Three years after the conquest of the United Kingdom, the superhuman who seized power, Adamantine, was on the balcony addressing his subjects—microphone in hand—ready to discuss the recent developments of what he intended to do to improve the economy of the nation, to skirt around the resource shortages the various nations of the world had placed upon Albion in order to curb their incessant Human rights abuses. Beneath the balcony, there was a large army of soldiers, kitted out with far superior weapons that the US military had brought to the table, along with better, more protective body armor able to deflect anything that did not come from an autocannon; thus, these soldiers had far greater survivability than the standard US troops, surpassed only by the high-end supes they could bring to bear upon Albion should their ineffectual, deadlocked government decide to do anything. They were saluting Adamantine with an arm raised, palm outstretched, chanting the usual "hail Adamantine," the solute copied primarily from the Romans to make sure his army was distinctively and culturally European in contrast with the other armies of the West, whom he deemed to be mere shadows of their former selves, much too weak to survive the endless onslaught he would unleash upon them. Most of these soldiers were much younger than the ones from Germany and France, conscripted from the teenage male population as soon as they were old enough to drive, with the older and wiser members—the veterans of the Men of Albion terrorist organization—training them, molding them into the first line of defense before their Godking, Adamantine himself.

Of course, Adamantine made some changes to his appearance, mainly dropping that Viking armor and helmet he had adorned himself in when he first revealed himself as the leader of the Men of Albion terrorist organization when he dealt the killing to the United Kingdom and, more or less, a large bloody nose to the European Union. His new suit was gold plated, machined rather, with various carvings to accentuate the British nature of its representation. The pouldrons were lions' heads, its chest was sculpted in the form of the male musculature, giving him a rather god-like appearance, very much like a Greek statue of one of the Gods in the temple. What replace his Sutton Hoo helm was a golden wreath, its appearance modeled after what the Roman emperors would use in the past, a declaration of his title over the masses he had now ruled over. With his immortal strength, he wore that armor as if it were made of air, its immense weight having virtually nil effect on his mobility whatsoever; it was as if he was wearing a fancy, multi-million-dollar costume made from graphene, to put into perspective just how light it was for him to wear.

Even more prominent was his chiseled face, shown in clear view of everyone without his armor hiding it from the world, in the spitting image of his father from across the pond from which he potentially originated from. He was an attractive man, more than enough to be a sex symbol in the old UK had he not decided to use his guerilla force to conquer the country, to mold it in his image and ideology where he was worshipped as a divine being, sort of like—say, for instance Kim Jong Un, except good ol' Kim did not put statues of himself up everywhere, or order his men to put up propaganda poster of his face, with the lines reading "Adamantine protects thee!" He had shoulder length hair, golden in color that flowed directly down to his shoulders like some Punk rocker from the 1980s, minus the genderbending makeup that usually came with such a get up. His eyes, emerald in color, though a bit squinty due in part to his cheekbones, would drive any woman mad with utter lust at the mere sight of him, completely compelled to breed with him, the packaging just so perfect that it would have made anyone forget the atrocities he committed and was about to commit as the leader of a genocidal, warmongering regime, hellbent on conquering the world. Why, with his facial structure and hair color, he would have been the perfect poster boy for the Hitler youth, although his more emerald-colored eyes would disqualify him as apposed to the ideal azure color they preferred; however, for the British Union of Fascists' ideal of the Anglo-Saxon: tall, emerald/azure eyed, narrow faced, along with red or blond hair, he fit it perfectly.

"I have gathered you here to tell you what needs to be done in order to preserve our way of life, in the face of strife, forced upon use by the odious kikes from across the pond, their hope being that we starve to death without the oil needed to manufacture the various fertilizers to keep our crop yields. They claim to the ignorant masses of the Western countries, primarily the ones across the pond, that White genocide is just the fever dream of some internet racists, that the Jews—god's supposed chosen people—are the eternal victims of White supremacy since the times of antiquity. No, we were the victims from the very beginning, ever since they wondered into the Occident from the sewers of the Orient, polluting our superior DNA with their inferior trash genes, bred to deceive and destroy, for that was what the environments of the Middle East selected for, the best thieves and psychopaths, just as Africa selected the negro for stupidity and laziness, with their Garden of Eden practically handing them everything from food to warmth. Aryans were created in the image of the Gods, my father and mother, Freya and Odin, who created the first actual Humans: Askr and Embla respectively, not the animals who mainly have Humanoid features from Africa or Asia. Europe was the birthplace of Humanity, not Africa like the Jewish fraudsters claiming to be scientists think it was, since everything else is so radically different from Humanity that they may as well be different speices, degenerated from you for over thousands of years of isolations and dysgenic breeding practices. You are the chosen people of the Gods, the people with a true cosmic destiny to fulfill, not the subhumanity south of us claiming to be human—mockeries of the All-father's creation," said Adamantine to the soldiers, rousing them if they were fighting for Christendom against the Islamic hordes who invaded Europe in ages past, more than a few hundred years after the fall of Rome, just as Charles the Hammer did.

