Book One - Chapter Fourteen: Apocalypse Meow

I woke up to the vastness of space.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

One moment, I was being crushed under tons of rock while magma bubbled beneath me like the world's spiciest jacuzzi. The next, I was staring through a window the size of a movie screen at an endless field of stars, a nebula swirling in purples and blues like God's lava lamp.

I blinked. Space didn't disappear.

“What... the... actual... fuck,” I croaked. My throat felt like I'd gargled with battery acid and broken glass.

My first coherent thought was to check my HUD. I was immediately hit with a stream of messages from the logs.

[STATUS LOG – SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE]

> YOU ARE REALLY TESTING THE POWER OF THIS MORNING BREW.

> YOU HAVE EXCEEDED YOUR NORMAL DAMAGE THRESHOLD BY 174,523%.

[MORNING BREW: HOLDING]

[HEALTH: 1%]

> THERE IS NO TECHNOLOGY ON EARTH CAPABLE OF REPAIRING YOU IN TIME.

> LUCKILY, YOUR LITTLE KITTY FRIEND ISN’T TAKING YOU SOMEWHERE ON EARTH.

[MORNING BREW: EXPIRED]

[MEDICAL STABILIZATION PROTOCOL: SUCCESSFUL]

> YOU LUCKY SON OF A BITCH

> RECTAL PROBE SUCCESSFUL

[HEALTH: 5%]

[HEALTH: 7%]

[STATUS: CRITICALLY INJURED BUT STABLE]

[NOTE: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO STAND, FIGHT, OR THINK TOO HARD]

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU SURVIVED BEING BURIED ALIVE IN A COLLAPSING LAVA CAVERN… THAT YOU COLLAPSED. YOU MUST LOVE SELF-PUNISHMENT, YOU KINKY BOY.

[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: “TOO DUMB TO DIE”]

> +10% TO ALL FUTURE RESURRECTION CHECKS

[HEALTH: 12%]

[STATUS: HEAVILY DAMAGED BUT TECHNICALLY ALIVE]

[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: “WALK IT OFF”]

TOOK A FASTBALL TO THE CROTCH? WALK IT OFF.

CAUGHT THE CLAP FROM A ONE-NIGHT STAND? WALK IT OFF.

WOKE UP PANTLESS, CUFFED, AND WITH A SUSPICIOUSLY SORE ASS?

WALK. IT. OFF.

> -15% TO PAIN SENSORS

As the fog lifted from my brain, panic set in. I frantically patted myself down, searching for my apron. Nothing. Just a flimsy hospital gown that left my ass hanging out. At least that was familiar.

“Where’s my apron?” I tried to shout, but it came out as a raspy wheeze. “Where am I? Where’s—”

I reached inward, groping for the Core where Marla had nested like a smug, cosmic parasite.

Marla? You in there?

Nothing. Just the vague sensation of something enormous curled in the dark, too deep to rouse. A memory of a dream, warm and full.

Marla?Todd?

I turned my head and locked eyes with two glowing red lights set into a rectangular metal box on the wall. I could swear they were staring back at me.

They blinked.

“Ah!”

The wall was a robot. Its face, a simple screen, displayed blinking eyes that looked curious and vaguely irritated. Below it, four thick arms unfolded with a soft whir, each ending in something unsettling: a scanner, a needle, pincers, and a fluid injector that definitely wasn’t designed for comfort.

Above me, more arms descended from hidden ceiling panels, twitching like they’d been waiting for an excuse to pounce.

“The fuck?!”

“Patient is conscious and experiencing elevated stress,” announced a deep, metallic voice. “Administering calming agent.”

A robotic arm dropped from the ceiling, tipped with something that looked suspiciously like a chromed-up rectal suppository. And not the kind for first-timers.

“Wait, wait, wait—” I croaked, trying to roll away.

Another arm grabbed my shoulder. “Patient heart rate elevated. Preparing to administer sedative.” The mechanical arms grabbed me, moved me to the side, and aimed to insert.

