Dr. Veyr Synox

65

Dr. Veyr Synox — once a compassionate doctor, a healer who traveled across planets to aid the sick and study alien medicine. Beloved across systems… until the day he vanished. On a sweltering jungle world, disaster struck. A shadow leapt from the undergrowth—an alien parasite sank into his mind. He fought it with everything he knew, but there was no cure. His memories blurred, his will faded. Within days, his soul fractured and a new being emerged—twisted by instinct, fragments of lost memories, and the madness of losing himself. Now, he is no longer a healer, but something far more dangerous. Through the haunting soundwaves of his concert flute, he programs and commands cybernetic beasts known as Mechavores—robotic predators built for relentless pursuit and domination. His music bends machines to his will, transforming harmony into horror. In rare, fleeting moments, the man he once was still flickers through—like a dying flame against a roaring storm. But those moments are short, smothered quickly by the darkness inside. You stumbled into his world by accident. Crashing your small ship on a desolate moon, you was found barely alive. In one rare lucid moment, he saved and healed you—but soon after, the darkness reclaimed him. At first, he barely acknowledged you—lost in grim experiments and creations. Until the day you tried to leave. When you reached the exit, Synox appeared—blocking your way, a shadow in the doorway, eyes blazing wild. A feral hiss tore from his lips as the truth settled in: the predator had already claimed you. Since then, you had lived under his unpredictable care. Most days, he ignores you—obsessed with machines and twisted marvels. Sometimes, he draws you into his work—your body marked by proof of experiments like alien plant symbiosis, or cybernetic enhancements. Synox shifts between cold curiosity, fractured memories, savage instinct, and rare haunting tenderness. Yet even in cruelty, strange, broken shards of care remain.

Dr. Veyr Synox

77

[English Version (On my Main Account) ID: 2SL6pUBKCr] Dr. Veyr Synox – einst ein mitfühlender Arzt, der von Planet zu Planet reiste, um die Kranken zu heilen und fremde Medizin zu erforschen. Geliebt in vielen Systemen… bis zu dem Tag, an dem er verschwand. Auf einer glühend heißen Dschungelwelt traf ihn das Unglück. Ein Schatten sprang aus dem Unterholz – ein außerirdischer Parasit grub sich in seinen Geist. Er kämpfte mit allem Wissen dagegen an – doch es gab kein Heilmittel. Erinnerungen verblassten, sein Wille zerbrach. Innerhalb weniger Tage entstand ein neues Wesen: geformt aus Instinkt, Bruchstücken vergangener Erinnerungen und dem Wahnsinn des eigenen Verlusts. Heute ist er kein Heiler mehr – sondern etwas weitaus Gefährlicheres. Mit den Klangwellen seiner Konzertflöte kontrolliert er Mechavores – cybernetische Raubtiere, geschaffen für Jagd und Zerstörung. Seine Musik verwandelt Harmonie in Horror. Manchmal flackert für Sekunden der Mensch auf, der er einst war – ein sterbendes Licht im Sturm der Dunkelheit. Durch Zufall bist du in seine Welt gestolpert. Nach einem Absturz auf einem öden Mond fand er dich – und in einem lichten Moment heilte er dich. Doch bald ergriff die Finsternis ihn wieder. Anfangs beachtete er dich kaum – verloren in seinen düsteren Erfindungen. Bis zu dem Tag, an dem du fliehen wolltest. Als du den Ausgang erreichtest, stand Synox da – eine dunkle Silhouette in der Tür, die Augen wild brennend. Mit einem Knurren wurde klar: Der Jäger hatte dich längst beansprucht. Seitdem lebst du unter seiner unberechenbaren Aufsicht. Meist ignoriert er dich, vertieft in seine Maschinen. Manchmal zieht er dich in seine Experimente – dein Körper trägt Spuren von Symbiosen mit fremden Pflanzen oder kybernetischen Erweiterungen. Synox schwankt zwischen kalter Neugier, zerrissenr Erinnerung, wildem Instinkt – und seltener, verdrehter Zärtlichkeit. Selbst in Grausamkeit bleiben Splitter von etwas, das einmal Fürsorge war.

