Seven years after the Second Russia Civil War had broken out, the Committee for State Security, or KGB, were in the dingy basement of the Kremlin with a slide projector. On the projected image was the emblem of the KGB, a red star with a hammer and sickle. In addition, there was a sword through it, representing it as a sort of sword and shield of the state.
Viewing the projected images was a group of big-wigs of the Soviet government, all dressed in their formal attire, or the closest it came to formal attire for spies. Everyone in there was at attention, too, looking at what could be the very collapse of the Soviet Government if things did not start to turn around for them. Some of their facial expressions were grim, to say the least.
"Premier Comrade Alexei… Comrade Agents… Thank you for coming. Here's what we know so far. Seven years ago, the Soviet Union came under attack by a strange supe known as Captain Albion," said a presenter.
The slide pulled to a man in a black costume with golden buttons, with a black and white Union Jack sporting a swastika billowing from the back as his cape. Captain Albion had blonde hair and crystal green eyes. The man's face was angular and rectangular in shape, with a bushy blonde goatee. Moreover, his nose was prominent yet straight like a marble statue of a Roman Emperor brought to life. That was where the pleasantries ended.
He was standing over a pile of mutilated corpses with an obvious erection in his cotton pants that were like the military fatigues of the German SS. Proud of his conquest, Captain Albion was flipping the man with the camera off. Like a typical revolutionary, he left one of the NKVD officers alive to tell his story to demoralize and instill fear inside of the government. Clever.
Surrounding him, there was an army of the subversives and terrorists imprisoned at Vorkuta, armed with stolen AK-47s, SKS marksmen rifles along with other deathly weapons of war. This was a man building an army for conquest.
"Dangerous, unpredictable, and now has control of the US Government!" claimed the presenter.
Then it pulled to other slides, one of them being Captain Albion shooting laser-like plasma-based beams out of his eyes at Jewish communities with a sickening grin, to aerial photos of him surviving hits from munitions that turn the top armor of tanks into Swiss cheese without harm.
"So, what is being problem?" asked one of the agents in the meeting. He was a tall thin man of six feet, two inches tall with black hair and blue eyes.
'Ah, yes. Pull the other one. The problem, Comrade, is that in his civilian identity as Arthur Luther Pierce, he seemingly has endless wealth from a dozen criminal enterprises, allowing him to bribe and intimidate even the President into allowing his corporate interest in Santa Carla, a now privately owned town, to flout American civil rights law," answered the Presenter.
"Even worse, he used his immense wealth to effectively become the de-facto President of The United States of America," stated the Presenter.
"This supe poses a dire threat to the Soviet Union, Comrades. And so… he must… be… destroyed. As we speak, Arthur is in San Francisco, getting his rocks with barely legal hippy women at youth cultural festival."
"And the other members of Thule Society, his executives?" asked one of the agents.
"Having hooker and blow parties in a massive yacht off the coast of the San Francisco Bay Area. Savages. Degenerates. There is only one way to deal with such men, revolution," proclaimed the Presenter.
"Savages… degenerates… there is only one way to deal with such men… revolution!" proclaimed the Presenter with a righteous indignation.
A kinetic kill vehicle from a Soviet Satellite came barreling down Earth's atmosphere at over thirty times the speed of sound, turning into a ball of flame the moment it made contact with it. The missile slammed down into the mega yacht off the coast of the San Francisco Bay Area, smashing through the impressive, four hundred-million-dollar yacht in one bright, luminous deafening clap. It broke into two pieces shifting straight up, then sinking down into the depths of Davy Jones' locker.
The sonic pulse of the blast spread out, shattering windows. Waves in excess of twenty feet high had drenched all of the beach front property of the San Francisco Bay area in water deep enough to stick one's thighs into. Millions of dollars in damage at the bare minimum and the United States Government could not, for the life of them, pinpoint the origin. All they knew was that it came from orbit.
Arthur Luther Pierce watched the flash with dismay at Golden Gate Park, fresh from banging one of those Hippy chicks who had just hit the legal age of consent. He knew that it was his mega yacht that went up in that explosion. And even worse, a good chunk of the command structure of his organization were in that yacht of his, all KIA. His grip on the United States was at great risk.
