The entire squad gathered in the hangar, staring at the battered AC-Crow. The once-mighty warbird stood with its hangar doors blown off, scorch marks running along its fuselage, and exposed wiring hanging like torn veins. Silence hung in the air until one of them sighed.
“He was a real one.”
Another Crow nodded solemnly. “Never left us behind. We won’t leave him either.”
A third Crow clapped his hands together. “Alright, boys. We rebuild.”
With that, the hangar erupted into movement. They ordered new cargo doors, paid triple their paychecks out of their own pockets, and gathered welding materials, spare parts, and enough flares to light up a battlefield for miles. As the supplies rolled in, half of them cried in bankruptcy. The other half cried in joy at getting to repair their beloved plane.
Half the squad got to work—welding the new doors, rewiring controls, and running diagnostics. Others loaded flares, checked parachutes, and tested engines. The rest? They just sat back and watched, arms crossed, eyes filled with pride like fathers watching their daughter get ready for prom.
Then, as sparks flew from the welders and tools clanked against metal, the captain leaned against the AC-Crow’s hull and muttered, almost to himself—
"Drift, drift, little star,
Sleep will take you near, not far…”
The nearest Crow paused, turning to stare. Another one snickered. "No way you're singing a lullaby right now."
The captain smirked and kept going.
"Close your eyes, the winds are kind,
Rest your wings and rest your mind..."
One by one, the rest of the squad joined in. Their deep voices hummed through the hangar, soft yet powerful, echoing against the metal walls. The whole runway filled with hardened killers—mercenaries feared across the world—singing a lullaby as they repaired their fallen warbird.
And in that moment, they weren’t just soldiers.
They were brothers.
As the lullaby filled the hangar, the Crows couldn’t help but let their chaotic energy seep through.
One of them, grinning like a madman, reached for the intercom. With a quick flick, he blasted his voice at full volume, singing the lullaby like a drunken opera singer. The entire squad screamed in agony, clutching their ears like they’d just been hit with a flashbang.
“TURN THAT OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!”
The offender barely had time to react before half the squad tackled him to the ground. A flurry of punches and kicks rained down as the intercom finally went silent. The captain, barely holding back a laugh, shook his head.
“Deserved.”
Meanwhile, another Crow, clearly bored, decided it was the perfect time to test the engines. With a casual flip of a switch, the massive jet turbine roared to life—except one of their guys was standing right in front of it.
The poor soul barely had time to react. He threw himself to the side in a last-second dodge, but not before the sheer force of the turbine sliced off his index finger.
Silence.
Then, instead of screaming in pain, the guy shot to his feet, eyes wide with excitement.
“GUYS. I HAVE WAR LORE NOW!”
The entire hangar froze. The squad exchanged looks, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. Even the captain had to take a knee, wheezing. The idiot who turned on the engine expected a beatdown—but it was just too funny.
The AC-Crow wasn’t just a plane. It was family. And the idiots fixing it? They were family, too.
The captain stood up "well I've had enough fun clean up this mess whenever you leave" the captain leaves
Crows' Night of Chaos
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the squad rolled their half-repaired AC-Crow back into the hangar, protecting their beloved warbird from whatever chaos the night might bring.
And then?
They did what any responsible, highly trained, elite mercenary unit would do.
They cracked open a few crates of beer and sat in a circle, sharing stories.
Crow 1: The Unexpected Offer
One of them, already a few drinks in, wiped a tear from his eye.
“A’ight, listen. Back in my old unit, we were tracking a suspect—real shady dude. Intel said he was up to no good.”
He took a dramatic pause.
“So, we corner him in a dark alley, five guys in full gear. And you know what his first words were?”
He put on his best sultry voice.
“I’d charge five times for this.”
The squad erupted.
“NO FUCKING WAY.”
“BRO, YOU RAIDED A GAY HOOKER?”
He nodded, wiping his face. “I swear on my life, the dude thought we were about to run a train.”
