Just inside the art-deco hallways of Vought Tower, Pierce was being escorted off the premises for threatening to kill Mr. Edgar and possibly even the anchorman whom was used by the company to broadcast mostly positive information, at least about the corporation itself and not so much its competitors. Pierce was calm and collected, hardly bothered by Edgar's threats, for he, being a modern-day Julius Caeser—so to speak, had more contingency plans than he could count on all of his fingers, ranging from targeted assassinations to faked suicides in order to discredit the person who defamed him. He was after all the subject of numerous conspiracy theories on the left, in particular of minority and Jewish people, known for being the illusive supervillain on the net, Captain Albion, his innumerable hate crimes in New England blamed on escaped chimps. He always covered up the fact that he mangled a Mossad agent by threatening news reporters with thugs, whom he contracted out through intermediaries, or rather, fixers to avoid detection through any paper trail that could implicate him or Pierce Enterprises. Pierce Enterprises was more of a front for a massive secret society, the actual lair of which located in a secret location too inhospitable and obscure for any such group to track down, whether it was the CIA, who Pierce practically had in his pocket through fear and intimidation of the higher-ups with his superpowers, or even Mossad; the KGB could not even find such a well hidden organization, funded through the countless corporate fronts owned and operated by Captain Albion/Arthur Luther Pierce vast network of operatives, each with their own specific designation.
Why, his vast fortune probably was only a fraction of his on-paper wealth. Most of it was used for assassinating people in positions of power or covering up the countless crimes of Arthur Pierce's alter ego, Captain Albion. Stormfront even wondered if some of the attacks on Israel before Adamantine, his son, practically orbitally bombarded the country with space junk, reducing hundreds of thousands of people to ashes with the kinetic energy of a small but powerful meteorite, like a nuclear bomb, but without the fallout, were all done by him. It was the attacks that occurred between 1962 and 1992, the ones blamed on Palestinian terrorists out of pride, for fear that the American supes could not even subdue or kill Captain Albion, as Liberty was obviously not strong enough to fight him and Soldier Boy did not have the advantage of flight. Captain Albion, the man right next to her, could fly at around Mach 3200—top speed—able to travel from America to Europe in mere seconds and into space in a milisecond. His bio-electric aura generated an electromagnetic field that propelled him off the ground at high hypersonic speeds, very similar to what Homelander used to fly, perhaps slightly faster, the source of not just his flight, but all of his superpowers except for his regeneration, which was as potent as Gecko's but much slower, and his enhanced intelligence, already at the peak of human cognition prior to being injected with that gene-therapy. A nigh-invulnerable, superhumanly intelligent flying brick would have been practically impossible for both the Soviets, the Israelis, and just about every world power to fight fairly. Did her husband base Compound V off of the elusive Serum-22? She knew inspiration never came in a vacuum; something like it had been always invented first; however, Serum-22 gave the user one specific homogenous powerset as opposed to the diverse powerset her husband's Compound V gave its subject; basically, he would have a powerset not unlike her's, since V's powers were a manifestation of the user's personality, instead of a version of Homelander who lacked heat vision and x-ray vision, exchanged for regeneration, doubled cognition, and bullet-timing reflexes.
The news on the TV screens they passed continued to get worse and worse, with videos of soldiers hovering above ruined cities, dressed in military fatigues instead of the usual cape and costume a supe would wear. They also wore gas masks and the kettle-shaped helmets one would associate with a British soldier, cheaply made and created merely to keep the falling debris of shrapnel from entering the eyes of said soldier, used this time only to accentuate the British aesthetic of this fascist army that was completely conquering the third-world nations in the Western portions of the hemisphere. These soldiers, from what Stormfront could make out, were all on the level of Adamantine and his father, Captain Albion, complete with flight, superhuman strength, agility speed, invulnerability, and last but not least, regenerations, not that it mattered as they were so durable that one of them—at least according to the KGB files Stormfront dug up on them—was able to shrug off the Tsar Bomba, also known as the most powerful H-bomb in existence. The non-Western world was kaput as far as she was concerned, for these mighty warriors, creations of Adamantine's gene-therapy programs, would completely annihilate the entire non-White world in a matter of years, depending on the number of these soldiers he would have to produce in order to stem the tide of a potential nuclear strike on his country. Hell, it could happen in five months at the rate at which Albion practically wiped out over a seventh of the world's population within a few strokes, almost like it was some fucking playthrough of Stellaris on Ensign difficulty.
These supersoldiers, or Adamantine's angels as he dubbed them, were shown on video ripping apart world leaders on live television, smashing into the bunkers, carrying them out, often cutting them in half with a single strike of their hand, palm straight, almost like a karate chop. Soldiers were firing on them, only for their bullets to harmlessly ricochet off their clothing and skin, bouncing off the one-millimetre-thick bioelectric force fields their bodies generated, holding them together against all forces, from thermal to kinetic attacks. Adamantine's army was practically making way for the manifest destiny of his empire, his soldiers armed with firearms merely acting as the cannon fodder, usually overwhelming the surviving military through sheer numbers, outnumbering them ten to one in a lot of engagements according to data Coleman got from the US military and DARPA. The only words that could sum up what Klara was feeling over the whole situation was bloodbath or utter curbstomp, Adamantine pretending to be the underdog when he in fact had an elite force of superpowered warriors that outnumbered Vought's entire roster five to one, each supe having the strength and durability of Homelander. Albion was a one nation axis powers, an overwhelming onslaught that threatened to conquer not just the Middle East and Africa but the entire world, or at the very least, the entirety of Africa and Asia. Edgar was probably quite excited, to set up his plan to contract out Compound V to the entire US Military in order to fight the hordes of Homelander level supes who were completely and utterly vanquishing the powers from the Atlantic, blitzing them as she would say. Adamantine's military doctrine was basically a blitzkrieg with supes, his cannon fodder armed with assault rifles cleaning up what remains of his enemies' military assets underneath the boot of his golden heel.
