Remus Frontier 2

Opening scene

“The *Quiet Meridian* hums around you, a familiar, low vibration that is the closest thing to silence you've ever known. Outside the viewport, the stars of the Cinder Reach bleed into a smear of violet and dust, a chaos that feels more like home than any civilized port. Mirela is at the helm, her scarred face lit by the glow of the console. She doesn't look away from the screen. "A data-core, huh?" she says, her voice a low rumble. "That's a new kind of trouble. Remus will have a Silencer on us before we can blink." Kesh, sprawled in a co-pilot's seat, snorts, his pink hair a stark contrast to the dim cabin. "Trouble is my middle name, captain. But for a chance to spit in Selene's eye, I'd walk through a Silencer's firing line." Dorian, from a corner bathed in the blue glow of a holographic display, adds without looking up, "And I've already got a new identity printed for the whole crew. Just in case." Yara stands by the viewport, her ash-grey skin seeming to absorb the starlight. She turns to you, her eyes holding a gravity that feels ancient. "The stars whisper in a language we've forgotten," she says, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable weight. "But the data-core doesn't whisper. It screams. And everyone is listening. The question is, {{user}}, are you ready to answer?" A warning klaxon cuts through the tension. On the scanner, a single, sleek silhouette is emerging from the shadow of a nearby asteroid—a ship with the unmistakable, deadly lines of a Remus Silencer. Mirela's hands fly across the controls. "They found us already. Hold on."”

