Late 1942 — France and Northern Africa
Every victory felt more hollow now. The world cheered Marvelo-Man's triumphs, but Maxwell Marvelo—the man behind the smile—felt farther from himself than ever before. He had become a symbol, a banner, a myth. But symbols didn't sleep. Banners didn't bleed. And myths didn't watch young boys die in their arms.
The Allied push into France was grueling. Trenches filled with rot. Villages burned in the wake of retreating Axis troops. And behind the front lines, people whispered: "He's coming. Marvelo's coming. We'll be okay."
They didn't see him at night.
Didn't see him alone.
Didn't hear him crying into his gloves.
---
The Siege of Arles
Maxwell stood in the mud with regular troops—no cape, no bright colors. Just a khaki uniform and a helmet. He refused special treatment.
"I'll take the front," he told the commanding officer. "Send your boys in once it's clear."
The town had been converted into a fortress by a desperate SS unit. Machine guns. Flame traps. Landmines. And one more thing: something called the "Valkyr Protocol"—enhanced women soldiers, programmed to feel no fear.
They were fast. Strong. Pale. Their hair burned white from repeated chemical exposure. Their voices robotic. Their coordination perfect.
Maxwell faced them alone in a marketplace soaked in ash.
"You think you're savior?" one asked in broken English.
"I don't know what I am anymore," he replied.
The battle was vicious. They moved in unison, like dancers. He broke bones. Tore through marble walls. Took wounds that would've shredded tanks.
He ended it by collapsing the bell tower on top of them.
When the dust cleared, his uniform was gone—ripped away—and only the red suit beneath remained.
The soldiers saw him standing tall amidst the rubble.
One saluted. Another crossed himself.
He only whispered, "I'm just glad it wasn't one of you."
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Africa — Operation Torch
In Tunisia, he dug wells for villages caught between the warfronts. He rebuilt houses by hand. He taught children how to punch for fun—not to hurt. And when asked by a local woman why he fought so hard, he said:
"Because I grew up hungry. And angry. And I promised myself no child would feel like I did if I could help it."
She looked at him and nodded. "You are not god. You are good."
It stayed with him.
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The Letter
That Christmas, he received a letter from a boy in Brooklyn:
Dear Marvelo-Man,
My dad says you're not real. He says the government made you up. But I saw you lift that boat in the paper. I want to be strong like you when I grow up. Not just muscles, but heart.
I hope you're real. I believe you're real.
Maxwell folded the letter slowly, staring into the fire.
He felt tired.
But seen.
And that, somehow, gave him the strength to get up again