Alternate X-Men #51
Michael Triggs at TRIGGS_M@bentley.edu


Cover : "A much younger Mr. Sinister digging a grave in the foreground,
         with a shovel, as the psychic form of Scott's face watches in
         shock from the background. In Blue, the Caption:"

        -*- "Digging Through The Dirt" -*-

Title : "Sensory Overload"


Scene: Someplace.. Somewhere.. Somewhen..
=========================================

Scott Summer's mind is somewhere he cannot completely comprehend. He
finds it difficult to isolate himself from the psychic blend he has found
himself to be a part of. On one level of consciousness, he can feel wires
piercing him in all places, as if he were the heart of some mechanical
organism. However, as if he were in a realm between reality, and some sort
of virtual dream, he also feels somewhere else. Who's thoughts are these?
For a split second, he honestly doesn't know. However, as he feels a 
Sinister presence hovering above his lying form, everything becomes 
"crystal clear", in a matter of speaking.

And suddenly, Scott Summers, the X-Men known as Cyclops, realizes he is
looking to the head of the insane. What will he find there? A voice
speaks, from the darkness, from within the room, and within Scott's mind:

Sinister : <In a low raspy voice, intertwined with coughs> : Come Scott,
            you always wanted to know all the answers behind me. Now's
            your chance. Here's your chance to see what makes me tick.
            Think of it as a parting gift. Before I finish the mind-meld..
            Besides, there is still time left while my final cards are
            played out. I just have to dial out to an old friend of yours
            and mine first. It should only take a second.

If Scott Summers were upright, he could see the suspended animation
unit Sinister was pointing at with his finger.. At a virtual crawl, he
reaches over to a console nearby, hitting a button, as a beeping noise
emits from the machine, breaking the silent humming of gears in the room..

In Scott's mind, mental pictures from Sinister's Psyche flood into his 
head. It can be summed up in one word : STARS. 

============================================================================

Scene : Mid-Air.. Somewhere in the Continental United States.. An aircraft 
        of some kind.. Light Years beyond anything the earth has seen 
        before.. The cutting edge of technology carrying the cutting edge 
        of evolution.. However, even it might not get what remains of the 
        X-Men there in time.. Their ranks have been thinned in the last few 
        weeks considerably.. 

        (Role-Call : Bishop, The Beast, Jean Grey, Wolverine)
        
        Bishop: I still don't know what to think about this direct approach. 
        With Ororo guarding the mansion, and Bobby off at Muir Isle, our 
        rankings are thin enough as it is. Is going after Sinister in this 
        direct manner a wise choice?

        (Over an Intercom, Professor Xavier's voice can be heard, the 
         slightest hint of anxiety coming from it.)

        Xavier: I fear we have little choice in the manner. If what
                Threnody tells us is true, this is a critical situation.
                Time is of the essence.

       Bishop <putting hand to head> : It has been said that one should
                                       give up a finger to save the hand.
                                       Does that apply here?        
       
       Jean, who has been sitting pensively in the back, choking in her
       thoughts, finally speaks up:

       Jean <a little hostile> : Not when that finger is my husband..

       Wolverine, sitting in the back, smoking a cigar, does his best to
       avoid the automated "non-smoking regulators":

       Wolverine <taking a puff> : A wise man also once said kill the head, 
                                   and the body dies with it. 

       Beast <manning the controls> : In a world of poets and dreams, not
                                      everything can be explained in
                                      strategy. Sometimes you just have
                                      to go with the flow <.>

       In a crackle of energy, the face of Threnody appears on the monitor.
       Overlapping that of Professor Xavier.. Beast shudders at being
       forced to look at what's left of her.. A physical form no more,
       Threnody is now just a ghost in the machine.. It had been one of his
       "goings with the flow" which had brought this cruel fate upon this
       mysterious street urchin. And, he bites his tongue for saying what 
       he just said.

       Threnody <image wavering> : Buckle Up guys. Hang A Right. We're
                                   heading up to the snowy, fun-filled
                                   land of <click>..

       <Threnody's image fades.. A second later it returns, looking a little
        glass-eyed, and oblivious..>

        Jean, raps on the monitor, attempting to get Threnody's attention.

        <rap, rap>

        Jean : Where?!? Where are they keeping Scott?

        Threnody : Sorry, I was .. distracted.. 
        
        "ALASKA"..
       
Scene : Alaska
==============

        For the closest guess at a gender, it might be considered a she. 
        However, this really isn't the odd creature's true nature. Just 
        an influence from those she has associated herself with in the 
        past. These associations put herself and others in danger. So, she 
        went away, to a place where she would have no memory of her actions 
        on the third planet from the Yellow Sun, known as Earth. At least, 
        that's what she thought. Suddenly, memories which she hasn't 
        experienced in over a year begin flooding back into her mind. 
        "Like a beacon, they call." Part of her wants to answer the call, 
        part of her, a part that was raped by humanity, wants to hide even 
        deeper in the obliviousness of the universe.


"The Northern Lights aren't the only thing that are gracing the skies
with its presence tonight. A solar flare shoots across the sky, heading
due south. It circles in the air, as amateur astronomers stare from the
ground in bewilderment."

<fade out>

Scene : Somewhen
================

A workshop. Nathaniel Essex always dreamt of building the perfect human.
The shovel in the corner was for gravedigging. Not one of his favorite
activities, but in order to reap the fruits, seeds had to be planted.
That always was one of his favorite sayings.

A young man. Essex sits at his desk, quickly writing down a journal entry 
in a booklet. Low on ink, he returns the pen to the blotter, filling the 
quills to the tip with ink sloppily. Nathan squirms as a loud pounding can.
be heard coming from the door. The door begins to splinter.. The book drops
to the floor.. One page can be seen..

Journal Entry 
=============

June 3rd, 1810 : I am nearly complete in my TYPE Alpha Organism. The 
                 the cereberal unit seems to be functioning properly.
                 Although, the optical nerves seem to be defective. I plan
                 to return to the Branson Graveyard tonight in order to
                 get a new set of eyes before the brain "takes" enough to
                 reject them.

June 5th, 1810 : Oh God. My work is ruined-- <writing sloppy cutoff>

Nathaniel stares at the door, as it falls down.. Where it stood, something
more "alive" now stands..

Nathaniel <shouting at the door> : My work! Down the drain! Why?

A Voice : You've wasted ten years molding the dead like clay, Essex..
          Now, why not try molding the living?

Nathaniel : What are you talking about? 

A Voice : I'm talking about Power Nathan.. You impress me.. All the right 
          ideas, done in the wrong ways.. I want you to build my army of
          tomorrow.. Serve me..

Nathaniel : And what do I get in exchange? I don't work for free..

A Voice : I'll give you exactly what you always wanted out of this -
          Immortality.. Take your time in deciding.. You have over two 
          hundred years to think it over..

<A flash>
---

June 10th, 1810 : Everything that is sane seems to be rotting away.. Ever 
                  since my encounter a fortnight back, nothing has been 
                  right.. My dreams have been haunted with things not 
                  completely within my understanding.. And my skin.. Good 
                  God, my whole body.. I sought to create the perfect 
                  monster.. And I ended up doing so, in a way I hadn't 
                  anticipated.. God help me.. 
                  
  "God help me.."

END.









