Running had always been a key part of his survival. It started off as only a necessity, and gradually become an escape. For someone so wiry and emaciated, he was quite enduring. Even if it couldn't be noticed from first glances, Beck would of been lean and healthy if it weren't for, well, every misfortune in his life. Ropey muscles and calluses were all he had left of his athletic prowess. And even though being frozen in the state of his death prevented anything permentantly changing him, the ghost honestly tried.
That's what pushed him to take a run from camp and to wherever his feet sprinted. He ran from camp, ran from his few friends and trustworthy peers, ran from his many enemies and issues. Deep down, he was a coward, like Arno had put it. And Beck knew it. It didn't help that a coy voice in the back of his mind was growing steadily louder, trying to coax him into the bad habits he wanted to break. Yet instead of confronting himself, he just wanted to run.
It started off with a jog, sneaking away from all of his sleeping clanmates in the morning mist, a shadow of dappled fur. Eventually, the demon increased his pace, restless thoughts becoming a melody to the rhythmic pulse of his silent footsteps. What was wrong with him? He'd changed his name, why wasn't he changing to match? Would anybody forgive him for all the times he lashed out? Why was he still here? Jerseyboy was right, he deserved this. No, he didn't, stop thinking that. It would be easy to just slit his throat, wouldn't it, Beck? He could end Harrison's misery, he could make them see that he was to be feared. He wouldn't have to lose Ska'arq if he was dead with him-
He came to a screeching halt, ignoring the grits digging nto his burned paws. It took a moment of panting in the summer heat to cast away his previous thinking. It had been at least a few hours of his constant running, but Beck didn't feel the ache in his legs just yet. Cutting his break short, the shapeshifter began again, but didn't get far when the coughing started.
It was a measly hack, Beck pushed past it, settling back into his reckless pace. That's when a familiar fire spread throughout his ribcage, spurring him to slow down, heaving in shallow breaths. He didn't think much of it, it was just a little pain, and the ghost continued to push himself.
Ultimately, he ended up writhing in the dust, curled up in a defensive ball as he wheezed and coughed. It only got worse the more he panicked, until it felt like he was being strangled, invisible hands clasping around his throat and nonexistant feet kicking into his chest. With little to no ragged gasps for air in between his hoarse barking, Beck barely noticed as he began to spit up thick clots of his signature black blood. His mouth was quickly flooded with the foul inky fluid, his old punctured lung acting up due to being overworked.
In his hysteric state, he allowed his mental barrier against the toxic voice in his mind to crumble. The honey sweet words from his true self only increased Beck's pain. He was a coward, an urchin, a theif, a demon, a monster. Nobody could love a monster. He had killed so many out of spite, he killed without a second thought. Truly monsterous. As he vomited up his own blood, frustrated tears glazed over his frightened eyes. Legs spawled as he struggled to prevent his mental breakdown, his claws snagged onto the dying grass around him in a blind attempt to freel himself from imaginary enemies. Although he couldn't find his voice to formulate a word, Beck somehow managed to scream out a single command, rasping and gagging through the coughing, "Stop it!" The strangely gargled plead rang out through the forest, but seeing his distance from camp, it was unlikely he would receive help soon.
Unable to gulp in a breath of oxygen without his entire respiratory system hacking it back up, Beck lay on his side, scrunching his eyes closes as he begged to any deity out there for his coughing fit to pass over.