By 1996, Reed had become much more comfortable in social situations. He attended department parties regularly, accepted invitations to informal gatherings, and had even developed genuine friendships with several fellow students outside the academic world. The process had been awkward at first, with Reed's conversation skills initially limited to technical topics and family discussions, but he'd gradually learned to navigate the complex social dynamics of people his own age.
Sue had been instrumental in this transformation, debriefing him after each date or social event with gentle critiques and encouragement that helped him understand the nuances of adult relationships. Her insights, combined with his own growing confidence, had turned what began as painful social experiments into genuinely enjoyable experiences.
The change was remarkable. Where Reed had once dreaded faculty mixers and avoided eye contact with attractive classmates, he now found himself looking forward to social events and even occasionally initiating conversations with people he found interesting. He'd dated several women over the past year, nothing serious but enough to prove to himself that he was capable of connecting with people outside his immediate family circle.
"But did you have fun?" Sue pressed. "Did you enjoy her company?"
Reed considered the question seriously. "Actually, yes. Once I stopped trying to impress her with my research and started asking about her work, the conversation became much more interesting. She's studying cognitive development in gifted children, which turned out to be fascinating."
"See?" Sue said triumphantly. "You just needed practice being social instead of just being brilliant."
The dating experiments of 1995 and 1996 were largely unsuccessful in terms of finding lasting romantic connections, but they served an important purpose in Reed's overall development. He learned to separate his identity from his achievements, to value himself as a complete person rather than just a collection of intellectual capabilities.
More importantly, he learned to appreciate the perspectives and experiences of people whose lives were organized around completely different priorities than his own. The psychology graduate student taught him about child development theory. A literature professor he dated briefly introduced him to poetry that actually made sense to him. A fellow scientist from Harvard's biology department helped him understand Sue's field from a more sophisticated perspective.
Michael, meanwhile, had undergone his own transformation during these years. After Reed's gentle nudging about balance and Sue's constant reminders that being smart didn't have to mean being solitary, Michael had started branching out beyond his computer science coursework and T-sphere sketches. By his sophomore year, he was volunteering as a tutor for struggling students, something that surprised everyone who knew him as the quiet genius who preferred machines to people.
"I never thought I'd enjoy teaching," Michael confided to Reed one evening as they worked together in the lab. "But there's something really satisfying about watching someone finally understand a concept they've been struggling with. Like when you helped Ben with calculus, except now I'm the one doing the explaining."
Reed looked up from his electromagnetic field calculations, noting the genuine enthusiasm in Michael's voice. "You're good at it too. I've heard students talking about how much clearer you make things than some of the actual professors."
"It's just about finding the right way to explain things," Michael said with growing confidence. "Same principles you use in research, really. You figure out what's not working and try a different approach."
By Michael's junior year in 1996, he had become something of a campus celebrity in his own right. His tutoring had evolved into leading study groups, which had led to organizing academic competitions, which had somehow led to Coach Peterson approaching him about joining the football team as a strategic consultant.
"Now hold on," Coach Peterson had said, his wild gray hair even more disheveled than usual as he paced around his office. "I know what you're thinking. But hear me out! Young Michael here has been helping our players with their coursework, and some of them mentioned that he's got the same kind of analytical mind as our departed Mr. Fantastic!"
Reed had been there for that conversation, having accompanied Michael to what they'd thought was a meeting about expanding the tutoring program. Watching Coach Peterson's theatrical enthusiasm directed at someone else was both amusing and oddly nostalgic.
"Coach, I've never played football in my life," Michael had protested. "I can barely throw a spiral, let alone understand defensive schemes."
"Neither could Mr. Fantastic when he started!" Coach Peterson exclaimed, throwing his arms wide with characteristic drama. "But he had the mind for it! The pattern recognition! The ability to think three steps ahead! And from what our boys tell me, you've got that same gift!"
Reed had watched this exchange with growing amusement, remembering his own reluctant introduction to football strategy years earlier. "Michael, you should consider it. The strategic thinking really is similar to your computer work. It's all about systems analysis and predictive modeling."
"See? Even our legendary Mr. Fantastic agrees!" Coach Peterson had declared triumphantly. "What do you say, young Michael? Ready to help us maintain our championship legacy?"
That conversation had led to Michael spending his junior and senior years as the team's new strategic coordinator. Just as Reed had years before, he brought a completely fresh perspective to defensive strategy, combining his computational thinking with genuine care for the players as individuals.
