The Master of Europe was handing crates over to the base camp outside of London. These crates were loaded with small arms, assault rifles for the fascist militias of British men battling for control of Britain against the foreign hordes despoiling the land with their very presence. He was carrying them hastily by the pallet from the Upwood USAF military base. This plan was twofold: to give the White enclaves a game-changing advantage over the curved sword wielding Muslims and to prevent the United States government from arming the minority groups these militias seek to annihilate, like the Cold War. Actually, Nolan intended to leave their fates up to the eventual famines the lack of electricity would cause when the refrigerators inevitably stopped working, distributing the scarce, non-perishable food only to White people. These firearms were simply a method of giving an outnumbered people an immense advantage in defense. Primitives tended to run screaming when lead was flying at them faster than the speed of sound. It was the same principle that allowed the British to conquer half the world while outnumbered, in a lot of cases, fifteen to one, a good old fashioned technological advantage.
After successfully supplying each White enclave with tanks, helicopters, infantry fighting vehicles, and enough rations to wait out the artificial famines of his doing, Nolan could only wonder if there was anything else that needed his attention; in addition, they intended to hand out the food to White people in the cities in order to curry favor with them. Another two-fold strategy, designed to both kill the non-White population of Great Britain—his goal—as well as to grant his reign of the country a form of legitimacy, that one thing all regimes need to survive, malevolent or benevolent.
Human beings would willingly endure comical levels of oppression so long as the people saw what happened as legitimate. And when the message was clear: side with the God Emperor of Europe or starve to death on the street, most sided with the one who provided them with the basics of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. That was how a revolutionary won over the masses of a population so ruinously domesticated they may as well have been cattle on a ranch en route to the slaughterhouse: making them fear the revolutionary more than the government was the way to win. That was what he learned when his dad read him to sleep with the Turner Diaries every night as a child, and that was how the Bolsheviks won their revolution in Russia. A population that has been domesticated by a group of clever aliens into cattle must be treated as such to gain legitimacy with them.
The moment the God Emperor of Europe had finished unloading all of the weapons, he heard his satellite phone ring almost immediately on the right side of his utility belt, linked to a Pierce Enterprises sat-network all the way up in geosynchronous orbit. It was through these satellite networks where the revolution was organized, with the threads on the deep web image board being used as invitations to would-be recruits. Through this clandestine method, not even the United States government could intercept any of his communications with his terrorist, cultist fans, let alone the comically incompetent Vought Crime Analytics, which was a far greater potential threat than the US army, considering what Homelander could potentially do to Nolan. If he were allowed in the military, that is.
He placed the phone to his ear the very moment he dropped the final pallet full of weapons crates off.
"Son, I have to warn you. The United States Navy has just summoned one of their fleets. As we speak, it is en route to Europe, about to drop their nuclear payload on our nation, our ancestral homeland, your bloody birth right," Arthur warned over the phone, his voice full of distress in its tone.
"How much firepower would I need to punch into the carrier's reactor?" inquired Nolan calmly in contrast to his father.
"Not much. A focused optical blast should be capable of punching through the carrier's hull and into its reactor by my physics calculations. The only things that can stop relativistic particles in a beam are bunkers several meters thick and the skin of extremely durable supes like Homelander or Soldier boy. It would take focused fire, no doubt. Several decks of high-grade steel would take time to slice through, but molecular disruption is rather funny that way," answered Arthur.
"Where is the fleet located?" inquired Nolan.
"In the middle of the Atlantic, obviously. They are halfway there, according to the Cameron Coleman report. Henceforth, time is of the essence, my son. Now go, secure our people's birth right," answered Arthur, his voice booming through the satellite phone.
Meanwhile, aboard the U.S.S Obama, the invasion fleet was enroute to Europe, in the hopes that they could threaten the warlords of the UK into surrender, lest what they were fighting for be reduced to worthless radioactive ash. Threats of nuclear annihilation were an effective deterrent, primarily when your foe thought themselves superior based on the color of their skin and the assumed intellectual advantages of advancing through the technology tree granted such people. It also served another purpose. That purpose was to demoralize the inbred, hillbilly Good ol' Boys out in the States who might see the actions of the British white nationalists as something to be imitated thanks to the concept of 'propaganda of the deed'.
