Even after their technical "victory", it was blindingly obvious that no group could function without at least one person to fix up injuries -- like one of those doctors from T.V. Maybe most of it was staged, but he could understand the gist of it. And, besides, he knew how to wrap wounds from trial and error, evident from the grimy bandaging around his neck. Bandages were only a formality, because nobody wanted a bunch of oily blood seeping from his neck all over them. Well, maybe Valo would like that -- they were a freak. Either way, the scores carved into his neck weren't a bother, but other injuries sustained to his fellow rogues were. They could die, unlike his condemned soul, and they couldn't repair themselves without outside help. Logically, finding the few folks who knew how to heal was his top priority.

    He finally returned from his latest expedition into the swamp, apparition failing to track muddy pawprints as he dragged an abandoned plastic bag behind him, the thin plastic stretched by clumps of whatever herbs or medical supplies he could loot from territory, as well as medical encyclopedias from the library. The town did have a few basic first aid tools stowed away for an emergency they couldn't escape, and the swamp was teeming with herbs -- a healer's paradise, if he knew the name for any of them. Dumping his gathered herbs and gauze next to a mossy brick wall secluded from the general foot traffic of camp, Beck was more than happy to sprawl on his mangy belly and arrange the wads of herbs in from of him in no clear pattern, surrounding the shivelled plants with musty doctor's handbooks and scavenged gauze roll. Eventually satisfied with his bizarre display, the boy straightened from his hovering slouch and hollered with his feeble wheeze, "Anybody that wants t' be a medic, get over here!" While he didn't remember what the official names for all of them were, he could recall their archaic uses. So he was at least somewhat qualified to test their knowledge, and decide whether to pat them on the back and give the lucky duck a rank, or to slide them over the hefty books in order for them to actually learn.

    Now Beck was by far not a genius, but he could piece together from the little details that Bella was already qualified to be a medic. The constant aroma of herbs following her around in what he assumed was a first-aid satchel, her hesitance to violence, and her constant fretting over other's well-being. The boy could never be a medic himself; he was selfish and rude and crazy and just everything Bella wasn't perfect at. Not that he wanted to heal whining creatures anyways, but it was a possibility his imagination liked to entertain.

His disfigured maw parted to croak out a mandatory greeting at Bella, inky nose twitchy in attempts to fight back a sneeze from the overwhelming scent of herbs growing around him. Her question cut him off, and Beck could only scowl like a child being told to take their bitter medicine. "No -- nope, I already did. Don't worry 'bout it," the boy sharply countered, refusing to acknowledge the black fluid staining the gauze bundled around his neck. He already looked like an ugly walking corpse, a few little scratches wouldn't hurt him that badly. Quickly changing the subject, Beck's notched ear twitched in thought as he stared Belladonna down. "I figured ya would be here, Bells, since ya carry 'round those plants all the time. Bet I don't even need t' test ya," came the giggly wheeze, his voice worse than dragging blades down a chalkboard. He perked for the slightest moment when Morgan spoke, confusion flickering on his freckled features before he offered an awkward yet wary wave back. When did they learn to talk, much less his name? Glancing at Amunet, who seemed to be watching rather than volunteering, Beck rolled his bony shoulders and looked at the tiny stalks of green encircling his paws before muttering out quizzical questions to Bella, glowering eyes scrunched shut as he sought to remember what he had planned. "Here's your test: which one of these l'il herbs is used to help out someone who's been poisoned, where would you find, uh, what's it called... marigold?And how'd ya treat a concussion?" Well, he hoped she knew, because he had forgotten the answers already.

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