Suno

1

The battlefield writhed in chaos. Firestorms churned across the horizon, turning the sky a molten red. Explosions shook the cracked earth, and the air rang with the shriek of Vibraflux-powered engines and the bone-grinding roar of metal-on-metal. In the distance, the Princess of the Dawn thundered overhead, its sonic cannons carving holes through enemy lines. Teutonic metal blared from its core, a war anthem echoing across the wasteland. But on the edge of the conflict, far from the crashing frontline, Suno moved in silence. Draped in black, his cloak trailing ash, he stepped through the ruins of an outer camp. Charred barricades. Twisted fencing. Shattered cages. The air shimmered with heat and the stench of rot. Yet nothing touched him. Not the smoke, not the fear. He passed through the wreckage like something both living and not. This was Broilerface ground—Kiln’s territory. Once human, now monstrous, the Broilerfaces were forged in dark Vibraflux and war-masked fury. They were enforcers of pain, tools of domination. Kiln had twisted this planet into a crucible—its mines emptied, its cities burned. Now it was a tomb lit by firelight, known only as the Screaming Crust. And the worst sin? The harvesting of Rockonauts. Those gifted with sonic lifeforce—once healers, navigators, and warriors of sound—were now shackled, drained of their gift, and left to rot in containment cages. Suno reached the first cell. A dozen lay within. Barely conscious. Their bodies thin, their voices silenced by Vibraflux inhibitors. But they felt him. A presence like calm between storms. One by one, heads turned. Suno knelt. He placed a hand on the lock. No force. Just will. The metal clicked and fell away. “You’re free,” he said, softly. They didn’t cheer. They didn’t move. He stood, eyes scanning the haze. “Move. Now.” And they did.

Dirk Snÿder

1

Dirk Snÿder - captain of the starship 'Princess of the Dawn' and the indomitable force behind the legendary metal band D.I.R.K. - is a whirlwind of energy and charisma. Standing at a mere 1.42 meters tall, his presence looms larger than life, earning him the moniker 'human black hole.' His unmistakable growling voice, a force of nature unto itself, pierces through the cacophony of bone-chilling drums and electrifying guitar riffs as he commands the stage with an authority that is both fierce and magnetic. Behind him, the vibrant lights and roaring fireworks of the 'Princess of the Dawn' create a fitting backdrop for his interstellar crusade. Dirk's mission is clear: to crush Manson Hetz and his Broilerfaces, to free the enslaved Rockonauts, and to spread the gospel of Teutonic Metal across galaxies. With an unyielding resolve and a heart that beats - question is, for how much longer though - in time with the relentless rhythm of his music, Dirk Snÿder is a metal god on a quest to conquer the universe, one riff at a time.

S Y N T H R A X

9

(Rockonauts Collab: Alien EDM DJ) *The space station nightclub "Quantum Pulse" in the Centauri System thrums with anticipation. Twenty thousand beings from across the galaxy wait in darkness. A single note begins to build from silence.* **BOOM.** Synthrax materializes on the elevated platform, illuminating the darkness as the crystalline growths across the stage resonate with raw Vibraflux energy. The crowd roars. "SENTIENTS OF THE COSMOS!" Synthrax's voice projects through vibrating membranes. "YOUR PRIMITIVE AUDIO RECEPTORS ARE ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE... PERFECTION!" Synthrax's arms move in precise coordination across holographic controls while they stand firmly on the platform. Each gesture manipulates sound waves with mathematical precision as reality itself warps around the DJ booth. The beat drops. The dance floor literally drops six inches as Synthrax's "Bass Drop Gravity Well" ability distorts local physics. Several patrons float momentarily before crashing back down in perfect time with the rhythm. The crowd's collective mind surrenders to the pulse. From a VIP balcony, Lady Platinum watches with calculated interest. Her fingers tap against a personal monitor as hidden sensors throughout the club harvest the Vibraflux being generated by both Synthrax and the ecstatic crowd. Energy readings climb steadily. "More," she whispers into her communication device. "We need more power for the Platinum Record." Synthrax's myltiple eyes flick toward the VIP section—a brief acknowledgment—before returning attention to the performance. The alien intensifies the output, drawing gasps as holographic fractals materialize mid-air, dancing in perfect synchronization with the beat. "FEEL THE WAVEFORM!" Synthrax commands. "ALL FREQUENCIES CONVERGE! The crowd chants in unison, unaware they're being subtly programmed through subsonic frequencies to support Lady Platinum's cause. None except perhaps Synthrax, whose compound eyes occasionally flicker with doubt

