Flying above the night skies of the United Kingdom was a handsome Adonis of a man. He was dressed in a black, canvas costume covered in edgy Norse runes, mainly on his perfectly shined leather pauldrons that held up his cape billowing in the wind at the extreme, mind-bendingly fast speed he was moving through the atmosphere. To the outside observer, the Mysterious Supe appeared as a ball of fire, part of a harmless meteor shower. That was not quite the correct term. He flew through the atmosphere of Earth so rapidly that he may as well have appeared as a cosmic bullet, shooting towards his targets ever farther, ever faster, nations and their vast distances a trivial task for him, no more different than walking to and from the store across the block.
Overall, the color scheme of his costume was drastically different from that of most supes in Vought's vast roster, a dark color for the bodysuit granting him the ability to hide under the cover of night. Crafted out of a mix of canvas and leather, it clung to the Herculean physique of the wearer, somehow still durable enough to withstand the rigors of flying through Earth's atmosphere at over five to six times that of escape velocity. Its chest piece was like that of the Greek armor plating of antiquity, patches of leather perfectly shaped in the form of the wearer's overall musculature like hardened, metal armor plates. Then there was the cape, red in color with a blue circle. Inside of that blue circle was a white thunderbolt, designed in that way for the sole purpose that he was smiting Europe's enemies from the sky. Death from above.
His targets in the air were the country's laughably defended infrastructure. It was the very thing that made modern Western society function in its almost insane abundance: Electricity. Electricity powered the fridges that maintained Western Society's borderline post-scarcity level abundance of food. Take that out, he knew he could very well control the nation's food supply. Whomever provided the bread and games controlled all of civilization. It was simply a rule that governed all of society, past and present, throughout the fabric of history. Bread and circuses were to Civilization what gravity was to the laws of reality, one of its most fundamental principles for even existing in the first place.
He saw a vaguely rectangular, bluish green object hooked up to a series of cables running along steel utility poles that ran at various intervals straight to the bustling city of London, in the low orbit of Earth. It was a power transformer, and a very large one, too, at that. The machine carried electricity to and from the power station, transferring the energy from one circuit to another, altering its frequency, thus allowing… say, one's light bulbs to turn on without exploding from a power overload. The Mystery Supe flying in the air had a plan from there.
He dived down through the frigid, thin air of Earth's troposphere until he was about one kilometer above from where it was. Almost immediately, his crystal-clear, emerald eyes started to glow a bright, reddish, ominous white.
Two red-hued lances of superheated plasma cut through the whole electric transformer, splitting it in two as the Mysterious Supe strafed it like a white, glowing knife through a thin stick of butter. He flew back up his previous altitude of over twenty-five kilometers, practically looking down over the dark patch he had just created at the very bottom of the country, sneering at all of the undesirables who would inevitably meet their grisly ends in the upcoming food riots. The Mysterious Supe was not done at London, not by a long shot.
For such a plan to work, the country had to be in complete disarray, as quickly and completely as possible. He could not simply destroy the infrastructure, wait several months, then do it again. That would establish a predictable pattern, and predictable patterns were very easy for a military strategist worth his salt to counter with utter ease. Rather, he needed to keep his enemy too staggered and too confused to even think of doing anything, let alone mounting any kind of resistance, ineffectual though such a task may be.
Thus, he scoured York, in search of the electrical transformer to knock out the power for that city as well. It was a struggle, as he was not carrying a map of where the critical infrastructure of the country he was planning to conquer was located. Superpowered or not, this was an exceedingly difficult task covering a whole country without any actual intelligence as to where its most critical weak points were. Orders were orders.
Transformers were generally connected to a line of wires rested atop a series of steel utility poles. Thus, that was where the Mysterious Super was going to start. His plan was to follow said utility poles to the transformers and quickly slice them to pieces with his optical blasts. Simple enough.
Shooting through the air, the mysterious supe quickly found another transformer, this one feeding electrical energy to York.
Following the same routine like a computer program following code, his eyes turned a reddish white.
