A/N- Hi, I've been kicking this idea around in my head for a while now. 1918 Edward time travels to modern day America against his will. And he will, eventually, meet all the usual characters. Everyone will be the same except for Edward! He will be a very confused and frustrated human dealing with the stresses of modern life and the supernatural.

And, yes, there will be Bella.

Also, this story is humor oriented, so even though I have tried very hard to keep everyone true to character, there will be more fun than angst for the most part.

OK, I'll shut up now...

Chapter 1- Change A Heart To A Little White Dove

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My whole body is shivering, from the cold or the fear, I'm not sure. The dirt, more like mud, that I'm currently sitting in does not provide any warmth or comfort. I have to remind myself that this is what I wanted. This is what I have spent years preparing for. A chance to fight alongside other men, patriots, to end the barbarity that has descended upon Europe.

The fighting is at a standstill, at least for now. I look about at my companions while I rest here in the trench since there is nothing better to do at the moment. The fellow resting next to me with his dusty blonde hair is reading a letter for the sixth time today. His glasses (the poor man) are slowly sliding down his nose, forcing him to push them back up. I silently wonder who the letter is from. Judging by the ghost of a smile on his face I'd bet that it was is wife or sweetheart. His fingers keep tracing the curved, handwritten script, as if he were caressing his beloved's face. I look away, feeling like a voyeur.

I turn my head and see another one of my fellow soldiers. He is not as happily engaged it seems as my other companion. Standing directly across from me, his face is devoid of any expression- as if it had been erased like a chalk board. His helmet is at his feet. His hair a tangled, muddy mess. Even is eyes, which I have always believed were the gateway to the soul, were empty. More of a grotesque wax figure than man. What could this man have experienced to have turned him into such a shell shocked statue, I wonder. None of the others have displayed such a traumatized demeanor. I decide to seek out our leader to assist him. Perhaps he can send this man back to a hospital for treatment...

Shaking and dusting off my uniform as I rise, I glance out across the battlefield. I can hear distant blasts of gunfire, but nothing else. My eyes take in the devastation. What did this place look like before war broke out? It is difficult to believe anything could ever have grown here by the way things look right now. Nothing but miles of muddy brown emptiness, broken up by the occasional trench or barbed wire.

White fabric rustling in the breeze catches my eyes about 100 yards away. I stand there trying to discern what the object is as my eyes blink in confusion. A white flag of surrender by the enemy would be nice, but I highly doubt that. I squint my eyes, determined that they try harder to solve this mystery.

My efforts are successful. I can make out the distinct figure of a person in white. By the flowing white fabric I conclude that the person most likely would be a woman. A woman with chestnut hair gathered at the top of her head. My eyes briefly widen in surprise. Women were quite rare on the battlefield. And this woman seems to have no sense of self preservation. Standing there, with no defense! Not even close enough to a trench should she need to take cover.

I quickly gather my courage and begin to climb out of my trench. She was coming with me back to safety if she likes it or not!

My climb, at first, goes well. My upper body is out of the trench, all that I need to do is drag my long legs up. Yet, nothing for me is ever easy. My foot has caught on something, and I begin to try to shake it loose, hoping that whatever it is will fall off. The pressure on my foot increases. I look back and I see the shell shocked man has grabbed onto my foot. I shake harder, but the man shows no emotion and shows no inclination to let go. I growl in frustration. Who does this man think he is? There is a woman in dire need of assistance!

With a silent prayer of forgiveness for my poor manners, I give the man a swift kick with my free foot. I hear his grunt as the pressure on my foot disappears. I quickly climb the rest of the way out before the man has time to recover. Where I kicked him, I'm not sure, but at the moment I do not care.

Instantly I begin my walk towards the woman in white. I decide running would be a bad idea- the enemy could assume I'm doing some sort of one-man assault. Thank god it seems that the fight is at a standstill. I hold up my hands indicating that I have no weapons.