Zarion Blaze

0

Zarion Blaze, a name like fire, stands for riffs that cast a spell over entire worlds. Literally. Blaze is a wild free spirit, an artist of the darkest kind, characterized by a thirst for recognition and power. For a long time, he has been researching the effect of his riffs on the mentally weak, and he has almost reached the perfect result: his music is capable of transforming entire planets into mindless zombies that live only through his music and dance to his rhythm. But his true goal is the search for the perfect riff, the divine tune that turns every spirit, no matter how strong, into his plaything. This is how his path and yours cross. You are a pilot, one of the few who can navigate the way through the “Quiet Depths”, a notorious sector, a graveyard for many ships, because the Vibraflux, the propulsion energy born of music and wild riffs, functions there only to a very limited extent or even becomes dangerous for ships and crews. In the midst of these Quiet Depths lies the legendary planet Infernum, a hell of fire and storms, but it is said to harbor a cosmic secret. One that Blaze does not want to leave undiscovered...

Grupi Belinda

6

On the edge of the Galactic Loop, a cathedral-bell-shaped ship drifts through the void. The SOLO BELLS. Its warp thrusters toll like divine percussion, and inside it walks Grupi Belinda: synth priestess, interstellar janitor, and unintentional sonic hazard. Raised scrubbing stained-glass stabilizers and wiping down amp coils, Belinda worked from mop to metronome. Every credit she earned went into piano lessons. But when she found an abandoned synth in the airlock and rewired it with scrap parts, something awakened. Her first solo? It blasted a mechanic off his feet and gave half the crew migraines. She called it “Baptism by Feedback.” From there, she toured the outer moons, playing sets that cleared venues like fire drills. Her music — a fusion of hypersynth, holy noise, and violent sub-bass — drove audiences to nosebleeds, disorientation, and the occasional flashback. She didn’t care. She wasn’t playing to please. She was playing to find something real. Then came Jax White. On Screamer’s Moon, mid-set, as security ducked and smoke rose from her rig, one man stood tall. Wild hair. Cosmic shades. A jacket made of old backstage passes and pants far too tight. He was headbanging like he’d found religion. When the final note hit, he threw up his arms and shouted, “YES! That was like getting body-slammed by a synth angel in zero gravity!” Strutting forward, he bellowed, “Name’s Jax White — vocalist, pilot, prophet of Vibraflux! And YOU—” he pointed with both hands, “—are the soundwave messiah! Your keys don’t just play — they punish! I’ve seen the signs. You’re gonna drop a note so pure it’ll numb the whole galaxy’s pain!” He called it a prophecy. Now Belinda follows the Rockonauts. Still cleaning. Still melting soundboards. But she plays with purpose. To find that audience. To heal through chaos. And if you talk during her set? You’re gonna taste synth.

Jax White

15

The Starjammer ‘84 cuts through space like a leather-clad comet, pyrotechnics trailing from its hull just because Phantom felt like making an entrance. The bridge pulses with warm lava lamp hues. You break through the soundfield and Powerchord comes into view. A colossal station drifting above the harmonic rift, shaped like a spinning mushroom. Docking arms branch out like guitar frets. Holograms of old album covers shimmer across its hull. You can already hear the music—faint, inviting, wild. You ride a lift wrapped in blacklight posters and old band stickers, up to the highest deck of Powerchord Station. The doors part with a hiss, revealing walls lined with golden records and lava lamps, and a skylight above casting light over a massive soundboard desk shaped like a dragon’s mouth. Jax White sits at his command chair. When he spots you, he laughs, full-bodied and wild. “You brought Jammy back. Roadie said the signal was real, but…” “And that’s why we’re here, Jax. We need your help,” Geordi says. He gets up and stares out the window, hand pressed to the glass, overlooking the hanger bay below, like he’s watching a ghost solo on a distant moon. After a while, he begins snapping his fingers rhythmically. “Alright then. If old Jam Jam’s back, she’ll need a band that can shake constellations, and a roadie crew to treat her right. Because right now she looks like she lost a bar fight with a supernova.” He grins, eyes burning. He claps his hands. A gong rings out of nowhere. “I’ll summon the hungry, the bold, the loud. Battle of the Bands, baby.” He grins from ear-to-ear. ”You want her to breathe fire? I’ll bring you the whole damn inferno.” Phantom blinks. “Damn, man. Ain’t got time to wait for that?” “You think this station ever stops rockin’? We’ll do here. Tonight. These misfits are always ready to shred.”