Someone spat out their beer.
“Did he at least give a discount?”
“Nah, man, he had standards.”
Crow 2: The "Hostile Chickens" Incident
Another Crow, still wiping away tears, lifted his bottle. “Alright, my turn. Remember that time we were ‘de-escalating tensions’ in that village?”
A few of them groaned.
“Oh god, here we go…”
He pointed at one of the younger Crows, who immediately hid his face in his hands.
“This dumbass decides to ‘test’ his brand-new grenade launcher. Where does he aim? AT A FUCKING CHICKEN COOP.”
The squad was already wheezing.
“And then, as we’re staring at the smoldering remains of the most well-cooked poultry in history, he has the audacity to look me in the eye and say—”
The guilty Crow, already half-drunk, groaned. “Please don’t.”
“—‘I thought it was an orphanage.’”
The squad collapsed.
One of them was on the floor, kicking his feet like a toddler.
Another Crow wiped his tears. “Bro, we had to file a WHOLE MISSION REPORT about ‘engaging hostile chickens.’”
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The squad, in unison, raised their bottles.
“The most American thing ever.”
Crow 3: The Tank Heist
Another Crow, looking way too smug, leaned back against a crate.
“Alright, I got one. So there we were, pinned down, low on ammo, the usual deal.”
He pointed at there commander for taht mission.
“And this dumbass keeps yelling, ‘HOLD THE LINE, HOLD THE LINE!’”
The commander muttered, “Because that was the ORDER, dipshit.”
“Anyway,” the Crow continued, grinning, “I see something. A Russian tank. Just chilling there. No crew in sight. Keys in the ignition.”
Someone gasped. “No. Fucking. Way.”
He grinned wider. “Oh yeah. I jump in, fire it up, and start blasting.”
The squad HOWLED.
“Bro, THE RUSSIANS STARTED SHOOTING AT EACH OTHER! THEY THOUGHT THEIR OWN TANK CREW WENT ROGUE.”
One of them was literally in tears. “What did command say after?”
He shrugged, “‘Tactical advantage.’”
Another wave of uncontrollable laughter.
Crows, Drunk and Happy
The stories kept rolling, the beers kept flowing, and for a while—just a little while—the war didn’t exist.
The AC-Crow stood behind them, still half-repaired, but for now, it didn’t matter.
(Night – The Drinking Games Begin)
The squad is absolutely wasted at this point, empty beer bottles rolling across the hangar floor. Someone, for some reason, gets the genius idea to climb onto the Ac-Crow.
Crow #1: “Bet you can’t climb to the top of the Ac-Crow.”
Crow #2 (stumbling): “Oh yeah? Watch me, you bastard.”
As he drunkenly scales the side of the plane, the rest of the squad immediately turns on him, pelting him with empty bottles like a firing squad.
Crow #3 (laughing hysterically): “This is training for enemy snipers, my guy!”
Crow #2 (dodging wildly): “You motherfu—” THUNK
One bottle smacks him square in the forehead. He drops like a sack of potatoes, passed out cold on top of the plane. The squad cheers.
Crow #4: “Alright, game time. Last man standing wins.”
They form a circle and start pounding drinks like their lives depend on it. Within an hour, half the squad is face-down on the floor.
Crow #5 (barely conscious): “Y’all are weak…” faceplants into the ground
Crow #6: “Alright, new plan. Let’s give our boy up there a real pp.”
The remaining conscious idiots rush toward the Ac-Crow, grabbing spray paint. They start covering the plane in absolute nonsense—badly drawn dicks, military memes, and the phrase “THIS MACHINE EATS RUSSIANS” in massive, crooked letters.
One Crow, mid-spray, suddenly stops. Crow #7 (nodding seriously): “We’re artists.”
Crow #8 (barely able to hold the can straight): “This is our Sistine Chapel.”
And just like that, one by one, they start passing out—some slumped over crates, some hanging halfway off the plane, and one guy literally curled up inside a spare jet engine.
