As the Crows finally dragged themselves back to base after that cursed 30km walk, they did what any self-respecting lunatic militia would do—they stole a ride.

  Some poor border guard barely had time to blink before one of the Crows casually said, "We're taking this," and the whole squad climbed in, leaving the guy standing there questioning his life choices.

  The moment they arrived, there was no mission debrief, no strategy meeting, nothing. They sprinted straight to the cafeteria like starving wolves. Vega, sitting there chatting with the lunch lady, barely had time to react before she felt the atmosphere shift.

  The Crows and the lunch lady locked eyes.

  A silent understanding passed between them.

  She sighed, grabbed her ladle, and started shoveling food onto their plates like a seasoned warrior who had fought this battle a thousand times before.

  They ate like they hadn't seen food in years—devouring everything with a terrifying level of focus, like a pack of wild animals that had just discovered civilization.

  Vega sat with them, eating like a normal human being instead of inhaling food like a vacuum cleaner. After a few minutes, she finally spoke up.

  "Why do you all act like a bunch of lunatics?"

  Silence. The whole squad froze mid-bite. They turned to each other, whispering like schoolkids caught doing something stupid. Then, after a few moments, one of them cleared his throat dramatically and said, "The Council has accepted your request to be trauma-dumped on."

  And just like that, the floodgates opened.

  One Crow said he was thrown out of his house at 14. Another admitted his father murdered his mother, and he escaped from an orphanage. Someone else talked about growing up in a warzone where playing in the street meant dodging sniper fire.

  One by one, they spilled everything—abuse, abandonment, war, loss, all of it. But the worst part? They laughed through it. They told their horror stories like they were recounting dumb childhood memories.

  Vega sat there, frozen, as the realization hit her.

  "Y-you know..." she started, her voice shaking slightly. "I actually... kinda get it."

  The table went silent. For the first time, the Crows weren’t laughing.

  "I ran away from home because my family treated me like a worthless piece of shit. My only goal was to prove them wrong. I tried everything, failed at multiple colleges, couldn’t even get an internship. Then I saw a military recruitment poster. Signed up, passed the physical fitness test, and became... this." She gestured at herself. "A nameless officer running top-secret missions. No recognition. No proof that I ever achieved anything. I’m still a failure in their eyes."

  Her fingers tightened around her fork. "I thought my life was sad… until I met you lunatics." She took a shaky breath. "And you know what? You're all actually just like me... just way crazier."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The Crows blinked at her. Then, out of nowhere, one of them clapped a hand on her shoulder and grinned. "Welcome to the club, newbie."

  The tension broke instantly. They went back to eating like nothing happened.

  Vega wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and asked, "So… what’s the Crow Curse?"

  THE CROW CURSE:

  A long-standing superstition among the Crows—whenever they use a chopper, it ALWAYS crashes.

  Nobody knows why.

  Maybe it’s bad luck. Maybe they’re just insane and push pilots too hard. Maybe they were cursed by the gods of aviation.

  But history has proven it.

  First crash? The pilot had a panic attack mid-air because the Crows were betting on who could survive jumping out without a parachute.

  Second crash? They were messing with the controls mid-flight.

  Third crash? A Crow accidentally threw a grenade inside.

  Fourth crash? They just forgot how to land.

  After that, they stopped counting.

  Now, the rule is simple: "Never get in a chopper. Ever."

  If one HAS to be used, jump the hell out before it’s too late.

  Right after the trauma dump, the Crows just go back to eating like nothing happened, like "Welp, that was some good therapy, now back to business." Vega, still wiping her eyes, watches them in disbelief.

  Then suddenly, one Crow slams his fist on the table like, "OI, WE FORGOT SOMETHING IMPORTANT!"

  Vega flinches, thinking it's something serious, but then he turns to the others, grinning like a maniac—"THE GREEN PAINT."

  Immediate chaos. Crows are bolting out of the cafeteria, shoving each other, grabbing paint cans from God knows where. Vega just stares, confused as hell, until she hears screaming outside.

  The two guys who were fist-fighting earlier? Yeah, they're getting absolutely violated with neon green paint. The Crows are chasing them around the base, laughing like maniacs, tackling them to the ground, and dumping entire buckets on them.

  One Crow—let’s call him Chaos Coordinator—is directing the madness like a general with a heavy irish accent: "GET HIS FACE! NO, NO, PAINT THE HAIR TOO! IF HE AIN’T GLOWING, WE AIN’T DONE!"

  Vega is just standing there, watching in absolute disbelief, and mutters, "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

  Captain walks past her, sipping coffee, doesn’t even glance at the chaos, and deadpans, "I stopped asking years ago.

  Just then, the captain walked in front of them.

  Every Crow froze mid-action.

  One guy was holding a spray can, halfway through turning Idiot #1’s uniform neon green. Idiot #2, already fully coated, stood there looking like a glowstick that had accepted its fate. The paint fumes still hung in the air.

  The silence was deafening.

  One of them—clearly panicking—whispered, "P-please, sir! We were just having fun!" He immediately turned to Idiot #1. Who kissed his boots in the desert "Kiss his boots like you did earlier!"

  Idiot #1, still half-green, considered his options. A moment later, he dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the captain’s boot like it was a holy relic. "Oh great and merciful captain, have mercy upon our souls."

  The captain said nothing. Just stared.

  Then, in the coldest, most deadpan voice ever, he said, "Ten laps around the compound. Sprinting. No water for thirty minutes afterward."

  The entire squad groaned.

  "Sir, please, we just walked thirty kilometers—"

  "Then your legs are warmed up. Go."

  A synchronized sigh of disappointment filled the air before they dragged themselves up and started running. Even the two freshly-painted idiots, their neon-green shame glowing under the base lights, joined the pack without a word.

  Vega, watching the whole thing unfold, just turned to the lunch lady, who was casually wiping down the counter like this was just another Tuesday.

  "...Do they ever actually rest?"

  The lunch lady chuckled, shaking her head. "Only when they pass out."

  As the Crows begrudgingly started their punishment laps, Vega sat back down with her food, watching the chaos unfold with mild amusement. She expected this kind of insanity from them at this point, but something about it was starting to feel... normal.

  She glanced at the captain, who was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, silently watching his squad suffer. Unlike her own commanding officers, who only ever called her in for debriefs and official reports, he was always around, in the thick of it, keeping his men in line—even if his definition of ‘in line’ was just making sure they survived their own stupidity.

  It was weirdly refreshing.

  Her old unit? Higher-ups only showed up when something went wrong. No casual check-ins, no shared meals, no nonsense. Just orders barked down the chain. But here? The captain wasn’t some distant figure. He walked into a room, and the entire squad reacted—sometimes in terror, sometimes in laughter, but always with familiarity.

  She exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips.

  "Maybe this wasn’t so bad."

  "Deep down, a lingering doubt still gnawed at her—were the Crows really just a pack of mercenaries, loyal only to cash, with no real morals to speak of?"

  > Vega watched as the Crows sprinted laps around the compound, still half-covered in neon paint. Their captain stood watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable. It was chaos, just like always. And yet… for a private militia, they followed orders without hesitation. No questions. No complaints. No bargaining.

  Vega frowned. She had worked with plenty of mercenaries before. Every single one cared about their paycheck first. But the Crows?

  They acted like something else entirely.

  And that was starting to bother her.