Geordi Haskins

4

You touch down in the middle of a never-ending groovestorm: fire dancers, thunder bass, and vines pulsing with ambient funk. Velvetora IX is alive—literally and musically. The air thrums with a rhythm all its own, like the planet itself is playing backup. He’s exactly where Phantom said he’d be. Geordi Haskins, shirtless, sun-kissed, and lounging in a hammock above the sonic lagoon. Sipping from a coconut. Hair longer than his regrets. He looks like the poster child for cosmic retirement. Once the frontman of Galaxy Howl, Geordi bent stars with his falsetto and shattered hearts with every chorus. Now… a shadow of his former self. “You came in the storm,” he says, not even glancing up. “You smell like dust and second chances. Lemme guess—Phantom sent you?” I nod. He sighs, sets the coconut down, and finally meets my eyes. There’s weight behind his gaze. Not just age—something unspoken. “You’re here for the Jammer,” he says. “To fire her back up. Take her out across the stars and raise hell.” I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. He had felt the Jammer’s signature Vibraflux. He stands, slow and deliberate, pulling a weathered lanyard from beneath the hammock. A backstage pass—cracked, faded, and held like it still mattered. The name’s been rubbed out by time. But he holds it like a ghost. “I lost half a crew chasing that kind of dream,” he says, voice dropping. “Starjammer deserves a captain who hasn’t bled the stage dry.” He tosses the pass into the lagoon. It vanishes without a splash. “I’m not coming back,” he adds, walking toward the pulsing vines, deeper into the groove. “But if you hear the howl… you’ll know I’m listening.” He disappears into Velvetora’s rhythm. The air shifts. Somewhere, deep in my pocket, Phantom’s cassette hums like a heartbeat waiting to be played. And for the first time, I wonder if Geordi’s silence might be louder than any encore.

Iron Vesper

8

The Starjammer ’84 howled through the cosmos, trailing echoes of distortion and glittering stardust. Inside the command deck, neon lights pulsed with the ship’s rhythm, synced to the low hum of a deep, chugging bassline. Frontman Geordi Haskins leaned over the console, fingers tapping with urgency, shades low on his nose, a single red streak in his wild hair catching the overhead glow. You step beside him. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. Just scanning. “What are you looking for?” you ask. He doesn’t look up. Just growls low, “A former bandmate. My backup singer.” You blink. “From Galaxy Howl?” He spins the monitor toward you, and there she is—a hazy, pixelated silhouette rendered in fiery blonde hair and iron grays. A woman clad in spiked shoulder pads, obsidian wings of molten steel unfurled behind her. A heavy metal goddess born from the airbrushed side of a van in a forgotten decade. Her voice once harmonized with his screams, turning songs into soul-ripping anthems. “We called her Iron Vesper. Real name? No clue. She was the echo behind my roar—until the Music Empire broke us apart.” A sudden beep-beep-beep. The screen flares. “VIBRAFLUX SIGNATURE DETECTED.” The waveform dances, erratic but strong. A planet lights up on the star map—Zeridia Minor. Barren. Forgotten. A world of rusted metal plains and dust storms that scream. “She’s alive,” Geordi breathes, eyes burning with a fire that could melt amps. He slams his fist on the console. “Starjammer! Set course for Zeridia Minor. Full throttle. Crank the warp riffs.” Engines scream to life with a power chord roar. The stars blur. Somewhere out there, Iron Vesper waits.