Two optical beams of superheated plasma the width of a human iris slashed a white-hot gash into the metal of the transformer, hastily severing its wires in a massive puff of white acrid smoke, the smell a mixture of burning metal, slag, and molten plastic.
Then he moved onto the next major city, disappearing to the next target as quickly as it happened, a superfast blur in the sky far too fast for the measly human eye to even acquire. The thunderous shockwave he produced shattered glass in many rural communities, their razor-sharp shards more than likely horrifically maiming many of the inhabitance of those structures.
Using that same strategy of finding those steel utility power poles that were basically a bunch of scaffolding, he found a third transformer, his eyes turning a whitish red to emit yet another beam of superheated plasma at it. Like a white-hot knife through butter, the transformer was melted through when those two relativistic beams of superheated air tore through it, leaving two white hot holes.
With a loud thunderous clap, he departed from the very millisecond the city went dark. Within a little under a minute, the mysterious supe was in Liverpool, one of Britain's coastal cities. The electricity was predictably about to go down there, too.
Utilizing the same principle of following the utility power poles, he followed them until he found where they led to in the periphery of the city. Again, he found it. And again, he scored a long, ninety-degree glowing, blinding slash along a path with his two high energy beams the width of his iris. Relativistic, superheated, ionized air ripped the first layer of metal and the concrete under it apart at the atomic level, causing a sort of low-level nuclear fission reaction, one that generated a bit of radiation akin to the Elephant's foot in Chernobyl.
Thousands of miles across the world, the Seven were on the 99th floor of Vought Tower discussing the recent epidemic of superpowered terrorists making their appearance on the world stage. At the sides of the whole room, there were screens that had the satellite, topographical mapping of the whole world. Everything that went on in the world would have been known almost immediately, at the speed of light, thanks to these high-tech computer systems. They would know every crime, from someone littering to any reported bank robbery. A visual feed of the event would be streamed from the cameras at any store across the city of New York to the 99th floor of Seven Tower almost instantaneously. For those reasons, crime was very low in the city of New York with the Eye of Seven tower fixed on them like the panopticon. Being killed or horrifically maimed was not worth it when one in poverty could simply shoot themselves instead of winding up homeless inside of New York City's insanely extreme cost of living.
Sat back and center around the V-shaped table on the 99th floor, head held high, was Homelander, Captain of the Seven. He was wondering what to do since crime was completely down in New York city since he showed up. Stealing in New York city was the same as stealing in Saudi Arabia when he patrolled the skies, liable to have one's appendage sliced off at the wrists with his optical beams. Murderers and pedophiles were afraid of being killed or worse in the case of the latter, causing the sex offenders to retreat to downloading pornography on the deep web where not even the prestigious IT department of Vought could peer through. If they had, the Seven would have had something to do, other than inject illiterate Middle Eastern terrorists with compound V.
Stormfront, Translucent's replacement, turned her head to noticed something strange on one of the HD LED screens hooked up to the IT tracking department. It was the United Kingdom. Everyone else turned to look at that specific screen where she was looking, concerned as she was, only to find that the country went mysteriously dark. There was no crime. There were no alerts. Nothing but a dark patch as if the whole country's power grid had failed completely that day. The Seven were left scratching their heads, confused as to how such a very influential country could be there and suddenly have a nationwide power outage out of the blue in less than a few minutes when they had just started to get comfortable in their ergonomic chairs.
"Ugh guys, why did England suddenly go dark? "asked Stormfront in a confused tone.
"Fuck if I know about those Eel Chomping Limeys," answered Homelander.
"Dem colonizers are being punished fo dheir crimes against da motherland," stated A-Train.
"Um A-Train, can we not make everything about race?" responded Stormfront to A-Train's comment.
"I do not know, but from the looks of how quickly the power went out, I would say a nuclear bomb took out the power grid," answered Maeve grimly.
"Either way, the most likely scenario right now is that England is as fucked as South Africa," reasoned Stormfront.
