Camelback Mountain
Scottsdale, Arizona

       Shane's Jeep hugged the small, winding road as it took him past one expensive home after the next. The road kept taking him further up the mountain, and the homes grew more costly and elaborate as the elevation rose. He recognized a couple of the places from when he was a kid. He'd been in them with his mother as she checked them out and prepared to sell them to well-to-do midwesterners looking to relocate to a warmer climate—and do so in style. Mom's commission off such houses made sure that the two of them never lacked anything—father or no father.
       Shane had never known his father. The man had died before his child—the super-hero everyone was now freaking over—was born, leaving his young bride, the beautiful soap opera actress, pregnant and widowed. Boy, she had done it, though. Now that Shane was old enough to appreciate everything she'd done for them, he was very proud. She’d left Hollywood behind, got her real estate license while trying to raise an infant, and moved to Arizona to build a home and a secure future for them. Shane wished he'd known his father, and wondered what growing up with two parents would have been like. But he didn't dwell on it. He and Mom had done just fine, and he had no gripes. If anything, he'd had a better childhood than most. He had no interest in checking out a gift horse's dental work whatsoever.
       The Scott home was about halfway up Camelback Mountain—which pretty much told you the family's status: well-off, but not aristocratic—and Shane pulled into his usual spot in their generous driveway. From there, climbing out of the Jeep, he had a spectacular view of Scottsdale, Tempe, and Phoenix spread out below. Spectacular to most people, of course. Most people didn't regularly see it while flying high over it on a high-tech snowboard. Now that was a view.
       The board, and his costume, were both designed and built at Rising Technologies, the company that Porter worked for and that had paid for the house that Shane was now walking around the side of. Porter was a physicist, and a pretty brilliant one, as Janis—his wife—kept telling Shane. Specifically, he dealt with sound. Together with a team of engineers, he designed all kinds of cool new pieces of technology—stuff for the public and for the military, too. The company hired him for a very solid reason—Porter was the kind of guy who always pushed himself, and never believed in the word "impossible". If the company had an idea, and it had to do with sound, Porter was going to find a way to make it work. He did great things for them, and they paid him accordingly. And they continued to pay him even after he went deaf.

       Porter's going deaf was anything but an on-the-job injury. But it was related, when you looked at the big picture. It wasn't a company accident that had taken his hearing; instead, it was one that had given him super-powers. Porter had been working on a new project, a military one, and it hadn't been going right. Being Porter, he found himself in his lab at three o'clock in the morning one night, trying to tweak his theories and make the thing—whatever is was—work. Something went wrong. Shane never got the full details, since what Porter was working on was government hush-hush, and Porter had an annoying habit of respecting things like that, but there was some kind of malfunction, and Porter himself had been caught in it. Whatever it was, he awoke, later, a changed man. His body was tougher and stronger, like he'd just lost twenty years off his age. His hearing was more acute than any human being's should be. And, of course, there was that thing about suddenly being able to let out a sonic scream that could knock down a brick wall.
       Considering the "delicate nature" of the experiments that had done this to him, Porter kept it a secret—from everyone except his team of engineers—Kip, Max and Evan. They helped him to do all manner of tests on himself to make sure this physiological change wasn't dangerous. It wasn't. It was just—well, some would say impossible, but when it came to Porter, of course, that word usually lost its meaning.
       And then Porter went and did something—in Shane's phraseology—absolutely whacked. He'd been going over all this with his wife (the only other non-Rising person who knew), trying to figure out why God had suddenly given him these abilities. Porter was a rare mix—a dedicated scientist and dedicated religious man. He never seemed to see the inherent problems his fellows in the scientific community did with him being both scientist and Mormon. To him, science was just another way to understand the world God had created. This caused more than a few heated discussions over lunches in the company dining hall, but he took them all in stride, and people just liked Porter too much to ever push an argument too far with him. So, when this accident happened, his faith told him it was all part of some larger plan. This thing that happened to him—even by scientific standards—was a certifiable miracle. Like, the Old Testament variety. To Porter's experience, God filled the day with all of his quiet miracles (such as Porter's daughters), but rarely pulled out the big Red Sea guns. There had to be a reason. What was he supposed to do with these amazing gifts?
       So, being a middle-aged physicist and father of five, he naturally decided to put on a costume and try fighting crime.

       He hadn't told his wife what he was doing at first—it was something he just had to do alone. What would drive a man to do something so outlandish, so ridiculous, was beyond even him. But it seemed there was a kind of logic to it. He'd read comic books frequently as a kid, and it seemed that using one's "powers" to combat evil was...what one did with powers. At work, he designed a protective costume, one with a mask that covered most of his face, leaving his mouth exposed to let loose with his sonic abilities. The mask was important. How could he ever let anyone find out what he was doing? First of all, the government wouldn't be too thrilled having a result of one of their secrets running around, telling the world, "Yes, it's me, Porter Scott of Rising Technologies, betrayer of national security!". Second, how would his family ever lead a normal life again? He guessed something like this would probably raise a good amount of press attention. No, it had to be a secret, this thing he was doing. A "secret identity" would have to be maintained. He told himself the mask was just for this, and the costume, just for protection. And yet, he paid close attention to the color scheme, the look of it all, and even fashioned himself a "hero name". Standing there in front of the mirror that first time, feeling partly ridiculous, but mostly exhilarated, he decided the figure that stared back at him went by the name of Anthem. Patriotic by nature, Porter felt the moniker fit like glove.
