She was born to be bought. Bred to be sold, traded, used. She's cargo- pleasant on the eye, of course, but she's stock, a pretty possession. She doesn't know her father, and her mother's just a puddle of pliable silver fur. Nameless.
They take her from her when she's three moons old. They slap a name on her- Nausicaa- and shove her in the basement, where her pelt turns from mist to smoke in the dim light. Nausicaa is there for three more moons. She doesn't make friends, because they're all the same, a monotonous crowd, and she is just one of their many faces. But she's a pretty face, apparently, because two toms come to take her away. She's never been outside, and she inhales so deeply she chokes on smog.
They take her to a dilapidated old building, where the amount of cracks in the walls are only rivaled by the amount of cracks in the ceiling. They take her to a tabby tom kit, a ball of striped fluff that can't be any older than she is, and they tell her she's his prize, that, irreversibly, she has become his.