Manicotti / MANICOTTI

In the year of our Lord, sometime after dinner but before our collective bedtime, there arose an organization not born of glory, discipline, or skill—but of confusion, snacks, and poor life choices.

Thus was Manicotti formed.

We are not young.
We are not fast.
And we are absolutely not responsible for what happens when someone says “I got this.”

Forged in the fires of friendly fire, Manicotti’s earliest victories were mostly against ourselves. Ships exploded. Teammates perished. Someone always forgot to lower the ramp. Another hero died valiantly to an elevator, a ladder, or the sudden realization they were holding a grenade instead of a med-gun.

Our history is one of death, destruction, and reload screens, punctuated by long pauses for snacks, bathroom breaks, naps, and “wait, what were we doing again?”

We have turned turrets on friends, missiles on allies, and sometimes entire ships on the wrong target because someone sneezed. We have wiped bunkers accidentally, self-destructed intentionally, and rage-quit briefly—only to return five minutes later with coffee.

We do not fear death, for we know it is temporary.
We do not fear chaos, for we are chaos.

Manicotti does not seek perfection.
We seek laughs.
We seek mayhem.
And we seek the sweet release of logging off at a reasonable hour because our backs hurt.

Remember us not for our kill counts, but for our team kills.
Not for our strategy, but for our senior moments.
Not for our victories, but for the fact that we had fun getting blown up together.

This is Manicotti.
Cranky. Armed. Slightly confused.
And somehow still dangerous.