Early 1944 — Washington D.C.
The days after the liberation of the Polish camp haunted Max like shadows burned into his retinas.
He had returned to Allied command with no report—only survivors. Men, women, and children clinging to life by threads. He delivered them quietly. No medals. No cheers. Just silence.
And then came the summons.
Max stood alone inside the Oval Office.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt, pale and heavy-eyed, sat across from him in his wheelchair. Two aides stood nearby—silent, stiff.
FDR's voice was slow. Calm. Almost kind.
"You've seen things no man should see," he said. "And you've done what no man can do."
Max didn't respond.
"Word is... you leveled an entire Nazi division. Personally."
"I did what I had to."
"You went off-mission. There were rules."
"There weren't rules in that camp."
Roosevelt sighed. He rubbed his temples.
"We cannot let this get out, Max. If the American people knew what you saw... what you did... we'd lose the moral high ground. The world isn't ready to hear the full truth."
Max's jaw tensed. "You'd rather they die in silence?"
"They were dying before you arrived," the President said softly. "You gave them a chance. But now you need to be quiet. For them. For us. For the future."
A pause.
"You're to join the next phase of the war effort. We need you with our boys—frontline. France."
Max didn't blink. "D-Day?"
Roosevelt nodded.
"Take a standard issue uniform. No cape. No emblem. You go in with the first wave. With them."
Max turned to leave.
"Max," Roosevelt called after him.
The hero stopped.
FDR's voice dropped, suddenly grave.
"You're not just a symbol. You're a weapon. Use that wisely. And stay quiet."
---
June 6th, 1944 — Omaha Beach, Normandy
The roar of waves. The screams of engines. The stench of oil and sweat.
Marvelo-Man stood among the soldiers in the belly of the landing craft. Drenched in saltwater, dressed in standard-issue fatigues—no red suit, no boots, no cape.
Just a helmet. A rifle slung he wouldn't need. And the weight of silence in his chest.
The kid next to him was shaking. Maybe nineteen.
"You okay?" Max asked.
"First time out," the soldier muttered. "You?"
Max looked down.
"Every time's the first time."
The ramp dropped.
Bullets ripped across the water. Men screamed. Bodies fell before they hit the sand.
Max moved.
Not as Marvelo-Man.
But as one of them.
He waded through the chaos. Shells exploded beside him. Blood mixed with seawater. A soldier burned to the left. Another was shot through the throat to his right.
Max gritted his teeth.
He wanted to fly.
He wanted to burn the sky red and tear the bunkers down with his bare hands.
But not yet.
Not until they reached the shore.
Not until they saw him stand beside them.
Together.