---
(Morning – The Aftermath)
Sunlight floods the hangar. The place looks like a war zone.
- Beer bottles everywhere.
- The Ac-Crow is an abomination.
- Half the squad is sprawled across the floor like battlefield casualties.
- One guy is still half-asleep, dangling off the wing.
Their captain walks in, completely sober, surveying the destruction. He sighs.
Captain: “Alright, who the hell painted a giant dick on the cockpit?”
Crow #9 (groaning, barely lifting his head): “…Modern art.”
The guy who climbed the plane last night wakes up, confused and hungover.
Crow #2 (blinking, looking around): “…Why am I up here?”
Crow #3 (laughing weakly): “You’re the king of the idiots, my guy.”
One Crow checks his phone and immediately panics.
Crow #4 (sitting up fast): “Oh shit! We were supposed to do a supply run at 0600!”
They all freeze.
Crow #5: “…What time is it?”
Crow #4 (looking at phone): “…12:47.”
A moment of silence.
Then, chaos.
They start scrambling to clean the hangar, shoving bottles under crates, rubbing off the spray paint (which does NOT come off easily), and trying to wake up the ones still passed out. One Crow gets the brilliant idea to turn on the hangar’s alarm system.
Crow #6 (grinning, pressing the button): “Rise and shine, assholes.”
A deafening siren blares through the han
gar.
Crow #7 (bolting awake, falling off the Ac-Crow): “FUCK—” THUD
Crow #8 (half-conscious): “…Am I dead?”
The captain just watches, arms crossed, shaking his head.
The Hangover Chronicles
After the mad scramble to clean up their absolute disaster of a hangar, things somehow get worse.
1. The Supply Run Disaster
With their brains barely functioning, they pile into an old cargo truck, still half-drunk, and floor it toward the supply depot.
Crow #1 (driving, eyes bloodshot): “I got this.”
Crow #2: “No, you don’t. You ran over two cones just getting out of the hangar.”
Crow #3 (from the back): “Screw the cones, he almost ran over the captain.”
Crow #4: “Wait, where is the captain?”
Crow #5 (checking mirror): “…He’s still in the hangar. Watching us. Arms crossed.”
Silence.
Then, someone in the back just bursts out laughing.
Crow #6 (dying of laughter): “He’s 100% adding this to our discipline reports.”
---
2. The "Friendly" Chicken Incident
On their way back, they make a quick stop at a village to grab food. One Crow, still very hungover, tries to steal a chicken.
Crow #7 (grinning, holding a chicken): “Look! Fresh dinner!”
Crow #8: “Bro, PUT IT BACK.”
Crow #7: “No, no, he’s my emotional support chicken now.”
Before they can stop him, the owner of the chicken—a very angry old woman—bursts out of her house and starts beating the absolute hell out of them with a broom.
Crow #9 (running): “WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE ELITE MERCENARIES, WHY ARE WE LOSING TO A GRANDMA?!”
The chicken is eventually set free, but the squad barely escapes with their dignity.
---
3. The Intercom Incident (Part 2)
That night, one Crow gets revenge for being pelted with bottles. He sneaks into the hangar, grabs the intercom, and starts BLASTING an old 90s boyband song at MAX VOLUME.
Crow #10 (singing along): “? Tell me why~ Ain’t nothin’ but a heaaaartache~ ?”
Crow #11 (waking up in horror): “WHO THE HELL GAVE HIM ACCESS TO THE INTERCOM AGAIN?!”
The captain storms in, eyes dead inside.
Captain: “…I fucking hate all of you.”
He yanks the plug, and the hangar goes completely silent.
Then, after a long pause…
Crow #12 (weakly, from the back): “…Tell me why…”
The squad erupts into laughter. The captain walks out. He does not look back.
Beer bottles rolled across the hangar floor, mixing with discarded spray cans, and someone was still hanging off the top of the AC-Crow, snoring like a chainsaw. Their “artwork” from the previous night was now in full display—bold, barely legible words sprawled across the aircraft’s side:
“THIS THING EATS RUSSIANS.”