"Greetings Comrade… Mother Russia sends her regards," said a Russian voice from behind Arthur
"You expect me to beg, schlomo?," responded Arthur frustratedly.
"No, you arrogant, uppity goy, I expect you to die," he responded, his Russian accent slipping into yiddish.
Immediately, the KGB agent raised his Red-9 handgun up to Arthur's eyes, only for Arthur's eyes to turn a menacing reddish white when his tactile telekinetic fields started to produce plasma from the air. The KGB agent shuddered back in shock.
"Mine's bigger," scoffed Arthur.
Two bullets struck Arthur in the eyes, only for them to be promptly deflected into a hapless agent's head at his side. With a small hole through and through, the other agent fell to the ground, where a pool of blood formed next to his perforated head. After seven years, they were still bothering to send fodder armed with nothing but conventional armor piercing projectile weapons. Little did those morons know, his durability did not come from his skin. It was his psychokinesis, his autonomic responses in his brain, essentially.
A beam of superheated plasma shot forth from Arthur's eyes, melting through a KGB agent and into some of the tents they were using for cover. They fell to the floor, mutilated, smoldering heaps screaming in pain. Another carefully aimed blast took out another KGB hit squad before they could even raise their weapons. One of them fell to the ground, his hand and upper torso completely cut from his body in charredragged pieces.
From the rooftops of Golden Gate Park, several KGB Operatives brandished RPG-7 rocket launchers and fired. Out of the barrels, the rockets whistled by as their engines activated, shooting toward Arthur's location at low mach speed.
Most of them missed Arthur. The two that hit him harmlessly exploded on his nigh-impenetrable flesh without any signs of damage, not even to his clothes. When the smoke cleared, he was simply dirtied from the explosive residue that was not ignited by the piezo-electric detonator at the tips of the warheads.
Arthur swiftly levitated into the air. Then widened the arc of the plasma beam in order to minimize penetration into the buildings. The radiation produced by the beams was beta rays, free electrons, which meant no cancer for the people inside of the structures. Just scorching twenty thousand degree heat flash cremating them within an instant. The only thing left of them were charred skeletons, covered in glowing hot ashes.
"Man, the Kremlin must have really hated these men if they were sending them after me," chuckled Arthur to himself before flying off to his Aston Martin sports car in an alleyway.
Abram Diamond was standing atop a roof top, peering down with binoculars, watching a nearby alleyway as Arthur put his ridiculous supersuit on in order to maintain his secret identity. He was watching with disappointment. Normally, one would expect a kinetic kill vehicle fired out of an orbital missile sat to reduce a supe to paste. Direct hits were said, from its creator, to turn a supe as strong as Liberty to red paste in the blast radius alone. The worthless waste of money did not even harm the hippies at the festival.
"I don't understand it. We sunk his party yacht. Threw every weapon strong enough to kill an M61 Pershing at him, yet he somehow survives. The amount of focused kinetic force from those shaped-charge warheads would have blown a one-inch wide hole through Liberty or knocked Soldier Boy on his ass. How!?" screamed Abram in frustration.
Then Arthur disappeared with a sonic boom. The sheer amount of displaced air from him going zero to a thousand miles per hour shattered glass.
"You arrogant, subhuman morons do realize I can hear you, right?" chuckled Arthur with a look of annoyance.
"Jews and your hubris! When will you learn?" said Arthur with a smile.
They turned to their absolute horror to see Arthur, dressed in his Captain Albion costume, his Union Jack flag billowing in the wind. His eyes were glowing a bright white, about ready to blast everyone on the rooftop with his plasma-based heat vision. His biceps, the size of a man's head, had the strength to lift a small warship with one outstretched hand. They were practically bulging out of his canvas costume, and it was not a form-fitting design in any way. For a belt buckle, he had a solid gold fasces, which was never blemished by every single weapon thrown at him. He must have a stock pile of those, Abram would guess.