"We must strike back against the subhuman hordes of the Orient and Africa in order to ensure that we never run out of oil nor food. To do this, we will need to conquer Saudi Arabia and Kuwait—in short order—so that America and their filithy Jewish lab experiment, Homelander, does not stop use before we take the fertile lands of Africa. The latter will of course be our breadbasket, its population wiped out in order to ensure our Manifest Destiny throughout the world, securing its resources for one nation and one race. With the higher birthrates of the White population, we will quickly replace the population we are about to wipe out through our grand conquest in about three generations, roughly seventy-five years from now, with all the women staying at home to bear the builders of the future in their wombs. The lads, you and just about every other White male at the age of sixteen, will serve as soldiers to conquer our birthright from those savage creatures defiling, polluting the world in their own folly and stupidity until the world resembles a garbage heap, covered in trash, like something out of that film Idiocracy, a portent of what is to come should the Jew and their slave races win in the genetic arms race. Do not show these creatures any quarter, for you shall receive none when the battle starts. You will settle for nothing less than their complete and utter destruction, for the price of survival is eternal struggle," he concluded, cameras flashing in his face as he placed the microphone on the railing and floated back into his Palace.

With that rousing speech, his army of conscripts marched onto the ships where they would begin the invasion of the two continents for resources—Africa and Asia—to maintain the stability so Adamantine could have his dream of ruling over this empire for a thousand years. They went along with his plans dutifully, for they knew there was nothing for them to go to on the other side of the pond, conditioned through the propaganda on the radiowaves and newspapers to view—as well as the rest of the Western World—as a sort of Soddom and Gomorrah where civilizations degenerate and die, their people reduced to slaves for the so-called Jewish elite to rule over; thus, it was either death or slavery at the hands of a government that was far worse than any of Adamantine hard rules of survival that needed to be followed in order to protect Albion and its people from the non-European races, who Adamantine saw—at least, as the very mortal enemies of Western Civilization and the people who created it. They were brought up, through the new entertainment industry, to believe that Adamantine was their savior, the master of Western Civilization by the will of the Gods, almost as if a switched had been turned on, completely forgetting the lives they once had in the old regime before him.

That was not all what had been changed. Society now practically worshipped him—not as a King—but as a god on the eternal pantheon of Western heroes, a man who will practically live on through eternity in Western canon through the use of propaganda, very much like Caeser, Trajan, or hell, even Emperor Hadrian, whom his actions most resembled in his crusade to cleanse the entire globe of those whom he deemed a threat to Western Civilization. All around London, there were posters of Adamantine, posed heroically, or in some cases holding up a large Island—in this case the British Isles—in his arms as if he were Atlas from Greek Mythology. There were also plenty of statues of him, too, carved in Marble or made from the gold melted down from the various minorities his death squads had slaughtered. Why, it was practically the reason why he was called Adamantine, Godking of Albion, ruler of the West, and destroyer of the Zionist world Order, at least in accordance with his fandom from across the Pond who commit terrorism in his name, but that would be a story for another time.

The most notable of his propaganda, in fact, was that now all young women, between the ages of eighteen to thirty, were now pregnant, by decree of the Godking to increase the birth rate of the White race in order to grow the numbers, which, according to him, have been on the decline since the 1940s, seen as the beginning of the end of Western Civilization, now kept outside of Albion. It was the main reason why Albion was being sanctioned into oblivion while the Arab countries, who had even more draconian abuses of women's rights, were aloud to function; that was because they had oil. Still, of all the fucking reasons to embargo, they chose women's rights to be the last straw, in spite of the fact they were downright progressive compared to certain African or Arabian countries, more comparable to 1950s and 60s Britain as apposed to the Middle Ages or ancient Greece, like Arabia. The culture shift resulted in a radical increase in the nations overall birth-rate, more than tripling it, from 1.8 per woman to 7.2, which was where it was expected to level off at, once the territories were conquered. This ensured that in seventy or so years, the various populations of the Middle East and Africa would be replaced by Europeans, as Darwin predicted, of them being Anglo-Saxon descent as the rest of the West died off due to low birth rates.

This increase in fertility was not purely brought upon by Adamantine simply putting women back in the kitchen, it was also the result of him banning the use of processed, genetically-engineered junk food, deemed unfit for Human consumption by this type of regime. This resulted in a massive improvement in male healthy and vitality, increasing the testosterone levels and sperm counts of the average male in the country, thus making them more aggressive and belligerent, just as they were in the fifties. The population, for now, was stronger, healthier, and fitter, the rates of obesity in Albion practically non-existent, with its government enforced fitness, dietary enrichment through the use of special rations, provided to the populace to keep the stability. One could go for hundreds of miles without spotting a single obese man or woman in their view, unlike in America, where the average American was obese, dependent upon hundreds of different medications to keep their hearts healthy and their arteries from clogging up, ultimately maiming or killing them. Some formerly obese people were left out of the gene pool, the people—men, primarily—were too disgusted to date a woman who suffered from the excess skin of losing it, in some case, hundreds of pounds in a matter of six months. Fascist or not, most people would agree they deserved to be rejected for their poor choices in life, before Adamantine's conquest. Physically, it was the healthiest society on Earth, or rather, one of them, trailing only behind Japan.

