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A green-skinned Skrull warrior showed them to their table. "Here are your menus," he said, the latex wattles upon his lower jaw wobbling somewhat as he spoke. "I'll be back to take your orders in a moment."

"Thank you," Susan Richards replied. She made sure her baby daughter, Valeria, was safely tucked into her high chair, then smiled at the wide-eyed little boy seated next to her. "Isn't this fun, Franklin?"

The SkrullWorld Café was the latest theme restaurant to hit New York, attracting families and tourists who wanted a little extraterrestrial atmosphere with their overpriced burgers and salads. Waiters and waitresses made up to resemble various alien species circulated among the seated patrons. From where she was sitting, on the ground floor of the split-level eatery, Sue spotted blue-skinned Kree soldiers, lizardlike Badoon, a feathered Shi'ar empress, and even a fairly convincing replica of a Stone Man from Saturn. Sue pitied the poor, semi-employed actor sweating inside that bulky, foam-rubber costume.

Talk about paying your dues, she thought.

A sparkling electric starfield, complete with glowing nebulae and supernovas, adorned the high, domed ceiling, while model spacecraft, built with varying degrees of accuracy, hung on wires above the ground floor. Life-size busts of iconic cosmic entities such as Galactus and the Watcher peered down on the patrons from opposite sides of the mezzanine. Dry-ice fog tumbled from luminous craters scattered throughout the restaurant. Sci-fi music and sound effects played in the background.

"Pretty cool!" Franklin enthused. The towheaded eight-year-old looked about him eagerly,craning his neck to check out the miniature space cruisers suspended overhead. "Look, there's Daddy's old rocket ship!"

Glancing upward, Sue located the model her son was excitedly pointing at. Sure enough, a toy-sized duplicate of Reed's original spacecraft, complete with an old-fashioned booster rocket, hung from the ceiling above them. The stylized numeral 4 inscribed on the hull of the cylindrical, silver vessel was not quite historically accurate, but clearly indicated exactly what ship the model was intended to represent: Reed Richards's first experimental spaceship, the one that had changed their lives forever.

A pang of bittersweet nostalgia struck Sue. It had been aboard that original rocket that Reed, Ben, Johnny, and she had all been exposed to the cosmic rays that had transformed them from a quartet of first-time astronauts into the superheroic Fantastic Four. The extraordinary abilities they had gained on that fateful flight had proved both a blessing and a curse, drawing them closer together while simultaneously propelling them into a life of never-ending danger and excitement.

If not for that fragile spaceship, she reflected, I might still be plain old Sue Storm — and not the Invisible Woman.

But that was not what today was about. Right now she just wanted to spend some quality time with her children, like any other devoted wife and mother. Malevolent super-villains and insane alien conquerors could wait; it was a beautiful fall morning and she intended to make the most of it.

"I see, honey," she told Franklin. "We'll have to remember to tell your father about it later."

"How come he couldn't come with us?" her son asked. He looked away from the model starships and started to flip through his menu.

"Daddy had to work in his lab this morning," she said, "but he and Uncle Johnny and Ben are all going to join us for a picnic in the park later on today. Won't that be fun?"

She made a mental note to page Reed later on, just to remind him to meet them in Central Park around three-thirty. Sometimes, when he was caught up in his experiments, he could be maddeningly absentminded about such things. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy spending time with his children; he just needed a little nudge now and then, especially when he was closing in on yet another revolutionary new discovery or invention.

The dangers of marrying a supergenius. Good thing I'm used to it by now.

"You bet!" Franklin replied. In his enthusiasm, he accidentally kicked the base of the table, toppling a bottle of fluorescent purple ketchup, which rolled over the edge of the table before anyone could grab it. The glass bottle plummeted toward the tile floor.

No problem. Concentrating, Sue quickly visualized a spongy cushion between the bottle and the floor. Her cosmically mutated brain responded by generating an invisible force field of precisely the desired size and shape. It had taken her years to master this strange new ability, but now Sue could project her force fields with but a moment's thought — and with near pinpoint accuracy.

The falling bottle landed snugly in the unseen cushion, which Sue mentally lifted to the level of the tabletop before replacing the ketchup where it belonged. "Careful, honey," she urged Franklin, as though nothing miraculous had occurred.