"The future is becoming ever brighter with each passing day now that all of the lower hominids are being exterminated at the hands of the right people, leaving my descendants with a clean pure world, free from the subhumanity of the third-world using the water and air as a dumping ground for their wastes because they were too stupid, and above all, too short-sighted to see the long-term effects on this world. Hopefully, with their death, the world will heal, repopulated by a superior sub-species of humanity that was, until now, languishing under the tyrannical rule of parasites who crept their way into the West from the sewers of the Orient. There were those who said this day would never come, that the white man due to his naivete was doomed to extinction under the heel of the Jews. What a day to say such defeatist dreck now! That was what one of my old, long dead friends, George Lincoln Rockwell said, back before one of the Jews in the Mossad hired an assassin to kill him. That was some utter nonsense, as history showed before Christianity that Whites were the most ruthless and efficient conquerors in history, even more merciless at times than the non-White hordes that wished to colonize Europe long before we started reciprocating. With my son, Adamantine, I now have a replacement religion for Europeans rather than that poisonous slave religion the Jewish people have used as a psychological weapon against us for over two thousand years at this point, greatly ruining our genetic stock by encouraging the weaklings to breed over the stronger and smarter elements of our population. The meek shan't inherit anything," laughed Pierce, his demeanor telling Stormfront any passerby that he was completely onboard with what was happening from across the seas, either coldly indifferent or sadistically grinning as he saw the deathtoll of what happened in Israel.
"Yet with such big gains, your son is making practically all of the mistakes the Fuhrer had when he invaded the Soviet Union in '43, the event that practically turned the tide of the war in the favor of the communists when all his soldiers died from disrupted supply lines and cold weather, just as his forces will fall from disrupted supply lines and the yellow fever. Perhaps his mother should've raised him instead of his fath… oh that's right, he was raised in a lab by Israeli fucks, abducted because his father put him in the care of his butler, who, upon being handed a check for millions of sheckles, handed him over to their government to be brutally experimented on, all because his fucking father wanted to continue to LARP as a Bond villain and fuck whores like he's some Hugh Heffner wannabe," growled Stormfront, her accent changing from an American west coast to a slight West German accent, though still retaining a slight American lilt to it.
"The same egg doner who left Nolan on my doorstep because she gained thirty pounds due to pregnancy, thus ruining her career as a superheroine," scoffed Pierce, smiling at the ridiculous prospect of Adamantine even having a mother to begin with. "Speaking of the Soviets, I am surprised they even survived the German onslaught after I smashed all of their factories and killed half of their military in a single fell swoop. I thought that event would have demoralized their Jewish masters enough to pull the plug on the whole communist experiment. Then again, they are like cockroaches. It would seem, at least up until now, that the lower forms of life survived in nature's struggle for survival, as they were the one's small enough to hide in every nook and cranny as well as breed the fastest. The natural order has been restored with the White man back on top as the people practically ruling the world, just as they had millenia passed back before Christianity poisoned his mind with its slave morality, designed by the Jewish people to reduce him into a fat, feminized cuckold walking off the precipice of a cliff like the rest of the Shabbos-goyim. Might does indeed make right, and the idea that you can prompt Joe Sixpack and Sally Soccer Mom into rioting in the streets all because the Jews are making it fashionable for their son, Little Timmy, to chop off his tallywhacker and take estrogen pills. In fact, Joe Sixpack and Sally Soccer Mom will only listen to the man who provides them with their bread and circuses; thus, they care not of the agendas of their rulers. Why, they can openly make it illegal for two white people—both of the opposite sex—to marry and Joe Sixpack would never revolt against that in a billion years, even when his children are being hacked limb from limb by shite-colored savages armed with machetes, made perfectly legal of course by the Zionist Occupation Government. What makes Europeans so special is that they have a higher portion—at least ten percent—that are not utter cattle, only fit to be ruled over by a king, a lord, or an emperor. Of course, in order to save Western Civilization, I had to trick it just as Saul of Tarsus tricked White men into thinking Rabbi Yeshua was their savior; only my messiah figure actually gives a damn about Europe, its race, and its culture, not of egalitarian drivel."
Stormfront stopped, sighed, and took a deep breath, trying to process what Pierce had just said. She thought he was right, practically right down to the fact that the vast majority of the population were sheeple, only fit to be ruled over by an aristocracy, a monarchy, and just about any other elite that wished to rule over this crumbling Civilization. People were, by their very nature, herd animals, bound to the whims of the provider of the bread and games. It mattered not whether said provider was a communist, an alien looking to enslave Humanity, or a fascist like Pierce looking to exterminate all of the non-White races. They simply went where their material comforts were, regardless of the agendas of their rulers to her utter dismay. In fact, there was never a slow boil of a frog in a pot, the government more than able to push as hard as it wanted to, so long as Joe Sixpack and Sally Soccermom had their shitty television and cheap junk food. The only reason such situations change was because, against all odds, a natural disaster happened or a tiny minority of the population decided enough was enough and simply decided to kill the elites, becoming—to the masses—the sole provider of the bread and circuses and thus viewed as the rightful rulers of the country. Adamantine and his father, Captain Albion, both understood this concept of the masses very well, which was why they were called the masses, the segment of the population that vanished without a trace while historical figures went down in history, long after their civilizations fell to their many enemies, internally and externally.
"What do you remember of Adamantine's mother?" asked Stormfront with a quizzical look on her face.
