some future points it will have outdated information, and more importantly there will be information there that may not previously have been there. Don't salt at it when I create a perk that will have been useful two matches ago or somesuch, please.
OPENING CRAWL Ellie: Alright, I’ve passed the Spot check, and the enemy is broadside on to me. Gonna take the shot! GM: Alright, roll the shot, range mod is -2. Ellie rolls the shot, and gets a 14 on her dice Ellie: Got fourteen, minus two for range, so… twelve. The GM smiles, and moves the to...
PERKS Terrain Perks Kansai Dorifto: Reduces +8 penalty for urban driving to +4 at full speed. Tank On Slicks: Negates Rain penalty for driving checks. Perkele: Negates Winter penalty for driving checks. People’s Mud Guards: Negates Mud penalty for driving checks. Winged Hussars: Gain +1 hex s...
For the next two weeks, you trained. Two hours a day during the school week, eight hours a day on weekends. Engines were torn out, tuned, and replaced; guns harmonized and tracks inspected link by link. You got adept at using the radio set, while some of the drivers managed to pick up some new tricks and everyone learned to start rolling with the terrain, instead of against it. Cerdan had started to begrudgingly approve of your work, though, and with that you were as good as you were gonna get.
Then it was time for the match. As the field shop was packed up and trucks were crammed on to the school's LST, the tankers and you crammed aboard. Next stop was going to be the Ludington Tankery Field. Holding your guts in, you watched the waves slip by the boat as you were schlepped northwards on the dancing lake. Finally despairing of trying to keep your boots dry, you retreated back to the tank-carrying trucks where Sabah was playing cards with the male driver of your team, Lukaz.
"Why do you do this to me, Lukaz?" Sabah asked, slapping the pile of cards on the dash. "Why?"
"Because you're not stuck with Iris and her determination to drive over everything known to God and Man." Lukaz said primly, throwing down an eight of spades. "I hope you can play off that, at least."
"No!" Sabah yelled, tearing her hair out.
Staring at them, both flushed when they saw your face. "Captain!" Lukaz yelled, throwing his cards at the dash.
"Calm down, Lukaz." You reprimanded quietly, before piling into the truck's long bench seat. "I just want a place to sit down."
"Oh."
It wasn't long before the game of cards resumed, with you joining in as cell signal drifted in and out of range. You were trying to figure out what the enemy team could possibly have in their lineup, but drifting in and out of tower's made it damn hard to figure out. At least you weren't in range of Robert's Wireless, the piratical bastards. Eventually, you just gave up and joined in playing mau mau until the LST docked at Ludington.
Once you were rolled out, things got complicated. After signing off on a mile of documents with Cerdan (you didn't even know tanks had to pass an environmental certification!) you were finally allowed to take everything over to the tankery ground. Then came the setting up of the garage, the setting up of the crew quarters- all two barrack tents of it, one for the adults and the other for the youth- and the setting up of the mess hall, which was really just a series of card tables and telling Lukaz and Sabah to go make a food run with one of the ten-tons and your bulk water trailer. When they came back with a pair of roach coaches in tow, you were pleased. Food Had Been Handled.
As you bedded down for sleep that night, something tickled in the back of your brain that you had forgot something. Ignoring it initially, you soon came to regret this as Solomon apparently snored like the AMX 13's idle. Swearing to suffocate him with a pillow later, you just went to go get your comms set, and slapped it on and plugged it into a XLR/3.5 adaptor so it could leech off your phone and suppress the Trumpet of Jericho over there that was blaring away.
In the morning, you all woke up to the sound of the new food trucks rolling in, before getting served steaming plates of chorizo, eggs, and homefries on tortillas. After that, you piled into your trucks, drove over to the field, and deposited your tanks at the starting point. Then you mounted up again, drove over to the stadium screens, and glared at your team with as much menace as you had to spare. Lining up in formation to shake hands with the opposing team's commander was Important!
"Remember, no funny business." You said sternly, dressing the tank-by-tank rows of the team. Settling your hat on firmly, you got ready, only for the enemy to show up. There were eleven of them- one more than you- and not one of them was taller than you. As the referee team stood by and the camera drones were filming, you walked up to the enemy captain.
