Cincy doesn’t shout. He doesn’t have to. When he walks into a room, the air changes. People sit straighter. Voices quiet. Eyes follow. It’s not fear—it’s gravity. Presence. The kind that can’t be taught, only earned through years of standing in the storm and never blinking.
Smart as hell. Charismatic. Built like a damn war totem. But it’s the mind under all that that gets you. Every word calculated. Every pause meaningful. When Cincy speaks, even officers twice his rank shut up and listen.
He’s friendly—but never soft. He’ll laugh with the crew, teach a rookie to shoot straight, fix a jammed valve with his sleeves rolled up. But the second things go sideways, he flips—calm becomes command, and the entire unit moves like it’s been drilled into the bones.
Federation-born. Crow-made. Cincy was selected at 18, like all of us. Never failed a trial. Survived five major operations and fifteen contact deployments. Known for turning potential enemies into allies. Known for putting himself between a threat and his people. Known for dragging five survivors out of the surf when the Kidd went down.
He should’ve died twenty times by now. But the Federation doesn’t retire ghosts.
26 years in, 4 to go. Then he chooses—ship or island. He won’t say which. Some of us think he’ll never stop moving. Some of us hope he doesn’t.
“Be the silence before the shot, not the noise after.”
Talon Stick
Recon Sniper — Crow Unit 11 | Service Time: 9 Years
You don’t hear Stick. You notice he’s been standing there for ten minutes. Tall. Thin. Lanky. Looks like a half-starved cadet from a distance. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t need to. Corporal Stick isn’t built for front-line presence—he’s built for patience. Stillness. Precision.
The joke writes itself—“he’s like a stick”—but that’s where it ends. Because in a firefight, Stick becomes a reaper. Calm, unflinching, methodical. Doesn’t spray. Doesn’t shout. Just picks targets and drops them, one after another, with unblinking focus.
But here’s the truth: Stick doesn’t look for fights. He avoids them. Watches. Waits. Reports. He’s observation-first, engagement-last. Chief Cincy once said, “If Stick fires, it’s already too late for whoever he’s looking at.”
His situational reports are surgical. Distances, patrol patterns, body language, weapons heat—Stick tracks it all in his head before most even register the terrain.
Nobody has better eyes in Crow Unit 11. Nobody moves quieter. Nobody hits harder when it matters.
“I don’t kill fast. I just decide fast.”
Rookmate Flazy
Tinkerer, Mechanic — R.O.O.K.S. Engineering Corps | Status: Active
Flazy isn’t his real name, but it’s the only one that stuck — a rough combo of “fat” and “lazy,” coined by someone braver than they were smart. Truth is, Flazy’s one of the sharpest minds in the fleet — a mechanical wizard with grease in his blood and a temper like a rusted wrench.
He’s never gone looking for work, but when something breaks, everyone comes looking for him. Generators, water rigs, busted frames, shorted signals — he fixes it all, grumbling the whole time. His shop smells like oil, rum, and rage, and if you're lucky enough to be let in, you're likely to leave smarter… and insulted.
Despite his attitude — or maybe because of it — people want to be his friend. Doesn’t mean he returns the favor. To Flazy, the world is full of “colleagues” and “irritants.” If he calls you “alright,” that’s a glowing endorsement. Still, he’s a favorite among the Crows, who swear by his gear, trust his gut, and give him a wide berth unless they’re on fire.
He’s one of the only Rooks allowed on Crow missions, and no one argues it. He may look like he’s falling asleep, but when the bolts fly or the power cuts, he’s already two steps ahead. He’s fearless, especially when it means protecting the equipment — or his bottle.
Some say he's close to retirement. Others say the fleet would collapse without him. Flazy says nothing — he just drinks, fixes, and outlives people who talk too much.
Raven Duffy
CQB / Breach & Assault — Crow Unit 11 | Service Time: 12 Years
They say he’s Chief’s brother. The resemblance is uncanny. But ask Chief, and you won’t get a straight answer. Ask Duffy, and he’ll just crack a joke, light a smoke, and start humming an old shanty you’ve never heard before.
Once, he was Nathaniel Cincade. Young. Disciplined. One of the most promising Crow candidates in his class—sharp shooter, controlled aggression, and a tactical mind that matched Chief’s step for step. Some say they were inseparable. Others say they fought like hell. A year before Duffy “arrived,” something broke between them. Neither ever said what.
Then came the mission. Classified. No records. No full debriefs. Nathaniel went in. Duffy came out.
He started speaking in a Scottish accent. Grew his hair out. Took to war paint and started calling his machine gun “Maggie.” And somewhere in that firestorm of trauma and invention, a new Crow was born. Funnier. Wilder. Stronger than hell. Duffy runs straight into fire like he’s bulletproof—and somehow comes out with a grin, a new scar, and a joke about how “those bastards couldn't hit a barn from the inside.”
But Chief knows. He knows that sometimes—when he holds a magnet just right on Duffy’s head, the accent drops. The eyes focus. Nathaniel comes back. And every time he does, he apologizes.
“I’m sorry, Cincy. I shouldn’t’ve—please. Let me stay this time. I’m ready.” And every time, Chief removes the magnet. And walks away.
Duffy always wakes up laughing.
Nobody knows what happened. Maybe Chief’s protecting him. Maybe he's punishing him. Or maybe Nathaniel really did die that day—and Duffy’s what came back to finish the fight.
Whatever the truth, when things go loud, Duffy is the one you want breaching the door. Just… don’t ask him what happened. He might tell you the truth—and it won’t make sense.
“I am the reason we brief with a whiteboard and a fire extinguisher.”
Corporal Six
Heavy Weapons — Crow Unit 11 | Service Time: 4 Years
He’s called “Six” because he never watches it.
Youngest in the unit, Corporal Six earned his name early—always charging forward, forgetting the team needed someone to cover the rear. It started as a joke—“Status on our six?”—but stuck the moment he got his first kill dragging a teammate out of an ambush while dual-wielding machine pistols and laughing.
Don’t mistake youth for recklessness. Six is smart, just... wired differently. He doesn’t think slow—he thinks loud. Loud like the belt-fed light machine gun he drags into every operation like it’s a sidearm. When others conserve ammo, Six lays down steel like he’s the entire firing squad.
He’s the payload guy. The wall of noise. The heavy. You’ll hear him before you see him. And when the rest of the team is pinned down or pushing hard, he's the first one to break the line open.
Outside combat? He's the unit’s chaos. Always eating, building something, or getting yelled at for drifting off during briefings. But when the fight starts, it’s like someone flips a switch: all instinct, fury, and fire discipline.
“He’s the worst Crow to have in a quiet room. And the only one you want when it stops being quiet.” — Chief Cincy