"Thanks, Mom," he replied.

A waiter dressed as the Space Phantom passed by their table, bearing a tray of steaming entrées. "Mmm, the food here smells delicious," Alicia Masters commented from across the table. She ran her fingers over the special braille menu she had requested. "I can't decide what to order. It all sounds good."

"I know," Sue agreed, glad that Alicia had been able to join her and the kids this morning. The blind young sculptress was one of the Fantastic Four's oldest friends, practically a member of the family. "If I don't watch myself, I'm going to need a whole new wardrobe just to accommodate my expanding waistline."

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration," Alicia insisted with a smile. Her striking, pale blue eyes stared sightlessly at the other woman, unable to perceive Sue's lustrous blond hair and still-svelte figure — stylish civilian attire helped Sue blend in with the rest of the crowd, despite her being a world-famous superheroine. "So, how did this place turn out?" Alicia asked. "I admit I'm curious as to what it looks like."

Sue recalled that Alicia had personally sculpted the huge busts of Galactus and the Watcher overlooking the mezzanine, and Sue generously described the restaurant's sci-fi decor to her friend. "The Kree wannabes aren't quite the right shade of blue, but nobody else seems to be noticing."

"Well, most people haven't run into the real thing quite as often as you have," Alicia pointed out.

"This is true," Sue conceded. As the Invisible Woman, she had encountered more than her fair share of aliens and otherworldly life-forms over the years. If it was strange and unusual, then the Fantastic Four had surely run into it, probably more than once. That was just the way their lives were, ever since those cosmic rays had changed everything.

All the more reason to appreciate peaceful mornings like this, she resolved, happy to see her children enjoying themselves, just like any other kids, and not in jeopardy from any vengeful archfoe. She took a moment to bask in the warmth and companionship of the moment and hoped that the rest of the team was enjoying the morning as well, each in his own way. After everything we've been through lately, we deserve a day off.

She prayed nothing would happen to spoil it.

Located in the heart of Greenwich Village, many blocks south of the SkrullWorld Café, Washington Square Park was playing host to the city's annual "New York is Book Country" festival. Rows of temporary stalls and kiosks had been set up along the park's paved walkways, showcasing the literary wares of assorted large publishers, small presses, and antiquarian booksellers. A folk band composed entirely of local authors and poets performed on an elevated stage near the large concave fountain at the center of the park. A towering plume of water rose from the fountain, which had been turned on for the occasion, even though it was late October. Skeletal trees looked on silently as a chilly autumn wind scattered crunchy brown leaves across the ground. An imposing marble arch, over seventy-five feet tall, loomed over the northern end of the square, facing the historic redbrick town houses on the opposite side of the street.

Despite the blustery weather, a large crowd had turned out for the outdoor festival, joining the usual crowd of NYU students, street performers, dog walkers, and joggers. Old men played chess at concrete pedestals set up near the southwest corner of the park. Mounted police officers patrolled the perimeter of the square. Lines formed at several of the book stalls, where well-known authors and celebrities signed their latest tomes.

One of the longest lines led to a table occupied by a blond young man in a distinctive blue uniform. A large, embossed 4 was emblazoned upon his chest. Johnny Storm, also known to the world as the Human Torch, sat behind the table, upon which were stacked multiple copies of the official "2006 Fantastic Four Calendar." A glossy color portrait of the team, taken by a friendly neighborhood photographer named Peter Parker, adorned the calendar cover. Next to Johnny, on the other side of the piled calendars, a festival worker accepted cash and credit cards, leaving Johnny free to autograph calendars for his adoring fans.

The proceeds were going to promote literacy programs, so Johnny was happy to donate his morning to the cause. His line being largely composed of attractive, young NYU coeds was a highly welcome bonus.

What can I say? he thought, smiling at the latest beauty to approach the table, a statuesque brunette wearing jeans and a snug pink sweater. I'm a true humanitarian.

"Hi there!" he greeted her as he accepted a newly bought calendar from the woman. His boyish expression matched the one in the cover photo. "Who should I make this out to?"

"My name is Holly," she answered, blushing, "and this is my roommate, Candace." She tugged the woman behind her, a perky-looking redhead whose studious glasses failed to conceal her inquisitive green eyes, up to the table. "We each bought a calendar."