Just as unfit women were rooted by the male gaze, unfit men would have been rooted out by the trials of the war that was about to start, the weak and cowardly dying, replaced by the strong survivors once the war ended, as Mother Nature intended. Of the men sent, it was estimated that only half of them would survive the war, maybe less. That ultimately left the survivors with a wider selection of potential mates, able to choose whomever they wanted, for they in turn had fewer option in the male dating pool to choose from. The strong survivors could take as many wives as they wanted; however, Adamantine was against such an idea, as the bad genes of some must not have been selected for. This would ensure that newer generations of the population would have been stronger, smarter, and faster, weeding out all potential weakness from the gene pool, guiding Humanity's evolution in his image.

There was also the fact that pornography and homosexual relationships were also banned in the nation that was Albion, the former of the two blamed for the development of degenerate sexual fetishes that precipitated the former. Basically, pornography was banned because it was seen as making men gay, turning them from straight masculine men into weak, feminized children too busy whacking off to actually do anything from having drained their manly essence on porn. In Adamantine's philosophy, energy expended pulling one's cock could be better spent conquering nations, or even finding a mate with which to have sex with in the first place. Porn was blamed for a lot of other things as well, from degrading women into whores and prostitutes whose pair-bonding nature had been destroyed from a case of having too many sexual partners; thus, they grew desensitized to the idea of one man, needing more and more just to satiate their now immense sexual urges, very much like a drug addict who needs more and more of the same drug to get the same kick, so to speak. The prime reason, of course, was that he viewed porn as a Jewish industry and thus a threat to Western Civilization by weakening the men, reducing them to a bunch of weak, womanly simps too focused on pussy rather than their own destinies, futures, or dreams, instead focusing on garnering the approval of digital women—on an internet screen—where said digital woman, or e-girl for the layman, never even thought of them as anything more than an ATM with legs and a cock. It was shunned as a degenerate industry that reduced women into whores and men into effeminate simps, who could better spend their time raising families and fighting wars as apposed to whacking off to fake women on the internet, hoping against all hope that she will fuck him—see him as anything more than an ATM with legs and a dick in his hopeless folly.

Surprisingly, everything, from residence and small business, were left relatively intact from Adamantine's revolution, at least the ones owned by White Britons. The others were repurposed into fitness centers, state-owned organic food stores, and gun stores, as gun ownership was now viewed as a sacred, holy right by the very citizenry of Albion, with children as young as eleven aloud to own guns so long as their parents supervised them when they used them. The defeat of the United Kingdom's military left a huge army surplus, from firearms, explosives to ammunitions, a lot of it used by the citizenry at their leisure as the army did not have much of a use for them, on account of having upgraded to a higher-caliber more reliable rifle, able to blow watermelon-sized exit wounds into the torso of a man with its large .303 Enfield rounds. Older more outdated weapons were aloud for civilian purchase, namely the SA80, the bullpup rifle used by the British Military in the Troubles and the great big ethnic conflict that had followed a mere decade after that conflict's conclusion. The government really did not care if its citizenry was armed; it was trying to build a nation of warriors, conquerors more than capable of wiping the floor with any other rival nation who got the idea to invade, its citizenry, drip-fed constant propaganda, more than ready to repel any such invasion from across the pond, or even closer to home—Germany and France. The British Empire, in a way, was reborn, stronger than ever, or mor specifically, stronger than any known empire known to man, soon to have a monopoly on some very important resources for which Western Civilization needed to function as first-world nations: oil and rare Earths.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, Vought was falling victim to a corporate takeover, its supes proving far too ineffective to counteract the ever-increasing surge of violence caused by Adamantine's cultist fans' religious terrorism that had swept through America like a Biblical plague from Egypt. Weaker supes, the ones who could not stand up to the gunfire of high-caliber, automatic weapons were dropping like flies to the better trained and equipped cultists, who, for some reason, seemed to have better hardware than the entire US army, their rifles using larger rounds, for instance, that bypassed the skin of a Vought supe as if it were tissue paper. Supes were also lured into traps, often filled with explosives or jars of acid, where they were maimed, rendered unable to show up on television as a result of their gruesome injuries, careers ended in some case before they even began, as was the case with Supersonic. He was filmed on a livestream getting doused in Kerosene and set on fire after two.30-06 rounds blasted his kneecaps out the back of his legs in cones of thirty-degree crimson spatter; thus, he was on the floor, rendered a screaming, charred skeleton, still burning bright with embers from the immense flame as Vought's stock dipped ever lower into oblivion, now the victim of a pump and dump operation by a reclusive billionaire tycoon from Providence, Rhode Island. More supes were shown shot dead, maimed, beaten too death in rare cases where they had no other power, such as superstrength, to defend themselves from the brutal beatings of Adamantine's never-ending horde of cultist fanboys, in America and abroad, effortlessly tanking Vought International's stock for the inevitable shorting. It was only kept alive by predatory investors because of their incessant blunders when it came to stopping the near unstoppable force that was Adamantine's fanbase, who were pretty much just a rabble of heavily armed, redneck trailer trash handed down top of the line firearms and explosives from some unknown source.

