One of Tanglewood's greatest advocates for the pursuit of fun was none other than its runaway founder himself, eternally confined in the mindset of a child despite the years burdening his scrawny shoulders. Yet the definition of fun gradually became looser as morals twisted and kinked into a corrosive knot of nigh sadistic ways to keep himself entertained. Fun no longer translated into a harmless, good time with friends; to Beck, amusement was delivered by the misfortune of others, be it by prank, trap, or words. Sometimes he lost grip of the reins tethering down the volatile creature whispering venom into his ear, sometimes people were irreparably hurt. Not that he particularly cared -- no, he should care, why couldn't he care?

    Give it a rest already, wouldja? You're givin' me a headache with all your whinin' bullshit!

    "You're one to talk 'bout he-headaches," the boy grumbled quietly in response, grateful for a lack of witnesses to his one-sided conversation nearby as far as his clouded vision could tell. His grimy chin slumped on bandaged paws, Beck huffed out a melodramatic sigh, expectedly overwhelmed with tedium. There was nothing for him to do; Audrey III was fed a dinner of at least three skinned carcasses, his slowly-expanding first aid kit of herb bundles and other necessities was organized twice, his traps were checked and reconfigured, and he wasn't in the mood to work on one of his various projects. Maybe there would be someone to harass at the border? Too much time had passed since he carried out any of his mischevious impulses, desperate to earn the trust of his peers first. Rolling to his feet, the little poltergeist neglected to shake free the forest debris clinging to his gaunt frame as he limped ahead to nowhere in particular, head hung low and gauze-bound arms unraveling as he shambled forth.

    It would be impossible to miss Jim's scent drifting from behind the foliage, his inky nose flaring in an attempt to pinpoint the mutt's location based on the odor of flying sparks. Yet, for once, his bloodhound sniffer failed him, only recognizing Jim's aromatic identity as everywhere rather than one direction. Beck halted, raising his head in confusion. It's fresh. Jim passed here recently, but ever-present mud clouds his trail. "I ca-an smell ya... come out, come out whe-ere ever ya are," he couldn't help but coo in a sing-songy yet broken voice, reverting to his forgotten days of haunting and hunting. Beck tilts his head for the expected answer, typically one in fright.

    Instead of a scream in response, the ghostly medic met a forceful mudball to the back of his head with an audible splat. The resulting stumble forward could have been considered comical, the mudball thrown with enough strength to knock the admittedly-weak feline down and taste the mud. Despite a sense of feeling in any nerves, he expects to discover a bruise later. Fortunately, the bruising would be hidden in a rat's nest of matted fur. He pushed himself back up with a feral snarl, he snapped his head over his shoulder to retaliate -- the smirk on Jim's lips quelled his instinct to tear his throat out but failed to tame his anger. Scarred features contorting into a betrayed pout, his bandaged paw scooped up his own marsh ammo, although a loose pebble was slyly tucked inside the mud to serve as a nasty surprise for when he returned fire. Sadly for Jim, poltergeists were notorious for their tantrums of throwing household objects across a living room at a breakneck speed with sharpshooter accuracy. Years of practice blessed him with quite the aim, and without much thought to the force behind his throw, Beck returned the favor, giving a shrill hiss of a battle cry as the mudball sailed straight at Jim's smug face.