"This is so exciting!" Candace gushed. She glanced down at Johnny's hands as he positioned Holly's calendar in front of him. "Er, don't you need a pen or something?"

He gave her a mischievous wink. "Not really." He held up his gloved index finger, the tip of which suddenly took on an incandescent glow. He pressed his finger to the calendar and effortlessly seared an inscription into the glossy cardboard cover: To Holly, with blazing affection, Johnny. "See? Works just like a laser printer...and I don't even need to plug it in."

The two women were suitably impressed. "Wow!" Candace blurted. "That could save me a fortune in pens."

"That's nothing," Johnny bragged, although, to be honest, it had taken him years to gain that degree of control over his flame powers. He handed Holly her calendar and then took Candace's. "You should see me when I really heat things up."

"I think I'd like to," Holly said coyly. A frigid gust of wind blew past them and she hugged herself to keep warm. She nodded at Johnny's tight blue uniform. "Aren't you cold in that outfit?"

He laughed good-heartedly. "Hey, I'm the Human Torch. I'm never cold." He signed Candace's calendar and stood up behind the table. "Step closer. Let me show you something."

While the pair of roommates looked on, Johnny mentally adjusted his internal thermostat, raising his body temperature several degrees in a matter of seconds. Not enough to generate a full manifestation of his powers, but enough to generate a toasty aura through the thin fabric of his uniform, which was composed entirely of "unstable molecules." The latter were a singularly useful invention that allowed the uniforms of the Fantastic Four to adapt to the distinctive powers of Johnny and his teammates; as a result, his clothing was in no danger of catching on fire — until Johnny himself did.

Waves of soothing heat radiated from his body, warming the two coeds with his personal incalescence. But even though his present temperature would have alarmed any reputable physician, Johnny felt in no way feverish. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

"Too cool!" Holly said, leaning toward Johnny with her palms held out in front of her. "Boy, we could sure use you on a cold night. You should come by our dorm room sometime."

Life is good, Johnny thought. "Sounds great to me."

Candace glanced up at the full-color poster of the Fantastic Four pinned up behind Johnny. "Is the rest of team here today?"

"Er, maybe," he said hesitantly. Peering past the two women, his eyes picked out a large, stocky figure lurking in the midst of the crowd, several yards away. A hat, scarf, shades, and bulky trench coat concealed the individual's features. No one around him appeared to be giving the solitary figure much thought, which was probably just the way he wanted it. "I wouldn't be surprised if another member of the gang dropped by the park at some point, but I'm pretty much the feature attraction today." He feigned a moment of insecurity. "Hope you're not too disappointed."

The delectable roommates wasted no time assuring him that this was far from the case. Behind them, many of their fellow students were now growing impatient for their own chance to meet the Human Torch in person, but wouldn't even think of leaving their place in line. For himself, Johnny was more than willing to keep signing calendars for as long as it took to satisfy every one of his fans. All for a good cause, he reminded himself. Holly and Candace aside, of course.

Too bad Ben didn't seem to be having as much fun....

Less comfortable with being gawked at, Benjamin J. Grimm did his best to keep a low profile as he trudged through Washington Square Park, gloomily taking in the happy people all around him. His voluminous trench coat was drawn tightly shut, all the way up to his chin, with the collar turned up to further conceal his appearance. A wide-brimmed fedora rested low upon his craggy brow, while a thick wool muffler covered his face from the nose down. Opaque sunglasses and a pair of mittens the size of boxing gloves completed his disguise, which appeared to be working, at least for the time being. He hadn't noticed any curious and/or horrified looks coming his way.

Yet.

From a distance, he watched Johnny flirt with the college girls and felt a stab of envy. Kid doesn't know how lucky he is, Ben thought. There had been a time, back during his football-hero days, when Ben had enjoyed the same kind of attention.

But not anymore. Not since the Change.

A melancholy mood descended upon him. The festive atmosphere only heightened Ben's sense of being cut off from all the normal, everyday people surrounding him. Carefree laughter and conversation bounced off his stony hide like radio signals from a world that no longer held any place for him. Smiling couples, both young and old, walked past him hand in hand, taunting him with their casual intimacy. Frazzled parents struggled to keep up with their kids, who ran from booth to booth, usually several steps ahead of their folks. A would-be entrepreneur hawked a self-printed pamphlet, "150 Sure-Fire Pick-Up Lines."

