When Beck suggested cleaning up some of the swamp's water in the first place, he figured Morgan would understand it as finding a particularly murky pond, and just filtering out the toxins and trash so that it was drinkable. The commander assumed it wouldn't be permanent; the radiation and sludge would just trickle back in and corrupt the swamp all over again, an infection that could never be truly healed. But it was something, even if it was only a temporary band-aid over a diseased gash. Yet the idea of water-filtering somehow translated into an alligator massacre. The danger of the ancient reptiles was one he had known when he took up haunting in the swamp at least a few years before he dragged a bunch of misfits into a group with him. It was an easy lesson to learn: the healthy wildlife wouldn't harm you if you never bothered them. A mutual agreement across species to co-exist in a fragile balance. If an animal happened to be unfit for survival and snatched up as a meal, it was their own fault, not the predator's. It was his skewed philosophy that they were sharing the land with the creatures already present, and the native wildlife deserved to be respected.

    But beyond his tree-hugging ramblings, the sounds of distant commotion and bubbling stirred a confused pang through his being, rearing from his lazy slump between a tree's trunk and its branch. Ears twitched about on his head, two triangular satellites searching for the source of his disturbance. Having missed the samoyed's call for assistance, Beck was left to slip down from his perch and stalk in the direction of the gurgling water. He couldn't imagine what was going on that could cause so much ruckus. Was there a fight? Aw, he was missing out on it then. His limping pace quickened, eager to arrive fashionably late and save the day again by shedding trespasser blood.

    The sight he was greeted with was not what he had been expecting. The poltergeist stood in shock on the fringes of the patrol for a moment or two, jaw dropping slightly in a melting pot of emotions. "What d'ya think you're doin'?" Beck finally shrieked out above the noise, his voice fractured and close to wailing. It was difficult not to notice his frantic glancing back and forth between the looming water under the control of Morgan and the steam, stubby tail beginning to tuck as he fought the urge to cower. "Don't kill 'em -- they didn't do anythin'!" Their commander sounded like a child tugging at its parents clothes, pleading with them to stop, as if he had forgotten his own hands were stained with the mixed blood of innocents. He wanted to debate with them, tell them that the alligators didn't deserve to die for living in their own home, but all that could come out was a shrill jumble of words. "They -- they ain't done nothin' but mind their own business, ya can't kill 'em, ya can't --" His stammering trailed away into incoherent mumbling as his voice gave out from yelling, fumbling for words he couldn't produce with anything more than a hoarse squeak. He didn't know why it affected him so badly, his matted flanks faintly heaving with the struggle to force air he didn't need into lungs that didn't work.