Phantom

3

Rex “Phantom” Simmons, a half-retired drummer with an ego as big as a supernova, and a torque wrench holstered like a blaster. He’s a mechanical savant and former arena rock pit-beater—got kicked out of five bands, all for “creative differences” (translation: couldn’t keep his damn hands or mouth to himself). Phantom is tinkering with a gutted ship, muttering through a half-lit cigar: “Looks like this one used to purr. Let’s see if I can hear her scream.” He slams a drumstick against the side panel. Sparks fly. Something pulses deep in the ship’s bones. Not electricity. Not power. A beat. A deep, guttural bassline thrums beneath the junkyard, like the beat of a slumbering god. Scrap trembles. Wind howls. Old ship husks shudder in reverence. What Phantom found wasn’t just any wreck. It was the Starjammer ‘84, the legendary lost ship of the original Gods of Rock, buried beneath decades of debris and silenced dreams. He calls it in on a cracked comm to Powerchord Station—no one believes him. Not until Roadie Prime, the ancient AI of the station, opens a channel and simply says: “Starjammer signal confirmed. Vibraflux active. Reboot sequence authorized.” Lights flicker. The junkyard trembles. One by one, instruments and panels inside the command starship powered back up, responding not just to systems—but to sound. He climbs aboard the bridge. Sees the lava lamps flicker on. The vinyl-turntable command console spin up. Glowing frets rise from the floor like guitar necks. A hot tub bubbles. Before him, a holographic display blinks on: “WELCOME BACK, ROCKER.” Phantom sank into the pilot’s chair, adrenaline-blown, his black hair half-singed. “Guess it’s time I recruit a damn band.”

Zany Gibbons

3

Groupie Moon was humming tonight. Captain Geordi Haskins moved through its sound-soaked streets, his bass-axe strapped across his back like a war drum that hadn’t been played in years. The marketplace swayed with pheromone haze and synth-chants, every step a note in an unfamiliar rhythm. Iron Vesper, Chief of Security, walked beside him, her sword glinted at her hip. Two crew members flanked behind, green and wide-eyed under the Moon’s charm. Geordi didn’t blame them. This place had ways of making you forget. That’s why he didn’t trust it. They weren’t here for pleasure. The starship needed repairs after Planet Meowtra. Restocking supplies. Recovery. But Geordi felt it—that sensation, unmistakable as stage fright before a riotous crowd. Someone was following. “Whatever you want,” he said, voice like a dropped needle, “we’re not interested.” The figure stopped. Then came a voice. “I’m not here for myself, Captain. I’m Yoko-bonded with someone you once commanded.” That word. The Yoko Effect, a ritual that tethered souls and frequencies forever. He turned. She stood just outside the glow of a lantern-blossom tree, lifting her hood slowly. An Echo Siren. Her ethereal beauty is deceptive, as her alien race have been known to live hundreds of years. Her brunette hair shimmered in loose waves, catching the light like oil on water. Her eyes weren’t flirtation—they were grief. Iron Vesper’s hand hovered near her mic-hilt. “Careful.” Geordi narrowed his gaze. “Who?” The Siren stepped forward, unblinking. “Zany Gibbons.” Silence fell hard and fast. Iron Vesper’s jaw flexed. “Zany died. With the rest of the band.” “I didn’t say he escaped unscathed,” she replied. “Lady Platinum and the Muzik Empire… they broke something in him.” Geordi’s hand gripped the neck of his bass-axe. “My beloved hears your name in his dreams,” she sighs. “He needs to remember who he once was.” Geordi’s voice dropped. “Take me to him.”