"She was a blonde, had gray-blue or blue-green eyes, and she was between five-two to five-four. She had a great bosom for a pear-shaped lady, which she allowed me to snort my nose candy off of while she glided on me, completely oblivious to the fact that I was a supe, too, only concerned with hiding my identity. However, the amount of nose candy I snorted, which was roughly a mountain of about three pounds, should have killed me three times over had I been a normal man, so I was amazed she could not figure it out. She did say my body was like solid iron, but she chalked it up to my explanation of a good diet and fitness regiment. Other than that, I was so blitzed out of my skull from all the nose candy and molly I did back in Herogasm '79. All I can recall of her is that she was from the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). I was just adjusting to the 70s and 80s by partaking in some of the hedonistic pleasures, such as narcotics and sex, which was pretty much what birthed Adamantine: drug-induced hedonistic sex with a woman whom I do not remember anymore," Pierce said, the first look of confusion Stormfront had ever seen on a man as intelligent as Pierce, especially when the serum he was injected with increased it by over a hundred IQ points, rendering his intellect virtually superhuman, along with his son's.
Roughly forty-eight hours ago, Stormfront was investigating Stan Edgar's business rival, Arthur Luther Pierce III, known as one of the strangest figures in American history. Edgar told her that the Legend might have some intel on Pierce, the very kind of information people have been known to disappear had they found out, on account of committing suicide as a result of shooting themselves twice in the back of the head. Strangely enough, the Legend knew a lot about Arthur Luther Pierce, including some of the heinous crimes of his father and grandfather, stretching back all the way from WWII and thusly ending, or at least seemingly, at the very end of the Cold War, just when the Soviet Union collapsed on account of a fascist coup brought upon by the mysterious deaths of Jewish members of the Communist Party. The whole thing stunk to high heaven as Pierce. As much as the Legend hated her and most supes to begin with, he would only trust such damning evidence about Pierce to Vought or Stan Edgar, as he had the resources to at the very least slow Pierce down. In contrast, the CIA and FBI were all too afraid to so much as piss off Arthur because several high-ranking officials who launched an investigation against him wound up dead, dropped from around fifty kilometers down to the hard concrete below where they shattered, or rather, splattered into a large puddle of crimson gore; Pierce had them in his pocket the same way the local crime syndicates she dealt with in her Liberty days had the local Law enforcement agencies in their pockets, which was why there was a few criminals Vought could not deal with without getting fined to high heaven. Corruption always wins with law enforcement agencies, especially when the cops didn't want to risk their pension for someone who could not even be shot, at least according to what Stan Edgar gleaned from what he found from her Husband's notes of him, back during the war. Pierce may have been the first supe ever created, the ultimate result of an experimental super serum created in a lab off the coast of Scotland in a castle, her husband's basis for Compound V, which may have been a pale imitation of what one of his professors, Edmund Luther Pierce in Oxford, back when he was getting his bachelors in genetics.
From above, she could see that the Legend's house was the 1970s personified, complete with a swimming pool and made from a material that had a nasty habit of rotting away in both temperate and tropical climates, the effects of moisture on wooden materials, resulting in a high maintenance cost that when combined with the property taxes made living in such a place impractical even for a lot of really rich people like Edgar or Pierce. It had a low gable roof, made from asphalt shingles used in a lot of 1970s construction by companies like Pierce Fabrication, which also built Pierce and Vought towers in the 90s before it was dissolved on account of its CEO, Reginald Yockey, running construction scams that mainly targeted Jewish people, using cheap materials in Synagogues that resulted in them collapsing and killing everyone inside. She could see the same cheap construction in that house as well, because Pierce, CEO of Pierce Enterprises, really hated Jews with a burning passion, to such a degree that it made even her and her husband fucking cringe, especially the Turner Diaries, written by Pierce's father back in the 70s when she was known as Liberty. Everything in that house just screamed Pierce Fabrication, from its cheap building materials to its patio made from bricks created from recycled trash, possibly imported at a dirt-cheap price from China. Such structures often collapsed in a high-wind, killing all of the occupants inside on account of being crushed to death under multiple tons of poorly-mixed concrete breaking from a gust of wind, let alone a supe simply landing in his driveway. She felt the ground crack beneath her feet the moment she landed on it.
"I am not paying for simply landing here, am I?" she asked, looking down, annoyed at how fragile that house was due to the cheap construction materials used in its fabrication as they cracked just from her landing on it with any force whatsoever.
"Welcome to my humble abode, or would have been, had it not been for Pierce's lackey fucking me on bills from suppliers that did not even exist last time my lawyer checked. Well, considering we're in the dry equatorial climate of Los Angeles, California, I need not worry of my house collapsing, as there is very little rain to speak of to rot the wood in the first place. Still, I feel sorry for my brother's and sisters who were scammed to fund Pierce's many schemes over the decades, his corporations from what I found mere fronts to fund the creation of supersoldiers for his little bastard son," complained the Legend, still pissed off at Pierce for being scammed out of a majority of his fortune by one of his many shell companies.
"You and I both. I hate what Adamantine's fans are doing, practically tricking my Stormchasers like federal agents to do something moronic and counterproductive like shoot up a synagogue with a fucking Go Pro, or in some cases, just bomb a federal building as if they were Timothy McVeigh of all people. Adamantine thinks he can upstage my husband and I. Where did that bastard's father even come from? According to his autobiography, he was born in America—at least the current Pierce—and shipped off by his dad at the age of eight to be educated in an English boarding school as well as Oxford, explaining why, unlike most fucking Americans, he had a high-born English accent instead of an East Coast one," replied Stormfront, equally annoyed by Pierce and his doppelganger, Adamantine.
"That autobiography is a load of bupkis, Stormfront. Come in. I will explain to you the real story behind Arthur Luther Pierce, what made him the man he is today, and how practically everything, starting from recent history to now, went to utter crap," said The Legend, his head down in a defeated pose.
