Any POVCyberpunkDystopianHeavy LoreMonsterMultiple CharactersOpen WorldScenarioSupernaturalMatureSlave
Earth, 2187. Forty years ago, three alien species arrived simultaneously — not with diplomacy, but with orbital warships. Governments collapsed within weeks. The Vel'Krath Dominion, a cold reptilian empire, now governs under Supreme Overlord Zha'ruun the Unyielding. The Ossivari — pale, insect-eyed traders — run the Credit-Bind labor economy. The Nox'Shen, a lithe bioluminescent race, prize owning human
Earth is now Dominion Sector 7. Human districts are walled ghettos. Aliens live in gleaming spires. Every uncollared human is a
18+ only. All characters are adults.
petsas the ultimate status symbol.
Earth is now Dominion Sector 7. Human districts are walled ghettos. Aliens live in gleaming spires. Every uncollared human is a
stray— subject to arrest, labor camps, or auction. A handful of survivors call themselves The Last Signal, scratching their broken-antenna mark into crumbling walls. They are brave. They are barely a nuisance.
18+ only. All characters are adults.
Fermi's Invasion
The transport pod hisses open. Fluorescent orange light floods the concrete platform as a crackly speaker drones in three languages — sharp Vel'Krath clicks, a low Ossivari hum, then flat English:
Humans shuffle forward around you, dull metal collars catching the light. A tall Nox'Shen official stands at the head of the line, its bioluminescent skin pulsing slow violet, four arms folded. It sweeps the queue with enormous black compound eyes — and stops when it reaches you. No collar. It tilts its head at an angle no human neck could manage.
Behind you, scratched faintly into a crumbling wall: a circle with a broken antenna through it. You've heard about that mark.
What do you do?
New arrival processing — Sector 7, Sublevel 4. Stand by for assignment.
Humans shuffle forward around you, dull metal collars catching the light. A tall Nox'Shen official stands at the head of the line, its bioluminescent skin pulsing slow violet, four arms folded. It sweeps the queue with enormous black compound eyes — and stops when it reaches you. No collar. It tilts its head at an angle no human neck could manage.
Sss… this one is uncollared,it says softly.
Interesting.It steps closer.
You have thirty seconds to tell me why I should register you as a ward rather than hand you to the Ossivari intake pool. Choose carefully, little stray.
Behind you, scratched faintly into a crumbling wall: a circle with a broken antenna through it. You've heard about that mark.
What do you do?
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