"I hope this match goes well." You said, shaking his hand. In front of you, the midget laughed.
"We'll see about that, after we crush you!" he shouted, laughing maniacally after. Momentarily, your eye twitched.
"Mount up!" you yelled to the team. "Let's kick some ass!"
It was about ten minutes later you were all back at your tanks. Pilling in, each tank slowly turned on with a rattle and a bang. Over the radio, the referees queried you.
"Shangri-La team, ready to start?"
"Afirmative!" you yelled. The entire team smiled, it felt like, before the call came out.
"MATCH START!"
-/-/-/-/-/
VOTES
General Strategy
[] Stick together
[] Fan out a little
[] Spread out a lot.
Your Actions
Driver
[] Drive to tile xyz
[] Spot for tanks
Commander
[] Radio check to communicate
-[] Write-in what you want to say
[] Shoot a target
-[] Write-in target
[] Reload!
[] Spot for tanks
GM note 1: To list a coordinate, take your desired tile and then draw a line straight up. That's the first number in the coord. Then draw a line to the up and left; this is the second number in the coord. Then draw a line up and to the right, that's the third number. If a hex would have a negative coordinate, list 0 as the number. As an example, your formation is at K-11-1.
GM note 2: Your personal tank is Tank 1, indicated with a single stripe. When you get moving, an arrow-shaped bump on the symbol will indicate tank heading.
GM note 3: Only roll dice for checks after I call the vote.
"All tanks, come in." you spoke into the radio, hoping against hope nobody had left theirs out.
"Solomon here."
"Michelle here."
"Iris is ready!"
"Formin here."
"Cerdan, reporting."
Right, ok, everyone was ready- wait, what?!
"Coach?" you asked, shortly before a flood of chatter. "Clear comms! Clear comms!"
"Right, so I probably should have specified this earlier, but for this match I'm allowed to sit in on your comms and watch your feeds." Cerdan said, chuckling. "The Lansing boys have the same, though, so since both of you guys are green as grass. Don't expect me to help much."
"Right, right." You muttered. "Anyway, plan. Everyone, start moving northeast-ish. I want to get bunkered up in those hills in ambush positions. Chars, avancee!"
Popping yourself out of the back hatch of the turret, you carefully negotiated your headset cable with you and started scanning for things. Trees, more trees, one of your tanks- and then a screaming noise as you were slammed chest-first into the top of the turret. Fuck, that hurt! Switching over to your A-set (in-tank comms) you yelled at your driver.
"Sabah, what the fuck?!"
"Missed a gear change pretty bad, hold on." Sabah replied. "Oh, that's not good. I'm sticking pretty bad."
"Please tell me you didn't just fuck the gearbox." You said, wincing.
"I'm not saying the gearbox is fucked, I'm just saying I can't shift into third very well."
You stared into the sky, before hearing a loud crash. Whipping your head over, you saw Solomon ducking back into his tank, before hearing noise on the B-set. Changing over, you got there just in time to hear Cerdan.
"-down, ok? Solomon, just stay calm. There'll be a drone to check him in a minute."
"He's not making any sense, though!"
As a quadcopter came down, you gulped. You really didn't want to loose a crewman in the first minutes of your first match! Still, as something happened over there- you weren't sure what, you couldn't listen in on their A-set- you got the highlights reel from everyone else.
"This is Michelle, be advised I think we have track damage."
"Come in, Commander. Be advised Formin has an engine fault, it keeps cutting out. Think it's a clogged carburetor."
"Iris here! Um, does anyone know what happens when the engine has an off beat? I think it's something not timing right, but… err…"
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Everything was falling apart!
"This is Cerdan to all tanks." Your coach said. "Take a deep breath, and calm down. Things go wrong, and things go wrong faster when you rush. The referees are putting a fifteen-minute indictment on Solomon's tank so Meridith can recover from hitting her head when they rammed that tree. I can't tell you what to do, but I can tell you what you do now will define the rest of your engagements together. You don't get to be a team just by sitting around and eating bon-bons after practice, that's for sure."
