Shane went in low across the desert, low enough to throw dust and sand up in a wake behind him. He was afraid—really afraid. He was nineteen years-old, a college student, and a waiter. And now he was on his way to break into a terrorist base camp and stop a nuke from going off. But he kept the image of Porter on that TV screen at the front of his mind—right next to the promise he made to Vickie and Rachel—and pushed the fear away. He wasn't what the most self-aware guy on the planet, and didn't like to go getting Freudian if he could avoid it, but he was sure the fact that he kept thinking about his father along the way had something to do with his resolve. Maybe this was his subconscious telling him that he wasn't going to lose a second father...not when he could do something about it this time.
       The compound was fenced in; no problem to him, of course. As he soared over of it, guards spotted him and started firing immediately. He managed to dodge their bullets, ducking and pulling gut-gripping aerial maneuvers, and his winds sent the shooters flying in all directions. A guard tower opened up on him with a mounted M-60, and he brought the whole tower, and its occupants, crashing down to the hardpan. Alarms started going off, and he flew inside, wasting no time. The elevator doors were closing as armed men attempted to escape him, but he zipped between the closing doors with inches to spare, tossing the men around the elevator like pinballs until they were no longer a threat. As the doors opened and he flew out, there were even more of them, and more gunfire. How he was staying alive, had no idea. By the will of Porter's God alone, he guessed.
       He made it through most of them, leaving the rest behind as he flew up and down the halls of the underground fortress, trying desperately to find Porter, praying that he was still alive. He finally found a door with several guards on it, took them out, and burst through. There was Porter, still in his chair, and Monolith behind him, waiting, with a gun to the battered hero's head. Shane froze, not sure what to do.
       Monolith accused Shane of being with "the beast", too. Shane, in turn, accused him of being nutty as a Payday bar. Monolith, disturbingly, seemed to find this funny. Then, as if to confirm his madness, he let them know that they were too late. The bomb, on the surface just above them, was going to go off anyway. He'd activated it when the troops upstairs had started firing at Shane (oops). There was no way to stop it, and in minutes, the experimental device—built with a former Soviet scientist's mad design and stolen parts from various nations and corporations, including Rising Technologies—was going to effectively wipe out the state of Arizona. He also told them that this was his plan all along, and even if the government had answered his wishes, he would have unleashed the holocaust, safely underground in the protective testing facility. Why?
       Arizona had ticked him off.
       He'd started his terrorist career with a small militia in the desert. The Arizona F.B.I. had raided their compound, opening fire when the group tried to defend themselves. Monolith's wife had been the one fatality. And the Governor—who was still Governor today—went on TV and took credit for stopping this "threat" to the peoples of Arizona while Monolith's wife lay cold and lifeless in the morgue, and while Monolith was dragged off to jail. A prison break had set him free months later, but his thirst for vengeance had only grown. The peoples of Arizona were going to pay the price for their peace of mind.
       And Porter would be the first of them.
       With a sudden burst of strength and speed, Porter threw himself and his chair backward, yanking his head out of harms way. Monolith fired, but the bullet embedded itself in the wall instead of Porter's ear. As Porter fell back onto the floor, Shane's winds erupted in the room, picking up Monolith and throwing him into the wall...then into the opposing wall...and then into the next wall. Shane was angry, nearly out of control. Part of him still heard the gunshot repeating in his head and believed that it had killed Porter.
       Then more terrorists flooded through the door, and Shane spun to deal with them. He dropped Monolith, who hit the cement floor hard and stumbled to his feet and limped madly out a side door. By the time Shane finished with his latest attackers, their leader was gone.
       He dashed to Porter's side, thanking God that he seemed to still be alive (but not by much, from the look of him. They'd really done a job on him). He untied his mentor and got the gag out, quickly bringing him up to speed on how he'd found him.
       "We've got to get to that bomb," Porter choked, still feeling the effects of his gag.
       "Can you defuse it or deactivate it or whatever you do to nukes?" Shane asked, helping him to his feet.
       "I've got to try," he said. He paused for a moment to look Shane up and down. "Nice outfit," he said.
       "Well, you know," Shane said, grinning, a little guilty. "What can I tell you. It was on sale. Impulse buy."
       Porter put his arm on Shane for support, and looked on him fondly, and more than a little proudly. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for coming for me."
       Shane was lost of for words and feeling too much. He just nodded. It was enough.
       They made their way back to the elevator, and it was a running fight almost the entire way. If nothing else, Monument seemed to have good recruiters. Gunmen seemed to be coming out of the walls. In the middle of it all were Anthem and Windjammer, fighting side by side with sound and wind, fists and courage (Porter’s fists…Shane stuck to winds). They managed to reach the elevator and the surface, where more resistance was waiting as more reinforcements poured in from their hidden bunker in the nearby desert. Shane impressed himself by conjuring up a sandstorm to blind and incapacitate most of them while he and Porter searched desperately for the device. They were having no luck finding it, and feared that it would go off at any moment.
       And then Porter looked back at an unexplainable block of cement that they had passed by, one about the size of Porter's garage. Porter's heart sank.
       "It's in there," he said.
       "In where?" Shane asked, looking around, still trying to keep track of what he was doing with the winds.
       "He buried it in cement. In a lot of cement. He wanted to make sure no one could defuse it."
       Shane looked at the block. "We're screwed!" he said, panicked. "Porter, what do we do? That thing's going to blow, like, now!"
       Porter sized it up and nodded, knowing exactly what he had to do, but not knowing if it was beyond his abilities.
       "The walls of Jericho," he muttered to himself as gunfire continued to sound all around them.
       One way or the other, he was about to find out.
       "Get back," he told Shane.
       "What are you going to do?" Shane asked.
       "If it can't be disarmed, it has to be destroyed."
       Shane looked at the block again, then back at Porter, wide-eyed. "Can you do that?"
       "Just get back, son," Porter told him, "Cover your ears. Have faith."
       Shane did as he was told, cupping his hands over his ears, stepping back. Porter gave him a final, mostly-confident smile over his shoulder, then turned to face his task.
       He took a deep breath, then let loose with as much raw sound as he'd ever used. Cement shattered and flew of in chunks in all directions. It was breaking off in pieces—but it wasn't enough. He pushed himself, bending slightly at the knees, holding his arms beside him, clenching his fists in effort and concentration. More sound came, piercing, destructive, almost alive. His throat started feeling ragged, and the pain in it became constant. His ears, which normally seemed immune to the unearthly noise he made, began to throb.
       But he didn't stop. He kept pushing and pushing, past what his body and common sense told him was too much. If he'd turned around he would have seen that Shane was now down on his knees, clutching his ears, doing some screaming of his own. Even at a distance, this onslaught was almost deafening him. Yet Porter kept it up, kept increasing. He was near to passing out from the pain in his throat, and blood was starting to trickle from his ears. This only seemed to strengthen his determination as more concrete exploded or disintegrated before his attack. The task was starting to look impossible. And everyone who knew him knew how Porter Scott felt about that word.
       Finally, when he knew he was nearly spent, he threw everything he had, every part of his being, into one final burst of his heavenly gift, the power that he was sure was his destiny. The ground around him shook. Shane had reverted to a protective fetal position in the dirt, unable to move. Everything glass in a half-mile radius—including every window, windshield, beer bottle and lens in the compound—shattered instantly. Porter's inner throat was torn to shreds, and his eardrums burst.
       And the cement obelisk—and the doomsday device hidden within—exploded thickly and spread itself all over the surrounding area. Shane had to dodge large chunks of cement. Porter collapsed to the earth.
       Shane rushed to him, stumbling and taking the last couple of steps on his knees. Blood was running down the sides of Porter's head to the ground, and he was coughing up more of it.
       "Oh, man," Shane said, distressed. "Oh man oh man oh man. Porter? Porter, are you okay?" He obviously wasn't, but Shane still needed to hear Porter's opinion on the matter.
       Porter didn't answer.
       "Porter?"