Standing on the bridge of the U.S.S Obama was Admiral Tyrone Rawlins, an Afro-American who, growing up in segregation in the early sixties, wanted to see Western Civilization get its damned teeth kicked out of its mouth, at the press of a button for maximum humiliation. Tyrone was around five feet, seven inches in height and weighed around two hundred and seventy-two pounds, built mostly out of the near constant influx of the Dixie Fried Chicken and Popeye's chicken sandwiches. An old fat guy, he was fit only for leadership and managerial positions, and barely even that, considering he was hired as an officer at a time when one could be hired, regardless of competence, based on the amount of melanin they had to meet the required diversity quotas.
That was the same everywhere else in the social justice naval fleet, actually. There was not a single Caucasian person to be found, as the POTUS, Bernard Cohen, wished to have this be a representation of the melting pot that was the American people. Thus, it was staffed purely with people selected for their skin color rather than their actual talents. All in all, a grand total of around a tenth of the US navy was dedicated to this grandstanding operation, roughly half of the entire yearly budget of the US military. If it ended disastrously, the Americans would be forced to withdraw from Europe to save face with the taxpaying American public. Wars were ended, not by the generals, but by the bean counters who assessed the financial losses incurred each operation, ultimately determining whether it was worth the effort. They had only the vaguest idea of whom they were fucking with. No intel. Just pure speculation.
A moment of sheer panic gripped Tyrone when he seen just what he was up against hover slowly and ominously to his position. No, it was not the British Navy, which could wipe this fleet out on its own while taking heavy losses, it was in fact a supe very similar in appearance to that of Homelander. Replace the color scheme with a black, red, and blue color scheme, and that was him, the Master of Europe.
"What da fuck ya'll doin'! Fire at dis muthafucka," ordered Tyrone Rawlins.
To which, they did, turning the skies of the mid-Atlantic into something reminiscent of WWII, complete with the near constant explosions of powerful anti-air weapons that may as well have been anti-tank shells, focused directly with perfect mathematical precision on this one insanely powerful superbeing.
Hundreds of shells of high enough caliber to penetrate half a meter of rolled steel hit the super's position dead on. Shrapnel from the explosions of the shells in the air landed on airmen whom Tyrone forgot to order to retreat inside. The shrapnel perforated their bodies horrifically. They fell to the runway, dead almost instantly from shock.
Not only did the shrapnel of the massive shells killed almost all of the airmen aboard the carrier, it also hands the unintended effect of ruinously damaging the F-22 raptors too severely for operation ever again. Fragments were more than capable of penetrating the thin armor of fighter craft, as the air frame had to be light in weight in order to sustain supersonic flight without some insane propulsion such as a rocket thruster. Some of the fighters were damaged beyond all hope of repair. It would be cheaper for Uncle Sam to simply buy new F-35 Lightnings, which, unfortunately for Uncle Sam, were pieces of overpriced, overengineered junk. Already, the US had just lost over a billion dollars in assets in one disastrous error on the Central Intelligence Agency's part, not that Admiral Rawlins cared about the bean counters in Washington DC.
Through the smoke, two beams of lethal light struck the bridge. At first, it was harmless other than the fact that it made Rawlins eyes wince with pain from the extremely bright, nuclear explosion levels of light striking his retinas. Soon Rawlins suddenly fell to the ground. He looked down to find that he was blown in half, his char-broiled intestines strewn about all over the bridge in a morbid display for the terrified bridge crew to witness. Rawlins knew that he was dead. Nobody survived hits from optical blasts and lived to tell the tale, not even when non-vital organs were struck, like limbs. The shock alone from the extreme heat had the nasty habit of killing people once their nervous system reacted to the immense trauma. And Rawlins could not even think in his last moments.
"Burn in hell, White devil," yelled Rawlins meekly as he was breathing his last breaths.
"Martinez, order da submarines to fire all their nuclear warheads on dis cracka… muthafucka," he yelled.
Little did Tyrone realize that Martinez was dead the moment the beam struck the bridge, his head completely and utterly sliced off, leaving only a smoldering lower, charred mandible. Already, the entire bridge crew was dead, their bodies reduced to smoldering, gory heaps on the floor after the high energy reddish-hued, white beam made contact with their bodies. The sheer thermal load of the beams literally flash boiled their bodies, causing them to combust in an instant as a result of the massive release of thermal energy being dumped into what would be mostly water. Even if there were doctors on board, no doctor on this Earth could treat horrifically scorched organs. One of many reasons why superheroes were not in the army was because weapons that did this type of damage were an affront to the Geneva Convention. It was in fact more ideal to wound an enemy, and not in any permanent capacity if it can be avoided, as that would fall under the United Nations definition of undue suffering.