No one knew who wrote it. No one cared.
Then, like any group of responsible, highly trained mercenaries, they made the worst possible decision.
“Let’s take him for a spin.”
The pilot, still shaking off last night’s alcohol, squinted at the controls, which were now covered in beer stains and greasy handprints. Someone had even drawn a very questionable-looking stick figure next to the missile countermeasure button.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he muttered, rubbing his face.
“Which part?” his co-pilot asked. “The fact that we’re still legally drunk, or the part where half the squad is in the back, completely unstrapped?”
Before either could voice a proper objection, the engines roared to life.
---
The takeoff was less of a smooth ascent and more of a chaotic, barely-controlled lurch into the sky. One Crow in the cargo bay, still half-asleep, woke up just in time to vomit all over the floor. Another was immediately launched backward, colliding with two others who were still arguing about whether the AC-Crow could, in fact, eat Russians.
Then came the real problem.
The Russians noticed.
Missile alarms screamed through the cockpit.
“WHO THE HELL DECIDED TO FLY OVER RUSSIAN AIRSPACE?!” the pilot yelled, sweat forming on his forehead.
“I dunno, man. You were the one flying.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW DECISIONS WORK!”
Back in the cargo bay, the squad had already embraced the insanity.
“Yo, bet twenty bucks we dodge it at the last second.”
“Double or nothing if we do it upside down.”
The co-pilot, who absolutely should not have taken that bet, suddenly flipped the AC-Crow completely inverted.
Inside, it was chaos.
Crows tumbled like loose change in a dryer. One poor guy got stuck on the ceiling, hanging there like a bat, screaming in both terror and excitement. Another was laughing so hard he forgot to grab onto anything and was now doing full-body flips mid-air.
The pilot, whose sanity was quickly evaporating, was on the verge of a breakdown.
“WHY ARE YOU ALL LIKE THIS?!”
Through sheer luck, skill, or just dumb Crow magic, they dodged the missiles, barely making it back to base. As the landing gear touched down, the squad cheered like they just won a world championship.
Then they saw the damage.
Their precious AC-Crow now had a Russian missile lodged in its tail. The paint job was somehow even worse than before.
They all stood there in silence for a moment, taking in their handiwork.
Then, finally, someone muttered, “…So whose fault is this?”
Immediately, fingers were pointed, accusations were thrown, and before long, a full-on brawl broke out right there on the tarmac.
---
Final Touch – The Squad Photo
At the end of it all, one of the Crows grabs an old polaroid camera and forces everyone into a group photo—some still hungover, some still laughing, one flipping off the camera.
They tape it onto the Ac-Crow’s cockpit with the words:
"The Dumbest, Most Dangerous Bastards in the Sky."
As the adrenaline faded and the hangovers returned with vengeance, the Crows slowly gathered around their very expensive, very broken AC-Crow, staring at the damage like it had personally wronged them.
“Alright, let’s be real. How much is this gonna cost?” one of them finally asked.
A mechanic, who had already been shaking his head since the moment they landed, whistled low and held up a number on his fingers. The silence was immediate.
“…That’s more than our last five contracts combined.”
Someone let out a pained wheeze. Another sat down on the tarmac, head in hands. The pilot, whose soul had officially left his body, just whispered, “…We are so broke.”
Then, as if on cue, someone pulled out their wallet, stared at the absolute emptiness inside, and dramatically threw it onto the ground.
“I’M BANKRUPT, BRO.”
“SAME.”
“I’M GONNA HAVE TO SELL MY BIKE.”
“…I think I just sold my soul.”
One guy, who had somehow forgotten about the damage, walked up with a dumb grin and clapped his hands together. “Alright, boys! What’s next?”
The squad turned to him in dead silence.
And then, with zero hesitation, they jumped him.