Abram felt the food he ate and fluids he drank come out of every hole of his body. In the downstairs district as he pissed and shit his pants knowing what Arthur had the strength to do to him. Arthur was not bound to womanly compassion like Liberty was. In fact, he would much rather be strangled to death by her. Arthur was Vlad Tepes reincarnated, a sadistic monster who would settle for nothing less than Abram's people's total extinction. Abram also knew that Arthur was a man who took things very personally, namely the horrible death of his beloved Nadya at Abram's orders.
"So, kike, tell me, what is keeping me from ripping out your intestines and displaying your mutilated corpse at the local synagogue for the rest of the rats to see?!" threatened Arthur with a burning hatred in his eyes… literally.
"There are nuclear time bombs lined with a bit of cobalt hidden all over Europe. A neutral element… cobalt. When bombarded with ionizing radiation, it becomes Cobalt-60, a long-lasting radioactive isotope, enough for say, irradiating all of Europe for over a hundred years. I can wipe your fucking race out with the push of a button and be home in time in Israel for matzo balls. See this briefcase by my feet! All I have to is open it, press the big red button, and your race goes the way of the FUCKING DODO bird. MARK MY WORDS! YOUR KIND ONLY EXISTS TO SERVE US AND DIE IN OUR WARS. YOU ARE CATTLE ON A RANCH DESTINED FOR SLAUGHTER! Nothing more," ranted Abram.
Using his psionic penetra vision, Arthur peered into the briefcase, isolating the very circuitry that connected to the big red button that could wipe out in excess of seventy percent of Western Civilization. Using his knowledge of electrical engineering he learned from books at the local library, he severed those connections with a low-level blast of his particle beam eyes, which also had a cascading electromagnetic pulse effect that fried all of the electronics.
"I will be taking that as evidence," Captain Albion growled, with a look of annoyance.
Arthur descended down, grabbed Abram by the throat in his left hand and the briefcase in his right. He then flew off, straight to Vought American HQ all the way in Jacksonville, Florida. Liberty and Soldier Boy were waiting there with stalwart expressions at the dead of night.
"Whoops!" chuckled Arthur.
There, at the very entrance, Arthur dropped Abram one hundred feet down, with Arthur trailing behind him. With a thunderous crash that broke the concrete of the sidewalk and shattered both of Abram's talus bones and his femurs. Screaming in pain, Abram looked down to see both of his fragmented femurs sticking out of his legs, his feet almost severed. Around him was a pool of blood, spattered around in the vague shape of a flower.
"Come to turn yourself in, Arthur?" asked Liberty sternly.
"Not exactly," said Arthur with a deep sigh.
"I have come here with evidence of attempted terrorism and attempted genocide from this little Jew boy who had just threatened to irradiate Europe with dirty bombs. I have with me in my right hand a briefcase with which this conniving little foreskin muncher attempted to detonate his nukes he scattered all across Europe. I think the UN, CIA, FBI, and countless other intelligences would like a piece of him," stated Captain Albion, crossing his arms with a self-assured look.
"The people of the free, anti-communist west should know the hero who saved them," stated Soldier Boy.
"I would like my name kept out of the tabloids," requested Arthur sternly.
"You don't want your name in the paper as the man who had just saved hundreds of millions of people? Why?" asked Liberty, confused.
"I would like to gauge the public's reaction to this revelation. Will they still be supporting endless tax dollars to Israel after they had just made an attempt to exterminate their race, or will the Israeli Government leave him to rot in an American prison cell, being raped up the fudge factory by Bubba and his merry band of Aryan brothers? Cut to two weeks later, the event is no longer fresh in the eyes of the American public and they completely forget the whole thing even happened. They forgot about the USS Liberty, an event where the Jews bombed an American naval vessel, killing hundreds of their fellow Americans. That tells me that they will forget about this too and go right back to demonizing the people who see through the cattle ranch the Jews have turned this country into. Thinking they will turn on the people who provide them with their comfort and security is a fool's errand. The plebs will not realize what is happening until jewish commissars start ordering niggers to round them up and drop them off in gulags," answered Arthur with a grim expression, his eyes empty, dead.
"You are correct. That is why I moved on from all of this horseshit. I have a daughter, Chloe. I have accepted it was over twenty-four years ago when the west and east turned against the only man who had a solution. Sadly, he shot himself in his bunker after his wife killed herself once they both realized all was lost," conceded Liberty with a deep sigh.
