Gary's house was a modest two-story structure with vinyl siding and a small front porch that had seen better days. The driveway held an assortment of vehicles in various states of repair, and the backyard was dominated by a large garage that served as Gary's automotive workshop.
As they pulled into the driveway, the front door opened and three children burst out, followed by a woman who could only be Aunt Mary. Reed's first impression was of barely contained chaos as his cousins surrounded the truck, chattering excitedly about his arrival.
"Reed!" called out the youngest, a girl of about eight with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin. "I'm Hope! Daddy said you're gonna live with us now!"
The middle child, a boy Reed's age with sandy hair and his father's stocky build, hung back slightly but offered a friendly wave. "I'm Danny," he said. "Dad says you're really smart."
The oldest, a girl of twelve with dark hair and serious eyes, studied Reed with obvious curiosity. "I'm Enid," she said simply. "I read about your dad in the newspaper. I'm sorry."
Aunt Mary approached the truck as Gary climbed out, her face showing the strain of recent events but also genuine warmth. She was a small woman with graying brown hair and kind eyes, wearing a simple dress and an apron that suggested she'd been cooking.
"Reed, sweetheart," she said softly, reaching to hug him as he emerged from the truck. "I'm so sorry about your father. We're going to take good care of you."
The hug was the first genuine physical comfort Reed had received since his father's disappearance, and he found himself fighting back tears. Mary's embrace reminded him painfully of his mother's affection, a warmth he'd almost forgotten after two years of grief and loss.
"There, there," Mary murmured, holding Reed close. "I know this is all very overwhelming. But you're family, and family takes care of each other."
Reed glanced over Mary's shoulder and saw Gary watching the scene with that same complex expression he'd noticed during the drive. But now Reed understood what he was seeing—Gary's genuine love for his own family, coupled with calculation about how to manage Reed's presence without revealing his true feelings.
"Let's get your things inside," Mary said, noticing Reed's emotional struggle. "I've set up a room for you in the basement. It's quiet down there, good for studying."
"Mom fixed it up real nice," Hope added, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "She put up posters of rockets and planets and stuff because Daddy said you like science."
Reed felt a pang of guilt at the family's obvious efforts to make him feel welcome, knowing now that Gary's motivations were purely mercenary. Mary and the children clearly believed they were helping an orphaned relative, unaware of their father's true feelings.
"That's very thoughtful," Reed said, managing a small smile for Hope's benefit. "Thank you."
As Reed gathered his belongings from the truck, he noticed Gary watching the scene with practiced attention, ready to step into his role as the caring but stern guardian. The man's ability to compartmentalize was remarkable and deeply disturbing.
"Kids, give your cousin some space," Gary said gruffly, but with an undertone of affection that sounded completely genuine. "He's had a long day."
"Can we show him his room?" Enid asked. "I helped Mom set up the desk."
"Of course, sweetheart," Gary replied, ruffling Enid's hair with obvious love. "But let him get settled first."
Reed watched this interaction with growing unease. Gary's affection for his own children was clearly real, which made his coldness toward Reed even more unsettling. It wasn't that Gary was incapable of love—he simply chose not to extend it to his nephew.
"Come on, Reed," Mary said, taking his suitcase. "Let me show you around."
As they walked toward the house, Gary fell into step beside Reed, close enough to speak quietly without being overheard by the others.
"See how easy this is?" Gary murmured, his voice low and threatening. "They all think I'm just a rough-around-the-edges guy with a good heart. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"
Reed said nothing, but he understood the message. Gary's public persona as the reluctant but caring guardian was a carefully constructed facade, and Reed was expected to play along.
The house's interior was modest but clean, decorated with family photos and children's artwork. Reed could see evidence of financial struggle—worn furniture, outdated appliances, hand-me-down clothes visible in laundry baskets. The contrast with his own family's comfortable middle-class lifestyle was stark.
"It's not fancy like what you're used to," Mary said apologetically, noticing Reed's survey of their home. "But it's full of love."
"It's very nice," Reed replied honestly. The house might not be luxurious, but it radiated the warmth of a close-knit family in ways his own home had never quite managed, even during the happiest times.
"Mary's been cooking all day," Gary announced, his public voice warm and slightly teasing. "She's determined to put some meat on your bones, Reed. Says you look too skinny."
"I just want him to feel at home," Mary said, blushing slightly at her husband's attention. "Growing boys need good food."
Reed watched this exchange with fascination. Gary's performance was flawless—he seemed like a man who genuinely cared about his family's efforts to welcome their new houseguest. There was no hint of the calculating manipulator who had threatened Reed during the drive.
