The moment the fog cleared, Reever knew exactly where he was. This was Hürtgen Forest, the place where legends were born, his legend in particular. The air hung heavy with the scent of ash and pine sap, each breath tasting faintly of burnt wood and gunpowder. The ground beneath him was soft and unsteady, a mix of churned mud and shattered roots. Grey mist rolled between the trees, carrying the sharp bite of cordite and decay. Somewhere deeper in the haze, a machine gun rattled with that familiar stuttering clatter he remembered from cheap 2003 headphones, the kind that always seemed to buzz when the volume got too high.
He looked down at himself and almost laughed. The sleek synthetic body from the simulation pods was gone. In its place was something rougher, more human. The coarse wool of his uniform scratched at his neck, a heavy belt dug into his waist, and a faded green-brown battledress smelled faintly of oil, sweat, and damp earth. A small, dented Brodie helmet sat unevenly on his head, its rim cold against his ears. The whole setup felt dated, like the world around him ran on fewer polygons, every texture flatter, every detail simplified. These were the first uniforms his player character had ever worn, short tunics with high collars, practical and unpretentious, built for soldiers who didn't need flash to survive.
It clicked instantly. The system had thrown him back, not just in memory, but literally into the first Call of Duty, the 2003 original. Back before killstreaks, perks, loadouts, or drones. Victory here didn't mean racking up medals or XP—it meant surviving the next ten minutes with whatever skills you had and whatever weapons you could scavenge.
Reever had been around before the game even launched. In 2003, at thirteen, his wealthy family had bought him a computer just so he could play. From day one, he became one of the most dedicated players, a fixture in forums and leaderboards, later a beta tester for every new version. He had seen the franchise evolve, fracture, and grow. He knew its future inside out—but right now, he was standing in its past.
In his right hand, a Lee-Enfield No.4 Mk I(T) sniper rifle materialized, heavy and familiar. The steel was dull and weathered, the scope scratched, the bolt a bit stiff, but it felt like home. The system might be broken, but it still remembered his specialty, even offline.
He flexed his fingers and glanced around. He wasn't alone. Other figures—players or maybe echoes of them—moved through the fog in the same British khaki. Their movements were oddly repetitive, simple loops playing out endlessly. One soldier scratched his nose in a glitchy rhythm, another adjusted a rifle that flickered in and out of existence, his hands jittering with ghosted animation.
"Orders to advance and take German positions ahead!" a gruff British voice barked, sharp and commanding. The sound triggered something deep in Reever's memory—it was the same voice that had once blasted through his old computer speakers late at night while his parents slept down the hall.
At the command, the squad moved in eerie unison, boots sinking into the wet ground. Reever followed, his heartbeat syncing with the low rumble of distant artillery. The world felt smaller than he remembered, the trees forming tight corridors, invisible walls pressing close. The air buzzed faintly with an ambient track that hissed and looped every twenty seconds, a reminder that this was still a game world, no matter how real it felt.
Then the enemy appeared. Shapes in brownish-gray uniforms emerged from the mist, their steel helmets glinting faintly. The Wehrmacht. They raised their weapons, and for a split second, everything froze—the calm before the storm.
The firefight erupted like thunder. The forest exploded with noise and chaos. An MG42 screamed through the fog, shredding bark and dirt. Reever dove behind a log, mud splashing across his face as bullets cracked overhead. His health bar flickered faintly in the corner of his vision, a thin line between life and restart.
"Position MG42! Twelve o'clock!" the commander thundered.
Instinct took over. Reever steadied the Lee-Enfield, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked hard against his shoulder, raw and unpolished, but satisfying in its brutality. The shot found its mark—the German gunner slumped forward, lifeless. Reever worked the bolt, the sound metallic and comforting.
"Grenade!" someone shouted.
He barely had time to react. The explosion ripped through the squad, a burst of fire and pixels. The nearest soldier vanished in a blur of red squares. Reever's vision pulsed, ears ringing, health bar blinking an angry red. He gritted his teeth—he knew he had only ten lives, and he wasn't ready to test what happened at zero.
Stumbling upright, he scanned through the haze. Then he saw it—a white cross glowing faintly on a crate. The old first-aid kit. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward it, shells bursting nearby, and slammed a hand onto the symbol. Warmth spread through him, his vision sharpening again. Crude, yes, but beautifully simple.
The squad pushed forward, trading fire with bunkers hidden deep in the fog. MG bursts tore through branches, splintering them like glass. Reever reloaded, the bolt grinding with every pull, and picked off targets one by one. Each shot was measured, deliberate—each bullet a tiny mark in history.
The Germans fought hard, disciplined and fierce. Black grenades bounced across the mud, hissing as they rolled. Reever caught one mid-air, almost on instinct, and flung it back. The explosion tore through a bunker wall, scattering smoke, helmets, and debris.
He ducked behind a fallen tree and shouted, "Reloading! Cover me!"
Two soldiers turned mechanically, rifles raised. Old AI, simple, but still dependable.
Climbing a ridge, he steadied his aim again, scanning for muzzle flashes. One by one, he silenced the MG nests, each kill punctuated by the echoing crack of his rifle. He could almost hear the faint whir of his ancient desktop fan in his memory, blending the real and unreal until he could no longer tell them apart.
The Germans refused to yield. Grenades rained down, tearing the ground open. Reever dodged, grabbed spare grenades from fallen allies, and hurled them back into enemy lines, explosions carving new craters into the muddy earth. Machine guns kept roaring at the front, but slowly, surely, the tide began to shift.
The final charge came at the fortified trench line, a mess of bunkers, sandbags, and broken walls. The squad advanced in bursts, ducking and firing. Enemy shots whistled through the fog, but the end was near. One by one, the last defenders fell.
"We got 'em on the run!" the commander declared, his voice triumphant.
For a moment, everything froze again. The survivors stood still, locked mid-motion, caught in that familiar in-between phase before the next mission loaded.
Then came the voiceover, the one every veteran player knew by heart."In a war, there are no unwounded soldiers."
The screen faded to black-and-white.
"Following the hard-fought battle in Hürtgen Forest, the British forces continue their push toward the Rhine. Private Martin, your unit is being redeployed near the town of Bergstein. The enemy has fortified the ridge. Expect heavy resistance."
The fog began to pixelate, tearing apart like wet paper. Distant bells gave way to the rumble of tanks and collapsing brick walls. When the static cleared, Reever opened his eyes to a new battlefield, a war-torn industrial city. Smoke curled from shattered factory chimneys, and the air shimmered with heat and dust. Fires burned in the rubble, glowing like dying stars.
Bergstein.
Mission two.
The war was just beginning.