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- New York City, USA -
- December 19, 1939 — Noon -
Jim Hammond sat in the back of the olive-green military truck, staring at his hands. They looked human enough—fingers, knuckles, faint lines at the joints—but he knew better. Underneath the skin that never bruised, never aged, burned something unnatural. Fire lived in him, a fire that obeyed his will, a fire that could both destroy and, as he had only recently discovered, heal.
He turned his palm upward, letting a small flame blossom there, no larger than a candle. It danced gently, warm but not scorching. For weeks now, he had been trying to understand it. When he'd laid his burning hands on a wounded soldier during a test exercise, the man's skin had knitted, his pain easing. Jim had almost wept that day. To know that his fire could mend as well as burn—it felt like proof that he didn't have to be the monster Horton had called him.
The truck jolted over a pothole, snapping him back to the present.
He thought about the road he had walked—or stumbled—through in his short existence. Horton's laboratory, where he was nothing but a discarded failure. The gangsters who saw him as a weapon for their greed. The first time he turned on them, when he realized he could choose, when he decided he would never again be used for harm. That night he had lit the sky of New York in flames, but for the first time, people saw him not as a curse, but as a savior.
The headlines had called him the "Human Torch." At first it had felt like a cage, another label thrown on him, but slowly, Jim had grown into it. If being the Torch meant being a light in the dark, then so be it.
Now, the military had stepped in. Uniformed men with polished boots and straight faces told him he could help the world by helping them. They spoke of Nazis, of tyranny, of innocent lives crushed. Jim had seen enough newspapers to know it was true. And though a part of him bristled at being "controlled," he convinced himself it was different this time. He wasn't in chains—he was choosing this path, wasn't he?
Howard Stark had been the strangest piece of it all. The man was equal parts scientist and showman, sharp-eyed and restless. He didn't look at Jim like Horton had. He didn't see a failure. He saw possibilities. Together, they'd tested the limits of Jim's flames—how hot he could burn, how fine he could control them, how long he could sustain flight. Stark had even built a special containment suit that could channel his powers with precision, though Jim rarely wore it, preferring to stay as human as he could.
The soldiers In the truck with him kept stealing glances. Some looked at him with awe, some with unease. He couldn't blame them. To sit a few feet away from a man who could burst into fire at will—it wasn't something training could prepare them for.
"Orders are simple," one officer muttered. "Demonstration in front of the Samrat. Show him America's got strength too."
Jim said nothing. He wasn't a fool. He knew this wasn't just about cooperation—it was about politics. He was a display piece, a firework to be shown at the right moment. Part of him hated that. But another part whispered: if this convinces powerful men to work together against evil, then maybe it's worth it.
The truck slowed. Through the narrow window, Jim caught glimpses of New York's skyline, the rivers glittering under winter light.
But then something shifted. He felt it before he saw it—a disturbance, like the air itself was uneasy. The driver cursed and craned his neck toward the harbor.
Above the shoreline, a figure floated in the sky. Bare-chested, muscled, with wings beating faintly at his ankles, his expression dark as a storm. Jim recognized him from whispers, from Stark's hurried briefings. The Sub-Mariner. Namor.
And in his eyes there was no hesitation, only fury.
The waters behind him churned unnaturally, waves swelling higher, as if the sea itself bowed to his command. People on the docks shouted and scattered, pointing upward in panic.
Jim pressed his palm against the metal wall of the truck. His fire itched to rise.
"Stop the truck!" he barked. His voice was urgent, human but edged with something hotter.
The brakes screeched. Soldiers scrambled, confused, their rifles useless against what loomed above.
Jim stepped out into the icy air, the winter wind biting at his face. He stared up at Namor, the man who looked ready to drown a city.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath again—just as it had in Congress the day before, when Aryan spoke of freedom and partnership. Only now it was a different stage, a different kind of trial.
Jim Hammond, the Human Torch, clenched his fists. Flames licked at his skin, eager to be unleashed.
If Namor wanted to flood New York, he'd have to get through fire first.
—
Jim didn't hesitate. The moment the first swell rose behind Namor, he let the fire take him. His skin flared, clothes vanishing into smoke, and in an instant his whole body was wrapped in living flame. The Human Torch leapt into the sky, trailing a burning streak as he shot upward toward the figure above the harbor.
Down below, the panic hadn't stopped. People running through the icy streets suddenly caught sight of the fiery shape rising overhead. A few pointed, gasping his name, and the recognition spread. "The Torch!" someone shouted. For a brief second, despite the chaos, relief washed through the crowd. They still ran, but now with the faint hope that maybe the city wasn't helpless.
On the ground, the scene turned into a frenzy of sirens and uniforms. Police officers and soldiers, already on high alert for Aryan's visit, spread out through the waterfront. Some waved citizens toward safety, others radioed frantically for reinforcements. Armored trucks pulled across intersections, creating makeshift barriers as evacuation routes were cleared. The tension was electric, the city on edge, but the real fight was happening in the sky.
Namor's voice boomed over the harbor, deep and harsh. "Surface world! You poison the oceans, you slaughter what you do not understand! For this, you will drown in the waters you have defiled!"
He thrust his arms forward, and the sea obeyed. A monstrous wave surged up, towering over the docks, curling like a hand ready to crush everything beneath it.
Jim darted higher, fire roaring louder with each breath. He thrust out both arms, and a blazing wall erupted across the path of the wave. Steam exploded into the air with a deafening hiss, clouds of vapor cloaking the waterfront in white mist. The heat shimmered, pushing against the water with furious strength, buying precious seconds for those still running below.
Namor's eyes narrowed, water dripping from his brow as he faced the burning figure. The blast of heat had struck him too—his skin stung, a faint burn marking his side. For an ordinary man it would have been devastating, but his Atlantean body knit itself back together almost as fast as it was hurt. The small bruise faded, leaving him untouched.
Still, he had felt it. That made him pause.
He hovered there in the mist, studying the flame with something like curiosity before his lips curved into a sharp smirk.
"So," he called out, his voice carrying over the clash of sea and fire. "The surface has its own champions now. A man of fire to guard their cities. Interesting."
Jim's flames rippled brighter, his voice steady but firm. "I'm not here for them. I'm here to stop you from hurting innocent people. Whatever your grudge is, leave them out of it."
Namor tilted his head, unimpressed. "Then come, Fire-Man. Show me how strong your protection truly is."
With that, the Sub-Mariner surged forward, cutting through the steam, his fists clenched and the waters rising behind him like a living shield.
And for the first time, fire and sea prepared to clash above New York.
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