THE LARGE FRAMED TAPESTRIES SEEMED TO BE SUSPENDED from the walls of the mansion, floating in the dark and forgotten space. Each painting featured one solitary figure clad in armor and holding a weapon. History may have banished these figures to oblivion, but here the portraits were generous: taking away their blemishes and plagues, casting their cadaverous skin in hues of sunlight and shadow, turning their bloodstained weapons an attractive shade of crimson to offset the pale carpets and walls. The portraits portrayed a line of warriors, the kind that used to rule this forgotten European village, back when gold and land meant wealth and power. In each portrait, a Von Doom held the family’s faceplate, an ancient piece of metallic jewelry, forged in fire generations ago. To each of the figures in the paintings, the faceplate was worth more than gold, for it symbolized a power that could be passed down to each succeeding generation. Power was important, they knew, but power increased exponentially throughout history was limitless. Unstoppable. A dynasty.

Victor Von Doom had been spending a great deal of time in the hall of portraits. It helped him somehow, not being the only dead man in the mansion.

He ran his eyes over the portraits once again, the rich canvases framed in old wood newly polished to a shine by his own deformed hand. The men trapped in the paintings would be surprised to learn that their most recent scion had earned his wealth and power not through brute force and strength but through the more nimble manipulations of corporate business and advanced technologies. Von Doom Enterprises was once a billion-dollar company, a cutting-edge leader in many fields, and Victor’s perfect face once adorned the cover of magazines the same way these portraits covered the walls. But that was before. Before Reed Richards reentered his life. Before the cosmic storm. He lost everything because of that man — his company, his life, and, most important, Susan. He’d been shucked back into this isolated tomb without so much as a thought. Victor wondered what his ancestors would say about that.

He stared at the portraits one more time. Perhaps it was time to return to his roots, back to the essence of his family’s fortune and power: brute strength. No more disguises.

Victor left the hallway, running his hand over his scarred and burned face. He winced in pain as he touched it. He couldn’t yet bring himself to stare too long in the mirror. He entered a large room secreted toward the back of the manse. Victor’s new laboratory was protected by thick stone walls, and by the fact that everyone thought he was dead. Open storage crates sat haphazardly around the large room, revealing high-tech equipment. A bank of computers took up an entire wall. Assorted weaponry that could fund a small revolution (and many of the weapons had done just that) lay scattered across the floor and several tables. Two satellite dishes sat in one corner of the room, waiting to be added to the others already in service. Victor looked around at the cherished relics of his former life, his former company. These were the spoils of his last war, his most painful defeat. But he would use them to launch something new. Something that would allow Victor to emerge victorious.

A wide bank of flat LCD television monitors brought the modern world into the medieval mansion, reintroducing Victor to events occurring around the globe. He dismissed most of the frivolous news channels, with their features on politics or celebrity or upcoming weddings, and instead focused on the ones closer to home. He was silent as he watched the news from his homeland, this isolated strip of forgotten culture. He felt assaulted by images of starving people dressed in rags waiting in line for bread or water; clips of riots breaking out over the presence of a stray chicken or goose; miles and miles of wasted, empty roads, littered with the suffering and starving of his people. His ancestors would cringe if they could see what modernity had done to Latveria.

More than one video monitor had been thrown against the wall, a victim of his rage. But today, Victor called up the image he had become obsessed with: a satellite photograph of a silver object entering Earth’s lower atmosphere. Written across the image were the words UNITED STATES SPY SATELLITE EPSILON, TRANSMISSION 89337 INTERCEPTED. Victor once again studied the photo, feeling deep within his gut that this object was a symbol. A catalyst for change. Redemption.

He held the image in his metal hand, whispering in a menacing voice, “What are you? More important, what can you do for me?”

The laboratory of Reed Richards was humming with activity. He’d risen at dawn, eager to speak with Professor Jeff Wagner about his unsettling and quite unexpected meeting with General Hager. Reed stared at the video console that showed him the face of the elderly academic, who looked like a cross between Albert Einstein and Woody Allen. Wagner was already complaining to Reed about the general’s gruff demands.

