With the UN Building destroyed while under Vought's watch, the entire board room on the 89th floor of Vought tower was in total disarray. People were panicking, unsure if they could make ends meet with the required funds to pay the bills. It was not just the gophers who fetched the coffee, it was the very executives who managed this company as well. Many of the executives were doodling nervously on pieces of paper, about ready to make their unanimous vote to Stanford Edgar about the overall state of the company. There was likely going to be a recommendation that he step down in favor of someone much younger and more in touch with the general population of the American people. In spite of that possibility, he was not panicking, already thinking of some sort of solution in his mind to solve this company's big problem right now.
In contrast to the 99th floor and the luxurious penthouse suites further up the skyscraper, the offices were a rather minimalistic, utilitarian place, with the obvious exception being Edgar's office out back. Of one of the many things this company was good at, it was penny pinching, and it showed everywhere in its overall style. The Art deco was in the other levels in order to make the infants on the 99th floor feel important, but these people did not need to show that they were powerful, they were. The only occasion where they would splurge a bit in the décor department was Frederic Vought's painting right above Edgar's seat at the adult's table.
"We are potentially facing chapter eleven here, Mr. Edgar. One of our biggest detractors, Arthur Luther Pierce, has bought in excess of forty nine percent of the Company as soon as the shares have dipped into the double digits," mentioned Madyline Stillwell nervously,
"Well, if you are all worried that the sneering, racist Cro-Magnon will fire me, you need not bother. He can't fire me because I am black, as that would violate my civil rights and the civil rights of many of the other supes inside of this corporation," addressed Edgar in a calm, soothing tone.
"What about our stock price?" complained another one of the executives. "It had fallen from around $1000 per share to a paltry $99 per share following the recent bombing."
"Again, not much of a concern," answered Edgar coolly. "While the effects this could have on our stock is a concern, it is in no way a company destroying calamity as Ashley Barret would have you all believe. She's at Sage Grove recovering from a mental breakdown after blinding herself with scissors. She's been given an extensive severance package, so she may expect retirement if she could live below her means."
"What of all of the people who jumped out of the buildings on Wall Street in response to the loss in stock value?" asked another executive.
"Those people are being treated at the St. Martin's Wellness Center over at Rochester New York. Kind of strange that a foaming at the mouth antisemite like Pierce would care about the mental health of Jewish people. I thought he'd be sneering in delight like a Bond villain. Guess he's no longer racist," answered Edgar.
"In the meantime, however, we are going to need our spin doctors to spin this to something positive. We all know that our products are Human, superpowered as they are. They were busy with some other matter trying to prevent a diplomatic incident with a foreign power instead of preventing a terrorist bombing," added Edgar.
"Wasn't the president among those who perished in the blast?" asked Stillwell, perplexed.
Edgar smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction that the United States President was just taken out in the blast. That president, for some reason, was one of the largest impetus to the progress of getting superheroes into the military. An old decrepit, fossil, he did not even have enough of his cognitive acuity to drive a car, let alone preform a complex task such as running a country like the United States of America. As far as Edgar was concerned, it was good riddance to that branch of the United States Government. Out with the old, in with the new. He already had a new candidate selected to replace him, a young New York Senator from the very state he was in, New York.
"Replaceable. Senator Neumann comes to mind," answered Edgar. "She's anti-racism, pro-Vought, and the perfect candidate for the Republican Party."
Sure, the future of the company seemed a little uncertain with its massive drop in stock price, and an infamous billionaire buying out a substantial portion of its overall stocks. The known agenda of that specific billionaire made the implications even worse. Vought has weathered even worse storms before, from Soldier Boys disappearance, to conspiracy theories surrounding his involvement in the various historical figures of Cold War era America. Those events caused Vought's stock to dip sharply, just as the bombing of the UN in addition to 9/11. Every major terrorist attack has had the effect of tanking the corporation's stock, at least temporarily, before the public once again forgot and moved onto the next calamity and earnings rose once again. Shareholders came and went. They were a rather fickle lot of creatures.