       What Shane wouldn't know until later was that Porter would never hear anything again.
       Shane heard a lot more gunfire, even through the ringing still in his ears, and spun around. When Porter had started, Shane had lost control of the winds, and the sandstorm was beginning to fade. He could see terrorists running toward him, and tried to figure out how he was going to fight them off and help Porter, too. But they didn't seem too concerned with him. They seemed to be firing behind them, as a matter of fact. Then, from a cloud of dust, he could see other armed, black-garbed men chasing after them. They had markings on their uniforms that read 'F.B.I'. The cavalry!
       Shane ignored the gunfire, pulling Porter to his feet. He still couldn't tell if Porter was coherent or not, but he knew he needed medical attention immediately. Would one of the feds be able to help? Would Shane have to fly him to a hospital? If so, would that mean the end of Porter's secret identity? And would that even matter if the man was going to die anyway?
       Lost in his thoughts and decisions, he didn't notice the terrorist coming up on him until the bullets started tearing up the wall right next to him. He fell back against it, trying to shield Porter, and saw the young militant, plugging away at them.
       Then he saw the beat-up old Chevy charge like a mad bull through a wall of dust right behind him.
       The gunman spun just in time to see what it was before the car rammed him. He hit the hood and flipped up into the windshield, shattering it with his own bones, and rolled over the roof and over the tail before bouncing and rolling along the hardpan to a final, unceremonious stop. The car skidded to a halt, and Captain Edward Bonilla jumped out, .38 in hand.
       He rushed over to the pair of heroes, looking back and forth for any other terrorists as he ran. He took one look at Porter and slipped his body under the arm Shane wasn't already supporting.
       "Geez! What'd they do to him?" he shouted over all the noise. "Come on, let's get him into my car."
       They moved as quickly as they dared with Porter while shots rang out all around, mingled with shouts of 'get on the ground!' and 'put it down, now!'. Along the way, Bonilla explained that the boys had called him right after calling the F.B.I., and he'd rushed right out. Shane tried to explain in as few words as possible that Porter had actually done all this damage to himself, saving Arizona in the process. They carefully laid him in the back seat. Bonilla got him situated, and Shane took a couple of steps back, taking a breath and trying to catch up with everything going through his head.
       "Get down on the ground!"
       It took him a second to realize that someone was yelling that at him. He turned around and found what looked like someone of authority (in a tie and bullet-proof vest instead of fatigues) pointing a Beretta at him. He threw his hands up. The man was looking at him strangely. Oh, yeah, Shane remembered. The costume.
       "Woah!" Bonilla shouted, running up with his badge raised. "Hold on, hold on! Phoenix P.D.! It's okay, he's with me!"
       The agent lowered his weapon, but still looked unsure.
       "Sir!" A young agent in full fatigues came running up to the guy in the tie. "The perimeter's secure. Malcomb's team just reported a gunship took off on the East side of the compound."
       "Monolith," Shane said, knowing without knowing. The lunatic was going to get away.
       Bonilla looked behind him and noticed that Porter was trying to sit up. "Woah!" he called to Porter, dashing over, trying to keep him from getting upright. Shane followed him over. Porter looked very urgent about something, even through his agony. Bonilla put a gentle but authoritative hand on his chest and tried to convince him to lie back down, but Porter ignored him and looked right at Shane.
       He finally reached into Bonilla's coat pocket and yanked out his notepad and a pen. He tore out a page and scribbled on it, writing one word that looked like a child had scrawled it. The fact that he had to write instead of speak was Shane's first hint that something was very wrong with him.
       The word was 'capitol'.
       He held it up to Shane, his gaze desperate. Shane read it, not understanding at first. Then the lightbulb went on.
       "The Governor," Shane said. Bonilla looked up at him, questioningly. Porter coughed silently, realizing he'd been understood, and fell back down.
       "What about the Go—?" Bonilla started.
       "He's going for the Governor! That psycho’s gonna attack the Capitol Building! I have to go after him!"
       Bonilla didn't need more. "Go," he said, standing up. "I'll get Porter to a hospital. I'll figure out the secret thing along the way somewhere. Just go, kid!"
       Shane's board flew to him from where he'd left it. He grabbed it, took one last, worried look at Porter, then hopped on the board and shot into the sky, leaving swirls of dust in the air behind him.
       Nearby, the head agent and young field agent looked up. The young man wet himself. The agent in charge suddenly started to think his ex-partner—the one who always kept going on about UFOs and ghosts and the supernatural—might not have been so crazy after all.

       The copter, fully armed with twin miniguns on the front, roared low over downtown Phoenix, raising heads in every building and on every street corner it passed. Everyone knew instinctively how loud a helicopter was supposed to be at a safe, normal altitude, and every ear in the city seemed to know at once that something with this one was just not right.
       And more than a few of them who looked up to see the copter also saw a young man in a tight costume flying after it on a snowboard. Most of these, at first, thought that had imagined it.
       Monolith, indeed, was behind the stick, weaving in and out of buildings on the way to his destination—an appointment with retribution, and a surprise visit to the Governor. He had watched on the monitors as that cursed agent of the beast had destroyed his weapon. Monolith had been lying on TV when he'd said he had more of them. That was the only one, and his only hope of getting revenge on the state. But at least he could still get some payback from the man behind his pain. He was going to fly right to the front door of the Capitol and knock with a few thousand rounds of stolen military ammunition.
       He looked down momentarily at his video monitors, looked backed to the view ahead of him, then jerked his head back down. One of the rearview cameras was picking up a tail. It was one of those powered agents, those genetic constructs of the beast!
       Shane was flying as fast as he could manage, and was catching up quickly. The copter whipped around a skyscraper, and he leaned just right to make the same turn. He rounded to corner, and…
       The copter was hovering there, facing him.
       Oops.
       Both miniguns ignited, and Shane, in a panic, just dove off his board. He started falling toward the asphalt some thirty stories below, and his board tumbled off in another direction. The building that he'd been right in front of exploded out in a millions shards of glass.
       Was this guy nuts?! There were people in that building he probably just killed!!
       Oh, wait...he’d been about to blow up the whole state a little while ago. Of course he was nuts. Nuts and lethally dangerous. He had to be stopped now.
       The lunch crowd below Shane screamed as he fell toward them. It occurred to him that they probably thought he was a suicider from one of the buildings. Slightly angry at himself for the bailing instinct (he hoped that would pass with time and practice), he called up a wind and smoothly came to a mid-air stop. The crowd gasped now instead of a screamed. He managed to catch his board with a gust before it fell and whacked somebody, and he brought it zipping over to him as he watched the copter fly away again and disappear behind another building. He grabbed the board, mounted it in a mid-air somersaulting skater move, and took off again, unaware that a tourist on the street below was snapping of a bunch of photos that were going to be very famous in a couple of days.
       He caught up with the copter again, having no idea how he was going to handle this. He couldn't just let himself get shot at again—people could get hurt. He couldn't just take the copter out with a big wind—again, it could wipe out a building or land on a crowd.
       Then he saw where the copter was. It was almost right over the Capitol lawn!
       AAAHHHH!!!
       Monolith smiled, slowing the copter's forward speed and steadying his aim. His thumb popped up the guard on the minigun trigger, and his targeting screen locked right on the front steps. Scores of people were running over them, having spotted him. Like roaches when the lights go on, he thought. He was going to take the building apart, brick by brick, and somewhere above, his precious Gloria would finally rest in peace.
       Out of time to think, Shane just acted. He flew right at the copter and leapt off his board (on purpose this time) at the last moment, slamming into the side door and getting one foot on the landing rail. Monolith spun toward the sound, and for a moment, there they remained, separated only by a layer of high-tech plastic, their eyes locked.
       Then Monolith went back to the guns, and Shane went for the door.
