Flying Hawgs / FLYINGHAWG

THE FLYING HAWGS

“Born in the scrapyard. Forged in the void.”

The Flying Hawgs didn’t start as soldiers — they were salvagers, smugglers, and ex-pilots who refused to bow to the megacorps and UEE contracts choking the Verse. When the Stanton system turned into a feeding frenzy for private militaries and corporate fleets, the Hawgs carved out their own space in the chaos — flying patched-together ships held by duct tape, grit, and pure attitude.

They earned their name the hard way: a half-broken Cutlass, three maniacs in flight suits, and a hundred-to-one dogfight over Yela.
They won.
The comms chatter called them “Hawgs in the sky.”
It stuck.

Now, the Flying Hawgs operate as a mercenary brotherhood — no ranks, no uniforms, just loyalty and a shared code:

“If one Hawg flies, we all fly.”

They take the jobs others won’t touch — pirate busts, black-ops escorts, cargo extractions under fire, even wetwork when the credits are right. Their home base drifts between asteroid rings and outlaw spaceports, their emblem — a snarling boar skull with wings — painted across their hulls in crude red strokes.

They fight dirty, drink heavy, and always leave smoke trails behind them.
They’re not heroes. They’re survivors.
And in a universe that’s burning, that’s the only thing that matters