The next morning
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when they heard it—a faint rustling from the supply crates.
"Please tell me that's not a rat," one of the Crows muttered, still groggy from the hangover.
"Nah, it's too big to be a rat," another said, reaching for his sidearm.
And then—out it came.
A scrappy, mud-streaked mutt, tail wagging like he owned the damn place. Ears perked up, tongue hanging out, eyes filled with pure, unbothered confidence.
The Crows froze. The dog froze. A long, silent stare.
Then, one of them kneeled down and whistled.
The dog didn't hesitate—bolted straight at him, tackled him onto his ass, and started licking his face like an excited missile.
The whole squad lost it.
"Where the hell did he come from?"
"Doesn’t matter, he's ours now!"
"Bet he’s got a kill count higher than all of us combined."
"Look at those scars, he’s been through some shit."
"We’re keeping him."
The captain sighed, rubbing his temples. "He’s not a pet, he’s a stray."
"Correction, sir." One of them grinned, lifting the mutt up like a damn trophy. "He's a Crow."
And just like that, Commander Bork was enlisted.
---
Morning Repairs: The Hangover Crew Struggles
The next morning, heads throbbed, stomachs churned, and regrets were plentiful. But the Ac-Crow needed fixing again, so they sucked it up and got to work.
One of them groaned, holding his head. "I swear to God, if I ever drink again—"
"Shut up. You said that last time."
Tools clanked, welding sparks flew, and slowly, their beloved aircraft started looking like herself again.
Commander Bork supervised, Wandering between their legs, stealing gloves, chewing on loose wires, barking at the dumbass who dropped a wrench on his own foot.
And, of course, the graffiti stayed.
"THIS THING EATS RUSSIANS" in crude, drunken handwriting.
No one had the heart to remove it.
Commander Bork: A Crow Among dogs
Commander Bork settled into life with the squad like he had always belonged. No collar, no leash, just pure loyalty.
Whenever they sat around for a smoke break, Bork would curl up next to the warmest body, tail thumping against the cold metal floor. Whenever food was served, someone would always "accidentally" drop a piece of meat under the table. And whenever the Ac-Crow was in the air, Bork would sit proudly by the hangar doors, watching it disappear into the sky like a soldier watching his brothers march to war.
At night, when they weren’t drinking themselves half to death, the squad took turns telling Bork war stories—not that he understood a damn thing, but he listened like he was taking mental notes.
One night, someone grinned and patted his head. "You should’ve been in our unit back then, Bork. We needed a real commander."
Bork huffed, standing up tall and puffing out his little chest.
The entire squad saluted him.
And just like that, he was officially general Bork.
The Night He Vanished
It was late. Too late.
The squad was sprawled out in the hangar, some dozing off, others still lazily fixing the final pieces of the Ac-Crow. Bork was curled up near the captain’s boots, snoring softly, his ear twitching at every sound.
Then, suddenly—he lifted his head.
Something in the distan
ce. Something calling him.
No one noticed when he stood up, stretched, and started walking toward the exit.
No one noticed when he slipped through the hangar doors, disappearing into the night.
By the time they realised it was too late
The Hangover of the Century
The morning after Commander Bork vanished, the squad was in absolute ruins.
Some were lying on the floor like roadkill, some were half-hanging off crates, and one poor bastard was still sprawled across the top of the Ac-Crow, looking like a sacrifice to the gods of stupidity.
The hangover hit like a grenade blast.
"I'm never drinking again," someone groaned, face buried in his hands.
"Same. Swear on my paycheck."
"Swear on my firstborn."
"Swear on my—oh god, someone turn off the sun."
But the real tragedy? General Bork was gone.
The squad dragged themselves around the base, calling his name, offering half-eaten sandwiches as bribes, even shaking bags of dog food they stole from supply crates. Nothing.
The guilt? Unmatched.
"We should’ve watched him."
"We let him down."
"We’re the worst squad in history."
And just like that, beer was
officially banned.
Forever.