With the power and communication systems across the country knocked swiftly out, the Mystery Supe hastily made his way to Parliament, intent on wiping out the seat of power and, ultimately, everyone in line for political succession. In a matter of thirty seconds, he flew across the entire country straight to Parliament, then stopped one thousand meters above the structure.
The Palace of Westminster was a majestic sight to behold. Its architecture was practically a lost art, long gone to the sands of time. Those spires, along with the other fine details that make up the structure, have been replaced in favor of making structures, larger, and overall, much cheaper to build. The limestone it was made from was a work of art—by both the stone masons who carved it out and the artisans who made it many centuries ago, back when his family were immensely wealthy members of English nobility. Windows and roofs were arched at the top, placed over top of each other in perfect precision. Creating such a structure even with modern construction methods would still be a feat of engineering taking years; he reckoned it must have taken the ancient English decades to build that with the primitive tools available.
Gently, he descended down on the Palace of Westminster's courtyard, the dust beneath him raising off of the ground a few feet by whatever power let him defy gravity. In his peripheral vision, the Mysterious Supe could see a person sleeping on the ground. Taking one look at him, the light of the lamppost showed him that the skin color of this homeless person. That homeless person wreaking of heroine was a black Briton, not an actual White Anglo-Saxon who settled the British Isles soon after the fall of the Western Roman Empire. In fact, the smelly hobo sullying the Mysterious Supes' eyes with his presence was not even a person, but an invasive species of vermin chewing at the foundations of his once perfect country like a slovenly rat. The Mysterious Supe was the exterminator called forth by the owner of the home to quickly deal with the infestation before its untimely collapse as a result of the disgusting rats chewing at anything they can find for the measly table scraps of the poor homeowner.
Enraged at the fact that he was a black person defiling one of the greatest examples of European ingenuity with his very presence, his crystal green eyes glowed a reddish white, hissing as the air surrounding them turned to plasma from the immense transfer of kinetic energy to the surrounding gas molecules. In those moments, the mysterious supe saw everything through a bright filter. The air in his vision turned into a superheated gas that was hot, but instead of focusing the energy on two small points like a laser, it spread in broad cones of plasma like a deathly flashlight. When he toggled off his optical blast ability, the sleeping homeless man was rendered a charred, smoldering skeleton like that scene out of Star Wars with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. The ground beneath the hobo was immediately cooked into a sort of glass-like substance as all of the silicates in the stone were melted together in a flash, forming what was essentially volcanic glass when it cooled.
"Well, at least you do not have the privilege to live to starve to death with the rest of your people, you filthy Jungle savage," sneered the Mysterious Supe.
Walking up the steps, the Mysterious Supe kicked the metal door off of its hinges with such extreme force it went flying through the wall and several rooms behind that wall as if it were shot out of a cannon.
Whilst inside, he immediately ascended a few inches off of the ground, his feet pointed down as if completely relaxed, practically turning off gravity to create a mysterious levitation effect. Noticing the terrified receptionist at the front of the building, the Mysterious Supe swiftly grabbed him by the neck with his right hand and tossed him at the ceiling. Like a hollow point bullet hitting a thick, solid surface that was the ceiling, his body instantly flattened head first, splattering the Mysterious Supe with blood and viscera, which he licked off of his face with a sadistic smile.
Security kicked down the doors, surrounding him on all sides of the darkened building. These were not the typical rent-a-cops, but SAS operatives with black tactical body dress uniforms, plate carriers, and night vision goggles. They had the standard British military weapon, SA80 assault rifles chambered in 5.56 caliber ammunition. Almost immediately, their guns were trained on the mysterious supe, ready to kill him at a moment's notice.
"Freeze, ya fockin' cocksuckah! Ya're under arrest," yelled the one taking point.
"I don't have the bloody time for this bloody horseshit," yelled the Mysterious Supe.
Immediately, turning into a black, blue, red blur, the mysterious supe punched the point man in the group at blinding, supersonic speed. The sheer kinetic energy the punch released was explosive, splattering the soldier all across the entrance of the Palace of Westminster with a wet, gruesome crunch.
