Sat around the table in the shape of Vought's corporate logo, the Seven were discussing a new chain of events that had just happened days after the United Kingdom had fallen to the British Union of Fascists prior. Apparently, another country had fallen to the wave of the recent White Supremacist terror groups, and this one was a country much closer to home, one that could more than easily invade the United States from the North.
"Canada had just been conquered. Yes, by the fucking Mac Tonight Mascot from the McDonald commercials in the 19—Fucking—80s," announced Stormfront. "What's next? Superpowered terrorists dressing up as cartoon frogs while they wipe out infrastructure and murder politicians?"
Just as she brought that information up, she pressed a button with a remote, showing to the team the various videos of some figure in a pinstripe business suit and a rubber, crescent moon mask with sunglasses on it. Those same beams of plasma that were projected out of Adamantine's corneas were also projected out of his sunglasses, somehow not harming the costume against all laws of thermodynamics, yet still shooting beams of concussive superheated reddish pink plasma at near the causal speed limit. It was not like the heat vision of Homelander, focused x-ray beams created as a result of compressing all of that radiation into a single point a few micrometers thick.
"I am Moonman, representing White power, I stack bodies higher than Pierce Tower," he sung to himself like J. J. Cale.
"Death camps for the blacks, sit back and relax, right-wing death squads prepare to attack, "he sung again.
Right as soon as he sung those lyrics, two high energy beams of superheated plasma shot forth out of Moonman's sunglasses. The beams cut through Justin Moreau's cabinet and the ornate, wood paneled wall behind them, cutting concrete like a white-hot knife through a stick of butter.
"Oh, dear lord he raps," cried Starlight.
"Come to think of it, that voice is very familiar," said Stormfront with a confused look. "Oh for fuck's sake. It is Hugh Campbell. That fuck stain I arrested a year before I joined the Seven after Translucent was taken out by some Alt-right teenagers armed with Javelin missile launchers. He walked in with an experimental assault rifle. The one that was chambered in the new, larger, more powerful round. .277 Fury, I believe. He left no survivors with that gun. Almost took one of my eyes out with it before he turned the rifle on his mouth and was about to pull the trigger before I swiftly moved in and bent the barrel. Needless to say, I should have killed him. I should have strangled the racist, antisemite and watched the light fade from his eyes like he deserved for those innocent men, women and children. All of that because the bastard had to pay recompense for insulting A-Train's skin color."
"Stop blowin' smoke up muh ass, you fuckin' snow hoe, cracka ass, cave beast lookin' bitch. Da only thang I regret now is not pulpin' Hugh's body before that honkey, punk-ass bitch got powers," responded A-Train angrily.
"People like you make Martin Luther King Jr. roll around in his grave," remarked a cold voice from across the room.
That voice was Stan Edgar, CEO of Vought International.
"No, those were not the correct words that emphasize my point. More like spinning around so fast in his grave that top scientists have just discovered the secret to limitless, perpetual energy," chuckled Edgar. "The only thing people like you do is drive recruitment for White Nationalist causes by spewing your own hatred of White people on live television. It also paints my company in a bad light with—I don't know—a majority of Vought's consumer base. The boomers haven't died out yet. So please, keep your racial slurs about White people off of your Twitter account before I find a minority whose much more… neutral on these matters. We're a business, not a Black Panther, liberal arts clubhouse."
"Thank you for putting him in his place," uttered Stormfront with a wide smile on her face
A-Train sat there, looking at Stormfront with the look one would almost expect out of an impetuous, spoilt child that did not get his way. Why, he was even crossing his arms like a toddler who got his favorite toy taken away during Christmas. The fact he could sue someone into extreme poverty and despair until they went off the deep end over hurt feelings was a testimate to how much of a privileged, spoiled little manchild A-Train was. Now that Daddy was laying down the law on his ridiculous antics, all he could do was sit there, arms crossed, pouting, like a child whose permissive parents started treating him like he was, an extension, not an enabled friend.
