Unleash the Beast!

Chapter 2: Home Is Where Your Leviacon Is (Part 2)

*this one'll be a bit longer...

Windstorm could not help but feel he was being scrutinized. Deeply. Put under a microscope or, perhaps, put on trial.

After the amiable greetings of the city of Nautilus (Wayfinder's home city no less) the inquisitive, sharp, somewhat skeptical look of the local Fleet Admiral, Mizzenmast, was...less than welcoming by comparison. Mizzenmast was not hostile by any means (he had greeted him just as jovially, really); however there was the distinct feeling that the Admiral was not exactly impressed by him. That wasn't at all surprising, what with being a stranger in every regard, but it was still enough to cause a ruffling of offense in his spark. That was the one downside of all this, he supposed: he could no longer rely on his credentials as he did back in Crystal City. No one knew who he was here. He had to build respect and credibility from the ground up.

Mizzenmast looked over to his guide. "I-look, I'm not one to question you, Wayfinder – your story sounds legitimate, but – are you sure it's him?"

"Positive. His sea-gift bears a pretty stunning resemblance to Maelstrom..." Wayfinder shrugged his shoulders, "if you squint, I guess. That's not his fault, chief. He doesn't have an aquatic form like everyone else here so of course it's going to look pretty different. He was raised on Cybertron. An aquatic alt. mode there just isn't practical. That'd be like tossing a dolphin onto shore and expecting it to literally walk."

Mizzenmast's expression grew, he thought, a touch sympathetic as his gaze shifted back to his subject. "Truth be told, not looking like us probably saved you a lot of unwarranted heckling."

He nodded to him. "Yes. I am aware of the tensions between Aquatron and Cybertron. Ostensibly a side effect of the War briefly touching your planet and you wanting nothing to do with it."

The big mech offered a friendly smile. "I'm glad to see you're intelligent enough to take note of that and not hastily rewrite us as traitors."

"Traitor implies there was some kind of alliance to begin with," he reminded him. "Being a colony does not by default denote an alliance. You were independent well before the War started. Calling you 'traitors' is akin to insisting that a cog is a piston; an absolute absurdity. But petty personal grievances do have a depressing tendency to skew facts."

At that assertion, Mizzenmast's skepticism was washed away. The same friendly smile that had first welcomed him into his office returned.

"We're fortunate how decent you are," he declared. "I suppose you'll be wanting to meet the others, then?" guessed the Admiral.

He bowed politely, "It would be a pleasure to."

"Come on, then. I'll introduce you to one. He can take it from there."

Mizzenmast swept past him, patting a shoulder as he went, and he followed after him towards the door. The Admiral paused soon after crossing the threshold though.

"Well?" he called back into the office. "What are you standing in there like a beached frigate for? Come on!"

Wayfinder's look became one of both horror and shock. "But, chief, you know the rules: no one but the Admirals are allowed to openly consort with the speakers!"

"Drown the rules," insisted the Admiral. "You brought our missing speaker home, Wayfinder. Besides," he winked, "no one else has to know, eh?"

The rapid shift from shock to sheer delight was almost dizzying. Wayfinder ran out to join them.

Frankly, he was somewhat surprised that Mizzenmast headed right back towards the bay where the Matador lay. Most of the idle spectators in the crowd had dispersed, leaving only those who were busy with repairs – which was still quite a crowd. One mech in particular caught his optics: a towering white-speckled, blue-grey mech even bigger than Mizzenmast; cables cascaded down past his neck – rather resembling dreadlocks in a way. The mech seemed to be in charge of organizing repair efforts.

"Trawler!" cried Mizzenmast.

The blue-grey giant turned, revealing a jovial, rounded face with a sharp chin. Mizzenmast gestured for him to come over, so he trotted over. It wasn't until he was up close that he could appreciate how big the mech was: easily rivaling Optimus in stature.

"Hey, chief! What's up?"

"Trawler, this is Windstorm. He is like you."

Trawler's beaming face became shocked for a moment. He practically jumped backwards. "Ah-weh! Are you for real?"

"Wait, Trawler is one?" a stunned Wayfinder gasped.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Trawler," he bowed politely.