As she walked in, she noticed that quality of the building materials changed at least on its interior, an improvement most definitely contracted out by the Legend in order to polish up the durability of the structure a bit, even though his house was still basically a cardboard fort fabricated by a fraudulent construction company. It was the house of a 1970s swinger, complete with leopard print furniture as well as posters of various celebrities, from Soldier Boy all the way to Liberty and Black Noir, her identity in the early to late 1970s. Hell, one of the seats, the one where the Legend chose to sit down and explain the mysterious origins of Arthur Luther Pierce, was a Zebra print, also from the 70s; this was a man frozen in the 70s and 80s, just as Arthur's clothing and hairstyle seemed to be frozen in the 1920s, not that it mattered since Arthur hated him for the crime of merely existing in a Western country, but they both shared one thing in common: they both seemed frozen in their favorite era and they never hid. More confusing still was that Arthur was apparently younger than the Legend, much younger, by about thirty or forty years younger, his age no more than thirty-five to forty from what Stormfront could glean from his overall appearance, so why was he stuck in the 1920s to thirties. Just as she would expect to hear Blondie's "Rapture" in the Legend's car stereo, she would probably hear Granville Bantock's classical music in the latter. Even she had the sense to change with the times, yet one remains stagnant for nostalgia purposes while the other adopted the roaring twenties because it suited his swagger, elitism, and masculinity more. The older of the two was more modern, ironically.
The house was like walking into a canopy of a tree, its fruits the member berries from that episode of South Park she watched after too many shots of Yeager Meister. Everywhere she looked, she found a poster of herself or a poster of a supe she knew of way back when she did not have to completely hide in plain site, at least not to the degree she did now. There was a picture of Soldier Boy, the supe she had a fling with back before she founded Herogasm with him during the 50s; he was little more than a fratboy douchbag with superpowers and some weird sexual attraction to older women, possibly because of lacking a mother figure, she wondered. It was very easy for her to read most people. Granted, if they were not smarter than her, she could very easily read a person as if they were a book, probing their weaknesses, every gap in their proverbial armor until she could either control them or kill them. Such control extended to many other men she could manipulate, either through the use of sex or violence, except for one, and that was Stan Edgar.
If it was possible for a man to reach ubermensch status without superpowers, then Stan Edgar was already one without any fancy compound V-induced mutational abilities, often little more than gimmicks that allowed his company to sell toys and advertise them through the use of movies. He was smarter than her, had no fear, even supes as strong as Homelander could not bully or intimidate him, his expression deadpan and cold even when faced with death. This led to why she was here in the first place: black mail. If she did not gather the information that would help Vought topple one of its competitors in the chip manufacturing race, she would lose everything, her identity exposed, a tactical nuclear explosion that would wipe out her whole life, all because he wanted to have Pierce thrown in jail to remove a strong corporate competitor. Actually, he had a monopoly on a lot of things, from the manufacture of electronics, the ones used to manufacture the phone on her belt as well as the chip implanted in her wrist. Pierce was the only man Edgar truly feared, not because of any superpowers or any gimmick like that, but because he was a shrewd business man, very much the JD Rockefellar of the twenty-first century, his net worth projected to be at two-point five trillion dollars, already at around seven hundred billion, the source of his vast wealth ranging from Crypto, Vought's stock, and Pierce Enterprises, the former of which he pumped and dumped, costing investors, including Mr. Edgar personally, billions of dollars. His schemes had practically reduced the Wall Street financiers from riches to rags, by pumping and dumping their stocks like Jordan Belfort, only Pierce not serving a single second of jail time nor getting fined a single penny for destroying the lives of thousands of people. He was already the most hated man in America, mainly for being a greedy capitalist who did not allow small businesses any opportunity to compete fairly, his business antics used as ammunition for Bernard Sanders in many speeches.
"Arthur Luther Pierce III is not just a billionaire playboy whose very existence is the poster boy for wealth inequity in America, Arthur Luther Pierce is actually the founding member of the British Union of Fascists, along with his friend, Oswald Mosley. Born April 20th, 1898 to the wealthy Pierce Family, he was a brilliant child, entering into Oxford University at the mere age of eight years old and graduating with a Doctorate in Atomic Theory by age 16, his IQ estimated at the time, at least before the serum, to be roughly in the ballpark between two-hundred and fifty to three hundred. He is about as intelligent as William James Sidis. Both of them are products of selectively breeding for intelligence, in Arthur's case, looks as well, seeing as how his family were a bunch of Nordicist-style racists whose idea of perfection would make even the Third Reich blush. Before he could do anything with that degree, however, he was drafted into the army to fight the Germans during WWI, where, in the trenches, he suffered a leg injury on his first day of active duty from a German machine gun emplacement in the Somme. After the war, he met Oswald Mosley, the two of them both believing the very same thing: the Jews started WWI in order to kill off the strongest of the White population to enslave them, a fratricidal war, or to the layman such as yourself, a brother war," the Legend explained, elaborating on Arthur's past from information he dug up on his grandfather and great grandfather from the internet just as Stormfront got seated.
"1898! How the fuck is he not a skeleton rotting away in a grave after being alive for what, over a hundred and twenty plus fucking years? He's only a decade or two older than I am, physically, at least," asked Stormfront tilting her head to the side quizzically.