"Well, I for one think we're lucky to have Reed here," Gary continued, putting a hand on Reed's shoulder that felt supportive to observers but carried an undertone of possession that only Reed could detect. "Family should stick together, especially during difficult times."
The hypocrisy was breathtaking, but Reed was beginning to understand that this was how Gary operated. He maintained his reputation as a fundamentally decent man while pursuing his own interests behind the scenes.
"Let me show you the basement," Mary said, leading Reed toward a door near the kitchen. "I know it's not ideal, having your room downstairs, but it's the only space we had available."
As they descended the narrow wooden stairs, Reed heard Gary's voice behind them, now speaking to his children with genuine warmth.
"All right, you three, let your cousin get settled. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other at dinner."
The basement room was small but surprisingly welcoming. Mary had clearly put considerable effort into making it comfortable, with a single bed, a desk positioned under the room's only window, bookshelves ready for Reed's belongings, and a reading lamp that provided adequate light for studying.
"I hope this will work for you," Mary said anxiously. "I know it's not what you're used to, but Gary did his best to make it comfortable."
Reed noticed the subtle way Mary attributed the room's preparation to Gary, maintaining the fiction that Reed's guardian was actively involved in caring for his welfare. He wondered if Gary had actually done any of the work or if Mary was simply giving him credit to preserve family harmony.
"It's perfect," Reed said sincerely. "Thank you for everything you've done."
Mary beamed at his acceptance. "You're such a polite boy. Your parents raised you well."
The mention of his parents brought a fresh wave of grief, and Reed had to blink back tears. Mary noticed his emotional struggle and gave him another gentle hug.
"I know this is all very difficult," she said softly. "Losing your father so soon after your mother... it's more than any child should have to bear. But you're not alone now. We're going to take care of you."
Reed nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Mary's kindness was genuine, even if her husband's motivations were purely selfish. At least he would have some allies in this house, even if they didn't understand the true situation.
"Take your time getting settled," Mary said, heading back upstairs. "Dinner's in an hour. Nothing fancy, just pot roast and potatoes. I hope you like it."
After she left, Reed sat on the narrow bed and surveyed his new reality. The basement room felt like a cell, but it would have to serve as his sanctuary for the foreseeable future. He unpacked his few belongings methodically, placing his parents' research journals on the bookshelf and setting the framed family photo on his desk where he could see it while studying.
The model rockets went on a shelf above his bed, silent reminders of the dreams he and his father had shared. As he handled each one, Reed remembered the excitement of building them together, the joy of watching them soar into the sky, the promise of future adventures among the stars.
Now those dreams felt impossibly distant, replaced by the harsh reality of living with a man who saw him as nothing more than a source of income and an outlet for decades of resentment.
—
The Richards family gathered around a modest dining table for what was clearly a daily ritual. Gary sat at the head of the table, Mary to his right, with the children arranged around the sides. Reed was given the chair next to Enid, who immediately began asking him questions about his previous school and interests.
The dining room was warm and inviting, with mismatched furniture that spoke of a family that had accumulated pieces over time rather than purchasing a coordinated set. Children's artwork hung on the walls alongside family photos, creating an atmosphere of lived-in comfort that Reed found both welcoming and alien.
"Did you really skip two grades?" Enid asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Danny said you're only ten but you're smarter than high schoolers."
Reed glanced nervously at Gary before answering. "Intelligence isn't measured by grade level," he replied carefully, aware that his uncle was listening to every word. "I just learned some things earlier than other kids."
"What kind of things?" Hope piped up, bouncing slightly in her chair with the boundless energy of an eight-year-old. "Can you do magic? Danny said you can fix anything."
Reed smiled at Hope's enthusiasm, feeling genuinely warmed by her obvious excitement about having him in the family. "Not magic. Just applied science and engineering. When you understand how things work, fixing them becomes a matter of identifying the problem and implementing the appropriate solution."
Gary made a dismissive sound, setting down his fork with more force than necessary. "Listen to him talk. Ten years old and already sounds like a college professor. Kid, you're gonna have to learn to talk like a normal person if you want to fit in around here."
Reed felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He had been trying to connect with his cousins, to share his excitement about learning, but Gary's criticism made him feel foolish and pretentious.
"Gary," Mary said quietly, a note of warning in her voice that suggested this wasn't the first time she'd had to moderate her husband's harshness.
"What? I'm just saying the boy needs to learn how to relate to regular folks," Gary continued, his public persona showing cracks as his private resentment bled through. "All that fancy talk might impress the professors, but it won't help him in the real world."