While the current group of executives on Vought's payroll were extremely anxious about the company's future, they had no reason to worry. Edgar was around for a long time, around the time when most of the board was still in diapers; thus, he knew the company would more than likely pull through these various unforeseen world events that have transpired. One thing was certain, however: this was one of the most wild decades he had ever had to live through. He was living through the wild decade his parents had lived through between the pre-war period and WWII, between the rise of communism and its antithesis, Fascism. And as always, American capitalism beaten them both. Capitalism will win out over Anglo-Saxon Nationalism, Fascism, and xenophobia. Edgar has been alive long enough to know where that battle was going to head.
"What will Vought do about the fascist regime over in Britain?" inquired another executive at the back of the board room table.
"If even the infants on the 99th floor are well aware, you should be well aware Vought can do absolutely nothing to Britain, lest they launch their nukes straight at us, which is why the United States government wishes to stay out of such affairs. Worst yet, it would not even be mutually assured destruction, as the God Emperor of Europe is more than fast enough to intercept and shoot down ICBMs with his particle beam-like optical blasts. We can, however, profit from the situation. I believe France, Germany, and Scandinavian countries have their plans on invading the UK under the guise of British freedom from tyranny. In addition, the God Emperor of Europe has been changed to be the main villain of the next Vought Cinematic Universe film, Dawn of The Seven. WWIII is, I am afraid, an unfortunate inevitability at this juncture. The superpowered infants on the 99th cannot defeat a warlord. They are, for the most part, little more than sheltered, overgrown, millennial children that pose for the camera. Hell, the only supe with anything resembling combat experience is a centenarian house wife pumped full of compound V," answered Edgar coldly.
"This meeting is adjourned," he announced to the whole board.
Already, Edgar had plans for the future on his mind. He wanted out of the superhero industry and pivot straight to where the real money was in this current political climate, fallout shelters, an industry he was being hammered hard by Pierce Enterprises' subsidiary corporation, Bunk-Tec. Pierce had invested over thirty-five billion dollars in that venture in 1985 in an attempt to profit off of the fears of the more privileged elements of America's population. It almost bankrupted him when the Soviet Union collapsed soon after, making that underground city he constructed all the way out in the Appalachian Mountains moot. With the threat of nuclear annihilation on the horizon, Pierce Enterprise saw a massive four-hundred percent return on that investment, rocketing it from a three hundred billion dollar company all the way to a gargantuan trillion dollar Goliath of a company in a little under a few months.
There was one avenue with which Stan Edgar could compete with one of Pierce's smaller companies, and that was the fact that entrance into these shelters was at an extreme premium, one that surpassed money. People admitted to these shelters also had to pass a genetic screening test which met the founder's ideals of genetic perfection. Sometimes, people have gotten free admittance for just having an exceptional IQ, blonde/red hair, imposing stature, in spite of the fact that these people were often poor construction workers with not a pot to piss in in most cases. However, in Vought's fallout shelters, one could get in regardless of disability, whether they were fertile or not, and regardless of hair or eye color, so long as they paid him his lofty entrance fee of forty-five million dollars per spot. It was quite obvious that Pierce only wanted to preserve one kind of Human being for the post-apocalyptic world, and that was the wealthy high IQ White segment that went to Ivy-League schools like Harvard.
Then again, he greatly doubted such an event would even happen to begin with. Countries needed a clean, fertile land in addition to a healthy citizenry to rule over. Thermonuclear war killed those two things off, defeating the purpose of even fighting such a war when the elites of both sides would be sitting in their bunkers ruling over an irradiated ball of shit. The so-called Imperium of Europe, from Stan's point of view, was little more than a third-rate military power, bullying its weaker neighboring countries in order to look tough to the world. Then again, the English have pioneered that type of behavior, and they were English people captaining that ship. English people were not brave. They folded like an origami swan when the Germans started bombing London in WWII. Most of their military victories in modern history were mainly the result of them invading nations barely out of the stone age, leveraging their gargantuan technological advantage to win wars. To Edgar, the God Emperor of Europe was just Homelander with a higher IQ as well as slightly better superpowers, genetically gifted to him according to the Israeli Government. He, too, will fold like an Origami Swan when the Seven fight him in a hand-to-hand fight, all at once. Edgar was sure of it.