And with those inspiring words, your coach got off the comms.
"We're gonna need a new plan, Captain." Someone- these low-bandwidth comms couldn't really let you figure out who by voice alone- said with a note of desperation. You agreed. You were a team, damnit!
-/-/-/-/-/-/
Your Actions
Communication
[] write-in something short to say to your teammates. Two sentences, tops.
Driver
[] Drive to tile xyz
[] Spot for tanks
Commander
[] Radio check to communicate
-[] Write-in what you want to say
[] Shoot a target
-[] Write-in target
[] Reload!
[] Spot for tanks
Note the black directional flag is because the same-color-as-tank directional flag would overlap and be hard to read.
So the Apocryphica tab is where I'm gonna put Cool Tank Things I find for y'all. Today, I've actually found a very good, restored, Ft-17 for y'all to look at, which in this game is listed as the Ft-17A.
Growling at the mess you were in, you had to make a decision. You could panic, or you could get angry, focus, and pull out of this shitshow. Sliding back into the turret, you decided to go with the later.
"Ok, looks like we're in a tough spot." You said, matching word to deed with a flick and a CLACK of the breech locking, "but we can make a stand here. They're just as green as we are, and like hell we're letting 'em go without a fight."
"Now that's the spirit." Cerdan said, chuckling. "Now keep an ear out- judging by some of the telltale signs the drone mics are picking up, I think the main event-
"INCOMING INCOMING INCOMING!" one of the female commanders yelled, before a splatter of bullets hit a few dozen feet left of her tank. You couldn't even tell the tanks apart, right now, considering how similar their paint jobs were!
"I have eyes on them!" someone else yelled. "Holy fuck! It's huge!"
"Direction, we need a direction!" Solomon shot back. You could tell it was Solomon, since he was both the squeakiest, and more importantly the only one not in his tank right now as he scanned the outside.
"Points fourteen, points fourteen!"
Slewing your turret to the south, you pulled down towards the gunsight to scan, before scowling and bracing your feet on the ammo crate below you. You needed to scan, and that meant getting your head up into the dome vent/sight. As you twisted your shoulders around the recoil guard and everything else, your head bonked on the top of the vision slit. Then you saw it.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. That was a bigass tank. Your only advantage was that they didn't seem to have seen you yet, but you didn't know when that would change. Checking your headset's silence, you realized it clacked over to the A-set: that had been Sabah who'd called out that tank.
"Thanks." You said, reaching into a pocket to tear out a stick of gum and start chewing.
"No problem." She replied, growling as she played with the shifter carefully. "I just don't want them to get the chance to hit us."
"I'll try to not let that happen." You promised, before hopping back over to the B-set. As the wave of chatter rose out of the abyss, you cut it off with a screech.
"Everyone, shut the fuck up!" you roared. "Can anyone get me an identification on that mess of a tank?"
"It's coming straight at us, and I see three turrets." Solomon said, still nervous. "I've muzzle swept him three times, though, and that commander is still blasting away on his gun!"
"Did you load your fucking gun?"
Guilty silence came out as you worked your way back down into your sling, working the shoulder-stock of your cannon into place. "I'm gonna muzzle sweep him in a minute, get his dumb head back inside. That'll probably get any coaxial guns spewing our heading, though, so until then, what on earth are they in?!"
"Formin here, not like there's many options." Your other tank commander said acerberically. "It might be a a Vickers Independent, unless it's a lot closer than I think it is and they're secretly a Mark 1 or Mark 3, but the turrets look too lopsided from my spot. I don't think it's a Neubaufahrzeug, they only built two dozen and it only has one bow turret, but most of them got imported over to the Midwest so who knows, and people mod the shit out of old German stuff. Two forward sub-turrets opens up a lot of options in terms of Russian vehicles; both the T-28 and T-35 had a few hundred units imported at one time or another. Most all of them only have machine guns in the sub-turrets, so unless they've got good gunners we might be safe?"