       And he did it. He really did it. He went out in the dark of night, while his wife and children slept, driving the old plateless, rusting Mustang he kept in the rear carport as a weekend project, wearing a trench coat over his slightly gaudy Kevlar creation and hiding his mask under an old newspaper on the seat next to him. He started out by cruising Scottsdale, wanting to keep his own neighborhood safe, but it soon became apparent he was going to have to venture into downtown Phoenix if he wanted to see any action. He hadn't expected to find anything that first night. Part of him, he was willing to admit, hoped he wouldn't find anything. Actually driving around in the get-up would have been an admirable first step in itself. But, as if to confirm his divine providence theory, his first chance to be a crime-fighter didn't just show up—it screamed.
       He heard the scream clearly, having his windows down on the scorching summer night (and sweating like a pig in that coat, praying he wouldn't get pulled over by the police, since he probably looked like a pervert in it). His pulse quickened. He'd expected to have time to prepare. As he'd run it all through his head all evening, he'd convinced himself he'd need time to prepare, fully assuming he'd be shaking in his dark blue boots.
       But when he heard that scream—a woman's scream—there was no thought. His right hand grabbed the mask while his left spun the Mustang's wheel, pulling the car to the curb with a sharp, abrupt screech in that dark, deserted part of town. In seconds, masked, he was out on the street, running to the rear of a public storage yard. The woman at the other end of that scream was all that mattered, and his body took over the reigns. His mind would have to catch up later.
       He rounded the corner and sized up the situation immediately. The screamer was a homeless woman, on the ground near a large box, an old ABCO shopping cart next to her. In the box, he could see the dirty, terrified face of a five year-old child. The woman was pinned down by a large Hispanic youth, who was making his intentions for affection obvious. Around him, several of his "friends" were drinking, laughing, egging him on, seeming hysterically amused that he was setting his sights on a street woman. The woman, still screaming, was hard to put on age on. She could have fallen anywhere between twenty-five and forty, worn by the streets as she was. She could easily have been his own wife's age.
       "Stop!!!"
       The word came out in his anger, and he was shocked at the sound of it. He hadn't meant to do so, but his mysterious powers made it sound like there were Dolby speakers surrounding the whole enclosed area. All of the young men jumped, and the large amorous one jumped right up off the woman.
       It took them a couple of seconds to find him, seeing as how the sound came from everywhere at once, but they spotted him, standing there in his costume, rigid and angry. They looked completely confused and disbelieving.
       And then one of them started laughing his head off.
       "Step away from the woman, right now," Porter said, in a voice of normal amplitude this time. But it was still a sure, brave voice. Porter had never been a coward, and even with all this going on, his old instincts were the ones in control. There was no heroic thinking involved; he was just being himself.
       The others joined their laughing friend, drunkenly cracking up and pointing at Porter. He began walking steadily, carefully towards them.
       "What the fuck are you supposed to be?" the first one who'd laughed asked through his hilarity.
       "The name is Anthem," Porter said. He hadn't really planned on telling anyone that. It just came out. It felt awkward, referring to himself by anything other than his given name. "I'm supposed to be keeping this city safe from people like you. You're supposed to be showing better manners."
       The one who'd been on the woman stepped forward. He wasn't amused. He was angry at having his rush interrupted. "You got five seconds to walk out of here," he told Porter, pointing for added effect, "or I'll cut your fucking throat."
       "And you have three seconds," Porter returned without missing a beat, still walking toward them, "to do the same. And let's watch the language, shall we?"
       "Watch the language?" another of them said, doubtful that he'd heard it right.
       The big one pulled a knife, determined in his course. "Bad choice." He called to the others. "Fuck him up!"
       So much for the language.
       Suddenly, they were all running at him, some pulling out knives, one reaching for a length of pipe along the way. The woman, terrified, scrambled back into her box. They were on him in seconds. This was it.
       Again, it was instinct that let loose that first sonic blast from his throat. It happened so fast that he felt a small rush of panic in the middle of it. He'd tested himself endlessly in the lab, using his understanding of force and resistance and all thing physic to determine how much sound he could use against a normal human being without seriously injuring him. He didn't take the time to calculate this first time—it just came out. And it hit the first youth square in the chest, knocking him back through the air and slamming him into an aluminum storage unit door. The impact was loud, adding to the shock that all of them—Porter included—suddenly felt. A couple of them saw this, gave Porter one last fearful look, and took off running. Another one just stared at his fallen friend, the unconscious heap against he door. Two more reacted to their fears with violence, charging Porter with intent to kill, attacking with the ferocity of men who suddenly thought their very lives were at stake.
