One way or the other, Keith Goodman was determined to fly the skies. At eighteen, he fully intended to follow the footsteps of his father, a noted fighter-pilot stationed at Edwards Air Force Base in California.

His high school football coach and several recruiters were almost in tears over the prospect to losing the teenager to the armed forces. Keith was an athletic phenom in virtually all sports he participated in, excelling at Track & Field but most famously noted for his dazzling switchbacks as the school football team's wide receiver. He had his pick of any scholarship to any university in the country and he turned them all down. Representatives even arrived at his house making tempting offers from places that had teams with such names as Notre Dame and Stanford Cardinal. There were promises of generous housing allowances, vehicles, hell, even his pick of weekly prostitute if he would just sign on the dotted line and play ball for them. Smiling in that vacuous way of his (the result of perhaps too many concussions while not wearing a helmet) Keith turned them all down as politely as he could, explaining that the week after graduation he was scheduled to report to the Lackland Air Force Base in Texas and begin his eight-and-a-half-week Basic Military Training. It had all been arranged with his recruiter in Los Angeles, who Keith had visited a year earlier to make arrangements.

Back then, looking over the teenager's school records, the recruiter thought he had been the victim of a cruel practical joke. Here was this blond, blue-eyed All-American Adonis perfectly content to throw away wealth, fame, and all the pussy he could pork simply so he could follow his family's legacy. Was he for real? It quickly became apparent that Keith wasn't interested in money, or recognition, and blushed when he spoke about girls, and it was about at that time the recruiter looked at the teen's transcripts and realized the kid had the I.Q. of an Irish Setter. It pretty much cinched the deal. "We're grateful to have you join us," the recruiter said at the end of the meeting and he meant it. Like all people who had the good fortune of meeting Keith, he was left with a great first impression and the teen's ditzy personality always brought a smile to one's face. He was unconsciously charismatic, oblivious about his good looks, and completely without guile. The recruiter figured if the Training Instructor at boot camp didn't break him like a twig, he'd make a damned fine addition to the Air Force (although, personally, the recruiter didn't think the kid would ever be permitted to get his hands anywhere near the joystick of a jet, probably not even into a simple Test glider, but that wasn't his call to say so out loud. Telling impressionable young people the truth was bad for business).

So, for his final senior year, Keith went through the motions of school and sports and spent the remainder of his free time staring up at the clouds, often tracing the contrails of passenger jets until they became fuzzy and indistinct. He liked it best when he was outside alone on sunny afternoons, feeling the warm wind flow over and across his body like a lover's caress. It was at times like these when he developed erections, and sometimes even came hard into his jeans, all without ever having to use his hand. He let the varying wind currents do that pleasurable act for him and he always whispered, "Thank you" to the surrounding air when it was done. It had been like this for him since as far back as he could remember and was one of the chief reasons he had never been particularly interested in dating (his mother just figured he was gay and was perfectly fine with it. His father just wished Washington would get off their collective asses about the "Don't ask, don't tell" military policy . . . just in case his wife was right). In pure, scientific parlance Keith was asexual but, in the blond's simple way of thinking, he had simply surrendered his body to a far superior force and was content to keep things that way.

Half of the people in the town he lived in seemed to turn up for his going-away party. The next day his plane was landing at the Forth Worth International Airport in Dallas, Texas. As he was beginning to scan the transit information looking for a bus that would take him south to Austin (Lackland was located on the outskirts) Keith suddenly frowned and moved over to the nearest window, staring at the sky with a bewildered expression on his face and his head cocked to one side. After a few minutes he ran over to the woman sitting at the transit counter. "I need to go-go-" he wasn't sure which way he was facing and pointed in a specific direction.

". . . To the bathroom?" the woman ventured, eying him curiously.

"No! I need to travel-" he urgently gestured again, "That way!"

"You mean north?"

"Yes!"

"To, like, where exactly? Oklahoma City?"

"Is that north?"

"Yeah-"

"Then yes. Yes! I want to go to Oklahoma City in the north!"

The woman raised her eyebrows and gave him a ticket (charging him the "special" fare), and directed him to the airport terminal where that specific bus was schedule to depart. Keith was off like a shot, forgetting to retrieve his suitcase from baggage claim in his haste to catch the bus. As the Poseidon Line bus pulled out of the parkway and headed for the interstate that would take it out of the city, Keith was vibrating in his seat like a tightly coiled spring, his blue eyes trained to the sky. He had never paid much attention to the weather channel on television didn't realize why he was reacting so strongly to this location. A meteorologist could have told him that he was in a place called Tornado Alley and, according to Doppler radar, a massive front was building south of Oklahoma City. Keith didn't need to be told the specifics. The wind already had already done that.

The bus took the I-35 and was no sooner across the river that separated McClain County from Cleveland County when the driver got a call from dispatch and quickly pulled over to the side of the road. He picked up the mike and said, "Folks, I've just gotten word of a tornado sighting in Norman so we're going to sit tight here until I get the go ahead to continue."

There were a few disgruntled comments from the twenty or so people on the bus but not much more than that. Nobody sane wanted to get anywhere close to such an event. Well, nobody except for Keith, anyway. He got out of his seat and went up to the driver. "How far is Norman?"

"About ten or so miles. Look there, you see that cloud formation?" The driver was pointing to a distant supercell that had a clearly defined flat bottom. "Beneath that thing is the town of Norman, my friend. We're well set to stay put right here."

"Let me out."

"What?"

"I want to get out!"

"Listen here, friend. I can't let anybody off this bus if I suspect they're going to go and do something foolish. You're my responsibility and you're going to stay put! You hear?"

Keith put his face directly into the other man's and declared, "You let me out of here right now or I-I'll, I'm going to-to-"

"You're gonna what, boy?"

