If he was honest with himself, he hadn't the foggiest goddamn idea what he was doing. But when was he ever honest? Impulse had once again seized Beck by the bruised neck and dragged him from Goldie's hut like a pitiful ragdoll. Crossing out of an old enemy's territory during low tide, he simply allowed his bandaged paws to carry him to nowhere in particular. He hated how he was left to stumble blindly without any sense of feeling to guide him and nearsighted eyes doing nothing to assist, but repressed memories began to worm their way to the back of his mind. Muted footsteps followed the overgrown path to an abandoned home. He couldn't remember any group of critters he resided in beside the Typhoon -- as a matter of fact, he couldn't remember anything besides his identity at this point. The poltergeist was a husk, and always had been, albeit he was practiced in hiding his shallow memory with bits of personality and occasional remembrance. Yet it all felt familiar. Too familiar. Familiar as in the eerie sensation of deja vu that sent a fuzzy static down his spine and bristled the hackles on the back of his neck. Not that Beck's adamant wandering was shaken by a nonsensical feeling. Sure, he remembered a peculiar fondness for the mud squishing beneath his feet and the shade provided by a dense umbrella of gnarled trees, but he was certain he had never been in this exact swamp before.

    Kicking aside wilted debris with a childishly sadistic grin typical of one destroying his surroundings for a little fun, the limping boy steadily trotted through the sludge, pausing here and there to admire an arbitrary pebble or pocket a lost trifle within his apparition. Once a thief, always a thief -- no, there wasn't any harm in snatching up something unclaimed. Finders, keepers as the playground bullies used to taunt. Myopic eyes failed to register the sharp decline of the firmer earth until he was practically wading in the mire, the gauze tight around his arms filthy with grime and mud. A sneer of annoyance contorted his disfigured maw while a pallid tongue poked out from pearly razor blades to lick away the faint dribble of chemicals beginning to leak from his missing cheek. He moved to slosh forward another step, only to be met with nothing in reach to stand on. Instead, the scrawny traitor faceplanted in the mud, almost comically despite the fact he was beginning to sink. Great. Even while cemented chin-deep in the muck, Beck still blew a puff of stale air up at the disheveled cowlicks falling into his vision out of frustration, not panic. Perhaps he would free himself later, but for now, the runaway leader was content to mope and literally wallow in the mud of his failed clan, yanking up a single arm from the oozing slop with a slick pop to idly tap out an impulsive rhythm in mud.

    If anyone asked, Beck... Fisher? That sounded somewhat familiar, although using a surname felt wrong to him, like coating his scarred tongue in shoe polish -- an experiment he did not want to revisit anytime soon. Whatever, where was he? If anyone cared to ask, Beck Fisher wasn't afraid of anything the world had to offer, or in his slang-infested speech: ain't nothin' scares a ghost like me no more. While a handful of conditions such as merciless hands pinning his head underwater or an upside-down view serves as reminders for an untimely end, not much could truly strike fear into his cold little heart. He reveled in creepy-crawlies and slasher flicks, amusing himself by terrifying others even. Yet he still flinched at unexpected movement, a defense tactic he was raised into by blows that left him dazed and bloody in the street gutters. When a grizzled banshee tore from the brambles and charged like a bull blinded with red, who could blame Beck for giving a broken shriek akin to a piglet's dying squeal? Ducking down to cower in his mud as he had learned with trembling static running along hackles in case the danger touched him and bandaged arms shielding his face, he waited for the inevitable attack.

    The boy quickly became impatient as he quivered, peeking from his gauze-bound fortress to glare up at his assumed attacker. Oh, it spoke. Recovering from his embarrassing fright, Beck clacked his teeth together as he straightened, blurred eyes squinting to make sense of the grey haze before him. As the single-syllable of his unfortunate name slipped from the hound's lips and registered in his eardrums, the poltergeist tensed, suspicion darkening his features. "What d'ya ca-are? And don't got no tw-win," he spat at Leroy's feet, a violent jerk of his head following his bitter words. Soon enough, more animals crawled from the slimy woodworks, almost familiar in their unique scents if Beck focused on them rather than suddenly struggling to yank himself out of his muddy prison. The lone female of the arriving creatures murmured something he managed to hear despite his inward panic, and honey-brown pupils darted downwards to acknowledge the terribly obvious scar marring his snout, bloodless flesh almost leathery and tinged with excess saliva. A muck-slick paw slapped over the hideous feature, ignoring the fact his missing cheek had already been noticed as he stammered, "What? No! It was -- was jus-st an accid-dent." Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why did they have to stare? Beck covered his face in his mud-coated paws, obliviously smearing the ooze across his freckles before he allowed his head to flop forwards and plant itself in the mud. His notched ear perked at Morgan's voice despite his pathetic attempt to hide, and a timid response could be heard from the boy, muffled by the swampy earth, frigid paws, and clenched teeth. "... Got stuck in mud."

    Even when Vigenere's teeth clasped around his scruff, agitating the wound beneath it and causing oily blood to leak onto bristled fur, Beck remained numbly curled in defense, falling limp at being carried rather than thrashing and kicking and biting as he adapted to. But as soon as he was dropped, instinct broke from the sedative provided by overwhelming shock, and Beck frantically dashed off into the undergrowth, retreating to gather his wits before investigating the familiarity of the swamp further. Just when no one was around to interrogate him about memories coping mechanisms swept away with a high tide.