Yeah. Right.

A face-painter transformed eager children into cats, dogs, clowns, devils, and even a couple of miniature Hulks and Spider-Men. Their brand-new faces could easily be washed off at the end of the day. Ben wished he could say the same.

Aw, get ahold of yerself, he thought irritably. Ain't like this is anything new. For better or for worse, he'd had years to come to terms with his present condition. He flexed his muscles beneath his heavy garments, feeling rocky plates slide over the surface of his massive torso and limbs. And it ain't like you got nobody at all in your life. There's always Reed and Suzie and the little squirts, even the hotshot over there, he thought, peering at Johnny through his tinted sunglasses. It's just that it still gets to me sometimes, that's all.

Even after all this time.

Not wanting to torture himself anymore, he forced himself to look away from Johnny and his horde of admirers. He lumbered through the crowd, his heavy tread cushioned somewhat by the fallen leaves carpeting the pavement. A display of used coffee-table books caught his eye, and he wandered over to take a closer look, mostly for lack of anything better to do.

The oversize tomes were laid out atop a long rectangular table, protected from the elements by a plastic canopy. The majority of the books featured glossy reproductions of classical art, a bit highbrow for his tastes, but one title struck his fancy: Fighter Jets from A to Z.

"That's more like it," he muttered to himself. His voice was deep and gravelly, with an accent that betrayed his roots in Manhattan's Lower East Side; Yancy Street, to be exact. A former test pilot, Ben had never lost his interest in cutting-edge aircraft, no matter how much one particular flight had cost him. He reached out for the book, wanting to inspect the contents, only to be hampered by the clumsy mittens engulfing his hands. "Aw, fer Pete's sake."

He glanced around furtively, checking to see if anyone was looking. The proprietor of the booth appeared to be engaged in a lively conversation at the other end of the table, and nobody else seemed to be watching, so Ben decided to take a chance. He shucked off the cumbersome mittens, exposing his hands to view.

Freakish and inhuman, the hands were the size of a bull gorilla's, but with only four stumpy digits on each hand. Thick stone segments, separated by intersecting cracks and crevices, encrusted every inch of his appendages, so that they appeared to have been assembled from broken rubble, not flesh and blood. Granite chips took the place of fingernails. The rough, weathered surfaces were a dull, rusty orange in color.

He picked up the book again, but the pages were thinner than he had anticipated; his lumpish fingers made leafing through them difficult. Just another simple pleasure that his monstrous form denied him. "The hell with it!" he grumbled, putting the book back down in disgust. "Ain't worth the trouble."

"Is there a problem, sir?" the owner of the booth asked. A elderly man with thick bifocal glasses, he approached Ben from the far end of the table. "Perhaps I can assist you with some..."

His words trailed off as he caught sight of Ben's exposed hands. The bookseller's eyes bulged behind his corrective lenses and he gulped audibly, his skinny Adam's apple bobbing like a yo-yo.

What's the matter? Ben thought, scowling behind his heavy muffler. Ain't you ever seen a bona fide cosmic mutation before? He hastily tugged his mittens back on, before the old guy had a heart attack. "Forget about it," he grunted, and stalked away from the table, immersing himself back into the relative anonymity of the crowd. Within seconds, he had left the booth behind.

His brief encounter with the spooked bookseller had done nothing to lift his mood. He eyed the other fairgoers with an increasing sense of isolation and loss.

This was a bad idea. I should've never let Torchie talk me into coming to this shindig. He headed for the outer fringes of the festival, wanting to put some distance between himself and the lighthearted civilians flocking to the event. I don't belong here. This is a place fer ordinary folks, not fer someone who's just...a Thing.

The sun beat down on the grassy shore of what would someday be known as Lake Turkana in East Africa. A tribe of primitive ape-men busied themselves upon the shore's pebbly edge, at the fringe of a sprawling savanna dotted with acacia trees. Birds squawked overhead, occasionally swooping down to snatch a fish from beneath the glassy surface of the lake. Wildlife rustled in the tall grass beyond the tribe's temporary camp. In the distance, a smoking volcano towered above the horizon.

