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Somewhere tucked away in the poltergeist's frazzled psyche, a quiet voice hissed at him to take a moment and think before flying off the handle for once in his miserable existence. Thinking, as he often discovered, was no fun at all. To expend his effort on developing a strategy beforehand was for cowards. And he, Beck Fisher, was no coward. He stared the grim reaper in the eye and spat blood at its feet. Infiltrating wherever the Pitt stored their prisoners would be a piece of cake. And, hey, if there was a bit of bloodshed involved too, he wouldn't complain.
Impulse guided his paws as he traversed the moonlit terrain to the desert border, apparition unseen. Despite the veil of invisibility protecting him from the eyes of possible guards, he always preferred the cover of the night to conceal him in shadow. Old habits stubbornly refused to fully die, just as he had. As he silently slipped through the dunes, tracks neglecting to follow where he stepped in the cooled sand, Beck found himself alone with his thoughts. First, Kiira had gone missing and Crow refused to do anything about it. The boy tried not to worry himself over the little medic, distracting himself with the present while her absence gnawed at the back of his brain. Then, Sam was snatched from right under everyone's noses before he even had a chance to apologize for the misunderstood favor of burning her cigarettes. As soon as he was freed from the pentagram confining him to his house, he sought retribution for the crimes against his friends. The death of Arrow delayed his wrath, but no longer. Anger crackled through his manifested body, volatile electricity that blinded him to everything other than the thought of both females returning home alive. And he would achieve what he wanted through any methods necessary. Even if it meant substituting in their place as they escaped. The boy would gladly swap places for them -- they each had a life to finish, after all.
His unanticipated mistake appeared in the form of a mask. A decorated skull displayed in the center of their jungle camp, on a spike no less. He scoffed slightly at this; someone must have taken inspiration from William Golding too close to heart. But the allusion wasn't what concerned him. It was Crow's mask. The accessory must have been lost in the raid. Beck allowed himself to rematerialize into view, only a few paces away from the foreboding spike. He figured the slave-holding bastards must have been asleep and he hadn't seen any guards while he slipped into their camp as easily as a bone-chilling wind. Surely, he could snag the general's mask before he sniffed out where Sam and Kiira were chained up. A low giggling bubbling from his waterlogged lungs, Beck crept forward until he could almost grab it -- if only he realized he wasn't the only one present.
Impulse guided his paws as he traversed the moonlit terrain to the desert border, apparition unseen. Despite the veil of invisibility protecting him from the eyes of possible guards, he always preferred the cover of the night to conceal him in shadow. Old habits stubbornly refused to fully die, just as he had. As he silently slipped through the dunes, tracks neglecting to follow where he stepped in the cooled sand, Beck found himself alone with his thoughts. First, Kiira had gone missing and Crow refused to do anything about it. The boy tried not to worry himself over the little medic, distracting himself with the present while her absence gnawed at the back of his brain. Then, Sam was snatched from right under everyone's noses before he even had a chance to apologize for the misunderstood favor of burning her cigarettes. As soon as he was freed from the pentagram confining him to his house, he sought retribution for the crimes against his friends. The death of Arrow delayed his wrath, but no longer. Anger crackled through his manifested body, volatile electricity that blinded him to everything other than the thought of both females returning home alive. And he would achieve what he wanted through any methods necessary. Even if it meant substituting in their place as they escaped. The boy would gladly swap places for them -- they each had a life to finish, after all.
His unanticipated mistake appeared in the form of a mask. A decorated skull displayed in the center of their jungle camp, on a spike no less. He scoffed slightly at this; someone must have taken inspiration from William Golding too close to heart. But the allusion wasn't what concerned him. It was Crow's mask. The accessory must have been lost in the raid. Beck allowed himself to rematerialize into view, only a few paces away from the foreboding spike. He figured the slave-holding bastards must have been asleep and he hadn't seen any guards while he slipped into their camp as easily as a bone-chilling wind. Surely, he could snag the general's mask before he sniffed out where Sam and Kiira were chained up. A low giggling bubbling from his waterlogged lungs, Beck crept forward until he could almost grab it -- if only he realized he wasn't the only one present.