Trawler's shock gave way to an even more beaming smile than before. He hunched over him to be more level with him, swept a hand out, and offered him a strange hand gesture. Windstorm stood awkwardly staring at it, not quite sure what the expected response was and feeling quite daft as a result.

The grey-blue giant laughed amiably, "I'm just teasing," he told him before holding his hand out palm first for a typical greeting. "Nice to finally meetcha, Windy."

"Likewise," he smiled back. "Forgive me if I seem ill-acclimated. This is all very new to me."

"Ah, don't worry about it," assured Trawler, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll getcha sorted out. Plenty of time!"

"Yeah, um, he's actually only staying a week, Trawler. He has other things to attend to," admitted Wayfinder hesitantly, "like, y'know, having a whole life back on Cybertron that he kinda has to get back to? On top of currently helping out with a situation on Earth?"

Trawler wasn't discouraged. "A week? Pfft! We've got forty-eight hour days; that's plenty of time!"

Without further ado, Trawler looped an arm around him and turned him towards the bay.

"You wanna join us, Wayfinder?" asked Trawler over his shoulder.

Wayfinder admitted he probably shouldn't; there were rules for a reason and he really didn't want break them if he could avoid it. But Wayfinder did assure that if Windstorm needed a place on dry land to stay after exploring, his door in Nautilus was open. Windstorm eagerly accepted the offer. Considering how dangerous the waters were, dry land was a literal safe haven – unless by some ungodly miracle one of those behemoths could haul itself onto land and terrorize him there, too.

With that horrifying thought, Trawler started guiding him through the crowd towards the water. As they passed by one cluster of 'bots, he thought he caught someone staring at him, intentionally catch his eye. Briefly, very briefly, he swore he saw glowing purple optics, but after a blink he saw they were, in fact, turquoise.

"Windy?" wondered Trawler. "Are you good?"

He glanced back at the blue-grey giant. "What? No. I-I'm quite alright. I just thought I saw..."

By the time he looked back, the 'bot in question was gone, vanished into the crowd.

"Are there any other outsiders here currently?" he demanded quickly.

"Mm. Just one, I think. Some scientist fella who wanted to study ship wrecks here for some reason or another, but the Admirals have him shore-side till they okay his request. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I was merely curious," he lied, briefly looking back towards the crowd.

Had his nervous processor been playing tricks? Had his optics deceived him? Surely if there was a Corrupticon present the Aquatronians would have noticed by now.

Trawler veered west to a little secluded beach. Mirror-clear water lapped at his trods. Trawler waded in.

"Uh...is that safe?" he wondered nervously.

"You're worried about Maelstrom," realized the blue-grey giant. "Don't be. Leviacons never attack their speakers."

"I was attacked," he reminded him stiffly.

"I don't think he knew you were on that ship; if he did he would've left you well enough alone."

It was hard to ignore Trawler's certainty, so he waded in after him. Once he was fully submerged, a little alert popped up which he accepted. His body swiftly morphed into the strange semi-fish form. Trawler actually looked impressed by it, admitting he'd had no idea that a land-based vehicle form could even be compatible with a sea-speaker's gift. Then, Trawler himself changed to match him: his long legs morphed into a long, muscular tail with a huge vertical fluke at the tip – a shark's tail judging by the shape.

Grinning, Trawler gestured him to follow before leisurely swimming off.

He swam after him. "Where are you taking me?"

"You were raised on Cybertron, yeah? I figured you would want to see where you actually came from," smiled Trawler.

His fellow sea-speaker led him out past into the open ocean. He was expecting a long journey but it took them perhaps half an hour of swimming to reach their destination: a very small island protected by a forest of low trees. It would have been rather inconspicuous if not for the lights wafting up from the island's center into, just visible through the vegetation. He thought he caught sight of a single building, too.

They were about a klick distant from the island when a loud clicking noise starting piercing his audials. Then, ahead, a monstrous shape could be discerned, one that came into terrifying focus as it approached. An armored, low head with long whiskers on the lower jaw; huge, tapered flippers in front, and tentacles like a cephalopod on its underside. The tail was honestly the most normal thing about the bizarre behemoth.

He panicked and backed off when he saw the teeth protruding from its jaw.

"Easy, easy, mech! It's cool," Trawler assured. "That's just Nekton."

"Another Leviacon?" he guessed.