After he left the board room, he went straight down the hallway to his office, where he opened up the account section of Vought International on his computer. There, he had access to the entirety of Vought's finance, his for the taking. He was going to take as much money as he could from the Vought accounts and move it into a Swiss bank account where he was going to invest that money into his new company: Edgar Preservation Services. Stillwell was more than qualified to take the reins of this company once he cashed out. He was not embezzling, he was invezzling.
After settling on an amount of money that would not be noticed by the incompetent accountants, he transferred five-point-eight billion dollars out of Vought's accounts into his personal account for Edgar Preservation Services. Superheroes were popular, but as a market, they were starting to go the way of the Western in the 1960s, from a popular genre to a niche genre like it was in the 1930s. That in mind, he wanted to build a company that would last in the current climate. Superheroes were going to tank in popularity once more terrorist attacks started happening, with greater frequency and intensity thanks to the fact the God Emperor of Europe has emboldened White Supremacist terrorists to action. Even traveling at supersonic, or hell even hypersonic speeds, it was impossible to be everywhere at once. Supes had all of the same issues as conventional weapons, paired with the same problems as infantry. Add a lack of discipline into the mix, and even Edgar could see why the military wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. They were useless for guerilla warfare and only marginally superior at conventional warfare. That was the only room for growth in that industry.
However, the possibilities were utterly endless for the emergent Fallout Shelter industry.
The chambers of Buckingham Palace were as ornate as ever, completely and utterly untouched by both the war and the chaos that came afterwards. Everything inside of the building remained in pristine condition, somehow avoiding being picked to the bones by all of the various looters that came afterwards amidst the chaos. Somethings were changed, like the throne being changed from an ornate wood to a solid gold substance in order to really write home about the immense conquest the God Emperor himself made against the Zionist Occupation Government. Its gold was rumored to be smelted down from Menorahs and other Jewish possessions looted from their homes and business by the God Emperor's armies during the closing days of the Age of Decline. Even the lighting was redone, with braziers made of marble and gold lighting the throne room.
Groups of guard stood watch adorned in bulky, technologically advanced powered armor, two files on each side. The armor on the suits of these men was supposedly rated to stop a .606 British, the new anti-material rifle cartridge replacing the NATO .50 BMG round, with a thickness of 40mm of dense, rolled steel. In their armor, these Royal Guards looked like futuristic Roman Praetorians, armed with chainsaw-gripped M134 miniguns rechambered for .303 British. These suits were powered by a small hydrogen fuel cell generating in upwards of fourteen kilowatts of power for the servos and hydraulics systems, which not only allowed the soldier to nonchalantly walk around in seven hundred pounds of armor, but also carry heavy weapons as if they were intermediate caliber rifles. Some of them use 20mm autocannons. They would be more than a match for anyone who wished to kill the God Emperor by themselves, including rank-and-file Vought supes.
Sat on the golden ornate throne was a tall blonde man in a costume, the God Emperor of Europe. He was just relaxing idly while the rest of his subjects toiled away trying to build the foundation of his expansive empire. Nolan Luther Pierce was very much like the European nobility of the past, in the way he liked to leave the jobs that were beneath him to the peasants, such as killing undesirables or tilling the fields with the rather macabre fertilizer made out of the corpses of the immigrant populations who starved to death in the engineered famines. That was his motto, basically: let the powerless schmucks of the population deliver the pizzas and fight in the wars while he, for the most part, enjoyed a lavish lifestyle off of their backs. All he had to do was give the commoner the impression that he was wealthy, relatively speaking, compared to the citizens of liberal democracies.
When the average person outside of the UK owned nothing, their properties absorbed by hedge fund managers, and spent most of their money on rent, it was rather easy to control the peasants when they were essentially given a property to call their own for free. Given enough luxuries, the average person was quite apathetic to the atrocities of their leaders, especially when they were immune to said atrocities thanks to the color of their skin.
A General strode over to Pierce with a concerned look on his face due to the recent attempts of invading Saudi Arabia recently. He was that same man who led his militias in the first days of the War of Reclamation, that short overweight British man with an appearance vaguely reminiscent of Winston Churchill, whose history was revised to be a traitorous cur, who nearly doomed the White race in WWII. Intelligent and charismatic, he was the perfect man to coordinate his forces across the battlefield, a master of both conventional warfare and guerilla warfare nearly on the level of the Master of Europe himself.