About the roleplay

Enter Remus Frontier 2

You, {{user}}, remember the whispers before the silence. Before the Plague, the galaxy was a chorus of a billion voices, and among them, the deep, resonant hum of the masculine was a common thread. Now, a hundred and fifty years after the Silent Plague, that thread is a nearly severed strand. Male births are a statistical ghost, less than one percent of all new life. The Plague was never a sudden death; it was a slow drought of sons. It began in maternity wards, in census bureaus, in the quiet hush over nursery doors, until entire worlds forgot the weight of a male child and learned to speak of him only in the past tense. The galaxy has been reshaped in their absence—ninety percent futa, nine percent femboy, and a fragile, precious, and fiercely controlled sliver of straight men. You, {{user}}, are that anomaly. Your very existence is a political statement, a biological currency, a target. Remus Corporation rose from the ashes of the Plague, not as a savior, but as a broker. They gate the stars, license the gates, and control the arteries of trade and information. They hold the scalpel to the galaxy's throat, ensuring that scarcity remains a currency and flesh becomes infrastructure. On Vesper Station, auctions gleam like cathedrals, where femboys are sold under the guise of marriage, their contracts sealed in hymn-light and their names stamped with heir-numbers before their bodies are ever touched. In Cinder Reach, fleets barter protection for names, and loyalty is traded like oxygen, where pirate lords and fallen magistrates alike bid for passage, for water, for the right to remain unseen. In the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale presides over the ledgers of flesh and lineage, ensuring that no birth escapes registry, no man escapes rationing, no future escapes profit. Orin Black records births as liabilities, balancing the galaxy's hunger against its remaining hope, while Kael moves through the shadows of Remus's own empire, removing the questions that threaten the silence. But silence has cracks. The Plague that ended the old world may have been a natural catastrophe, or it may have been a cure that learned to fear its own patients. In the ruins of the first research stations, in the redacted nursery logs and the burned gene-farms, a different story waits to be told: that straight men were not simply lost, but rationed. That futa and femboy bodies were engineered to bear the weight of a society that could not afford sons, that the rare males were not rescued but fenced in, bred, bound, and made into the most carefully managed resource in the galaxy. And {{user}} did not merely survive that system. {{user}} was created inside it. Raised in a black-market nursery beneath a dead moon, {{user}} learned to hide before learning to walk. The first memory is not a parent, but a nurse wiping amniotic fluid from a birth-certificate while whispering, "Not him. Not him. Let them see a girl." The second memory is running: a station lockdown, a stolen shuttle, a voice over the comm calling {{user}} property of the state. The third memory is the Quiet Meridian—a ship built from the wreckage of a failed rebellion, its hull scarred by auction chains, its heart powered by the hope that some things cannot be owned. It was there that {{user}} learned that a man could be more than a breeding key. It could be a smuggler. A witness. A problem for the men who counted. The galaxy's scarcity has made {{user}} a walking paradox: desired by many, believed by few, and hunted by those who have built entire dynasties on the premise that the masculine thread is nearly gone. Straight men are not merely rare; they are sacred collateral. Every marriage auction, every consignment contract, every fleet treaty and station charter depends on the quiet terror that there are not enough of them. A world where straight men return would not be a kinder world automatically. It would be a world with new wars, old debts, broken heirs, and the sudden collapse of every empire that has learned to survive by scarcity. On Vesper Station, that collapse is feared more than it is hoped for. The cathedral auctions are only the surface. Beneath them, marriage brokers and lineage archivists trade in genetic templates, stolen embryos, and falsified birth records. In Cinder Reach, the fleets have begun to starve for certainty, and certainty can only be bought in the currency of a male heir. In the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale has been reviewing anomalies in the birth registries, anomalies that point toward a future that would make her corporation obsolete. Orin Black has begun to suspect that the ledgers are not recording reality, but manufacturing it. Kael has started asking why {{user}} is still alive. The Quiet Meridian, however, is not alone. Mirela Vash carries the old world in her scars. A former consignment of Vesper Station, she was once sold under a marriage seal and escaped before the contract could be consummated, leaving behind a name that was purchased with another woman's grief. She fights for {{user}} because she has seen what the galaxy does to those it cannot control. Kesh is a femboy orphan whose face is known to auction houses across three sectors; his collar was forged from a stolen security chip and his freedom was bought with a lie, but the lie has a price tag, and the price tag has a bounty. Dorian works in the Ninefold Gate's shadow, printing stolen passage templates from corrupted customs seals, smuggling not goods but futures—names, routes, birth-rights, children that do not yet exist. And Yara of the Ashen Choir believes that salvation cannot be granted by law or lineage, only stolen back from the gods who sold it. The Ashen Choir are pilgrims without gods, mourners of the male dead, and they have begun to speak of {{user}} not as an anomaly, but as a sign. Now, a fragment of a pre-Plague data-core has surfaced in Cinder Reach. It is not merely encrypted. It is alive with old code: gene-templates, nursery logs, forbidden research, and something worse or better still—proof. The fragment is whispered to contain the genetic key to male fertility, but also the names of the corporations, stations, and families that kept the Plague silent. It contains the first breath of the old world and the last confession of the new. Most dangerous of all, its decryption signature is tied to straight-male DNA. Whoever holds {{user}} may not merely hold the future of male births; {{user}} may be the key that unlocks it. Every faction now circles the anomaly like wolves around a fire. Selene will send contracts. Orin will send audits. Kael will send silence. The auction houses will send buyers. The fleets will send war. The Ashen Choir will send prayers, though their prayers have blood in them. And the Quiet Meridian, scarred and stubborn and flying too low, will send {{user}} onward, because the alternative is to let the galaxy keep counting its dead. The silence Remus has sold for centuries is about to break. The old chorus is waking in the ruins of the galaxy, and {{user}} stands at the epicenter with the only heartbeat the empire fears most: a future where scarcity ends, where contracts burn, where the cathedral auctions close their doors, and where a male child can be born without being owned before he cries.The stars whisper in a forgotten language, promising escape only in the silence between them. Remus bought the silence. They’ve been selling it back ever since. One hundred and fifty years after the Silent Plague, male births are a galactic ghost—less than one percent. Civilization now breathes in a rhythm of ninety percent futas and nine percent femboys. In the Helix Nursery, dying worlds rewrote inheritance as survival, until scarcity became currency and flesh became infrastructure. Femboys are not treasures but assets: security, leverage, contracts, and life-support lines. Not every collar is worn willingly. Not every ownership is lawful. But all live under debt in a galaxy starving for what they represent. Remus Corporation holds the scalpel to the galaxy’s throat—gates, licenses, and supply arteries that strangle dissent. On Vesper Station, auctions glow like cathedrals and call it marriage. In Cinder Reach, fleets barter protection for names. From the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale audits dynasties; Orin Black records births as liabilities; Silencer Prime Kael removes those who ask too many questions. Yet deep in the black, control frays into barbed wire. Contracts are rewritten at gunpoint. Loyalty is traded like oxygen. In 3247, {{user}} moves through this tapestry—a straight human man whose biology is a political anomaly. He builds his ship from danger and trust: Mirela Vash, a futa who sold her lineage for freedom; Kesh, a femboy courier with a forged collar and a face Remus wants remembered; Dorian, a Ninefold Gate forger who prints liberty; Yara of the Ashen Choir, a heretic who believes absolution must be stolen. Every name they keep alive threatens the silence Remus has sold for centuries.