Enid bristled at her father's criticism of Reed. "I think it's cool that Reed knows so much. Maybe he can help me with my science projects."
Gary's expression darkened, and Reed saw a flash of the man who had threatened him in the truck. "Science projects are fine for school," Gary said firmly, his voice carrying an undertone of warning that only Reed fully understood. "But don't go filling your head with impossible dreams like Reed's father did. Stick to practical stuff that'll actually be useful."
Reed felt the familiar sting of having his father's work dismissed, but he forced himself to remain calm. Getting into arguments with Gary on his first night would only make life more difficult. He could see that his cousins were confused by their father's sudden hostility, and he didn't want to be the cause of family tension.
"Reed," Danny said, apparently trying to change the subject and ease the growing tension at the table, "do you like sports at all? We've got a basketball hoop in the driveway, and there's a Little League team if you're interested."
"I've never really played organized sports," Reed admitted, wishing immediately that he could take the words back. "I was usually too busy with academic pursuits."
Gary seized on this admission like a predator spotting weakness. "Well, that's gonna change. Can't have a boy growing up without learning some athletics. Builds character, teaches teamwork. All this book learning has made you soft."
"Gary," Mary warned again, her voice sharper now, but her husband ignored her.
"Starting this weekend, you're gonna help me work on cars," Gary declared, his tone making it clear this wasn't a request. "Learn to use your hands for something useful instead of just turning pages. Might even sign you up for Little League if the season's not over."
Reed's heart sank at the prospect of forced manual labor and athletic humiliation, but he simply nodded. "Yes, sir."
The rest of dinner passed in increasingly uncomfortable quiet, with Mary asking gentle questions about Reed's favorite subjects and the children sharing nervous stories about their school friends. Gary remained largely silent, but Reed could feel his uncle's evaluating gaze throughout the meal, as if he were cataloguing every perceived weakness or pretension.
When dessert was served—a simple but delicious apple pie that Mary had clearly made with care—Hope tried to revive the conversation by asking Reed about his old house.
"Did you have your own laboratory like a real scientist?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
Reed felt a pang of grief so sharp it took his breath away. "My father had a laboratory in our garage," he said quietly. "We worked on projects together."
"What kind of projects?" Danny asked, genuinely curious.
"We built telescopes and rockets, conducted experiments..." Reed's voice trailed off as memories of those precious hours with his father came flooding back.
"And look how that turned out," Gary muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
The cruelty of the comment hit Reed like a physical blow. Mary gasped audibly, and even the children looked shocked by their father's heartlessness.
"Gary!" Mary exclaimed, her usual gentle demeanor replaced by genuine anger. "That's enough!"
Gary looked around the table at his family's horrified faces and seemed to realize he had gone too far. His public mask slipped back into place, though it looked strained now.
"I'm sorry," he said, though the apology sounded hollow. "That was thoughtless. I just... I worry about the boy, that's all. Don't want him making the same mistakes."
Reed stared at his plate, fighting back tears. The casual cruelty of Gary's comment—reducing his father's tragic death to a cautionary tale about the dangers of intellectual curiosity—crystallized everything wrong with his new situation. He was alone in this house, dependent on a man who despised everything he represented.
—
Reed's education in "practical skills" began the very next morning. Gary woke him at 6 AM by banging on his bedroom door, the sound echoing through the basement like gunshots.
"Time to get up, boy," Gary called through the door. "Real work starts early."
Reed stumbled out of bed, still disoriented from his first night in the strange basement room. He had slept poorly, kept awake by unfamiliar sounds and the weight of his new circumstances. The concrete walls made everything echo strangely, and he had jumped at every creak and groan of the old house settling.
Gary led him to the garage, where a disassembled car engine lay spread across a workbench like the pieces of an enormous puzzle. The space smelled of motor oil, rust, and the lingering exhaust from countless repair jobs. Tools hung from pegboards with military precision, and automotive parts were sorted into bins with labels that Gary had clearly written himself.
"This is Mrs. Peterson's car," Gary explained, pulling on worn work gloves. "Engine seized up because she never checked the oil. Stupid woman probably thought cars ran on wishes and good intentions. Your job is to help me rebuild it."
Reed stared at the mechanical components with a mixture of apprehension and fascination. While the work was clearly intended as punishment, he couldn't help but be intrigued by the engineering involved in internal combustion engines. The complexity was beautiful in its own way—dozens of precisely machined parts working together to convert chemical energy into motion.
"First lesson," Gary said, handing Reed a heavy wrench that felt like it weighed five pounds. "Real work requires real tools. None of this delicate laboratory equipment your father played with. These tools have weight to them, substance. They're made for getting actual work done."