       Again, instinct. Before they could reach him, Porter concentrated a wave of sonics at them. In mid-run, they grabbed at their ears, dropping their weapons and tumbling to the ground, their momentum carrying them, rolling them to Porter's feet. By the time they came to a stop, they, too, were unconscious. Physical force and sheer sonics, both. Without really meaning to, Porter was testing the whole range of his mastery of sound.
       He stared at the bodies at his feet a second or two too long, and when he looked up, the big one, insane with rage, was bringing his knife down in a violent stabbing arc. This ended up being too close for the new powers to handle—old reflexes had to kick in first. His arm reached up and grabbed the boy's wrist fiercely, barely changing the arc enough to bring the blade whisking past his shoulder. They grappled. The boy was big, and was very strong, and had the edge of being used to dispensing violence with ease. Porter was no stranger to physical confrontation, himself, though. He had been an Army brat, and during his teen years, his large family had been stationed in North Carolina. Being a Mormon, surrounded by less-than-accepting young Baptists, he dealt with a lot of prejudice, and on many occasions found himself defending one of his younger brothers from a group of bullies using "faith" as an excuse for violence. He called on this knowledge, and his muscles seemed to remember it. In fact, he amazed himself. Under normal circumstances, this kid, twenty years his younger, would be able to take him with little effort. Whatever his little accident had done to his body was helping save his life every bit as much as the sonics were.
       But it was still a tight struggle, and painful (the kid managed to get a couple of punches in), and liable to turn fatal at a moment's notice. Porter ended it at an opportune moment, ramming his knee up into the kid's midsection, doubling him over. When his face came back up, it was met by Porter's right fist. Then his left, and this hit staggered the would-be rapist back a step. Finally, another massive right sent him stumbling back, back against a brick wall. There, he was stunned for the briefest of moments while Porter caught his breath. Then Porter saw his eyes ignite again, and he began to charge.
       "Enough," Porter grunted through his teeth, and right after let loose with the sonics again. A stunning wall of sound hit the boy and pushed him back against the brick. He was pinned there as Porter kept it up; his arms were trapped at his sides—palms out—next to him, as he struggled against a force he couldn't comprehend. After about twenty seconds, his resistance ceased, and he blacked out and went limp. Porter cut the sound. The slack, harmless form fell face-first to the asphalt.
       And that left one of them. He stood there, having watched all this happen, in a jaw-dropped stupor. Porter breathed heavily, rubbed at his jaw (making sure it was still in one piece after taking a pretty good shot), and regarded the boy.
       "Go home," he told him. "And stay off the streets at night. In case you haven't heard, we have something called a curfew in this town."
       The boy looked unsure, afraid to move.
       "Go," Porter said again, louder this time, letting his powers boost it with some booming bass. The kid ran, frantically, and the scrapings of his sneakers faded quickly into the normal din of the otherwise peaceful night.
       Porter looked around him, seeing the unconscious strewn around like discarded toys. It all started to sink in, what he'd just done. It was overwhelming. And here was a thought—what was he supposed to do now? Should he call the police? Should he wait there in his blue super-hero costume, waving dashingly as the police car pulled up and ask them to take these hoodlums off to jail? They'd arrest him as a lunatic. It amazed him that he hadn't thought this part through.
       He heard movement, and realized it was the woman and her child. He headed quickly over to their corner and crouched next to the box, peering in. They were huddled together and looked scared to death. Understandable, considering all that had happened—
       That's when he realized it. They were scared of him. Of course they were. Wouldn't he be?
       "It's okay," he said, as calmly and assuring as possible, trying to figure out how to convince someone that a masked man with supernatural powers wasn't dangerous. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. I just want to make sure you're all right."
       The woman—she looked so much older than she should at her age!—didn't look completely convinced. She had, after all, just been through a very traumatic experience, followed by a challenge to what she accepted as reality.
       "Really," he said, smiling. "I'm just here to help. Are you...hurt?"
       "No," she said, finally, holding the small boy tightly. Porter felt another tug at his heart. The boy looked right about Victoria's age.
       "Are you okay?" he asked the boy.
       The boy seemed to respond well to something in his voice, and spoke without fear. "I'm okay," he said.
       Porter's smile widened, and this seemed to soften the woman a bit, too. "Well, that's good news. Listen, folks, I think it might be best if you moved on from here. This isn't a very safe area, and I'm sure you don't want to be around when those guys wake up."
       "They're not dead?" the woman asked.
       Porter was visibly taken aback. "Of course not. I'm no murderer, miss."
       "Then what," she asked, warily, "are you?"
       He thought about that one for a moment. He smiled to himself. Then he extended his hand to her. She looked at it, then to him.
       “Just a man,” he said. “A man who wants to help.”
       She took his hand. He helped her and the boy pack up their things. He'd decided to keep his wallet with him on his little outings (he did want them to be able to identify him if he got himself killed and some sanitation man found his body in a dumpster), and he ended pulling the couple of twenties he had and gave them to her. And then he sent them on their way. The woman never said thank you. Perhaps she was just too stunned by it all, he didn't know. But that was fine. He wasn't doing this to be popular. He was doing it because he felt suddenly sure it was what God wanted him to do, what God had given him these powers for. And as he watched her disappear around a corner—and then got back to his car as quickly as he could before someone spotted him—he felt absolutely fantastic.

