The sun crested over Manhattan.
In the morning cold of a New York October, Bob lowered to the deck—the Baxter Building's roof. Professor Richards was already waiting for him, wearing a characteristically casual expression. His hair fluttered slightly in the breeze, and for six in the morning, and despite himself, Bob frowned, his brow furrowing.
Reed looks…old.
Mister Fantastic. Reed Richards. In the ocean-blue uniform of the Fantastic Four.
Richards wiped a wisp of hair away and cleared his forehead. Extended a gloved hand, which Bob promptly met and shook.
"Bob," Richards said warmly.
"Morning, Reed. "Do you always wear the jumpsuit?"
Reed smiled and started to walk toward the lift. "Only during business. And it's more of a uniform."
"And this is business?"
"Well, yes." Typical Reed-hiding-something. They stepped into the lift, and as stainless steel cylindrical doors closed around the duo, Richards spoke again. "I got a lovely call from Nick Fury just as I was laying down to bed last night."
"Here it comes," Bob muttered.
"He knew you were stopping here anyway, so he asked me a favor."
Bob looked at Richards, and the professor held his gaze. Bob eyes narrowed a bit and his lips turned down, mildly unamused. "He asked you to tell me to stay. Didn't he?"
The lift pinged once, and the doors slid open, revealing Reed's lab.
"Yes," Richards said and stepped out. "The kitchen is through here. Coffee?"
Bob nodded and started walking at Richards' side. "And?"
"I told him no promises. I told him I couldn't make you stay, but I could at least talk to you."
"The same courtesy I gave him," Bob said and poured his own coffee.
"Look, Bob, I'm on your side. I didn't want it to come to this—"
Bob sighed, angry, and set the carafe back on the counter with a clang. He looked at Bob and his jaw was clenched. "Let me ask you a question, Reed. If you could just…leave this behind for a little bit. Would you?"
Richards stalled. He looked at Bob, and then away, poured his coffee and stirred the sugar in slowly. Turned around and sat the mug on the table, then sat. His brow furrowed as he thought through his response.
"Reed," Bob insisted.
"No."
Bob reclined in his seat. "No?"
"No," Richards said and finally managed to look Bob in the eyes. He seemed troubled by the proposition. "We, Sue and I, we have roots here. It…wouldn't be feasible."
Bob drew a deep breath and let it go. Took another sip of his coffee.
"I understand," he said. It sounded flat.
"You always did," Richards said. And after a moment: "Is that what this is about? You're trying to prove yourself, Bob? To whom? If it is about that, you needn't worry. You've proven yourself a hundred times over."
"It was never about proving anything to anyone." Bob finished off the coffee with a final, deep, swig. "It was about helping people. Making something positive out of something that's only ever given me trouble."
Richards waited a moment. "Is that what you think happened?"
Bob looked at Richards and rolled his eyes. "What happened is that I made a stupid mistake in college and it hasn't stopped fucking up my life ever since."
Richards thought about it. "We all make mistakes, Bob."
"You and Peter a-and Murdock can still save people, Reed. But I can't. Every time I use my power it's like a bull in a china shop. And after fighting Bruce…it…"
Reed waited.
"It just doesn't matter anymore. And I'm tired of feeling like more than I am."
"But you are," Richards said. "You're more than any of us. That sounds like a compliment but it's the truth. You've done things and gone places even I can only dream of." More quietly: "And the only person that's beating you up about what you do and the choices you've made…is you."
Bob leaned against the counter and sighed deep. "Fighting Bruce all those months ago taught me to get over the last bit of fear I had about my own power, Reed. I was afraid for too long now that any use of my power is dangerous. It's a horrible thing to say…but beating the hell out of Bruce…that fight…it felt good. It felt good to finally use that power."
"So you've said," Richards reasoned. "What does it have to do with you taking up a civilian life?"
"It's an acceptable way to go out," Bob said and meant it. "I don't think I could do it again. Using all that power…showed me that I am in control. Now I want to prove it to myself."
"Self assurance?"
Bob nodded. Said, more dismal, "Anyway, now that Lindy's gone, there's no reason to stay here."
Richards sat back in his chair and eyed the half-empty coffee mug. He was silent for a long moment. Thinking through the situation. He scratched his head and looked back at Bob.
"Can I ask how long you'll be gone?"
"For the forseeable future."
"Where will you go?" Richards looked up, and his features appeared more weathered than usual. He's troubled too, Sentry. He doesn't want you to leave—probably because he thinks like Fury does. That if you leave, the world will suddenly go to hell. Reed's one of your best friends. Would you want to make him unduly stressed for no good reason?
This is a good reason. He should understand.
Standing, Bob said, "Somewhere…where I can work on these problems on my own terms, and try to wean myself off of therapy and self-help books."
"A self-imposed exile," Richards reasoned.
Bob nodded. "I'll be back. When things get a little clearer."
Then he was gone.
Richards sat at the table for another hour, until Sue strolled in, still wearing her nightie, bearing all the trappings of the recently-asleep. She yawned and wiped a strand of hair from her face.
"What is it, honey?"
He turned slowly to look at his wife, pouring her own coffee and starting in on a cruller. His head cocked to one side and his eyes narrowed. He took the coffee mug she offered him in one hand, and sipped from it reflexively.
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
Bob had scouted out locations for weeks before leaving. California was too far, and too vibrant—he wanted to get away from the noise. Wyoming was undesirable, too natural. They were two ends of the spectrum, and he had decided on something middling. A compromise. His cabin in Vermont—the one he had occupied after Lindy died and during the Hulk's rampage—he had sold off.