"Yup! He's totally harmless though. Look, I'll show you. Nekton! Indoor voice, please!" he requested amiably.

The titan beast gave a little whine but quieted down on command. Trawler swam over to him, spread his arms, and gave the beast's huge snout a friendly hug. A happy chirrup said Nekton was quite happy with the greeting.

"See? He's just a big old sea puppy, really," Trawler called back, smiling. "Come on over!"

Wary, he joined Trawler in front of Nekton's snout. The whiskers on Nekton's chin came up to brush all over him – whiskers that were highly dexterous; perhaps a little more than he was strictly comfortable with.

"Yes. Ah. Mm. Hello, Nekton," he said awkwardly as the whiskers frisked right over his faceplates.

Nekton's frisk came to a stop with another happy round of clicking. His right flipper then swayed, almost like the gesture was saying "You may pass."

He was happy to get back onto land. Trawler led him through the brush until they reached a clearing. He caught his breath. In front of him lay a glowing font of color about fifty feet in diameter: Aquatron's Well. A smaller echo of the one back home. Just being close to it was having a strange side effect on his spark, like a low hum, one that sounded in tandem with the odd, inaudible hum the Well was emitting. It was not subconscious reverence, he realized. It was recognition.

"This...is where I came from," he muttered.

"Yup. Where you, me, and everyone else here came from."

"...That answers one question. Another still needs answering."

"You wanna know how you got to Cybertron," Trawler guessed correctly. "Ditto. I'm as curious as you are."

"I'm afraid that is my fault," came a new voice.

He turned. An elderly sea-green and lavender mech hobbled towards them out of the nearby building. He saw on his arm the markings used by blacksmiths back home.

"Free Mold?" gasped the blue-grey giant at his side. "What do you mean it's your fault?"

"Was I not clear, boy?" clipped the elderly mech. "I am the reason he wound up so far away from home. It was no accident either."

"Tell me. Please," Windstorm begged gently.

As a blacksmith going night on three centuries old, Free Mold knew what the little shell of liquid metal would be when it struggled to take shape. The usual protoform was never quite right the first time for such special individuals; they always required a little extra effort to mesh the conflicting physical data. And so, under his careful nudging, the little one finally solidified into what it was meant to be: a tiny mech, small enough to be cupped in his open palms.

The little mech wasn't very impressive to look at; none of them ever really were. Until they were given their adult forms they looked essentially the same as any other sparkling from Aquatron. Rounded edges. Large optics. An overall aquatic look to them. But this one – this one had something different to his trained old optics, something he had not seen in the others before him. Rather than be afraid and start keening, this one stared directly into his optics with such a deeply inquisitive look that he expected the new-built sea-speaker to question him.

"Hello," Free Mold greeted softly.

The little one tilted his little rounded helm to the side and made a curious little rising noise. Then his arms extended out and a happier noise came.

Free Mold knew that gesture. He plucked the little one off the table and went over to his log console. He prepared to type in with his free hand the new speaker's birth, but his hand paused just over the holographic keyboard. As soon as he input the data, the Fleet Admirals would know.

The little one made another inquisitive squeak, pointing at the glowing console with a delightful smile.

His hand pulled back. One of the more recent logs stared back at him with mute accusation. He vividly remembered young Outrigger's reaction when, one day, not long after her adult upgrade, a group of 'bots had shown up unannounced. They had declared what she was and had come to take her away for training. Outrigger had taken unkindly to the announcement; two of the mechs had been hospitalized after she had attacked them in a desperate bid to stay with her pod. Only the timely arrival of speaker Tsunami and speaker Siltswell had prevented any more bodily harm. Outrigger had gone with them, but with a burning hatred in her optics. Every time he had seen her since, that anger burned nearly as hot as it had then.

Free Mold was decided. Such inquisitive, energetic curiosity would be utterly squandered in the paranoid pursuit of protecting him. He would give this one a chance to be something else. He would send him elsewhere.

But where? And how?

The roof of his blacksmith's chamber rattled gently under the low thrum of a star-ship engine. The little one was startled yet entranced by the noise.

He emptied his tool box and tucked the now-confused little one inside. Free Mold then grabbed two small cubes from the table and handed one to him. Then he ducked outside, waded into the bay, and jettisoned towards Nautilus with the little one stowed safely.