       And so began his brief career as a super-hero. The few times he was out and actually stopping crimes, they all seemed to be the kind no one ever knew about. There were no police, no press. Rumors began to circulate around the city, and he slowly became a local folk legend—one that few people knew and even fewer believed. Again, that was fine with him. He wasn't doing this to be popular or famous. He was just...doing it. His wife knew what he was doing—he couldn't keep anything from her for long. She was worried sick every time he went out and thought he was crazy, but she believed in him, and was always there to support him. He stopped gangs from killing each other, broke up some drug houses before they could get any more of their poison out to kids on the streets, even stopped an arms deal once (an arms deal! In his city! Unbelievable!). And none of it was ever public record.
       One night, as he was doing his usual cruising around in his primer Mustang, he heard gunshots; a lot of them, too. He was masked and running toward the sound in no time flat, wondering if this would be the night that he didn't come home to his girls. It turned out to be the police, shooting it out with some drug types. Now the last thing he wanted to do was get involved with a police matter—that would involve being seen by the police. But as he crouched in the shadows, seeing what was happening, he saw that the few police on the scene were down, wounded or dead. They'd been ambushed in this alley. One wounded Latino cop was behind his car, on the radio, brandishing his .38 with his good arm and trying to call in back-up. He was about to be overtaken by gunmen (with highly superior guns). Porter couldn't let that happen. He entered the fray, wielding his fantastic powers and spurred on by raw courage. The cop couldn't believe his eyes, but didn't have time to be flabbergasted. With one arm working, he jumped into the fight alongside Porter, and together, they ended it, saving the lives of all the other officers there that were still breathing. When it was over, Porter helped the cop into the front seat of his unmarked police car and laid him down, already hearing the sirens of other police and ambulances coming. Before the cop could properly thank him (or ask him any of the million questions on his mind), Porter took off.
       Two days later, with his arm in a sling, that same cop showed up at Porter's front door. It seemed Porter had managed to drop his wallet in the cop's car (he'd been wondering where it had gone). Porter was scared to death. Was his secret out? Was he going to jail? Had he just ruined his family's life? None of the above. This cop just wanted to thank him for saving his life, and those of his fellow officers. He hadn't told anyone else about Anthem, claiming on reports that he remembered little due to his loss of blood. Which kept him from going under psych eval, too, he was sure. And he also wanted to know how Porter could do these amazing things, and what the heck someone his age was doing running around in such a ridiculous-looking outfit. Porter invited him inside and introduced him to his family. Since he was "caught", he ended up telling the cop everything. And then something unexpected happened. He and this cop became friends. Good friends.
       This cop's name was Captain Edward Bonilla.

       Not long after this, Porter's belief in a providential hand was strengthened in a most unusual way. Some coincidences are just too large to be called such.
       He was in the middle of one of his evenings out. These rarely brought any actual crime; more often than not, they just brought him a sore neck and back from sitting in the car, driving around in circles all night. This night, there was action. Gangs again. He'd never realized how bad the gang situation in Phoenix was until he'd put on the costume. Two groups were having it out downtown, and there was lots of gunplay. He stepped in and probably (hopefully) added a few years to some of their lives by ending things. Those who hadn't run were unconscious, and he hoped the headaches they'd have when they woke up would be a good lesson to them. But this night, he got careless. He'd left one of them, and he had no idea that the boy of perhaps only 15 was coming up behind him with Beretta 9mm, about to put a bullet in his head. Too bad Porter hadn't thought to armor the costume's mask as well.
       Fortunately, the bullet never had a chance to test the thin cloth. Porter heard a deafening rush of wind, and the next thing he knew, the gangster was tumbling madly along the ground past him, pushed along by a gale-force gust of wind. How could such a thing be possible? Was God taking an even more active role in his life than he'd thought?
       He spun around to where the gust had come from, and there stood another youth. This one, very obviously, was no gang member. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a white "Structure" tee shirt, and a thin vest. He looked like your average high school or college student in Porter's part of town. So what was he doing in this dangerous part of the inner city in the middle of the night? And what did he have to do with this freak wind?
       The last gang member, too overwhelmed by all the unexplainable phenomena going on in the park that night, scampered up and ran off. The clean-cut kid stood there, looking at Porter, trying to figure out something to say. Porter was the one to break the ice.
       "Who are you?" he asked, at once feeling like one the city dwellers that asked him the same question.
       "Oh!" the kid said, noticing the oversight. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Uh...my name's Shane."
       "Nice to meet you, Shane," Porter said, looking around the park. "Isn't it a little late to be out in a neighborhood like this? Dressed like you are, you're begging to be mugged, or worse."
       "Yeah," this 'Shane' agreed. "But I...I needed to..." He was stumbling over his thoughts, looking for words. Was he just nervous, Porter wondered, or always this scatterbrained?