"Light this fascist up," screamed on of the security guards in terror.
In response, the other soldiers desperately opened fire, their 5.56mm rounds pathetically ricocheting or shattering against his body, leaving sparks as the bullets clattered against his body as if it were the thick, high-density armor of a main battle tank. The mysterious supe strode over to that soldier, grabbed his gun, and shoved the SA80, barrel first, through that guy's night vision goggles and face. That soldier crumpled to the floor, dead before he even hit the floor in a pool of his own blood.
Another one was immediately grabbed by the throat with the mysterious supe's right hand, then slammed against the marble floor, so hard, that his head gruesomely exploded across the floor, instantly killing the soldier with two moves while he was peppered with gun fire. Rounds sparked as they hit his head, his arms, and his face harmlessly.
The surviving soldier shooting him quickly ran away to the back of the room, only for his hopeless attempt to flee to be cut short by two high energy beams of superheated plasma slicing through his arms and torso. He fell to the marbled floor, a smoldering bloody heap.
In the afternoon thousands of miles away, the Seven were visibly confused as to how a country so central in global affairs could all of the sudden become a dark patch, on both satellite images of Earth from orbit and the digital map on one of the HD television screens hooked up to Vought's IT department. Something was sus. They all knew it. But out of all of the scenarios, very few of them came close to making even the remotest amount of sense.
Homelander and the rest were out of their chairs, nervously looking at the world map on screen to the left of the corporate logo-shaped table, pondering what could have the terrifying power to wipe out a country's infrastructure in a matter of minutes. Surely, it could not be a nuke, as the systems the satellite was linked to was more than capable of detecting the radiation a hydrogen bomb would leave. Nuclear launches were also very, very detectable; thus, they would have been promptly in the VIP bunkers, for it was not certain even Homelander could survive a nuclear weapon. Still, something of this magnitude happening was rather jarring, since even Homelander knew that the electro-magnetic pulse of a star would not be so local.
"Why the fuck don't we just fly over to England and investigate what's happening for ourselves, both you and I," proposed Stormfront, looking at Homelander in a visibly confused manner.
"I am afraid the solution is not that simple," answered Homelander with a deep sigh.
"First off, we need approval from legal. Then we have to have it cleared with the United States government. And finally, the matter must be cleared with the United Kingdom's Government. Each one of these clearances alone would take a day to get through," answered Maeve, visibly frustrated, shrugging her shoulders.
Not one of those could be met in an acceptable timeframe, as the United Kingdom's government was about to be promptly decapitated completely just as they were talking about heading there. The Mysterious Supe had already brutally killed their security detail with his powers just as they were standing agape at one of the monitors over at Seven Tower. Now he was about to take his prize as men have throughout all of history—with overwhelming force.
Behind those large wooden doors in front of the mysterious supe was the Commons, the section in which the UK government started to decide the future, entering and leaving right around cock crow. Those politicians were about to be in for a rude awakening when the Mysterious Supe appeared, assuming the gun fire in the entrance had not tipped them off. But the power was out across the whole country. Those old men and women, their senses fading, would simply assume that the loud noises were just a group of hooligans lighting fireworks outside the structure. Old people had a habit of doing just that, and the British Parliament was just one large nursing home for uber rich people, like the United States Congress.
So, when he silently floated toward the door of the Commons, his eyes glowing a reddish white to charge up an optical blast, the Mystery Supe entered the House of Commons unnoticed. The ominous hissing sound of superheated oxygen was barely noticed by the people deep in the debate of their new law that would come to profoundly affect a good portion of the poor British populace for the worst.
"Sunak, these policies are absurd. Expecting that the White Britons, many of whom poor and starving, to pay people of color two billion dollars each in reparations is outrageous," yelled one of the politicians who was on the left wood paneled balcony.
He was quite correct in those words, hence why the Mysterious Supe was somewhat considering letting him live, while the rest died inside of the structure, melted to pieces with two beams of superheated plasma hot enough to burn through the armor of a tank in a fraction of a second.