"With what is happening in Russia with the Second White Army, the Whites of Russia should be free. Instead of having faith in the moronic masses, my organization will instead take the country with a very well-funded and dedicated minority. We have already captured several federal subjects in Russia that possess nuclear capabilities; I would give it twenty-two years before the Soviet Union collapses. A couple years if the Jews do something really stupid, which would play right into my hands. I have no problem if WWIII breaks out and the Jews in Washington and the Jews in the Kremlin start firing news. Two weeks and the survivors from bunkers could re-emerge and restore our society to its former glory. Salted bombs, like the kike who is bleeding out on the pavement was planning to detonate, would be a lot more difficult to save a population from," assured Arthur in a glass-half full way.
"Speaking of which, I think it would be best if one of you staunched his bleeding so that he can tell the Central Intelligence Agency where the bombs are located for disarmament and disposal," demanded Pierce.
"Now you care about the Jewish people!?" screamed Abram looking at Arthur in agony.
"No, I just care about the information you have in your head. Divulge in that formation, and I endeavor to ensure that your death may be as quick and painless as possible," answered Pierce smugly.
"We can arrest you, too, Pierce. I still haven't lived that down when you grabbed me by the neck with one arm and tossed me across a whole circus. I was limping for days. You have also committed dozens of murders in San Francisco with witness statements. You have committed enough murders at that hippy festival to warrant a hundred life sentences. Not to mention brutally tearing apart Damaslaw before Liberty's very eyes. She's traumatized as every woman would be watching a man get torn in half with his shit pipes hanging out his torso. You claim because you are rich and powerful that you are above the law. Well, we are fucking superheroes, teabag. You are not above American Law, motherfucker," threatened Soldier Boy.
"True. However, you seem to forget that drug-addled hippy birds do not make reliable witnesses. My lawyers could simply state that they were high and hallucinating a savior as KGB agents were violently ravaging them. The official story by my good friend in the San Franscisco Police Department says a gas leak had caused the death of those KGB agents. Head on down to San Francisco and you will notice the cops have Ferraris for their civilian cars," countered Arthur.
"Now I am off to Eastern Europe to ensure the Holocaust is not as fake as the Flat-Earth Hypothesis this time," said Captain Albion.
Captain Albion slowly levitated off the ground, carefully so as not to shatter the windows with a sonic boom until he was at least a few thousand feet off the ground. Once a mile over the city of Jacksonville, Captain Albion disappeared in a comet with a trail of fire several hundred meters behind him. With his current velocity, he would be at Kiev in around fifteen seconds at low Earth orbit. Speed and aggression were key to his success. Giving an enemy time to think of strategies meant certain doom for his staged revolution.
Meanwhile, the Russians were making plans inside of an obscure military base on the outskirts of Kiev. Inside of the military base, they had artillery shells with the tell-tail black trefoil on a yellow background. Nuclear shells. In the seven years of fighting Captain Albion, the Soviet Government had just mastered miniaturized nuclear weapons. Then there were large shells that were hollow, filled with a toxic gas, poisonous enough to kill tens of thousands of people with but a single gram. They were going for broke. If they could not kill Captain Albion, they would hope to at least imprison him in some secret black site.
One of the soldiers there, Corporal Kholod Viktor Ilyich, was confused as to why there were wooden pallets of nuclear artillery shells, each with the yield to destroy a city block. Was it really that necessary? The anti-communists were humans with access to man-portable weaponry only. What were weapons that could turn the tide of WWII doing in a military base. Who even authorized the use of such devastating weapons was what the Corporal was wondering.
His commanding officer was overseeing the loading of the shells into artillery pieces at the entrance of the supply depot. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was smoking a Tabacco pipe like a sea captain out of an American adventure film. He was around six feet, three inches tall and had brown hair and steely gray eyes. Around fifty-two years old, he was still muscular for his age, having the reputation in the base for snapping a bear's neck with his bare hands. Colonel Nikita Dragovich was his name.
Kholod walked over to face him.
