I run. The trees rush by, a blur of green and grey and brown.
I still don't know how it got like this.
Loam is kicked up as I pass. Still, I run.
I should have twigged when they said 'in vitro baby'.
My hands slice at the air. Twigs catch at my arms.
I should have twigged when they said they weren't my biological parents.
Rocks, branches obscure my way, but I avoid them with ease.
I should have twigged when they told me I was an orphan.
There where so many clues and I missed them all.
I leap a streamlet.
Like when the DoD came knocking. Like my mom shivering even though it wasn't cold.
I turn left. There is a meadow here - I only register to change in terrain.
Sure they were polite, but really, the armoured car and the men with guns really should have given it away.
Sometimes I'm amazed at how dense I can be.
The meadow turns into heath. Gorse adds to the blood on my arms.
But, really, it that doesn't matter I missed the clues, because here I am.
I put my head down and I run.
The file they showed me said I was Special, that I had Abilities. Words like 'Genetically Modified' and 'Super Soldier' were been bandied around by Colonel Something-or-Other. It might have been lies. But then again it might not. I'm running faster than I ever have, and I was my school's track star. I'm seeing clearer than I ever have. And, by the expression on the marines faces' when I jumped that fence, I'm guessing that wasn't normal either. The chaplain I asked to see evangelised at me, said these were God given gifts and I would be doing His work with the DoD. But then he would say that. I'm sure God will forgive me for not seeing it His way.
I come to another fence, this time of the farm variety. I rase a hand to push bangs of brown hair out the way. There is only the smallest sheen of sweat on my head. Now that really isn't right. I'm not breathing any harder than after a hundred meter sprint at the peak of my fitness, and I know those days are long past. I shake my head. The medical wonders of science can wait. A farm means out-buildings, and out-buildings mean a place to hide, at least for a while.
I hurdle the fence, jog across the pasture, spot a barn, aim for that.
It's not that I'm scared of Them. I already showed I was more than Their equal. I'm, how to say, concerned. Of Them, of me. The world. I let out a snort. Just, something in my guts doesn't like this whole mess.
I push the barn door open and slip inside. A horse nickers in the gloom.
I still don't know how I did what I did. A quote comes to me, some science writer: Any tech advanced enough looks like magic. Of course, I paraphrase.
I climb up the ladder into the hayloft, the sweet smell of dried grass surrounding me, reminding me of home. I find a corner and hunker down, suddenly incredibly tired.
Magic. Science. Either way I don't understand it, and I definitely didn't like it.