Part 1: The Pet Human
The alarm clock didn't buzz; it meowed. It was a synthetic, grating sound, designed not just to wake the sleeper, but to annoy them into immediate subservience.
Noah groaned, rolling off his oversized, plush cushion on the floor. His room was cozy, perhaps aggressively so. The walls were padded with a soft, beige fabric that smelled faintly of tuna and fresh laundry detergent. It was a room designed for a creature that needed to be kept safe, warm, and utterly dependent. He stretched, his back popping in three places, and looked around his "apartment"—which was, for all intents and purposes, a gloriously furnished kennel.
"Wakey, wakey, pet human!" a voice boomed from the intercom on the wall. The speaker was shaped like a mouse head. "The Kibble is fresh, the water is filtered, and the agenda is full!"
Noah rubbed his eyes, pushing away the lingering fog of a dream he couldn't quite remember. "Coming, sir," he mumbled, his voice raspy from disuse.
He didn't find his situation strange. Not anymore. There was a time, a foggy, jagged era in the back of his mind, where he walked on two legs with dignity, where he didn't have to wait for a door to be opened for him. But that was Before. Here, in Catsopolis, life was simple. You ate the kibble. You chased the red dot if you were good. You served the higher species.
He dressed quickly in his uniform—a simple grey jumpsuit made of a soft, cottony material. It felt strangely like hospital scrubs, though he insisted to himself it was a "leisure suit." It had no pockets, because pets didn't need to carry things.
He stepped out into the hallway. The floor was covered in thick, red carpet, perfect for scratching, though Noah refrained. The corridors of the Presidential Palace were vast, with ceilings high enough to accommodate the climbing towers that served as elevators for the feline staff.
Two Siamese cats in security vests were patrolling the hall, their tails twitching in unison. They moved with a liquid grace that made Noah feel clumsy and heavy. He lowered his head respectfully, avoiding eye contact.
"Good morning, officers," he murmured.
They hissed softly, a sound like steam escaping a valve, but let him pass. Noah knew the rules: Look down, walk slow, don't startle the guards.
He arrived at the Oval Office—literally oval-shaped, with curved walls covered in scratching sisal—at the end of the hall. The heavy oak doors swung open automatically. Behind a desk that was comically large, elevated on a platform to impose authority, sat Mr. Purr-sident.
He was a massive tuxedo cat, his black and white fur groomed to perfection. He wore a tiny, tailored suit jacket that strained against his ample chest, and held a thick cigar between his paws. It wasn't tobacco; the sweet, herbal, intoxicating scent of premium catnip filled the air, making the room smell like a dispensary.
"Sit," Mr. Purr-sident commanded. His voice was deep, a rumble that vibrated in Noah's chest.
Noah sat on the small wooden stool in front of the desk. It was designed to be lower than the cat's chair. "You asked to see me, Your Excellency?"
Mr. Purr-sident took a long drag of the catnip stick and exhaled a green cloud. "Noah. My loyal pet. My favorite thumb-haver. We have a crisis."
Noah stiffened. "A crisis, sir? Is the treaty with the Dog Duchy failing? Have the squirrels breached the perimeter?"
"Worse," the cat growled, leaning forward. His whiskers twitched with genuine agitation. "I have misplaced my belongings. Precious artifacts. Things that... define my administration. They are the anchors of my power, Noah, and they are gone."
Noah blinked. "You lost your things, sir?"
"I didn't lose them!" Mr. Purr-sident slammed a paw on the desk, claws unsheathed for a fraction of a second. "They have been scattered! By the wind! By fate! By... incompetence! And as my pet, it is your duty to fetch. That is what your kind does, isn't it? You fetch."
The cat slid a piece of paper across the vast expanse of mahogany. It stopped right at the edge, waiting for Noah's hand.
It was a list. The handwriting was jagged, as if written by a claw dipped in ink.
The Space Drawing. The Portrait of the Small One. The Golden Circle.
"You can't refuse," Mr. Purr-sident said, his yellow eyes narrowing into slits. "Because I own you. And also... because if you find them, I might just tell you why you're really here."
Noah felt a sharp pain behind his eyes—a headache, sudden and blinding, like an icepick driven into his skull. Why I'm really here? The thought felt dangerous, radioactive. He pushed it away.
"I... I will do my best, Mr. Purr-sident," Noah stammered, clutching the list.
"Good boy," the cat said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Now, scram. And don't come back without my treasures. The fate of the administration depends on it."