Control

by Redhawk

I have been reborn, made anew.

I have been reborn, reforged in the fires of my desert home. I have retreated deep underground, to consider my situation. I have no need to hide my face, no need anymore to conceal who I am.

The cold, transparent sphere in which I find myself is hard and unyielding. Its crystalline perfection defies the ken of mortal man.

But I am not mortal. I have never been mortal.

This is not the shell that I had intended, yet this one can still serve me well. It is strong, fit, healthy, and young. All that I require. And while the Grey boy's body is more powerful, with psionics that would have made me unto a God, Cyclops is a not-unworthy host in and of itself.

Yet this body is flawed. I can feel it, sense it in my reconstructed ruby quartz eyes, see it reflected in the ruby quartz that lines this chamber in all particulars.

There is more power here then ever the boy had dreamed, locked away from him by a childhood weakness. There is no need for this.

I twist my power, rippling the very stuff of my brain. The power fights me, of course. This form is new to me, different and alien. But, as in all things, I am its master, and the power is once again mine to wield as I see fit.

As the neurons reform and re-knit, pain wracks my body. My mind is aflame, a kaleidoscopic montage of images pinwheeling across my soul's sight.

I see ...

A young woman, blonde hair flying askew in the windy backwash, hurriedly shoves a parachute into my hands. I try to protest, but she only kisses me on the forehead and shoves us from the plane. Freefall -- remembered terror seizes in my throat as debris from the plane sets the chute afire.

I see...

My servant Essex, performing abominations upon my flesh, seeking the drawpoint of my well of power. His mind flashing through mine, carefully scrubbing away thought and feelings, memory and emotion, leaving me spent and exhausted in my bed.

I see...

A pretty red-haired girl, smiling at the pretty blonde boy with an infatuated grin.

Yet I am in control.

I see...

Pain. A small hairy beast-man takes the woman I love into his arms. She smiles at him, all tenderness and warmth, and wrath rises in a terrible staccato within me.

I see...

Her die on the moon, terrible in aspect and mien, and the spike of grief threatens to overwhelm me. I see her ashes drifting to mingle with the lunar dust.

I see...

My love's face on a stranger. I see the stranger move to kiss me. I see her, later, holding my son in her arms. I see her laughing, red hair billowing in the wind, as she wields the knife before him.

My eyes revert back to regular flesh, and concussive force rushes from me like a beast unleashed, echoing around the room, slamming into my kneeling body.

Inside my brain, struggling connections reform slowly. Neural pathways long dead flare into bitter life, their coming heralded by the fires of hellish use.

I would not have it any other way. I am in control.

Tears trickle down my face, the first in many, many years. I see a headstrong Indian plunge to his death.

I see a pretty young blonde racked with a wasting illness, dying slowly. I remember the hot anger of helplessness, then the crushing defeat of sorrow. I see a big man destroyed inside and out by a grief he will not let anyone touch.

I see twisted hidden mutants die, cut down laughingly for no cause. I see rivers of blood coursing around my boots, staining my soul. I see children hoisted on spears, their tiny screams echoing in my ears. I see a little misshapen boy drawing on the wall with marker.

I see my friend crucified, pinned to a wall via spears, to fly no more. I see him later, blue-skinned and hard, an Angel of Death. I see him, angry and enraged, and I smile, for here is the true mettle of a man. Yet here too I feel sadness, a loss of innocence.

My eyes spit deadly force, their fires surging in the wash of memories that are not mine. My body quivers in esctatic pain, completing the cycle.

I see laziness, sloth, weakness. I see failure after failure. I see a woman afraid to touch embracing the man who will not trust. I see a man who is a sign of things to be, and I see the Hell of his time. I see a man whose dreams of peace were slain by demons that consumed him, a mindrape giving birth to a child of Evil. I see a boy who will not try, a woman who knows not her own self but craves the joy of the knife, and a genius reduced to idiocy.

Something inside my brain shifts, and I scream, giving voice to the pain. I feel a mindlink severed, and my mind screams for its return. The pain is nothing, and everything.

The torrent from my eyes trickes to a rivulet, then subsides. I gaze upon the crystalline chamber as a new man.

I am in control.

I am Scott Summers.

I am En Sabah Nur.

I am a God. And the world will fear my Wrath.

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