       Finally, he just reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out some scraps of paper. He walked toward Porter, stopped for a moment, unsure, then closed the distance and stuck out his hand, giving Porter the papers. Porter looked at them. They were newspaper and magazine clippings. Porter knew them well. They were about him. The kind of stories buried behind the obituaries or fillers when the column wasn't quite reaching the bottom. All sensationalist, speculative bits about the city's growing folk phantom, Anthem.
       "That's you," Shane said, like it should have been a question, but the answer was too obvious (even to him) to anything but a statement. "You're Anthem. I've been...I've been looking for you for a couple of months, cruising around the crappy parts of town all night. I figured sooner or later I'd have to get lucky. And here you are. Good thing, too. I've been totally dopey at work after these all-nighters, and I'm about to get fired." He laughed, painfully. "Yesterday I dumped soup all over this guy who turned out to be the Vice-Mayor of Scottsdale. He's, like, a good friend of the owner of the joint, too. My manager almost took me out back and shot—" He trailed off, realizing he was rambling.
       Porter looked up from the articles, needing to know what was going on here. "Why have you been looking for me, son?"
       "'Cause of all this stuff they're saying," he said, taking the scraps back, holding them up. "Everybody I know thinks it's all a joke, you know? All this stuff about super-powers? And I let them talk, and I keep my mouth shut, but... I knew it was true. I just knew. It had to be. And now..." He motioned at Porter, giving a quick, almost giddy laugh. "And now I know it's true. I was back there watching you take those guy down, man. That was beautiful. Those guys were going to kill each other, and you stopped them. You take that stuff you can do—which is really cool, by the way—and you help people. You make a difference. I just think that's really great, and—"
       Shane paused. Porter waited, sensing there was more than simple hero-worship going on. He started feeling small tingles at the back of his neck. He'd felt the same sensation when, at the age of 14, he'd opened the front door of his home and had seen two police officers there, their faces solemn, about to tell him that his father had been killed by a drunk driver on the Interstate. From that hour on, he'd been the man of the house, growing up before his time. He'd felt it again that first time he'd looked across the fellowship hall and had seen Janis, breathtaking in her flowered green dress, surrounded by eager young suitors that welcomed her to her first day in their ward. Both times, even before he knew why, he'd had a clear premonition that his life, from that day forward, would never be the same again.
       Shane's eyes looked away for a moment, and then back. Porter could see emotion in them, and emotion didn't seem something this boy was used to showing.
       "And I've felt so alone for such a long time," he said, quietly but poignantly. "Alone and…afraid. Secrets can get really heavy. I just needed to know there was someone out there who understood me. Someone else...like me."
       It had already come to Porter, but he was oddly afraid to say it out loud. He did so carefully, importantly. "The wind?"
       Shane nodded, and grinned. "You do sound. I do wind."
       Porter looked down at the grass where the gangster had fallen, and at the trail his tumbling path had left, and back at Shane. "You did that to him."
       "Uh huh," Shane nodded, like it was really no big deal.
       "How?" Porter asked.
       Shane shrugged, and looked like he'd never even given it much thought before. "I don't know. I just do it. Wind does what I want it to. It guess it kind of always has, but didn't really start listening to me until a few years back."
       Porter felt his face spreading in a smile, completely on its own. This was absolutely remarkable. God had given Porter these powers, and he had never even considered the thought that someone else in the world might have them, too. And what were the chances of two such individuals bumping into each other in a park at two o'clock in the morning? Porter could almost physically feel the hand of God at work, and the feeling was indescribably glorious.
       "Mysterious ways," he whispered, the words filled with awe.
       Something about this struck Shane funny, and he started smiling himself. Then he chuckled. Porter regarded him and started laughing, too, warmly and honestly. And there they stood, two super-men busting up under the Arizona stars. And Shane looked happy, a free kind of happy, like a weight had just been lifted off him.
       After the laughter, Porter seemed at a loss for what to say next—or, more accurately, for which thing to say next. Finally, he jumped in with, "What else can you do?"
       "Well," Shane scratched his head, thinking about it, mentally filing through his options. "Let's ` see. Um..." He nodded at his decision. He held up a finger to Porter in a 'watch this' gesture.
       And with that, the air around them came alive and whooshing, and Shane shot straight up into the night like a rocket. Porter, who a handful in the city that had seen his powers at work would swear was a mythic god become flesh, fell flat on his butt. His eyes, his mouth, his whole faced seemed to burst open.
       "Merciful...mighty....God!"
       The boy was flying. Porter was able to throw waves of sound from his mouth and toss people around with them at will, but somehow being in control of it kept him from being too impressed by it. Now, seeing some else doing something like...like this...now he had seen a miracle. He could feel himself shaking.
       Slowly, casually, Shane lowered himself back down to the earth, his blond hair fluttering around his young face. Porter watched him the whole way, only attempting to stand after the young man's feet had softly touched down and the winds had spirited away. Shane's body language asked for an opinion, perhaps for approval.
       Porter shook his head and grinned, brushing grass off the back of his costume. "You wouldn't happen to know a guy named 'Moroni', would you?"
       Shane thought about it and looked perplexed. "No."
       Porter laughed. "Sorry. A little Latter-Day humor."