       Shane managed to get it open and get a hand on him just as he thumbed the trigger. The lawn exploded in flying sod, and people ran every which way in terror. Shane grabbed him and grappled with him, one foot in the copter, the other one on the rail. He yanked Monolith's hand away from the stick, and the madman turned on him. They wrestled and exchanged blows as the copter swung back and forth in its hover, threatening to pitch forward and plunge them nose-first into the street. Shane punched him in the face twice, hard, before he was blocked, and his hand throbbed terribly. He hadn't punched anyone since the fifth grade—and that had been for a very good reason (okay, there was a girl involved...).
       Monolith pulled a knife from his vest—an enormous military knife that looked the size of a machete. Shane's eyes bugged and he grabbed Monolith's wrists with both hands. Suddenly there was nothing in the world but that knife and his attempts to hold it back. This guy was strong, and had the advantage of also being a lunatic. Both of their necks showed tendons, evidence of the strain of their epic struggle. The tip of the blade, though, was gaining ground, getting closer and closer to Shane's eye.
       Monolith's face twisted in a homicidal grin. "Don't forget to tell your masters who it was that blinded you," he growled through his effort.
       "And don't you forget," Shane grunted, his eyes started to cross as they followed the blade, "to buckle up."
       "What—?"
       Shane jerked his head to the side, let loose one hand, and grabbed the buckle of the pilot seat's belt that held Monolith down. The blade whisked past Shane's ear plunged into the seat. A hammering wind came from behind Shane and assaulted the cockpit, carrying Monolith with it, smashing him through the opposite door, and sending him soaring out over the Capitol lawn.
       "It's the law," Shane finished, jumping over the seat, fighting to keep Monolith in view. Just before the lunatic hit the ground, Shane was able to catch him with an updraft. Then he tried something that Porter had once suggested to him, just to make sure this idiot stayed down. He formed a small tornado around the man, and it spun him violently around, his limbs flopping around him like a rag doll's. A crowd that had been rushing toward him suddenly turned and ran at the sight of this twister. Within a few seconds, it was obvious Monolith had left the land of the waking. Shane willed the twister to stop, and it was gone. Monolith dropped unkindly on the lawn. That was probably going to hurt later, Shane thought.
       Good.
       He flopped down in the pilot's seat, exhaling. The concentration that had required had taken a lot out of him. But he could relax now. It was over. He just wanted to take a few minutes to relax and recover and not even think about moving from the comfortable seat of this—
       Helicopter.
       He looked up, and the Capitol building was right ahead of him, inching slowly toward the forward window.
       AAAHHHH!!!
       Okay, he knew how to fly, but had no idea how to fly a helicopter! He'd just stopped a terrorist from shooting up the Capitol building, and now he was going to fly a copter into it!
       He reached for the stick, thinking he might be able to figure it all out somehow. All he did was sending it careening off to the right, toward the large crowd in front of the steps, and within a few seconds he was going to cut them to pieces with the rotor.
       Instinct kicked in, nature telling him to stick to what he knew. He leapt out of the helicopter backwards, catching himself with a wind, and pulled up every bit of power he could muster. He wasn't even sure he could pull off something this big, but he had to.
       For a moment he thought all was lost, and then the copter stopped, held still by his winds. This was taking a lot out of him, and he was suddenly afraid he was going to lose all control he had and fall out of the sky. He managed to get the thing upright and then slowly lower it down to the lawn, counting on the good sense of the people below to get them out of the way. He wasn't disappointed.
       Ever so carefully, he forced the thing down to the lawn, and the landing skids finally found purchase. He was scared to death to let it go, though. For all he knew, the thing was going to take right off again if he tried.
       "Does anybody know how to turn one of these things off?!" he shouted pathetically.
       Oh, but luck was with Lana Doleman's little boy that day. A retired Air Force Colonel was now a member of the state assembly, and, picking up on what was happening, he dropped his briefcase, ran—ducking low—to the copter, climbed in, and quickly reasoned out how to cut the power. The engines started to whine their way down, and Shane let the winds go. He bent over, hands on his knees, and took huge breaths. He was exhausted, but was magnificently relieved.
       He straightened back up and realized he was surrounded—at a distance—by dozens of people. They were staring at him with a bit of disbelief, a small dose of fear, and unadulterated awe. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and kind of silly in the getup he was in. He figured he had to say something to them, though. He put his hands on his hips, taking what he assumed was a heroic stance.
       "Hiya," he said, looking from one of them to another, nodding, smiling. "Windjammer. Nice to meet you. How you doin'?"
       A familiar face broke the crowd. It was the face of Governor Fife Simington. "Wind-Jammer, did you say?" the Governor asked.
       "Oh, yeah," Shane said, suddenly respectful, stepping up and putting out his hand. The Governor! Holy cow! "Nice to meet you. Sir."
       "A pleasure to meet you," the Governor returned, taking all this in stride. "Could you explain to us a bit of what's going on here?"
       "Yes, sir," Shane said, happy to oblige. He looked over and found where Monolith was, and some City Police were already standing over him, trying to figure out if he was dead or not. "That guy over there is the guy who was on TV today. Monolith. If you fingerprint him I think you'll find he was part of a militia group you broke up a few years ago. He's kind of ticked off at you for that, I guess. He was going to shoot up the Capitol. I stopped him, but I couldn't save the lawn. Guess the gardener's going to be whizzed."
       He got that familiar twinge again—the one that told him he was talking too much.
       "But," he said, keeping to the subject, "I think you can talk to the F.B.I. about that. They were already out in the desert when I left to chase him, and I'm sure they've rounded up his buddies already. I'm sure that chopper's stolen, so you might want to impound it or something." Thinking of it, he suddenly looked for the man who'd turned the thing off, and when he'd found him, he motioned toward him in gratitude. "Hey, thanks for the assist, dude."
       The politician nodded back and smiled, then shook his head. He was pretty sure he needed a drink.
       The Governor exhaled. "Well, I'm...not quite sure what to make of all this."
       Shane snorted a laugh. "Tell me about it."
       "But it looks like I owe you a great deal of thanks, as do all of us here."
       "Oh," Shane said, looking around, never having given the idea that he'd done something worthy of thanks any thought. "Thanks. You're, uh...all welcome."
       "Son," the Governor said, smiling, overcome by the amazement of it all finally. "Who are you?"
       Shane was kind of puzzled for a minute. He had just told the Gov his name, hadn't he? Did the guy want to see some I.D. or something? Then he realized the question had a little deeper meaning. He gave it some thought. He grinned, and looked up the Governor, thinking of Porter.
       "Just a guy," he said. “A guy that wants to help out.”
       "Help like this," the Governor responded, "this city can handle."
       "Oh, shoot," Shane said, suddenly remembering, "I've got someone I have to check up on, sir, sorry." He started looking around. "Has anyone seen a board—" He measured with his hands. "—About yea big, metal...?"
       People started pointing, and he looked across the lawn. It was lying near a bush, and some guy was carefully poking it with a stick. Shane picked up it up with a wind, and the guy yelped and ran. The board floated delicately to him, and the crowed oohed as they parted and let it through.
       "Hey, great to meet you, sir," Shane said, giving the Governor's hand one last, quick shake. He walked clear of the crowd, tossed the board down in front of him, hopped on, and flew off, high above Phoenix and the gasping crowds below.
       Bonilla had gotten Porter to a hospital, but Porter got him to stop off at Bonilla's apartment for some civilian clothes first. Bonilla knew a doctor, it turned out, someone he’d grown up with, and managed to somehow keep it quiet. He told his doctor friend about Porter working for Rising, and having had an accident during a hush-hush, government project (which was sort of true). That didn’t really explain the facial bruising and such, but the doctor trusted Bonilla, and knew with him being a cop, there was enough clout behind him to make it okay. Porter spent some time in the hospital, and his family, and Shane, spent much of their time by his bed. The doctors confirmed what he'd already known. Chances were he would never hear or speak again. And the great powers that God had given him? Thanks to his injuries, gone. Still there, he supposed, but likened to owning a box of shells and having a gun with a bent barrel. Useless.