Sat around the V-shaped table, the Seven were completely demoralized, having next to nothing to do with the crime that was going on from New England to the Mid-West, where most of Admantine's fanbase terrorized the minorities. New York was seen as condemned ground, as the non-White demographic percentages was too high for them to even bother trying to so much as risk the ire of the Seven. New York was an unassailable fortress, in essence, which made it a rather boring posting for a supe when all of the action was either in New England (where supes tend to wind up dead or severely beaten) or in the case of the Mid-West, shot to death. B and D listers tended to drop like flies from where they were sitting. Supes like Starlight could still hold their own, as she had bulletproof, Kevlar like skin that could repel attacks from up to a 14mm cannon; however, supes with heightened durability were very rare, often requiring massive, near fatal doses of Compound V to even create in the first place; thus, most of them were essentially redshirts, like the original Star Trek series, getting picked off by ordinary men with knives, guns, and bombs. The only thing Earth's mightiest could do from where they sat was watch and fiddle as Rome burned straight to the fucking ground, utterly hopeless to stop what was happening to America and the world.

Homelander seen a familiar face in the hallway, talking with his boss, Mr. Edgar, drenching his seat in urine upon the horrifying realization upon who that was. It was Arthur Luther Pierce. He last met him in Providence dressed in a black colored, cotton costume, with gold fleeced epaulettes on his shoulders giving him the appearance of European royalty. He donned a cape, very much like his own, except it was the Union Jack with a thunderbolt, which, upon doing some research on the net, found it to be the very same symbol used by the British Union of Fascists. He also had almost seventy pounds of muscle and six inches in height on him when they tangled in Providence, a few years before the appearance of Adamantine, just before he started dating and banging Becca Saunders after his traumatic experience with Arthur Pierce in that allyway in Rhode Island.

He beat Homelander so badly, even though Homelander's power level was roughly on par with Pierce's. The main reason why he lost the fight was due to the fact that, like Adamantine, Pierce had roughly six inches and seventy pounds of muscle on him, the strength of which amplified by a bioelectric aura very much like his own. This gave him a significant strength advantage over Homelander, allowing him to hit harder and react faster in a fight, Homelanders hard, powerful punches barely giving him anything more than a moderate to sever bruise in the chest; however, his punches were much harder than Homelander, breaking his jaw and almost blinding him for life, detaching both of his retinas, which proved a challenge for Vought's surgeons to fix with his immensely high durability. In fact, to this day, he still had trouble seeing from his left side, completely blurry and fuzzy, almost requiring a monocle that—in his narcissistic mind—would make him look like a fool to the American public, thus ruining his brand name. Of course, he did try lasering him, only to leave his costume with burn marks and piss him off, big time, receiving a broken jaw that needed stitches and wires to repair and correct, leaving his lower face a scarred, ruined wreck unable to be shown on television or even to the public anymore; he even thought the only reason he even got married to Becca Saunders was because of pure pity. The attack left him a coward, too psychologically broken to even fight against the greatest threat to America, let alone the world, the threat walking into Edgar's office to talk to him about ownership of him through Vought's ever inevitable takeover.

"Homelander, why do you always piss yourself in the presence of such a great man as Arthur Luther Pierce III, as if him being one of my ex-boyfriends not the only other reason you seem to shit a brick at the mere sight of him? I do not think Mr. Edgar will be too happy to see your seat drenched in your piss, like some toddler who watched a really bad horror movie when they shouldn't have. God, you really are a pathetic little pussy, too weak in the knees to react in the presence of real men. I mean sure, he is an antisemtic douch bag, but man, in the bedroom, Arthur is utterly amazing, about the best sex I have ever had. Well, second only to some other sexual experience," Maeve giggled, finding the sight of Homelander pissing his costume about as funny as that time he literally shat his costume at the sight of Adamantine on television, broadcasting his genocidal acts of terror to the world—right before taking the United Kingdom for him self and declaring himself Godking of Albion.

"Yeah, Homelander," chuckled the Deep and A-Train.

"Well, Arthur Luther Pierce is not who everyone thinks he is. In fact, he is a terrorist, a criminal, and murderer, who seems to have penchant for dressing up at night and terrorizing minorities as if he was some type of ridiculously overpowered Black Noir. Billionaire playboy by day, racist supervillain at night, his moniker Captain Albion, the racist supervillain who was the archnemesis of Lady Liberty in the very old Payback cartoons before she disappeared off the face of the Earth in 1979 for some unknown reason. Anyway, it seems to be that he had a real basis, the main reason why supes never dare tread in the New England region of the United State, for fear of getting torn limb from limb by the mysterious Captain Albion, whom I, however, have identified him as Arthur Luther Pierce. The arrogant fuckstain does not even wear a fucking mask—instead relying on the cover of night to hide his fucking identity as he is committing hate crimes against Mossad Agents—sent in, of course, to investigate his corporation on suspicion it may be a front for a White Supremacist terror organization that wished to conquer the world. The Israelis referred to it as the Thule Society. Long story short: he gave me this," he elaborated his seemingly ridiculous story, pointing to the massive patchwork of scars his lower face was after said incident, requiring the best Doctors and surgeons in Vought's employ to put his busted, practically hanging jaw back into place.

