He was to blame for the negative stigma the Ascendants had formed around the tight-knit swamp dwellers, yet he didn't regret it. The commander hoped that his little mistakes would be enough to scare the pacifists away, and it did -- for a short while, at least. Then, someone must have had the bright idea of actually approaching them, and then gathering the gall to invite them to a memorial. He bet they were only included out of formality, or it was a simple accident. Either way, he expected it would be the last he was seeing of them, especially with the added news of Bastille stepping up as their leader. The mangled lining of his lungs still burned with imagined water from the grey tabby's ambush; he spent hours after the other leader's attack, coughing up blood-tinged foam and stagnant water trapped in his chest until his shallow breathing was nothing more than a hoarse whisper and he was nauseous with remembered pain.

    Needless to say, the hatred was mutual between them. But another feeling was beginning to worm its way into his mind at just the scent of Bastillepaw wafting from the border: fear. Not of the feline himself, but rather of the graphic memories attaching themselves to his presence, corrupting his so-called aura and reminding Beck why he was a ghost in the first place. Bastille was just as bad as a relentless child murderer in his book now, and he would not be forgiven, even if he got down on his knees and apologized until his voice wore out.

    The poltergeist had to take a moment to compose himself after catching scent Bastille, slumped up against a tree trunk, not too far from where other members were gathering, with his paws wrapped around his disfigured snout to keep in a coughing fit. Even as his shoulders jerked with every muffled hack, his ears frantically perked and swiveled with every arrival of a new voice. The boy relaxed slightly at the multiple clanmates already questioning Bastille; the knowledge of them supporting him, however, did little to put his mind and coughing at ease. They were talking about him, weren't they? Surely, they would agree just how pathetic his leadership really was -- he couldn't even secure them an ally out of his own paranoia. Beck's head ducked down in shame, ears ever alert for their response to the surprised questions.

    As he eavesdropped on the nearby border, his bloodless guts twisted into an uneasy knot, and he felt like he might be sick for the first time in centuries. He couldn't take it anymore -- the mangy feline stumbled up to his feet, scraped knees wobbly as he finally finished his walk towards the group. Lantern-like eyes refused to met Bastille's own gaze, instead flitting between the mud underfoot and the friendly faces gathered next to him. He didn't even say sorry. The poltergeist forced himself to straighten up, scarred features contorting into a straining grimace in an attempt not to show vulnerability and exposed teeth visible gnawing on his tongue as if holding back a childish whine. He saw, and he didn't do anythin'. What was he supposed to say? Previous concerned gazes scorching his back were more than enough to inform him just how everyone believed he was an idiot for not securing a trustworthy ally before, but Bastille was far from a leader he would be begrudgingly willing to compromise with. Let me make him pay; we can watch him suffer together, just like he did to us. Isn't that what you want? Biting back a growl of frustration to silence the nagging voice clawing at his skull to get out, Beck managed to croak out in as polite as a tone he could force into his rasping words, "What d'ya want?" His attempt at civil conversation failed miserably, a stray cough wracking his gaunt form for a moment until he recovered control, tilting his head in order to spit out the resulting blood-tinted sputum off to the side where it would inevitably disappear from the living realm entirely.