The transformation was remarkable. Michael's natural introversion gave way to confident leadership as he learned to communicate complex ideas to people who thought very differently than he did. Players who had initially been skeptical of another "genius kid" telling them how to play quickly came to respect his insights and genuine interest in their success.
"You know what's funny?" Michael told Reed during the 1998 season, as they watched MIT dominate yet another opponent with defensive schemes that bore Michael's analytical fingerprints. "I think I understand now why you loved this so much. It's not really about football. It's about bringing people together around a common goal and watching everyone become better than they thought they could be."
Coach Peterson, naturally, had been ecstatic about finding another strategic mastermind. During Michael's first season coordinating the defense, he'd dubbed him "Mr. Terrific" in a moment of characteristic enthusiasm, and the nickname had stuck just as firmly as Reed's had years earlier.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Coach Peterson had announced to the packed stadium during Michael's senior year championship game in 1996. "Once again, MIT's Engineers have proven that true believers and brilliant minds can accomplish anything! Mr. Terrific has guided us to another perfect season! Excelsior!"
Reed had been in the stands for that game, watching his young friend accept the team's gratitude with the same mixture of pride and embarrassment that Reed remembered feeling. Seeing Michael surrounded by celebrating players, all of them crediting him with their success, had filled Reed with a profound sense of satisfaction. The lonely fifteen-year-old he'd met in the lab had grown into someone capable of inspiring others and leading teams to extraordinary achievements.
But as 1996 progressed into 1997, Reed's own journey was becoming increasingly complicated. His NASA research, which had started with such promise and excitement, was hitting obstacles that seemed insurmountable.
The problems had started small. Minor inconsistencies in his plasma containment calculations. Unexpected energy losses in his electromagnetic field generators. Equipment failures that couldn't be explained by normal wear and tear. At first, Reed had attributed these setbacks to the normal challenges of transitioning from theoretical work to practical applications.
"Science is messy," Professor Williams had reminded him during one particularly frustrating week in 1997, when Reed's latest field generator had literally melted down during testing. "The gap between what works on paper and what works in reality is where real engineering happens."
But as months turned to years, the problems compounded rather than resolved. Each solution Reed developed seemed to create two new problems. His electromagnetic fields were either too weak to be useful or so strong they destroyed their own containment systems. The plasma temperatures required for effective propulsion were beyond anything his materials could withstand. The energy requirements for sustained operation were orders of magnitude higher than any available power source could provide.
By 1998, Reed was working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, desperately trying to solve problems that seemed to multiply faster than he could address them. His usual methodical approach gave way to increasingly frantic experimentation. His lab notebooks, once models of organized thinking, became filled with crossed-out equations and frustrated margin notes.
"Reed, you need to step back from this," Professor Williams said gently during one of their weekly progress meetings. "You're pushing yourself to exhaustion, and exhausted minds don't solve complex problems."
"I can't step back," Reed replied, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep. "NASA is expecting results. They've invested millions of dollars in this research. People are counting on me to make this work."
"People are counting on you to be realistic about what's possible," Professor Williams countered. "Science isn't about forcing impossible solutions. Sometimes it's about accepting limitations and finding different approaches."
But Reed couldn't accept limitations. This research represented everything he'd dreamed of since childhood. The spacecraft designs he'd developed with Ben, the promises he'd made to himself about carrying on his father's legacy, the vision of humanity reaching for the stars that had sustained him through the darkest periods of his life. Admitting failure felt like betraying everyone who had ever believed in him.
The breaking point came in March 1999, during what was supposed to be a triumphant demonstration of Reed's latest propulsion prototype. Dr. Morrison had flown in from Washington, along with a team of NASA engineers and several Pentagon officials who were interested in potential military applications.
Reed had been confident about this test. His newest electromagnetic field configuration had shown promise in computer simulations, and the smaller-scale tests had been encouraging. He'd spent weeks preparing for the demonstration, checking and rechecking every component, running diagnostics on all the equipment.
The test began perfectly. The electromagnetic fields generated smoothly, the plasma temperatures reached acceptable levels, and the thrust measurements showed exactly what Reed's calculations had predicted. For thirty glorious seconds, everything worked exactly as designed.
Then the primary field generator overloaded.
The explosion was contained by the laboratory's safety systems, but the destruction was total. Five years of research, millions of dollars of equipment, and Reed's dreams of revolutionizing space travel were reduced to smoking wreckage in less than a minute.
