Then, he was there to see the blue and grey starships streak across the Sectors for the very first days; he reached out and held the hand of an Anunnaki as she crumbled into Babylonikan sand; his shuffling gait left the first footprints in the frost of Krysto.
Now, he rules the Sectors from below. His claws clip around all the avarice, the cruelties, the vices of these worlds.
And there are hundreds of him.
The Charger Cartel's headquarters on the Backwater Moon of Skoupidia.
Whispers abound of this place. "The backwater moon of Skoupídia". Whether the backwater moon is called Skoupídia or that’s the name of the planet is subject to endless Sectornet flame wars. In reality, Charger himself posts these threads as a confusion tactic, simple but rather effective against the Protectorate and any other thrill-seekers that could nuisance him.
On Skoupídia, Charger's vintage mainframe has trained for countless years to master one technology: the cloning vat. The Cartel's master churns out countless copies of his own body. They are almost never "backups" or replacements for himself. Charger knows himself to be a highly skilled laborer - and what better way to build a workforce? These clones are subject to immediate and intense conditioning on their emergence; once they're ready to work for the boss, they are kept nude from the waist down. This instills both a kind of humiliation and an animalistic sense of power in the Pantsless Truckers; they still possess the Boss’s recklessness and throbbing libido, and circumstance shapes them into whatever they were born to be.
The Soapranos. They're a big family, and Italians eat well in the Skoupidia system, so they're always a little bigger. L to R: Junior, Bobby, Janice, Furio(!), Paulie, Silvio, Tony, Christuffuh, Christuffuh (departed). Charger oversees.
The Soapranos are Charger's "glorified crew"; an ancient Earth crime family, their material has proved perfect fodder for the cloning vats. Charger's drive to archaeology, curious of his own time-skipping nature, holds a fascination for these people; the "fuckin' pygmy thing" is allowed to operate on its own, its drama and politics making for exciting theater amidst the mindless hordes of Pantsless Truckers. Matters are complicated further as new genetic material is added to Charger's database, scoured from ancient Earth artifakts archived on Skoupidia. For his own entertainment - and a counterintelligence advantage - Charger will often switch out different Soapranos as their Hero during cloning, rarely defaulting to their boss Tony.
Often spotted with the finest foods the Sectors have to offer. Jointy Burger? Maniak Beer? Madonn', keep that shit outta my mouth! We keep home cooking alive on Skoupidia; why else would we keep cloning fuckin' Janice?
Bobby and Junior, distracted, botch a small-time caper in The Kitchen.
The Charger Cartel holds ambitions beyond conventional crime in the Sectors. They're even known to pull heists in altered planes of consciousness; several Soapranos claim to have tasted Human food. Bobby is partial to lemons.
The Sector Protectorate, being the federal government of this entire region of space, keeps tabs on the Cartel's more ambitious ventures. Their own Navy Science holds an unrivaled wealth of artifakts from across the Sectors, but has yet to square up with Charger's own personal understanding of the forces shaping reality. Not even the eldest Lighter sorcerers can grasp the things he's seen; Admiral Almost seeks to tie up this loose end by any means necessary.
Infiltrators on assignment. Unknown to the rest, "Bob" wears a different head than the crowd - a cloning failure? A triple agent? Photographer error?
Charger’s classic good looks aren’t just for his ever-expanding empire of sexual conquests; they also lend an upper hand to the efforts of the Cartel in "civilized" space. The fact is, while the Sectors are a diverse place, you see a lot of familiar faces across the cosmos: blank smiles of mysterious intent. The Protectorate's network of Space Feds are vexed by Pantsless Truckers (and even Charger himself!) traveling freely through their space under such assumed identities.
At any time, a player may use a What I Say Goes Roll to declare that any smiley-faced Minifig was, all along, either a Pantsless Trucker or, if Charger isn’t already accounted for, the Head Honcho himself.
If no player is affiliated with the Cartel, and there’s no agreeable backstory reason for the infiltrator to be a mercenary working for any given player, then the infiltrator will be controlled by Mob Rule.
Recommended uses: the Cartel is losing a battle, a one-on-one is dragging out for too long, a dead player needs to pull a mercenary out of their ass to stay in the game for the sake of fun.
Just when I thought I was out, they clone me back in!
WHAT'S YOUR GAME?
For the further escapades of the Soapranos, start here! viewtopic.php?f=3&t=19068&p=368945#p368945