       Facts and rumors stumbled over each other for weeks concerning the Monument affair. The F.B.I. released an official report that said they'd broken up a dangerous domestic terrorist group. No nuclear explosive was ever found, they reported, so they speculated that the threat was all a hoax. They knew otherwise, of course, from their search of the compound and the wreckage, but international politics and corporate prudence kept the true facts from getting out to the general public. Everyone—Porter included—felt that it was best the general public never knew how close they had come to nuclear disaster. As for the masked man on the TV broadcast? The government had no official statement on that, other than he seemed to match descriptions from Arizona street people of the oft-heard legend called Anthem. He was never found at the scene and was assumed still at large, and likely had some role in exposing the terrorist plot.
       And what of the flying boy called Windjammer, the one two agents had spotted on the scene, the one American Journal was showing pictures of on TV the following night (pictures one tourist made some pretty nice money on, blurred though they were), the one the Governor of Arizona swore to have spoken to? Opinions varied on this one. A lot of people refused to believe the stories, and felt that either the photos were faked, or that that board he rode around on was some kind of technological hover device. But too many people witnessed his flight through the city that day, and most in Phoenix, at least, believed. They believed, and rallied around the new legend, and in the months to come, he would be sighted more and more, and one Phoenix police captain would become known as his official "liaison", contacting him in rare times of great need. And the whole world would come to believe when, on a fateful summer's day, eco-terrorists decided to take hostages in the wrong Planet Hollywood, and the dashing young hero's first televised appearance would be broadcast live around the globe.
       The legend of Windjammer became reality.
       The legend of Anthem?
       That legend was quickly forgotten.

       "Shane Shane Shane!"
       Christina—a very active two year-old wrapped in an Elmo jumper—ran up and locked her little arms around Shane's leg as he stepped through the side door that led into the spacious Scott kitchen.
       "Woah," Shane said, walking carefully forward and dragging her—happily—along. "All this time and I never knew my leg was a munchkin magnet. Weird."
       "Christina," Janis laughed, at work mashing potatoes in a large pot. "For goodness sake, let the boy walk."
       Shane grinned, did his forced pirate walk for a couple more steps, then reached down and whisked the giggling toddler up in his arms. "Hey, Janis," he greeted.
       "Shane," she smiled back. "You're early for a change." Janis was halfway through her thirties, and was a genuine eye-catcher. Her pleasant features were accented by a warm glow she seemed to carry with her, and people always took to her immediately. Shane used to find it hard to believe she was a mother of five, looking as good as she did. But then he started going to the occasional Sunday Mormon church service with the Scotts, and found that multiple kids and appealing women usually went hand in hand in their religion. Not a bad religion to be a male in.
       "Yeah, I only had to stop three bank robberies and jaywalker along the way, so I made pretty good time." He was making goofy faces at Christina, and she was having a great time trying to mimic them back.
       "How was school?"
       "Good," he said, positively, between faces. "Crowded, though. Parking's going to be a beast until the slackers start dropping out. It's gonna be a great semester."
       She smiled at him thoughtfully, then looked back down into her potatoes.
       "What?" he asked, having seen the look. Christina was yanking on his nose.
       "I'm just proud of you, Shane. With all the other things happening in your life, with everybody in the world talking about you, you're still sticking with school. I think that's very admirable."
       He wanted to say 'thanks' and humbly accept her praise, but he was feeling a little nagging shame, thinking about the decisions he had coming. Thankfully, Robin came in and saved him from having to respond.
       "Mom," she said loudly, rounding the corner. "Have you seen my Pluto?" Robin was ten years old, and the family brain. Oh, all the Scott girls were smart, like their father, and all lovely, taking after their mother, but each managed to have their own unique strengths. Robin was always thinking, always asking questions, always building something that made Shane a little uncomfortable at being intellectually inferior to a fifth grader. She passed by Shane. "Hi, Shane."
       "I haven't seen it, honey," Janis told her, stirring semi-solid spuds. "Where'd you leave it?"
       Robin rolled her eyes. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking you."
       "Don't be smart," Janis warned, kindly, but firmly.
       "You lost Pluto?" Shane asked.
       "Yeah," Robin said, looking around the kitchen and the adjoining living room.
       "Have you checked Disneyland?"
       She looked back at Shane with a raised eyebrow and a glare that chilled him a little. Dang! He didn't think they learned that look until they got into high school.
       "The planet Pluto," she said, not amused.
       "She's building a model of the solar system," Janis explained. "Science fair time."
       "Cool," Shane said. "I remember science fair. I tried to teach a couple of mice to ring a bell."
       "Oh," Robin said, suddenly interested. "You used Pavlov's theory?"
       "No," he answered. "Just cheese."
       She studied him for a moment, realized he wasn't making a joke, shook her head, and left the room in search of her missing planet.
       "What?" Shane asked no one in particular, shrugging.
       "Mom!"
       The voice belonged to Rachel this time. Rachel was now thirteen, and tall for her age. She kept her hair short—unlike Jayne and Vickie—mainly because she was so active in sports. She was slender, healthy, and liable to be quite a track star when she finally reached high school in a couple of years.
       And right now, she was visibly frantic.
       "Mom, you said you were doing the laundry! It's not done! I need my green blouse and it's still in the washer!"
       "I know it is," Janis said, patiently. "And I know exactly how long it will take to be done, and it will be in plenty of time for you to get ready."
       "I wanted to get dressed before dinner so I wouldn't have to change!"
       "And then you'd run the risk of getting food on your blouse, and then I really wouldn't be able to get it washed in time and you wouldn't be able to wear it at all. It's going to be fine, Rachel, so don't get yourself all worked up."
       "What's up, Rache?" Shane said, hanging Christina upside down by her ankles.
       "Hi, Shane," she said, absently, starting to calm down.
       "What's the story? Big date tonight?"
       "It's not a date!" she insisted vehemently, and Shane was quickly taken aback.
       "It is to," Robin said from the next room, more than a little tease in her voice.
       "Shut up, Robin," Rachel called back angrily, making her sister's name sound like an insult.
       "Geez, Rache, I was kidding," Shane laughed, suddenly very curious. "You've got a date?" He looked to Janis. "Yo, Mom, what happened to the 'no dating until you're sixteen' house rule?"
       "It's not a date," Janis said. "It's a birthday party for a girl in our ward."
       "And Chad Hughes is going to be there," Robin's disembodied voice added.
       "Mom," Rachel pleaded.
       "Robin," Janis said loudly. "That's enough."
       "Birthday party," Shane nodded approvingly. "Social atmosphere, lots of people around, not too threatening. Perfect, safe environment to plant a few seeds. Smooth planning, Rache. I'm impressed."
       "I didn't plan anything," Rachel said, blushing. Her anger had drained away. "It's just a stupid birthday party."
       "Yeah, yeah," Shane said, poking at her shoulder with his free hand. "Methinks the chick protests too much."
       "Shane," she said, embarrassed, yet smiling a little, and shoved back at his own shoulder. "Knock it off."
       "Love," he began to sing, sounding like a lounge crooner, "exciting and new..."
       She spun around, likely about to punch him in the shoulder she'd just shoved, and he stepped back, holding Christina up with both hands, using her as a rosy-cheeked shield.
       "Hey, don't mess with me," he warned. "I'll sick the Christinator on you, missy, and she'll rock your junior high world."
       This made Rachel laugh, and effectively removed the last of the tension from the girl. Janis smiled to herself, knowing that had been Shane's intention all along.
       "Okay, children," she said, grinning, "not in my kitchen. Rachel, why don't you go put the clothes in the dryer. The wash will be done in about two minutes."
       Rachel walked toward the laundry room, and Shane rotated slowly, keeping Christina between him and Rachel, holding the child like a cross against a vampire. Rachel watched over her shoulder, laughing, and disappeared around the corner.