The wrench was indeed heavy, almost too much for Reed's ten-year-old hands to handle comfortably. His arms ached just from holding it, and he could see Gary watching his struggle with satisfaction.
"Problem is," Gary continued, his tone becoming deliberately cruel as he realized they were alone, "you've spent your whole life with your nose in books instead of learning useful skills. Weak little hands, soft muscles, no practical experience. Your father really did you a disservice, filling your head with theories instead of teaching you how to be a man."
Reed bit his lip to keep from responding. He could see that Gary was trying to provoke him, looking for an excuse to make his life even more difficult.
"See, this here's the cylinder block," Gary said, pointing to a massive piece of cast iron with sharp edges that looked designed to cut unwary fingers. "This is where the real work happens. Controlled explosions driving pistons, converting chemical energy to mechanical energy. It's science, but practical science. Science you can see and touch and use, not the fantasy garbage your father wasted his life on."
Reed nodded, recognizing the principles Gary was describing even though his uncle probably didn't realize he was teaching thermodynamics and mechanical engineering. "The combustion chamber compression ratio affects both power output and fuel efficiency," Reed observed, hoping to show that he could bridge the gap between theory and practice. "And the timing of the ignition relative to piston position is crucial for optimal energy transfer."
Gary stopped what he was doing and stared at Reed with undisguised annoyance. "How do you know that?"
"Basic thermodynamics," Reed replied. "I read about internal combustion engines in my father's mechanical engineering textbooks."
"Of course you did," Gary muttered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Kid can't just learn to fix cars like a normal person. Has to turn it into some kind of scientific theory. Probably read about it but never actually touched a real engine in your life."
The accusation stung because it was partially true. Reed had extensive theoretical knowledge but limited hands-on experience. Gary seemed determined to use this gap against him.
"Well, let's see how well all that book learning serves you," Gary said, handing Reed a gasket scraper with a dull blade. "Start scraping the old gasket material off this cylinder head. And do it right—if you leave any residue, the new gasket won't seal properly and the engine will leak oil all over Mrs. Peterson's driveway."
The work was tedious and physically demanding. The old gasket material had hardened like cement, and removing it required constant scraping with tools that left Reed's hands raw and blistered. Gary offered no encouragement, instead pointing out every small mistake and comparing Reed unfavorably to his own children.
"Danny could do this job in half the time," Gary commented after Reed had been working for two hours. "Course, he's got the sense to listen instead of thinking he knows better than everyone else."
Despite his uncle's hostility, Reed found himself genuinely interested in the mechanical engineering principles at work. There was something satisfying about taking apart complex mechanisms, understanding how they functioned, and putting them back together in working order. It was applied physics on a scale he could touch and manipulate directly.
But Gary seemed determined to drain any joy from the learning process. When Reed asked questions about how different components worked together, Gary would respond with sarcasm or outright cruelty.
"Why do you need to know that?" Gary would snap when Reed inquired about valve timing. "You planning to become a mechanic? Or are you just trying to show off again?"
By lunchtime, Reed's hands were bleeding from small cuts and his back ached from bending over the workbench. Gary surveyed his work with obvious dissatisfaction.
"Sloppy," Gary declared, running his finger along a section Reed had thought was clean. "Look at these gouges you left in the metal. Now I'll have to go back and fix your mistakes. Maybe tomorrow you'll pay attention instead of daydreaming about rockets and time machines."
Reed's entry into Springfield Elementary as a fifth-grader created an immediate sensation that made him feel like a specimen under a microscope. His academic abilities were so far beyond his classmates that teachers didn't know how to handle him, and his fellow students regarded him with a mixture of awe and suspicion that made every day feel like walking through a minefield.
The night before his first day, Reed lay in his basement room, staring at the ceiling and fighting waves of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him. He had always struggled with new social situations, feeling comfortable only in familiar environments where he understood the unspoken rules and expectations. Moving to a completely new school, in a new town, where no one knew him or understood his background, felt like being asked to navigate an alien world without a translator.
"You'll be fine," he whispered to himself, repeating the words his mother used to say when he felt overwhelmed by social situations. "Just be yourself and remember that everyone is probably nervous too."
But as Reed walked through the doors of Springfield Elementary that first morning, he could feel the weight of dozens of stares boring into him. Students clustered in groups along the hallways, whispering and pointing as he passed. His cousins had tried to prepare him for what to expect, but nothing could have truly readied him for the crushing feeling of being so utterly alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces.