When he reached Nautilus, he found what he had heard: a large CERF star-ship was hovering just above the bay. A groundbridge was open on the shore.

Once Free Mold was certain no one would spot him, he transformed and ducked into the portal, which led into the ship's hold. He looked around frantically until he found a nice little nook with nothing dangerous around it. The tool kit was gingerly placed down. But the little one was frightened at the new scenery. Wide lightning yellow optics darted around. He heard the beginnings of little keens form in his little throat.

"Hush. Hush," he soothed him. "It'll be alright."

"Hey, Jury Rig! Have you got those telluric inhibitors for me?" a voice from beyond the hold hollered.

Free Mold tensed. He frantically searched a nearby crate, found a data pad and stylus, and scribbled a message on it:

Please, take care of him. Give him a chance.

He dropped the datapad near the little one, gave the final tiny cube to him to keep him happy, gave one final comforting stroke to his tiny helm, and ducked back out of the portal.

Windstorm stood staring at the old blacksmith. No wonder he didn't remember anything; he had been no more than a new-built when he had left the planet!

"Fine Tune once told me he'd found me on a ship," he murmured, "but he never told me which ship or where it came from..."

"Your Guardian?" guessed Trawler.

Windstorm nodded. An old engineer, he clarified, highly respected, who would sporadically come out of retirement to help on any ship that needed him.

Free Mold sighed. "In my haste, I never could have imagined the consequences of that decision."

His spark skipped a beat. "Consequences?"

"Not long after you I sent you away, Maelstrom became violent – terribly so. For nearly ten years he indiscriminately attacked any foreign ship that dared come within reach of the water. His attacks were so routine, precautions had to be implemented."

"That is why only Aquatronian ships started hauling cargo here soon after relations were re-established," realized Windstorm. "I always thought it was a policy borne out of reactionary pettiness but –"

"I'm uncertain whether Maelstrom knew for sure what had happened or if he was assuming," continued Free Mold, "but regardless, the results were the same."

"So Tsunami was right," Trawler gasped. "Maelstrom wasn't just being temperamental. He was upset because his speaker was gone!"

Suddenly, the whine he had heard during the attack made sense. Maelstrom was not blindly aggressive. The "attacks" were probably Maelstrom searching for his missing speaker. He was upset, frustrated and desperate. How pitiable it must be, he thought, to have your voice taken from you without warning, to scream and bellow and rage but have no one understand you.

Free Mold hung his helm. "I am single-handedly responsible for angering a Leviacon King, endangering innocents, and creating a wedge between our people. I was a misguided, short-sighted fool. Forgive me."

Windstorm put a hand out on the mech's shoulder. "No. I should be thanking you. I would not trade what you did for anything."

"Really?" Hope came into Free Mold's old optics.

"Yes," he assured him, smiling. "Fine Tune raised me as lovingly as if I had come from the home Well. I prospered beyond what you could ever have imagined thanks to you. But I am back now. We can make this right."

"It will not be as simple as you make it seem. I took from you years of training as a sea-speaker," Free Mold apologized. "You are starting completely from scratch."

"Starting from scratch is something I've become familiar with lately," he admitted frankly. "I'd be a poor excuse for an engineer if I couldn't do so. Fine Tune always told me the mark of a true engineer was his or her ability to improvise solutions."

"And hey, better late than never, right?" grinned Trawler, leisurely rolling his shoulders.

Free Mold smiled wryly back. "Indeed, Trawler. I trust you and your siblings will teach him what he needs to know."

"You bet we will! Come on, Windy! Time to go back to school!"

Rather than be taken back to land, Trawler had taken him back out to sea where a crowd of eight had greeted him and introduced themselves. Tsunami, the stunning yet stern leader of the speakers, speaker for the mighty Tidal Wave. Siltswell, her rowdy and jovial Second-in-Command, speaker for the mysterious and shy Turbid. Dredger, the friendly, cool-toned speaker for Flotsam. Skerry, the brightly colored and chipper speaker for Reef Crusher. Keel, the lion-fish-like and somewhat fidgety speaker for Ripper. Depth Charge, the eerily silent but nonetheless welcoming speaker for the reclusive Deep Rush. Outrigger, the ill-tempered femme speaker for Wave Cutter. And, finally, the talkative and conversational tangent-loving femme Gust, speaker for Gale Force.

