Unfortunately for Marc d'Ambray, he has not died in his own country.

He sees a city of towering buildings, with sinuous curves to their architecture wherever their goal is not to stretch up straight to the sky above. He sees a dearth of foliage, compared to the places he's been. He sees a throng of people and rushing metal carriages, as his ears fill with an ambient soundscape of constant noise. He smells appetizing foods and acrid smoke.

There are several people who have stopped to look at the man on the ground, but as soon as he regains consciousness, two of them have already moved on.

"Are you well, stranger?"

The other remaining stragglers don't seem as inclined to speak yet, though one looks concerned about this whole situation.

The other might best be described as 'fascinated'.

Marc had never given much thought to what happens to people after death, but if he had ever been made to consider the question, he would not have had much doubt of paradise.  He had done what he should, nearly always, and his god is not cruel.

This is... not what he expected it to look like, but then again he doesn't know what he did expect.  And the buildings are amazing.  He spends a moment staring at them before the strange-looking woman's words drag his attention away.  He doesn't know what she expects, either.  "I... don't know. I suppose that I will be."

"Well enough, then. Here, in case you're more confused than you realize."

She goes to wave her wrist next to his wrist, and then pauses.

"Where is your phone*?"

*phone = a tool used to communicate with other people over long range, to research communal knowledge, to find entertainment, a form of legal identification, a way to quickly trade information, proof of freedom...and more, typically worn around the wrist like a bracelet

"You looked really out of it. Code what*?"

*code what = a common way to request a report on whether any particular physical or mental symptoms have appeared since one's last health check

These people are deeply confusing.  Is it just because he just died, and everything will make more sense in a few minutes or hours?  That might well be it, but he should try to answer their questions anyway.  "I don't think I have one of those?"  ... Or does he?  He doesn't have a sword's familiar weight at his belt, that's the first he notices once he thinks to pay attention to his body at all - he doesn't have a belt, either, and what is that he's wearing-- whatever people wear here, he supposes, but if he doesn't have a sword then where is he--

He sits up, carefully, in case there is something wrong with him like they both seem to think.  "I... feel all right, except for how I... just died and have no idea where I am..."  He searches their faces for some recognition, confirmation that this is a normal thing to happen here, because if it isn't then he doesn't understand anything.

The other figure, who was starting to look bored, focuses on him now.

"Died?"

"...I'm calling out for the day, this is more important than my working four hours on my current projects. You, viridian*, would you mind occupying this one?"

Without waiting for a response, she walks away and starts talking at her wrist.

*viridian = a formal term of address for greens**

**greens = the subset of humans with green hair and green eyes

"If you're missing your phone," and think you died, "you must be really out of sorts. We'll figure this out, don't worry."

God - or goddess, maybe - where is he?  It's obvious enough now that he shouldn't have said that, but he had to be sure.

...Now he is sure, and - what? 

(Why can't he have a moment's rest?  He would have thought death would give him that, at least.)

--That was an unworthy thought.  This is not paradise, and he is here, so presumably there's - something he didn't do well enough, something he needs to learn, god, he doesn't know, but something.  Or it's the goddess's strange joke, and there isn't anything to do here except have another life - but that is something too, and he should try to have it.  Arguing with these chance-met strangers that he really did die and appear in another world is clearly not going to help with anything he might be meant to do here, and neither is letting himself feel all of his miserable exhausted confusion while they're understandably worried about him.  (He wishes they'd leave him be.  But they seem kind enough people, except perhaps the yellow-haired one, and maybe he shouldn't.)

"I'm sorry about all this.  I do feel fine, I just... don't remember anything that makes any sense here."  But he can stand up, and look around reasonably calmly (though anyone watching can still see how his eyes follow completely mundane objects as if he'd never seen them before), and do his best not to seem like a person who warrants quite this much concern.

"You're interesting," says the yellow-haired and golden-eyed stranger, in the tones of an accusation. "What's your name?"

"Don't overwhelm him, saffron*. 

Mazen Broggs, stranger. Do you have something we should call you?"

The city continues to bustle around them. It hasn't gotten any quieter, or simpler. But no one else seems inclined to stop their day for Marc.

"Marc," he answers them both, and bows his head to the second one's introduction, then smiles a little - "and I don't think I'm that easily overwhelmed."  Or at least them talking to him won't make anything worse than just having them watching him like they don't mean to stop any time soon.  Better, he thinks - he already feels easier just feeling like he's having something resembling a real conversation.  "But thank you for worrying about me."

And to the other one: "And you just walk the streets looking for interesting people, is that it?"

While he's looking around:  how many hair colors are there on the city streets?  It's obvious from their speech that it means something, even if not what.  Are there people who look like him?