"Reed Richards?" Mrs. Henderson, his fifth-grade teacher, called out as he entered her classroom. She was a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, but Reed could see the uncertainty in her expression as she looked at him. "I'm Mrs. Henderson. We're very excited to have you in our class."
Reed nodded politely, his throat too tight with anxiety to manage more than a quiet "Thank you, ma'am." He could feel the other students watching him, sizing him up, trying to figure out what made this new kid different from the others they'd known since kindergarten.
"Class, we have a new student joining us today," Mrs. Henderson announced unnecessarily, since Reed's presence was obvious to everyone in the room. "Reed Richards has moved here from Cambridge. Reed, would you like to tell us a little about yourself?"
Reed's mind went completely blank. He stood frozen at the front of the classroom, twenty-five pairs of eyes staring at him expectantly, feeling his palms grow sweaty and his heart race. This was exactly the kind of situation that had always terrified him—being the center of attention, expected to perform socially, with no clear script to follow.
"I... I like science," he finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "And reading. And... um... building things."
A few students snickered at his obvious nervousness, which only made Reed's anxiety spike higher. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment as Mrs. Henderson gently guided him to an empty desk near the back of the room.
"Thank you, Reed," she said kindly. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."
But fitting in was exactly what Reed couldn't seem to do. When Mrs. Henderson gave the class a mathematics quiz that was supposed to challenge them for the entire period, Reed finished it in three minutes and spent the remaining time reading a college-level physics textbook he had brought from home. The other students stared at him like he was some kind of alien creature, their whispers growing louder with each passing minute.
"Is he for real?" one boy muttered to his neighbor.
"Maybe he's cheating somehow," another student suggested.
"My mom says some kids pretend to be smart to get attention," a girl added with obvious disdain.
Reed tried to ignore the comments, but each whisper felt like a physical blow. He hunched over his textbook, trying to make himself invisible while his classmates continued their speculation about his abilities and motivations.
"Reed?" Mrs. Henderson said uncertainly after collecting the quizzes. "Would you mind staying after class for a moment?"
When the other students had filed out, chattering nervously about the strange new boy, Mrs. Henderson examined Reed's quiz with obvious bewilderment. Reed remained seated, his hands folded in his lap, trying to read her expression and figure out if he had somehow done something wrong.
"You got every answer correct," she said slowly, her voice filled with disbelief. "Including the bonus question that I didn't expect anyone to solve. And you finished in three minutes."
Reed felt a familiar knot of anxiety forming in his stomach. Had he answered too quickly? Should he have pretended to struggle more? He never knew how to calibrate his responses to avoid making others uncomfortable.
"The problems were mostly basic algebra," Reed explained, not meaning to sound dismissive but unable to hide his surprise that she found his performance remarkable. "The bonus question required applying the quadratic formula, but that's fairly straightforward once you understand the underlying mathematical principles."
Mrs. Henderson stared at him for a long moment, and Reed could see her struggling to process what she was witnessing. "Reed, how old are you?"
"Ten," Reed replied, wondering if he had somehow failed to meet expectations in some way he couldn't understand.
"And you're reading..." she glanced at the textbook on his desk, her eyebrows rising dramatically, "...'Introduction to Quantum Mechanics.' Is this for a school assignment?"
"No, it's for personal interest," Reed said, his voice growing even quieter as he sensed her growing amazement. "I've been working through the mathematical foundations of quantum theory. It's fascinating how wave-particle duality emerges from the Schrödinger equation."
Mrs. Henderson looked like she was developing a headache. She rubbed her temples and took several deep breaths before speaking again. "Reed, I think we need to have a conversation with the principal."
Reed's anxiety spiked to near-panic levels. In his experience, being sent to the principal's office was never a good thing. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"No, sweetheart," Mrs. Henderson said gently, apparently noticing his distress. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's just... we need to figure out the best way to help you succeed here."
But even her reassurance couldn't calm Reed's racing heart as they walked through the hallways toward the principal's office. Other students stopped their conversations to stare as he passed, and Reed could hear the whispers starting again.
"That's the weird genius kid," one seventh-grader told his friends, not bothering to lower his voice. "My sister says he talks like a robot."
"I heard he built a rocket that almost burned down his old school," another student added, the story growing more distorted with each retelling.
"My dad says his father died in some kind of mad scientist experiment," a third voice chimed in. "Probably blew himself up trying to create monsters or something."
Reed tried to ignore the whispers, but they cut deep. Every comment reminded him of how different he was, how impossible it seemed to fit in anywhere. At his old school, his intelligence had been celebrated and nurtured. Here, it seemed to mark him as a target for mockery and suspicion.