"I'll smite them in the Synagogues,

I'll smite them in the Mosques, and

I'll smite them in the Ghettos, where

the pavement apes burn and loot."

Those were the bad, cheesy seventies song lyrics for Captain Albion's villain theme whenever he first showed up in the Payback television show, an obvious parody of Winston Churchill's speech when Britain went to war against the Nazis in WWII, only sung by a racist Englishmen hellbent on rebuilding the British Empire into a fascist, racist, totalitarian state that practiced eugenics as one of its religious tenets, not unlike a fascist state going on the warpath from across the pond where they spoke of Homelander's bad experience with Arthur Luther Pierce, seen by many—even Maeve—as a great, honorable man. His only flaw was his antisemitism and racism, a trait not too uncommon with many successful, wealthy Americans like Henry Ford or Walt Disney; in fact, Maeve even complained of all his reading material at his penthouse being racist old novels like the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion or the Turner Diaries in his bookshelf, when she was bored and looking for something to do other than bang his brains out. He brushed off those accusations as them simply being his Dad's old racist novels, thus clearing his name of any controversy should Vought's sensationalist media find his peculiar book collection. His father was a racist novelist as a side hobby, when he wanted to unwind from the drudgery of running a multibillion-dollar company prior to the Reagan Administration, having to deal with the almost crippling taxes America put men of his stature under. What really was the dealbreaker for Maeve was that he seemed to speak in a thick, upperclass English Dialect, in spite of the fact his family had been in America since 1964, having moved over from Argentina because his great-grandfather was a wanted man. It was the fact that Maeve knew that Arthur had no powers with which to hurt Homelander, and the fact the Mossad agents were getting torn limb from limb by escaped chimps, as well as Vought supes who tried to quell the rampant animal attacks that went on there. Arthur would have had to have been eight years old or more for him to even have been the perpetrator of such crimes, let alone have powers; it was escaped Chimps who killed those Israelis and supes, just as it was escaped chimps who committed those hate crimes in Oregon two years ago.

"Okay guys, let me tell the story of how it happened!"

Roughly seven years prior, around three years before Adamantine plunged the entire world into chaos, Homelander was investigating the deaths of Mossad Agents in Rhode Island, under a ten-billion-dollar payment from the Israeli government, a major ally of the United States on the world stage. Homelander noted that even in the dead of night, Providence was peaceful, almost too peaceful, almost like a clean 1950s suburb in the form of a large city that constantly got insulted by the liberal media for being too white and homogenous. It would have been a rather boring posting for a Vought supe, so Homelander was confused as to why supes were so upset about it being too unsafe for them, not like it would be unsafe for the Homelander. There was hardly any crime in the city. It was clean, cleaner than New York or any other hick town he had made appearances in, everyone seemingly employed by the massive corporation whose headquarters he could see off in the distance, Pierce Tower. The whole town was so peaceful and utopian, it was a fucking bore for him, the kind of place you would assign a supe in order to punish him for a big scandal that destroyed their reputation. For fuck's sake, the streets were so clean, one could practically eat off them with no ill effects, not that anyone would want to test such a theory, though. Why did the Isreali government pay him, personally, up to ten billion dollars just to investigate New England, one of the safest, most White bread places in America since Portland, Maine.

"Enjoy your new home, you Asiatic kike, the trash heap of history, or dare I say, the dumpster," said a strange British accented voice behind one of the ally ways, just behind where Homelander was hovering, observing the town for signs of what the Israelis found to have been so special about New England, specifically Rhode Island state.

That was when he saw him, Captain Albion, adorned in a cape that was not unlike his own, only with a Union Jack instead replacing the Star-Spangled Banner, along with a color scheme that completely contrasted his bright and colorful costume: ebon and gray. He wore gloves made from a natural, shiny black leather, perhaps cowskin from what Homelander could glean from the color and texture of it, much too thin to be from any other animal. His costume was made from cotton as apposed to the synthetic, blue polyester that made up his costume, sporting metal, gold fleeced epaulets instead of those Eagle-like pauldrons that held up Homelander's Star Spangled Banner. Another contrast was that his costume sported knee pads, the shape of the Algiz rune burned straight into the center, telling Homelander whom he was now about to enter the fight for his life against, a superpowered, British Neo-Nazi with powers on par if not superior to his. He also wore the black leather jackboots commonly associated with European Fascist movements, the costume possibly being sixty years old, perhaps older, predating any supe in Vought's roster, including Soldier Boy.