“Reed,” Wagner continued in a cracked voice, “I told the general it would take me months, maybe years, to figure out how to construct this kind of sensor.”

Reed dismissed the professor’s penchant for drama. “It’s not that difficult,” he said, thinking This man needs to get out more often.

“I’m doing everything I can,” he said. “But we need your help on this. Maybe you could take a few minutes away from playing super hero to work on some real science.” Leaving those words burning in Reed’s ears, the professor angrily signed off.

Reed let out a deep sigh, already exhausted. He didn’t understand the professor’s inability to work on his own. Science by committee, he thought. Figures. Reed scrolled through his wedding to-do list, which didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. The display screen on his PDA listed a host of various errands: pick up Sue’s ring, arrange limousine transports, double-check flower arrangements (Sue was allergic to orchids), pick up the wedding cake. He tossed the PDA aside, glad to be rid of it. When had such a simple ceremony become so complicated? As eager as Reed was to have the event over with, he admitted to himself that the real source of his anxiety was not his upcoming nuptials. The true origin of his concern was a certain satellite photo of an unknown silver entity reaching Earth. That, and the accompanying strange disturbances and mysterious craters. They had to be related. Reed stared once again at the photo of the silver object. He knew he had to do something.

That night, Reed worked under the cover of a bright moon laced with a silver glow. The rooftop deck, where he would soon marry Susan, was covered with equipment and tools and scraps of metal. Reed stretched himself thin all over the space, hastily building a large satellite antenna. Sweat appeared on his brow as he worked at a feverish pace, trying to finish his project under the cover of darkness.

The guts of the device were exposed, showing a mess of circuitry and wiring extending across the floor of the deck. Reed uploaded data into the antenna using his PDA, once again typing with multiple digits at a furious pace. I can do this, he thought to himself. I can do it all: help Hager and Wagner and get married and no one will be the wiser. No one will know.

Just as he finished the thought, Ben Grimm stepped out onto the deck, causing the entire roof to shudder slightly. The motion startled Reed, who looked up from his PDA quickly. He let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Ben.

“What are you doing up here?” Ben asked.

“Nothing,” Reed said, trying to push a group of wires away with his foot. “Just needed some air.”

Ben looked unconvinced. “You’re building that thing for the general, aren’t you?”

Reed nodded his head reluctantly. He should have known better than to try to pull one over on his best friend.

Ben surveyed the mess around the roof that in a few days would house the wedding guests — all their friends and family. Sue would have a coronary if she saw what a mess Reed had made. “I’m guessing Sue doesn’t know about this?” Ben asked. Reed motioned around the roof and gave him a look. Ben relented, putting his large hands up in the air, saying, “My lips are sealed. Or they would be, if I had ’em.”

Reed was grateful but not surprised. He knew he could count on Ben. But then a new thought entered his mind. “And don’t tell Johnny,” Reed added.

Just then, a bright flame appeared in the sky. At first it looked like a low-flying shooting star as it headed directly for the roof of the building. But the familiar colors soon became visible: swirling flames of red and orange. Johnny landed on the rooftop deck and smothered his flames, but his ears were still burning.

“Don’t tell Johnny what?” he asked.

How does he do that? Reed thought. But he said only “Great.”

Johnny surveyed the mess of circuitry and wires all over the floor of the deck. His eyes ran up to the large piece of metal that was the main body of the sensor. “Hey — you’re building that thing, aren’t you? Man, when Sue finds out, you’re going to get an invisible kick in the nuts.”

Ben knew Johnny wasn’t wrong. “We’re keeping it quiet.”

Johnny ignored Ben and turned to Reed. “I thought you had too much wedding stuff to do.”

Once again, Johnny wasn’t wrong. “Actually, that is a problem.” Reed checked the list on his PDA again. Just looking at it made him feel hopeless. “I don’t know how I’m going to get it all done.”

Ben Grimm saw the look of concern on his best friend’s face and decided to step up. “Don’t worry,” he said, corralling Johnny with a thick, rocky arm. “We’ll help you out.”

“We will?” Johnny asked, trying to free himself from Ben’s grip. Ben nodded his head, glaring at the young hotshot.

