In the Red Lion Pub in Chicago, it's about midnight. You could say it was exactly five minutes past midnight, but anyone that specific would likely get their teeth knocked crooked to match their priorities. Such was the clientele of the Red Lion.

It didn't use to be this way. It used to be a fairly respectable tavern, but ever since the Pym incident, business had doubled. Not by the most reputable customers, mind you, but the owner, Fred, wasn't too concerned with that detail. Any publicity was good publicity to him. Hell, if there was another post-human bar fight, maybe business would go up again.

It would be exactly what he needed. The old influx was just enough to balance out the repair fee for the wall Pym broke down. Ironic, he thought, that the recession was killing business. Seemed that now more people than ever would need a stiff drink.

This is where Fred's thoughts wandered as he polished another glass. He always tended the bar himself. It always seemed more personal. And if any more crazy mutant shit went down, he would have a front row seat.

At six minutes after midnight, he got his wish.

It had been a very dark night in Chicago. Dark skies and dark times led to dark spirits. And suddenly, one more thing added to the darkness. The power went out for several blocks around the bar.

"Goddammit," he cursed absentmindedly. At least it happened on a slow day. There were only two customers in here, and one was walking with a noticeable limp. He wasn't going to get anywhere near the safe with that kind of mobility.

"Hey, barkeep," said a voice in the darkness, "How long do you think this'll last?"

He was about to reply, when a cold voice emanated from the night.

"Only as long as it has to."

Fred's thoughts immediately went to the safe. He had to guard it from this intruder. Though he knew how futile the thought was, he was sincerely hoping that the power going out was a coincidence.

The silence was punctuated by the sound of boots hitting the tile floor. His stride was deliberate and confident. Whatever his goal was, he knew what he was doing.

Fred had never had great night vision, but now his eyes were able to discern general shapes. The stranger, judging from the size of his head, was wearing a helmet. Hopefully.

The other man had practically leaped from his chair. He was backing off slowly, stumbling through the dark. The sound of his scrambling, slipping steps created discord with that of the stranger.

"I didn't know! I swear I didn't know!"

"Three days to come up with an alibi and that's the best you could come up with?"

The stranger was walking more quickly now, and the man followed suit, retreating ever more desperately.

"You seemed to know what you were doing when you… God. You're a sick man, Steven. I can't even talk about it."

The stranger had backed the man known as Steven into a corner. As he removed his helmet, the room became bright so fast that Fred had to shield his eyes. As the stranger spoke again, Fred noticed something had changed in his voice. It didn't sound normal anymore. It didn't sound normal at all.

"But I can."

Steven screamed. It was not something he was very practiced at doing.

"It is my understanding that organs are meant to stay inside the body, Steven. But maybe you can persuade me otherwise. But since your clients are dead, I suppose you'll just have to do so… By example."

Steven was whimpering now. Fred couldn't bring himself to look up. He very much just wanted to go home. See his kids. Watch the game…

"No? Ach, John. You're always such a killjoy."

Fred was in no hurry to look at the scene unfolding in the corner. If this man had multiple personalities, he must be even more deranged than he thought. He desperately tried to remember the words to the Lord's Prayer.

"Then I'll just have to settle for a good, old-fashioned…"

His sentence was interrupted by an ear-shattering scream. It ended as quickly as it started, and Fred distinctly heard a heavy thud.

There was a long silence, and Fred guessed it was the stranger taking a breather after whatever horrible deed he had done. Finally, he mustered the courage to look up. The stranger was already walking away, and was almost at the door.

Surprisingly, there weren't any marks on Steven, and he was still breathing. In fact, he didn't seemed to be physically harmed. Maybe it was some sort of psychic assault?

And now that Fred had a chance to think about it, maybe the stranger wasn't a psychopath. What he had described "Steven" doing… Was that Steven Lords? Fifteen victims in the Greenwich area? And he took him down without killing him… Was he one of the good guys?

Fred looked at the stranger, and suddenly found out why it had become so bright in the bar. His head was enwreathed with flames, but he didn't seem to care at all. Definitely superhuman, he thought. Who was it who had the flames?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an offhand comment. Thankfully, the stranger had his normal voice back.

"Sorry about the mess. You should probably call the police right now. This guy's isn't particularly picky about his victims."

Fred was startled for a moment, but as the stranger reached for his helmet once more, he composed himself enough to ask one question:

"What should I call you, when I talk about this later? You one of the Ultimates? Are… Are you the Human Torch?"

"The Torch? Heh, not by a long shot."

And at this point, he turned around. Fred couldn't believe his eyes. Now he knew why a mass murderer would be intimidated. Why he would be scared enough to scream like a girl.

The stranger had no face.

The fire had consumed his entire head, until there was nothing but a skull left.

Fred let out an audible whimper as the stranger once again turned his back, put on his helmet, and headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, he spoke. Had Fred not been so terrified, he may have noticed there was a tinge of sadness in the stranger's voice.

"What made you so sure I was one of the good guys?"