Stormfront sneered at him, same with Starlight and Maeve, even, practically blaming A-Train for lighting the fuse of the powder keg that was Hugh Campbell. Never mess with a man with nothing left to lose was a well-known Western proverb. Him and his father both set Hugh on that path. Stormfront could almost sympathize with Hugh Campbell, but it took losing everything he held dear, all of his material possessions, and even his freedom before he was swayed to any semblance of her ideals. He was a coward, a TV and funny papers person as George referred to in his book the Turner Diaries. She thought of him as little more than a worthless degenerate.
"Maybe I shoulda took his girlfriend into da electronic sto, bent da hoe over, and fucked her. White bitches cannot resist da sheer prowess of da big black cock," thought A-Train out loud.
"This one can," scoffed Stormfront.
"And this one, too," joined Maeve.
"Me as well," cringed Starlight in unison with the other women.
"A-Train, you have a baby sized, pencil cock. Why, you have to use a pumper to get it up. I have rummaged through the mail over at Vought with my x-ray vision and found a penis pumper addressed to Reginald Franklin," smiled Homelander, laughing his ass off so much he almost fell out of his seat.
"Fuck, when did the conversation go from a super terrorist rampaging across Canada to the men here talking about their fucking schlongs?" yelled Maeve. "We have a super terrorist who had just murdered the Canadian Prime Minister like fucking Brandan Bryer and all we can talk about is the size of a man's genitalia. At this point, just whip them out on the table and get it over with. Hell, do some of those mathematical formulas where you divide length by yaw and add point-two to adjust for torque while you are fucking at it. Fuck!"
"Let me put it to you this way Queen Maeve, we have a bunch of super terrorists running around who are rated as outright apocalyptic, city busting level threats. The same serum that creates them is guaranteed to create these same city-busters, regardless of the person's genetics or personality. The situation right now is very grim indeed. Our only saving grace is that it costs in upwards of a hundred million dollars to manufacture a single dose. For that price, we can make ten supes for the price of theirs," answered Stormfront soberly and calmly.
"So basically, they are like WWII Germany. The lynchpin of their attacks is predicated on quality over quantity and have limited resources," responded A-Train in a cool, logical tone, dropping his ebonics in a moment of clarity.
"Except Nazi Germany did not have soldiers that can survive hits from KE penetrators and shaped-charge rockets that were designed to penetrate in excess of a meter of rolled steel as if they were white-hot knives through butter. This is an unprecedented example of that. If Germany had just one of these soldiers, the shock alone of seeing thousands of allied troops reduced to ash piles on the battle field would have gotten even someone as stubborn as Stalin himself to capitulate," answered Stormfront.
"If only Germany did have access to that sort of power," lamented Stormfront quietly to herself, mournfully.
"Well, since there is only two of these city busting supers currently, couldn't we simply send in Homelander to pick them off individually? Surely Homelander's punch is way, way stronger than an AGM-114 Hellfire missile. Those things can penetrate 1000mm of rolled homogenous armor," proposed Starlight.
"Yeah, I don't see why not. I can easily destroy that cracka muthafucka with a simple punch of my mighty black fist. He's a White boy. Derefoe, he had an easy, made-in-the-shade life," bragged A-Train.
"Do it," smiled Stormfront smugly.
"I will be taking that six-foot, eleven-inch tall muthafucka at Buckingham Palace right now. I should be dere in less than a few hours!" proclaimed A-Train confidently.
"Yes, do it. Please actually punch out Adamantine like antifa punches out edgy, live action role playing faggots out in the street with bike locks. Go, A-Train! Go A-Train!" cheered Stormfront in a forced dead-eyed, friendly voice that bordered on passive aggressive.
