The scream didn't end when Noah ran out of breath; it just changed shape. It transformed from a sound into a physical struggle, a thrashing of limbs against a force that was far too strong for him.
The Dobermans were upon him.
In the past, the guards of Catsopolis had been threatening but somewhat comical—Siamese cats in vests, stern but soft. The Dobermans were different. They were muscle and teeth, devoid of any feline grace.
"Subject is non-compliant!" one barked, its voice distorted, sounding terrifyingly like a man shouting through a radio. "Restrain! Restrain!"
Noah kicked out, his boot connecting with a furry ribcage. "Get off me! I saw it! The room is empty! Where is she?"
He clutched the stuffed cat, Mr. Whiskers, to his chest as if it were a holy relic. It was the only thing in the room that felt real. The grey fur was matted, the one button-eye loose on its thread.
"Negative," the Doberman growled. A heavy paw—or was it a hand in a leather glove?—clamped down on Noah's wrist. The pressure was immense. "Drop the contraband."
"No!" Noah yelled, biting the hand.
The Doberman yelped, but didn't let go. Instead, a second guard moved in from the side. Noah saw a flash of silver—a syringe? A baton?—and then a sharp, electric shock slammed into his neck.
ZAP.
The world didn't turn into a memory this time. It just turned into pain. White, hot, blinding pain that locked his muscles and stole his voice.
He slumped to the floor, paralyzed.
Through the haze, he saw the man in the white coat—Dr. Catwell? Mr. Purr-sident?—standing over him. The figure was flickering, shifting rapidly between a tuxedo cat smoking a cigar and a tired man adjusting his glasses.
"I'm sorry, Noah," the figure sighed. "We tried the gentle way. We tried the game. But you insist on breaking the rules."
"She..." Noah mumbled, his tongue feeling like lead. "She's gone."
"Yes," the figure said softly. "She is."
The Doberman ripped Mr. Whiskers from Noah's frozen fingers.
"No..." Noah whimpered, a tear leaking from his eye to pool on the cold floor. "My kitty..."
"Take him to the Pound," the Purr-sident ordered, turning his back. "Level Zero. The Cone of Silence. He needs to think about what he's done."
Noah was dragged away. His heels left trails in the plush white carpet of the hallway, trails that looked disturbingly like drag marks in dust. The golden door of the nursery slammed shut, sealing the silence inside.
The journey down was a blur of elevators and cold air. The smell of lavender and tuna vanished, replaced by the smell of rust, bleach, and unwashed bodies.
They threw him into a cell. There was no cushion here. No fake window with birds. Just three walls of grey metal and a front wall of thick, humming laser bars.
"Enjoy your stay, pet," the guard snarled, spitting on the floor.
Noah lay there in the dark, his body aching, his heart hollowed out. He checked his pocket.
The Stone. Gone.
The Ring. Gone.
The Bow. Gone.
He was empty.