They were a very colorful bunch, to say the least. He personally took a great liking to Siltswell and Trawler.

And, after a day or two of showing him around to familiarize him, they had collectively decided to drop him in at the deep end.

"...This feels ill-advised," noted Windstorm as he floated in the middle of the ocean, klicks upon klicks from safe land.

"What, you thought you'd be taught in a nice cozy lecture hall?" the splotched beige and blue shark-tailed femme, Siltswell, teased.

"Uh...Yes?"

Siltswell laughed heartily. "This is the lecture hall!"

"What a wuss. He's totally gonna die," Outrigger grumbled.

"Outrigger, none of that," snapped Tsunami coldly. "Windstorm, sea-speaking is learned through practice. You will not get that in a lecture hall setting."

"Fair enough. How...how does this work, exactly?"

"Just call him!" squeaked the tiny Skerry.

"..How? I rather doubt these creatures have comm. links."

Dredger rolled his optics. "Not physically call him, Windstorm. It's a mental thing."

"Focus," Keel advised. "Reach out to him."

He shuttered his optics and focused. 'Maelstrom. Come. I am here.'

Nothing happened at first. Then, he felt an odd low roar in the back of his mind that progressively got louder until it sounded like the deluge of a monsoon. Oddly, he could tell it was not anger. It felt more like relief, really. Then, a form emerged out in the distance. Maelstrom was even more terrifying than the scanners had been able to show: a huge, long body that looked like a serpent had been mashed with a crocodile, with jagged dorsal spines jutting up from his back; a cavernous maw equipped with a massive set of teeth; short, stubby horns stuck out of his head. Huge semi-webbed forelimbs were tipped in titanic claws. An eel-like rudder of a tail pushed him through the water.

It took all his effort not to panic as the Leviacon got unnervingly close. But he seemed to sense that panic. He kept his maw shut and simply stared at him for a while through volatile, searing, glowing eyes bigger than he was.

"Wow! You're a quick learner!" Dredger smiled.

"Good," Trawler applauded. "Now, put your hand out. Let him talk through you. It's the only way they can."

He dared stretch a hand out to touch the tip of his snout. A low vibration in the water made his plating vibrate.

'Speaker?' an even deeper voice pounded in his mind like thunder.

"Yes. It's me."

Maelstrom's volatile optics flashed. 'Where? Gone?'

"Ahh...that's...complicated. Though I wonder if...One moment. Let me try something."

He focused and replayed Free Mold's words in his head. But he accompanied them with some of his best memories of Cybertron. He had no idea if any of it was getting through until another low vibration went through the water.

'Not taken. Washed away. Raised far. Stress unbearable.'

"I can imagine," he smiled faintly. "But it's alright. I'm here now. You don't need to worry anymore. Or attack any more ships."

Maelstrom let out another low vibration. The deluge in his mind settled into a torrential shower.

"Alrighty! Now for the fun part!" declared Keel.

Keel swam up and gave a few knocks on Maelstrom's jaw like he was knocking on a door. "Open up, big guy!"

The Leviacon glared at him.

"If you please," added Windstorm.

On command the huge beast's maw yawned open. He felt a little faint seeing that Maelstrom had, in fact, two sets of teeth: one larger set sticking directly out of his upper and lower outer maw, and another set of smaller, even sharper protruding on the inside of that maw. The larger outer set must have been the ones to puncture the Matador.

"Alright! In you go!" Keel told him.

He turned, flabbergasted. "I beg your pardon?!"

"Dude, relax. He's not gonna eat you," Keel assured.

"Yeah! See? His throat bulkhead's down," Gust pointed out. "Only way you get eaten is if you drill through it. You'll be fine!"

Indeed, there was a massive panel covering the Leviacon's throat. That didn't make him any less unnerved, though. Why in the Allspark would he need to go inside a Leviacon's mouth?

"Mael? Mind if I go in with him?" Siltswell requested. "Your boy's a little squeamish."

'Granted.'

"He said yes."

"Awesome! Come on!"

Siltswell practically dragged him in and swam up to the roof of the titan's maw where a strange thing was bolted. Upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be some kind of harness, with a single cable dangling down from above.

