01: Taken
The winter sun shines brightly on the city streets below. There's a biting chill in the air, a crisp layer of frost covers everything in sight, and the breath of passerby freezes to mist fresh out of their lips.
In this world of brilliant white, Amaya trails after her parents' quick footsteps. Bundled up in a thick, fluffy winter coat, it's hard to catch her breath as she scurries after them— even harder when all she can pay attention to is the cityscape around her.
Yesterday was her seventeenth birthday. As usual, the week leading up to it has been spent in a familiar city in the heart of Lithious, the same one her family has visited in the cold season since she was a small child. Lithious is a popular vacation destination for the Keonine wealthy, such as themselves, and as such, Amaya is no stranger to the glowing, bustling world of movement and noise.
Inhaling a long breath of the pleasantly icy air, Amaya smiles. Her mother clings to her father's arm in front of her, laughing lightly at what has to be another one of his constant bad jokes.
"Amaya," her mother calls, looking over her shoulder, "we're almost back to the hotel. You're not too tired, are you?"
"No, mama. I'm fine. Actually... would you mind if I take a long way back? I'd like to look around a bit more before we settle down for the night."
Her mother's lips purse with concern.
"Are you sure, dear? We can go with you. It's no trouble at all to stay out a little later."
"Really, I'll be alright. You look tired, and I'm sure that papa would like to spend some time with you without me lingering around," she smiles reassuringly. "It'll just be a short walk. Maybe around the next couple of blocks?"
Her mother goes to open her mouth, but her father cuts in before she can speak.
"Go ahead. Hanako, I think she's old enough to take a short walk by herself, don't you?" he asks. His warm, slit-pupiled eyes focus fondly on his wife.
The rose-colored fins cresting her mother's ears give a light twitch. Amaya inherited the exact same ones, and she's always been annoyed with what a clear tell they are— moving whenever she's upset.
"...alright. Be safe, Amaya. Don't be out for too long, and don't get lost, please."
"Don't worry, mama. It'll be just a few minutes."
And that's where they part ways. Amaya waits until her parents are out of sight, her mother still glancing over her shoulder every few moments, before walking away herself. Her low-heeled boots click lightly on the frosty concrete as she takes the first turn to her right with confidence. She does know where she is, technically, so she shouldn't get too lost just taking a couple of new streets back.
Amaya walks slowly, taking her time to look around at every storefront and business place around her. Most of the time, her parents had hurried her through the streets, not wanting to be out for longer than they had to with a young Omega by their sides. Even though Lithious attitudes are quite relaxed about the matter, there was no being too safe.
Thinking about it sends a little chill through her. Everyone knows the horror stories of how Omegas are treated in other, less fortunate countries, abused despite their gifts.
Amaya's own is still a mystery. All Omegas are born with magical capabilities greater than those of normal individuals, with gifts unique to each and every one. At seventeen now, all Amaya's heard about hers is that she doesn't need to concern herself with it while she's still so young.
Suddenly, the cold feels a little more biting. For whatever reason, Amaya always gets an odd feeling when she thinks about it, and this time is the same.
Passersby are staring.
It's no surprise. Dressed as richly as she is, in a fur-lined coat, long skirt, and bow-topped, heeled boots, she must look like the picture of a lost, spoiled little girl. And of course, her less-than-average stature isn't going to help that problem.
Perhaps it would be best to hurry back.
Digging her claws lightly into the hand-warming muff fastened at the front of her coat, Amaya glances around as she gets moving.
There's no reason why anyone would try to hurt her. Surely, she's just being paranoid— or letting her mother's constant worrying get the better of her. Amaya knows that her mother is a natural-born fusser who always assumes the worst, with only her husband to calm her nerves. She herself seems to be a healthy mix of the two... but nerves do still creep up on her from time to time.
The walk back to the hotel should be quick and easy. If she's remembered the streets right, she should be only two or three blocks away from the main entrance.
Amaya turns a corner. The toe of her boot skids on a small patch of ice, and she yelps at the sudden twist of balance.
Somehow, she stays upright.
People are really staring now. Between the increasing feeling of nervousness and the way her face is starting to burn, Amaya is just about ready to jog the rest of the way back to the hotel, no matter how unladylike it would appear.
Instead, she bites her lip and keeps walking. It's busier here. There are more people, all of them packed together tightly enough that it feels a bit like being stuffed into a sardine can.
Dodging all of the traffic is impossible. Soon enough, Amaya bumps into a startlingly tall gentleman in a long, dark coat.
"My apologies!" she squeaks, nodding her head, and trying to keep going.
"The fault is mine," he insists.
Amaya doesn't get a good look at his face. But as she slips past him, still looking down, there's a sudden, sharp pain at the back of her neck.
She slaps a gloved hand over the point of pain, yelping loudly enough that a few heads turn. What was that? For a second, Amaya almost thinks that she imagined it— or more like, she tries to tell herself that she did.
And yet, all too soon, the world begins to blur. Amaya's vision swims. Her breath comes short. Her limbs turn to jelly all the way down, and before she can't do anything to get her bearings, she's collapsing to the frigid sidewalk in a crumpled heap. On her back, the hazy glow of city lights swirls above her against a pale gray, winter sky.
Her world goes black.
