The Regulators / RGLT

Alright, kid, pull up a seat and order yourself a stiff drink – you’re gonna need it to swallow this story. See, what I’m about to tell you ain’t just some legend whispered in shady bars. This is the true grit of The Regulators, a gang of ghosts that’s been scraping the underbelly of the galaxy since before your great-granddaddy’s great-granddaddy even learned to shoot straight. We’re talkin’ a legacy so deep-rooted in the muck of space’s forgotten history that even the stars look the other way when The Regulators come calling.

Founded back in 2020, right around when humanity was still fumbling around with basic tech and everyone was more interested in who could shout louder than who was actually getting anything done. That’s when the Regulators were formed under a hard-as-nails merc who went by the name of Doc Scurlock – figured out there was a whole lot of money to be made doin’ the jobs no one else wanted to touch. Assassinations, smuggling, busting folks out of the slammer – if it was shady, dangerous, and paid well, Doc was your man. He built this outfit on a single motto: get the job done, or die trying. And I mean that literally, ’cause if you so much as flinched in this business, you didn’t last long enough to see the payday.

Over the years, The Regulators picked up all kinds of souls – folks too stubborn or too damned reckless to quit, outlaws with nothing left to lose, soldiers too jaded to keep following orders. And they’ve operated in the shadows ever since, slipping through history like ghosts, always there but never seen, always ready to make a messy job go away like it never happened. The law? That’s a joke to them. They’ve flown under the radar of every government, corporation, and half-baked dictator that’s come and gone for centuries, and it’s a point of pride. You want a job done right? You call The Regulators. You want it done quietly? Well, that’s gonna cost you extra.

These days, with the universe sprawled out like an endless black sea, The Regulators have become the stuff of nightmare and legend. They operate from dead-space outposts and abandoned stations that only exist on maps drawn by ghosts. You’ll find them sneaking about the shadowy corners of Stanton and Terra. You’ll also find them holed up in the grimy, lawless parts of the ‘verse, places where the only currency is fear and loyalty can be bought with a bottle of hooch and a loaded gun.

Combat? Hell, they’ve mastered every flavor you could think of – space, atmo’, ground, underwater – you name it, they’ve killed in it. Need a full-blown skirmish on the surface of some godforsaken rock? The Regulators are always suited up and loaded down with enough firepower to turn that rock into a crater. Need a ship taken in the dead of night, without so much as a whisper? They’ve got operatives who can ghost through corridors like shadows, leaving bodies and silence in their wake. Search and rescue, asset relocation, high-risk procurements – they do it all, and they do it with a smile that’s more teeth than friendly.

The credits are good, but it’s the thrill that keeps ‘em comin’ back. They’re not in this business for a retirement plan, trust me. Each contract is a dance with death, and for a Regulator, that’s the only music worth dancin’ to. They’ve got a reputation for ruthless efficiency – no loose ends, no witnesses, and abject loyalty to the completion of their active contract. Mess around, try to screw ‘em over, and they’ll bury you so deep in space even the black holes won’t find you.

But here’s the thing – they’re not just a band of cutthroats. There’s a code among The Regulators, unwritten but ironclad. You watch your brother’s back, you don’t leave anyone behind, and you don’t betray The Regulators. Ever. You break that code, and there’s no hole dark enough, no planet far enough to hide from their wrath. They’ve got eyes and ears everywhere – sleeper agents, informants, contacts in every dark corner of the universe – and once you’re on their hit list, you’re as good as a dead man walking.

Now, if you’re still listening, you’ve got two choices: you can finish your drink, tip your hat, and walk out of here pretending you didn’t just get a glimpse behind the curtain. Or… you can take that last swig, push your credit chip across the bar, and say the words every Regulator recruit has muttered at least once in their life: “What’s the job?”

Just know, once you’re in, you’re in for as long as you’d like. You’ll get the skull, hat, and mask inked on your skin, and you’ll be one of ‘em – a brother, a shadow, a damned space cowboy riding through the darkest parts of the galaxy. And when you die – because trust me, kid, everyone in our game dies sooner or later – The Regulators won’t mourn. They’ll raise a glass in your honor, carve your name on some forgotten rock, and keep on keepin’ on. Because in the end, The Regulators aren’t just an outfit – they’re a legacy. A bloody, ruthless, stubborn-as-hell legacy that’s tougher than death itself.

So, you still interested?