With those jubilant words of cheer that A-Train could not tell were fake due to his low average IQ, he rushed down to the elevator, where he waited for the steel carriage to reach the bottom floor to begin his epic, grand fight with Adamantine. It was going to be an epic battle that would be talked about for centuries, A-Train more than confident he could use his superior ground speed to catch Hugh by surprise first and punch his head off. A fist has to have more energy than an AGM-114 HEAT if it was travelling at over 1100 miles per hour street level.
It was the year 1985 and Nolan Pierce was at Buster Beaver's Pizza Restaurant, playing the arcade game he loved so much, Space Invaders. He was very fond of video games, but his father would never let him play them, or hell, even watch Star Trek. His father did not want his son to be corrupted by the themes its creators promoted on the television. He would only let him read classical Western literature, such as Shakespeare's Hamlet, Jean Raspail's Camp of The Saints, and last but not least, his father's magnum opus, The Turner Diaries. His father did not even want him educated at a public or private school for fear they would indoctrinate him into a transsexual with their Cultural Marxist ideology.
For a six-year-old, he was quite tall, at around four feet, eleven inches in height, four inches shorter than his forty-six-year-old sister and two inches shorter than his sixty-six-year-old mother. Ironically, she abandoned him at his father's mansion off in Massachusetts, not for his unnaturally strong resemblance to his father or his seemingly supernatural invincibility in addition to his ability to defy gravity, but because she did not want another child she knew she was going to outlive, like her daughter.
Right as he stopped playing video games on account of hearing the pizza chef saying it was done from all the way across the building, inside of the kitchen, he rushed over, accidently tearing off the metal joystick as he was playing the game. Scared, he shoved the broken piece under the arcade of the ET video game with his foot, gently so as nobody would hear. Not that they knew he was a supe, anyway. He was just some normal, short-haired blond, American boy who seemingly had the height of a teenager and the gross musculature of a nineteen-year-old Olympic swimmer. Being tall and muscular were also side effects of the serum, along with enhanced cognitive abilities to the point where he sounded like someone in their early twenties.
The celebratory sounds coming from the other end of the room were not the only noises he could hear. Outside, he could hear the audible gliding of a projectile as it broke the air resistance, as if thrown at around twenty to thirty miles per hour by his internal calculations. That was when he saw, in his peripheral vision, that it was a grenade. It was not a fragmentation grenade. Those were round and covered with ridges that broke apart to send shrapnel everywhere. These were smooth, cylindrical gas grenades.
The moment the gas came out of these grenades, everyone inside of the Buster Beaver's Playhouse, except for Nolan, was dead in ten seconds. He could only watch in horror as his sister's skin literally started to melt off of her body like molten plastic. Like something out of a harrowing Stephen King novel his dad edited for him to specifically read, her face erupted into a mass of blood-filled blisters, each one popping as the blood inside the skin pooled in the epidermis rapidly. It was so traumatizing that he was about to fly away to his dad's Scottish Castle, in spite of the fact his father would discipline him quite brutally for using his powers in public.
The most terrifying part was the wheezing. As they wheezed and coughed, blood would spurt out of their mouths and out their noses, corroding everyone's lungs, except for Nolan's, as well. All of the customers fell to the floor, sprawled out, gurgling. The chef even fell on the table, the blood spurting out of his eyes, nose and mouth soaking the pizza that was being served to him as well.
His gaze could peer through the green toxic clouds as if they were not there and he could see the people throwing those grenades. They wore green hazmat suits in addition to being armed with Ghalil Assault rifles and that same blue hexagram that was the symbol of the schemers his father had warned him about since he could stand. They were Israelis, sent in to attack and kill him, an innocent child who did nothing wrong. Rage overtook his fear.
Hovering off of his feet with his telekinetic flight, his eyes started to glow and ominous red, charging an optical blast for less than half a second. The beams cut through the torsos of several of these soldiers, leaving their smoldering, mutilated remains on the floor. They screamed for a few seconds until they breathed in a few puffs of the gas. Then they lied motionless on the floor, dead.