       Shane held Christina up to him and spoke to her face. "Thanks for backing me up there, Chrissy," he said, seriously. "I probably could have taken her, but it's good to know you got my back." Christina didn't have any idea what he was talking about, but was pretty sure it was funny, so she giggled anyway.
       Shane turned back to Janis, who was now chopping vegetables on the cutting board. "What's up with that?" he asked quietly. "Weren't boys the enemy, like, days ago?"
       Janis turned her head to make sure Rachel was out of earshot. "That was before Chad Hughes," she said.
       "Wow," Shane said, reflective. "Puberty. Kind of sneaks up on you like a heart attack, doesn't it?"
       "Mom!" Another voice this time.
       "Geez," Shane said as the sound of new footsteps came across the dining room floor. "How do you ever get a meal done?"
       "You learn to cook and problem-solve at the same time," she sighed. "Comes with the job, Shane."
       Jayne, the Scotts' oldest daughter, came around the corner. She was fifteen years old and absolutely beautiful, as most of the other mothers and grandmothers at church commented to Janis with admiration regularly. That Jayne is turning into a such a lovely young woman! That can't be little Jayne...look how she's grown up! You'd better keep an eye on that one, Janis, or some lucky boy's going to snatch her up and marry her before you know what happened! Oh, yes, the boys all noticed, too. More than a few of them had been deflated by the Scotts' 'not until sixteen' rule. Many of them were counting the days until Jayne's next birthday.
       "Mom, do you know where—" She halted suddenly, seeing Shane there, and her voice changed completely, suddenly becoming higher, sweeter, and a little breathless. "Oh...Shane. Hi."
       "Hey, Jayne," he said, still goofing around with Christina.
       "I didn't know you were coming for dinner," she said, leaning back against the kitchen wall, interlocking her fingers down near her waist, kind of kneading them. Janis started and suppressed a little knowing smile, and kept at her vegetables.
       "Yeah, well, you know I can't turn down your Mom's chicken. Especially when there's nothing at my place but Pop Tarts and Mountain Dew right now."
       Jayne laughed at his remark, maybe just a bit too enthusiastically. "Oh, hey," she said, excitedly, "I found your web page in computer lab last Friday. It's really cool."
       "Oh," he winced. "Yeah. The web page. I kind of just found that myself."
       "Everybody was talking about it," she went on. "And about you. I just had to kind of sit there and keep quiet." She laughed at this, and seemed to enjoy the fact that the two of them had a shared secret—even if it was the same secret everyone else in her family knew.
       "I just don't know how I feel about it yet."
       "Why? I think y—I think it looks really good. Everybody loved it. You're a big star now."
       Her last words sobered him a little, and reminded him why had really come over in the first place—free home-cooked dinner notwithstanding.
       Jayne turned to her mother. "Um, so, Mom, what time are we eating?"
       "We?" Janis asked innocently. "I thought you were going to the mall with Cassie and Shannon."
       "Nah," she said, her acting showing through. "I really can't afford it right now. I think I'm just going to stay home tonight."
       "Mm hm," Janis nodded, still looking down into her broccoli. "In about fifteen minutes, sweetheart."
       "Okay," Jayne said happily, speaking to both her mother and Shane. "I just have to make a phone call. I'll be back in a few minutes." She smiled and kept her eyes on Shane until she was gone from the room, and the determined footsteps they'd heard when she came in were now replaced with lighter, quicker steps.
       "Hm," Janis said through pursed lips, thoughtful.
       "Sorry, what?" Shane asked, coming out of thought.
       "Nothing," Janis told him with an assuring smile, and continued chopping.
       Shane set Christina back down on the kitchen floor, and reached for a nearby toy for her. Christina was miffed for a moment but quickly accepted the noise-making toy as fair Shane substitute. "Hey, Janis, is the big man around?"
       "In his den," Janis laughed. "Where else would he be?"
       "Gotcha," he said, giving Christina's golden hair a final tussle before getting up. "I've got to talk to him for a few."
       "I'll call you when dinner's ready," she said. "And don't forget to wash your hands."
       "Yes, ma'am," he grinned, and started to leave the kitchen. He made it a few steps into the living room before he was intercepted by a downtrodden six-year-old Victoria carrying a pair of roller skates.
       "Shane," she said, sadly, "can you help me fix these? I can't do the laces right."
       "Sure, sweets," he smiled, crouching down next to her. He took the skates from her and completely undid the laces, erasing the confused mess she'd managed to make of them. He quickly and expertly started yanking them through the holes and tightening them up. "Don't worry. You've only had these a couple of weeks. You'll be doing this just great in no time. It just takes practice."
       "Do you roller skate?" she asked, watching him lace the green skates.
       "No, not me," he said. He switched to an Elvis voice. "I'm a board man, baby. I'm one o' them skateboardin' hoodlums your momma warned you about. You don't want to get mixed up with a guy like me. I'm a baaaad seed." He finished up and handed her the skates, adding a lip curl the King would have been proud of.
       "You're silly," she decided. Then she looked at her skates, happy, and gave him a kiss on the cheek before going out the front door.
       "Thankyew," he said, standing up. "Thankyewverymuch."
       Janis sighed, wiping her hands off with a paper towel. "I think all of my daughters are in love with you, Shane."
       "That's cool," he said, rounding the corner into the hallway. "If I end up becoming Mormon, I can just marry all five."
       A moment later he poked his head back around, checking for the look he knew was waiting. Janis had her hands on her hips and wore a disapproving frown.
       "Kidding!" he laughed, holding his hands up in apology. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself." The whole polygamy thing from the church's past was like a big button on every Mormon's forehead, and sometimes he just couldn't resist pushing it.
       "Don't forget to wash your hands," Janis told him, waving a slow, warning finger, and got into the fridge for some butter. Shane ducked back down the hall and headed for Porter's den.

       Shane was not Mormon. Shane, in fact, didn't know what the heck he was when it came to matters of religion. He believed in God just fine—his mother had made sure to bring him up that way. But Mom was a not-very-observant Presbyterian, and he'd only been to that church a handful of times in his life. Jerry was a Conservative Jew (Shane had once asked, with complete seriousness, if that was the opposite of a Liberal Jew. Jerry had just given him the same parting look he'd just gotten from Robin and had left the room), but didn't make religion a huge part of his life, so it wasn't as though Shane had a lot of exposure to Judaism. When he started hanging out with the Scotts, he took their invitation to attend church with them from time to time. He knew that him becoming Mormon would be one of the happiest moments of their lives, but he just wasn't prepared to make any kind of decision about such things, and they respected that and tried not to pressure him. It wasn't like he had a problem with Mormonism, or any other religion, for that matter. As with most other things in his life, Shane was just completely unable to make a decision.
       He stepped into Porter's den/office, and, sure enough, Porter sat there with his back to the door, hunched over his computer and rubbing his jaw in thought. His book. Always working on his book. He was trying to chronicle his whole experience as Anthem. This was one the strongest contender from the list of what he was supposed to do now that his powers were gone. He'd thought God have given them to him to be a great defender. Then the gift was gone, leaving him questioning, searching for a reason behind it all, the greater purpose for what had happened to him.
       Shane pulled up a swift little updraft, and Porter's hair ruffled and danced above his scalp. Porter grinned. Shane felt this was more polite than coming up and tapping a deaf man on the shoulder.
       Porter swiveled around in his chair, smiling, and calmed his hair with his hands. Shane signed a greeting with his fingers.
       How is everything? his digits asked.
       Porter nodded, but not too enthusiastically, and signed back. Everything's all right. How was the first day back at school?
       Perfect, Shane responded, shutting down the subject, intent on getting back to the one Porter had obviously just tried to change from. That was very much like him, ignoring the things on his own mind and trying to focus on others. How's the book coming?
       Porter frowned and sighed, looking back over his shoulder at the computer, then back to Shane. He shrugged. Ah. Universal sign language.
       Problem?