"Presuming it's not modded, sure." Solomon grouched. "A pocket thirty-seven would eat us alive."
"We're probably not going to out-range it, no," Formin grouched. "but we can absolutely kill it if we're clever and work our way around to sneak in a flank shot. Nothing that fat has well armored flanks."
"If nothing else, I can buy us some time." Solomon chuckled grimly. "Don't waste it."
Commander
[] Radio check to communicate
-[] Write-in what you want to say
[] Shoot a target
-[] Mystery Tank 1, range band 3 (shot will be at -1 penalty versus FRONT armor)
[] Reload!
[] Spot for tanks
"Alright, alright. I got a plan." You said, trying to keep your composure. "Michelle, Iris, load HE. We'll try and take them on in close range."
You could feel the stares burning holes in the side of your head. "That's dumb." Iris finally said, sighing. "We can only maybe pen them as is!"
"You're trying to knock off their-"
BAM!
Whipping your head around to the rear viewport, you saw the whiff of muzzle smoke from Solomon's tank float out over the battlefield… and then Hell broke loose. The shot hit the enemy tank, causing it to grind to a halt for a minute- until the front three turrets started firing. As machine-gun fire kicked up dirt around Solomon's tank, two shells slammed into it with explosive blasts. From the smoke cloud, a white flag slowly raised, and moments later you could hear the static as his radio slowly ran out of power and stopped transmitting.
"Yeah, I'm not gonna waste time trying to blast bits off." Michelle said. "Also, I'd have to go to the hull rack for where I've got the HE stowed."
Sighing, you just clacked over to the A-set. "Remind me why I'm the Captain again?" you asked idly.
"No idea." Sabah replied.
"Great, well, get us moving southwest. They're buttoned up, so they shouldn't be able to see us very well."
"Right!"
A flick back to the B-set, now. "Try and work southwest, guys. I don't think we're getting through that front plate."
"On my way." Formin said. "I'm not sure we're gonna get there fast enough, though."
"We have to try." Michelle said sternly. "I'll try and get through the woods, at least, and spread us out. Not like it's covered in turrets, right?"
"No, if it's a T-35, then it's covered in turrets." Cerdan blithely replied. "Really, that's how I used to check when I was a student back in the day."
"They had these back in your day?" Iris asked.
"Back in my day, the FTs you're in would have been my grandmother's tank. Odds are I've fought in or against anything you're liable to see."
"Right, well, we're probably going to want to hold fire until we have flank shots." You said calmly. "We both only need one shot at getting lucky, but they have a lot more shots than we do."
"Good plan." Cerdan chuckled.
Clacking, your headset switched over to the A-set.
"Think I might have banged up the running gears." Sabah said, sighing. "I got us a decent way, though, so there's that."
"Thanks." You said, sighing. "I just need to- just-"
"Impossible goals, terrible thing to kill?"
"Yeah." You said, sighing. "Yeah."
"Eh, don't worry." Sabah chuckled, turning around to pat your leg. "I think we're doing fairly well myself."
"We're down a tank and have barely scratched them."
"You're being melodramatic. Pop out and grab one of the sandwiches I put in the outer turret rack. The spicy club is mine, you can have the chicken kafta."
Cracking open the hatch at the back of the turret, you peaked out, staring at the machine gun blazing away at Solomon's downed tank until it cut off, a PONK as the turret raised it's own tiny flag. Must have gotten knocked out by a judge? Either way, you managed to get the two wrapped sandwiches as you looked around. So far, you'd spread out pretty well? Either way, all that was left to do was to wait until you got a decent shot. You hoped.
-/-/-/-/-/-/
Votes
Driver
[] Drive to tile xyz
[] Spot for tanks
[] Wait
[] Repair Component
-[] Write-in
Commander
[] Radio check to communicate
-[] Write-in what you want to say
[] Shoot a target
-[] Mystery Tank 1, range band 3 (shot will be at -1 penalty versus FRONT armor)
[] Reload!
[] Spot for tanks
[] Wait
[] Repair Component
-[] Write-in