"In 1922, a few years after WWI just ended, the scientist, Edmund Luther Pierce—Arthur's father, developed a form of gene therapy that allowed a Human being to heal from trauma that would otherwise kill or maim a normal man, dubbed Serum-22. The liquid was essentially a bunch of genetic instructions, practically overwriting the whole Human genome in order to repair the damage to his son's leg, a knee injury, that gave him a limp. Because he was a physically powerful man, the cartilage the bullet tore out of his knee practically left him wheelchair bound, unable to stand without the use of heavy painkillers, which, at the time, were opioids. It was his height. He could not stand because his frame was much heavier than the average man, so instead of using his knowledge of repairing his knee, his father set out to repair the healing system that rendered his son a cripple—by altering the way in which cells healed the body. "
"In contrast to the German-derived Compound V, the British-manufactured Serum-22, the twenty-two of course standing for the year in which it was made—1922, was amber in color and was really not expected to have done anything more than grant the user an enhanced ability to heal, sort of like the supe Gecko but much slower, taking weeks or months for—say—a severed limb or destroyed organ to regrow. In color the stuff was amber, very much like what one could expect from the color of a piece of amber from Jurassic Park. It glowed in the dark as well. However, what happened was that Arthur also got what we at Vought like to call the Flying Brick set as well as a ridiculously overpowered healing factor, which meant the only way to actually do the bastard in was to strike his heart, his brain, or his lungs. A flying brick is a marketing term for a superhero, who, through the use of a bio-electric or telekinetic aura, could fly at escape velocities, tank nuclear explosions, and lift tens of thousands of tons with absolute ease. It started with him regrowing his missing knee cap and cartilage and ended with him being the actual first man on the moon, possibly in the 1940s, when Moscow was hit with a T34 tank from orbit, traveling at three thousand times the speed of sound and releasing more energy than the Fat man and Little Boy nukes—combined—a hundred times over. The bastard also ages at around a tenth the rate of a normal human, granting him the appearance of a thirty-five-year-old man instead of an ancient, senile pensioner," The Legend went on, handing the Mossad dossier of Arthur Luther Pierce to Stormfront.
"What drove him to become the man he is today? What exact series of events drove him from simply wanting Jews gone from his country to wanting to wipe them and their entire people right off the map, even when he has a literal White apartheid state now, very much like a modern day White Israel, in the form of Albion? I know about Mosley; he was an isolationist for fuck's sake," asked Stormfront, completely puzzled at the outright deviation of the standard White nationalist message, instead sounding more and more like outright Jingoism.
"Well…"
Over seventy-five years prior to the conversation, there a was a mansion in Wiltshire, England, built atop a hill and surrounded by forests, some of the last forests that were left in England. In fact, it was more of a castle, constructed in a very similar architectural style used in Europe for over a thousand years, since the fall of the Western half of the Roman Empire. It was made from limestone, used in the construction of many dwellings of the upper-echelons of society, the masonry of it perfectly cut into rectangular squares with perfect laser-like precision, its mason work beyond flawless, as perfect as the breeding of the inhabitants of such a building. It was vast, roughly forty-thousand square feet in size, with three floors making the mansion roughly a hundred feet high, much taller and wider than any slum the poor plebians lived in at the time, at least in Europe, roughly taking up about a quarter of the entire yard, which was around a hundred thousand square feet across. This was the Pierce Estate, owned by one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in Europe, second only to the Rothchild's, the source of their wealth stretching back hundreds of years since the very founding of England as a nation; the Pierce family was ancient, just as the house which was in their family for over twenty generations.
Inside, Pierce was in the study, reading a book written by an American, Madison Grant, called the Passing of A Great Race, a book that—in his view—was a portent of doom for Western civilization, the creation of the European gene pool primarily and not the people who have wondered in over the ages, at least in his opinion as well as the author who wrote the book. It was one of the most well written books of the time in his mind, providing glimpses into the future—at least in his—of what was to become of his civilization in the coming decades thanks to the influences of Communism and its beta test phase, Christianity, both belief systems he viewed to be toxic, an affront to the very laws of nature. Natural law cared little of petty morality, the egalitarian ideal that a lion would lay with the lamb, not devouring it, utter nonsense in his keen mind, same with egalitarianism. That was also the result of Christianity, a book that claimed that if you were superior, through ability or wealth, you were evil and must renounce such evil by giving away all such sinful wealth to the poor, starving masses. Objectively, there was never equality, not among individuals, not among classes, and at least in his mind, not among races or genders to begin with. He was already born both physically and mentally superior to the average man, being stronger and at least twice as intelligent as the average male, his prodigious intellect enhanced even further from the effects of Serum 22, everything as clear to him as one would see through a window, gifted with an eidetic memory which allowed him to read a book in a single day as well as memorize every word of it. He was a mobile supercomputer, able to make tactical decisions on the fly as well as absorb any form of information, whether it was written in any language on Earth, like a sponge.
The interior was completely different, sporting wood paneling, created in the usual pattern one would expect from such a place designed and owned by some of the wealthiest most powerful people in European society. These walls were covered in artwork, of the previous generations of the Pierce family, who, like their contemporary counterparts, all sport natural golden blonde hair and eyes as green as the finest emeralds, bred into them over hundreds if not thousands of years of selective breeding, the men in the family settling for nothing but the best when it came to the women whom they selected to create their next generation. These paintings were valuable, worth at least as much as one of the King's portraits and painted at just the same level of quality if not much higher, as the family was, at the very least, wealthier than some monarchs in European society, surpassed only by the King of England; thus, they only hired the best to create their paintings in their image, the best architects who specialized in Victorian or Gothic style to build their homes, as they deemed most modern forms of architecture as untalented and uninspired, very much like the Empire State building across the pond. His family, or at the very least, the men in the family settled for nothing but the best when it came to everything, not an uncommon in born personality trait when it came to people of the upper-classes in Britain who were born into very old money.
He placed the book he was reading on his desk, on account of having read it more than three times already, able to memorize every line, every paragraph, and every single word right down to the style of writing every sentence in that book was written in. It was still a great read; however, when one had an eidetic memory such as he, one could read and fully understand virtually every single piece of material inside the book, after only having even read it once or, in some cases, depending on the simplicity of the material, just skimming along the lines. Understanding and mastering skills was like reading to him, taking only one time for him to learn the materials, more than able to completely learn a new skill in around twenty-five hundred hours, around a quarter of the time it would take a normal Human being of average intelligence to do so, further emphasized by the effect of the serum, one of the many fortunate side effects of its enhanced reflexes. The bandwidth between the various regions of the Human brain were effectively doubled, along with a bio-electric aura that granted its user a form of superhuman strength and durability, something his dad's grad student hoped to replicate when he was working with the Germans, in his home country just as he was trying to maintain the supremacy of the British Empire with the help of his friend, Oswald Mosley. Unfortunately, that dream went kaput when Mosely was arrested and Arthur was under scrutiny for curb stomping people in the Battle of Cable Street, practically reducing their skulls and heads into a crimson puree, the result of his nigh-unlimited strength Serum-22 granted him, along with eight other members of the British Union of Fascists—now keeping a low profile to avoid scrutiny from the British Government—or as Arthur so rudely referred to it—the "Jewish regime".
