NEVER CHANGE ✰ mud ball fight

[arcy]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; width: 65%; font-family: timesnewroman; font-size: 10pt; text-align: justify;"]Jim has done a lot of shit with the excuse of 'morale'. It'd mostly been for Jim's own benefit -- captaincy was more boring than one would think. It was .. mostly paperwork. Jim did like being in charge, though. And, to be fair, his bullshit activities did help with morale! Things on the ship were always lighter after an impromptu laser tag game, or a party. It'd always been gratifying.
.. Tanglewood wasn't nearly as uptight as Starfleet, though. No regulations or anything, it was so .. relaxed, in comparison. Morale activities were still important, of course -- kept stuff from getting monotonous, but the need to destress wasn't as imminent. But you know what? Jim needed to destress. He'd spent a lot of last night thinking about his crew and Bones and Spock and his chest had felt tight and it hurt.
Was he ever going home again? Would he see his family(he doesn't mean Winona, god forbid) again? As much as he loved Tanglewood, they hadn't thus far been enough to fill the void where his crew had been. .. So, Jim had too improvise.
.. So, mud balls might be a little mean. But it was all in good fun -- it wasn't like everybody wasn't filthy anyways from their marsh visits. He'd be willing to help with the cleanup if he had to. Jim's tail is wagging. There's mud everywhere in Tanglewood, it wouldn't be hard to strike back.
So, it's with this in mind that Jim hides. He's able to be scented if somebody pays attention, of course, but it's still somewhat covered. Now ... he just has to wait for a passerby. It shouldn't be long -- this place was pretty active. He's unusually patient as he sits there.
.. And there someone is. Jim's ears perk up. He's grinning deviously as he gathers mud in his paws, and chucks it at whomever may be passing by. He scarcely notices who it may be, but Jim ducks out of his hiding spot with a strangely grin, just to show it's meant in good fun.
Another day, another dumb scheme, it seemed.
//haD TO EDIT THIS BC IM A F O O L

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[beck.]

      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.

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[madster]

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tanglewood was a new chance for malaise. it was a new life, a new body, and a new family. it turned out his body wasn't quite suited for tanglewood's enviroment- he had once been a pristine alabaster, but now his fur was gently stained with mud and a few leaves clung to his pelt. he didn't quite look like the angel he was supposed to be.

he noted his energy levels were at their usual low, and he yawned. it was a cold day, and all he wanted to do was go back to bed, but he knew that he had better things to do. as malaise came around the corner, he witnessed a... mud fight? curious ears perked, the teen bit his lip. what was going on? was this normal mortal activity? "what... are you guys doing?" he whined, voice soft and weak.

still, though, some beast gnawed at him, and he too felt the urge to pelt the others with sludge. was this animalistic desire what bonded them? was violence nothing but a pastime for the naturally-born? what a hypocrite he was, he thought, as he scooped up some mud in his trembling paws and weakly chucked it at jim. it was two against one now.

[arcy]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; width: 65%; font-family: timesnewroman; font-size: 10pt; text-align: justify;"]Oh, he hit Beck. Jim can't bring himself to not be gleeful about this. He may have been enticed to launch it at the guy's head instead of .. anywhere safer just by how fucking creepy the guy's words had been. The force had been unintentional -- Jim had been training, but he hadn't thus far been able to figure out how to control his strength very well. Even so, though, it's still just a game -- Jim just thinks it's really unfortunate he can't use a fuckin ... nerf gun or laser gun or something. Those had been fun. Ah, how he missed human hands.
"Fuck!" Jim squalls as the mudball hits his face. There's still a playful edge to his voice despite the curse, cause, okay, so he asked for this, but still, rude! He desperately shakes his head, feeling an ache at the hit zone. Rub his face against his shoulder to get the mud out of his eyes, and he's set, blinking burning eyes until they're clear. "Gee, thanks," Jim snorts, unoffended by the force, nor the pebble. Games with his crew tended to get somewhat violent anyways -- all that suppressed rage at Jim's occasional attitude, blah blah blah.
"Throwing mud," He tells Malaise conversationally, only to be betrayed by the mud that the feline throws at him a pause later. Jim's paws drop the mud he was forming, and he squawks once more. .. At least it didn't hurt this time. He wobbles to point at the white feline accusationally. "Hey, two against one isn't fair!" He says, his indignation spoiled by the dumb grin that spreads along his maw. So maybe this wouldn't be quite the same as games with his crew, but it was still fun, and, y'know, that's all that really matters.
So, with accusations done, Jim haphazardly scoops a pawful of mud to chuck at the angel. He tries for a softer throw, this time -- Jim was maybe a little too soft on what he percieved as smaller, weaker people, but to exclude the guy would be a shame. ... Now, real revenge. Jim eyes Beck for a moment. Then, still rather haphazardly, he gathers mud in his paws and takes a dive for the ghost. A poorly planned attempt at dumping mud over the unfortunate feline. .. Jim would probably end up with even more mud on his fur if he missed, but, you know, Jim was practically begging for this, anyways. Why would he start a mud ball fight without knowing the consequences? He wasn't that dumb. Or vain, despite what Uhura probably thought.

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