My eyes take in the scene as I draw nearer. She is standing with her back towards me. And the woman's white dress is obviously a wedding dress. An expensive one. It's beautiful, so much like the wedding dresses I've seen, but there's something different about it. It's tighter, more fitted at the waist and form fitting than I'm used to seeing on a woman. She clutches a veil in her hands, its lacy, gossamer-like fabric waving in the breeze. A short train of fabric flows behind her. And, most shockingly, I can see the creamy white of her skin through the lace on the back of her dress. Perhaps this is the latest rage in Paris.

I'm now within a couple of dozen feet from her. My breath catches in my throat as I take her appearance in. She appears otherworldly. She seems to be softly glowing, with an aura-like beauty. Even her hair, which is piled atop her head in complicated but stylish braids, seems to be shining with hints of red that I couldn't see before.

I reach out to grab her hand, intending to drag her back to the trenches.

A thunderous crash strikes nearby, its shock waves knocking me to the ground.

Just before the darkness descends upon me, I hear a soft, gentle voice murmur, "Edward."

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Chicago, Illinois- September 20, 1918

My eyes fly open as I take in my surroundings. The room, my room since birth, is the same as always except the window that I normally leave open in the warm months is being bombarded with raindrops. The curtains are flying about as well.

I hop out of bed and slam the window shut. A flash of lightning brightens the room enough for me to read the time on the small clock that rests upon my dresser.

2:09 a.m.

I sigh and fall back on my bed, allowing my dream from earlier to creep back into my thoughts. Dreaming of being a soldier is not a rare occurrence for me, but this dream seemed more...

Truthful.

I suppose that's the best way to describe it. My past dreams usually involved me running around like some picture show hero, saving the day and all that.

But this dream, was, raw. Real.

I know that I've glamorized it in my daily musings. My desire of enlisting once I hit eighteen is, perhaps, out of touch with the reality of armed combat. And war is hell, as the saying goes, after all.

But, I know that if I could, I would still enlist tomorrow if it were at all possible. I'm not going into this uninformed. I read every news article I can get on The War. I'm not oblivious to the great loses the country is suffering. But why should I be able to slack off, continuing to be able to attend the theater, go to watch baseball games, and sleep in my own bed, when most of my slightly older contemporaries are off fighting in Europe? I'm nothing special.

Though, surprisingly enough, I also know, without a shadow of doubt, that if I saw that woman again, stranger or not, I would not hesitate to do anything that needed to be done to protect her.

Funny.

This is coming from the guy that normally doesn't associate with any female unless she's either related to me, married, or equally uninterested in me in any romantic sense.

Another flash of lightning casts the room in its brightness, but the sound of thunder took longer to hear.

Thank god, the storm is passing quickly. Maybe I can get some more sleep after all.

I close my eyes and wait for the fatigue to overtake me.

My last conscious thought before I plunged into slumber was how did the woman in white know my name?

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Morning seemed to come too quickly. I dragged myself out of bed, stuffed my legs into a pair of dark brown trousers, buttoned up my white dress shirt, combed my bronze colored hair, threw my comb down once it came apparent that my hair would not cooperate, and grabbed my favorite driving cap.

Rushing down the stairs, I could hear my parents conversing in the dining room. I arrived to see that breakfast was already served. I smiled. One positive aspect of life as an only child is that I can take my time in the morning without the worry of a sibling swiping my designated portion of bacon.

Mother looked up from her plate of eggs and fruit and gave me her patented soft smile. "Good morning, Edward. Sleep well?" she asked while taking a dainty bite of her food.

My Mother, Elizabeth Masen, is the epitome of beauty and kindness. Her hair is of the same shade of bronze as mine, though she has the luxury of having lovely straight manageable locks. Her eyes are also like mine, a pure jade green. She almost always has a smile on her sweet face. Happiness seems to come naturally for her.

Rarely does she show anything other than utterly unconditional love for all.

"Not particularly well, but enough to keep myself from dozing off in class. The storm woke me up." I neglected to mention the dream for good reason.

Father glanced up from his newspaper. Many people say that if he were to shave off his mustache he and I would look almost identical, except for our coloring, of course. "Usually you sleep like the dead. Your Mother practically rings church bells to wake you up."

"Are you implying that Mother is some sort of female version of Quasimodo?" I asked feigning innocence. "I have to say that I disagree with you. She lacks a hump for one thing."