       He extended his hand. Shane looked at it, at Porter, then took it. Porter did the shaking, firm and friendly.
       "My name's Porter," he said.
       Shane exhaled happily. "Mine's Shane."
       "I know," Porter reminded, amused. "You already told me that."
       Shane thought about it. "I did, didn't I?"
       And with that, it began.

       The two of them became the best of friends. Porter brought Shane home and introduced him to Janis and all five daughters—Shane's first experience in Mormonism, and large Mormon families (Porter and Janis told him their family was just getting started). And he was part of their family almost instantly. Shane brought his mother—Lana—to meet Porter, and Lana was thrilled. She had known Shane's secret for a while, and was brought to tears knowing that there was someone else like him, someone to help him through it all. Shane started spending much of his time in their home, and with Porter.
       Porter also took him to Rising Technologies and trusted his team with this new astounding secret. As with Porter, they tested Shane and the limits of his abilities with precision and fascination. Porter, observing and theorizing, got Shane to do things with his control of the winds that he'd never even thought of. And Shane loved every moment of it, their secret sessions at the company and out in the desert. Porter was amazed at the ease with which the boy used his powers; it all came so naturally to him, like he was born for the air, not for the earth below. He taught Shane about the properties of air and wind, and how to use this knowledge to sharpen what already was instinct to him. He taught him, too, about responsibility, and about honor, and respect, and virtue. He taught him about life. Without meaning to, he was teaching him all of the things Shane's father never got a chance to. Shane became the son Porter never had (but still might! He wasn't that old yet!). For Shane, Porter filled a void that his father's death had left behind, and the times they spent together became some of the fondest of his young life.
       And Shane, of course, wanted to use his powers like Porter had, to help people and the world around him. Porter, though, was cautious about this idea, and didn't want Shane rushing into anything until he was ready (and perhaps a little older). Shane was barely out of high school, and Porter felt that he had plenty of time to run off and fight the bad guys after he got a college education behind him. Porter discouraged the notion, and Shane, though it was hard sometimes, respected his wishes. He trusted Porter, more than he had ever trusted anyone in his life.
       But the day came when none of that mattered anymore; the day that irrevocably changed both their lives forever.

       Porter had begun noticing strange happenings around Rising Technologies. Men whose faces he didn't recognize would be in the building late at night, a time when Porter often found himself still hard at work. They had credentials, but seemed...suspicious. Porter began to suspect they were part of another project in the works somewhere in the company, another government contract. At first, he didn't give it much thought. But then pieces of equipment—experimental, highly sensitive equipment—started coming up missing. His suspicions started to get the best of him. He began doing his own late-night investigations, under the guise of simply working late.
       One such night, he found a large truck, and a number of men loading equipment into them. Feeling that something was definitely wrong, he slipped back into his lab and donned his Anthem costume (he had a couple of spares on-site, ones he and the boys were tinkering with to improve comfort and ease of movement). He managed to sneak on top of the truck, and as it left the complex in the dead of night, he did so with it. The truck headed far out into the desert as the sun came up, out to an abandoned nuclear testing facility. Abandoned, so he'd thought. As the truck pulled in and loaded into a massive freight elevator, he found himself being lowered far into the Earth, down to an immense underground complex that not only wasn't abandoned, but was occupied by an entire terrorist army.
       He snuck down and listened in as this group of homegrown fanatics were rallied by their leader, someone calling himself "Monolith". Ironic, Porter thought, that he was calling himself by a codename like Porter himself was, though this man had no costume or powers. The group—very militia-esque in its political ramblings—was called Monument. Monolith was ranting on about the glorious day finally arriving, the dawn of a brighter tomorrow. Porter certainly didn't like the sound of that. What in the world had he gotten himself into? These were no street toughs. These people had military weapons, and, unlike most of the kids Porter ended up facing, looked like they knew how to use them.
       Suddenly, he was discovered, spotted by one of their number. The gunman called out, and Porter found himself rushed by dozens. He struck out with his powers, tossing a few of them around, trying to make a path to any kind of exit, so he could get out and inform the local military (who would need to be defending their country, as they had to far too many times in recent years, against enemies domestic). But this time, he was overwhelmed. A round of automatic gunfire in his chest—though rendered non-lethal by his armor—knocked the wind and the fight out of him. And then they were all over him, beating him with fists and gun butts, kicking him with heavy black boots.
       One eye was already swelling shut and his nose was broken by the time the mob's leader broke though, parting them like a modern-day Moses. The insane-looking Napoleon smile toothily down at Porter, whose whole world was now spinning between his ears.
       "So," he said, triumphantly. "The 'beast' has finally found me. Pity you're much too late. The new order has already begun."

       Shane received a phone call that morning from a concerned Janis. She told him that Porter hadn't come home the night before. This was not unusual for the man, but these days he always let her know where he was going to be a particular evening—out on the streets or in the lab. He'd told her the lab, and when she'd risen to an empty bed, she'd called his work line to see if he'd managed to get any sleep between his tinkerings. The boys had told her that he hadn't been there when they'd arrived.