The next few days Ben and Johnny ran themselves ragged, performing all the tasks Reed had promised to do. Traveling through the crowded streets of Manhattan, they saw firsthand how much the city was in the grip of wedding fever. They were followed constantly by paparazzi, who were trying to guess their every move. Worse, the photographers always seemed to be one step ahead of them. No detail was too small to be discovered, no errand too superfluous to warrant a herd of clicking cameras and flashing bulbs. As annoyed as Johnny was to have to do all of Reed’s dirty work, the constant attention made it almost worth his while.

The next afternoon, Ben and Johnny managed to elude their pursuers and duck into a jeweler’s shop in the diamond district, just north of Times Square. The jeweler, well known and selected by Reed for his discretion, ushered the two into a back room, where they could remain undisturbed. There, amid cases of glittering diamonds and other jewels, he carefully opened a large safe concealed behind a wall panel. He pulled out a small velvet box and opened it slowly for Johnny and Ben. They both stepped back a pace, as if he were holding a weapon. The jeweler couldn’t help but laugh to himself at how awkward they both were over a piece — even such a substantial piece — of jewelry. He took the ring out of the box and tossed it to Ben. Surprised by the sudden action, Ben caught it too hard and watched as the ring was crushed in his rocky grip. The jeweler turned white.

“That’s impossible!” he said, stumbling over the words as they tried to leave his mouth. “We have only the finest-quality jewelry, guaranteed to last for generations. This has never happened before.” He thought he was going to faint.

Who’s laughing now? Johnny thought. “That’s because you never had to deal with the ‘Two-Ton Kid,’” he said, patting his rocky shopping companion on the back. Security escorted them both to the door.

Later, Ben and Johnny were stuck in traffic going up Park Avenue, just north of Grand Central Station. Taxis honked incessantly at them, either to say hello or to complain about Ben’s driving. His custom-made SUV wasn’t much larger than the regular models, but in a city already cramped for space, it stuck out like a sore thumb. It also, unfortunately, made them an easy target for the photographers following them. As did Johnny, who was hanging out the passenger-side window, leaving a trail of fire over their car wherever they went.

Ben finally parked in front of their destination, an upscale bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They went into the store to pick up Reed’s one-of-a-kind cake. The shopkeeper, a young woman who happened to be a big Human Torch fan, had also made up some cupcakes with the group’s logo on them. A few polite bites later, Ben pushed Johnny out of the store, carrying a huge, frosted wedding cake in one of his large, platter-sized hands. Approaching his car, Ben could see that size once again worked to his disadvantage; his SUV was sandwiched between two other cars with barely an inch of space between them. Ben handed the cake to Johnny, who struggled under its weight and feared he might start to melt the frosting. Ben stepped out into the street and picked his car up, lifting it over his head and placing it gently back on the pavement, free of the closely parked cars.

While Ben was busy with his car, Johnny tried to keep an even footing under the weight of the multi-tiered cake. He kept his eyes on the top of it, where the plastic bride and groom were standing in rich butter-cream frosting. He heard the steady clicking of high heels on the pavement and turned to see a leggy redhead walking by, a tight Fantastic Four T-shirt stretching itself across her ample chest. His jaw dropped suddenly. So did the cake.

Ben stood there glaring at Johnny, whose hands were covered in melted frosting.

Their final stop was the florist, located in the flower district, just north of Greenwich Village. Johnny was ordered to wait out by the car while Ben went in to pick up Susan’s order. He came out weighed down by dozens of baskets of centerpieces: bright flowers arranged with twigs, ferns, and other various greenery — and no orchids. Ben noticed the absence of photographers and breathed a sigh of relief. His focus turned to his full load as he navigated the cracked sidewalk to reach his SUV. Ben managed to get the entire forest of flowers into the back of the truck. Just then, a centerpiece fell out of the overloaded truck and onto the street. Johnny, not wanting to appear unhelpful, kneeled down and picked it up, then handed it to Ben.

A photographer appeared from behind a group of parked cars. He quickly snapped a photo, just as Ben was taking the flowers from Johnny. They exchanged a worried look.

Jeez, Johnny thought. This wedding better be worth

it.