Chapter Text
Red light glimmers through the depths of the deep, dark ocean. Something moves— fast, enormous, alive.
A voice bubbles through comm static:
"Team Two, you're losing signal—are you reading this? Team Two?"
Then the water splits open with a scream.
The Krakoan trawler is torn apart, the metal hull shredded by something with teeth the size of daggers. Blood spills upward like smoke.
And beneath it, two faint yellow eyes open in the abyss.
In the morning, Krakoa's jungles hum with life — birds, vines, mutant crabs scuttling through glowing tide pools. A stark contrast to what is being investigated.
Wolverine crouches near the waterline, one hand in the surf. His claws are out. The foam smells wrong — metallic, burnt. "There's blood in the salt. Not human. Not fish, either."
Jean Grey hovers nearby, her telepathy brushing through the air like silk threads. "I can feel echoes of fear. They died fast."
Behind her, Cyclops adjusts his visor, scanning the waves. "We need eyes under the surface."
A splash erupts behind them — a blue blur, all laughter and motion.
Beam bursts out of the shallows, half-shark grin and manic energy radiating off him like heat. "You called for me, buddies? The ocean's my domain! I'll find whatever chewed your friends!"
Wolverine rolls his eyes but can't suppress the faint grin tugging his mouth. "You sure it ain't you chewin' 'em?"
Beam's grin grew wider. "Heehee, maybe I was! Let's find out!"
He dives back in before Cyclops can even reply — a streak of fin and foam disappearing into the red light of dawn.
Krakoa's waters are surreal — coral shaped like veins, phosphorescent kelp weaving through sunken bones. The mutant nation's roots extend deep, growing like living architecture.
Beam swims effortlessly through it all. His body hums with unnatural joy — this is where he belongs.
He hums a song only sharks could know, a rhythm of current and pulse. But then the ocean grows silent.
A carcass drifts upward — a mutant fisherman, half his body dissolved into coral. His eyes are gone.
Beam's smile falters. He tilts his head, sniffing. Something stinks of hellfire.
Then he hears it — whispering, deep and guttural.
"Return, Fiend of the Depth. Return home."
Beam freezes. The water vibrates.
A shape emerges — vast, twisted, like an anglerfish built from bones and red coral. Its eyes burn.
The sea itself seems to recoil as it speaks.
"My child..."
Beam growls, rows of shark teeth flashing. "You're not my daddy. You're dinner."
He lunges — tearing through the monster's flesh, ripping gills, veins, and sinew apart in a blur of brutality. But when he looks down, the creature's blood is black fire. It coats his arms. It sinks into his skin.
Meanwhile, Wolverine, Cyclops, Jean, and Nightcrawler are aboard a hover skiff over the site. Jean's eyes flash white as she projects her mind downward. "He's fighting something... something old."
"Pull him out, now." Cyclops orders.
Jean strains to contain the dangerous situation below. "I'm trying—he's... changing."
The water beneath them erupts.
Beam bursts up, roaring, dragging the monster's decapitated head in one hand. It hits the deck with a wet crack. Steam rises from his body — his skin burning, glowing faintly red.
"Told ya!" Beam shouts triumphantly. "Shark wins again!"
Wolverine steps forward, claws half-unsheathed. "You smell like brimstone, bub."
"I smell like victory, buddy!" Beam corrects.
But then the severed head opens its eyes. A jet of black fluid sprays from its mouth — striking Beam across the chest. He screams, the sound warped, echoing like thunder underwater.
Jean reaches out telepathically and gasps. "There's something inside him... not mutant. Not even alive."
Cyclops tries to regain control of the situation. "Contain him!" He shouts.
Beam's veins glow red as his gills flare open, water pouring from his skin. He looks at them, confused, afraid. "Buddies?"
The sky darkens. The sea begins to boil.
From beneath Krakoa, a vast tremor ripples outward and the water opens an eye. The ocean has become a living thing — pupil of black, iris of red coral.
Beam floats at the center, his silhouette small against the impossible scale of what stares back. Something ancient stirs beneath paradise. And it knows his name.