As he predicted, they fired a torrent of 5.56x45mm NATO AP rounds into his face, his torso, and his arms with the usual results a round rated only for twelve millimeters of steel colliding with telekinetically reinforced tissues and clothing. The rounds either harmlessly skated off of his clothing or his skin, or they shattered on impact into harmless, white-hot sparks, depending on the angle of impact.
Flying at supersonic speeds, he used a martial arts technique his father taught him the moment he learned how to actually fly, drop punching. Two of his fists perforated both the Mossad agents suit, plate carrier and torso in a bloody display. Fortunately for him, the six-year old's fists also pierced his lungs to hamburger meat, those powerful pneumatic hammers instantly dispatching the Hazmat-clad operative.
Another one of the hazmat-adorned Mossad agent's was incapacitated when Nolan's sweep kick cut through her legs as if they were sticks of bamboo. She fell to the floor, observing the ragged stumps where her legs once were as she raised them, screaming in pain before the nerve gas killed her, too.
At the entrance, Nolan grabbed another Mossad agent by the throat while flying and threw him into the sky, then flew up and kicked the poor man's body down to Earth in the air. The agent's corpse immediately burst into a heap of gore a lot like a water balloon falling from the top of the Chrysler Building. The spawl that his bone fragments produced breached the suits of several others, which predictably caused them to breath in some of that lethal Novichok gas, causing them to drop to the parking ground in heaps.
"My father was right about all of you. You are nothing more than parasitic worms feasting on the carcass of Western Civilization," Nolan yelled downward, his eyes glowing a bright red and his voice booming.
Only for his flight to be stopped when one of the Mossad Agent's in a suit amidst the clouds of poisoned gas telekinetically pulled the kid down with a downward arm movement. He was slammed against the asphalt of the parking lot with such an immense amount of force that it left a small crater four feet across and four feet in depth. Nolan, from a combination of the concussive force and the Novichok gas he inhaled, had fainted, at the mercy of his captors.
"And you are a bunch of cattle that have served their purpose and are now being sent to the slaughter house. Why would we want Western Countries, our countries by the will of Yahweh, to be populated by a bunch of people who have a nasty habit of revolting simply because flipping burgers is not fulfilling their materialistic wants. While Pablo will work with a smile on his face at a dead-end job, living in a broom closet with his whole family, cold and starving. Your worthless, entitled race would revolt under those conditions," laughed Ishmael Silverman.
Around thirty-five years later, Adamantine was observing a distant battle between the Imperial Army up against the holdouts of Islamic and East Indian ethnic enclaves still alive and well amidst the takeover of the country. They were dug in deep, defending themselves with smuggled in PKM machine gun emplacements, while the Imperial Army outnumbered their forces five to one. Most of the soldier's were pinned down by the suppressive fire of these machine gun emplacements. Some of them lay on the ground, the ones that were not fast enough to duck, riddled with about a dozen holes where 7.62x54mmR bullets left their mark.
The walls that they made around the communities were made mainly of ruined, burned cars, piled over top of each other to form a ramshackle fortification. Cars were placed in five feet intervals to form battlements for machine gun turrets. How they built such a wall without super strength, Adamantine would never know, outside of a crane that somehow worked without the power needed when he cut the cord, figuratively speaking. What was certain was that the army he assembled was stretched quite thin trying to extirpate the last of the non-European populations in their holdouts. They managed to turn their communities into fortresses with whatever ruined car or scrap of ply wood they could find. They also managed to get Soviet machinegun emplacements.
He did sigh a bit of relief knowing that those were not KPV machine guns they were mowing his soldiers down with. One hit from one of those things and a soldier was cut, plate carrier and all, in half the very instant one of those large, heavy, fast rounds struck the human body. That ruled out Russian backing.