As soon as Tyrone shuffled off of this mortal coil, the entire carrier went up in a grand, bright mushroom cloud send off, its immense explosion seen from all the way out in Europe. Two high energy beams sliced through several decks, instantly melting through as the beam of matter hit the metal at near the speed of time with an immense amount of friction. The ocular, particle beams hastily made it into the reactor, near instantly melting through its one-foot-thick lead shielding like a luminous, white-hot knife through a stick of butter. Then the energy beams struck the fissile material inside, causing a nuclear blast as dirty as the one in Chernobyl in an instant.
The resulting miniature tsunamis of scalding hot water around a hundred meters high capsized all the ships nearby, sinking them into the locker of Davey Jones. The blast wave literally flipped them over on their tops, drowning the crew in scalding hot water that would soon kill them before their rescue. In addition, radiation from the reactor meltdown of the U.S.S Obama killed the entire crew aboard the subs almost immediately, lighting everyone in the superstructures alight.
After a large, multi-kiloton atomic blast wiped out the fleet in a glorious mushroom cloud display of fireworks, the Hammer of Europe was observing the devastation he had successfully with just a well-placed, surgical strike of his optical beams. Ships, while heavily armored, were not as armored as tanks. They needed to be buoyant enough to float and that tended to get rather difficult when you added meters and meters of armor plating onto the vessel, which had the nasty habit of increasing their surface areas to the most impractical levels too big for docking. Particle beams were the perfect anti-armor weapon, as the beams destroy the target at the molecular level with kinetic energy. Only comically thick armor or the most durable of superheroes could withstand the blasts of this type of weapon without being immediately eviscerated. Even then, a supe would suffer extensive lacerations, almost like suffering a deep, horrific slash from a knife. Conversely, the meter of plating would be compromised after, its job of protecting the people behind it fulfilled.
All that was left of the fleet was a large area of boiling water, a cloud of steam representing the small nuclear explosion that his optical beams of superheated plasma made of the Obama's reactor. It was not like he could even peer through the cloud of steam. It was just too damn dense. Nolan had the ability to see through walls and such, via a process of psychically making them permeable to reflecting photons; however, there was too much gas. The only thing he could see from where he was levitating was the burning, irradiated wreckage of the Nimitz Class carrier, two miles below the Atlantic, as a glowing, bright star in the water, almost.
Then his father flew up to meet him, dressed in an old variant of Nolan's costume that granted his father an overall appearance of a general from the 1800s, complete with epaulettes made of solid gold with majestic gold fleeced tassels on his shoulders. In color scheme, his father's costume was the exact same one as his, that same red, white, and blue British Union of Fascists cape he wore as a symbol. Then there was the polished golden fasces belt buckle his father's costume had, an axe with a bundle of sticks in place of a handle, each stick representing a member of the White race and the head of the axe representing the might of Western Civilization. Another expression of his father's endless wealth was the buttons of his costume, made of some of the finest gold. In essence, it was the same costume as his son, with the difference being that it was designed in the 1940s as opposed to the 2020s. Still, it was an impressive design by Hugo Boss, nonetheless.
"These diversity hires are so inept. It almost takes all the honor out of killing them," Arthur commented, bored, looking to his son.
Nolan laughed sadistically at what just happened, primarily at the fact that he expected a much harsher, more brutal fight from an entire American fleet, not something that was immediately put down when two high energy beams surgically sliced through the hull and into the reactor. Once more, the beams destroyed the whole goddamn fleet as a result of triggering a nuclear explosion as powerful as the detonation over at Hiroshima in a few second of him encountering them. Most superheroes would be cooked to white, glowing ash in a nuclear explosion; however, Nolan was made of some sterner stuff than most. Not even his costume was damaged. To him, it was a hot puff of air striking him harmlessly, almost like opening up an oven to grab cooked food.
"I wonder what those poofs on the 99th floor of Seven Tower think of this? Billions of dollars in naval assets destroyed in one quick, masterful, stroke of attack must be pretty demoralizing," laughed Nolan Pierce sadistically.
"It is a cautionary tale as to why you do not have Blacks and Mexican mongrels run a complex military operation such as this. Why, I am surprised this ship did not suffer a reactor meltdown from one of the stupid coons tinkering with the dials like as if they were toys," continued Nolan
"True. However, we cannot let our enemy's incompetence do all the work for us, now can we?" replied Arthur sternly to his son.
