It was a cloudy day at the tail end of the Battle of The Somme, and Arthur was in a trench, eying a German soldier off in the distance with the site of his Lee Enfield rifle. One loud bang and the hostile soldier crumpled lifelessly, his Stahlhelm perforated by the mighty, high velocity .303 FMJ slug propelled at supersonic speeds from the blast of cordite. He pulled back the bolt, ejecting the spent, smoking, rimmed cartridge, and slammed it back in, another round inside of the spacious ten round magazine loaded in for another kill.
It was hard for most soldiers to even acquire a target in the dense, foggy rain, but Arthur had the best eyesight naturally possible for a human being thanks to the selective breeding inside of the Pierce family. Boldly, Arthur took aim at the Germans manning the fifteen-centimeter artillery piece, eight hundred yards away, top range for a .303 rifle. Best of all, Arthur was making the shot without a scope.
There was a problem, however, these soldiers were more heavily armored than the previous. An angled shot could be deflected off the segmented armor these German troops on the other trench were wearing; thus, Arthur took aim for a rather unorthodox weak point, the throat. It would be a slow death, but he saw one of his comrades get brutally bludgeoned by German Commandos armed with MP18 SMGs. He was not in the mood for mercy.
One shot hit the artilleryman in the throat, causing him to crumple down into the wet, puddled, mud, desperately clutching his neck as blood trickled out. Another loud bang, drowned out by the rhythmic sound of a Vickers machine gun firing, sent a bullet straight into the other artilleryman's left thigh, severing his femoral artery with machined, mathematical precision.
A hapless machine gun crew was in Arthur's crosshairs to his far-left, outranging Arthur's service weapon by a good two hundred yards. By angling the sight up just slightly, he fired, knocking a soldier wearing a stahlhelm and a gasmask down in one blow. Arthur chambered another round into the barrel, angling the sight up over top of his hapless loader and shot him straight in the head, likely through the eye judging by where he was clutching his bloody, mutilated face.
With their machine gun and artillery support down, the British infantry inside of the trench and the many more coming through via car, he was certain the Germans would be crushed through sheer weight of numbers. Victory was assured.
He was never shot at, as most soldiers did not have the marksmanship to hit a target over two hundred yards away from their position, let alone strike major organs. Arthur was more than able to hit a target with pin-point accuracy from over one thousand yards away with ease. Several of his comrades were hiding in dug tunnels beneath the trench, cowering away, and dying of Trench Foot, while Arthur was tipping the battle in their favor. In fact, he was not even supposed to be out on the surface while the Germans were shelling the area, but he chose to in order to seek glory.
After he finished dispatching the artillery and the machine gun nest, he moved to the side in order to check for more targets. The whole trench was muggy. The wood construction of the walls bore the tell-tale signs of wood rot, even. Arthur could literally place his finger through the wood as if it were gelatine. Not only did it looked decayed, the whole trench smelled of decay. It was a rather unpleasant place to be in. He assumed his money had insulated him from service; however, not even the princes were spared from military service. Arthur was afraid he was going to catch trench foot, as he could feel the water seeping into his boots.
He found another fifteen-centimeter gun, this time the shell went up in the air. Arthur ran in the opposite direction, hoping to dodge the shell and succeeded that time.
From seven hundred yards away, he took aim at the operator of the bolted together, gray artillery piece, an aesthetical choice of Germanic nations, and fired directly for his chest, dead center. The Artilleryman went down clutching his chest, wheezing as his respiratory system failed, dead almost instantly on the muddy, puddled ground. Before the artillery loader could alert his friends, another .303 round cut through the right side of his head at a forty-five-degree angle, instantly killing him.
Very soon, Arthur was alerted to a high-pitched whistling noise in the air, the tell-tell sign of an artillery piece being launched kilometers away or one of the German bi-planes dropping one of their bombs. Either way, Pierce panicked. He ran for cover beneath the network of trenches, only for a blur to pass by him where he could see the artillery shell land by his feet, then a bright flash, followed by darkness and a loud, eternal ringing in all of his ears.
In those moments, there was nothing. He had no regrets about what he was leaving behind, none of his courses at Oxford University that conscription had taken from him. For those few seconds, Arthur was dead, for all intense of purposes, in a coma.