"I'll spank you!"

The driver looked at him, blinked twice hard, and wordlessly opened the door. Keith exited the vehicle and took off down the highway in a mad sprint.

"God, I hate Californians," the driver muttered under his breath.

Being an athlete, it didn't take Keith very long before he entered the danger zone. The color of his surroundings seemed to have adopted a sickly yellow tinge and a sudden, brief rain shower swept past, soaking him to the skin in a matter of seconds. It turned briefly to a hail volley before the wind came up.

Keith felt the formation of the tornado before he ever saw it. His skin tingled, raising gooseflesh all over his body (among other things). He felt the air currents begin to warp and change, speeding up and coalescing into a visible whirling vortex that began in the heavy underside of the dark clouds and spread downwards like some ephemeral alien proboscis. It started as a weak F0 rope tornado, simply ripping up dirt in a ballpark across from the highway, but began to grow in size and power at amazing speed. The scream of the wind became a lower pitched, piercing howl that was the tornado's version of a birth cry. Keith was clearly hypnotized by the cyclonic rotation of the churning twister and probably would have remained just standing there watching it all unfold if someone from behind him hadn't called out, "Get in!"

He flinched in surprise and looked over his shoulder and saw that a news van had pulled up alongside of him. A cameraman was leaning out of the passenger window and filming the storm. "It ain't safe here, buddy. Get in the van. We have to get out of here!" the driver shouted out of the rolled down window.

"Why would I leave? She's beautiful!" Keith yelled back.

The driver turned away, spoke briefly to his associate, and then poked his head back out. At the same time, the camera was trained on Keith now. "Hey, buddy. This is no way to check out. The world is still a beautiful place," the man said in a softer voice. "Just come into the van with us and we can get out of here and talk about it like-"

"Holy shit, there it goes!" the cameraman shouted.

Keith looked back and released a sickly moan.

The tornado had swelled to almost five hundred feet across and was plowing into the town of Norman. There was the riotous sound of sirens wailing back and forth, horns honking, and swamping it all was the thunderous cacophony of the tornado itself, smashing through office buildings and hotels like they were a child's blocks. The twister cut a swath of destruction through Robinson Street and was making a direct beeline towards University Boulevard, bearing down on the largest university in the state. Cars were trying to drive away from the deadly vortex, people were scattering in all directions, and the tornado engulfed them all without pause, ripping more buildings apart.

"ENOUGH!" Keith screamed, managing to drown out the noise for that split second. The driver and cameraman looked at him and all of a sudden the driver yelled to his partner: "Get that! Are you getting that?"

"I got it!" the cameraman shouted back, looking through the view screen of his video recorder.

Keith was glowing bright blue. A circular motion of air began at his feet and slowly moved up his body, making his legs indistinct in the growing vortex. All of a sudden he was rising up, up into the air in a deliberate course towards the tornado.

What he saw with his eyes didn't tell the true story of what was happening here. Keith read the air currents, following the conflicted flows with his mind's eye and spotted the rear flank downdraft at the base of the supercell that was spawning this destructive abomination. That was the wellspring that needed to be attacked. Choke off the air supply and the tornado will weaken and die. The winds told him so.

Like a sculptor playing with invisible clay, Keith manipulated a stray gust of wind into a compact sphere and threw it like a football. It hit the top of the tornado precisely where it was connected to the storm base and exploded, severing the connection. The mesocyclone was unable to draw strength and reform as the thunder clouds roiled with the displaced energy. Below it, the tornado immediately began losing definition as it went into the dissipating stage and began to shrink and grow transparent. The low rumble of its vortex turned into a strangled wail.

Watching the tornado's death-throes gave Keith absolutely no satisfaction. Tears rolled unnoticed down his cheeks as he said over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry but you were hurting people." He was oblivious that he was still hovering in the air, and manipulating the wind into a weapon had felt so natural that he hadn't yet questioned it.

He was dimly aware that shingles and wreckage were beginning to rain down from the sky all around him. The tornado's debris field was no longer being held aloft as the winds died down and now gravity was taking over. He didn't see the chunk of a Poseidon Line billboard that slammed into him at better than thirty miles and hour, slapping him out of the sky like a huge flyswatter. He certainly didn't felt the following impact with the ground.

Following that incident in Norman, Keith was in a coma for almost three weeks before he finally woke up, staring at the anxious faces of his parents. He missed his deadline at Lackland but it was a moot point. He wasn't going to be running boot camp drills any time soon, if ever. The impact with the sign and his rough landing had been devastating. His right arm was in a cast all the way to his armpit and he had a broken pelvis and dislocated hip. His nose had been badly broken and would probably require reconstructive surgery. The worst news to Keith's ears was that the impact had damaged his left eye and messed with his depth perception. The doctors told him it was most likely permanent.

He was never going to be a pilot. Like a stricken jet, his heart's desire crashed and burned to ashes.

As he lay in the hospital recovering, depressed and miserable, he got a visitor one afternoon. The man, who was bald and had a beard and dressed in an immaculate steel gray-colored suit, introduced himself as Abdullah Stane. He was the director of Poseidon Line's Hero Division.

Keith squinted at the business card the man offered him. He was still having problems with his vision. "I'm sorry I hurt your billboard," was all he could think of saying. Why else would the man be here?

"I don't care about that. I just want to make sure you're okay. Is there anything I can get you? Is there anything that you need?"

"Why would you care?" Keith asked, on the verge of tears.

"Because I watched the tape of what you did in Norman. You're a powerful NEXT, young man, and I want you to come work for us in Stern Bild."

One door closes, another opens. Life was an amazing thing. As the two continued to talk, Keith eventually began smiling again. He was still smiling when he was crowned King of Heroes five years later.