       Shane ended up ditching class and heading to the Scott home; something was not letting him believe the comforting words he spoke to Janis, telling her that Porter would probably show up any minute. He arrived at their home, and wasn't there for a few minutes before the image on their large-screen television—an image of some daytime talk-show host or another—suddenly faded out, and was replaced by an image that stopped both of them from breathing at once.
       There stood Monolith, decked out in his military-style uniform, next to Porter. Porter was tied to a steel chair, his arms bound behind him, his head drooping in exhaustion and pain, his mouth stuffed and bound with a gag. His mask was still on, but the little of his face that showed was bloodied and bruised. He'd been tortured by these people for God only knew how long. Janis screamed. This brought little Victoria, then five years old, running in, and home-with-the-flu Rachel, 12, right behind. That's how two of Porter's daughters found out their daddy was a super-hero—and a hostage.
       Monolith spoke. "Citizens of Arizona. I am called Monolith. I am the cornerstone of a group called Monument, the last memorial to true freedom left in this country. Today is the day we take this nation back."
       He went on for a few minutes about the group's beliefs, how the Federal government was tyrannical and had re-written the constitution to serve their own purposes and keep control over the people. He had some unkind words to say about the I.R.S., the F.B.I., the C.I.A., and Congress as a whole. He also seemed to have some personal beef with the Governor of Arizona. His words were lost on Shane and Janis—all they could see was Porter, looking so nearly dead.
       He turned his attention to Porter, pointing at him while addressing the camera. "And the beast that calls itself our 'government' dared send one of their operatives into my fold, believed that they could stop our plans and keep true democracy from rising up and taking its place in history once more? As you can see, we have dealt with your agent, just as we will deal with any you attempt to send against us."
       "What's he talking about?" Janis cried, frantic. "What's happening?" She was shaking and pouring out tears. This scared the girls even more, who looked back and forth from their mother to the set, crying and asking questions. Shane wanted to give comfort, but he stayed focused on the screen, carefully listening to every word.
       "There is a nuclear device in our control, somewhere in Arizona," Monolith continued. "Rest assured, it is not the only one in our possession. I regret that such methods must be used, but often the greater good must take precedent over our own desires, and the beast has left of us little choice. If our demands are not met within twenty-four hours, Monument will detonate this weapon. Millions will die. And their blood will be on the hands of the so-called governors of this nation."
       He began rattling off what they wanted, an insane laundry list of ridiculous demands, including such things as the dismantling of the federal government, the immediate resignations of the President, his cabinet, and the Governor. Shane felt sick to his stomach. There was no way any of these would even be considered, much less honored. The only way to stop this—and to save Porter—was to find these people before they could set off their bomb. The government would try, that was for sure, but would they succeed, and in time?
       Shane couldn't take that chance.
       It was up to him.
       "Call the boys at Rising," he said, eyes still on the screen.
       "What?" Janis asked through her tears, in a daze.
       He turned to her and took her by the shoulders, firmly, looking right into her eyes. She saw a seriousness, a maturity in him that she'd never seen before, and it startled and calmed her at the same time.
       "Call Kip," he said, speaking quicker now. "Tell him I'm on my way down. The lab was the last place Porter was last night, and that's where we're going to start. There's got to be something there that'll tell us where he went. I'm going to find him, Janis."
       Janis didn't know how to react—relieved that there was a glimmer of hope of finding her husband, or terrified that the boy she'd come to think of as a son was about to put himself in mortal danger. Either way wouldn't have mattered; she could see in his eyes that nothing she could say would stop him.
       "Oh, Shane," she whispered, putting her hands on his face. "Be careful."
       Shane nodded, solemnly, and took one of her hands in his briefly. Then he turned to go, stopping, first, to crouch down in front of Vickie and Rachel. He looked at both their faces, and spoke with confidence.
       "I'm going to go get your Dad," he told them. "We'll be home soon."
       With that, he hugged them both, then ran out the door, wishing he was as sure as he'd managed to sound to them.
       He raced to Rising Technologies in his Jeep, breaking speed limits and playing the news on the radio along the way. As it turned out, the whole city of Phoenix was in a state of confusion about the pirate TV broadcast that had overcome all their channels. Most people calling into the talk radio stations just assumed it was some kind of joke. I mean, come on...some guy in a super-hero costume? One caller was certain it was one of the networks pulling a promotional stunt for some new TV show they were coming out with. The callers who did take it seriously ended up coming off sounding like UFO spotters. This was good. Confusion was better than panic any day. If people really thought a nuclear bomb was going to go off, the streets he was weaving in and out of would have been clogged with masses trying to flee the city.
       He reached the company and checked Porter's parking space before going in—and Porter's car was still there. Shane and the guys ran through the whole thing, feeling the weight of the clock on them. Evan, their resident computer expert, thought about the security camera, and tried to access the previous night's security camera footage. Oddly, there was none to be found, even when he applied his impressive hacking talents to the task. Further probing showed that Ted Lenke, head of security, had entered a report of a power surge screwing up the security system for an hour. This seemed reasonable—until Max ran a standard company-wide check and found no such evidence. Why would the chief of security lie?
