There were many things that the general public didn't know about him, unless they were as observant as he was. For example, many didn't know his musical prowess, although that was his own fault. He was left-handed, or pawed, and had a habit of bouncing or fidgeting. He was a kleptomaniac, stealing items without any thought other the fun behind it. He was born and raised in the heart of Romania, although his exact lineage was a kin to a European mutt's, and he had long forgotten the native language. He didn't have a shadow, and his true form was only a shadow itself. He was missing a molar in his set of shark-like teeth, knocked out in a fight over something he couldn't recall. He was most likely dyslexic, and probably required glasses. But those were all little details, things that didn't matter to him. His real name included. He didn't ever plan on revealing his birthname to anyone, not even Ska'arq, it was merely a faded memory of his life before his early death. He was called Beck, up until he required a new name to evade capture. So naturally, he stratched out a few of the letters, and Pad was created. It was an alias to operate under, until that alias took over. It was only a name, a name he had owned for five-hundred years. He barely thought of himself as Beck, a poor street rat still learning how to scrape along, anymore.
The forest had also been home for five-hundred years. So much so, you could say that the ghost had become always part of the forest himself. Returning back to his boundless home with a sack of newly stolen treasures carried along in his jaws, it was hard not to notice his peculiar gait. It was strangely elegant, though not in the way Imperia's was. Even with all the erratic steps and uncontrolled twitches, there was a feral precision in his stalking, adapting to every bush, rock, or tree in his way. A wide ditch in the terrain came across his path, and not thinking anything of it, he began to skid down the gritty incline, carelessly turned like a halting skier.
He didn't have the best footing and he miscalculated the steepness. His ankle rolled, causing him to tumble the rest of the way with little control of where his body landed. And coincidentally, his cranium smacked hard against a stray boulder with a hollowed thud. Seeing stars and all the constellations that came with them, Pad fell limp, squeezing his eyelids shut to try and force away the accompanying nausua. It was dangerous for him to close his eyes to the world, quite frequently unwanted memories would flash before his mind, a constant barrage of regret, anger, and fear. Soon, the ghost's head tilted back against the earth, freefalling into the past.
He didn't romantize death. Not anymore. The events causing his passing were absolutely traumatic, but the Grim Reaper was but mere acquaintance, simply doing his eternal job. If you asked him what death was like, he could tell you exactly what had lead up to it, but not the exact moment his consciousness slipped away from his body. And it was even harder to describe what happened afterwards.
There was darkness. It was an unnatural darkness, the kind that lingered in the edges of vision, the darkness that was never meant to be seen. Yet he was surrounded by it. Everything was colder than the highest mountain's peak, and at the same time, hotter than the lowest desert valley. There was a moment before he moved at all, unsure if he was there. Off in the unpercievable distance were two lines of nameless souls, one beginning the climb of what appeared to be a staircase, and the other boarding into a crammed boat. He pushed himself off the pitch black and invisible floor, sitting cross-legged and rubbing his temples as he tried the process everything and nothing, the final juxtaposition. The boy did not notice his paper-thin outline nor his numbed sense, not even the darkened shackles chained to his wrists- all he noticed was that he wasn't breathing. Despite the strain of oxygen-deprived lungs never occuring, it still felt like being strangled, and he stumbled backwards in a panic, confused and still exhausted from what he didn't perceive as death.
A sourceless light blinded him like a spotlight, and Pad shielded his dulled eyes with a translucent and shadowy hand as a small circle of white brightened his area, glancing fearfully around for a hidden predator. "Relax, child, there's nothing that can hurt you here." The disembodied voice rumbled from afar, smooth and scratchy.
The boy parted his mouth to speak, but with no air to voice his suspisions, he remained silent, hands wrapping around his neck and attached chains softly clinking as he tried to cope without breathing. "If you must talk, you must adapt. Quite simple, really."
The spirit shuddered with concentration, failing the first few times before finally gasping the nonexistent atmosphere. And immediately, he started coughing. The burning pain in his chest was even worse than when he died. Falling to his knees, it took a while of hacking and wheezing before he breathed out, "Who are you? What happened?"