Then there was the vixen in the photograph his eyes panned toward, framed in ornate solid gold, molded at the local jeweler shop over a hundred miles from where he lived—in Wiltshire. The lass's name was Gertrude Luther Pierce, known in her family as Tennyson, adopting his name upon marrying him, a common tradition in the times, especially in Britain and North America, which was, as he understood it, an Anglo-Saxon culture for which the British Empire had a casus beli over. She was tall and thin with a natural hourglass figure in a magical ratio that was practically designed by the Gods to turn men wild with lust and desire. Her face perfectly feminine, sporting perfectly sized lips, straight, sharp button nose, and large emerald eyes, the latter of which was quite common in the land where he came from, albeit most often a bit squinty/hooded. Her hair was a very pale shade of blonde, the lightest it could naturally have been without any form of bleaching in the hair, a common practice even among the brown-haired Scandinavians, who bleached it to attain that type of hair color, though it was rather thin and brittle, not that he cared for that. Even better, she was eighteen when the wedding photo was taken in 1941, younger than him by about twenty-five years, fairly common when the man was wealthy and unattractive; however, he looked barely older than her on account of the effects of his father's serum. She was the best woman he ever had, even better than all of the other one night stands he had with starlets and superheroines under the many aliases he went by when running the monolithic, shadowy corporation known as Pierce Enterprises sixteen years later.
He was distressed when he heard screaming, punctuated by the gunshots of a large caliber military handgun, a Webley from the sounds of what he was hearing, even the turning motion of the drum of the very same revolver that was standard issue in the British Army since the 1890s. Two more rounds went off, followed by the thud of two more people falling down to their deaths, the rounds fired from the barrel perfectly as if done by a trained marksman or someone who was familiar with how anatomy worked on the Human body. He got up, quickly as he could, practically floating off the checkered marble floor due to his ability to fly, which, in his mind, made walking—at least in private—completely superfluous, saving his servants the work of having to constantly dust the floors of his dead skin cells. However, the reason why, at present, he chose to hover off of the ground was simply because it was faster, far more straightforward than walking and thus allowed him far greater maneuverability as apposed to hoofing it all the way, in the hopes of saving his woman from certain death, thus ending his line forever, as no other woman met the quality requirements to pass on his superior genetics. He floated there as fast as the fastest cars, surpassing the speed of the fastest locomotives at the time, perhaps even the fastest planes which struggled to even put a dent in the sound barrier, though he did not want to travel so fast that there would be shards of glass flying everywhere, cutting up his lover's perfect face, putting blemishes into an already new bride for him which would have been difficult if not impossible to replace.
Sadly for him, however, she was dead, already shot in the torso three times, each bullet marked by a crimson blossom on her blue dress where the powerful rounds of the Webley left their mark. Crimson pooled on the checkered marble floor, trickling from the large exit wounds, around the size of baseballs, as the rounds used were very obviously hollow point rounds designed mainly for use in Police handguns when dealing with criminals amped up on every narcotic in the world. She was dead from the first bullet which struck her in the heart, blasting it out in a bloody mist of crimson, spattered across the wall behind her with a bullet hole approximately a half inch wide, barely visible to the imperceptive laymen. The other two rounds, fired into her stomach, indicated rage, a hatred for him and her, which led him to believe the person who shot his wife was not of Europe, but one of its so-called enemies.
He heard two more gunshots punctuated by the clattering of metal and a mild itching sensation at the very back of his head, similar to what one would expect from being poked by a very fine pointy object. Looking behind his back, he saw a man, who had dark hair, dark eyes, and a very Levantine appearance to him, screaming epithets in German at him, all the while a dark spot was slowly moving down his pant leg, and out it, came a yellowish liquid. He pissed himself in fear, realizing that his bullets did nothing, not even cause a bit of pain nor irritation, the owner of the house too shocked to even noticed that he was shot in the back of the head twice. That is, until he turned his head to face him, causing him to void his bowels, making a low clapping noise, the room now filled with a foul odour that assaulted his superhumanly acute senses worse than the smell of death itself.
Slowly and ominously, he approached, causing the home invader to later slip and slide on the floor, landing in a pool of his own filth, wreaking of piss and shite. Arthur grabbed the strange man with one hand, by the throat, slowly strangling him, looking into his eyes his angrily, about ready to strangle the poor home invader to death or tear his larynx from his neck.
"What did he do after that" asked Stormfront, her expression curious as to what happened.
"He snapped. After that, he found Moshe's entire family and brutally killed them right in front of him, Arthur taking pleasure in the fact that he was begging for death after he defenestrated Moshe's infant child last. The only reason why he even choked him was to merely scare him, to show him just how small he was compared to a powerful being such as he, right before he chopped his entire family tree branch by branch, starting with his wife, his first-born child, and ending all the way down to his infant son, his screams heard as he was dropped from the top of the Big Ben Clocktower in London. All because he gave that Aryan slime a taste of his own fucking medicine. You want to know why the Jews were denied refugee status in Anglo-Saxon countries, i.e America, England, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada? It's because that fucking bastard sent his sister, his mother, and brother back from England to Dachau, where they were brutalized by Frederick Vought's first successful V injection. And it all happened because that limey bastard threatened to drop Churchill, Roosevelt, and Mackenzie King thousand of feet down to their deaths if they did not subscribe to his antisemitic agenda."