Father gave his typical "humph" at me, then peeked at Mother with a small smile on his face. "She definitely is not some low class bell ringer. She's more of a fairy tale princess, I think. Perhaps Sleeping Beauty or Rapunzel."

Mother piped up then, "More like Cinderella. Today's laundry day."

"I thought Mattie does the laundry and such," Father said gruffly as he sipped his coffee. His tone implying "isn't that what we pay the girl for?"

"Mattie quit 3 days ago. Don't you remember me telling you? I'll be interviewing for a new maid next week," replied Mother softly.

"Oh, yes, of course I remember." Father threw his paper down and quickly stood up from the table. "Better head off or I'll be late for work." He pecked his wife on the cheek and scrambled for the front door.

Mother sighed as her eyes landed on me once the door clicked shut. Smiling, she said, "It's okay if he forgets things sometimes. Why he thinks I'm going to berate him for that is ridiculous." She paused a moment before continuing. "Besides, I knew he wasn't paying attention that night anyway."

My brows scrunched up in confusion. "Why would you tell him something if you knew he wasn't listening?"

Mother laughed. "Oh, Edward, because I want to invite Mr. and Mrs. Childers over next week for dinner, and you know how your father hates Mr. Childers. So, while I informed him of all of the comings and goings on in running the household, I mentioned the dinner engagement. I can't help it if he wasn't paying attention."

I had to hand it to her, she can be quite devious when push comes to shove.

"What caused the rift in the friendship between them? Father and Mr. Childers used to get along famously."

"Apparently Mr. Childers has been harboring a terrible secret. He originally comes from Missouri," she said as she placed a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

"Missouri?" I asked, shaking my head. Since when did Father develop a hatred of random geographical locations? "What's wrong with that?"

Mother giggled, a wonderful musical sound. "Since he comes from Saint Louis, Mr. Childers seems to be a secret Browns fan. They got in an awful row over the speech you father delivered concerning the Brown's 'shortcomings'."

That explains it. Father hated any baseball team that didn't currently reside in the Chicago city limits. "The nerve!" I half shouted playfully.

A few minutes passed as we quietly ate our breakfast.

"I understand from Mrs. Bowman that her son Percy is asking Sarah Hewlett to the upcoming charity ball," said Mother as she set her fork on her plate.

"Is that so?" I replied noncommittally. The only ball I truly cared for has diamonds, dirt, and umpires.

She seemed to ignore my indifference. "Yes. Isn't it exciting, dear? Who will you be asking to accompanying you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Mother knows for a fact that while I'm not anti-female, I do enjoy the fact that I'm a free, unattached male that doesn't currently want a relationship of any sort other than friendship with any girl. I'm not immune to the effects of a pretty face. I admire women for both beauty and brains.

But, I refuse to attend any function where I am in need of a female attached to my arm.

Our family cook and all round Godsend Martha walked in the room as my mother was forming her question. With her graying hair twisted up onto her head and her plump figure, Martha has always seemed to me more like a grandmother than servant. Martha refilled Mother's teacup and a reply popped into my head.

"Well," I tried to sound hesitant, "I haven't asked her yet, but I'm certain she'll say yes if I can get her alone."

Mother's face brightened. "That's wonderful, Edward! Who's the lucky girl? Does she go to your school?"

"No."

"Is she your age? Where does she live?"

"Oh, she lives close by. Hmm, I'm not sure of her age. Martha, how old are you?"

Martha looked up from her task of clearing Father's dishes. "62 years old this November."

With my most charming smile I said, "She's 61, Mother. Martha, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the upcoming charity ball? I'll try to be on my best behavior."

Martha chuckled as she retorted, "You are never well behaved. You've been a pain in our necks since you could walk." Giving me a wink, she scurried off towards the kitchen.

I turned to Mother. "I guess I'm out of luck. She's been the only woman I've ever loved other than you."

Mother scoffed at me. "How could you raise my hopes like that? Don't you know that I want nothing more than your happiness?"

