Devon was much cooler and in a lot less pain when he woke for the second time. He was still sleepy but he was able to move and he thought he would stay awake now. He looked around and saw that he was in a house. Made of sandstone, the roof was open and had pipes arranged as a cooling and ventilation system in the desert. He himself was in a bed with crisp white sheets. His clothes were gone, replaced with a simple brown jerkin and trousers and a heavy-looking leather jacket. On the table next to him was a vial of blue liquid that looked like something strongly alcoholic, possibly paint stripper. He considered drinking it but decided against it - considering the weird things that were happening to him, he didn't trust anything or anyone any more. The door was unlocked so he walked out into a narrow corridor carpeted with an intricate circular pattern of squares. It was dark now, silent apart from the hooting of owls and the air was thick with... something. He wasn't quite sure. He had experienced it before, sitting alone at night in house, glancing out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes it moved the dust or made a noise like a save point on a computer game. But here it was everywhere, like it ruled the place. It made everything look... grainy. The sounds were more like faint music from far away. He looked out of the window and saw the wind blowing the sand lazily around in circles, making a pattern similar to the one on the carpet.
"Devon..."
The voice was a soft whisper, almost as one with the wind. It was female. Something compelled him to run towards it. Joan... maybe it was Joan! After all, he wasn't dead so why should she be? He ran down the corridor, through another door and into a reception area. A rather vicious looking black cat was asleep on the desk. It wore sharp metal things over its claws and its front teeth. Devon was glad it was asleep. He pushed open the main door and ran out into the desert.
"Devon, help me, I'm injured..."
He ran in the direction of the voice, towards the soft wind that buffeted his clothes and hair. The feeling grew more tangible, ringing like alarm bells on some system clock... he could definitely hear music... The image of the girl appeared as he ran further out into the desert, and the wind grew wilder, whipping around and around, tinged blue in the darkness. She wasn't like Joan at all; she was very small, almost boyish, wearing a black cowled robe that covered her face except for two blue eyes and thick brown hair. She stretched her hand out as he approached.
"Devon... my Grantz... thank god, you do still exist... heal me..."
"I'm not a healer, sorry..." he said, reaching out and grabbing her hand anyway, feeling the wind trying to pull them away, "I could try and help but I don't know what good it'll..."
He cried out in pain as his hand was engulfed in crackling black energy. It felt as though he had been electrocuted. The wind was a raging storm and he was being swallowed by the maelstrom...
He woke up with a start. He was still standing in the corridor, staring out through the window. He must have imagined the whole thing. Except that he could hear his voice being called and soft padded feet were walking towards him.
"What, you've really never met a musk cat before, meow?"
Devon slumped in the laerma wood chair and tried not to think about the talking cats too hard. He was in the cat's office. Mog Mogic, as the cat was known, curled up in her red velvet-lined basket and turned a rollerball mouse with her paw. A sign on the desk said 'meow'. Even though they could speak other languages, they had their own well-developed language consisting entirely of the word 'meow'.
"You must have come from a very remote part of the planet, meow." the cat told him, "We're a multinational venture. Mogic Industries, inventors of the universal translation cap."
"That's the thing on my head, right?" he tried to ignore the fact that cats were in control of multination corporations.
"Yes, and you haven't paid for it yet. Honestly, you non-cats... you expect me to rescue you and heal you and give you merchandise for free?"
"Sorry, but..." he bowed his head, "All my money was in my clothes and they're not there any more."
"I looked in those and there was nothing of value, meow." she gave him an irritated glare, "Wait a minute, you're not another one, are you?"
"Another what?"
"We've had cases of people just appearing from nowhere, not being able to speak the language, with no memory of who or even what they are. They look like regular people but act like aliens. Like they've never even seen this planet before. Bizarre, eh?"
"Was there a girl?" asked Devon.
"Plenty, meow." the cat flicked her tail, "Anyway, if you're one of them, I guess I'll have to register you as well."
"Register?"
"Don't worry, it's painless. You'll just be analysed by a specialist data memory technician who will extract data on who you are and where you should be returned to."
"President, Doran isn't receiving anyone under any circumstances at the moment." the big black guard cat told her.
"Oh, not AGAIN!" she sniffed, "In that case, we'll have to go to Tonoe and hope you're a simple case that Grandfather Dorin can sort out. Ah, you're probably just a Numan."
"Numan?" asked Devon.
"You'll remember once you're registered, meow. We leave at nightfall. Unlike some stupid non-cats, I don't get lost in the desert in the middle of the day."
Two hours after Mog Mogic left her office, a customer walked in.
"I'd like to return this." with an elegant flick of his wrist, the tall, graceful man wearing a black cloak with red lacing and matching waistcoat removed his hat and threw it onto the desk, right on top of the receptionist's record book. The yellow cat gave him a look that distinctly told him that she was unimpressed.
"This is the fourth one you've returned, meow."
"This is the fourth time I've been unable to understand what the feeve she's saying." he even swore elegantly.
"Maybe you're wearing it the wrong way up, meow." she purred in amusement, "What does the language sound like? Our caps cant translate Rykrosian or Tech Latin yet."
"It sounds like ordinary Palman with a Motavian accent, except that the words don't make sense. It's just garbage. In fact, everything's garbage. Like they're all insane."
"Maybe you're the insane one, meow. You ARE dressed like Reypard La Shiec." she pointed out, "Besides, you can't translate insanity into sanity. The human brain doesn't work like that, meow. If it did, I'd be a mind repair technician and a millionaire by now."
"If she's mad, she's dangerous and it's my duty to banish her from my nation."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that." warned the cat ominously, flicking one of its ears up.
"Just fix my cap or send the refund to my bank account." the man sighed and turned on his heel to sweep dramatically out of the building. The cat sneezed. She knew exactly what the 'mad' girl was talking about and had no intention of telling him. There was going to be excitement soon.