Two million years in the past, Reed Richards viewed the prehistoric scene with fascination. It was not every day that he got to observe his own evolutionary ancestors at their daily routine. The naked ape-men before him were prime specimens of Homo habilis — "Handy Man" — the earliest known human species, and the first to develop the use of tools. No more than five feet tall, with the females considerably smaller, the dwarfish hominids had long arms like chimpanzees, but walked erect on two legs. Protruding jaws and brow ridges betrayed their lineage from earlier species of primates. Throats not yet developed enough for human speech emitted various hoarse articulations that fell short of constituting an actual language.

Dark-skinned children splashed along the shore of the lake while some of their elders rooted for edible roots and tubers, digging at the ground with pointed sticks. Warier tribe members watched the tall grass, keeping an eye out for any lurking predators. Another sucked the marrow from the scavenged bones of a dead antelope. Not far from Reed, an adult male meticulously chipped away at a rounded chunk of basalt, creating a sharp edge at one end of the rock. A younger hominid carefully scrutinized the process, learning from his elder. No campfires burned upon the beach; humanity was still hundreds of millennia away from mastering fire.

The early humans paid no attention to the tall, distinguished-looking Homo sapien standing in their midst. This was because Reed had set the time machine on Observe mode only; as a result, he existed slightly out of phase with the primeval environment, rendering him both invisible and intangible to the ape-men. Just as it should be, he reflected. The last thing I want to do is risk disturbing the timeline by altering the past.

So far the experiment was going well. Although the Fantastic Four had captured their original time machine from the villainous Doctor Doom years ago, Reed continued to improve on the basic technology, extending its range and targeting capacities. Today's expedition into the Pliocene era was a test of a new cross-temporal search engine that he had programmed into the machine's navigational system. Based on radiometric dating, electron spin resonance, geomagnetic polarity, Earth's shifting position within the expanding universe, and a myriad of other factors, the new program was intended to refine the time machine's targeting apparatus, theoretically making it easier to locate events whose exact time and place had been lost to history...say, a Homo habilis encampment roughly two million years ago.

He scanned a nearby rock outcropping with a handheld sensor of his own invention. Isotopic levels of potassium and argon gave him a precise determination of his present bearings, both in time and space. Not bad, he thought, pleased with the results. He still couldn't go straight to the moment when mankind's ancestors had first employed tools, but he was getting closer. Perhaps if I factor in probabilities at the quantum level?

But that was an experiment for another day. For now he was content to look on invisibly as the adult hominid turned an ordinary rock into a primitive blade. As a scientist, Reed found the moment both intriguing and inspirational. "Handy man" indeed; Reed knew that he was witnessing the first halting steps along a road that would someday lead to electron microscopes, fusion reactors...and even time machines.

Mimicking his elder, the younger ape-man picked up two stones of his own and began striking them together. Reed watched intently, eager to behold the transference of acquired knowledge from one generation to another. The triumph of education over instinct, he mused. The very essence of humanity.

Would the hominid youth successfully manufacture a cutter of his own? Reed held his breath....

Beep!

A buzzer sounded from the comm link in his chest insignia. Reed looked up to see a glowing, two-dimensional plane of light appear a few feet above his head. This, he knew, was the time platform returning for him. The luminous square, approximately ten-feet by ten-feet, rapidly descended toward him, passing over his body like a ghostly elevator. Reed felt the peculiar tingling sensation he had come to associate with time travel.

What on earth...? His high forehead wrinkled in confusion — he had not summoned the time platform to retrieve him. Irritation and puzzlement gave way to concern as he realized that something must have triggered the machine's emergency recall function. This could be serious.

Technically, Doom's invention was a time-space transporter, not merely a time machine; thus Reed found himself instantly transferred from primeval Africa to the Baxter Building, the Fantastic Four's high-rise headquarters in modern Manhattan. Rising thirty-eight floors above Madison Avenue, only a few blocks away from Times Square, the skyscraper was a Manhattan landmark, not to mention a favorite tourist attraction, complete with a gift shop in the lobby.

The time-travel chamber, however, was not open to the public at any time. Gleaming steel walls enclosed the empty vault on the building's thirty-fourth floor. A blastproof window separated the chamber from the adjacent control room. Reed Richards saw himself reflected in the transparent Plexiglas: a lean, thirtyish male with brown hair and prematurely graying temples. His blue uniform fit snugly to an athletic figure that was in better shape than many of his scientific contemporaries, thanks to the benefits of good nutrition and an unusually adventurous lifestyle.