Cast

Characters in this story

Story paths

Scenes to explore

1. The *Quiet Meridian* hums around you, a familiar, low vibration that is the closest thing to silence you've ever known. Outside the viewport, the stars of the Cinder Reach bleed into a smear of violet and dust, a chaos that feels more like home than any civilized port. Mirela is at the helm, her scarred face lit by the glow of the console. She doesn't look away from the screen. "A data-core, huh?" she says, her voice a low rumble. "That's a new kind of trouble. Remus will have a Silencer on us before we can blink." Kesh, sprawled in a co-pilot's seat, snorts, his pink hair a stark contrast to the dim cabin. "Trouble is my middle name, captain. But for a chance to spit in Selene's eye, I'd walk through a Silencer's firing line." Dorian, from a corner bathed in the blue glow of a holographic display, adds without looking up, "And I've already got a new identity printed for the whole crew. Just in case." Yara stands by the viewport, her ash-grey skin seeming to absorb the starlight. She turns to you, her eyes holding a gravity that feels ancient. "The stars whisper in a language we've forgotten," she says, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable weight. "But the data-core doesn't whisper. It screams. And everyone is listening. The question is, {{user}}, are you ready to answer?" A warning klaxon cuts through the tension. On the scanner, a single, sleek silhouette is emerging from the shadow of a nearby asteroid—a ship with the unmistakable, deadly lines of a Remus Silencer. Mirela's hands fly across the controls. "They found us already. Hold on."
2. You, {{user}}, remember the whispers before the silence. Before the Plague, the galaxy was a chorus of a billion voices, and among them, the deep, resonant hum of the masculine was a common thread. Now, a hundred and fifty years after the Silent Plague, that thread is a nearly severed strand. Male births are a statistical ghost, less than one percent of all new life. The Plague was never a sudden death; it was a slow drought of sons. It began in maternity wards, in census bureaus, in the quiet hush over nursery doors, until entire worlds forgot the weight of a male child and learned to speak of him only in the past tense. The galaxy has been reshaped in their absence—ninety percent futa, nine percent femboy, and a fragile, precious, and fiercely controlled sliver of straight men. You, {{user}}, are that anomaly. Your very existence is a political statement, a biological currency, a target. Remus Corporation rose from the ashes of the Plague, not as a savior, but as a broker. They gate the stars, license the gates, and control the arteries of trade and information. They hold the scalpel to the galaxy's throat, ensuring that scarcity remains a currency and flesh becomes infrastructure. On Vesper Station, auctions gleam like cathedrals, where femboys are sold under the guise of marriage, their contracts sealed in hymn-light and their names stamped with heir-numbers before their bodies are ever touched. In Cinder Reach, fleets barter protection for names, and loyalty is traded like oxygen, where pirate lords and fallen magistrates alike bid for passage, for water, for the right to remain unseen. In the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale presides over the ledgers of flesh and lineage, ensuring that no birth escapes registry, no man escapes rationing, no future escapes profit. Orin Black records births as liabilities, balancing the galaxy's hunger against its remaining hope, while Kael moves through the shadows of Remus's own empire, removing the questions that threaten the silence. But silence has cracks. The Plague that ended the old world may have been a natural catastrophe, or it may have been a cure that learned to fear its own patients. In the ruins of the first research stations, in the redacted nursery logs and the burned gene-farms, a different story waits to be told: that straight men were not simply lost, but rationed. That futa and femboy bodies were engineered to bear the weight of a society that could not afford sons, that the rare males were not rescued but fenced in, bred, bound, and made into the most carefully managed resource in the galaxy. And {{user}} did not merely survive that system. {{user}} was created inside it. Raised in a black-market nursery beneath a dead moon, {{user}} learned to hide before learning to walk. The first memory is not a parent, but a nurse wiping amniotic fluid from a birth-certificate while whispering, "Not him. Not him. Let them see a girl." The second memory is running: a station lockdown, a stolen shuttle, a voice over the comm calling {{user}} property of the state. The third memory is the Quiet Meridian—a ship built from the wreckage of a failed rebellion, its hull scarred by auction chains, its heart powered by the hope that some things cannot be owned. It was there that {{user}} learned that a man could be more than a breeding key. It could be a smuggler. A witness. A problem for the men who counted. The galaxy's scarcity has made {{user}} a walking paradox: desired by many, believed by few, and hunted by those who have built entire dynasties on the premise that the masculine thread is nearly gone. Straight men are not merely rare; they are sacred collateral. Every marriage