The cycle continued and it was Beck's turn again for handing out pointless jobs to his clan -- how many times had he done this again? He was already losing track. The mangy feline shook out his pelt with contempt marring his face, freckles and scars crinkling as he grimaced. He never was the creative type, but as long as they had something to busy themselves with, they would be happy, right? Scrambling onto the pile of rubble claimed as his perch for announcements with noticeable difficulty thanks to his mutilated paw, his lantern-like eyes scanned across the empty town square, searching for any signs of life. A ragged huff escaped his burnt snout, and Beck slumped on his statue's ledge, dusting away grit with a faint grumble. "Anybody who wants a task, y'all get over here!" the poltergeist breathlessly croaked, words cracking as he failed to raise his voice into a shout. A couple of hoarse coughs tumbled from his mouth, accompanied by droplets of electric blue spattering the aged rock beneath his paws. He didn't seem to be bothered much by his brief coughing fit, wiping away the toxic drool with the back of his bandaged paw and scowling at the approaching crowd that managed to hear him.

      Three volunteers wouldn't have been bad if Beck had actually managed to brainstorm tasks to give out. Jagged teeth gnawing on the inside of an ashen lip as he fumbled, the poltergeist glanced up at the dusty sky, freckled snout wrinkling at the request for something "not boring." Killian seemed to be the brutish type, right? "A'ight, Kill-y, would it be borin' if I asked ya to set up some type of, uh, what's the word, trainin' thing? Where ya, like, spar or whatever. And anythin' can go, I 'spose. Just don't kill anyone, 'kay?" It was one thing he could anticipate over the next few days, and his notched ear twitched dismissively as he finished rambling.

      Beck was trying to ignore Morgan after the dog stabbed an icicle through his paw for no reason at all -- well, he probably deserved it. Either way, he wasn't keen on forgiving all too quickly, even if outwardly his scowl didn't darken and he brushed aside thoughts clambering for cruel revenge. Instead, he forced a tense grin that looked more like a pained grimace than anything else, and wheezed, "Ya can do cool water tricks, right, Morgan? Ya think ya can go out and, uh, clean some of the swamp water? So people can actually, ya know, drink it." Not that he, a perpetually dead entity, minded the irradiated wetlands, but hydration was a key factor in living, so it was kind of necessary to have a bit more safe drinking water than the few streams and waterholes they had.

      He had to think longer for Amunet's, split brow creasing and hackles impatiently trembling, before he finally addressed her. "Well, the whole territory is gettin' hotter 'cause of summer, so, uh..." The boy trailed into silence, bloodless lips mouthing words as he attempted to construct a sentence. Hotter season meant drier plants, and drier plants meant a higher risk of fires. Which was a concern considering the number of apparent pyromaniacs running loose. "Uh, go out, and gather a bunch of bushes and weeds and all the dry stuff, then burn it in camp. It's, um, a controlled burn, I think, least that's what I remember. To stop forest fires and all that." Beck breathlessly explained, punctured lungs straining to move enough stale air for him to speak. Amunet could even make it a lame little bonfire if she really wanted to, he didn't care.