       Evan decided to hack into Lenke's own personal sub-system and get some answers. Rising's security monitors were digitally-based, so chances were the footage was still floating around somewhere (deleting such footage required multiple encryptions well beyond even Lenke's access). Evan busted in, crept around—and found what he was looking for. The exterior camera footage had been loaded directly into Lenke's cache and replaced with continuous snow, time-coded to make it look like a camera outage. They all watched the footage. They saw the unidentified truck pull up, and the men loading/stealing Rising Equipment. Then, to the surprise of them all, they caught a glimpse of Porter—in the Anthem costume—leaping from out of the shadows and hiding atop the truck as it rolled off into the night.
       Shane excused himself and dashed off into the main design lab for something. Porter's trio of geniuses kept at the computers, getting further into Lenke's system and uncovering more dirt. More of these "surges" had happened over the past few months, and each time, the same truck crept in and back out with more unmarked crates and boxes, filled with things Evan feared to imagine.
       The door to their computer center opened. The three of them turned to find Lenke there—with a gun. He'd been at his own computer when the hacking started, and he finally traced it back to them. He backed them up against a wall as Kip gave the obligatory you won't get away with this speech. Lenke told them that he could get away with anything he wanted after today, considering how much money Monument was paying him. He was set to be on a jet to the Caribbean that night. He told them he was probably doing them a favor by shooting them right then, just in case the terrorists actually did set off the bomb.
       The gun suddenly flew out of his hand and struck a wall at the far side of the room. He looked down at his hand in disbelief. Was he insane, or had a strong wind just done that?
       He looked to his right, and there in the doorway stood Shane, now garbed in a blue-and-white masked bodysuit. Kip had designed the suit for him, without Porter knowing about it, just for kicks. He hadn't even gotten around to building any armor into it yet—it was to show Shane what it would look like when it was finished, and when (and if) he ever decided to go out and become a super-hero like Porter.
That day had now come.
       "Who are you?" Lenke asked.
       "I'm Windjammer," Shane said, and even his voice seemed different. He stepped forward fearlessly. "And you're going to tell me where that truck went to last night."
       Lenke suddenly remembered that his gun was gone and that he was outnumbered four-to-one. He made a break for the door. A wall of wind caught him and threw him back across the room, slamming him into the wall with a merciless crunch. Another wind caught the door and slammed it shut, loud enough to sound like a gunshot.
       "Where did that truck go?" Shane asked again, walking slowly toward him.
       Lenke had lost all his bravado. He was a whimpering mass now, backing across the floor, recoiling from Shane, terrified at what he'd just seen, and what had just been done to him. Shane felt a strong tinge of guilt. This wasn't what being a super-hero was supposed to be about. But Porter didn't have any time. Arizona didn't have any time.
       Lenke still wasn't talking. With a gesture from Shane, an updraft snatched Lenke up and pressed him against the ceiling, his front facing down at the foursome as he screamed. It didn't take much more convincing to get him to spill everything. Shane now knew about the testing site in the desert, where it was, and what to expect when he got there.
       The three engineers tied up Lenke after Shane let him down. Kip held the gun on him, but didn't need to at this point. Lenke’s resistance was gone, and he was even asking their forgiveness for everything he'd done. Evan wouldn't have been surprised if he started asking for his Mommy next.
       "Call somebody," Shane told them. "The F.B.I., the Army, whoever's dealing with all this, I don't know. Tell them you stumbled on this computer stuff and found out about Lenke, and he told you about the nuclear place. Get them out there, man, as quick as you can."
       "What are you going to do?" Kip asked, gun in hand, having the manliest moment of his otherwise geeky life.
       A wind could be heard behind them. It swept in from the design lab, carrying a metal-alloy board about the size of a commercial snowboard. The three of them had designed it for Shane on Porter's recommendation, based on the theory that it would vastly improve his control over his flying. They'd been right. Shane—an accomplished skateboarder—had been practicing with it for weeks, and had mastered it in no time flat.
       The wind died and he grabbed the board out of the air.
       "I'm going after him."
       "Going after who?" Lenke asked, obviously having not watched the camera footage that he'd so cleverly hidden.
       "Shut up," Kip warned, waving the handgun at him with the carelessness he might have used with a water pistol. Lenke cowered and did as he was told. Kip turned back to Shane. "Are you sure?"
       Decisions were anything but Shane's strong point. But this one he had no doubts about at all.
       "They go marching in there with tanks and helicopters, they'll get him killed. I have to get there first. It's his only chance."
       "You're not armored," Kip reminded.
       "I know," Shane nodded. "I'll try to not get shot."
       Evan put a hand on his shoulder. "You be careful, Sh--" He looked down momentarily at Lenke. "--Shhhwindjammer."
       Shane tossed his board down, caught it on a wind, and hopped onto it. He gave them one last look. "Make that call."
       Kip nodded and motioned to Max, who grabbed the phone and started dialing. The door flew open for Shane, and he soared through it, down the long hall, out an emergency fire exit, and up into the mid-day sky.