"Then there's the fact that the shadowskin hordes have near endless numbers to throw at us. They can suffer many failures, many great defeats, while we can only weather one or two major defeats before we start faltering," his father continued.
"Anyway, have fun conquering Europe and ridding it of its non-White infestation. I will be off porking Maeve while you build my empire," his father concluded.
With their conversation concluded, they flew off swiftly in opposing directions, one to America and one to Europe, where Nolan no doubt had a small, well-supplied army to lead in extirpating the non-European elements of the United Kingdom. He already had a plan of how he was going to wage this war, like the Crusader states of Hispania in the 11th century, slowly but surely driving the terrified non-European elements further and further south with each passing year. Then from there, Nolan was going to quickly conquer Africa, the Middle East, and Israel. Their populations would be promptly surgically sterilized and worked to death to feed the economy of his vast, expansive empire. Oh yes, he was smiling sadistically just thinking about it.
Back at Seven Tower, the mood of the 99th floor was angsty and rageful, everyone inside of the building shocked and demoralized that the might of the United States navy could be sunk, not by a greater fleet, but by one single man as powerful as Homelander, at the extremely bare minimum. That was the thing that had angered Homelander immensely out of the whole ordeal, that there was someone as powerful as him created way before he was even born. Once more, his optical blasts were far stronger, being solid matter instead of massless photons shot out of his eyes, which were borderline harmless to most tank armor. According to drone footage, he burned through a carrier's hull and into its reactor within mere seconds, causing a catastrophic meltdown which resulted in a luminous nuclear explosion
"How the fuck do we kill that type of man?" inquired Starlight, looking to Homelander nervously.
"We don't. He's a problem for the United States government and the nation of Israel to solve," answered Stormfront, shuddering at what she had just seen on the television.
The headlines on the VNN channel on the Seven television screen were to the sides of the table, so they had to crane their necks uncomfortably to see it. One of the headlines was "Mystery Supe Smashes US Fleet singlehandedly. On screen, it showed the sunken wrecks of all the vessels underwater, in some cases, aflame even underwater as a direct result of the immense heat of an atomic blast. Tens of thousands of American sailors were sent to Davey Jones locker with that one surgical, precise attack of the Mystery Supe the headlines were calling him.
It was not just the Seven who were quaking in horror at the display of what had become of one of the most expensive military assets in existence in one quick, precise strike on the reactor core, it was Cameron Coleman, too. Of course, being the milquetoast conservative weasel he was, Coleman was brought up to think that the American military was this unstoppable juggernaut, policeman. Today, that delusion was shattered when one of the few carriers America had had been sunk into the murky depths of the Atlantic, along with a great number of missile cruisers and nuclear subs. He was almost speechless, his mouth agape at what had just become of one of the mightiest fleets in history within a few seconds of encountering that extremely powerful entity.
"A United States fleet had been wiped out, claiming the lives of over 15,000 American sailors today, after a supe had just lasered the mighty U.S.S Obama," announced Cameron Coleman over the news broadcast somberly, weeping in womanish despair.
"All is not lost, however, as the Israeli government had dealt with this supe before. Why, they may have even captured him in 1985 using nerve agent when he was a six-year-old child. His name is Nolan Luther Pierce, heir to Arthur Luther Pierce's nigh inexhaustible fortune. Now, this government has made some rather shaky accusations against the great titan of industry, mainly that he is a supervillain, a Nazi collaborator, and a mass murderer of mythical proportions. However, one thing is certain. His son does have superpowers of the psychic reality warping variety, demonstrated when he took down a carrier just recently. To Israel, he is subject H14," continued Coleman, getting his second wind of hope.
"We bring you live, with Abram Diamond, former director of Kronos facility," announced Cameron
On a screen edited next to Cameron, there was a hideously disfigured man surrounded by the bustling cityscapes of Tel Aviv, many parts of the city still rebuilding after something really horrific happened in 1985. In the center of it all was a small man of about five feet, eight inches tall and was rather physically fit, which was a necessity in a country under constant invasion from its genocidal neighbors. He had oily black, curly hair that would have formed a fro-hairstyle if it was not for the grotesque raised, burn scars that made up three quarters of his face. Abram's left eye was milky in color next to his right brown eye, one of the tell-tale signs he was burned terribly. By what, the Seven did not know.