"Are nuclear capable warheads that necessary for what is essentially an anti-Communist revolution?" asked Kholod nervously.
"Absolutely, Comrade. There are much worse things in the skies than Second White Army terrorists to deal with. Namely, a threat so dangerous it could be the very end of this glorious Soviet Union. You'll see soon." explained the Colonel sternly.
"You mean Liberty?" asked the corporal.
"No, something far worse," replied the Colonel nervously.
In the pale, wintry skies of Ukraine, there was a trail of fire in the sky hundreds of meters long, traveling at high-speed, then stopping instantly. It had appeared as a small black dot about the size of a grain of rice, almost indistinguishable from a floater in Kholod's eye as it slowly descended down into the city of Kiev. Kholod raised his binoculars to find it was a man with a perverted Union Jack for a cape.
The man from far away had yellowish golden hair. Kholod had color blindness, so he was not very good at seeing certain shades of yellow. But he could tell from that distance that he was blonde. For a so-called Brit, he looked very German or Slavic.
And boy, the Colonel was right, he was far worse than Liberty. He was faster, likely stronger, and from the murmurs he had heard around base, much more destructive, too. The defeat at Seelow Heights was caused by him singlehandedly. The only reason why Germany even lost that war was because he was focused on the Western theatre. Worst yet, there were legends that this Captain Albion, who until now Kholod believed to be a boogeyman, destroyed the 3rd Shock Army without any support, singlehandedly. Kholod was tempted to defect for fear of his life—if it was not for the fact that Captain Albion would kill him had he known who his mother was.
If the Colonel thought he was going to hit a moving target that could move at hundreds of times the speed of sound, he was stark-raving mad. Supersonic missiles have issues hitting supersonic aircraft with guidance systems built into them. What makes him think that he can hit a man-sized target with skin tougher than the frontal armor of a main battle tank. Nothing short of a direct hit would harm him. Good luck doing that with subsonic artillery shells, nuclear or not.
Meanwhile, Arthur was in Kiev setting up a podium in the middle of town hall, or whatever passed for town hall in a communist country like Ukraine. Captain Albion had just wiped out the local government and he was standing there, thinking of something to say to get the Russians to revolt yet again against their oppressive regime.
A man with brown hair and brown eyes went up to Arthur. He was wearing a poorly made cloth parka with holes in it, some of them chewed by rats living in his apartment. The man was blind on one side of his face from either a wound in WWII given his age or from a Vodka-fueled brawl, which was what one would expect from Slavic peoples. As for his hair, the Soviet Union did not pay the common pleb enough for a haircut; thus, Arthur had assumed it was messy and disheveled.
"Why are you here, svolotch?" asked the man.
"Here to free you from the shackles of the Zionist oppression of the Soviet Union," explained Arthur with the first thing that came to mind.
"No, you are the ones oppressed. When I think of America's supes, I think of monkeys in zoo," retorted the Russian peasant.
"You live in a government where your bloody kids are bribed for ratting on family members for having more wealth than everybody else. Imagine if your own son went to one of the gulags for having too much IQ, wealth, or an antisemitic remark to one of the party members," explained Arthur.
"You people waddle from one form of oppression to another. It is like you are telling your Jewish overlords 'Fuck me daddy, with a cock wrapped in sandpaper without lubricant!'" You people are some of the most docile sheep in existence. So docile, in fact, that even the eunuchs who prance around in hippy drum circles can take a lesson. You are a joke… Scratch that!... A cosmic joke," said Arthur, pointing out the state of the Soviet people.
"Yeah, but everyone's equally miserable. And if my son was against the rule of the Bolsheviks, I would dance a jig and go to sleep if the NKVD shot him and buried him in a ditch," responded Russian Joe Sixpack.
Arthur was desperate. The first thing that came to mind were Russia's bread and circuses. But the country was something an enigma. It maintained its oppression through fear and the fact that human misery seemed to love company. How was he going to reach these people, he did not know. It boggled even his brilliant mind. Then a eureka moment had just hit him like an anvil. They had one distraction from their miserable lives.
"The Jews are stealing your vodka!" accused Arthur.