"Is everyone okay?" Dr. Morrison called out as alarms blared and emergency personnel rushed into the lab.
Reed stood amid the smoking ruins of his life's work, staring at the twisted metal that had once been his most sophisticated prototype. "I'm fine," he said quietly, though he felt anything but fine.
The investigation that followed was thorough and painful. Teams of engineers examined every component, every calculation, every decision Reed had made in designing the system. Their conclusion was diplomatically worded but devastating: the fundamental approach was flawed. The energy densities required for Reed's propulsion system would always exceed the containment capabilities of any known materials.
"Mr. Richards," Dr. Morrison said during their final meeting, her voice gentle but firm. "Your theoretical work has been extraordinary. The advances you've made in electromagnetic field theory will benefit research for decades to come. But this particular application... it's simply not feasible with current technology."
Reed felt something break inside his chest. "So we're ending the program?"
"We're redirecting it," Dr. Morrison corrected carefully. "Your expertise in electromagnetic systems has applications in communication technology, power generation, materials research. NASA would be happy to continue funding your work in any of those areas."
"But not space travel," Reed said quietly.
"Not this approach to space travel, no."
Reed walked back to his apartment that evening feeling like he was moving through thick fog. Everything around him seemed muted and distant. The campus that had been his home for ten years felt alien and unwelcoming. Students laughed and talked around him, but their voices seemed to come from very far away.
He found Sue waiting for him on the front porch, her expression serious and concerned. At seventeen now, she had developed an intuitive understanding of people that sometimes startled Reed with its accuracy. She took one look at his face and knew exactly what had happened.
"It's over, isn't it?" she said quietly.
Reed nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady.
Sue stood up from her chair and wrapped her arms around him in a hug that felt like coming home after a very long journey. "I'm sorry, Reed. I know how much this meant to you."
"I failed," Reed said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything I've worked for, everything I've dreamed about since I was a kid. It's all gone."
"It's not gone," Sue said firmly, pulling back to look at him directly. "It's just... postponed. Maybe this approach doesn't work, but that doesn't mean space travel is impossible. It just means you need to find a different way."
Reed shook his head. "Sue, I've spent five years on this. Five years with the best equipment, the best funding, the best support anyone could ask for. If I can't make it work under those conditions, maybe it's time to accept that some dreams are just dreams."
"Reed Richards," Sue said, her voice carrying the authority of someone much older than seventeen, "I have watched you solve problems that professors said were impossible. I've seen you create defensive strategies that revolutionized football, help struggling students understand concepts they thought were beyond them, and design technology that amazed NASA engineers. If anyone can figure out how to make space travel possible, it's you."
"But what if I can't?" Reed asked, the question carrying years of accumulated fear. "What if this is it? What if I've reached the limit of what I'm capable of?"
Sue was quiet for a long moment, then spoke with the kind of clarity that reminded Reed why her memory and analytical abilities were so remarkable. "Do you remember what you told me when I was scared about starting high school? You said that intelligence isn't about knowing all the answers. It's about being willing to keep asking questions even when the problems seem impossible."
Reed felt tears starting to form in his eyes. "I remember."
"Well, now I'm telling you the same thing. This problem seems impossible right now, but that doesn't mean it is impossible. It just means you haven't found the right question to ask yet."
"The universe always has more secrets to reveal," Reed said quietly, repeating his father's phrase.
"Exactly. And you're the person who's going to reveal them. Maybe not today, maybe not with this approach, but eventually. I believe that about you more than I've ever believed anything in my life."
Reed hugged Sue again, feeling some of the crushing weight on his chest begin to lift. "Thank you for believing in me. Even when I can't believe in myself."
"That's what family does," Sue said simply.
Over the following weeks, Reed tried to process the end of his space travel research and figure out what came next. NASA was indeed interested in continuing to fund his work in other areas, and several universities had approached him about faculty positions. His reputation in electromagnetic field theory remained sterling, even if his propulsion research had hit a dead end.
But Reed found himself struggling with motivation in ways he'd never experienced before. The research problems that had once excited him now felt mundane and pointless. Communication technology and power generation were important fields, but they weren't the stars he'd dreamed of reaching since childhood.
"I feel like I'm going through the motions," Reed confided to MaryGay one evening as they sat in the kitchen, both of them nursing cups of tea while Sue and Johnny did homework at the dining room table.
"That's normal after a major disappointment," MaryGay said gently. "You've spent years building your identity around a specific goal. When that goal becomes impossible, it takes time to rediscover who you are and what you want."