The moment the army was pinned down, a group of men with scoped rifles, .303 British caliber stayed out of range of the guns, at elevated positions on the ruined skyscrapers. They got into firing positions and aimed their sniper rifles at the men behind manning the machine guns and fired.
Four rounds to the chest, head, and arms caused one of the civilian militias manning the machine guns to drop to the floor in a pool of their blood. Another rushed to replace him, only to be greeted by another .303 hollow point round to the right cheek. It smashed through his face, blowing his cheekbone and a part of his brain out the back of his head.
While observing the fight from the sky, Adamantine could intervene at any moment he wished, but killing starving, freezing minorities was something the superpowered God Emperor saw as beneath him. If it was something that could be dealt with by ordinary men with firearms, he simply left that task to ordinary men with firearms.
Normally, resources and manpower would not have been wasted on a few famished ethnic enclaves, but these people had refused to go gently into the night from starvation. They responded in kind by raiding supply lines distributing rations to the Anglo-Saxon people, or in more severe cases, kidnapped overweight Britons to butcher and eat.
Had they just stayed there and starved, these men would not have bothered to waste any ammunition on them, let alone march down there to deal with them, but the recent raids have forced the hands of the now formed Imperial Army. The idea here was to come in with one quick, one precise, one hard demoralizing strike against them to the point where the rest would lose the confidence to stand up to Adamantine. He knew strategy and tactics so well that he never needed to resort to the low-hanging fruit that was sadism to make his enemy suffer, just remind them with superior numbers and artillery to make them understand how hopeless their struggle truly was.
On that note, Adamantine sneered when the mortar crew started the arduous process of assembling their light artillery. At over 81mm of high explosive casing, one of those shells could kill every single person inside of a building the moment the percussion detonator of the shell made contact with it.
Less than a minute later, an 81mm high explosive mortar shell made contact with the shanty wall they were using for their machine gun nest at the front. The explosion rocked the ground sending the defenders flying back, their bodies mutilated with shrapnel.
The walls breached, the soldiers emerged from their cover, taking aim at whatever person they saw, non-combatant or otherwise. The people hiding behind those walls fell to the ground, cut down with Imperial weapons fire the very instant they were acquired, by both the sharpshooters and the soldiers with rifleman combat loads.
Some Muslims emerged armed with curved swords in some last act of defiance. One of them managed to get a lucky kill before two .277 rounds out the barrel of one of their MCX Spear assault rifles cut through his body. Another one of the sword wielding Muslims was shot in the face with a 12-gauge Benelli M4 shotgun. He fell to the floor, his face perforated with buckshot pellets.
"If I still had access to the internet, I would make a Night Boat to Cairo meme about this. I would really like to see 4Chan's reaction. The tagline would be "When your White men with guns and mortars and your enemy is a group of Muslims behind a walled community with swords and a few mounted PKM machine guns. Oh well, we will forge a new internet with free speech and no faggotry," rambled Adamantine to himself.
The battle was concluded when the last of the community fled for the River of Thames, drowning in an attempt to escape to Germany or France across the British channel. Adamantine followed them to where the British channel concluded in flight.
As the survivors of the community of Muslims became fatigued, they sunk into the water below, even as France and Germany were in visual range, like a mirage, or more accurately, shipwrecked men turning to sea water on a deserted Island. He heard them thrashing in the water faintly hundreds of meters below him but did nothing. He did nothing but sneer as the sharks, attracted by the splashing in the water, made meals of the survivors.
One of the women even dropped her infant child as a result of fatigue, leaving only a bloody cloud in the water as the shark underneath her in the depths of Davy Jones' locker consumed it, too. The mother's cries of despair made Adamantine laugh his ass off as he was hovering above her, hundreds of feet. Her grief was short-lived when another one of the man-eating fish pulled her, too, under the depths of Davy Jones' locker.
"Oh, if only little Ahmed stayed out of Europe, then this tragedy could have been avoided," grinned Adamantine in a derisive voice, mocking the mother who got eaten along with her child.