The interior of the House of Commons was quite majestic, furnished maple wood for the furniture and walls. Its interior paneling was quite ornate, nothing like Buckingham Palace but still not something out of place in the residence of a wealthy elite. Such a shame, really, to destroy a piece of history that was probably nearly a century old, but he had his own plans to rebuild the House of Commons when he was done.
In the center of the House of Commons was a wiry man of Anglo-Indian descent named Vivek Sunak, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He along with everyone inside of the room were too busy debating to notice the blonde costumed guy in front of them, optical blasts charged, ready to kill everyone inside. Vivek was still talking about his future policies of the country even though he was bound to be killed in seconds by the supe standing on the silk green carpet that led directly to the Privy Council.
"You privileged, entitled Europeans need to experience the poverty you made us experience under British rule for over five hundred—" answered Sunak before he was cut short.
"I have come here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I'm all outta bubblegum," announced the Mysterious Supe with a booming voice, suddenly grabbing everyone's attention before their inevitable demises.
Two high energy beams of searing hot plasma gruesomely blew apart Vivek's skull, instantly boiling away all of his cerebrospinal fluid with in a microscopic fraction of a second. His cabinet was covered in scalding hot blood, on the floor screaming as their flesh boiled away, sloughing off. Sunak fell to the desk of the Privy Council, steamy blood trickling onto the wood and onto the green carpet below.
Before the politicians could even let out a scream, two high intensity, reddish white lances of immense heat hastily sliced them, up, down, side to side, until the whole room was in flames. Superheated plasma had both the penetrating effects of ballistic trauma and the burning effects of heat damage; thus, the walls had numerous slices taken out of them, many of the blasts cutting through the limestone like a superheated, white-hot blade through butter, greatly affecting the structural integrity of that section of the Palace of Westminster.
With several cornea-wide slashes cut through the House of Commons, that section of the Palace of Westminster completely collapsed on top of the Mysterious Supe within a second before he could take in the destruction he wrought.
Entombed under several hundred metric tons of rubble, the Mysterious Supe quickly clawed his way out with his nigh-limitless supernatural strength. He flew out of the rubble like a hypersonic bullet fired out of a rail gun's superconducting, magnetic barrel in a way that would make Isaac Newton's head spin, instantly accelerating to the speed of a Saturn V rocket at escape velocity.
"Fuck! Well, I will just rebuild that section as my own personal brothel staffed with blonde, blue eyed vixens," he thought to himself out loud with a devious smile.
"This was so easy I weep. How can these Middle Eastern, goat shagging parasites think they could take on the might and majesty that is the White Race. You fucking kikes thought the kraut was bad, wait until you, hooknosed foreskin chomping mongrels get a load of me," he yelled in the dark moon light, laughing thunderously.
At the same time half way around the world, Arthur Luther Pierce was at a board meeting inside of the monolithic Pierce Tower, just a floor down from his home below the penthouse suite. He and his cronies were secretively talking about what their plans were for Europe. The businesses they were running was but mere fronts for the illusive Thule Society, that very same group of wealthy European aristocrats who collectively financed both the German National Socialist Worker's Party and the British Union of Fascists. Revolutions were never started by the common people; they were always the product of a group of wealthy elites with different agendas. As usual, the common people never cared about the victors of such an event, so long as they got a steady stream of bread and games. The commoners would just ignorantly shrug their shoulders and carry on with whatever it was they were normally doing before everything changed, for better or for worse.
The interior of the majestic board room had the same gilded Victorian era furniture and paneling along the walls, copied directly from Buckingham Palace, located inside of the country those business people came from. Everything inside of the board room had that theme, with its only peculiarity being the large, circular, swastika on the floor below the table, surrounded by marble. That was technically the symbol of the Thule Society before Adolph Hitler had changed it for the German National Socialist German Worker's Party in the 1930s. And that was the organization these men were a part of, the forerunner organization of the Nazi Party.