"Your son was wounded extensively," the doctor breathed a heavy sigh before continuing. "He will never walk, talk, think, hear, or see ever again. He's a basket case, a living corpse kept alive only through the help of modern medicine."
Jonathan Pierce was a tall, imposing man in his forties, with a massive scar across the left side of his face during the Anglo-Zulu war from a spear. While highly intelligent, Jonathan was a brutish, red-haired man who stood around six feet, ten inches tall. Jonathan had a long, narrow, angular face that sported a permanent scowl and a thin, sharp, high-bridged nose, just like his son, though bent at the bridge region, likely from a club he took to the face when holding the line against hordes of Zulus. He was wearing a silk tuxedo and a fine top hat fashioned out of beaver pelt.
Jonathan was unable to respond to what the doctor had just told him, feeling his heart rate rise and his ears ring as the doctor was speaking. He never needed it spelled out for him. Pierce senior could see that his son was never going to walk again just from the wounds alone he sustained when that shell exploded next to him.
For one thing, Arthur's legs were gone above the knee, blood still showing through the white bandages his legs were covered with. Then there was that bandage over his jaw, or what was left of that region of Arthur's face. It looked as though a large piece of shrapnel scooped out most of his mid-face when the shell detonated next him. Jonathan could just picture the ragged wound, teeth, his lips gone, torn to shreds based on how red the bandages were and how his chin seemed shorter than he remembered. On his head, there was a dark red bandage, where the shell fragments had dug into, perforating both of his eyes, his ears, and to a lesser extent, his brain. There was a four-inch-long piece of cast-iron shrapnel inside of his frontal lobe, which penetrated his temple based on the concentration of blood in the gauze on the left side. In addition to all of those other injuries, his arms were gone, ripped off at the shoulders from the pressure wave.
Arthur's mother walked in, Elsa Luther Pierce, tears streaking down her face, inconsolable as any women would be watching her son reduced to a crippled vegetable. An Austro-Hungarian woman of noble birth, she was dressed in a fur coat made of the finest wolf pelts money could buy. Typical of members of the Pierce family, she had long, flowing, wavy golden blonde hair. Her eyes were crystal blue in color. Despite the fact she was in her forties, she looked no older than her mid-twenties, one of the many benefits of being well and properly bred like this noble family.
"You said my son would not walk again," she cried in her best English accent.
"Well, use your bloody eyes, Elsa! He's got no legs, no arms, no jaw, and no eyes or ears. It doesn't take a bloody medical expert to tell the prognosis is terrible," yelled Jonathan frustratedly.
"I am going to have to rewrite my will, because we cannot bloody well have a crippled vegetable take money away from our sons who actually have futures, now can we?" Jonathan complained.
"Could he ever recover?" she asked, tearfully
Jonathan turned to face his wife with an even greater scowl to get his point across.
"Not unless you make some type of black magic deal for your soul with Beelzebub himself. He's pretty much a living, breathing corpse, likely screaming internally to be killed at this point. Assuming there is enough brain matter left inside of his shattered skull to even form thought, that is," Jonathan yelled frustratedly.
"He more than likely doesn't have the brain matter left required to form any coherent thoughts whatsoever. Not with a four-inch piece of shrapnel lodged in his skull, that is," corrected the doctor.
With that, Jonathan came to the only logical conclusion one could think of in such a situation. That was euthanasia, where the patient's life was ended. Though in this instance, the solution to Jonathan's conundrum was much simpler than overdosing Arthur on morphine: cutting the life support. That way, Arthur would pass on into the next world without any pain relatively slowly, as he was no longer even capable of perceiving any sort of pain to begin with. Death at that point was a mercy. As far as he was concerned, the medics should not have scooped him off when he was more than likely dead. They should have let his son perish to blood loss, which should have happened in seconds based off of the damage alone.
"Can we not simply euthanize him? This is no way for a human being to live, trapped inside their own body, unable to move, think, feel, or even perceive the world visually, or through sound," asked Jonathan sadly.
The doctor drew a deep breath and exhaled with a nervous look on his face.