       Why not go ahead and speak? Porter asked. Your signing is coming along great, and I need to practice my lip reading. Okay? After Porter's state-saving act of bravery, left without the ability to speak or hear, Porter immediately starting learning everything he could about sign language. Most people would have been lost for a while in their moping and self-pity, but it wasn't Porter's style. He'd started right in, and Shane had wanted to learn right along with him. Shane had gotten almost better at it than Janis.
       "Cool," Shane said. "So what's up, boss?"
       Porter's brow creased in thought before he answered. I don't know. It's just not working lately. Something's wrong.
       "Writer's block," Shane said. "Happens to Jerry all the time. Try swearing and throwing empty Coke cans. Works for him."
       Porter smiled for a moment at this, but the brightening faded, and the perplexed look came back quickly.
       I don't think this is the answer, either, he signed.
       Shane sat down in a nearby chair, looking concerned. He'd hoped this was the answer Porter had been looking for. He wanted his mentor and friend to find the peace that still eluded him. The fact that this lack of clarity in destiny was about the only thing bugging Porter after the whole Monolith fiasco just made Shane respect him all the more. The man had lost his hearing, for goodness sake. He handled his disability with unbelievable grace and determination. From looking at or talking to him, you wouldn't think the change in his life bothered him at all. It just seemed like yet another challenge for him to overcome. But he was still haunted by the mystery of why God had put him through it all. He just wanted to know so he could continue doing God's will. But that will, for once in his life, was shrouded in mist.
       "What do you mean?" Shane asked.
       It doesn't feel right anymore. The book. I sit and type, but it's an empty gesture. I feel no sense of guidance or purpose. His hands paused as he thought. It's starting to feel like simple vanity.
       "No way," Shane protested. "It's important, Porter. You were the first guy to ever put on the threads and take on the bad guys. People are going to want to know about that."
       Porter smiled, tiredly. People don't seem to care much about Anthem at all. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that bitterly. I never did any of that to be famous, and I still have no desire to be. It would have felt wrong for me to take such a great gift and focus all the praise and attention on myself.
       Shane shifted uncomfortably.
       You know how I feel about destiny and God's will working in all our lives, and in history. I think this whole...mysterious, wonderful thing that happened to me happened just the way it was supposed to. I'm starting to think this book is just me trying to force something that simply isn't meant to be. History has forgotten me. I think that's just the way God wants it.
       "Come on, man," Shane said, the emotion in his voice lost on Porter's gated ears. "You saved the whole state of Arizona, and who knows how many other people."
       God saved them, Porter signed, smiling. He just used me to do it. I was his tool, and honored to be chosen for the task. Maybe Monolith was the whole reason Anthem came to be. With him gone, my job was done, and Anthem's time had passed.
       Porter looked at Shane very fondly, very fatherly, before going on.
       And it's crossed my mind more than once that maybe you're the reason.
       "Me?" Shane asked, confused.
       Porter reached for a copy of Newsweek on his desk and tossed it to Shane. Shane looked at the cover, one he knew well. The cover was divided in two, him on one side, Americana on the other.
       History has embraced you, son. You, and this Americana. And there may be more of you to come. God's doing something remarkable in the world, here in our own time, and the whole world is awestruck. All eyes are on you. You have a destiny that's only just begun. Maybe my part in all of it was just to guide you along and get you started.
       "No, no, no." Shane shook his head vehemently, setting the magazine down on a nearby table. The very thought was causing him to feel painfully guilty.
       Porter smiled peacefully. I think it's a very real possibility. And if that's the case, I couldn't be happier. There's a grand scheme at work at work in your life. I can feel it. And it's wonderful! I'm so blessed to be able to have been a part of it.
       Man, but Shane wanted to protest some more—but he just wasn't finding the words. And out of nowhere, the weight of all of it was hitting him, thanks to Porter's assessment of things. He was twenty years old. Twenty, and instead of having to just worry about grades and work and dates, he was faced with some kind of Luke Skywalker destiny and was trying to make decisions about movie deals. It was overwhelming. He didn't know what he'd do if he didn't have Porter around to talk it through with him, to guide him.
       He looked up at Porter and signed instead of spoke.
       You're still a part of it.
       Porter smiled warmly. He rolled his chair over to Shane and gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze, a gesture of mutual admiration and thanks.
       And you know I'll always be here for you, whatever you need, Porter signed.
       "But, what..." Shane began, on the verge of spilling the Terrance Cross news. "What if I don't know what my destiny is either? What if I don't know which way I'm supposed to go?"
       Porter tapped his finger on the side of Shane's head, then just to the left of the center of his chest. Listen to both of these. Consult people you can trust. Pray. And believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.
       "That simple, huh?" Shane grinned.
       Porter smiled assuringly. Have faith, Shane. Everything else will fall into place. He looked back at his computer and grinned. Good advice for both of us.
       Have faith. The last two words that Porter Scott's lips had ever spoken, and the last words they would ever speak again. No two more appropriately summed up the man's life. Shane decided against telling Porter about the Cross offer just yet. He still had some hard thinking to do about it. For once in his life, he had to come to a decision on his own and just deal with the consequences, good or bad.
       "Dinner, everybody!" Janis shouted from the kitchen. Shane glanced over his shoulder at the sound, then signed dinner to Porter. Porter gave Shane another clap on the shoulder and rose, and the two of them headed for the kitchen. Super-powers weren't the only thing these two remarkable men had in common. Both were also absolutely crazy about Janis Scott's chicken.

I N T E R L U D E  T W O

Venice Beach, California

       The beautiful young woman—some would say still just a girl at the age of nineteen—strode lazily down the thickly populated sidewalk, past the shop windows and their loud signs and bright colors, the beach and the Pacific but a few hundred feet to her right. She wore a peach bikini, a wrap around her waist, sunglasses purchased on Rodeo drive, and an exquisite tan. A light breeze from the sea tossed at her rich, blond hair, and her leather sandals moved her slowly along. Around her, the last of the major summer tourist wave were bustling around, scrounging for souvenirs, gawking at every inch of exposed flesh they could take in before returning to wherever they'd been so anxious to get away from. There was nothing hurried or anxious in this woman's—girl's—manner. She was no tourist. This was her home.
       She strolled past Paltro's coffee house, where beach-combers filled the patio tables and drank iced cappuccinos as the sun worked its way toward dusk. She felt eyes on her—men's eyes—and yawned. She'd had an amazing body almost since the moment puberty hit, and it had only been getting better ever since. She didn't even seem to have to work at it to keep it that way, and if that ticked other women off, that was their own problem. She never really had much use for other women anyway. In this world, it was men who could get you what you wanted. And men, she knew. When they suited her purposes, she could use every glance and curve at her disposal to play them like finely-tuned violas. When they didn't—on days like today, when the weather was perfect, and the bank account was full, and the past seemed a million miles away—they were, to her, as insubstantial as the ocean breeze. Maybe she didn't care much for women, but at least women showed a little variety within the gender. Men, per her experience, were all the same.
       Well...maybe not all of them...
       And with that, she was thinking about him again.
       She smiled, and then smiled at the fact that she was smiling, all the while afraid one of the losers milling around her might mistake the gesture as being for him. This had to be the third time today her mind had crept back to blond Boy Scout, the absolutely gorgeous piece of Arizona white bread that refused to stay in the cerebral cupboard. All at once she was feeling that kiss again that he'd laid on her—the totally unexpected, breathtaking kiss that may well have been the very first one in her life that hadn't felt sleazy. It had been many things, but above all, it had been sweet. Passionate, too, yes. But under it all, sweet. A great deal can be learned about a person through a kiss, and what his told of him suggested that somewhere in the world—obviously somewhere besides L.A.—there were men that were gentle and unassuming, goofy in an unexplainably endearing way, and possessing of completely indeliberate character.