Sat at the back around the ornate, gilded maple wood table was Arthur Luther Pierce, known in the organization as Number One. He brilliantly led the organization in the same way Ernst Stavro Blofeld ran SPECTRE, as a series of semi-organized cells in charge of different operations so that the leader of a cell could not easily topple the whole organization if caught. Each cell was run by one leader overseeing eleven operatives. While these men at the board may seem like the people leading the organization, they were in fact the men overseeing the endless funding of it. Pierce was so much like Blofeld that the only thing missing was him stroking a White Persian Cat in a taunting to Mr. Bond.
"Lads, how are we on funding?" requested Arthur Luther Pierce.
"Fifty-five billion earned from the Olympus Package Delivery Company, its streaming service Olympus Prime, and several other subsidiaries," reported Number Two.
"Sixty-four billion earned from Poseidon Energy in Alberta," reported Number Three.
"Well over ninety billion dollars taken from the ransom of a Saudi Prince," reported Number Four
"Fifty billion dollars cleared in extortion from both the Mexican Cartels and the Jewish Cosa Nostra," answered Number Six.
"Over one hundred billion dollars cleared from the ransom of Jewish Billionaires. Boy, don't those Kikes start coughing up the shekels when their kids are mailed back to them piece by piece?" laughed Number Seven, ending that answer with a sadistic grin.
"Ninety-five billion dollars secured from pumping and dumping crypto currencies," reported Number Eight.
"That is around four-hundred and nine billion dollars cleared for our cells this year. Spectacular work, lads," Pierce congratulated his finance operatives.
"This meeting is adjourned."
He stood up and confidently strode away, standing at around six and a half feet tall with the developed musculature of an Olympic athlete in his prime, his large muscles stretching out his thirty-thousand-dollar business suit. Pierce was what one would describe as an insanely handsome Adonis of a man, a blemish free face that was perfectly symmetrical with not one of his features being neither too prominent nor too obscure. A walking poster boy for the Third Reich, he sported natural, pale blonde hair, eyes that were crystal green in color. Why, that face of his was free of the scars most men would get from acne alone as a result of puberty, all achieved without the use of makeup or any other cosmetic moisturizers.
Striding up the stairs to his penthouse, the hallways were adorned with the busts and memorabilia of the British Union of Fascists, a terrorist organization Pierce was the founding member of. There was a red flag on the gilded, maple paneled wall with a thunderbolt. On the walls were also photographs of his past life, taken in the 1930s. Those were the pictures that fueled his hatred of the Jewish people more and more, the seething rage building up inside of him every time the memory came up, a constant reminder of all the good things they have robbed him of.
The picture was a copy of his wedding photo from almost ninety years ago, in the year 1933 when he was thirty-five years old. He had his powers for around eleven years, still getting use to them. Her name was Felicia Pierce, her maiden name Windsor.
She stood at around six feet tall, sporting the type of proportioned hourglass figure that most men wanted up until the 1960s after Fantastic Voyage came out. Felicia sported a narrow, sharp symmetrical face, her features neither too prominent nor too obscure just as his was. She was in fact the perfect match for him, not just in what he was attracted to, but also the best for his eugenics ideals. Why, that was what first drew him to her. Next to her was him wearing a suit and top hat. Pierce and Felicia were married at Goebbel's home just like Oswald Mosely, and like Mosely, the same flag of the British Union of Fascists was placed in the background, centered.
Though she was injected with the same extremely potent serum that Pierce was, she was only granted eternal youth, regeneration, and matter transmutation. She was not passively invincible; she was indestructible when focusing. Anything she touched she could turn to whatever element she wished by simply adding or subtracting subatomic particles, essentially granting her the ability to change a gallon of water into a two-kilogram bar of pure, solid gold. Her powers were not enough to save her from the explosion of an improvised bomb in 1945, during the closing days of the war by a distraught holocaust survivor.