"No way in bloody hell would you have me do that, Jon! His survival is the will of god, irregardless of what your opinions of his quality of life are. The fact that we can keep him alive is a miracle of modern medicine," responded the doctor incredulously.
"I will pay you fifty thousand pounds—five times your pittance of an annual salary—if you cut off the life support," demanded Jonathan.
"Even then, it is God's will that he suffer until he shuffles off into the afterlife, not yours or mine," responded the Doctor tactfully.
Jonathan was fuming with rage when he heard that. It was not God that gave the Pierce Dynasty their vast wealth, it was piracy of Spanish ships hundreds of years past. It was not God that crippled his son, but the shrapnel and pressure wave of an artillery shell over five inches in diameter. And lastly, it was not God that willed he survived, it was the medic who patched up his wound with gauze quickly so as to avoid bleeding out. Jonathan was not a man of the cloth, he was a geneticist, a scientist who believed in the natural world as envisioned by Charles Darwin. Spooks in the sky did not exist
"I am not paying to keep my child suffering; I am paying you to bloody end it. I will not hear any further ramblings of your filthy Bronze age semitic mythology," yelled Jonathan in a rage.
"I get that you and your wife are grieving, but I will hear of no further requests lest I report you to the bobbies for conspiracy to commit murder, you bloody godless heathens" the Doctor shot back in a fury.
"Your son is alive and suffering until God deemed it time for him to be judged. Let me do my job as the Hippocratic Oath instructs me, or kindly leave," continued the Doctor.
Angry, Jonathan stormed out in a huff, his wife trailing behind him. Jon could not take the fact that his son was reduced to a vegetable after an artillery shell struck his position, so he thought of an even smarter idea than requesting his euthanasia: he sought to experiment on him. Many animals on this Earth could regrow appendages; therefore, there was really not a law forbidding it other than the fact humans never selected for those traits, given that they were apex predators. God had nothing to do with it, and God would not get Jonathan's son out of it. It was up to science, and he would keep trying even if it meant unlocking new fields of science to do so.
Sometime in 1919, Jonathan had just created something, a sort of virus created at the genetic level to enhance the human, or what Jonathan deemed as human, free of impurities. Previous versions of this gene therapy, tested on mice, allowed them to generate many, many megawatts of energy through essentially warping the laws of thermodynamics. Because of the immense strength of the mouse, it was stored in a cylinder constructed out of 300mm of cast homogenous, armor-grade steel.
Jonathan knelt, watching as the mouse produced several hundred megawatts of power inside of that multi-ton cylinder, powering the creation of this serum at the quantum level. Next to the cylinder located inside of a sterile lab, or whatever passed for a sterile lab in 1919, was a blackboard covered in hundreds of equations, some of them from fields of science Jonathan had just mastered.
The serum glowed a bright, pulsating green, hot to the touch as it was producing energy at the zero-point, for which he intended to inject it into his son. The crippled wretch laying in a metal framed hospital bed, a mask over his face to hide where a massive piece of shrapnel had shattered his facial structure, tearing it off in the process. He still had his sense of touch, which he used to tap on his pillow in a sort of Morse code like structure.
"Kill me!," that was what Arthur's message translated to, over and over again.
Jonathan turned to face his son, an assured smile on his face that he could not only repair the damage the shell caused to Arthur's body. Jonathan looked down on his fingertip, or the stump where it once was. The mouse had literally clawed it clean off with the amount of force it was able to put out with just its feet alone. It had released so much energy from one swipe, the equivalent force of a high-caliber rifle round shot from a gun.
Jonathan had theorized that the force had came from an explosive telekinetic blast, generated by the mouse's body. Attempts to harm it have proved equally fruitless, when Jonathan shot it with a Webley. The rounds skated off of the mouse's fur as if shielded by the same invisible energy field. He drew the mouse into the thick, multi-ton metal cylinder, which he placed in a boiler room to generate energy through pressurized steam spinning up a dynamo, generating enough power for a large town in his own home.
Worst still, that mouse had probably existed outside of the dimension's timestream, its cells, perpetually young until the universe died, immune to the effects of entropy, another law of thermodynamics that was suppressed by the gene therapy messing with genetics on a quantum level.
