He received word of Arrow's death from a secondhand source. Crow didn't tell him why he abruptly released him from the pentagram trap that day. Maybe it was his fault for not asking. Yet when he overheard the sorrowful wails breaking through the night, grieving for the late captain, Beck's pulseless heart seemed to splinter at its tattered seams. He mourned alone that night, choking back sobs as he cursed the cruel God responsible. A rumor passed around that she was heaving up blood in clumps before death seized her, just as he did -- he forced himself not to imagine the grisly scene too much. Why did she have to die? Why couldn't she be spared? She was a good person, she didn't deserve to die in a pool of her own blood, crumpled at her own doorstep when she had friends -- no, a family that loved her; when she was still in her youthful years and had an entire life unfurling before her; when she always spoke her mind despite the tidal wave of differing opinions. It wasn't fair, it wasn't any fair at all. Why did all his friends leave him behind?

    Yet it was a different injustice that stirred the poltergeist's grief into a cold resentment. If it hadn't been for Crow's punishment for something he didn't even remember doing -- if it hadn't been for the pagan circle confining the ghostly boy to the houseboat he dwelled in, Beck would have been there at Arrow's side. He could have helped her, comforted her, anything for her. He could have seen her alive one last time before she departed the living side of the veil. He could have said goodbye. But he never even had the chance, remaining oblivious until her body stiffened and her spirit crossed over. And it was all Crow's fault.

    A rope had been secured in Audrey's tooth-lined trap, the mutated plant tugging on the frayed end as though it were a shark shredding into an unfortunate seal. With the rope strung over a pine branch, a frankenstein of sewn animal pelts dangled close to the ground from where the rope looped around what could be assumed as a neck. The crude creation vaguely resembled a feline figure, the various skinned hides all matching in a grey hue. Green buttons, mismatched in all traits excluding color, substituted for eyes, unblinking and plastic as Beck glared into the faux gaze of his general. With a claw, he completed the stuffed look-alike by slitting apart its snout in a downwards curve. Crow hardly smiled after all. Ratty cotton spilled from the new mouth, yet the little ghost only tucked a portion of it back inside the makeshift fabric.

    Nose crinkling in resurfaced anger, Beck let go of the effigy, a harsh whistle escaping through his sharpened teeth. On cue, Audrey III rested the bottom half of its trap on the ground, pulling the rope with it as the second Crow was yanked up into the air. As it swayed to and fro, the poltergeist reached for his weapon -- in this case, a battered old tree branch, stripped of its leaves and bark. Paws tightly curling around the base of the branch, Beck didn't hesitate to deliver the first blow, earning a dull thwack against the morbid piñata's flank. And another, and another, until it was clear he intended to beat the look-alike into a ragged pulp. On any other occasion, the sight would have appeared quite comical; the scrawny feline hopping and swinging an oversized stick around at a suspended doll in front of his house, with Audrey lazing in the mud opposite to him. If only his face hadn't been twisted into an expression of raw hatred, eyes filmy with both denied tears and ever-controlling wrath as he snarled in wordless anguish at the fake tabby.

    His name sliced through the bitter loathing veiling his vision -- a consuming hatred he bottled deep within his half-impaled chest, not just reserved exclusively for Crow, but rather for the world that wronged him, that stole from him once more. Yet the ordinary name given to him centuries ago seemed to press the pause button on an unseen remote; the enraged poltergeist halted midswing, instantly tensing upon the realization of company. His shy paralysis swiftly dissipated into his original vexation and Beck whipped around to face the intrusive lion with a snarl, old blood staining his ragged breath as though his outburst disturbed the gore settled in his lungs. "No shit, Sherlock!" he snapped. Perhaps later he would regret his words. But aggression was all he knew, a barrier from the villains of the world that he adopted in the slums so long ago.

    Yet before he could return to his beatdown on the stuffed scapegoat, a hellish creature he glimpsed from his smudged windows approached. The branch left his grip, partially broken from the brute force applied to it. A pout contorted his youthful features at this, unscathed lips tugging back to bare teeth until one couldn't be certain whether his expression threatened Red or diverted tears from springing forth. Ignoring the demon's questions, Beck made a wild swipe for the branch, his short stature preventing him from even brushing it with outstretched claws. Slumping onto his haunches in defeat, the bristling feline scrunched his nose and whined, "No fair, give it back!" Upon seeing two more familiar faces join the gathering of witnesses to his violent tantrum, a miserable huff escaped the poltergeist. "Just... just leave me alone," he pleaded through clenched teeth. Nobody present deserved to know his reasoning, his emotions; they didn't actually care. They only arrived to spectate and murmur amongst themselves in poorly veiled concern. Likewise, he didn't care about their pity. He lasted this long without leaning on anyone as a crutch and he wasn't about to start.