"But what if I never find that motivation again?" Reed asked. "What if this is just who I am now? Someone who used to have big dreams but settled for smaller ones?"
MaryGay studied Reed's face with the perceptive gaze of someone who had spent decades understanding young people. "Reed, you're twenty-six years old. Most people don't even figure out what they want to do with their lives until they're older than you are now. This setback doesn't define you. It's just one chapter in a much longer story."
"I keep thinking about my father," Reed admitted. "He spent his whole life pushing the boundaries of what was possible. When he couldn't save my mother with conventional medicine, he built a time machine to try to change the past. He never gave up on impossible dreams."
"And you think accepting limitations makes you less than he was?"
Reed nodded, surprised by how accurately MaryGay had identified his fear.
"Reed, your father's refusal to accept limitations cost him his life," MaryGay said gently but firmly. "His time machine experiment killed him because he was so focused on making the impossible possible that he ignored the dangers. Maybe learning when to step back isn't giving up. Maybe it's wisdom."
"But if I give up on space travel, what do I have left?"
"Everything else," MaryGay said with a smile. "Teaching, research in other fields, maybe even finding new approaches to the problems that seem impossible right now. And most importantly, you have the relationships you've built with people who care about you. That's not a consolation prize, Reed. That's what makes life meaningful."
As spring turned to summer in 1999, Reed gradually began to accept that his current approach to space propulsion was indeed impossible. The mathematics were elegant, the theory was sound, but the practical limitations were insurmountable with existing technology. NASA's offer to redirect his funding toward other electromagnetic applications was generous and would provide a comfortable career in important research.
But Reed found himself increasingly restless in Cambridge. MIT had been his home for ten years, the place where he'd transformed from an isolated teenager into a confident adult. Now, however, it felt like a constant reminder of his failure. Every time he walked past the laboratory where his propulsion research had literally exploded, he felt the weight of disappointed expectations and unfulfilled dreams.
"I'm thinking about leaving," Reed told Sue one evening in July, as they sat on their familiar front porch watching Johnny attempt to teach Herbie increasingly complex tricks.
"Leaving MIT?" Sue asked, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely surprised.
"Leaving Boston. Maybe taking a position at a different university, working on different problems, starting fresh somewhere else."
Sue was quiet for a long moment, watching her brother coax Herbie through what appeared to be an obstacle course made of lawn furniture. "That makes sense," she said finally. "Sometimes you need a change of scenery to remember who you are."
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"
"Why would I do that?" Sue asked, looking at him with eyes that seemed older than her seventeen years. "Reed, you've been my mentor and big brother for six years. I've learned more from watching you navigate challenges than I ever could from textbooks. If you think you need to leave MIT to find your next chapter, then that's what you should do."
"I'm going to miss you," Reed said, his voice thick with emotion. "All of you. These summers have been the best part of my adult life."
"We'll stay in touch," Sue said firmly. "Letters, phone calls, visits. Family doesn't end just because geography changes."
"What about Johnny? He's still so young, and he's gotten so attached..."
"Johnny's stronger than you think," Sue replied, glancing at her brother who was now attempting to teach Herbie to balance on a skateboard. "Besides, you're not disappearing forever. You're just moving to a different city. We'll see you again."
Reed spent the rest of that summer preparing for a transition he both wanted and dreaded. Columbia University had offered him a position in their physics department, focusing on electromagnetic applications in materials science. The work was interesting, the salary was good, and New York City offered the kind of anonymity that Reed thought he needed to rebuild his professional identity.
Michael, now a first-year medical student after his own transformative journey through MIT, was surprisingly supportive of Reed's decision to leave.
"Sometimes you need to get away from the place where something didn't work out," Michael said during one of their last conversations in the lab they'd shared for so many years. "It doesn't mean you're giving up. It just means you're giving yourself permission to become someone new."
"I feel like I'm abandoning everyone," Reed admitted. "Sue and Johnny, MaryGay, even you. This place has been our home."
"Reed, you gave all of us the confidence to become who we were meant to be," Michael replied seriously. "Sue's got her own path ahead of her, Johnny's going to be fine, and I'm going to spend the next eight years learning how to help people in completely different ways. We don't need you to stay here for us to remember everything you've taught us."
"But what if I can't figure out who I'm supposed to be somewhere else? What if MIT was the only place I could be successful?"