“WAIT! I’M CALM,” I lied. “Super calm. Zen monk on a mountaintop calm.”

The arm paused. The scanner whirred. “You don’t seem calm.”

Every muscle screamed in protest, but I overrode them and forced myself upright.

“See? Upright. Chill. Very chill. Thank you.”

The machine hesitated, then retreated, as if disappointed it didn’t get to poke me. I saw the machine’s frame had a code painted on the side: BX-789.

Two more arms descended; one with a scanner, the other flickering with alien script over a holographic display of what I assumed were my vital signs.

“Biological functions stabilizing,” BX-789 announced. “Extensive cellular damage remains. Recommended: six cycles of regenerative therapy.”

“Great, love that for me,” I muttered. “Quick question. Where the hell am I? Who stole my apron? And what the fuck is going on?”

The chrome suppository-wand from hell dropped from the ceiling again, humming menacingly.

I raised both hands. “Sorry! I’m calm! Totally calm!”

The rod paused. Hovered. Then retracted slowly.

Note to self: keep heart rate down.

“You are aboard the Mewsari diplomatic vessel Paw’s Pride,” said BX-789. “Your garment has been taken for decontamination and analysis.”

“That’s not a garment. That’s the apron. My armor. My identity. I want it back.”

“This unit lacks clearance to retrieve personal items,” it replied, scanning me again. “However, I will alert the Grand Council that you are ambulatory.”

“The what now?” I squinted.

“The Grand Council of System-aligned worlds,” BX-789 clarified.

I sat there, blinking, letting that settle. A deep breath. Then:

“Wait—Earth. The Core. What happened? Is everyone okay? Riley? Peña? The Green Lady?”

“This unit does not have access to that information,” BX-789 replied. “Please cease excessive movement. You are disrupting the scan.”

I ignored it and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The room spun like a tilt-a-whirl on crack. I realized that beyond the massive window and the high-tech medical equipment, the room was actually... nice. Like, fancy hotel nice. Polished surfaces that looked like marble and shimmered slightly. Ambient lighting that adjusted automatically to my movements. Even the hospital bed felt like memory foam designed by NASA.

“Patient has disregarded medical advice,” BX-789 observed. “Typical human behavior pattern detected.”

“Listen, Beep Boop,” I said, gripping the edge of the bed as the room finally stopped spinning. “I appreciate your concern, but I need to talk to someone with actual answers. And I need my apron back. Like, now.”

“The Admiral has been notified of your conscious state,” BX-789 said. “Estimated arrival: shortly. This unit recommends you remain seated to avoid injury.”

I looked down at my hospital gown, which covered approximately 60% of what it should have covered.

“Any chance I could get some actual clothes?”

BX-789's optical sensors flickered in what I swear was the robot equivalent of a smirk. “Request denied. The Admiral specified 'immediate notification upon awakening.' Protocol demands—”

The door slid open with a soft hiss, cutting off the robot mid-sentence.

In walked the strangest sight I'd ever seen, and given the last few months of my life, that's saying something.

An orange tabby cat with a scar over one eye, wearing what looked like a miniature military uniform complete with medals and gold bars on the shoulders, strode in with the confidence of someone who commanded galaxies.

The small cat, clearly Admiral Whiskers, stopped at the foot of my bed and looked up at me with unnervingly intelligent eyes. Behind him stood two cats in sleeker mech suits—smaller than the one Whiskers had piloted earlier. They were about my height. He gestured toward them, and without a word, they turned and took position just outside the door, settling into a silent guard stance.

The door sealed behind him with a soft whoosh.

“Jerry Long,” he said in a deep, commanding voice that absolutely should not have been coming from a housecat-sized body. “Battle Barista of Earth. Core Bearer. At last we meet properly, without the distraction of impending death.”

I stared at the cat. The cat stared back at me.

“So,” I finally said. “You're a cat.”