There are all kinds of people on the city streets. People with piercings, and unusual hairstyles, and a variety of clothing styles, but- everyone he can see walking by has eyes and hair in shades of green, blue, yellow, and red.

No one who looks like him.

"-viridian, tell me if it does anything else interesting?"

"-what, do you have somewhere-"

"Tell me, will you?"

The one with the yellow hair taps wrists with the one with green hair, and starts off at a run.

(The red one is still talking to her wrist, but she's watching the whole scene carefully.)

"-do you know how to get home, Marc?"

No one who looks like him.  That's going to make it difficult for anything to feel normal.

He frowns at the... saffron's...? abrupt and confusing departure, and turns to the viridian(?) once that's done with.

"No, and I don't expect I have one."  He can hardly pretend otherwise.  But, more importantly to figuring out where he is and what it's like: "Did he just call me an it?"

"-yes, he did. I don't think you need to worry about anyone else being that rude to a stranger. No one would talk like that unless it was to their slave, I promise you."

"It's not rudeness I'm worried about, it's-- what it means about what he thinks of me or what he wants."  And, whatever it is he thinks, whether he's right, by this place's lights, that he can have it.  No civilized country has slavery, back home, but he is not unfamiliar with the concept. 

"I... would appreciate it if you didn't tell him anything more about me.  Unless there's a reason you need to?"

"Don't worry about his opinion of you. Unless you become his slave, it won't matter one bit. 

Viridian, do you have a preferred name?"

"-Mazen Broggs, scarlet*. And, uh, do you have a preferred-"

*scarlet = a formal term of address for reds**

**reds = the subset of humans with red hair and red eyes

"Arly welt-Karilya. How strange is this situation for you, Marc?"

Anyone's opinion of him being entirely unimportant sounds unlikely, but it's really not the question to focus on.  The slavery is, but doesn't seem a good first choice of topic either - he'd like to get a slightly better idea of what this world is like before he starts trying to talk about something this high-stakes.  And he should really just answer the questions of people who have a better idea of what's happening than he does.

"Entirely.  I've never seen a person with green hair, or a building this tall.  Which probably doesn't make any sense to you, does it?"  Maybe he's wrong about that and they do have some sane explanation for how he's here.  But it seems unlikely.

"It's the sort of thing that might happen in stories. When it does happen in real life, there are processes and procedures for handling it.

Does someone own you already, where you come from?"

If there are processes and procedures then they probably know better than he does about what to do here, and he should cooperate with that until he's sure it's going wrong, and try to see the sense it makes, no matter how strange it all seems.

...

That question causes him to make a variety of interesting faces, insult and bafflement and yearning and regret.  It's a long moment before he manages an answer.

"Does someone--  What a question to ask a man."  He takes a breath, exhales, shakes his head.  "I... I do not know what to tell you.  Nobody is a slave, where I come from.  But does my king own me, if I knelt and swore to serve him until the gates of death, and spent my life doing it?"

He has no idea what it will mean, to these people.  But he will not pretend he didn't.

"The most convenient thing-"

"The thing you want."

Arly welt-Karilya whirls on Mazen Boggs.

"The thing I want," she says, silky smooth and with a shark-toothed smile. "Yes. Is that a problem, viridian Boggs?"

"I want Marc to know his options, scarlet welt-Karilya."

He shoots the green-haired man a grateful look, but a concerned one, too.  If the woman is going to be angry about this - and it's important to know, that she is - Marc would much rather it be at himself.

"I would also like to know my options," he interjects, his voice sharp where a moment ago it was nothing like it, "scarlet welt-Karilya.  And I would like to know what the right thing is here, not just the convenient one."

Mazen knows when to push someone who could chew him up and spit him out- rarely, and only in defense of something important. 

He's used up his most valuable tool already- reminding her there are witnesses.

She nods, briskly.

"As soon as our government discovers you, they will want a definition for you. There are many ways this might be done- you might be declared a member of a foreign planetary government, which would trigger diplomatic channels. You might be branded a criminal and sent on your way, carefully monitored. You might establish yourself as a local citizen in an unfortunate situation- in which case, you will need to be easy to identify as a slaver or a slave. Those are your options."

'You don't act like a slaver' is unstated, but she'll state it if Marc seems to need it.

She's not angry at him.  Why not?  Kindness to someone in a difficult situation, or a decision not to alienate someone she might want something from?  He doesn't understand these people nearly well enough to tell.

He doesn't understand this society nearly well enough to choose between the options she gave him, either.  ...He doesn't like any of them, though he's trying to defer that judgment until he knows enough to be sure he's not wrong in it.

"How is... being a slaver or a slave... chosen, for people born here?  Which are you?"  He glances at Mazen to include him in the question, but he has a more confident guess for him.