Michael smiled, the expression carrying years of friendship and mutual respect. "Reed, you didn't become Mr. Fantastic because MIT made you special. MIT recognized that you were already special. That's going to be true wherever you go."
The goodbye dinner that MaryGay organized for Reed's last week in Boston was both celebration and wake. Everyone who had been part of Reed's extended MIT family gathered around the familiar dining room table that had hosted so many important conversations over the years.
Professor Williams spoke about Reed's contributions to electromagnetic field theory and his potential for future breakthroughs. Dr. Morrison, who had driven up from Washington specifically for the dinner, expressed NASA's continued interest in collaborating on Reed's future research. Several of Reed's former students shared stories about how his teaching had influenced their own academic journeys.
But it was Johnny's speech that nearly broke Reed's composure entirely.
"Reed taught me that being smart isn't something to be scared of," the twelve-year-old said with the seriousness that had replaced much of his childhood hyperactivity. "He showed me that you can be really good at science stuff and still be fun to hang out with. And he never made me feel dumb for asking questions, even when they were probably really obvious questions."
Johnny paused, clearly trying to organize thoughts that were complex for someone his age. "I know Reed's sad about his rocket ship project not working out. But I think he's going to figure out a way to make it work eventually. Because Reed never really gives up on things that are important. He just finds different ways to think about them."
Reed felt tears streaming down his face as he listened to this twelve-year-old articulate something that Reed himself hadn't fully understood. Maybe leaving MIT wasn't giving up. Maybe it was just finding a different way to think about the same problems.
"Thank you, Johnny," Reed managed to say. "For believing in me even when I'm not sure I believe in myself."
The actual day of Reed's departure was gray and drizzly, the kind of September weather that made everything feel melancholy and uncertain. His belongings fit into his car and a small moving truck, a surprisingly modest accumulation for ten years of adult life.
Sue and Johnny had insisted on being there to see him off, despite the early hour and the fact that school was starting later that week. They stood on the front porch of the house that had been Reed's home longer than anywhere since his childhood, all three of them trying to pretend this wasn't as emotionally difficult as it felt.
"You have our phone number, right?" Sue asked for the third time, her usual composure cracking slightly around the edges.
"I have your phone number," Reed confirmed. "And your school address, and MaryGay's work number, and the neighbor's number in case of emergencies."
"And you'll call us when you get to New York?"
"I'll call you when I get to New York."
Johnny, who had been unusually quiet all morning, suddenly stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Reed's waist in a fierce hug. "I'm going to miss you," he said, his voice muffled against Reed's shirt.
Reed knelt down to Johnny's level, looking into eyes that reminded him of his own father's combination of intelligence and stubborn determination. "I'm going to miss you too, buddy. More than you know."
"Will you write to me? Not just phone calls, but actual letters?"
"I'll write to you," Reed promised. "And I'll tell you about all the interesting science stuff I'm working on."
"And the non-science stuff too?"
Reed smiled despite the tears that were threatening to overwhelm him. "And the non-science stuff too."
Sue's goodbye was longer and more complex, carrying the weight of six years of friendship that had shaped both of their lives in fundamental ways.
"You changed everything for me," Sue told him as they stood beside his packed car. "Before these summers, I thought being smart meant being alone. You showed me that intelligence could bring people together instead of pushing them apart."
"You did the same thing for me," Reed replied. "You and Johnny gave me back my faith in family, in the possibility that brilliant people could also be kind people."
"Promise me something," Sue said, her voice serious but not sad. "Promise me you won't give up on the impossible dreams. Maybe not the exact same approach you were using, but don't stop believing that problems can be solved. The universe needs people like you asking the difficult questions."
"I promise," Reed said, and as he spoke the words, he realized he meant them. "I won't give up on the important problems. I'll just try to be smarter about how I approach them."
They hugged for a long time, both of them understanding that this goodbye marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of something entirely different. Reed was leaving as a graduate student who had experienced a major professional setback. He would return, someday, as someone who had learned to define success differently.
As Reed drove away from MIT, watching the familiar campus disappear in his rearview mirror, he felt a complex mixture of sadness, fear, and anticipation. The comfortable certainties of graduate school were behind him. The research that had defined his identity for five years was over. The daily presence of Sue and Johnny, who had taught him so much about resilience and hope, was now reduced to phone calls and letters.
But as he merged onto the highway that would take him to New York and an uncertain future, Reed found himself thinking about Johnny's words from the goodbye dinner. Maybe he never really gave up on things that were important. Maybe he just found different ways to think about them.