//SHIFTERS//

Prologue

RUN BOY RUN - WOODKID 

THE JUNGLE WAS ALWAYS QUIET - TOO QUIET, IF ANYTHING, BUT HE PREFERRED IT THAT WAY. Living in the jungle meant constant noise, humidity, and sudden rains that pounded the tin roof of the makeshift hut, threatening to destroy what was a sad excuse of a home. There was a twinge of sadness in the boy's heart - the isolation the jungle offered was a rare comfort - however, he knew his two month stay was more than enough. The boy, breathing in the cool, damp air, set to work destroying what was left of his old life. Old ID's, passports, pictures, and documents, were thrown carelessly into the fire and the boy watched, tears threatening to spill over, as hungry flames ate away at the memories.

The tears, however, weren't from the constant threat and stress of persecution. The boy had already accepted his death- it was, in a way, inevitable- however, he hadn't accepted the way he would die. He had escaped a gruesome hanging and fought countless battles, but at a cost. The boy's eyes grew dark as he remembered the deaths of his friends, family, and others like him.

He could keep running. He could keep fighting. Or he could just rest and let fate take place.

A rustling from the trees stopped the boy in his thoughts. Dark green eyes darted up, frantically searching for something, anything. Perhaps a stray animal or a restless bird. Any sign to prove his inner thoughts wrong, any possible sign that would tell him he wasn't about to die, that they weren't watching him - but, he could not fool himself. The boy watched the security camera blink to life, its lens adjusting slightly to get a clear view of his face. He knew too much, and now, he was a threat to be eliminated.

The boy leaped into action, hastily fumbling through the darkness to grab his pitifully small knife, to be used for last minute defense. Leaping over fallen branches, rocks, and patches of thick mud, the boy ran. He sprinted, farther and faster than he ever had before. The boy's heart pounded in his chest, and his hair spilled from the bun atop his head, swishing back and forth against his chin.

His bare feet, rough with calluses, pounded against the rough terrain. As he grew tired, the jagged rocks and sharp branches sent jolts of pain through his legs. He couldn't stop, though, he could never stop running. It was drilled into him as a child. Every Guardian would look down in astonishment as they recognized what he was - the power he held - and then, their expressions would turn to pity as they remembered his fate, his so-called destiny that was bestowed upon him.

The practices of the Shifters were long forgotten, but the fundamental threat they faced was always present.

"Run boy," the Guardians would whisper, "forget all you know, and run."

The words echoed in his mind through every threat, every death. Each time, the boy ran, and never stopped running until the danger was mere dust behind him. Panting now, the boy threw a short glance over his shoulder, catching sight of death.

Death outnumbered him.

Turning suddenly, the dark-haired, green-eyed boy slowed to a stop and dropped to his knees. He didn't even close his eyes as the first bullets struck his chest.

Instead he smiled, because, for the first time, in a long time, he was really, truly free.