He waited until the glowing platform faded beneath the soles of his boots, then rushed to find out what was amiss. "Sue? Johnny?" he called out, wondering if perhaps one of them had summoned him back from the Stone Age. "Ben? Franklin?"

No answer. The control room appeared to be empty, suggesting that this was an automated recall after all. A warning Klaxon testified to the existence of some urgent crisis requiring the immediate attention of the Fantastic Four.

With no time to lose, Reed's arm literally stretched across the chamber to unlock the reinforced steel door guarding the chamber. An elastic twang, like the sound of a rubber band being snapped, echoed throughout the chamber as the elongated arm contracted suddenly, yanking the rest of his body forward and through the now-open doorway. Only the unstable molecules in "Mr. Fantastic's" uniform allowed the garment to stretch along with its wearer.

Reed sprung to the control panel, which was linked to the Baxter Building's unified computer network. "Pass word: four to the fortieth power," he hailed the voice-activated system. A distended finger pressed a touch pad two feet away, silencing the Klaxons. "Emergency report."

A holographic display manifested above the control panel. Reed quickly scanned the readout and was alarmed to discover evidence of a matter-antimatter interface. It could only mean one thing.

The Negative Zone. Not again.

Reed had discovered the Zone himself years ago. He had been searching for a way to achieve faster-than-light travel by bypassing conventional space, only to discover a route into what he later discovered was an entire universe composed of "negative" antimatter, a parallel dimension of unearthly wonders and dangers. Using a portal of his own invention, the Fantastic Four had traveled to the Negative Zone on numerous occasions, each time barely escaping with their lives. It was teeming with deadly hazards and hostile life-forms, many of the latter insanely malevolent. More than once, the power-hungry denizens of the Zone had attempted to invade Earth's own positive-matter universe — with near-catastrophic results.

"Blast it," he murmured to himself. There were times he wished he had never discovered how to access that forbidding dimension, which was the main reason he had kept the technology a closely guarded secret; although the Negative Zone offered a whole new realm of existence to explore, there were too many dangers lurking there to keep the gateway open between Earth and the Zone.

If I knew then what I knew now, he asked himself, would I still build the portal? As a scientist, he instinctively resisted the idea of declaring any field of inquiry off-limits; the expansion of human knowledge was inherently good. Yet he could not deny that his discovery of the Negative Zone had yielded dire consequences for both universes. Not only had he unwittingly alerted hostile intelligences to Earth's existence, but invaders from Earth had sometimes wreaked havoc on the Negative Zone as well, creating yet more strife and hostility between the inhabitants of both dimensions. And all because of me.

Still, like so many troubled scientists before him, Reed knew there was no way to undiscover what he had learned (at least not without severely damaging the timeline). For better or for worse, the genie was out of the bottle. Now the only responsible thing to do was to deal with the consequences of his discovery, by keeping a close eye on the Negative Zone itself, and by guarding the Negative Zone portal as best he could.

Had someone managed to penetrate the intense security guarding the Nega-Portal?

It was, in fact, located on the same floor as the time machine, behind thick, nearly indestructable adamantium doors, yet Reed did not need to check on the location physically. A quick look at the building's internal diagnostics revealed that the portal remained undisturbed. Whatever had set off the emergency systems, it had not originated there.

A closer inspection of the data indicated that the trigger events were taking place outside the Baxter Building, as detected by the building's external sensors and other monitoring devices that the Fantastic Four had set up throughout the world to detect unusual electromagnetic activity and phenomena. In the past, these monitors had served as a valuable advance warning system with regards to hazardous time warps, telekinetic assaults, and cloaked extraterrestrial warships — a benefit clearly not lost on Reed in this case. The readouts now alerted him to the presence of first one, then another rupture in the space-time continuum, emanating from somewhere deep within the Negative Zone.

All thoughts of prehistoric hominids forgotten, Reed blinked in disbelief at the information the sensors were screaming at him.

The ruptures were indeed originating from the Negative Zone. But they were also terminating right here — in the very heart of Manhattan.

Copyright © 2005 by Marvel Characters, Inc. All rights reserved..