according to plan

Chase's observation of surroundings continued into the night, and he both watched and experienced tiredness creeping into the race as the darkness set in. Perhaps from his host's regular nocturnal habits, it didn't seem as severe to him as the rest of the beings began nodding off.

As with a successful domination of the host, what little consciousness they had left would either become dominant again or fade into the background more progressively with each rest. The dream process seemed to overwrite the host with the shiftling's memory from what he could tell.

Chase wisely took some time to both write down and try to memorize any details about his host that he still could, where his home originally was, his resource stashes, friends and enemies.

[Oh hell, this guy has a decent amount of associates.]

After writing several pages of notes and tucking them in his breast pocket, the rest cycle clawed at Chase's consciousness. He laid back into his bed and allowed the dream cycle to come to him; fingers crossed he'd wake up in control. Based on the host's recent traumas, Chase figured it wouldn't be too much of a problem.

---------------

Jolting awake, Miles felt his whole body covered in sweat and his head felt like it had been a cobblestone in a busy street filled with horse-drawn carriages.

[I haven't even been drinking, why am I hungover? And what the hell was with those dreams last night? Energy beings and fields of starlight being grown? I better not have been drugged. After all the shit I've been through already…I swear to god.]

All too familiar with how hallucinogens and sleeping drugs affect people from his close proximity to gentlemen's endeavors at the lounge, Miles checked himself for symptoms.

[Cottonmouth, yep. Memory loss of the past day? Most definitely. My throat is incredibly sore...FUCK. Those ABOSOLUTE fuckers. I'm going to find whoever did this and kill them. No, I'm going to shred them limb from limb until there's nothing left of them. Was it a soldier? Or a warlord here at the camp? When did they drug me? Why me?]

After checking his pockets and finding his primary coded ledger still in tow, albeit with a few drunken scribbles, Miles determined that the list of names were most likely suspects of who had orchestrated this act against him. Most of them were his enemies, though a few friends were mixed in. Why?

While the handwriting was slightly different than his own, it was definitely his- it was written in his own code that he had built years ago. Writing while drugged had to have been a challenge, it looked like each pen stroke had been written while barely being able to move his fingers correctly.

[Someone used something strong on me, that's for sure.]

Miles' mind had drawn the logical conclusion of what had happened based on the knowledge he had available to him. He had been drugged. He couldn't rule out food or drink as the method that it had gotten into his system, but at the camp it would have been very hard to identify exactly the food he would pick up to eat. He'd keep an eye on the cooks regardless.

This meant that most likely it had been done with magic. While magic did exist, it was pretty rare in his world. Commoners and nobles alike had very little affinity for magic; it normally wasn't useful for much more than small household tasks or party tricks mixing it with illusion.

Nonetheless, there were still a few people in the world who had pushed their magic to the limits and could affect things up to a stone's throw away. They tended to keep this a secret from those around them and only use it in emergencies. The element of surprise could save your life more than the magic itself could. Being one such person, Miles had learned this more than once.

Even worse than being drugged, Miles was certain that someone had had their way with him. His throat was so incredibly sore; there was little question that some absolute bastard had done something unspeakable.

[I swear on all that is holy in this world, I will find whoever did this and make them suffer a thousand deaths!]

How could he have possibly known that it was in fact due to a dimensional hitchhiker spending the better part of 30 minutes struggling to drink water with his body and almost dying every time?

[I need to get out of this shithole. Until I figure out who did this to me, I need to go somewhere they'll stand out if they show up again.]

Refugee camps had too many unknown people travelling to and from at all times. It wasn't safe.

Miles slowly and discreetly packed up what little he had, memorizing every face in detail of those around him. A man of precision, he went to the chow line and got the same meal he had yesterday, trying to remember which cook had served him at the line. They didn't seem to notice or pay extra attention to him, so it probably wasn't them. Nonetheless, he still got his meal. Not to eat, but to analyze.

Miles didn't know how he would test his food yet, but he decided to keep a bit of each item anyway. In a small pouch for water to seal it all he placed bits of the food in- porridge that could make a mother cry to look at, possibly moldy mash of some sort, and last but least a piece of stale bread.

How one could force it down normally was beyond him. If he didn't need to stave off hunger, it wouldn't even be something he would consider getting in the remote proximity of his lips.

This time despite his hunger he passed on actually eating it. After he had collected samples, he carefully used some of the little magic he had. Short range teleportation of items was one of the most powerful he knew of, and it was his. While there could be others, asking around about specific magic could attract the wrong kinds of eyes fast and he preferred a low profile.

Keeping this ability a secret had saved his life more than once. Shooting someone with their own gun had gotten him away alive when fleeing Khalla.

Mixed with a sleight of hand trick, he pretended to take bites of his food while actually teleporting the portion on his spoon to the plates of those not paying attention around him. After he had emptied his tray and watched those who had eaten his share for a bit, he decided that while he would run tests on his samples later; it was unlikely a food source he had been drugged from.

[Besides, if this food was spiked again, it would be crazy of them. No one seems to be showing any signs of being drugged. I have learned as much as I can from here. Time to leave.] His stomach growling from skipping the morning meal, Miles slipped out the back of the tent.

While it was legal for refugees to come and go, they were still tracked until they found a place to hire them which would allow them to move out of the camp. Checking in and out with the guards was not something he intended to do- especially if one of them were involved in the debauchery last night. Miles seethed with anger at the thought.

[I've seen too many of the ladies at the club with similar symptoms after finishing with a well-paying, rough customer to be so foolish and naïve.]

Spilling blood at this point wasn't just an option for Miles now, it was a necessity. After what had been done to his friends and coworkers in front of him last week, his psyche was well past its last straw.

Being the conniving bastard that he was, Miles knew exactly how to sneak out. A few gates in the back were held together with mesh wire with a few padlocks on shabby gates. Normally this would be sufficient to prevent access as people were free to come and go; trying to break through it would be loud enough to draw the attention of others. Nothing a little diversion couldn't take care of.

Miles eyed an elderly woman who looked an inherently grumpy person and picked her.

[She'll make a fuss. I've seen too many angry entitled women with that same short haircut to know what will happen if she doesn't get her way.]

Walking up near her, he spied the identification documents in her purse. With a quick flick of his wrist, they were now on the edge of the gate guard's incredibly messy desk.

Step one of his escape plan complete, he made his way closer to the back and waited.

As he had anticipated, the woman threw an absolute fit when she got to the gate, couldn't find her documents, and spotted them on the guard's desk. Slanders and accusations were thrown left and right drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

Appreciating his planned spectacle and the woman's commentary on fascist pigs purposely trying to make her an indentured slave, Miles took his opportunity to port the lock from one hand to another, sneak through the gate, and then port it back into place before dipping into a street alleyway.

On the main road and in the clear a few moments later, Miles saw about 20 armed men marching quickly towards the direction of the refugee camp.

[I didn't anticipate she'd make THAT much of a stir. Some people really don't know when to stop.]

Shaking his head and proceeding away, Miles barely noticed the insignia on the men's arms. A fiery ram's head with green cat's eyes. Strange indeed, but not anything he would know in a country that wasn't his own.