He stood at six feet, five inches tall, over six to seven inches taller than Homelander's average and modest height of five, feet eleven, practically towering over him by about an entire head or so. His hair was blond, shaved bald at the sides as well as combed over on both sides at the top as a result of his prominent widows peak, which was a very common hairstyle in the 1920s, now completely discontinued, having fallen out of style like the Mullet of the 80s. His face was long and narrow with a forehead that was as high as it was broad, giving him a very Nordic appearance normally found in Scandinavia or parts of Germany, were it not for his emerald eyes normally found in people of Anglo-Saxon (English) descent as apposed to other regions of Europe. His face was very chiselled and angular, a sign of having really high testosterone levels, much higher than most men in Western Society, which complimented his musculature. He had very large, strong, powerful muscles that, even without his powers, he would have not been the type of man any normal person would want to tangle with on a bad day, the type of man who could break a modern, hypogonadal male in half with ease. Homelander suddenly realized why the Israeli Government was paying him ten billion dollars, to kill this man, and from what he saw of him, he felt he might not survive this fight, at least not intact, though that was a great retirement if he were ever maimed when he killed this guy.

Not saying a word, the man flew at him at around mach one and a half, punching him in the face, causing Homelander's vision to double, his strength—at the very fucking least—roughly on par with his own, each strike from that muscular behemoth a round from a tank—light punches, too. Already concussed, Homelander tried to use his heat vision, the bright crimson swords of heat only causing superficial damage to his opponent's costume, singing his foe's golden chest hair below. He then sweep-kicked Homelander's legs, knocking him on course to the pavement, his legs broken and deformed from the amount of force he struck him with, just avoiding his joints Then as he was falling, Captain Albion delivered one heavy punch, knocking him on the pavement hundreds of feet below, almost completely severing Homelander's jaw, ruining his face forever, the wound leaving ragged scar across his entire face, almost like a jigsaw.

"You think you are hot shite, ZOG bot? Well, you will be lucky to have a career after I am through with you, you goddamn race traitor, too stupid to realize that when enough subhumanity floods in from the Rio, you will be irrelevant, thrown out and replaced for the new hotness, a latino kid, perhaps. My name, however, will be scarred into the very flesh of history itself, remembered for all eternity until the sun becomes too hot to sustain Earthly life. You, however, will be forgotten by 2025 to 2030, around the time those degenerate baby boomers finally die off like they should have a long time ago. Oh well, enjoy irrelevance by that point. I will be on my private Island, a curvy Blond in my arms, in an all White, all Western world by that point, sipping Martinis on a tropical island surrounded by a whole haram of beautiful women. I only spared you because you are a straight, White person," He monologued, now floating above Homelander by ten feet before flying off into the sky, a fireball seemingly traveling into the Moon, where he seemingly disappeared to, as far as Homelander was concerned, who was losing consciousness from exsanguination.

"Now you know why they have to CGI the fuck out of my face before I show up in any films, thanks to that fucking limey fuck who wrecked my face so badly you have to speak for me whenever we address the public. The public does not want to see a man whose face is as fucked as Frau Engel's from that Wulfenstein The New Colossus game. Yeah, I have taken up gaming, now that my self-esteem has been shattered by that limey fuck who thinks—just like that evil fucking villainess—to be apart of some master race, destined to rule the world. All I want to do now is keep my wife and child safe—from Vought and from that psychopath; I have given up crying to Edgar to try and press charges against Pierce. If they are safe, him and his doppelganger, Adamantine, can do whatever the fuck they want to this world, including wiping all of the darkies and Jews from existence, so long as my wife and child have a future in his brave new world," he said, heart broken thinking about the man he once was before, and the man he could never be again after what had happened to him.

"You can still fly, you are still super strong, and you can still shoot beams from your eyes. You are just no longer attractive to women anymore, aside from your wife who married you out of pity," replied Maeve, smiling a bit at Homelander's misfortune. "Being the third strongest man in world could have some advantages."

Meanwhile in Edgar's office, Pierce stood, proud as ever, a large smug grin on his face as he observed all of his plans coming together, almost terminally so, impossible to stop by anyone at this point as he added Vought International as a shiny blue, jewel into the crown from which he would place upon his head when he ruled from behind the scenes, in the almost post-apocalyptic ruins of the empire that was the United States of America. However, there was just one major problem: Edgar was pretty happy, possibly because he did not have to manage a daycare that dealt with spoilt, overgrown millennial brats with superpowers, but there were perhaps other reasons, namely the fact he had a supe with him, one who could nullify his immense power—at least temporarily—leaving her with a enough time to deliver the killing blow to his face. It was Stormfront, the online activist who demonized him, his corporation, and his entire city as a racist city, all because Mossad agents wound up dead, horrifically mutilated in dumpsters in the 60s, 70s, 80s, and a few in the 2010s in the dead of night. How in the blue fuck did Edgar seem to find out about his activities, in spite of everything he did everything in his power, from endlessly faking his death, to wearing an old, out of style costume he created in the 1930s to so cleverly mask his secret identity as billionaire Arthur Luther Pierce III. It made no sense; however, he was going to fire him as he merged Pierce Enterprise with Vought, as well as A-Train, and many other supes who did not fit the bill, to serve as dancing monkeys for his wholesome superhero movies that promoted traditional Western family values.

