Although Goldie often fretted over how she hadn't been around enough to him, Beck hadn't shown himself to the public eye in... days? Weeks? Months? Time was stupid. He sulked and lazed from day to day inside the dim hut, watching the girl work her paws to the bone with a glaze of concern visible in a half-lidded stare. It was likely most of the Typhoon didn't even know he existed -- all the better for him. Loneliness had wormed its way deep within his skewed concept of normal, hooking around his brain's wrinkles and molding him into a notorious introvert. The fewer people that bothered his temporary stay in the grand scheme of things, the better.

    Yet Goldie was different. She listened to his ramblings and comforted his panics and entertained his delusions and even flopped down on top of him for a wink of sleep occasionally. And he hated how much the dawning realization that he loved someone again. No, he couldn't love her. Shouldn't. Wouldn't! She was alive! She would grow up and die and move on while he broke his spine after falling head over heels in unhealthy love. As much as he denied the steadily swelling infatuation that made his freckled cheeks flush blue with ghastly warmth and the fierce jealousy that clamped down on his heart whenever she ignored him to talk to another, Beck found himself desperate to be by her side no matter the cost. It was better to be a nuisance than to be alone after all.

    That morning stretched on for hours as he idled and waited for her return. A walk wouldn't take too long, would it? Gnawing on the fraying gauze protecting his arm from the urge to bite into his clammy flesh, worries filtered in and out through his mind as he continuously glanced out the window for any sign of the pretty bengal. "Ma-aybe she fell 'n' didn't, didn't have her st-stick... what if she-e got swept away 'n' eaten by a sha-ark, what if she passed out ag-gain --" His stuttering words found no company to listen, leaving the hut empty for him to pace and bite and worry and bite some more. Long shadows from a dying sun caught his attention before he noticed the whole day had slipped from his grasp. The poltergeist sucked in a rasping inhale, a thin whistle of an exhale strained through clenched teeth following as he stumbled to his feet to look for his Goldie.

    Her welcomed yet fading scent took little effort to track, his upturned nose nuzzling the sand slopes as he feverishly traced her whereabouts, a rabid bloodhound limping along the beach. For once, there was no hesitation in his step as he neared the breaking waves, creeping along the steel railroad beams as he halted at the gates. Beck was far too oblivious to be a detective, yet with the broadcasted teachings of staged crime shows returning to his mind, it was clear to know that something awful had happened. Someone had taken his Goldie. Offering her hawk a wary glance and a checkup, Lynn received a clumsy and frigid ruffle to her head feathers before Beck jabbed his nose to the earth again with a glower worse than hellfire burning in his eyes. The obvious culprit's musk was vaguely familiar, dusty and metallic to which he wrinkled his disfigured snout at. After pausing to give his neck a quiet jerk to the left, the boy straightened and shook out his bedraggled pelt. Without a glance back or the slightest thought of doubling back to receive assistance, Beck numbly trailed after Goldie and her captor's disappearing scent with a half-exposed jaw set in a grim line and a raging fire boiling in his guts, his sensitive nose guiding his unwise path.