Surprise overtook his mind when Moth arrived at his doorstep, clueless as to what she could possibly want with him. Maybe a dummy to practice her suturing on or perhaps Selby had sent her in his usual place. The latter assumption sparked worry in his undersized chest. What happened? Where was Selby? Had she seduced him only to silence him for money? Visions of domestic murder flashed before him: a limp hand letting a poisoning glass roll away, staining the newly laid carpet with wine; a knife pulled from its block, sheathed in a lover's chest after an instant of jealous rage; money exchanged between parties, hiring a professional to do the dirty work without batting an eye. Beck thought he was going to be sick, with the way his throat tightened and jaw set.

    Before he could spit out an accusation, she invited him to the theater. Caught off-guard, he stammered out his polite acceptance -- he needed to be more... extroverted, right? And this time, the little ghost didn't even have to leave his house to find anybody to leech a social interaction off of. Besides, how could he deny a classic movie? He had shifted his weight indecisively, before stepping away from the door to snag an unassuming jacket, shrugging it on and zipping the front over the abnormal and tattered tunic he always wore. Oh, and a large square band-aid for his missing cheek -- that definitely would warrant more than a couple of unwanted stares from the public.

    Admittedly, Moth failed to strike him as the type to be a fellow horror fan, although he found himself not caring as he rambled about props and effects the entire way there. Puppetry and monster masks, slashers and final girls. Beck wove an intricate and passionate gospel with his words, preaching the rules to survive in cinematic worlds and hymnals of revolutionary films, revitalizing the genre itself. By the time he settled into a front-row seat, the thought of Selby had been knocked down a few pegs on his priority list.

    The poltergeist in plain sight exited the theater with somewhat of a bounce to his limp, as though rejuvenated within the span of two hours through the miraculous silver screen. Even being jostled by an indifferent crowd, who already knew the aged story they walked out of a dozen times over, didn't ruin his slightly better mood. A smile dared to creep its way into his muscles, the unscathed half of his mouth twitching into a lopsided curve as freckles and the band-aid scrunched, Then Moth paused in her steps, earning a concerned glance behind him when he noticed. Worry crashed through his blissful nostalgia like a plane that had never left the runway. His smile disappeared back into the elusive shadows of his face, exhaustion returning to his features once more.

    Even with her inquiry, the fatigue clung to his expression. Beck glanced at the counter, scanning the blurred rows of colorful treats behind the rounded glass then the menu above the adolescent cashiers. He could go for a snack, considering the empty chasm known as his stomach was beginning to gnaw at his mind again, craving what he didn't need. Then again, he really didn't need any of it. It'd be a waste to those in line and to Moth's wallet. The poltergeist returned his focus to the taller woman, giving a simple headshake as an answer, with his tangled mess of brown hair tickling his forehead with the movement. "Not hungry," came the softly mumbled excuse, despite his starved figure. He stuck his hands in the jacket pockets, fiddling with a stray thread on the inside as he waited for her, in case she wanted anything herself.