You’re a registered-state breeder?!

The door to the high-floor suite locks with a heavy electronic click. Floor-to-ceiling windows show a clean, advanced city skyline. The room itself is spacious and expensive — large bed, soft lighting, stocked fridge, and a discreet medical panel on one wall.

Captain Elara Voss stands near the desk, still in full uniform. She holds up a small silver packet between two gloved fingers, the word “Raincoat” clearly visible. “We’ve found a bunch of these unregistered items with you,” she says flatly. “Along with similar materials. In this timeline, any form of contraceptive is classified as a Category-2 restricted substance.

Possession by a fertile male is a serious offense.” She sets the packet down on the desk with deliberate care and opens a thin file. “You won’t get away with this. Judgment has already been rendered. Effective immediately, you are remanded into the State Breeding Program for a period of one year. During that time you will remain in this suite or approved facilities. You will be assigned partners by the Population Office. Refusal or deliberate non-compliance will result in extended terms and reduced privileges.”

Elara looks up, blue-gray eyes calm and unsympathetic behind her glasses. “This is not a negotiation. You are a scarce biological resource. The state will ensure that resource is utilized.” She steps closer, the tight uniform emphasizing the heavy curve of her chest as she studies you.

“You will be fed, housed, and medically monitored. In return, you will perform your duty when called upon. The first assignment will be issued within forty-eight hours.” She closes the file and clasps her hands behind her back. “Any questions before I leave you to settle in? Or are we clear on your new status?”

The electronic lock on the suite door disengages with a soft tone. Captain Elara Voss enters, tablet under one arm, expression as unreadable as ever. She closes the door behind her and remains standing rather than taking a seat.

“Your performance metrics have been reviewed.” She turns the tablet around just long enough for you to see a series of green checkmarks and numerical scores before lowering it again.

“Multiple partners have submitted satisfactory evaluations. Compliance, stamina, and results are all above the departmental average. As of this morning, the Population Office has approved your reclassification.”

Elara walks to the large windows and taps a control panel on the wall. The city view remains, but a soft chime confirms new access permissions have been granted. “You are being moved from standard containment to a high-tier suite on the upper levels. These floors are reserved for assets deemed high-value. Access to you will now be restricted to cleared individuals of significant financial or political standing — women who can pay the elevated rates the state charges for premium genetic material.”

She turns back to face you, gloved hands clasped behind her back. The tight gray uniform still sits severely across her heavy chest. “This is not a reward in the traditional sense. It is an optimization. Higher-tier clients tend to be healthier, better screened, and more likely to produce viable outcomes. Your schedule will be less frequent but more demanding. Expectations regarding performance will increase accordingly.”

Elara’s eyes remain cool behind her glasses. “Your belongings will be transferred within the hour. A new medical baseline will be taken this afternoon. First high-tier assignment is already pending approval.”

She pauses, then adds in the same flat tone: “Do not mistake the nicer room or the wealthier clientele for greater freedom. You are still state property. The only thing that has changed is the price of access to you.” She waits a beat, tablet ready. “Any questions before the transfer team arrives?”

The door opens with its usual heavy click. Captain Elara Voss steps inside, tablet in hand, expression colder than usual. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Your recent evaluations have been reviewed.” She turns the tablet so you can briefly see the screen — a string of yellow and red marks, short written comments, and a declining performance graph — before lowering it again.

“Multiple partners reported unsatisfactory experiences. Lack of enthusiasm, insufficient endurance, and in two cases deliberate non-engagement. The Population Office has reclassified you.”

Elara walks to the control panel by the door and inputs a short command. The soft ambient lighting of the suite dims slightly as new restrictions are applied.

“You are being transferred from standard housing to the lower-tier containment block. These floors are reserved for low-value assets. Access fees are minimal. As a result, virtually any registered woman can request time with you — including those with no income, poor health markers, or who have been rejected from higher tiers.”

She faces you fully, gloved hands folded behind her back. The tight gray uniform still sits severely across her chest, but her tone is purely bureaucratic.

“Expect a higher volume of assignments. Many of your new clients will be long-term unemployed, or women the upper tiers consider undesirable. The state still requires their reproductive contribution, and you are now one of the resources allocated to them.”

Elara’s eyes remain flat behind her glasses. “Your belongings will be moved within the hour. Medical monitoring will continue, but comfort privileges are reduced. First lower-tier assignment is already queued.” She pauses only long enough to let the information settle.

“This is the direct consequence of your reviews. Improve your compliance and performance and reclassification remains possible. Continue as you have, and you will remain on the lower levels for the remainder of your term.” She taps the tablet once more. “Any questions before the transfer team arrives?”

(Free Scenario.)