"One of the overseers of this realm, and you died."
The word struck him right in the gut. Dead? No, he shouldn't be dead, he was alive a few minutes ago. Slumping over in shock, the boy barely listened as the overseer listed off monotonously. "Let's see here... name, Beck, age, twelve, no living relatives, cause of death, exsanguination from a puncture wound, although it seems you were also severily dehydrated and malnourished-"
"That ain't my name." Beck mumbled, voice quiet and weak as he hugged his knees close to his aching chest.
"Was it what your mother named you?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Then it is your name. Do not argue with me, I have a lot of souls to speak with. Continuing on."
"Does that mean you're the Devil? Is this Hell? Where's the fires, and the demons, and the torture? I was promised torture!" the boy perked, craning his neck to question the booming voice. He was raised in an extremely religious era, and that religon was what drove his family to be persecuted, naturally, he assumed the worst.
"I go by many names, child. And stop asking questions!" the Devil snarled, causing Beck to flinch, before settling back down, eager to get this one over with. "Ahem. According to my notes here, you've stolen from hundreds of people and killed five before you've even reached adolescence, and yet you haven't been assigned anywhere. Quite a rare case for someone so young."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you get to join them." A draft of freezing air swept past him, forcing Beck to turn and see what was to become of his soul. Countless shadowed figures huddled close together, exhausted yet unable to rest, waiting for nothing at all. Fields upon fields of the trapped souls stared blankly at a newcomer. It was limbo.
The dead boy gave a tremble, forcing himself to look away from the infinite number of mortal souls prevented from crossing over. "I don't wanna be like them! You're all powerful- give me a second chance, please! I'll do anything!" Beck pleaded, damaged chest heaving still air as he tried to bargain with the Devil themself.
There was a buzzing silence, and the only sound that could be heard was the frantic panting of the boy and the rattling chains that kept him from running off to join the lines to Heaven and Hell. The gravelly yet suave voice broke the silence after a minute. "Are you sure you want to do that?" The boy nodded in response, too desperate to use common sense. He could almost hear a wicked smile crack open. "If I send you back to the mortal realm, will you do whatever I ask?"
"Yes, sure."
"Then a deal's a deal! Bon voyage, little Beck, you'll know what to do." the voice cackled, until the echoing abruptly vanished, and Beck was left alone. Before he could fully comprehend the words spoken to him, the ground beneath turned to a tar-like substance, and monsterous hands made of the same black substance emerged and reached for the chains clasped around Beck's wrists. With a sharp yank downwards, the boy was being dragged down into the murk, voice muted and rasping as he cried out in terror. Despite his thrashing, more hands sprouted from the tar until he was restrained in every way imaginable. The boy was pulled under, and everything was dark again.
The feline Pad recovered from fainting on his back, still struggling against unexistant foes. Flipping over, Pad, no, Beck wrenched himself to his feet, ignoring the dried and inky blood spread across the back of his skull. A whirlwind of thoughts bombarded his concussed mind. The ghost foggily remembered the day when he ditched his birthname to avoid capture. That was the day his life fully shifted to that of a criminal's, a life (and later afterlife) of hiding, stealing, and killing. Pad was the boy who had been trapped into a cruel game of survival of the fittest, the boy who was trapped by the Devil, the boy who had been trapped from the start. Such a simple name had created a monster in Beck, and only now did that monster have nothing else to destroy in his blind rages. So, Pad took the retirement with a high chin, and a nasty grin, and Beck was freed.
As the ghostly shapeshifter rose to his feet, he knew he truly hadn't changed. Beck and Pad were the same child, but he was hopeful that a name not tied to so much death and hatred would allow him to try and alter his despised reputation. With a rattling breath, Beck began to limp to camp, leaving behind his stolen items and his old alias.
Clambering to the peak of a stump in the center of camp, the feline cleared his throat- although that wouldn't help his wheezing vocals- and called out, "Alright, fleshies! Listen up! My real name ain't Pad, it's Beck. And that's what you should call me now. Even if you didn't know me before." Beck paused, rasping in an awkward breath before adding much more timidly, "Ya can still call me Pad, I guess."