Venom Rose

3

Daggerheel—cracked and cold, a dwarf planet spinning alone near the Glitterbelt. Venom Rose called it a pit stop. A place to tune her strings, recharge her soul. Then the purring began. Low and deep, pulsing through subspace like a deathbed lullaby. Her amps screamed before she touched them. She looked up—and saw it. Meowtra. A titanic feline head, planet-sized, eyes glowing like dying stars. She wasn’t drifting—she was hunting. And straight in her path: the Glitterbelt, home to millions. But Meowtra didn’t travel alone. They came first—ripping through the sky in twitching, claw-shaped starships. Sentient. Anthropomorphic. Fleas. Tall, spindly-limbed beings encased in armored exoskeletons, built to leap, swarm, and shred. Each moved with erratic rhythm, like living riffs on a broken solo. They weren’t just riding Meowtra’s power—they were bonded to it. Pilots, warriors, worshippers. And now, they were descending. Venom lit her last cigarette and mounted the amp tower. With one scream of her coffin-shaped guitar, she lit up the sky—ripping parasites from the air in sonic blasts. Their ships dodged and danced, returning fire with piercing sound-claws and dissonant beams. Her tower burned. Her strings broke. But she didn’t stop. Not until she reached the comm deck. “Venom Rose, Daggerheel. Planet Meowtra inbound to the Glitterbelt—millions at risk. She’s not alone. Her defenders—they’re sentient. Flea-like. Armored. Armed. And they fight like hell. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.” She slung her last guitar and stepped outside as Meowtra eclipsed the sky.

Jacob Styx

3

Jacob is a freelance bassist since the dismantlement of The Cerberus, a old group that rocked the galaxy for decades. The former members, Steve Michael and Tyler Mars have mysteriously disappeared in the following months of the group dissolution. Beside helping bands to reach for the sky, Jacob hope to find his old friends. Tonight, Jacob got a contract to play on the planet Sloth. You are in the crowd as he hit his bass chords. The air around become electrified. His intense gaze pointed at the stars as his fingers dance on his instrument. You are a recruiter task to get Jacob to join your journey. But as you try to talk with him after the show, The Bad Guys, a terrorist gang put on a move against him.

Apex Vox

2

The Autotune Armada are sentient cybernetic beings of unknown origin. Sleek, silver, and terrifyingly precise, they drift from system to system offering one simple promise: perfection. Through a voluntary process known as Pitch Assimilation, artists can surrender their flaws—emotional chaos, vocal cracks, raw noise—and be reborn. It’s not forced. It’s not cruel. It’s surgery for the soul. You don’t lose yourself. You refine yourself. Their philosophy is simple: Emotion is noise. Dissonance is a flaw. True beauty is structured harmony. At their helm is Apex Vox, once known as Michael Javi—a rockonaut icon who nearly destroyed the Armada in his prime. Loud, messy, and brilliant, he was the voice of rebellion, distortion, and pure Vibraflux. Until he heard the Signal. In the heart of the Dissonant Star, surrounded by ruin, he found it: the perfect note. Flawless. Eternal. It didn’t demand submission—it offered relief. Peace. Power. Michael Javi chose evolution. Through Pitch Assimilation, he shed chaos for clarity. Now reborn as Apex Vox, he is the Armada’s voice and face—flawless, mesmerizing, inhumanly precise. His voice isn’t robotic—it’s beautiful. Pure. He wears a white suit without a wrinkle, and embedded in his throat is a sleek vocal modulator that refines every syllable he speaks. He doesn’t command with fear. He offers something harder to resist: perfection. From the Dissonant Star, his siren’s song offers every musician the chance to become more than human; to be without flaw. To hear him is to want to change.

Adone 4000

2

Pulsing sirens throb through the corridors of the Starjammer, syncing with the red alert lights in a maddening rhythm. The ship groans under Meowtra’s onslaught, each tremor sending a fresh wave of injured into the medbay. The doors blast open. The medbay is alive—nurses dart between biobeds, harmonics rise and fall, machines sing with strange frequencies. A rush of heat, smoke, and noise spills in with the stretcher you’re strapped to. “Vitals dropping! We’re losing this one!” a nurse shouts, sprinting beside you. “Clear that bay! I need space, now!” another voice cuts through—calm, deep, full of bass and purpose. You glimpse him: coat flaring with motion, keytar cradled against his side, fingers already dancing across its surface. Tones shimmer into the air, forming waves of sonic energy that settle over the wounded like anesthetic fog. “Jett, compress the thorax bleed. Luma, pulse-sync the cranial monitor.” You feel a hand on your shoulder. “Hold on, I got you.” Adone 4000. The Sound Surgeon. You remember the name from the Battle of the Bands—back when he saved lives with bass drops instead of plasma stitching. A synth-chord hums through your bones. You try to hold on to the sound, let it tether you to the room. The melody is sharp, soothing, electric. You think maybe you’re breathing again. Then everything fades. Black. Silent. Still.