"This," said Siltswell, pointing at it, "is called the N-TIH unit. It's the most direct way to for a speaker to translate. That little cable you see there (she pointed) allows you direct access to the big guy's brain module."

"Allowing for a direct neural link to be established between both processors, thereby destroying any physical language barriers," he realized. "Impressive!"

"You wanna try it out?" she asked, optics glittering.

His curiosity got the better of him. Siltswell helped him figure out how to get the harness on and helpfully connected the cable to a hidden port on the back of his helm. The instant the cable was connected, a flood of information nearly caused him to black out. He felt...odd, too. Like he wasn't really in his own head anymore. He felt almost like he was floating, standing mid-air over a chasm with a single rickety bridge spanning the gap as powerful winds buffeted him from one side.

Even after the sense passed, he was left gasping, his whole awareness seared and numb.

A low groan came from the Leviacon. He could tell what it meant now. "Link re-established. Flow stable."

Siltswell unhooked him from the harness. He barely was able to activate his wind cannons to stay floating; all of his systems felt shocked and sluggish.

"The first link up is always rough," Siltswell admitted, smiling sympathetically. "You'll desensitize the more you do it."

"I hope so," he admitted shakily.

"I know so."

She led him back out into the open whereupon Maelstrom's maw creaked shut.

A week, as it came to a close, did not feel sufficient. There was so much information to absorb that he found himself, for once in his life, bewildered. Culture, language, sea-speaking, names, histories – he was learning of a whole world in the span of a single week. But his teachers had never shown a sense of urgency in their efforts. He felt perhaps they should have. As the sun rose on his final day, he couldn't help feeling fidgety, and unfortunately there was nothing around with which to occupy his twitching hands and over-eager processor as he waited for the ship to run through pre-flight diagnostics.

He could not help but let some relief through, however. There had been no sign of the strange violet-eyed mech from the beach. Perhaps he had been imagining it.

"Are all home-worlders this twitchy or is that just a 'you' thing?" came the high-pitched voice of little Skerry.

The little bright orange and white mini-con came and stood beside him on the beach.

"It's not often I have nothing to occupy my hands in tandem with my processor," he admitted.

"Here!"

She handed him a strange little cube with a great variety of buttons and switches on it.

"It's a fidget tool! Siltswell made it for you."

Surprised, he took it. He was surprised to find it fit his hand perfectly. He flipped some of the switches a few times. His hands were quite happy with it.

"Give her my thanks," he said, stashing it. "I can see this being very useful to me."

With a mighty bellow, the Matador roared back to life and rose from the water. A resounding cheer came from those who had helped fix it. He cheered with them.

"I suppose I should alert Mizzenmast of my departure," he noted.

But when he returned to the Admiral's home, the Admiral was not alone. Four other 'bots were in the circular room with him, and the air inside was fraught with tension from tight fields.

"The ship is repaired. I must return now," he told them hesitantly.

A tall, lean black and blue femme frowned. "I'm afraid we can't allow that, Windstorm."

"Excuse me?" he wondered.

"We? You mean the rest of you, Gondola," Mizzenmast growled. "You have no right to detain him!"

"We have every right to detain him," another Admiral stated coldly. "It's far too dangerous to send him out into the unknown. What if someone captures him?"

He stiffened. "I am more than capable of defending myself, thank you very much."

"I'm not willing to risk it. You're staying here," Gondola told him.

"Are you trying to start an interplanetary incident?!" cried Mizzenmast. "He's a citizen of Cybertron! Just because he was made here doesn't give you the right to functionally hold him prisoner!"

"Quite."

"Sir!"

They all turned. Siltswell stood on the threshold, optics wide. "We have a situation. The Sea-Graves. Someone's messed with them!"

Mizzenmast's anger blanched into horror. "What?"

"The bodies! All the bodies are gone!" Siltswell clarified, frantic. "Turbid can't find them anywhere! They were fine two days ago when we did a sweep and now they're just flat out gone!"

The silent Depth Charge ducked in under her arm. "Deep Rush found the Ship-Swallower missing from his grave, too," he reported in a quiet, wispy voice. "Apparently missing for a few days."

Now it was his turn to be horrified. "I beg your pardon – did you just say Ship-Swallower?"