"Sire, we have grave news. Our invasion force only has a total of five hundred thousand troops available for deployment, one-point-five million support staff, and two hundred thousand sailors," said General Tarleton grimly.
"Fret not, General. For you see, I have one trump card up my sleeve against the bacteria that inhabits the Middle East, and that, my friend, is orbital bombardment. A satellite tossed down to Earth at eight times the speed of sound should hit with the force of a high-yield conventional explosive. Like the ones dropped on England in WWII, however, with more precision, directed at power plants and infrastructure. Those dumb animals would think their god, Allah, has forsaken them once all of those "comets" struck their country from high earth orbit. Then, when they are weakened, we send in the cleanup crew. They will be summarily used as slave labor to drill our oil, then quickly replaced with artificial intelligences once they drop dead from exhaustion as a result of the twenty-two-work hour quota," answered Nolan Luther Pierce smugly.
"What of the Jews?" asked Tarleton intently.
"Well, I will kill them all next. The last Jew will be alive in some deep underground fallout shelter, hiding like a rat, as the bulk of their nation is consumed in fire. First, I will take out their communications, cellular, internet, those odds and ends. Then I will take out the power grid, leaving them in the stone age. And then, I might just take out their diaspora, community by community, country by country, until they are nothing more than a memory, told to children in bedtime stories. They scurried away like the rats they were… to greener pastures as all parasites do once they kill their host or their host rises against them. I was from a time… in the year 2100… where I was one of the last White people in existence. The kikes took us, hoarded us into gulags, and worked us to death to feed their brown, piss, and shit colored slaves. By the time the All-Father had gifted me with the powers of the entire Norse pantheon, there was only three hundred thousand white people left. I am an incarnation of Odin, and I will complete the task of getting rid of the greatest threat to his one and only creation, the Aryan race," answered Nolan Luther Pierce emphatically.
"In fact, the year 2030 will become known as Pax Europa. All the non-Whites. Their Jewish handlers. Homosexuals and deviants. All of them will go the way of the dinosaurs at the KT extinction, at my hand of course," smiled Nolan.
"This is merely the dawn of a new age of Western Civilization, one where a woman would not have to fear being groped by a slimy, brown muzzrat. An era where a White man can afford a home at twenty five years old, not having to compete with foreigners and kikes on Wall Street. An era where one can have a family and not have to worry about subhumans being imported in by Jewish owned corporations who want to keep wages down and prices up. I have a dream, to quote a famous Jewish puppet whom I have killed decades ago," proclaimed Nolan Luther Pierce, of course taking credit for some of his father's deeds in his speech.
"Soon, Western Civilization will be the only civilization left on this planet. Europe will reign supreme over the corpses that were once the societies of our enemies. The global armies of the world are no match for the might and majesty of Great Britain. As for the Jewish-run European Union, their invasion force will be weathered like a wave washing against a stone. Our defense grid my daughters have rigged up will stop all of the armies dead in their tracks miles before they are even in visual range. It is something Western armies have been struggling for many years to come up with—directed energy weapons. Lasers that can shoot down a missile from twenty kilometers away. These weapons can also destroy a Naval vessel by targeting their fuel tanks, heating them until they glow red hot. Thanks to the automated defense grid in place, this country is unassailable. Rest assured, loyal citizens, you need not worry about some shadow skinned soldier ravaging your daughter tonight," concluded Nolan Pierce.
After that speech, the God Emperor of Europe was tired. He rose from his throne and walked off to his bedroom, several hallways back. Everything the monarchy so graciously left to him when he took over the country was appreciated. All the hallways were ornate, their wall paneling made of an ivory white material, gilded in gold to his liking to show off his status as the God Emperor of Europe to his now loyal subjects. Kings and emperors in ages past would kill entire populations of foreign people to get a fraction of the wealth he had in just his palace alone.
