June 6, 1944 — Omaha Beach, Normandy
The ramp dropped, and all hell broke loose.
Max charged out of the landing craft shoulder to shoulder with men barely old enough to shave. The surf exploded with bullets. Sand kicked up like daggers. Men screamed. Some never got out of the water.
Max wore a U.S. military-modified combat suit: matte olive drab with reinforced stitching, no symbol, no cape. His red-and-yellow costume had been deemed too conspicuous. The government didn't want a myth—they wanted a tool.
The suit hugged his frame, lighter than steel, but durable enough to resist small arms fire. A helmet with no insignia hid his face from photographers. He looked like any other soldier, except for the way bullets bounced off him and his footsteps cratered the sand.
As he ran forward, bodies falling beside him, Max remembered the Liberty Project. The sterile white hallways. The rows of terrified boys strapped to tables. The broken bones. The coughing blood. He remembered Patient Zero, the first one to survive—barely. A young boy with shimmering eyes who had teleported through a wall and killed three nurses on instinct.
Max had survived the serum, but others hadn't. They didn't become heroes. They didn't get suits. They were buried in shallow graves. Forgotten.
Every time he moved too fast or punched too hard, he wondered: Was I just lucky? Or did I kill something inside to get this far?
---
Fire in the Trenches
Max moved through the chaos like a living machine.
He grabbed a burning Sherman tank and hurled it onto a German bunker.
He tore a mounted MG42 out of its nest and turned it back on the enemy.
He caught a falling soldier with a broken leg and leapt to safety behind the sea wall, placing him gently in cover before charging back.
A flamethrower team screamed as their tank exploded—Max ran through fire to shield them.
The assault that should've lasted hours took just over one.
With Max leading the charge, many of the German emplacements were neutralized early. Bunkers collapsed under his fists. Trenches were carved open like sandcastles. A spotter plane reported the beach was taken faster than predicted.
Command called it a miracle.
But Max didn't feel like one.
---
The Boy in Grey
Near the edge of a shattered bunker, Max turned a corner and saw a young German soldier—no more than thirteen.
The boy was shaking, aiming a rifle too large for his body. His helmet hung crooked. Tears streamed down his dirt-streaked face.
He fired.
The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off Max's chest.
Max didn't move.
The boy screamed, dropped the rifle, and tried to run—just as one of Max's squadmates fired.
The shot hit the boy in the back.
He crumpled.
Max froze.
The sound of victory faded around him. The ocean roared in the distance.
He knelt beside the boy. The child's breath came in short, wet gasps.
He looked up at Max.
"Ich... wollte... nur heim..."
I just wanted to go home.
His eyes dulled.
Max sat back, eyes wide.
He had fought monsters, maniacs, tyrants. But this was not one of them.
This was just a child. Trapped in another man's war.
And it struck him—this was no different than the boys they buried back at Liberty. Brainwashed. Abused. Disposed of.
Not enemies.
Just victims.
---
Reflections in the Blood
Later, as the sun began to set behind the craters and smoke, Max stood alone at the edge of the cliffs, watching the sea swallow the shore.
He had saved dozens. Maybe hundreds. Turned the tide of history.
But all he could see were the boy's eyes.
And the eyes of Patient Zero.
Not all enemies are monsters.
Not all victories are clean.
And no strength could bring any of them home.