Prologue to Fox Chase: Chaska

Arrow needs to know about those Field Surgeons when he gets back. Their fox chasing is growing annoying and almost routine/concerning. Their actions are double-edged and motives inconspicuous. I've seen them mislead their own men when our own is nearby; sabotaging any solid leads that the B.C.I Wardens get.

 But what's most alarming is that they target me. And only me. 

****B.C.I= Bio Clinical Innovations.*** Bio-warfare underground market masquerading as sucessful co-vert pharmaceutical company. The DMYR's main enemy.

They target me when I'm alone running errands or handling a B.C.I assignments. No matter where I went in the Pedestal Grounds or what masquerading  B.C.I enemy I encountered, they sedate me from the shadows. Whether it be on the sidelines after a B.C.I fight, before I notice, or when I'm handling personal matters. 

The few times I did dodge their darts with my 'Wind sprint,' I always sight three, sharply coordinated silhouettes somewhere in the distance. 

Even though they're camouflaged by the ruins and piney foliage, I sense their keen auras waft off like fire smoke. I glimpse agile and ghostly movement of their white-colored, biopunk masks and feel those owlish metallic blue lenses focus on me. 

Despite any distance I put between them, they find me eventually. 

When the sudden metal sting pierces me; leaving me flailing on the ground. They close in like Bloodhounds. And those goth, owlish lens glare into me like prison spotlights.

On cue, calmly and casually, they reappear in my peripheral view. Or from the escape route taken. And I have no damn clue how they do it. 

I've combed through all the tactical methods the facility uses and draw blanks.  How do they do it?!

How the hell do they track me—from a 3-mile wild goose chase-on foot no less! At first, I thought I was bugged again. I walked in aimless directions for hours and wouldn't dare come within a 3-mile radius of our bases' premises when this first happened. 

Luckily, I was chip free after a careful self-check.  But stranger still, I never see nor hear any B.C.I Detention Cargo Vans or Hunting Trucks when they pursue me, either. So how in this hybrid urban maze-like Ghost-land and large wooded fields are they able to track me to the T!? Without their solid leads and doubly so after using my 'Wind sprint' no less. It boggles the hell outta me! And it's always the same three B.C.I Dystopian doctors, two men and a woman. 

Their darts have gold brush tips and despite wearing torso and thigh guards to deter them, they always---by some wretched magic/ fluke timing or bad luck-- tag my butt to daze me out. 

I say, 'daze out' and not 'blackout' because I don't fully go under. I'm still 'awake' but my senses are lulled into a calm blissful ambiance. 

Then they lean me against a tree trunk, wall, pillar, or boulder and examine me.

The first thing they do is shine that bright-ass pocket light in my eyes. The white circle covering my pupils like a white eclipse. Then check my vitals, swab my mouth, draw blood, stick me some more, measure me, and eject those nasty liquid medicines down my throat. 

It angers me that I'm under their mercy. Physically Docile. Disarmed. Exposed. Every minute of their touching violates my skin---bristles my marbled skin--- as the methodical sensation stirs up memories of objectified, dark clinical years. 

The only solace I get from this is having my wounds treated. Scaring disappears, aching muscles dissipate/melt away. 

But why bother patching me up? If all they need is biometric samples? The altruistic ambiguity and effort used to get to me is beyond any plausible, common cause for their agenda. 

During the unwanted check-ups, the women surgeon talks to me. She speaks cryptic statements and petting my hair as medical tools and black-gloves come in and out of focus. 

I tolerate her rambling because writing down her statements for answers--once they leave--is what our team needs. Hell, anything that'll help me make sense from this nonsense and doubly so if it'll end the pity petting! She strokes me like I'm something between a scared puppy or lost child! I hate admitting it's as soothing as it is patronizing.

Three days ago, I tried threatening them when they darted me. What came out was a slurred bellow and lame/weak attempt of looking stoic. The women doctor began cooing at me as usual as she kneel forward  on one knee and sprayed that stinging liquid on my slashed cheek and shins.

"Easy BK9-1249, we won't be long. You're a practical fighter and a good boy, but practice close-range deflection a little more. You'll get a nasty scar next time when we're not here." 

At that moment, I wished I had Arrow's intimate/passionate hatred for all things B.C.I. No doubt my brother would lash at them, even with an injured body. Grumbling and spitting/spatting his scorn at them if he were in my place.

Anyway, when the other senior members come home tonight, we'll use my accounts to write down some theories or leads about their strange method.