T.V TAUGHT ME HOW TO FEEL / o, visiting

[beck.]

    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.

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[toboggan]

+ retro to migration

The early days of Tanglewood had been the ones to yearn for, for sure. Back when more than five people inhabited the clan; a flashback to the days of Malphas, his girl Stocking, Aya’s horrid tendencies, Ophelia’s unrivalled beauty, Abathur’s many eyes - all listed: deceased or missing. What had gone wrong, one’d wonder, was there a certain chain of inside events that propelled the tribe into such a state of disarray?

Only casting matters worse was the plentitude of ghosts roaming the glades, Tanglewood’s apparition problem being the worst out of all the groups, he’d heard. And, Leroy could gladly agree that was most certainly true. The haunting fuckers were such a threat, apparently, that the only solution that Morgan saw fit for this had been migration, deserting the swamp for a week or so, blindly wishing for the ghoulish activity to die down. The grizzled guardsman knew better, though. Ghosts don’t die of old age, everybody understood that. The logic behind merely relying on time to heal their wounds was foolish, greatly so - what needed to be done was more sage, greater amounts of saltwater, whatever they can that wasn’t hiding from their problems. Secreting oneself from a single issue was one thing, but dragging along an entire tribe for the ride? That was a whole other level. Still, it was the General’s word, and the General’s word was law, and Leroy’s days of lawbreaking were long over.

Back in the old Tanglewood, it was not uncommon to come across another Tangler fucking around in the underbrush while taking these walks. Nowadays, when the hound ventured out on his strolls, which he’d desperately require to stay sane, an uncanny vacancy was all he’d gotten. Until nowadays, that is. These times he’d often spot a phantom going about his ghostly day, and Leroy often found a way to mess them up. That’s what he’d like to believe, anyways. Anyhow, this stroll had been no different, and nigh ten minutes in, he’d spot yet another spectre, one of the destructive sorts, it seemed.

No matter. He’d simply return the favour.

Embracing an expression of pure chaos, the mutt bolted out of the shade in a similar fashion to a derailed train, making a beeline for the lucid feline, yowling as loud as he could. This tactic had worked before, he thought, as it caused the ghost to dematerialize into the air shortly afterwards (each time, unbeknownst to the canine, they’d reappear seconds later). However, as he dashed, something seemed out of sorts. A twang of familiarity filled the horizon, as if this spook was very different from the rest. Then, he realized what was up.

As far as he could recall, Beck never really interacted with him as another. The then-leader likely only spoke Leroy’s name only once, in a meeting where the feline announced all the newcomers to the rest of the gang. This would be odd.

"Hold up!" he’d cry, skidding to a stop, ”Are you, ghost, Beck, by any chance? Or are you his twin, in some way?” Like previously stated, the two never really clicked, so the hound would be greatly suprised if the see-through fellow could recollect any memory of him.

+ wrote this at 1 am sorry

[arrow]

[glow=black,1,400]DID I HIT THE SPOT, PISS YOU OFF, MAKE YOU A FOOL IN FRONT OF EVERYONE — ｡+ﾟ.[/glow]

Right. The earlier days. Shits and giggles and something about masks. A time where Arrow wasn't down to one or two friends, depending on if Leroy considered her a friend. A time where her friends weren't missing, dead, whatever the case may be. Hell, she even missed Malphas. Malphas! The ass with a mouth, and they'd started off fighting with each other. But that was in the past now, just some good memories to dream of and smile about. That was all, she'd moved on with time.

But then here, speak of the devil, came Leroy with a name on his tongue that made her frown. Beck? Couldn't have been. Beck was gone. Beck was gone with the others. "Ey, Leroy, the hell?" Arrow pushed through some foliage to take her place near the mutt after his little explosive moment, lord knows what he was doing. Was he scaring some ghosts off? Making them piss themselves? Could ghosts even do that?

She looked at the spook in question, whiskers twitching. She looked the newcomer up and down, green eyes narrowed. Well, shit, that cheek was certainly missing. Unless that was a common injury among ghosts...? Mhm. "Only ever seen that kind of scarring once."

[Morgan]

"It... it couldn't be anyone else."

Taking soft, slow steps, the General made his way toward some area vaguely near Arrow and Leroy. He bit lightly at the inside of his cheek, a strange combination of nostalgia and sadness hitting him simultaneously. The aura given off by the visitor was unmistakable; ironically enough, Beck brought with him a whole slew of memories, even if they were not his own. Morgan let out a tense sigh, and he looked straight down at the ground as he formed his icy mask. He remembered exactly how he felt the last time he saw the old Commander, and it hurt a lot.

Yet somewhere inside he also felt a tinge of happiness, or perhaps relief. He was happy that some fragment of Tanglewood's past was not gone. Even if so many Tanglers had died or disappeared, it seemed that some still floated about.

After gathering himself, the masked dog walked to approach Beck, looking carefully at him as if to make sure he was real. He took a bit to come up with the right words to say; it was not every day that he had the chance to see someone return from so long before, even if it was only temporary. Once he was ready, he asked,

"What happened to you, Beck?"

[VIGENERE CIPHER.]

[beck.]

    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.

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