He had some hesitations about injecting his son with this serum, one of the possibilities his lab assistant warned him about was turning his son into an immortal vegetable, an even worse fate than what he was dealt. If that serum restored him to what was before, that was fine. If it killed him, that was okay but not ideal. At least he may finally rest in peace.
As he was shoving the syringe full of the green, pulsating liquid, his assistant, a man about the same age as Arthur, Frederick Vought, came in. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a rectangular face. He had myopia, which he corrected with prescription glasses. A man of average height, he was neither thin nor muscular, but quite average.
"Nein. Nein. I must protest. We have no evidence that it would do, as you describe, reform Arthur's body at the atomic level," yelled Frederick Vought in desperation.
It was too late. Jonathan had already plunged the needle into his son's neck veins, his veins glowing a pulsating green as the energy coursed through. Fields of shimmering light emanating from his stumps, taking the form of his limbs. Bones began to stick out of Arthur's stumps, slowly and gruesomely reforming his body to where it once was in a sort of pre-injury state. Both Jonathan and Frederick were dumbfounded at what they just, something that by all accounts should not even be possible, but was happening before their very eyes. Bones, tissues were all regrowing one centimeter every thirty minutes while Arthur seemed unresponsive. He was breathing on his own, but he was no longer tapping his head on his pillowing asking to be euthanized.
"You were saying, Frederick?" said Jonathan with a smug look of satisfaction.
"You do not understand, Jon. He was in a crippled, sensory deprived state for years. Power like that in the hands of a human would result in cities being laid to waste in seconds. Minutes afterward, entire countries. By my calculations, a human with the powers of that mouse inside of that white-hot cylinder powering this laboratory could reduce the continental United States and Russia to burning wastelands within the span of hours," stated Frederick, deeply concerned.
"This is the next stage of evolution of the Aryan race. A new genesis is at hand here, Frederick. An Aryan man with the powers of entire country's military forces combined and the ability to strike on both the ground and, in the air, at supersonic speeds no less. Upper estimates place his flight speed at faster than the speed of light, which would prove that causality, too, is a relative concept. This is the White race's ascent to godhood!" proclaimed Jon.
"Psychiatry is jewish science, and thus, hogwash," he concluded.
1945, over a year after Frederick Vought had fled to the United States with his wife, Arthur was on the warpath, holding the Eastern Front for the Germans in WWII. The red army was shocked to find that instead of a whole army, there was one man wearing a Union Jack for a cape, suspended in the air, practically standing with his arms crossed looking down with his eyes glowing a menacing red.
Entire T34 tank battalions raised their cannons, loaded them with armor-piercing, high explosive shells and fired on him. The infantry supporting the tanks lit up the area Arthur was in, too, saturating his position with Mosin, PPSH41, and DP27 machine gun fire, all hitting the cloud of smoke and sparks where Arthur should have been passed tense. Another volley of artillery fire struck the cloud for good measure.
The soldiers of the Red Army looked on in horror when they had seen the smoke clear in that cloudy day to find that Arthur was not only alive, but completely unharmed still floating there, his cape tattered. He smiled at them slyly and two beams of superheated plasma shot forth from his eyes, slicing the turrets clean off their tanks, the wreck of the tank glowing white hot. Soldiers were sent scattering in all directions, their clothing ignited by the convection currents produced by the beams.
Planes strafed Arthur, only to be quickly be cut in two, with their fiery wrecks landing on the Red Army's position, killing more soldiers in the process.
When the front ranks of the army were running around screaming for their lives, Arthur, or as the Nazis billed him, Blitzkrieg, flew deeper into the army. This time, however, he decided to use his own two hands, punching a whole squad of soldiers into chunky salsa with the explosive force of his supernaturally strong punches.
He then moved left, picked up a tank by the barrel, enveloping it in an invisible psionic field making its weight essentially zero. He thunderously swung the tank through a whole platoon of soldiers horizontally, reducing them into clouds of red mist, their other organs much too pulverized to even register visually. Then threw the mangled wreck straight into another tank at such a speed it made a thunderous clap scattering another few thousand soldiers into the skies above, their mutilated corpses falling down, following a misty rain of blood and viscera.
"That is what you get, you bloody race traitors," he yelled, blasting another column with his heat vision like particle beams the width of human irises.