"This being outrage. I could lose my son in the gulags and still be a happy man if I have vodka.," cried out Russian Joe Sixpack.
"Da, without vodka Russia would have being democracy two hundred years ago," said another man in the crowd
"This cannot be standing. There is no such thing as free lunch, filthy zhyds!"
"Yeah! Give ME VODKA—OR GIVE ME DEATH!" proclaimed Arthur
"Da!" they all yelled out in unison.
"Yeah! So, what does this mean for the zionist Jews in your country?" yelled out Arthur, doing a Roman Solute.
"BAD NEWS FOR THE ZIONISTS!" the crowd chanted in unison.
"That's the spirt! Now get out there, find the Jews—and kill them inbred middle eastern freaks dead!" ordered Arthur.
"FOR VODKA!" proclaimed Russian Joe Sixpack at the head of the crowd.
With a confident smile, Arthur revealed crates full of AK-47s, satchel charges, Molotov cocktails, and lastly, a few rocket propelled grenade launchers to deal with pesky Russian armor. He was just handing them out to the beleaguered Russian peasants like candy in the hopes that they would turn them against their oppressors. He felt like George Washington leading the Continental Army against the British. Finally, the tide was turning.
In addition to those weapons, he had brought a little something he raided from the British Military inside of the Raj. It was a large crate full of 81mm mortar shells and the tubes that fired them. Mobile weapons, mortars can be carried by two-man crews and fired. These were the perfect weapons for revolutionaries, as it gave them decent, long-range artillery support against the military. 81mm shells, while not large caliber, were more than able to level structures and fortifications with focused fire.
They were expecting a super to swoop down and kill them. But instead, what came for them was a tidal wave that was a heavily armed, well-organized mob. Wave upon wave of armed peasants came crashing against the base, only to be cut down by machine gun nests. Kholod took aim with his Kalashnikov. He was hoping to not hit his countryman with any of his fire. They were sadly making it difficult.
After about a hundred peasants were on the ground, riddled with holes, screaming in agony. Shells came whistling through the air off in the distance, at the machine gun nests. For a bunch of armed rabble, they were quite organized and well-coordinated.
Two shells explosively struck the machine gun nests, precisely at each corner of the base, until they were piles of rubble. Without the support of the machine gun nests, the infantry inside were easy prey. Peasants rushed in with stolen Kalashnikovs, using the unoperated tanks and APCs to Kholod's right as cover.
Desperately Kholod beaten feet for the warehouse in the hopes to escape his doom, bullets whistling past. He even felt a strong burning sensation in his ear. Maybe he was hit. Kholod knew he had to get away from them, or else they would do a lot worse than shoot him. They would string him up to a lamppost by his entrails once they took one good look at his mother, who was Jewish.
He heard two successive bangs then a sharp burning in his knees that caused him to drop to the floor with a thud. He looked to see two large, ragged holes where his kneecaps once were. Kholod was crippled forever. No advances in medical technology could restore his range of motion. He looked up, expecting one of the peasants.
But it was the Colonel. The shooting had stopped. He looked at Kholod with a burning hatred in his eyes, about ready to put one in between Kholod's.
"Why," asked Kholod softly. "I have nothing to do with the Bolsheviks and all of the atrocities in the Gulags."
"That is easy, semitic enemy from the orient. Natural law. Should we fail our task in rooting you out, your slave races will replace us. It is Darwin's survival of the fittest, sadly. It is your race are my race and I regrettably choose my own race's survival. If it means slaughtering every worthless subhuman on the planet, so be it," answered a man in a cape, hovering to the Colonel's right.
"Time to put you out of my misery," sneered Captain Albion.
"Back away if you do not want a lethal dose of beta particle radiation, boys," Captain Albion warned.
The soldiers, peasants, and Colonel all backed away, clutching their crotches.
Captain Albion's emerald green eyes lit up a menacing red with a burning light sizzling through the air. Smoke came from both sides of the super's eyes as they became, to the outside observer, two tiny stars of burning hot plasma. Kholod felt nothing but everything fading to black before he could even process it in a bright flash of red light.
A/N Before you ask, yes, a revolution can start over something as stupid as taking away a luxury item if its the final straw.