The world came back in fragments—sound first, then sensation, then the crushing weight of reality.
Crash.
A wave slammed against the landing craft's hull, spraying icy seawater over the trembling men packed shoulder-to-shoulder inside. Edison gasped, the shock of cold pulling him fully into consciousness.
His lungs filled with the stench of sweat, salt and the oily tang of gunpowder clinging to the damp air.
Around him, thirty or so soldiers hunched down, their faces shadowed under the rims of their M1 helmets.
Then a cold metallic voice, unlike the Guide, rang out in his head.
[Location: Omaha Beach, Normandy]
[Date: June 6, 1944 ]
[Objective: Survive for 45 minutes]
Omaha Beach. D-Day.
His stomach twisted.
"BOOM!"
The sudden explosion lifted the landing craft sideways on the swell, throwing men against each other.
Edison's borrowed body reacted before he could—muscular arms braced against the hull, boots slipping in the sloshing water. Someone's elbow jammed into his ribs.
"Jesus fucking Christ—" a voice rasped to his left. A kid, barely old enough to shave, clutched a soggy cigarette between his teeth, unlit. His hands shook so badly the paper tore.
"Keep your heads down!" A voice from the rear bellowed over the din.
Edison's body reacted before his mind could—ducking low, his helmet scraping against the metal hull.
Edison's hands shook.
Wait—his hands? No. These were thicker, scarred, the nails cracked and caked with grime.
Soul Relocation. This wasn't his body.
A man in front of him retched violently, vomit splashing into the ankle-deep seawater sloshing at their boots. The stench coiled in Edison's throat, but he swallowed the bile rising in his own.
The soldier behind him leaned in towards the kid beside him. "Listen up, kid," he hissed, jerking his chin toward the beach. "When that ramp drops, you run like hell. Don't stop for nothing. Not for me, not for God himself. You freeze, you die."
The kid nodded. Edison nodded silently too.
A new sound cut through the chaos—a metallic clank as the coxswain released the ramp's latch.
"Two minutes to the beach!" the same voice shouted.
Machine-gun fire rattled in the distance, a sound like tearing canvas.
Edison forced air into his lungs—in through the nose, out through clenched teeth.
His hands moved on their own, checking the plastic-wrapped bundle cradled against his chest. The oiled plastic cover crackled as he peeled it back, revealing the cold steel of an M1 Garand.
Unknown knowledge flooded his mind—not his, but this body's:
The rifle's weightm, the way the en-bloc clip ejected with that distinctive ping, the exact pressure needed on the trigger to avoid jerking the shot.
Edison looked down and found the dog tags hanging on his chest. He picked it up and looked at it.
Ryan. T
Looking back to the soldier to his left—the kid with the shaking hands—fumbled with his own rifle. Edison reached over instinctively, flipping the safety catch for him.
The kid blinked up at him with bloodshot eyes.
"Safety was on," Edison muttered. The words came out in Eddie's voice—deeper, rougher than his own.
"60 seconds to the beach!"
The shout was swallowed whole by the deafening roar of P-47 Thunderbolts screaming overhead, their engines vibrating through the metal hull.
Thick, oily smoke rolled across the water, mixing with the acrid stench of gunpowder until the air became a suffocating fog.
Around Edison, soldiers began coughing violently—some doubling over, their eyes streaming tears that cut pale tracks through the grime on their faces.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The explosions marched closer—high-caliber shells from the German 88s throwing up towering geysers of seawater. Each impact sent shockwaves through the landing craft.
Then came the sound he'd been dreading.
Ping-ping-ping!
The hull rang like a broken bell as heavy machine gun rounds punched through the thin steel plating. Edison duck down as low as he can against the deck, his helmet scraping against the vomit-slick floor.
The kid beside him was hyperventilating, his fingers digging into Edison's shoulder hard.
When the gunfire paused, Edison dared to lift his head—just in time to see the horror at his feet.
The water had turned crimson. Three rows ahead, two soldiers slumped against their comrades like broken dolls. Their helmets were gone—along with most of their heads. Chunks of bone and brain matter floated in the rising seawater.
"Fuck..." Edison breathed, his voice thick with revulsion.
"30 seconds to the beach!"
A new voice this time—higher-pitched, cracking with tension.
Edison's hands, though trembling, moved.
Checking his rifle, the plastic wrapping was shredded, but the rifle seemed intact.
Somewhere ahead, a mortar round hit the waterline. The explosion sent the landing craft lurching sideways.
A screaming soldier tumbled overboard, his arms flailing wildly before the undertow dragged him under.
Edison watched in horror as the screaming soldier disappeared beneath the churning waves, dragged down by the weight of his gear.
His own M-1928 haversack suddenly felt like a death sentence—65 pounds of equipment that would pull him under in seconds.
With shaking hands, he quickly loosened the straps, just enough to shrug it off if he went overboard.
He sucked in a breath—salt, smoke, and the coppery tang of blood filling his lungs. The air itself vibrated with the roar of machine guns and the screams of dying men.
Through the smoke, even in his hunched position, Edison could make out the German bunkers dug into the higher slopes of the beach.
Then the shout came from the rear came again.
"15 seconds to the beach!"
Edison turned his gaze to the kid beside him—the boy's eyes screwed shut, his fingers clutching a crumpled photograph as his lips moved in silent prayer. The paper was soaked through, the faces of whoever was pictured now just blurred ink.
Edison opened his mouth—to say what, he didn't know. Some words of comfort? A warning? But he stopped himself.
He can't afford to worry about others now.
His new life had only just begun. He must survive.
Suddenly a deafening crunch shook the entire hull as the landing craft slammed into a sandbar.
The impact sent everyone lurching forward. Edison's knees hit the deck hard as he pitched face-first into the vile mixture of seawater, blood, and vomit.
He came up sputtering, his M1 rifle still held tight in hand. Around him, men cursed and slipped in the gore.
Then—
BOOM.
The 200-pound ramp crashed down onto the sand.
Hell awaits.