You are the
redhead. You consider yourself a fairly good citizen. The government sees you as a traitor.
You can feel the heat of the shadows on your face. You're running now, full speed, chest rising so roughly it comes close to hitting your chin. You can taste the soldier's footsteps on your tongue, on your heels, on your mind; here they come, just as planned, just as anticipated.
But you were never one for taking rumors to heart, were you?
Never one to cower in fear, were you?
Yet, as your back is plastered to the sweating wall in the heat of a summer night, you wonder if maybe, just this once, you are scared. Scared out of your whits. Scared out of everything. You feel like you've been thrown out of your own mind and you're just sitting, waiting for it to come back to you - as if it ever will.
Your ears voice their protest of you taking a break; they quickly realize that the soldiers haven't stopped. They're still after you, breathing for you, killing for you, because they need you, they want you, so badly.
You begin running again. It's the only thing you can remember to do now. Sweat trickles to your lip and you can taste the salt; melodically you wince, as it doesn't just taste like sweat, but something red and sticky and it is twinged with iron.
Rounding a corner with fervor {what corner and where you are in town escapes you} you smack right into someone.
A soldier, surely, because that's just your luck nowadays.
"They're after you," a voice says, whatever you bumped into, surely; it continues: "it's you they want, isn't it?"
You nod before realizing you're in complete and total darkness. "Yes." You croaked it like the frog you thought you were.
"You're just a boy, though."
You say nothing in response, because you're quite positive you're an adult, but soon you hear the boots clank again, and your hand is grabbed; soon you're running again. "Where're you taking me?"
"To safety, don't worry, okay?"
Once again you say nothing and try to keep pace. Your backpack smacks against you; you can just hear the envelopes and letters to loved ones hit the pavement.
xxx
You're safe now.
Or that's what you believe.
Eventually, you stopped running and the man released your hand- it was after a lot of running though, tons, tons. You can hear a key click in a lock and a door creak open; next, you realize that it was a flight of stairs you were going down, not real ground, and you fumble a bit. A hand grasps the back of your shirt to keep you from falling, and again your breath is caught in your throat.
You go down the stairs as fast as you can in the dim light, and it's not very fast.
You fall once you hit the bottom, because you anticipated many more stairs. Getting up was painful.
Once a light clicks on you realize that you're in some kind of cottage. Only underground. A fire is cackling in the fireplace, there are dirty dishes in the sink, and even a cup half full of tea on a small table.
"Apologies," the voice says. "It's a bit of a mess."
You turn to finally look at your savior to find a man dressed in red and black.
Red and black.
A uniform.
A soldier.
You start to shake your head because
no, no, no, no--!, you could not have possibly walked into a trap.
He squints at you before turning to the kitchen. "Would you like anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee...?"
A soldier.
A soldier.
From the exact unit you were running from.
A soldier.
xXx 
Please!