       Even if she'd wanted to forget about him, her attempts would have been laughable. Pictures of him were on every magazine and newspaper she passed by on the stands, it seemed. Whenever she turned on her wide-screen television (with Dolby Surround-Sound system, she reminded herself with shameless pride), she'd always manage to find some other channel replaying video footage of him flying around Arizona. When she headed down to Hollywood to hit the clubs (where no one ever asked to see her ID...another plus of the bod), even there people were talking about him. Forget him? She couldn't even get away from him. Not that she wanted to, of course.
       And the part that still blew her mind was that he wasn't alone in his worldwide fame. Rarely was there a picture or reference to him made without an additional photo or mention of his "sexy archrival"—Delight. Her own picture was as common as his, if not more so. When she'd decided to use her mysterious powers to finally get ahead for once in her life, getting rich was a given. Getting famous? That was something she hadn't even thought about. Then she took a job with a bunch of fanatics that she probably should have avoided, ended up scuffling with this wonderboy called Windjammer on live TV, and the next thing she knew, Jay Leno was using her in his monologue. She'd thought suddenly being able to fly was surreal...but it was nothing compared to seeing herself in The Weekly World News at the grocery store.
       And she still didn't quite know what to make of it all, or how she could best use it to her personal advantage. For now, it was enough that it was there, and knowing that gave her a warm sense of...belonging? Was that it? Maybe it was just that suddenly, everyone seemed to think she was somebody, and she was even starting to believe it herself.
       So she meandered along, carefree, enjoying the strange new directions her life was taking, wearing an odd little smile and thinking about an unexpected kiss in the back seat of fortuitously parked convertible. It was only three or four more blocks to her spacious loft, and she was in no particular hurry to get there. She sighed peacefully, absently thinking on whether or not to cook dinner or go out, perhaps take a drive down to San Diego in her still-new black Stealth and—
       Suddenly, her whole world exploded in light. All at once she was blinded, deaf, and completely overwhelmed with a hammering—and still growing—brightness that she felt in every part of her, body and soul. The last dwindling physical sensation she could feel were her bare knees hitting the rough asphalt of the street she'd just been crossing. And then, that world, that life, was lost to her. There was nothing but light, a light both visible and audible at once, and it grew deafeningly brighter, encasing and absorbing her in its brilliance—building until sanity began to take on the intangibility of a fond memory.
       And then it stopped.
       And she was cold.
       Sensations came back to her slowly, and none of them were pleasant. She was vertical, but unable to move. She could feel—eventually—that her arms were bound behind her, and not bound kindly. She was now, somehow, wearing clothing, and she could feel the garments tattered and damp against her skin. But damp with what?
       And there was cold. Chill winds raked her skin and invaded her tightening lungs. She was shivering, and though she could not see, knew that her breath was clearly visible before her.
       And there was noise. Angry, maddened noise. She heard the implausible sounds of thousands of screaming voices, all of them maniacal, all of them bloodthirsty, all them, roughly, in front of her. It was a human roar that nearly shook the ground, and it was terrifying.
       And there was pain. Every part of her hurt. She felt bruised, cut, battered. Old wounds, fresh wounds. Her unconsciousness mind pieced it together before her conscious mind could accept it—the dampness on her clothes was from her own blood.
       Something struck her forehead, mercilessly hard and swift, and bounced off somewhere, and a new, sharp pain joined all the others. With this, her eyes opened, and her vision came back to her.
       And the insanity was complete.
       Before her, as the noise had suggested, were thousands. The mob was made up of men and women, adults and children, all sprawled out below her, and as far as her eyes could see. They were clothed in a mixture of rags and newer garments, bundled in several layers to fend off the cold, but their rage seemed enough to warm them itself. The rage was focused, she could see, on her. Many of them were throwing stones and rotting food at her. A trickle of warm blood trailed down her nose from the rock wound, cutting left to run down her face like a crimson tear. And the crowd kept screaming, even louder at the sight of fresh blood. In the midst of all this—an unfathomable sight in itself—one detail stood as particularly curious and wrong to her. Throughout the crowd, men were holding up what looked like sledgehammers. They shook and waved them like they were some kind of icons, not weapons.
       Her surroundings—all things considered—took a moment to register. Finally, she realized that was nowhere near Venice Beach. She could see where she was—this was Washington DC. She could tell this from all the photos she'd seen; she'd never actually been there herself…until now. Before her, in the distance, she could see the Washington Monument—rather, what was left of it. Some catastrophe had severed it, and its upper half rested unceremonious and dead in the frozen waters of Potomac Park. From the view she was seeing, that must have meant she was on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
       "Silence!" a voice boomed, amplified electronically, cutting through the madness and the bitter winter air. "Silence for the judgment! Your thirst for justice will be appeased!"
       This brought further cheers, but silence—remarkably—followed right after. These people were fanatical, homicidal even, and yet this one man's voice could quiet them? What man could inspire such obedience? Such…fear?
       Her answer came as the voice's body stepped out from behind her. He walked slowly, deliberately, past her, and gave her a hard, hateful, loathsome stare all along the way. It was a face she didn't recognize, and one she'd never want to know. He looked about 30 years old. His hair was jet black and slicked back. His face was scarred, and looked like it had been that way most of his life. His clothing—like his hair—was black as night. But not mere clothing—this was some sort of uniform. The number of bars on his shoulders seemed to indicate high rank (not something she'd expect for someone his age). On the uniform jacket's chest were two emblems. The one on his right, larger than the other, was a stylized map of the Earth. On the left, over his heart, were two medieval-looking warhammers, one crossed over the other in an "X". There were large handguns in holsters on either hip, and the boots he wore shined with the obvious care of a servant whose life may have depended on them looking as they did.
       He spoke into a wireless microphone that he gripped in this gloved hand, and he spoke directly to her, his voice rich with contempt. "You've heard your crimes. You know your crimes. You stand here before this people guilty of treason—betrayal of the highest order, against the Master's own. An unthinkable transgression..." He regarded her, unkindly, playing to the audience. "Perpetuated by a master deceiver, and a traitor to the state."
       The crowd, controlled, growled and simmered. A few brave souls called out lewd insults.
       He moved to stand next to her, addressing her, but facing the crowd. "Have you any evidence of your innocence? Any reason why you should escape retribution this day?"
       From his tone, she could tell no answer would have satisfied—least of all the truth, that she had no idea what he was talking about or how she'd gotten here. His mind, and the mind of this mob, seemed cemented. But she had to try, to plead with them, to make them understand. But, try as she might, she could not make the words come out. Her lips simply wouldn't move. Why wouldn't her lips move?!
       He waited several moments, scoffed at her, then addressed the crowd loudly. "Insolent to the very end!" he shouted. "What more evidence do you need, Westlanders?" The crowd took their cue and exploded again, all of them screaming, cursing, wanting her blood.
       He let their moment linger, looking over them importantly, approvingly, egging them on. He casually, slowly, turned his back to them, nonchalantly bringing his lips close to her ear. He spoke softly, but just loud enough to be heard over the madness.
       "I should have gutted you when I had the chance, whore," he growled harshly. "Maybe next time he'll listen to me." This was a different voice than the one he used on the crowd; his true colors. With them, he was eloquent, with an air of calm authority. In reality, he was cold and violent, dangerous, instantly frightening.
       God, why wouldn't her lips move?! Why couldn't she tell him he had the wrong person, that this was all a terrible mistake?
       He turned back to the peoples and raised a hand, motion enough to calm the furied tide. When there was relative silence again, he spoke, again addressing her and the crowd simultaneously.
       "Then before your sentence is cast, do you wish to plead for mercy, to ask for his lordship's forgiveness after such bitter betrayal? Can your black heart show him even this small respect?"
       He glared at her, saw something in her eyes, and stepped forward, cautiously raising the microphone her. Yes! Now she could tell them, make them understand, make them untie her and end this whole nightmare.
       And she spoke...but they were not her words. None of the frantic pleas she wanted to blurt out came. They were different words, but still her own voice. And yet, not her voice. It was different somehow, more...mature?