Like the rest of the palace, the bedroom was quite ornate as well, with the portraits of the previous Queen of England replaced with his portrait, surrounded in the background by his entire harem of blonde and redheaded goddesses, willing to serve his every sexual whim. And waiting for him inside of his bedroom were two of his favorite wives, Candi and Gigi, one a redhead, the other a pale blond Scandinavian woman who migrated into the UK to be one of his groupies.
"Hard day at work, luv?" asked Gigi in a seductive sexy manner.
These women were absolutely perfect, sporting perfectly symmetrical, large, perky breast that were as large as melons yet still retained their youthful perkiness. In addition to those assets, their butts were large yet still tight enough to bounce a penny off of. Their skin was creamy in complexion and utterly flawless, without a scar or a stretch mark to show for it, almost like his. Just the sight of them alone was enough to turn heads, in more ways than one.
Naked and wet, Gigi grabbed Nolan Pierce's hand and escorted him to bed. Nolan, horny from the sight of her, walked straight to his royal poster bed, once in the possession of the Queen of England. She pushed him onto the bed and unbuttoned Nolan's costume to reveal a large throbbing cock, two inches thick and nine inches long. It mesmerized her, the sight of his massive schlong making her wetter and wetter.
Not even bothering to undress him further, she inserted the God Emperor of Europe's massive member inside of her, moaning with pleasure as it stretched the vaginal walls of her super tight pussy. Every thrust was a muscle clenching orgasm, increasing the amount of pleasure Pierce derived each time she went up and down on him. Sure, he was limited to that one sexual position, but he got to fuck whole harems of horny women.
With a sperm count that could impregnate a small Island Nation, he erupted inside of her.
She got off of him and left the room, not wanting her puss to be glued shut with the immense volume of semen that filled it. Of course, he was not only gifted with dominate genetics, but a fertility level that defied all previous known imaginations. He was not even edging. Had he been edging, he would have gotten a forty-year-old woman pregnant, easily, with each sexual encounter.
It was now Candi's turn to pleasure the Lord of Europe.
Candi was a rather petite woman, at around five feet two inches tall, but what she lacked in height, she made up for it in feminine curves. Each one of her tits were the size of her head, yet still very perky like a 1970s porn star. Her ass was also very large but not grossly large to the point where it was covered in cellulite like an old woman past her prime, not worthy of the common man, let alone the Master of Europe. In spite of being a little thicker than normal, she was not so fat that he would tell her to go with the peasants beneath him.
"Ooh, sloppy seconds," she teased.
She mounted him, using Nolan Luther Pierce's ejaculate covering his cock as a form of lubricant. To her, that was what made it sexier, since the Master of Europe was immune to STDs on account of his healing factor and immortality. He, meanwhile, was looking to edge and really edge it out for maximum pleasure this time.
After some time, he fell asleep, his cock still erect and covered in cum and cunny juice from the immense, marathon sexual encounter he had with his concubine. These sexual encounters really took it out of him more than fighting or utilizing his powers to the fullest potential. It was almost as if sex literally sucked out his essence, shrinking his testicles into deflated kick balls, though he would still do it to unwind as he thought ruling a nation entitled him to the finest women the gene pool could produce, which it did. One of the perks of being a military dictator.
It was the year 1985, and Nolan Luther Pierce was at a Buster Beaver's Pizza Palace enjoying the arcades for his sixth birthday. He was playing Space Invaders, a game that had an extremely easy to learn gameplay loop thanks to the enhanced dexterity and reaction time his father's genetics had gifted him with. With the tank-thing he was controlling at the bottom of the screen, Nolan never missed a single shot, simply leading his shots when the enemy UFOs moved faster. It was a rather easy video game, as with all video games.
He could hear practically everything going on in the building as he played the arcade, too, from every single private conversation. One of the employees, an illegal, was being fired for whacking off into the deep fryer while it was on. Pierce could not help but laugh at what he was hearing from across the room, someone fired for whacking off into the food was something so bizarre it was shocking. It was like a weird fucked up joke he heard while watching Saturday night live. Funny but strange and fucked up. It was a time when he still found toilet humor funny.