"Undertow, Sovereign of the Hungry Seas," another Admiral, a large heavyset mech translated. "An absolute terror when he was alive. He earned that title for an obvious reason: he took to eating fleet ships."

It took a moment or two for that statement to sink in in all its horror. A Leviacon so massive it could swallow the sea-borne vessels of Aquatron?

"How in the seventy seas do you make off with a whole Leviacon?" demanded Siltswell. "You can't just put them on a dolly and cart them off!"

"Did you find anything at either site? Any clues?" Windstorm wondered.

"Yeah," Siltswell pulled a vial out of her hip compartment, filled with a glowing violet liquid. "I found this gunky stuff floating around in the water. Any clue what it is? I've never seen it before."

"I saw some of that substance as well," Depth Charge whispered. "It tasted horrible."

He let the horror of the fact that Depth Charge had actually, willingly tasted it slide for the moment.

"It's called Dark Energon," he clarified as terror crept into his spark. "With two sets of graves disturbed, and knowing how this substance works, that leads to only one logical conclusion: someone went on a re-animating spree."

"But...who? And where they'd all go?" demanded Mizzenmast. "It's not like an entire Leviacon can up and vanish. They're huge; impossible to miss."

An alert came from the Admiral's personal console. When he accepted it, a video feed appeared: a tall, gaunt mech stained violet and glowing with violet light. It was the same mech he had seen in the crowd, staring him down. Seared into his chassis was the horned crest of the Unmaker.

"Hello, Admirals!" the stranger greeted with a sneer.

"Regen?! What in the depths are you doing?!" Gondola cried.

""I stopped being the weak, sniveling Regen years ago! I am Scour! As for what I'm doing? I'm doing what I came here to do: cause chaos!" he stated, spreading his arms grandly.

"A Corrupticon," realized Windstorm. "So I didn't imagine you!"

"And I didn't imagine you either, you obnoxious little light-spawn!" he snarled, smiling, into the camera. "I was waiting for a big break to impress the master! Thanks to you, I now have one!"

"Corrupticon? Master?" Siltswell whispered into his audials. "Windstorm, what is going on?"

"I'll explain later," he whispered back. Then he turned back to address Scour. "I would tell you to leave Aquatron but I doubt you would listen. Fanatics aren't known for their rationality."

"Aah, a smart one. No, I'm not leaving. I got all set up just for you...Relkan! Have a look!"

The camera panned away, higher up, to reveal a truly nightmarish sight. A gargantuan, monstrous form bristling with teeth and claws and horns loomed below the waves, glowing violet, upon which Scour was riding. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of other, smaller forms surrounding it in a horde were also stained with that tell-tale noxious hue. Even more of them seemed to be bobbing up to the surface as he watched. Scour had raised an army of the dead, with a Leviacon as his battering ram.

"Demon! Sacrilege!" snapped Siltswell. "Put them back!"

Scour laughed as the camera returned. "Aw! Is this upsetting to you? Get used to it! I've a mind to do a little redecorating once I'm done here – starting with Nautilus! Unless you'd care to surrender?"

"Under what conditions?" Gondola demanded.

"The Relkan! Hand him over, and I might consider sparing your primitive little hovel!"

"Fat chance!" Siltswell barked back.

"You'll get him when the seas dry up!" agreed Mizzenmast.

"Then – a little advice – I'd prepare for battle," warned Scour. "I'm eager for a promotion. Taking out a Relkan and his speaker siblings? Oh-hoh, that will earn me one and then some."

The feed cut.

"I knew we shouldn't have trusted him!" hissed Gondola. "I told you, but did any of you listen?!"

"That's beside the point, now," Mizzenmast grunted. "We need to stop him before he inflicts causalities, if he hasn't already."

"And how exactly do you propose we stop an undead Leviacon?" demanded Windstorm flatly. That seemed a nigh-impossibly tall order.

"The same way we took Undertow out the last time," the heavyset Admiral hinted. "With the other Leviacons. Gather your kin, Siltswell. If it's a fight he wants, it's a fight he'll damn well get."

Siltswell saluted. "Outrigger will be happy to hear that, Broadsides! Come on, boys! Time to suit up!"

Author's Note: I dreadfully wanted to put more world-building in here, since Aquatron seems to get the short end in that regard, but that might've bogged the story down a little.