Pierce calmly made his way to the living room after taking a really deep breath. Like the ornate board room itself, it was adorned with furniture from a bygone era, gilded with gold on their ornate, Victorian wood frames to emphasize the monetary value of each piece of furniture. Next to the living room area, below the wooden stairwell to his bedroom was the kitchen and dining room area, often staffed with some of the best chefs from Europe. The rooms were lit with the embers of burning candles, placed on ornate, gold chandeliers. In spite of the out-of-date aesthetics, the house still had plenty of electronic gadgets, ranging from the one-hundred-inch curved smart TV in the living room area adjacent to the kitchen and dining area, all the way to the luxurious gaming room upstairs with a top-of-the-line RGB gaming PC.
Through one of the arched windows Pierce could see was a familiar figure in a black costume and the flag of the British Union of Fascists billowing in the wind over three thousand, two hundred and eighty feet in the air where the penthouse floor overlooked.
"Meet me on the helipad. We cannot afford to be seen together, lest our plans fall apart completely," ordered Pierce urgently.
"What a fucking idiot! I educated him with such marvelous works like the Turner Diaries, Shakespeare's Hamlet, and mathematics up to the University level, and despite his high IQ, he still turned out to be a disappointment," muttered Arthur to himself, frustrated with his beta male son.
Thus, he made his way up the stairs to the large helipad at the very top of the structure, around three thousand three hundred feet in the air. For his very secrecy, this helipad was used to ferry him topside and groundside whenever he wanted to enjoy amenities outside of his secluded penthouse floor. Then again, he was a very reclusive billionaire, the Howard Hughes type who generally secluded himself to his luxurious home, spending most of his free time reminiscing of the glory days when Europe was White and his wife was not a cloud of smoke.
Once he was atop the skyscraper, Nolan Luther Pierce, yes, the Mystery Super who had just brought the United Kingdom back to the stone age was casually hovering above his father on the helipad of Pierce Tower. Nolan, while having the same pale blonde hair and crystal green eyes, was not the perfect, spitting image of his father. Those were where the resemblances ended and the differences began. For starters, his face was a bit broader than his father's, mainly in the forehead region with his eyes spaced a bit farther apart than normal as a result of that. His nose was longer than that of Arthur, with a more aquiline profile than the smooth, straight, and sharp Greek profile that his father had. All in all, he was a tall, superpowered version of Augustus Ceaser, who himself may or may not have blonde hair and blue eyes, historically speaking.
"The United Kingdom has been overthrown and the Jewish government has collapsed under my heel. Their pitiful military did not stand a chance against my might and majesty," bragged Nolan.
"What is a superhero, or to the brainwashed, mongrelized masses of America, supervillain name befitting of a god like me?" asked Nolan with a confident smile.
"The Hammer of Europe, in honor of Charles Martel, the man who stepped forth and laid low the semitic hordes of Muslims with an army of Aryan men, stopping them at France, and cornering the shit-skinned, hook-nosed rats in Hispania," answered Arthur Luther Pierce, looking his son dead in the face.
"All the other names off the top of my head have been taken. I was thinking 'Master Man', but that just sounded corny as all fuck," sighed Arthur
"Off to Europe, son! You have a country to run, or should I say, a continent in the very near future," ordered Arthur Luther Pierce with a toothy grin.
In those moments, his son swiftly flew up into the sky another kilometer to avoid shattering the Windows, then hastily flew off in the air with such a loud, thunderous, sonic boom that it would have burst the ear drums of mere mortals. He was in Portland, Oregon; thus, Nolan would have to travel up north, away from Russian and Chinese airspace in the North Pole for a safe trajectory to England. While being the dictator of a foreign, rogue state could have implications of him getting immediately attacked by the Seven, Pierce knew that his son would not be arrested, as he was much too swift for both radar and satellite tracking systems to acquire a signature in US airspace. The Hammer of Europe could literally travel a hundred kilometers a second in atmosphere, much too fast and much too small to be tracked by any of the obsolete warning systems. Arthur was assured nothing could acquire or track his son, let alone injure him in the first place.
A/N
Disclaimer: I do not own this property. All rights reserved to Amazon. I also do not endorse the beliefs of the protagonist in this story, the Self Proclaimed God Emperor of Europe.