"Why his wife, though," said Stormfront, feeling a bit guilty over what had happened.
"He is bulletproof, and I mean completely fucking bullet proof like Soldier Boy, and he can fly, though he lacked the heat vision that Homelander was supposed to be an upgrade over. Even Vogelbaum himself knew about Serum 22 and was hoping to make a supe that could very easily counter those Serum-22 derived flying bricks, so Vought could sell them to the military once England was taken over by Pierce and his merryband of superpowered racists. Homelander was essentially made under Stan Edgar's orders to be the American hero, the Soldier Boy of WWIII, which, with how fast things are going, is going to start very soon by the looks of it. Anyhow, how are you, pretending you are a mortal being, are going to harm a being who is invulnerable, as strong as Homelander, and able to fly. He would just laugh at your bullets and tear you in half. So, he punished his better half instead. Perfectly justified in my books, Stormfront," explained the Legend.
"Was that all he did, kill the Jewish man and his family, I mean?" asked Stormfront, curious as to what other crimes Arthur Pierce committed against racial minorities across the world, from Europe to the United States of America.
"Fuck no, he sold military secrets—of troop movements—to the Nazis on Normandy, allowing them to dig in better than they normally would, had they not had his tactical advice while he was dressed in his Captain Albion costume. Because of this act of treason against the Crown, he was a wanted man, believed to be the one who gave Captain Albion the information to the Nazis as his public persona as Arthur Pierce, a Colonel in the British Armed forces. Instead of losing a few thousand men on Normandy beach, the Americans lost over seventy thousand men, twenty-five Sherman tanks, and thirty-five P51 Mustangs thanks to him giving the Krauts forewarning of Operation Overlord. Had it not been for Soldier Boy's intervention, Europe would be under Nazi control, the other parts of the world, namely Africa as well as the Middle East and India, their populations exterminated and replaced by a more Aryan Anglo-Saxon population as apposed to the current rightful owners. Hitler was a White nationalist, in a sense that he only wanted a Germany and Europe free from the other racial elements that migrated there after the Roman Empire forced them from their homeland thousands of years before, back in the age of Antiquity and the Middle Ages. In contrast, Arthur was—and still is—a White Jingoist who seeks the global extermination of anyone who is not a white person of European descent, sporting the same ideals preached by Charles Darwin, that the primitive races of man should be exterminated, swept up into the dust bin of history forever like Homo-Erectus and the Neanderthal. He is worse than Hitler; Hitler would at least leave the Jews alone so long as they weren't in Europe. This bastard will settle for nothing less than the entire world under his thumb, purified of all of those whom he deemed unfit to live, all because a Jewish man killed his wife, siblings, his mother and father, and just about his whole family. Wahh!," ranted the Legend about the extent of Arthur's crimes throughout the past, contorting his face in disgust at the man's actions.
"I am honestly amazed the Soviets did not carry the whole war in the allies' favor. What with their endless cannon fodder they had before a meteor that held the yield of a thermonuclear warhead struck Moscow back in 44'," added Stormfront.
"Yeah, about that 'meteor'," replied The Legend, using finger quotes on the last word of his sentence for emphasis.
Meanwhile, back in 1944, Captain Albion was flying around the Eastern Front, his skin tank armor, rounds of anti-aircraft guns, large explosive shells as powerful as the ones coming out of tiger tanks, harmlessly exploding off his flesh as if they were a light shove from Soldier Boy or Maeve. Bullets hit him as if they were droplets of metallic rain, harmlessly smacking his suit, merely poking small needle sized holes in his loose clothing, the rounds used being pistol rounds fired from the seventy-five round drum of a PPSH-41, a weapon known for its unreliability and low caliber rounds, often failing to kill German soldiers in short burst when they were hopped up on Panzer Schockalade, let alone a hovering demigod in the sky with the durability of a small starship from a science fiction film like Star Trek. Everywhere they struck, failing to so much as make him bleed, only hovering in the sky with his stony composure to demoralize the Russians, to show them that a bunch of mere mortals stand no chance against the might of a God who was on the side of the Axis powers, or at the least, fascism in Europe, even though his cape was the cape of the Union Jack, a flag for one of the allies. Just hovering above, soaking the immense arsenal and supply the Russians were going to bear down on the Nazis before this wildcard reared its ugly head from the woodwork, was more than enough of a display of power for him, that they were unable to kill him let alone give him a shiner from all of the weapons they tossed at him, from anti-air flak cannons to katyushka rockets on the ground, meant to level the buildings in Germany, killing the civilians just as they had in Russia on the Eastern front; it appeared to the Soviet invasion force that the Germans had an ace up their sleave, a false flag operation to the uninitiated, to make it look like the Allies have ganged up on them in an Anti-Communist crusade, judging by the Union Jack flag billowing from the force of the wind and the explosions hitting him.
Hovering down silently from over hundreds of feet in the air, his black booted feet touched the ground, thousands of Soviet troops firing lead hail on him, sparks flying, the endless storm of gunfire and shellings not even making him finch, even as a tank shell struck him in the face, not even causing any visible damage as if he was dipped entirely into the River of Styx. The concept of super-durability did not even apply to him; he was nigh-invulnerable with the resistance, or rather, outright immunity to damage as a Greek Hero from one of Homer's famous Poems, even his eyes seemingly strong as diamond as rounds bounced off of them as if they were made from transparent steel, strong enough to armor a tank. AP rounds bounced off him like stones, rebounding at supersonic speed, turning a line of soldiers into crimson mist on a one-hundred- and forty-five-degree angle, completely unable to register the pain of being struck by all of those impacts, possibly due to the anger of losing his wife or all of the narcotics he would snort before he started a fight. The Soviets may as well have been archers shooting arrows at an M1 Abrams, the results of which were just as predictable, an utter massacre of humiliating, biblical proportions for the Communist Bloc. So much in fact that the Soviets did not even mention what had happened to half of their entire army that day, for fear that they would look weak and ripe for conquest to the Americans and British forces at the time, one of the classic reasons for covering up such embarrassing clusterfucks in the first place.