More and more tanks fired on Arthur, their seventy-five-millimeter shells harmlessly ricocheting off of his costume, while blowing holes into his cape. The spall created from the casing of the shell cut through a soldier mag dumping the seventy-five-round drum of his PPSh-41 machine gun. Arthur did not even notice him but he let him have it with two searing hot beams of superheated plasma through the soldier's chest as he was on the ash covered ground, missing both of his legs with his hands up in surrender.
Arthur charged his beams, making an ominous hiss in the air as he blasted another tank column of the Soviet Shock Army with his ocular plasma beams. The tanks exploded as their fuel tanks and ammunition storage sections were ignited, creating large clouds of black smoke. Any of the soldiers who were not killed or downed from the concussive blast waves or shrapnel were instead set on fire by the convection currents of the beam. Some of them screamed in pain, spasmodically pulled out their sidearms, placed the business end to their temples, and pulled the trigger.
Arthur let out a laugh at the sight of the communist soldiers immediately blowing their brains out as a result of being set on fire. To him, they were no better than the Jews he detested so much after knocking him in a coma during the end of WWI, forcing him to fight in their so-called Zionist war. In fact, they were worse, willing traitors who marched blindly to their imminent doom so that the Zionist occupation may rule the world until the sun burned out for all eternity. Oh, he was saving the worst of his wrath for the commanders, the commissars, most of the them Jewish. He had something special in mind when one of them happened to be in his crosshairs.
He slowly levitated into the sky to find one of these military officers, or commissars. He was short, overweight, and wearing the distinctive peaked cap with the hammer and sickle one would associate with communist Russia. He had the distinctive, traditionally Jewish features, severely sloped forehead and weak chin, and a prominent, crooked nose that was wider than indigenous Europeans but slimmer than Africans. He was cowering like the rest of the men, fleeing the fires, the smoke and the white-hot swords of searing heat shooting forth from his eyes.
Arthur dived down and blew his breath at him. His breath telekinetically arrested the momentum out of the air, flash freezing the Commissar's legs solid, in place. All he could do was scream and cry as he struggled to get free. There was a loud, cracking, like glass, only the frozen water inside of his body. The commissar fell to the floor to notice in utter horror that both his right leg and left leg were gone, reduced to frozen, ragged, icy stumps.
He raised his side arm, aiming for Arthur's seemingly vulnerable eyes in a futile attempt to harm him, only for the gun to be covered in a thick, white frosty substance, like solid ice, but more closely solid oxygen itself. Then his hand turned a shiny white with a clear, crisp sheen of ice crystals forming a layer of his skin. The cold air radiating off of his hand burned his lungs, or he felt a burning sensation, gasping for air. His tears even froze solid, sticking painfully to the commissar's skin.
"You fucking… Germanski svoloch," yelled the Soviet Commissar in immense pain.
"Arrogant even until the end, you filthy parasite. You think it is only the German people who are sick of your antics. Please, the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy wants your kind to go the way of the bloody Dodo," scoffed Arthur.
He then proceeded to lightly kick the Commissar's frozen hand, shattering it like a solid piece of iron hard, iron dense glass, blood spurting out from the half thawed, icy regions of the stump. He rasped in pain while Arthur laughed.
"All the party's medics and all the party's doctors could not put this sheeny back together again," Arthur remarked arrogantly in Cyrillic.
Bullets, tank shells, and even shaped charge panzerfausts captured off of the dead, lifeless corpses of German soldiers riddled Arthur, only to clatter off of his body with loud sparks as the bullets and armor piercing tank shells harmlessly shattered against him. He did not even flinch as the telekinetic aura that surrounded his body, one millimeter in thickness, blocked the momentum as well
Arthur faced that whole army, took a deep breath, and blew frozen air, vacuum cold, straight at the tank column firing on his position. Everyone in that column froze solid. There was nothing to be seen of them. It was not just the water in their bodies and the humidity in the local atmosphere that froze, but the very oxygen and nitrogen molecules froze, too, forming a thick, white solid wall of stone hard, yet smooth oxygen-nitrogen mix with a smooth, crisp sheen three meters high and forty meters across.