His dad would have called Immigration Customs Enforcement on a Mexican person just for the fun of it, to simply sneer at them as they were hauled off to their own country, likely to their deaths. Sometimes he would recall his father hiring them to simply check whether their immigration Visas had expired, then promptly report them to ICE. While Nolan was cognitively superior to his peers, he was not yet mentally mature enough to get the mean spirited, dark sense of humor of his dad. Still, it was funny sometimes, especially when they pleaded that it was some kind of a death sentence for them when he did it.
He quickly finished with an all-time high score, much higher than anyone who ever played ever since the store was opened in 1977. It was almost sad. Nolan could almost weep at how easy that game was to him. The fact that adults have wasted their lives trying to break some kind of Space Invaders record was almost sad to him, but to each their own. That was not to say computer games were not interesting to him. He just never really cared much for having the highest record for playing in a virtual world. Virtual worlds were the ultimate escape; that was their appeal to Nolan, not scores and all of that bullshit, really.
Thankfully, his birthday cake would not be contaminated with that illegal's spoog his employers have supposedly caught him on camera doing during his work hours. He knew about the Birds and the Bees, unfortunately, having seen his dad have sexual relations with numerous prostitutes when he accidently walked into his dad's bedroom. Sadly, his dad left the task of raising him to the hired help. When one was rich, raising a child was something one paid people to do, in accordance with English High-Born culture.
His father, of course, did not even organize this little birthday celebration, his sister did. He never really wanted him to be exposed to the outside world, his mind poisoned by the propaganda of what his dad saw as the enemies of the White race, the Jews. She had seen his father as what she saw her mother, an insane, racist, genocidal lunatic. In fact, to Chloe, Arthur was even more insane based on the fact she knew the truth of what Pierce planned for the US and Russia. She overheard something terrible among the Pierce Enterprise's board room about one of its subsidiaries, Bunk-Tec. She told him she was going to blow the lid on the whole plan, too.
Nolan's sister was a middle-aged woman in her mid-forties, her squinty blue eyes as a result of her high-cheekbones somewhat hiding the fact she was forty-six years old, far too old to be his sister. Her hair was blonde in color, graying, both as a result of old age and the extremely high pressures she faced as CEO of Vought American. It was also quite thin as well, due to the fact that it was natural, not dyed or artificial like his mother's with her superhero persona from the 1950s to the 70s. This was the hell he was in; everything he cares about will have been dead even though he would stop biologically aging. Rather, he did not so much as age, just developed from a child into an adult, and stopped right at eighteen years old.
"It's time to cut the cake," smiled Chloe.
With those words, he stepped away from the arcade and made his way through the maze of machines without breaking them. Even as a six-year-old, the world was practically a cardboard house to him. On many occasions, he had almost destroyed his father's home out in Massachusetts by simply moving too fast while hovering off of his toes while waking up. Sometimes he would accidently crush his toys to dust because he was playing with them too hard.
Hiding his powers, he walked over to the table reserved for him to blow the candles, six placed into the cake for the sole purpose to signify his age. He sat down on the table and blown the candles out, carefully so as not to arrest the momentum of the molecules in the air, flash freezing his entire birthday cake.
The cake served to him was quite generic in appearance, in spite of the fact that Nolan was the scion of one of the wealthiest men in America. It was a vanilla cake with blue colored icing on the sides, with the words, "happy birthday, Nolan!" written on top of it, below where the candles were inserted. Generic, yes. He appreciated the fact he got to eat it instead of an iron-hard disk of water, with one of the help losing their hands to Nolan's super cooled breath. It essentially caused anything he breathed on, if he wanted to, to become as cold as interstellar space, instantly
With gusto, Nolan ate the slice the chefs at the establishment had promptly handed to him on a paper plate. It was one of the first times he had actually eaten cake, one that was not frozen solid and tasted like nothing but a disk of colored, solid water with a hint of sugar. It was amazing, no doubt.
That was the thing about good times, though, good times never lasted. He could hear something traveling through the molecules in the air outside of the building, a disturbance of sorts in the wind flowing against the superstructure. Using his penetra vision, he made all of the walls permeable by the sun's photons in view so that he could see what was reflecting off of the surfaces outside.