"What's next, a stray American Bull Terrier heroically mauling one of the fleeing Muslim children. Oh, that would be hilarious," laughed Adamantine to himself as he thought out loud.
At the same time, Jameson was seated at a Vought-A-Burger, taking a break from the corporate drudgery of managing one of the largest commercial empires the world had ever known since the Standard Oil Trust. Men such as he only ever had a day or two off every week. Managing a massive corporation was not a picknick, and since he was majority shareholder, he had the most to lose if the company went tits up. Most of his money never came from his salary, which he practically snorted in a year, it came from the vast dividends of Pierce Futuristics' stock, privately held and sold only to trustworthy White men of Anglo-Saxon extract.
Seated at a table in an obscure corner of the restaurant, he was eating two orders of fries, two triple cheese burgers, three large colas, and two shamrock shakes. The effects of the serum he was injected with, in addition to the height and muscle mass increase, caused him to consume more food on average. He consumed so much food that even people on my Six Hundred Pound life would blush at his apparent appetite. Unlike them, he was not fat, not in the least. His physique was so muscular that the fibers of his muscles practically protruded through his nearly-impenetrable, yet unblemished skin. That was a side effect of his regeneration, a positive one since it gave him the appearance of a male super model that had been air brushed in reality, not through the edited image of it off Adobe photoshop.
He wore an all-white business suit and slacks with a black tie. He also wore a white newsboy cap like a thuggish gangster from Peaky Blinders. It was the dress code of his corporate business, custom made White colored business suits, with the dark colored part being the tie to signify the might and majesty of European, Western civilization. It signified unity in his organization, stripping everyone of their individuality. It was also why everyone, with the exception of Hugh Campbell in Canada, had the same exact super suit modeled after Captain Albion. Same reason. It showed unity within the faction, Europeans fighting as a collective, sort of like a large bundle of sticks used to reinforce an axe as it came crashing down upon the enemies of Western civilization.
Though the normally loose-fitting business suit would struggle to fit on the muscular frame of someone who was almost 300 lbs, he still appeared to be rather skinny. That was because of the fact that his muscles were not the result of performance enhancing drugs, but a combination of the progenitor serum and his natural, yet very high, hormone production. Not just that, he was also around six feet, eleven inches in height on account of the serum causing a second growth spurt in upwards of a foot. Unlike a Circus giant, he was not deformed or had a freakishly deep voice, but had a lot of strength as a result of his psionically reinforced body.
Though seated at the back corner of the restaurant, an unexpected visitor came in a gray hoodie. She was a short, rather unremarkable looking woman of average build. She immediately took a seat at the opposite side of the table with a look of visible annoyance on her average at best face. He even recognized that same look of entitlement like the world was her buffet he remembered in a bleached-blond woman he slept with in the late 1970s, that same woman he had to slum it with because Crimson Countess was riding on top of Soldier Boy's skin flute during Herogasm '79.
Almost immediately, Jameson recognized her as Stormfront from the average face and the average, unremarkable features. It was a wonder Vought picked her. An average Jane would sell more in the minds of the marketing department than a woman who was as breathtakingly gorgeous as Margot Robbie. The only selling point to Pierce Stormfront had over Margot was the longevity. Unfortunately, he could not have any long-term relationships with women on account of the fact the serum halted his aging at 24 years old when injected in 1922. If it wasn't for the side effects of the progenitor serum, he would have found a Margot Robbie look-alike and injected her with the stuff; however, reality was a cruel bitch and she would probably look like a lesbian.
"I was not expecting any such visitors on my occasional lunch at the local Vought-A-Burger restaurant. If you think I am dating you, know that my preferences lean more towards blonds and red heads due to the recessive genetics you can plainly see I have. I also generally prefer women with a prominent bust and fanny," smiled Jameson Pierce smugly the moment she seated herself.