       "It's not too late," her lips told them, and the voice sounded so tired, yet braver than she could ever imagine herself sounding in a thousand years. "The very ground you're standing on speaks it. Remember who you are. Remember who used to defend this place. It's never to late to be fr—"
       His face turned dark scarlet, as if she was speaking blasphemy. He tore the mic away from her, yanked back fiercely with his other arm, and slammed his fist into her face with all his strength. She felt a tooth come loose and fall onto her tongue, and through the fresh pain could hear and feel the crowd erupting into a murderous frenzy. Her tongue cradled the tooth, and she was honestly unsure what to do with it. She didn't want to swallow it, but didn't want to spit out a part of her. In the end, with great sadness, she pushed it and a fair amount of blood between her lips, and the tooth was gone forever.
       He stood before her, nearly shaking, looking like he was going to hit her again...and just keep on hitting her. Behind him, the vast crowd looked like a mere extension of his rage, moving to and fro like a vast sea of mindless humanity.
       Then he looked up, beyond her, and his expression changed immediately. The crowd, too, changed with unbelievable speed, and gasps could be heard in the dying of the din. He backed off a couple of steps, composing himself. Someone was behind her, up atop the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, someone who even this madman revered. He had been able to inspire fear in this crowd. What this unknown newcomer behind her brought to them was something close to worship.
       The uniformed man swallowed and stood at attention, the sweat of his outburst still on him. "The people await your judgment, my lord," he said, bringing his breathing back down to normal.
       He stood, the masses silent with him, waiting for the answer he sought. She wished she could see behind her, to find out who this was that seemed to hold her fate in his hand. But her head, like her voice, seemed not to be under her control. And she doubted she'd have the strength left to move it anyway.
       He started to look nervous, doubtful. No answer was coming. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd and then back over her head, waiting, expectant. Why was this great judge not speaking? Could this decision somehow be a difficult one for him? Could a man who clearly kindled such veneration be forced to make any kind of decision he didn't want to make?
       "The people," the scarred one said, bravely firm, but still respectful, "await your judgment, my lord." He was obviously looking right into the other man's eyes, speaking things with his look that he could not let the crowd hear in his voice. The look said that there was no real choice at all. This thing had to be done. To appease the masses? To appease someone else, someone who warranted even greater awe? She did not know, but her hopes for this ending well for her were ebbing away with each passing moment. Still, she held onto the slim hope that the presence behind her would speak, and would order her set free.
       The man with her blood on his knuckles waited for several moments more. And then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. Her heart sank. He'd gotten the signal he'd wanted. He nodded in response, and his eyes followed the sound of the other man's bootsteps as they walked away. He looked into her eyes, and the smile was wide this time...and evil.
       He turned from her and walked away, bringing the mic back to his lips. "Purge her!" he shouted, and the silent crowd ignited with cheers of murderous ecstasy, and this time the ground did shake.
       Two other uniformed men, younger and lower in rank, came running up, each carrying lit touches. They held them down near her feet, and she looked down, and realized for the first time that she was standing on bundles of wood, aware, with sudden horror, that the smell she'd been ignoring for the past several minutes with the smell of gasoline.
       Dear God, they were going to burn her at the stake!
       The wood ignited in an instant, casting an initial burst of flame past her head, and she felt her eyebrows catch and shrivel away to nothing. The burst lowered—but roared on—letting her see the crowd again—wavering in the heat fumes—and the face of the uniformed tyrant who'd given the order to kill her. He raised his microphone and shouted into it.
       "Long live the Hammer!"
       The crowd echoed him, raising their strange sledgehammers high again, thrusting their wooden hilts together, and their echo became a fanatical chant. She could feel her clothes light, feel the fabric clinging to and charring her bruised skin. Her hair came next. She jerked her head to an fro, instinct trying to put it out, but the vain effort only seemed to help it spread. She wanted to scream so badly, but whoever controlled her voice wasn't ready to concede. Her mind pinwheeled frantically, desperate for any way out, any sign that this wasn't really happening and was all just a bad dream, and that it would all just go away and the pain would stop and the smell of her own combustion would just stop!!!
       Then, in the middle of it all, she felt something in her head—in her mind. It was sensation she could only describe as a cork being popped, and something flowed through her, something sweetly familiar to her. Whatever it was, it seemed to have been stopped up, held in check by some unknown force. But now it was back. It was...
       It was light.
       It was her powers.
       She could feel the friendly glow of it, that warmth that came every time she flew, every time she cast light from her fingertips and did things nature said were unimaginable. She felt herself crying, experiencing an alien joy in all this horror, like a loved one had just taken her hand to comfort her in her final moments. It was too late for her powers to save her. She was too far gone. Her body was too ravaged and fading to manifest them.
       But her mind...
       The light grew brighter, even as her own essence began to dwindle. It grew, it sang, swirled and danced before her. This was their last good-bye. And, in parting, it would do her bidding one last time, give her one final gift. The gift of hope. A second chance.
       In a sudden burst, the light was everything. It was spinning unimaginably, rushing toward something, ever closer, ever closer, until—
       "Hey, hey, back off! Give her some room!"
       She felt hard asphalt against her face, and heard the piercing blare of an impatient car horn.
       "In a minute!" someone shouted toward the horn. "Geez!"
       She opened her eyes, completely disoriented, and saw what seemed to be dozens of feet, most in sandals or Reeboks. She could feel hands on her arms and shoulders, and suddenly was being lifted into a sitting position.
       "I said a little room here!" an enormous weightlifter in a Gold's Gym shirt (what little was left of it after he'd torn most of it away to reveal the fruits of his labor) shouted again, and the crowd started to back off...a little. She was surrounded by people, and in the middle of the street. Faces young and old, concerned and curious, were moving on craned necks, struggling to get a look at whatever was going on.
       She felt her arms. They were coated with sweat, but they weren't burned. They were smooth and soft and tan, just the way they should be. There was pain in her knees, and she could see nasty scrapes on both of them, but otherwise, the pain was gone. She was back. She was in Venice Beach, and the snow was gone, and the sun was shining, and the world made glorious sense.
       And she felt like she was going to throw up.
       The weightlifter crouched down next to her, about to take her into his arms and carry her. "You okay?" he asked her, very gentlemanly, sliding an arm behind her back.
       "Yeah, I'm...I'm fine," she said, still not quite believing she was where she thought she was, her temples suddenly throbbing madly and her head spinning.
       "You sure? Why don't you let me—" His other arm was slipping under her bent knees.
       "I'm fine, I'm fine!" she blurted, striking out at him viciously with her arm like a caged panther, causing him to recoil and stumble back to his feet. "Get your fucking hands off me!"
       The crowd backed off further, and she slowly got to her feet. Now they were curious and afraid, the latter only feeding the former. Their looks and whispers suspected drugs. She glanced around at them, suddenly afraid of them and hating them all at once. She felt like something on display in a low-rate circus. No, it was worse than that. It was her worst fear. It was the fear that no matter how much she spent on sunglasses, or how much she tried to pretend she was one of them, they could all see the truth—that she was still just the little street trash girl, something to be pitied, and feared, and locked away.
       And it was all too much for her.
       She started backing away from them—through some of them—looking like a cornered animal. When she had her opening, she turned and began walking away. Their stares followed her. Quickly, she was running. And kept running until she reached her loft.
       She burst through the door, slamming and locking it behind her, her breath coming in huge gasps. She turned her back to it, looking around her home and its stylish furnishings and wall hangings, expecting to see hammer-wielding killers burst forth from the closets, stampede down the stairs, reach up through the carpet and drag her down to her death. There was only silence—broken only by the soft chirping of her finch and the muffled beach noises from beyond her walls. Her legs felt weak. And she was trembling uncontrollably.
       What in God's name had just happened to her?
       She made her way, shakily, to her couch. On it was an afghan hung over its back, and she pulled it to her and wrapped it all around her. Forgoing the couch, she dropped, instead, to her living room floor, curling into a ball, weeping quietly, waiting for the shaking to go away.
       It didn't go away for a very long time.

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