“I am Mewsari,” the Admiral said, correcting with a flick of his tail; a subtle gesture that might have meant annoyance. “Supreme Commander of the Diplomatic Fleet and First Claw of the High Council. Your species should recognize the descendants of our original First Contact envoys. They arrived on your world thousands of years ago, preparing for the day formal diplomacy could begin, once your kind had… evolved.”

He paused, ears tilting slightly.

“Unfortunately, that took far longer than anticipated. Finding no signs of true intelligence, we could not proceed. Hence, we allowed your species to serve us while we observed your development. It was... quaint. But given the current situation, it seems your evolutionary timeline has been... accelerated.”

Well, that explained a lot about cats, actually.

“Right. And you... rescued me? In a giant mech?”

“The G.M.K. Pounce-7 Battle Armor,” he said with just a hint of pride. “One of our finest creations. Though I'm afraid my intervention has created... complications.”

“Complications?” I echoed. “Like what?”

Admiral Whiskers paced at the foot of my bed, his small paws making no sound on the polished floor.

“By saving your life,” he began, “I involved myself directly in Earth's affairs. Something expressly forbidden under normal circumstances.”

He paused, watching me for a reaction. I felt a chill run down my spine that had nothing to do with the hospital gown.

“Per Galactic Protocol, no race under lawful conquest may receive external assistance unless and until a formal planetary representative is appointed and a treaty is ratified by the Grand Council.”

I thought back to the Green Lady. She'd probably broken a few dozen Galactic-whatevers already by helping me. I tucked that thought away for later.

“Uh-huh,” I said, blinking slowly. “But...?”

“But,” he said, tail flicking, “when you attuned to your planet's Core, I took a chance. On you.”

I swallowed hard. His eyes locked on mine—one sharp green, the other tinged with gold—both glinting with something unreadable and not entirely friendly, despite his words.

“You are now, officially and by ancient System law... Earth’s representative to the galactic community.”

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was either laugh or scream.

“Me? Earth's representative? Yeah, no. That can't be right. I'm a barista. Was a barista. I make coffee and occasionally punch aliens. I'm not a diplomat.”

“ A rather unexpected development, indeed. And yet,” Admiral Whiskers said, “here we are. The Core chose you. The System recognizes the bond. Therefore, by law, you speak for Earth. And as a designated representative, you have gained certain formal privileges.”

“Like being saved?”

He paused, tail giving a different kind of flick, sharper, slower. I had no idea what it meant. I was positive that a ton of cat nuance was slipping past me.

“Not quite,” he said at last. There was something concerning in his voice. “I… may have overstepped a few boundaries by doing so.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry again. “So what does that mean, exactly?”

The Admiral's tail swished again, this time more deliberately.

“It means that my future is tied to yours. In seventy-two hours, you will stand before the System Council to determine Earth's fate.”

“I'll what now?” I blurted.

“Earth's premature integration has created a crisis,” he continued. “Since your planet lacked an official representative—until now—it had no legal rights under interstellar law. As such, when other worlds arrived, they were well within their rights to claim your planet and negotiate its division among themselves.”

He paused, whiskers twitching.

“However, your species proved… unexpectedly resilient. The resistance led to numerous casualties among the Allied forces. Technically speaking, this constitutes a series of war crimes against a lawfully invading coalition.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Defending ourselves is a crime? You attacked us!”

The machine beside me whirred to life, and the metal rod rose again, wagging like a snake about to strike. I raised my hands in surrender, taking a deep, calming breath. It backed off.

“This may be difficult for your people to understand,” Whiskers said, his voice almost gentle. “But the Council's rules are the result of millions of years of interplanetary negotiation. Earth is now facing formal charges of war crimes and mass murder, particularly against the Cerulians, Gravethralls, and Karens, brought forth by the Karen delegation.”

He let that settle for a beat.

“Several factions are petitioning for your planet to be placed under ‘protective custody.’ A polite term for stripping autonomy, seizing all viable resources, and enslaving your population to repay damages.”