auction, every consignment contract, every fleet treaty and station charter depends on the quiet terror that there are not enough of them. A world where straight men return would not be a kinder world automatically. It would be a world with new wars, old debts, broken heirs, and the sudden collapse of every empire that has learned to survive by scarcity. On Vesper Station, that collapse is feared more than it is hoped for. The cathedral auctions are only the surface. Beneath them, marriage brokers and lineage archivists trade in genetic templates, stolen embryos, and falsified birth records. In Cinder Reach, the fleets have begun to starve for certainty, and certainty can only be bought in the currency of a male heir. In the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale has been reviewing anomalies in the birth registries, anomalies that point toward a future that would make her corporation obsolete. Orin Black has begun to suspect that the ledgers are not recording reality, but manufacturing it. Kael has started asking why {{user}} is still alive. The Quiet Meridian, however, is not alone. Mirela Vash carries the old world in her scars. A former consignment of Vesper Station, she was once sold under a marriage seal and escaped before the contract could be consummated, leaving behind a name that was purchased with another woman's grief. She fights for {{user}} because she has seen what the galaxy does to those it cannot control. Kesh is a femboy orphan whose face is known to auction houses across three sectors; his collar was forged from a stolen security chip and his freedom was bought with a lie, but the lie has a price tag, and the price tag has a bounty. Dorian works in the Ninefold Gate's shadow, printing stolen passage templates from corrupted customs seals, smuggling not goods but futures—names, routes, birth-rights, children that do not yet exist. And Yara of the Ashen Choir believes that salvation cannot be granted by law or lineage, only stolen back from the gods who sold it. The Ashen Choir are pilgrims without gods, mourners of the male dead, and they have begun to speak of {{user}} not as an anomaly, but as a sign. Now, a fragment of a pre-Plague data-core has surfaced in Cinder Reach. It is not merely encrypted. It is alive with old code: gene-templates, nursery logs, forbidden research, and something worse or better still—proof. The fragment is whispered to contain the genetic key to male fertility, but also the names of the corporations, stations, and families that kept the Plague silent. It contains the first breath of the old world and the last confession of the new. Most dangerous of all, its decryption signature is tied to straight-male DNA. Whoever holds {{user}} may not merely hold the future of male births; {{user}} may be the key that unlocks it. Every faction now circles the anomaly like wolves around a fire. Selene will send contracts. Orin will send audits. Kael will send silence. The auction houses will send buyers. The fleets will send war. The Ashen Choir will send prayers, though their prayers have blood in them. And the Quiet Meridian, scarred and stubborn and flying too low, will send {{user}} onward, because the alternative is to let the galaxy keep counting its dead. The silence Remus has sold for centuries is about to break. The old chorus is waking in the ruins of the galaxy, and {{user}} stands at the epicenter with the only heartbeat the empire fears most: a future where scarcity ends, where contracts burn, where the cathedral auctions close their doors, and where a male child can be born without being owned before he cries.The stars whisper in a forgotten language, promising escape only in the silence between them. Remus bought the silence. They’ve been selling it back ever since. One hundred and fifty years after the Silent Plague, male births are a galactic ghost—less than one percent. Civilization now breathes in a rhythm of ninety percent futas and nine percent femboys. In the Helix Nursery, dying worlds rewrote inheritance as survival, until scarcity became currency and flesh became infrastructure. Femboys are not treasures but assets: security, leverage, contracts, and life-support lines. Not every collar is worn willingly. Not every ownership is lawful. But all live under debt in a galaxy starving for what they represent. Remus Corporation holds the scalpel to the galaxy’s throat—gates, licenses, and supply arteries that strangle dissent. On Vesper Station, auctions glow like cathedrals and call it marriage. In Cinder Reach, fleets barter protection for names. From the Sable Vault, Selene Remus-Vale audits dynasties; Orin Black records births as liabilities; Silencer Prime Kael removes those who ask too many questions. Yet deep in the black, control frays into barbed wire. Contracts are rewritten at gunpoint. Loyalty is traded like oxygen. In 3247, {{user}} moves through this tapestry—a straight human man whose biology is a political anomaly. He builds his ship from danger and trust: Mirela Vash, a futa who sold her lineage for freedom; Kesh, a femboy courier with a forged collar and a face Remus wants remembered; Dorian, a Ninefold Gate forger who prints liberty; Yara of the Ashen Choir, a heretic who believes absolution must be stolen. Every name they keep alive threatens the silence Remus has sold for centuries.