With a smug sneer on his face, he grabbed a Soviet Soldier by the neck and tossed him up in the air, into high orbit at a speed that would cause any Earth bound object to break from the natural gravitational forces that bound all objects to the planetary surface. Once that soldier was a cloud of gaseous carbon floating in the aether, he charged a tank, its cannon firing a high explosive shell at his jaw, only stunning him, causing a bunch of Soviet soldiers to fly in apposing directions, in smaller pieces as their limbs were vaporised by the immense force of the explosion, about the power of ten hand grenades in the form of a shaped charge. With one hand, he grasped the tank by the cannon barrel, using it as a gigantic mace much larger than he, sending soldiers flying back with the immense shockwaves its mass and energy produced from the sheer force from which he struck. Bullets were still flying but he was not even noticing, appearing as small sparkling, bright yellow flashes on his back and over his body as the tank was swung left and right like an impractically large melee weapon, killing innumerable soldiers from its immense shockwave's shrapnel, in the form of displaced soldiers flying and hitting their comrades, their collisions shattering their bones as if they were made of matchsticks.
After the T34 was dented and deformed, its crew dead, he threw it at the soldiers, creating a loud thunderous clap as it flew through the air with a speed never thought possible at the time for an object in excess of thirty tons, its aerial shockwaves bursting the eardrums of soldiers, crimson bombs shooting out of their ears as blood gushed out. When they were too disoriented to fire their weapons, he flew, just a few feet off of the ground, appearing to aerial observers in Nazi Scout planes to be a grey beam of light, zigzagging across Seelow Heights displacing soldiers from the immense shockwaves he produced like a large dust storm in the desert, each piece of dirt broken glass, skinning the surviving soldiers alive, leaving most of them dead from infection within a matter of hours. He grabbed another tank, only flying it up into the upper portion of the Earth's atmosphere, bathed in cosmic rays from the sun, his indestructible flesh protecting him from the deadly cosmic rays, even more dangerous than Chernobyl via his electrical integrity field his whole body produced, protecting his DNA at the molecular level.
Once he was over Moscow, he hurled the tank right at the city, so fast that—in fact—that the tank turned into a dark brown beam of light, outlined in yellow from the immense friction it caused as it resulted in the molecules of the Atmosphere to ionize, turning into a superheated plasma brighter than a thousand suns. The epicenter of the city erupted into a bright White fireball brighter than the sun a thousand times over, its bright light burning people's skin off and cooking their retinas from over forty miles away, maiming and killing more people than both the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki soon afterword. Shockwaves from the blast flattened entire villages around Moscow, made from flimsy wood that would fly away in a hurricane, even harming Russians in rural communities all the way out in bumfuck nowhere as their farms were seized to feed the burned, mutilated masses of the entire capital affected by this disaster. That was not all. Around the fireball that became the Kremlin, the Earth shook, fissuring apart in the large crater starting in the middle of what remained of the Kremlin, fracturing the entire city into ragged squares, each one sporting thickets of ruins, their windows smashed by the force of the blast created from a T-34 tank hitting the ground below at thousands of times the speed of sound, as if struck by an orbital rail gun.
Even at that, it still turned out to be folly for Captain Albion as the Russians were still able to plant the flag atop the Reichstag a month later than they were projected, by May 1945 as apposed to the projected April by Fredrick Vought, even him knowing that this hail merry would only serve to delay the Third Reich's inevitable defeat by the Soviet Union, the manpower and economic might of the allies still surpassing Germany even with a wonder weapon to their faces. He knew it was Pierce who caused that carnage just because of a temper tantrum over his wife and family's death, the only person outside of the highest levels of the Soviet High Command who knew it was Arthur Pierce, the serum which created Captain Albion the inspiration for his Compound V formula. Even with this hail marry, he had to protect his research in order for his plans of taking over the world with an army of supermen were to succeed; thus, he would travel to England, then to America, where he would market his creations through his corporate front, Vought American. Pierce, in contrast, would hide out in South America with everything made of gold taken to fund the creation of his hideout in Antarctica, in which he hid for eighteen years until 1962, when he re-emerged as an heir to his supposed dead "father's" fortune which came from a combination of artwork from his Castle and Nazi loot he stole before the Allies grabbed it, used as start-up money to build the corporate octopus, Pierce Enterprise, which was practically a modern business trust, holding a monopoly of several industries because of Pierce's intimidation of many politicians to prevent them from enforcing the anti-trust laws against him.
"What did he do afterward," asked Stormfront with a look of bewilderment upon finding out what happened.
"He held Israel ransom for over a hundred billion dollars with a stolen Tsar Bomba prototype, the 100 megaton one developed by the Russians in an ironic attempt to kill Captain Albion, luring him over by saying one of the Jewish members of the communist party was over at that archipelago, a classic trap. Now, what the Russians did not realize with the fifty-megaton bomb is that there are layers, so to speak. Nuclear weapons, in a way, create a small supernova, at least the thermonuclear variety do by using a primary fission device to initiate nuclear fusion on a bunch of hydrogen isotopes. Now in the fireball, temperatures reach roughly around fifteen times the core of our sun, hot enough to literally create new elements by fusing all of the matter, thus changing their sub-atomic structure. At least, that was what I had heard on a documentary. I am no nuclear physicist, so don't try to debate me," replied The Legend.
"How the fuck did he survive an H-bomb that could wipe New York City off the map twenty times over," asked Stormfront, completely bewildered and shocked, horrified of the implications of supes potentially more durable than Homelander being created when she was just barely out of her diapers.
The Legend sighed.