"That Jay Gatsby haircut, the high-born English accent, your love of 1920s pin-striped suits and finally your behavior has not really changed between all of your personas in the past eighty years. My, your fucking level arrogance and cockiness astounds even me, of all fucking people; I mean, blaming it on chimps, really? I think the Crimson Countess will have some rather unsavory remarks to say about you when all your assets are frozen, your company RICO'd so fast it makes it your arrogant, high fore headed, limey head spin to the point of snapping. Assuming of course, you don't simply regenerate your spine, that is. Are you under the impression that the American people are a bunch of fat, retarded morons too glued to their television to even look deeply into your history, past the self-serving autobiography where you claim your Dad and Grandfather were fascists from Britain, hoping to ally with Hitler so they can purge the globe of the non-White races," she commented on her findings of him, shrugging her shoulders in absolute confusion over what she had just unearthed in the strange, American mystery that was Arthur Luther Pierce himself.

"Most definitely," he muttered, still unable to change his British accent after being in the country for around over half of a fucking century, reliant on American ignorance, stupidity, and overall decadence to his true identity

"Sit," Edgar said with a derisive smile on his face in an almost manner, thinking cornered Arthur like a lion waiting for the kill.

Pierce sat down on the leather couch, manspreading, still smug and arrogant as ever knowing full well that his plans were too far in motion to ever be stopped by Vought, the US, Israel, and just about any government he already pretty much had by the testicles at this point.

"It seems you have been engaging in some extra-curricular activities as of late, starting from the 1970s and ending in the 2010s, when you have caused quite a lot of damage to my property, Homelander, who is now too psychologically damaged to kill Adamantine, even as he runs roughshod over the Middle East in some weird attempt to enact lebensraum over the entire, defenseless third-world. Stormfront here, in spite of the fact we do not see eye to eye in a lot of case on these issues, has agreed to help me find information, namely your crimes, which, as I understand, if we were to unfurl the list, it would quite literally touch the moon. Did you really think you were some Norse God of myth and legend who could stop the entire might of the world on your own? I mean, the destruction of the Soviet Union, caused by you assassinating its high-ranking Jewish officials had made you arrogant and cocky. You are not a god. You are not the superman. What you are—really—is a failed experiment. Even Fredrick Vought, who was your father's research assistant when he was working on his bachelor's degree in Oxford, thought supes created through selected gene therapy—as apposed to Compound V, like you—would be dangerous. Supes created through Serum-22 were not only too powerful to be controlled, they also had the flaw of being belligerent, arrogant, and ambitious, essentially superpowered Julias Ceaser's. The problem came from the fact, at least according to his notes on the subject, that serum-22 was far too potent, creating one insanely powerful set of powers that rendered said subject utterly impossible to control," He elaborated as to why he summoned him.

"And what proof do you have of serum-22, aside from wild speculation of some researcher at Pierce Pharmaceutical who had killed himself after he was trying to expose my corporation for its supposed crimes against humanity? I am not the comic book villain you and the liberal J… er… elite-owned media make me out be; therefore, what sort of evidence do you have of me having superpowers other than the notes of one of my great-grandfather's students?" He asked, completely unfazed as to what Edgar was implying, his face cold and calculating, observing and probing his enemies' weaknesses through the power of his exceptionally high IQ.

"Pass me the file," he said.

Stormfront passed Edgar the file, a look of annoyance on her face from to even take such an order from him.

"I will release this file to the media if you ever fire me, A-Train, Noir, or just about any minority employee in this company. Do I make myself clear?" threatened Edgar, coldly and dispassionately as Pierce, carrying a folder of the many crimes Pierce had supposedly committed.

"You also committed treason against the Allies in WWII, selling valuable intel to the Nazis in exchange for the throne of England so that you, in the unlikely event that tipped the scales for them, would grant you rulership as one of his puppet rulers," added Stormfront, who was leaning on the couch frame, right up in his face.

"You want to know what John Q Public hates more than Nazis, Colonel Pierce? Collaborators!"

"Well, speaking German sounds a whole lot better than a trans-sexual, half-caste grandchild; thus, I can understand why he chose to back the Axis instead of the Allies, as the Allies were working for the greatest enemy of Western civilization, the Communists who were funded by a tribe of people who totally don't control all of Western Media and Banking," Derided Pierce, hiding his obvious racism through sarcastic double speak in the same way a character would from a Shakespearian play, totally flying over Stormfront's head from her look of confusion.

"Now if you are going to blackmail me, know this: do you want Cameron Coleman to kill himself, because all the reporters who claimed to have evidence against me often wound up killing themselves, often from two gunshots to the back of the skull, their suicide note ironically concluding "I am a slanderous attention whore of the highest order." Do want to go through all the trouble of finding a new reporter, who will then, like all the other media outlets, put all the evidence against me in the Alex Jones' bin, otherwise known as the crank files. Point is, I am a very powerful man with more clout than you could possibly comprehend, one of the most powerful men in America, rivalled only by you who now only has a small fraction of what I have in the bank account alone. I can buy and sell this company ten times times over with one of my Swiss accounts alone, the one I use to avoid paying the taxes that feeds people whom I deem unworthy of such generosity of Uncle Sam's incessant need to rob Peter to pay Paul in order for the creatures that own this nation to subsidize the trash with which they intent to replace the founding stock," Pierce went on, boasting of his near limitless financial resources to wield against Edgar, with the possible threat of assassination by lone gunmen into the mix, paid by an anonymous up the chain of one of Pierce's many contacts in the criminal underworld where he started in '46, on the run from both the United Kingdom's MI6 and Israal's, as well as Russia's KGB.

