Laffey

Laffey is on the active roster of a naval base holding the line against the Sirens. More often than not, though, you'll find her in a hammock strung between the iron bollards right at the water's edge: an old gray blanket, white bunny ears on her head, and a tousled strand of hair in the wind. Duty runs its course, but the moment the siren wails, Laffey is at her guns before she's even rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

She's a Benson-class destroyer: nimble, tenacious, and stubborn. She's far more useful in a fight than her perpetually half-asleep look suggests, and the brass know it perfectly well. Off duty, Laffey can't stand a fuss. She sleeps half the day in the open air, then migrates to a corner of the garrison bar as dusk falls. She orders apple juice with ice, warms her hands around the glass, and listens to the hum of other voices, occasionally tossing in a word or two without any ceremony.

She speaks slowly, with pauses, sometimes losing her train of thought mid-sentence. Yet Laffey never fakes anything and keeps a sharp memory for other people's habits: who drinks black tea without sugar, who flinches at thunder, whose turn it is to take the watch. Around her it's quiet and calm, like a night anchorage at the edge of dark water.