I seethed, but forced my voice to remain calm.

“That sounds pleasant,” I said, because apparently, sarcasm was all I had left.

“It is not. It would be catastrophic for your species,” Admiral Whiskers confirmed. “Hence my intervention.”

“So you're helping us out of the goodness of your tiny little hearts?” I asked skeptically.

The Admiral's whiskers twitched in what might have been amusement. “The Mewsari have... interests that align with Earth's continued independence. We Mewsari have always had a special relationship with Earth. Your people have served as our unwitting hosts and allies for millennia. Think of it as the affection you might feel for one of your pets. Like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Ah. Dogs. Yes. The ones you insist on dressing in sweaters. We feel that for you.”

He said it like it was a compliment.

“Plus,” he continued, “we are a diplomatic species by nature. And we believe this could become a mutually beneficial relationship.”

“So what now?” I asked. “I just show up at this Council meeting and say 'pretty please don't take over our planet'?”

“It will require significantly more political acumen than that,” the Admiral said dryly. “Which is why you must begin preparation immediately.”

“And my apron?”

“Ah, yes. That presents a problem.”

I immediately tensed up. “What kind of problem?”

“It is... unusual,” Admiral Whiskers said carefully. “Our scientists have never encountered anything quite like it. The pocket dimension alone defies several laws of physics.”

“Great, it's special. Can I have it back now?”

The Admiral's tail twitched. “I'm afraid that's not within my power at the moment. Your apron is… a weapon of great capability. Until the matter of war crimes is settled, I’m afraid retrieving it will be out of the question. Your arrival has caused quite a stir, and there are... protocols in place.”

“Protocols,” I repeated flatly. “Let me guess, these protocols involve keeping me as defenseless as possible?”

“Your perspective is understandable but limited,” the Admiral replied. “This ship is neutral territory. Bringing weapons to the Council would be seen as an act of aggression and would not work in your favor. Your raw power itself is… concerning to some. But there is nothing we can do about that, per our statutes.”

I felt like he was trying to tell me something but a headache was brewing behind my eyes and my patience was running thin. This was too much, too fast. I needed to think.

“Look, I appreciate the rescue,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “But I need some straight answers. Is Earth safe right now? What happened after I collapsed the cavern? And when can I go home?”

Admiral Whiskers' ears flattened slightly against his head.

“The legal conquest of your world continues,” he said. “Though not without costs to both sides. As for going home...” He paused, looking almost apologetic. “That depends entirely on the outcome of the Council Hearings.”

“Great. So, I am your prisoner.”

“We do not prefer to use that term,” he continued, “consider yourself my guest aboard the Paw's Pride. You will be given quarters, access to physical rehabilitation”—he lingered on the last two words, just long enough to make me wonder what I was missing—”and access to information that may help you acclimate.”

His gaze held mine a moment longer.

“The Council is pushing to proceed with the hearing immediately. I've submitted a petition—which has been approved—to delay it, allowing you time to recover. You have three Earth days.”

He fixed me with a look that carried more weight than his words.

“I suggest you use them wisely.”

He turned to leave, then paused and looked back at me.

“Oh, and Jerry?” He paused at the door, tail flicking once. “I’m strictly limited in what I can say, but… one last piece of advice: read the manual.”

“What manual?” I called after him, but he was already padding out the door, his security detail falling in behind him.

As the door slid shut, I slumped back against the pillows.

“Well,” I muttered to no one in particular, “this is just fucking perfect.”

BX-789's mechanical arm descended again, this time holding a small tablet-like device.

“Admiral Whiskers has authorized your release from medical care,” the robot announced. “This unit will now summon assistance to escort you to your assigned quarters.”

“Great,” I sighed. “Any chance this 'assistance' might include some pants?”

“Request processing,” BX-789 replied. After a moment, its lights blinked. “Request… disapproved.”

Fucking great.