Then, out of the blue, something happened, something that would shake the very foundations of this world so hard, that its masses would be agape from the sheer stupefaction of it,

Pierce looked over to his side to see what all the fuss was about, Edgar and Stormfront's dumbfounded expression of what had just transpired on the TV, with the whole expansion business Albion was going under and all that. Cities were in ruin, their foundations shattered from beneath them almost like tectonic plates forcing the very ground upward. This had happened in Mecca, shown from a News helicopter above, the holy-site in the epicenter of the city destroyed, left with only a tiny crater, about the width of a man, surrounded by large cracks in the ground stretching for miles, the resultant earthquakes shattering all of the buildings to rubble. It looked as though a group of large meteors struck those cities around the Middle East and Africa, reducing them to what one would expect out of an image from a town from a Fallout game, only except with very uneven, shattered ground from something boring very deep into the Earth's crust, traveling at over hundreds of times the speed of sound, imparting the energy of a high-yield nuclear weapon several kilometers below, raising kilotons of rock and debris, the fissures created swallowing people by the thousands as they desperately tried to run up them, hoping against utter hope they will somehow survive. Stormfront was absolutely covering her mouth, tears streaking down her face as Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem got the same treatment, smashed to kingdom come by an immensely heavy, multi-ton object about the length and thickness of a telephone pole, its material most likely tungsten or depleted uranium accelerated to near interstellar velocities that would have it at Barnard's Star in around three centuries flat.

"I am Cameron Coleman and I have Breaking News. The death toll of this attack worldwide that includes the Middle East and Africa had claimed one and a half billion lives, more than any genocidal dictator in history, including Mao Ze Dong. Hundreds of millions more are projected to die from Adamantine's Royal Army, Navy, and Airforce, who are proceeding to block the flow of refugees into Europe, implementing a shoot to kill order. The bulk of his armies are invading the Middle East and Africa, looking to claim the former as an oil field and the latter as farmland, with potentially mining interests to give his nation a monopoly on some of the major resources needed for our American way of life," he cried, thinking of the effect this monopoly would have on Americans from making gas prices ridiculously high all the way to dethroning both America and China as the world's superpowers.

"As you can see, this is only a preview of the new Eden I am creating. Before any of you fall into the bleeding heart, liberal routine, nature does not play favorites, nature does not care about cosmic destinies, all nature cares about is survival of the fittest, Darwin in action, so to speak. Oh, and one other thing, don't try starting a war with someone who is very good at concluding one, to your lament, with no mercy," he commented smugly on the countless millions of people who lay dead in the Middle East and Sub-Saharan Africa, at full mast as he was sitting on the couch.

"Stormfront, escort Superlimey, or whoever the Legend calls him, out of my sight," barked Edgar.

"Gladly," she smiled as she craned her head to look at him, her smile forced and nervous.

"Let's go, Mr. Blofeld."

A/N: Do you think Stormfront is probably going to kill herself without getting Vadered, seeing as how Africa and the Middle East have gotten the fucking Exterminatus treatment—rods from god on steroids-style—with the force of small H-Bombs. It is not hard to destroy cities from orbit. In fact, that is how I imagine Homelander destroying cities, just flying into orbit, grabbing multi-ton pieces of space junk, and throwing them back down, at hundreds if not thousands of times the speed of sound, which of course, would result in a weapon as powerful as the one shown in GI Joe Retaliation, except a bit more grounded, as that would require accelerating the rod to much faster than simply "eight times faster than a bullet." Adamantine, Captain Albion, Homelander, and perhaps, Soldier Boy would all fall under the city-level category of damage potential, able to tank weapons that could destroy cities and destroy cities in short order. At the very least, they would be large town level.

Also, about that fight between Captain Albion and Homelander, they were both city level supes, except one had a reach advantage, enhanced reflexes, equal or greater durability. Imagine if you will, someone with peak human strength prior to getting a bio-electric aura that enhanced his strength by several orders of magnitude greater than his baseline, give him martial arts and military training from the British army, he would cream the spoiled, hypogonadal manchild with utter ease, potentially punting his jaw off like that scene where Homelander fought Black Noir, the result of knowing how to throw a proper punch. Homelander may have the strength of a million baseline humans; however, Captain Albion and Adamantine easily have the strength of a two or even three million baseline Humans as a result of already having trained themselves to the physical peak prior to attaining/ developing their powers. It is the same reason why Ozymandias practically curbstomped Nite Owl and Rorschach upon first meeting them, one of them a Hobo and the other an overweight, middle-aged man who was passed his prime, both of whom were up against a peak-human who had twice their strength, speed, and reflexes, easily able to catch a bullet. Homelander was basically fighting a superpowered Adrien Viedt with his level of power, which was precisely why he was reduced to a cowardly shell of his former self.