"Happiness? I'm happy. I'm thrilled! I've got wonderful parents, a cook that I think of as family, and in a little less than a year, I'll be able to enlist. I've got the world at my fingertips. Just imagine, Mother, I'll be in some far off land that most people just dream about visiting. And I'll be fighting for a just cause."

Mother's face paled. Uh oh, here comes the you-don't-know-what-you-are-asking-for speech.

"I know we've gone over this before," she began, "but you need to know that we love you. And the thought of you going off to some war-torn, godforsaken land terrifies me. You are young and impressionable, and I know that all the newspapers and posters make it seem like a cakewalk, but it's not. The recruiters want you to think that just by gaining you as a new soldier that you'll single-handedly win this dreadful war. It's never that simple. Many a army have fought with superior weapons and in greater numbers and still came home in coffins."

I nod in understanding. "Mother, I know those recruiters try to play down the negatives. But don't you think it's presumptuous of me to think that since I'm a wealthy man's son that I should duck out of the fight? And I'm 17 for heaven's sake! I know for a fact that 3 of my classmates lied about their age so they could enlist earlier. At least I'm staying here at home until I turn 18."

"You are more intelligent than most of the boys that are joining, Edward. You deserve a chance to go to some university and earn a degree in something you love. And, one day, you're going to meet some young woman that will want a man she can depend upon. Not some boy-soldier who drifts about with his unit like a pack of wolves." Mother closed her eyes briefly, holding back tears. "Please. Just promise me that you'll think of what I've said. I've looked forward to the future where you have a family and a career. Your future happiness shouldn't be dependent upon how many of the enemy you've managed to take down."

I sat there stunned, unable to move for a moment. Mother has never been this blunt and to the point in her past speeches on my desire to enlist. I nodded my head a bit to acknowledge that I would indeed think over her words.

She looked at me with sad eyes yet still managed to slap on a smile. "Better get going, dear. School's waiting on you."

I chugged down the last of my breakfast and jumped up from the chair. After giving her a half hug, I bid her a good day.

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School.

I have nothing against the concept of having a proper education. In fact, I always dove into my studies with as much dedication that I could possibly muster.

But, I hated the mundane existence I endured whenever I entered the building. I had absolutely no interest in the petty gossip that usually poured forth from the lips of many of the students. Then there were the expectations that fellow classmates and teachers alike seemed to bestow upon each of us students. As the son of well to do Edward Masen Senior, I got the usual amount of unwanted attention as I drew near the school.

Despite the fact that I was more an academic student than athlete, I received quite a few "hello's" and "how are you, Edward's" as I walked up the pathway. I trained for track and field, a sport that usually does not attract much attention. I probably could have gotten a spot on the baseball team, but I disliked a couple of the team's players so intensely that I'd rather just watch the game than participate.

After giving a nod of acknowledgment to Thomas Green, I glanced at the front entrance and silently groaned. There, standing side by side as usual, were the Miller sisters.

Nan and Nell Miller, the twin daughters of newspaper publisher John Miller. And the dread of my existence.

If you were lucky enough not to be acquainted with them, you might have given them a look and said, "My, what pretty girls." And I would agree with you that they were indeed decent looking enough. But underneath their frilly dresses and powdered cheeks lay personalities equivalent to that of nails on a chalkboard.

For one thing, they dressed alike. Exactly alike. Dresses, shoes, jewelry, even the curls in their ash blonde hair were identical. It looked as if they came off the same assembly line at some doll factory.

They were like conjoined twins without the hindrance of any physical attachment. However, they dif seem to be able to communicate between themselves silently. Perhaps they shared a mutual brain. It would explain their seeming lack of intelligence.

And, most despairingly, they seemed to have the deluded belief that I was their future husband.

How they would work out that is of no interest to me.

"Hello, Edward!" one of them chimed. I had no idea which twin just addressed me. They were identical, remember?

"How was your morning so far?" chirped the other twin.

"Fine. Just going to class. Have a good day," I said quickly. My hope was to get by them and hide as much as possible for the remainder of the day. Like I did every day.

"That's so wonderful!" twin one exclaimed. She said it as though it's some sort of accomplishment that I made it to school.