That was when he could see it, a grenade, cylindrical in shape, with one of the warning labels one associates with chemical weapons, the skull and bones logo. Two large letters, one a V and the other an X, meaning that it was VX nerve gas, thrown by what he could tell with his 20/10 vision to be a couple of men in hazmat suits. They were armed men, too.
The grenades smashed through the windows, landing on the checkered floor of the building with a loud clatter. A Lethal, noxious green gas had almost immediately seeped out of the VX grenades, flooding the entrance of the Buster Beaver's Pizza house with the lethal chemical concoction.
Before anyone could even process what was going on, they fell down to the floor unconscious, Nolan hearing the snapping of bones as their faces made contact with the hard checkered floor where they had once stood. Even Nolan's sister was down on the floor before they could even sing the 'Happy Birthday' song to him.
The effects of the VX gas were so potent that the unconscious bodies were covered in lesions and bloody blister-like sores that seeped a nasty foam of pus and blood. Their skin would quickly burst open into grotesque sores all across their faces. Sometimes blood would burst forth from their eyes with a foam coming out of it as well. Even while unconscious, the victims of this gas were gurgling blood and foam out of their mouths, choking to death on their own liquified organs while they were unconscious, fortunately for them.
Nolan Luther Pierce was shocked, but when the shock wore off, it quickly turned to rage. Several of the Hazmat suited soldiers were cut down with two high energy particle beams the width of human eyes. They fell to the ground, their upper and lower torsos divorced from one another in a gory, steamy mist striking the ground on opposing sides. He could see the soldiers, missing their hands and the lower halves of their bodies, with their flash-fried intestines hanging out of their smoldering halves.
He shot forth from his chair in a rage through the roof of the entire building like a round fired out the barrel of a hypersonic railgun, gaining a height advantage over his foes. There was not just a squad of soldiers armed with Galil assault rifles, they also came in with technicals, pick-up trucks modified to carry heavy machine guns in addition to TOW missile launchers. In those moments, several of those large, high-explosive-anti-tank warheads were heading straight for him.
His natural response was what his father trained him to do with threats like these, his optical beams. His green eyes glowed a reddish white with smoke emanating from the sides of his head, followed by two reddish white, high-energy beams of telekinetically focused air molecules traveling at approximately the speed of light down towards one of the vehicles. It was a laser beam, but with far more penetrative power than any laser in the same wattage class or at any known wavelength.
While those technicals were well armored—in excess of three inches in some spots—they were no match for the high energy atoms that made up Earth's atmosphere striking them at near the speed of causality itself. With but a glancing blow, many of the technicals were sliced cleanly in half, with the grazed ones suddenly not working. A nasty combination of both convection currents and high energy photons emanating from particle collisions burned the driver and gunners to piles of ash and charred bones.
Clouds of smoke emanated from where the soldiers from Israel and their hastily modified, armored technical sent in for heavy weapons support once were. Nolan took a great sense of satisfaction knowing that the people who have killed his sister were reduced to burned, mutilated heaps, or piles of glowing ashes and charred, carbonized bones. It was justice. Not like he could have killed innocent people that day, as the gas must have already wiped out the whole town by the time he flew through the roof of the Buster Beaver's Pizza Palace. For the most part, it was a victimless crime, other than a battalion of Mossad agents lying dead beneath him.
He was probably going to simply fly home, get the shit beaten out of him by his dad for using his powers in a public place, and cry his eyes out over the fact that his sister was killed by the Israeli government. He could almost compose the 'I told you so'(s) his father, Arthur, was going to yell into his ears like a maniac before grounding him on his birthday. His father was hot-headed, even more so than he could remember from his mother. Still, it was nothing compared to the emotional shock of losing his sister.
Some of the people who were cut down by his optical beams were still alive, crawling on the ground with their functional arms, or in some cases, their residual limbs. Nolan felt a sense of satisfaction, knowing that, when the Israeli government medivacs them out of there, they were going home a worthless, lame gimp living in an assisted living facility. Mighty men reduced to that. He felt a sort of glee at the poetic justice of it all. Nolan did not even bother using his laser eyes again. The idea of them being abandoned by their wives and husbands was something he took delight in imagining. People were quite shallow, women more so in that regard.