"As if I would date a sixty-five-year-old man, but here we are. Men and women like us have very few people willing to date us, given our so-called archaic belief systems in the words of those who control the banks and the media. Not that they are outmoded to begin with, but merely, as you say, the last gasps of a dying civilization," answered Stormfront, smiling.
"Though the fact you look no older than twenty-four-years old, and you have the musculature of an Olympic athlete, you are living proof of the ignorance and stupidity of the American mongrelized masses. Had modern White America not been raised on vacuous shit like 'Keeping Up with The Kardashians', they would have had the analytical ability to tell that you are a supe from the fact that you are almost seven feet tall and never aged a day since the 1970s. Just the fact you look like a member of generation Z alone would indicate that there was something strange," stated Stormfront.
Next to Stormfront was a skinny blonde chick who looked an awful lot like Emma Roberts, but younger and a lot hotter. She wore leather gloves on her hands, which Jameson had assumed to be a fashion trend going on among the younger demographics, not that he cared about the fashion trends. He really only cared if they were hot and in the eighteen to twenty age range, with blonde hair, and blue or green eyes being a few points of attractiveness added on top of having a large ass and large tits. In addition, he also wanted a skinny waist, giving the woman an hourglass figure. Women like Emma Roberts were just a step below Margot Robbie in what he found as perfect and ideal, at a nine out of ten. The woman Stormfront brought over was just a step below what he wanted in a woman, but something he could still live with.
"Well, what is thou name, fair lady," asked Jameson Luther Pierce in his most aristocratic British accent
She smiled back.
"The name's Cate Dunlap," she answered awkwardly. "I am here to help Klara over here with some business."
"What kind of business, may I ask," inquired Pierce.
Cate almost immediately took of her glove and placed her hand on Jameson's shoulder. Less than a second later, she said something so lewd that she never could have even imagined it uttered from her very lips.
"You, I, and Klara are going to have a little threesome at your place, you hot stud," whispered Cate.
A/N: I'm punishing my villain protagonist, or at least the villain protagonists' father, to be forced to spend maybe an eternity with a mediocre Becky when he is what is classified on various subreddits and imageboards as a GigaChad. Homelander's a Chad. But in the show at least, he would be what's referred to as a manlet, a short man. Women hate short guys in real life. He has a classic case of short man syndrome. Since my character is about as tall and muscular as Master Chief out of his armor, women would see him as a sort of God, especially when his innate healing factor removes any sort of scar on his skin. It was just a logical jump that a healing factor that granted one the ability to replace lost limbs/organs would essentially give the benefactor of it flawless skin. Women would be compelled with an uncontrollable urge to rape this type of hypothetical, handsome man, which leads me to my next point: I can see Stormfront raping him because he checks most of her boxes in what she wants out of a man, and if she cannot have it, she will seize it by force. Cate is the means in which to do that.
Other improvements I had made to Halofan5694 and Emperor Caligula's work is that the attention is not so much focused on people getting killed. These people are so powerful that they view killing non-White minorities as a task beneath their pedigree, left to ordinary men with firearms, tanks, aircraft, artillery, or just simple starvation due to engineered famines. It's war story written with a little less gore than the other versions. One thing the authors I mentioned above ignore is that bullets do not rip off limbs or tear out quadrants of a person's torso, okay. That is just silly. Bullets produce puncture wounds with a larger internal, temporary cavity. That's it. They don't gib people like blasts from lasers or plasma beams would, as they boil bodily fluids to cause dismemberment. People obsessed with taking over countries do not target minorities, they target infrastructure and nerve centers and leave most of that task to starvation. Sure, Stormfront might think that is a viable strategem, but she is a housewife whose been injected with Compound V, not a soldier whose experience the utter brutality of WWI or his son who was taught more about tactics and fighting skills than a Navy Seal. They fight like Commandos with a severely nerfed version of Plutonian's powers, not untrained celebrities.