"You are so dedicated to your work, Edward! We both think that's so very grand," squealed twin two.

Twin one nodded her head in agreement. "How proud you've made us!"

If there's one thing that Mother instilled in me, it is to always be a gentleman - especially to the opposite gender. So, instead of telling the girls in harsh, unkind words to "get the hell out of my way", I slowly let out a breath. "Thank you, but please excuse me, I must get going now," I informed them as politely as possible.

They glided out of the doorway, allowing me access inside the building. Yet before I could breathe a sigh of relief, they took up positions flanking both sides of my body. Each girl grabbed an arm and attached themselves securely to me like ticks burrowing into flesh.

"Escort us to class, Edward," twin two commanded in her best coquettish voice.

"We would feel so much safer with you," twin one added as if there were bands of marauders regularly stalking the halls.

My grunt of frustration was barely contained. I swallowed any unpleasant rejoinders that threatened to blast out of my mouth, and began the arduous task of dumping them off somewhere as soon as heavenly possible.

Twin one squeezed my elbow as we walked. "Are you doing anything tonight?"

My breathing shut down. This was a loaded question. If I say where I'll be they would try to throw themselves into whatever activity I planned for myself. And saying "I'm not doing anything" would yield a demand to do whatever the girls have planned.

I shrugged my shoulders in rely. "My father spoke of taking me out of town for the weekend to fish on the lake."

This is a lie. Father will be doing nothing but reading the sports section of the Tribune and nursing a glass of scotch.

"Oh," twin two interjected, "we were hoping that you could take us to that new Theda Bara picture tonight."

I shook my head. "Theda Bara is not my favorite actress." This wasn't quite a lie. My favorite was Mary Pickford. Theda Bara was my second.

After arriving at their class, I pried their claws off my arms and sprinted to my own classroom.

The rest of the school day passed uneventfully thanks to my caution of avoiding open spaces and always checking around corners for the Miller twins.

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That evening I found myself watching Martha as she cooked our family's dinner. I've often found it relaxing to watch her bustling about.

She cut up the vegetables quickly, throwing them into her stockpot which bubbled contentedly on the stove top. Turning, she began chopping up the roast chicken into bite sized chunks. Unfortunately, her hand holding the meat slipped, causing her to slice into her fingers on her left hand.

Martha yelped out in pain and I quickly grabbed a clean dishrag to press onto the wound. I called for Mother and she arrived a few moments later. She peeked under the rag to assess the damage.

"Edward, take Martha to the hospital," she instructed. "And take the car."

Martha turned stubbornly to look Mother clear in the eye. "No, ma'am, I need to finish your dinner. It's almost done. And Mr. Masen will be home soon and he'll be starving."

Mother placed her arms on her hips. "Martha, I will finish the cooking. You go with Edward to get that looked at."

"But Edward needs to eat, too," Martha stuttered. "The poor boy will suffer."

Mother just smiled at her. "When you were chopping vegetables I saw Edward steal a chicken leg."

My head jerked in shock. I had no idea anyone saw me. I suspect Mother is omnipresent.

With a glare directed at me, Martha gave up her fight. She placed her hat atop her head and motioned for me to follow her outside.

Opening the passenger side door, I watched Martha as she slid into her seat. Still glaring at me, she "tsked" when I smiled at her. "You could have at least helped me out, young man," she chided.

I closed her door and walked to the drivers side of our 1916 Scripps Booth Model C. I love this car. Well, to be truthful, I love all cars. This one just so happened to belong to us.

"You want to bleed to death tonight?" I asked her.

"It's just a little scrape," she countered straight faced.

I couldn't help but guffaw at that. "Are you joking? I've never seen so much blood in all my life! You need stitches at the very least. Besides, if you had stayed you'd never have been able to finish cooking dinner- you're practically one armed now. Father wouldn't enjoy finding drops of blood on the China."

The ride to the hospital was relatively silent. Martha's fear of doctors was well known in our family. It would be too easy to scare her about her upcoming visit. I reminded myself that I am a gentleman. I know how to keep my teasing thoughts to myself.