One soviet soldier to his right, unnoticed from the loud, thunderous noises of the previous cacophony of weapons fire, opened fire on Arthur with his tokerev handgun. The tiny 7.62x25mm rounds struck both of his eyes, causing his vision to briefly flicker white as the round ricochet or outright shattered with direct hits.
That soldier's face was frostbitten, his nose, ears, and fingers turning a sickly black as a result of the rapid cell death being in proximity of this ice wall caused. Even from hundreds of feet away, it may as well have been antarctica at that specific location. Arthur was protected by that same telekinetic aura keeping his temperature at around sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, rendering him virtually immune to freezing cold. More than likely, that soldier's nose, fingers, and ears would all have been amputated once a medic had looked him over. Shame. The red communist enforcer was a vile traitor to his own people as far as Arthur was concerned.
So Arthur lifted the man by the throat with his outstretched, muscular right hand and threw him up, high into the sky, where he would fall and make a horrendously gruesome landing all the away out in China. Everywhere he looked, the Red Army, seen as one of the bravest militaries on Earth, was fleeing for their lives. Every single one of them. So much for the Russian can-do spirit, Arthur thought. That was what it confirmed to them, that they were a bunch of cowards who never even bothered to fight unless they outnumbered their opponent ten to one, or in Arthur's case, two-million to one.
Arthur was willing to slaughter each and every one of them. If they sided with the Jews, they were no better than them and would thus be systematically killed all the same, if necessary. Conversely, many of them would probably convert to his side just the same out of fear, just like they had with the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks at the conclusion of the October Revolution.
"That is why Arthur was able to tear that KGB in half with his own two hands. It was also why he was able to follow you to that Circus in Florida, and reappear in Santa Carla, California minutes after he did it, ultimately giving him an ironclad alibi for the horrific homicide. Because of his ability to telekinetically squeeze through air and space time in the case of a vacuum, he could be literally anywhere at once. It doesn't matter when somebody recognizes him causing destruction in one country when there was someone who said they were having lunch with him fifteen minutes ago, much too short for even a supersonic flight, Frederick explained.
"Why wasn't he charged with murdering that Jewish person… what's his name?... Moshe, that is right. That one whom I had fun with in the camps while his family cowered in Great Britain? He just followed him to his home, loaded Moshe's family into car under the threat he might cut them in half with his plasma vision, then mutilated and killed them before Moshe's very eyes to make him beg for death, according to what I could get from the KGB agent. Tragic irony, or poetic justice, I will never know," she asked.
Frederick was confined to a hospital bed, covered in blisters, sores, and lesions, his nose also bleeding as well. He was dying of some inexplicable form of radiation poisoning caused by Polonium. The polonium was the inexplicable part of the whole equation. It would have made sense with Pierce because he was essentially priority one for both KGB and Mossad operators, not that it would even affect him in the slightest. Frederick was officially pardoned. Neither organization could touch him under international law.
Arthur, on the other hand, was a wanted criminal in both the United Kingdom for the murder of Moshe's wife, his child, and his infant son. Arthur threw the baby off of the Big Ben clocktower in London twenty years ago. They matched his finger print to him when he was arrested during the Battle of Cable Street in 1936. However, the Soviet Union had claimed he murdered almost a million soldiers at the Battle of Seelow Heights, pretty much wresting a German victory from the jaws of defeat.
"In the case of his murder in London, they only had his finger prints to go on. Then there's also the fact that he's somewhat closely related to the Windsor family, second to third cousin. And many of the Royal Family greatly detest the Jews, so Britain will not raise a great stink about it diplomatically. As for what had happened in Seelow Heights, a man traveling at supersonic speeds leaves behind no traceable fingerprints. Secondly, descriptions between the witness would vary. Thirdly, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization cares little of what the Soviet Union wants. They can deal with it themselves if they wished, however," answered Vought, coughing up blood as his gums bled.
"Almost made me regret defecting over to the allies. Still wasn't enough to win the war, however. Russia had simply conscripted more men and rushed into the Soviet Union and took it, while Arthur was taking out American tank columns in France," Frederick continued.