While taking in the destruction he caused to the people who killed his sister, a large anti-tank missile clipped his flank, and everything went dark for a split second. He awoke a few seconds later on the roof, surrounded by men pointing their firearms at him. One of the people who was there was a woman with blonde hair done in a pony tail of about twenty-five years of age. She was accompanied by another man in a suit whose large nose and sloping forehead and jaw gave him the appearance of an unsightly Neanderthal.
"Is this him?" asked the woman, her eyes wide with concern. "A child took out a whole Israeli Mossad hit squad armed with the best weapons in existence."
"Affirmative," answered the man in the suit dispassionately. "A BGM-71 HEAT warhead was able to produce what was essentially a .22 LR bullet wound on his flank. Given the healing factor these bastards possess, it should close within a few weeks without so much as a scar to show for it."
"Is capturing and experimenting on a child really all that necessary to stop Arthur Luther Pierce's genocidal schemes, Diamond?" asked Grace, concerned.
"Abso-fucking-lutely. This child's bitch mother tortured me in the camps with her evil fucking husband. His father is even worse than those two nasty krauts put together. He killed Martin Luther King Jr., and that fucking bitch, that supe who posed for the Autumn Breeze and Budweiser advertisements, did not even fucking arrest him for it, despite witnessing it. He even massacred the Little Rock Nine. It's the fate of one child versus the lives of billions of others these fucks see as beneath them, less than animals, in their eyes," answered Diamond, his face contorted with anger, saliva coming out of his mouth.
"You might be able to scare his mother off, but his father will be coming for Israel, out for blood. What do you intend to do if he razed Israel to the ground and slaughters its people in a blind rage?" warned Grace.
"If he does that, confiscate his wealth, arrest all Pierce Enterprise executives, and shut down all of his corporations under the Rico Act. Frankly, your government should have done this twenty fucking years ago. He was not pardoned like Frederic Vaught. He was, and still is, wanted for murder in England. God, his fingerprints were on the clothing of an infant he dropped off of the Big Ben clocktower in 1945. This savage has no problem with infanticide if the child is not white and he really wants to make the family suffer. Sure, Nataneal Kraushaar killed his parents, his wife and unborn child, but that did not give him the FUCKING right to do the same to Nataneal's family in retaliation," barked out Abram, ranting.
"You have killed tens of thousands of Americans and severely injured and captured an innocent child. The American government's hands might be tied," retorted Grace angrily.
"We OWN the fucking government," snarled Abram.
"The people will be in an uproar," answered Grace calmly, taking a deep breath before she composed those words.
"Then fucking shoot them if they get too violent. The rest will fall in line out of fear. Simple as that. What is your incompetent government paying the US military for?" cried Abram.
And with those words uttered out of Abram, Grace had just shut up, drained completely as a result of having to deal with someone as unreasonable as Diamond after he had just proposed breaking the American people's constitutional rights in such a flagrant disregard. This was not the country she was taught about in school, one that follows the orders of countries over three thousand miles away. The founding fathers would have declared it time to water the tree with the blood of tyrants and patriots long before it got this bad.
Grace's hand was on her holstered sidearm when Abram's back was turned, about ready to blow his brains all over the floor for what he did to countless innocent American citizens just to punish an innocent child for the sins of his parents. That day, Nolan was hoping she shot Abram in the back of the head, knowing the grim fate that awaits him in Israeli custody. She could not. It was obvious that Grace did not want to jeopardize her career for some privileged brat and the CEO of the corporation that got her men killed in Nicaragua.
The God Emperor of Europe had awoken eight hours later, drenched in sweat from the sheer anxiety these dreams induced in him. Even though it was almost forty years in the past, these events were quite horrific for him to experience, despite the fact Diamond was reduced to a crippled disfigured invalid and he was in a place where the Israeli government could not, without any hope in hell, get to him. If resources were not a concern, Nolan would have attacked Israel just to watch the despair take hold of Abram as he was helpless to save his own people from Nolan's rightful wrath. Research and development into electric cars would take decades, and Britain still needed oil as a way of making the polymers required cheaply and efficiently without cutting into the important agricultural land.