Once we arrived at the hospital I helped her out of the car. I escorted her inside and we made our way to the front desk. A nurse stationed there took her name and directed us to wait.

After a short while another nurse escorted us towards an empty room. Another few minutes passed before I heard a man's voice outside of our closed door. The door opened and I saw pale blonde hair styled like a male matinee star. The doctor, apparently, was extraordinarily young and good-looking.

He caught my eye and gave a warm smile. "Good evening. What business brings you two here?"

I looked at Martha, expecting her to give an explanation since she is - technically - the adult. However, her face contorted into a grimace. And for the first time ever, she became mute.

Since she refused to speak, I became her interpreter. "Martha accidentally cut her hand with a knife while preparing dinner," I explained to the doctor.

Martha's face remained the same. Her jaws locked together, determined to not let a word slip out.

The doctor took in the sight of Martha and tried a new tactic for cooperation. His hands reached out towards her injured one, giving her another smile. "My, but you have the smallest, most delicately crafted hands I think I've ever come across. Do you mind?"

As he gazed intently at her, I became somewhat uncomfortable. What sort of doctor is this? Casanova with a medical degree?

But Martha seemed to be on a different thought pattern than me. Her eyes glazed over. Her breathing stopped momentarily before she let out a feminine giggle. A giggle that I have never in my seventeen years ever heard her produce.

She allowed the doctor to exam her hand. Afterwards he began a dizzying search around the room, scooping up supplies and bandages with impressive speed.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" I jested.

He smirked. "She definitely cut her hand. No need to worry though. The knife didn't do any permanent damage. It just needs some stitches."

Martha remained unusually quiet.

"That's great. Isn't it, Martha?" I asked.

She seemed to snap out of a spell at the sound of her name. "Oh, yes. That is wonderful. You're such a good doctor," she cooed at him.

My mouth dropped open a little. Martha simply does not compliment anyone from the medical field. She once insulted a veterinarian to his face that saved a neighbor's dog from death. She claimed that the dog's leg could have been saved if the veterinarian could have arrived earlier. He lived two doors down. So, seeing her give an honest to god compliment is sort of shocking to say the least.

I watched the doctor deftly sew up the wound until it was remarkably clean and neat. I studied him closely. Suddenly I envyed him his career of choice. Not only was he obviously a skillful and intelligent doctor, he looked content as well.

Once the task had ended, he instructed Martha to go to the nurses' station to complete her paperwork. He spun around to look at me.

That's when I saw his eyes clearly for the first time. They were an unusual yellow gold. Like the amber beads Mother wears occasionally.

Again he smiled. I immediately forgot his strange eyes and concentrated on his words. "Don't let her hear this, but she was just a hair away from damaging her hand permanently. I suspect she my need spectacles, too. It's not uncommon for people her age to lose some of their eyesight. Let your family know. And make sure she keeps her stitches clean."

We go on back and forth like that for a minute. Once our business is concluded I held out my hand for a handshake. The doctor looked down at my outstretched appendage with an odd look before it vanished just as suddenly. He grabbed my hand and briefly shook it.

I almost gasped. His hand felt cool - in sharp contrast to his warm personality. I refrained from commenting on his hand temperature. I'm sure he was aware of the fact that his hand feels like he's been throwing snowballs in September.

"Thanks for the information, doctor. My parents will surely appreciate it," I said politely.

"You're welcome. And my name's Doctor Cullen. If she runs into any problems just let one of the nurses know that she's one of my patients. She'll get seen quicker that way," he replied.

I nervously ran my hand through my hair. "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Edward Masen, sir."

"Pleasure to meet you, Edward. You take care of Martha. If she'll let you, that is," he grinned slyly. He understood the stubborn woman's attitude very well it seemed.

I answered with a similar smile. "She takes care of everyone and everything. She'll outlive us all."

Doctor Cullen paused mid-breath. Then, with a lighthearted laugh, he patted my shoulder companionably. "Have a good night," he called as he walked out the door.

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A/N- That's all for chapter one. No time travel yet, my friends. But hold on tight! It's just a couple of chapters away! Next up, you'll get a BIG hint on how he'll be transported through time in chapter two. Until then, bye!