In one of the prosthetic hands that were his limbs, he held a microphone in a split hook up to his exposed, chipped teeth, that wound where his lips once were. Abram looked like a ghoul from all the raised scar tissue and missing facial features he sported. Not only were his lips missing, his nose was completely gone, too, nothing but the bones of his nasal cavity protruding through some raised scar tissue on his face. Stormfront thought he looked like a little leper, one in the advanced stages of the disease too, where the body began the process of rotting away. Starlight looked about ready to puke at the horror.
"Subject H14 did this to me," he cried, pointing at one side of his face with one his prosthetic hands' split hooks.
"We captured him from a Buster Beaver's Pizza House. Ran some experiments that I admit were a bit wrong when I think about them today," elaborated Abram.
"What kind of experiments, might I ask?" inquired Coleman.
"Yeah, what kind of experiments?!" leered Stormfront angrily.
"We were testing the limits of his seemingly limitless invulnerability. His father was noted surviving the immense heat of nuclear explosions; however, we were testing the normal weak spots for supes, such as the eyes, the internals, and the orifices. Of which, I will not divulge to America. But we have shoved white hot pieces of metal in those regions, which we found to not harm him physically but cause him to howl in pain. We did manage to penetrate H14's eardrum with a diamond-tipped drill; however, the wound healed up in three days with no permanent effect. I reasoned that since his hearing was sensitive enough to hear conversations from hundreds of feet away, that I would be able to damage him, and I did, temporarily," answered Abram.
"What other experiments did you conduct," asked Coleman in a professional tone.
"We have shoved the Aryan piece of slime into a nuclear fusion reactor. An experimental tokomak, actually. The fusion plasma cooked him down to the bone in some areas, and even burned some of his digits and facial features off; however, it did not kill him. What it did was put him into a dormant state for several months. That state is a regeneration coma. It is what happens when he and his father suffer catastrophic life ending or life altering injuries. In such a state, even a normal blunt force trauma from unpowered humans can damage him," answered Diamond.
"What is the source of his power," asked Coleman.
"Psionics brought on by a mysterious protein in his blood. H14 can manipulate matter in a way that grants him the powers of Earth's mightiest hero, Homelander, but only simulations of those powers. His muscles, for instance, were not lifting anything. In fact, whatever he touches becomes enveloped in a psychokinetic field, which makes whatever he's holding one-ten thousandth its normal mass to him. Your car would weigh no more than a small, latex foam pillow to him. His invincibility comes from an oscillating telekinetic field as well, half a millimeter in its thickness. Same with his flight, also telekinesis," answered Abram.
"Any practical ways of taking H14 down?" inquired Coleman.
"Aside from dropping a fifty plus megaton nuke directly on top of him, I do not know. Vought could also sacrifice all of their A-listers and hope that eventually wears him down. Other than that, nothing. Nothing can kill him that won't involve completely eradicating regions of land," answered Abram again, sighing.
"Do you regret torturing a kid?" inquired Coleman.
"No. He was not a human child, not to me, he was cattle for the slaughterhouse like the rest of his slovenly people. We have milked his kind for all their worth. Now it's off to the slaughterhouse with them to feed the newer generations of a less belligerent breed of goyim. Look at what that yellow-haired racist piece of Aryan garbage did to my face after he broke out of his cell at the tender age of 13. Not to mention all of the villages he massacred in a fit of rage over my experiments. H14 raped my wife so badly she killed herself. He also massacred the entire town she was in. Scorched the ground it stood on to glass," cried Abram, tears trickling out of his one good eye.
Most of the Seven, with the obvious exceptions of Homelander and Stormfront, felt an immense amount of pity, and in many cases, guilt for the Israeli scientist, in spite of his horrendous actions that endangered children's lives. Homelander could care less of what happens to just another weak sub group of mud people, while Stormfront was shaking with uncontrollable rage at what she had just heard on television. That man kidnapped a child from his life of vast wealth and happiness in America, yet had the audacity to cry out as the victim of that child's reprisal, despite the fact he admitted to torturing him, on national television, no less. She wanted to fly over to Israel and flay Abram alive for his crimes.
A/N I decided to take different route with the powerset, taking inspiration from the the Plutonian for how the progenitor serum supes powers work in this story. Basically, think of the Plutonian, except in this instance, nerfed down to multi-city block to town level of overall power and durability.