He'd sold off most things. Not necessarily to cover expenses—he had precious few of those—but to shore up his own coffers.
Bob had tossed around the idea of going completely off the grid. With advanced physiology, even his, such as it was, a drifter's life as equally untenable.
He paid a visit to Citibank—he had set up twin savings accounts with Lindy there the day before they got married—and merely closed out his account. And Lindy's. The twin accounts were well stocked with twenty years of fastidious and constant input. Lindy's sizeable life insurance policy—her overbearing mother had insisted on it—had made her rich even in death.
All told, Bob left the island that afternoon with slightly less than a million. The small fortune he'd invested in Stark Enterprises, which he made sure he would still receive even as he withdrew from the world of costumed avengers, gave him an extra seven-hundred thousand.
He used twenty dollars of the money on a haircut at some hole in the wall barber in Hoboken, and another forty-two dollars on a suitcase in which he could store the bonds and the bundled cash. It seemed too whimsical of an idea to pass up, even for Bob's happily Spartan mind.
Another twenty-two thousand went to one of the new model Mustangs. Gunmetal grey. He'd spent less than an hour in the dealership.
Six hours later, Robert Reynolds was already on the far side of Philadelphia.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He could have simply flown out of Manhattan as The Sentry, gallantly soaring on to his next engagement or fight with some intergalactic conqueror. And he felt minutely remorseful about collecting, hoarding really, such large amounts of money. Up and leaving his life, really. Then he thought about Bruce. And Lindy.
You've got to remember that there's no one left now, Bob. The rest of them seemed to get along just fine when you were gone before—they'll be fine this time, too.
He pulled off to the side somewhere in Western Pennsylvania.
The sun beat down on him and reflected brightly, obnoxiously, off the Mustang's hood. The lingering breeze didn't bother him, but he pulled the jacket tight and close as a reflex. He'd pulled a road map out of the Mustang's center console as he got out, and now spread it out on the hood of the car.
Staring at it for a leisurely while, and every now and again sipping from a bottle of Aquafina, he drew a deep breath. His shoulders slumped and he put both hands on the hood, as if to give the map a focused read.
What happened next was strangely remote, almost mechanical in the way it suddenly manifested itself. Even so, Bob welcomed it. It was something different. And it made him feel different.
Fulfillment. As if such a thing could be simply switched on and off. From something as simple as pondering which road to take. A simple and stupidly symbolic thing to do, and think. The choice was entirely in his hands. Up ahead there was a cloverleaf interchange. He could literally go any direction he wanted.
He chuckled at the symbolism. Took another drink of water and went back to the map.
Welcome to your new life, Bob, he swore he heard the voices say.
For once they didn't seem too venomous.
He settled on Ohio.
There were some secluded areas in western Ohio—as far as secluded went, anyway, in a state bisected diagonally by three major cities. He couldn't escape technology or civilization proper, and that wasn't really his intent. He merely wanted a swath of land to call home. Something that he could restructure in his own way. Something that didn't stand atop Tony Stark's phallic and indulgent architecture in the middle of Midtown.
He told the realtors in Columbus as much. In three days, the realtor, a rather portly man named Bauer, had something for him.
"I mean, its west of here," Bauer said and scratched his nose. He seemed unduly flustered as he flipped through the listing and title deeds. "Springfield, thereabouts. Two-story colonial, uh…one and a half baths. Four bedrooms. Not furnished."
"That's not a problem," Bob had said warmly. "I'm in the market, John. You know I'll take whatever you have."
"You…don't want to take a look at her?"
Bob waved a lazy hand. "Well, the portfolio you have on the place seems pretty accurate." After a moment: "I trust your judgment."
Bauer looked at him, the apprehension still there. "Sure," he said awkwardly. "Sure, whatever you want, Bob." Bauer had taken to talking with his hands, and moved them reflexively, in a jerking up and down motion, every few seconds. "You…you're sure about this?"
Bob was, more than anything, amused by the whole enterprise of buying a home, and even more so by John Bauer's absolutely flummoxed demeanor. He chortled, partly to calm Bauer's nerves, and leaned forward. Affably, he said, "Look. I'm glad the credit check came back okay. It means my late wife wasn't too reckless with the checkbook. And I told you earlier, John, it'll be fine. The price is fine. The location is ideal. I mean, I'm not writing you a blank check here, I know, but I know what I like. This is it."
"Uh huh," Bauer nodded. Sweat beaded on his balding head.
"So when can I have it?" Bob's question was genuine, as was his gaze. He wanted this. He had long since made up his mind on the subject.
Bauer's eyes lit up. A sale! He launched off the edge of the desk, against which he had been leaning lazily, and threw himself into the leather chair behind his desk. He gave cursory glances to indiscriminate papers strewn about his desktop, and looked back at Bob a moment later.
"Today," Bauer said. He started dialing a long sequence in the phone. "You know, I'll put you in touch with the regional office there. When you get into town, stop by and they'll take you in. I'll let em know you're coming."
Bob stood and offered his hand for Bauer to shake. "Thank you," he said and meant it. "You didn't disappoint." The reasoning was thin, Bob knew, but instilled confidence nonetheless. And he wanted to be a gracious buyer, after all.
Bauer smiled and shook Bob's hand with vigor. His shoulders relaxed and seemed to fill out the brown sport coat more suitably. He fumbled through more papers and handed Bob a creased business card.
Bob took it curiously and glanced at Bauer's contact numbers. He looked back at Bauer, who was scratching his bald dome, and smiled.
"Just, uh, let me know when you get settled," Bauer said, awkwardly friendly.
"I will. Thanks again."
Continued...