Oh.. if only I could have a squad of progenitor serum based ubermenschen. They would most certainly save Western Civilization from the Jewish peril with their trademarked lethality. But the only man who even knows the formula for the progenitor serum is Arthur himself. The Reich did not give two shits about it because they were short on money and one vial of V was a tenth the cost. They came to sorely regret it when Arthur slaughtered the Red Army by the tens of thousands without any support whatsoever. Without Felicia around to temper his rage, the subhumanity might almost prefer Hitler," Frederick stated.
"Was it a cost reason why you have chosen to develop Compound V from the progenitor serum?" asked Klara.
"It was not just the fact that, for the price of ten Tiger II tanks, one soldier could be enhanced with Jonathan Pierce's serum. It intelligently analyzed DNA, like a sentient virus, but analyzes alleles associated with Aryan purity. Arthur was an exceptionally pure specimen of the White race. He is both the first and perhaps last of his kind. Should he reproduce, the resulting naturally born child would exceed his powers by an order of magnitude. Ubermenschen would not even begin to describe it. More like a whole race of demigods born from his unbroken line thanks to the dominance of his genes. If I had realized it sooner, Germany could have held off defeat just long enough for the first generation to be born. Problem is, the dominant genes are a double-edged sword. Non-White races and yes, baseline Whites could go the way of the dodo, if Charles Darwin's theories are to be believed. In layman's terms, the brain damaged psychopath was a grave risk to the gene pool alone. I did not want more," he answered.
Klara was truly puzzled at what her husband had just explained to her. Arthur was crazy, paranoid, and racist as all hell, but she never seen him as someone who was brain damaged. He was before the injection, sure. It was not likely for any damage to linger, now that the progenitor serum had completely and utterly regrew every single neuron she could think of. All she saw that day was a man angered at the death of his wife. Any sane man would kill the person who took something from him in the most brutal, gruesome way possible if he had the ability to do so. Psychopath was not a correct adjective to describe him either, as giving cruel and unusual punishments to specific non-Whites who angered him would not fit the exact diagnostic definition. Narcissist, perhaps.
"How is he a psychopath? Even more confusingly, how does one have brain damage when their neurons completely regenerate?' she asked, puzzledly.
"For all of his abilities, he is still unfortunately bound by certain Earthly limitations. For instance, the entry wound left in his brain was able to regenerate shut when his body telekinetically produced undifferentiated cells, stem cells, at the molecular level, restructuring his whole body. Well, that piece of four-inch shrapnel is still in his brain pan, rattling around in there, cutting connections, his body constantly regrowing neurons with molecularly assembled stem cells. I have even speculated once that constant use of his powers damages his brain, hence his short engagements with enemy personnel lasting no more than seconds to minutes. That could just have been his speed and aggression, however," answered Frederick with a deep sigh.
"I see," Klara agreed.
"Now, he is not an asset in this war between Western Civilization and the Jews and their slave races, but a rather unstable wild card. He could, for instance, decide to take the UK over, expel the Jews, liberals, and non-White elements from the country, while leaving the rest of the West to burn. Why, it is possible Arthur could even draw the United States and the Soviet Union into a third world war. The blasts and radiation would have little to no effect on him, but would virtually wipe out most of the White population and all non-Whites from starvation. Like a god descending from the heavens, he would promise the survivors coming out of their bunkers salvation so long as he's crowned God King for all eternity. Ruled over by a psychopathic god king is better than extinction, but our civilization is not demographically and culturally far gone enough to warrant such drastic action," he stated.
And those were his last words. Seconds later he started to convulse once the autoimmune effects of the radiation poisoning had started to affect his brain. Vought was shaking as if electrodes were being shoved directly into his brain and someone was turning up the juice. Blood poured out from every orifice in his face, eyes, nose, ears, everything, almost as if his brain was breaking apart at the cellular level and spilling out of his head. Once the bleeding stopped, Frederick was unresponsive. He was not even breathing.
Klara gently placed her right finger on his neck to find nothing. No pulse.. Frederick was tragically dead at the old age of sixty-seven years old, killed by either the Russians or the Israelis against the very will of the United States Government. People do not die of acute radiation poisoning unless they swallowed radioactive substances, and both the Russians and the Israelis have been known to poison people with Polonium. It was like they both had given up trying to kill Arthur and refocused their attention on a softer target, her husband. Klara could not feel sadness. All she felt was rage.