The skies above Berlin were gray that morning—low, brooding clouds pressing against the Reich Chancellery like judgment. But within the heart of the Third Reich, in a courtyard carved from black stone and imperial pride, history was preparing to take a different turn.
Banners as long as buildings snapped in the wind—crimson cloth adorned with the black sun, the eagle, and the iron sigil of the Neuordnung, the "New Order." Hundreds of officials, foreign dignitaries, and military officers stood in sharp rows, their polished boots catching the brief flashes of sunlight.
Cameras—rare, bulky, and humming—had been flown in from Tokyo, New York, and Moscow. For once, the world was watching Berlin not for what it had taken—but for what it was about to unleash.
A stage had been constructed before the Pillars of Triumph, a monolithic structure built where the old Brandenburg Gate had once stood. Behind it stood a single podium. And behind that—him.
Eric waited behind a velvet curtain, dressed in the ceremonial armor tailored by Greta herself. It was sleek, futuristic, not of cloth or flag—but a synthesis of alloys, Kevlar, and symbolism. The insignia of the Reich flared across his chest like a star forged in iron.
The armor gleamed, but his face was still. Eyes ahead. Shoulders square.
Greta stood to his right, a step behind.
"You look like a god," she whispered.
Eric said nothing.
"Remember what they'll see: not just a man—but proof. Proof that they were right to believe in something more."
Her hand rested on his shoulder. "This is the beginning of everything."
From across the curtain, the voice of Minister of Enlightenment Josef Albrecht echoed across the courtyard:
"The world is no longer bound by the frailty of flesh or the lie of equality. Today, we show them evolution—not in theory, but in flesh and will."
Then, the curtain parted.
Eric stepped out.
The courtyard fell silent—not because of protocol, but because no one could believe what they were seeing.
Eric was perfectly built, standing a full head taller than the tallest soldier present. His skin was pale but unmarred, like polished stone. His jawline was carved in severe symmetry, and his eyes—cold blue—scanned the crowd with almost mechanical calculation.
The effect was immediate. Some cameras trembled. One man gasped. Even seasoned generals in the front row involuntarily straightened their backs.
He didn't march. He didn't need to.
He simply walked forward—and it felt like the earth bent to meet him.
At the podium, Albrecht raised a hand.
"Citizens of the Reich. Leaders of the world. Witness now the final proof that our vision was never madness. That what we are—was always destiny."
He turned toward Eric, voice rising:
"Behold, not just a man. Behold—the Übermenschof Earth!"
A single helicopter flew overhead.
A massive iron obelisk—twenty tons of steel—was lifted by crane into the center of the plaza.
Eric walked forward.
The crowd held its breath.
With no ceremony, no speech, Eric placed one hand against the steel—and crushed it inward. His fingers dented the material like wet clay. With a twist, he wrenched the obelisk from its base, swung it overhead, and launched it skyward like a javelin.
The obelisk screamed through the clouds, disappearing from sight.
Ten seconds later, a sonic boom shattered the silence. And then, far off in the distance—a mushroom of dust erupted from a mountain face nearly 200 kilometers away.
The silence held for a moment longer. Then it broke—into a roar of applause and hysteria.
Reporters scrambled to file their dispatches. One Japanese envoy was visibly trembling. The Soviet attaché looked down at his clipboard, then at his bodyguards, and left without a word.
From a secure viewing box above, a camera recorded everything for internal Nazi distribution. The footage would be edited, duplicated, and distributed worldwide.
The message was clear:You may have won the war. But now, we've won the future.
Behind the podium, Greta leaned toward Eric and whispered:
"You've just become mythology."
Meanwhile – Washington D.C.| Pentagon War Room
In a war room beneath the Pentagon, the footage played on repeat.
Natalie Hart, biochemist and lead scientist of Project Liberty, watched with folded arms. Next to her stood General Douglas MacArthur, grim-faced.
The air inside the Pentagon's Sub-Level 4 war room was heavy with recycled air and the stench of anxiety. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the grainy projection flickering across the large screen at the front. The footage—transmitted just hours ago from Berlin—played on a loop:
Eric, impossibly tall, flawlessly symmetrical, standing beneath a crimson banner. He didn't posture, didn't grin. He simply walked forward, expressionless. Then came the moment—the twenty-ton steel obelisk, and the unthinkable: he crushed it, lifted it, hurled it into the stratosphere like a toy.
BOOM.The screen showed the delayed footage of the impact zone—a chunk of Bavarian mountain vaporized.
There was a click as the film reel stopped. The projector whirred in silence.
The lights flickered back on.
Vice President William Thurman stood at the head of the polished oak conference table, flanked by top brass from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and CIA. Tall, silver-haired, with the practiced composure of a man used to cameras but not battlefields, he adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
"So," he said, voice calm but tight. "Can someone tell me whether that was special effects or the end of the balance of power as we know it?"
Silence.
General Douglas MacArthur was the first to speak. His uniform was crisp, his medals glinting in the fluorescent lights, but his face looked older—worn.
"It's not a bluff," he said, almost reluctantly.
From across the room, Natalie Hart, biochemist and civilian scientific adviser to the Defense Department, stepped forward. She tapped a folder against her arm—her jaw locked in disbelief.
"I've reviewed the footage a dozen times," she said. "His kinetic output on the throw alone suggests muscle density far beyond any known human maximum. No visible strain, perfect lift. He didn't just train for this. He was built for it."
The VP raised an eyebrow. "Built?"
Natalie nodded. "Bred, more likely. Tailored from birth—genetically or through some experimental compound. Possibly both."
General Westcott of the Air Force leaned forward. "Then why the hell haven't we done this yet?"
Natalie didn't hesitate. "Because we're not the Reich. We still operate under the Geneva Code. Human experimentation at this scale would violate every international—"
"Spare us the ethics lesson, doctor," MacArthur interrupted. "They've just fielded the equivalent of a living nuke. I need to know if he can be countered."
Natalie looked at him. Then at the Vice President.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "From what I saw… there's no telling how stable he is."
VP Thurman narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by stable?"
Natalie hesitated. "He didn't look proud. He didn't act like a soldier or even a showman. He moved like… a machine. Controlled. Programmed. No emotion. If he's really been subjected to the levels of genetic and psychological conditioning I suspect—he's not a man. He's a weaponized ideology wrapped in skin."
"Can he be reasoned with?" asked the CIA Deputy Director.
MacArthur and Natalie exchanged a glance. Then MacArthur answered flatly:
"No."
The Vice President slowly sank into his chair.
"We've got bases in Japan, the Philippines, and France," he said. "Every single one of them is now within strike range of a man who could knock a tank across a mountain without a scratch on his knuckles."
He paused. Then said the words the room was dreading:
"Gentlemen—we've officially lost the arms race."
A low, uncomfortable murmur followed. One general wiped his brow. Another lit a cigarette despite the no-smoking policy.
The projector whirred again as an aide rewound the footage. Eric reappeared—calm, dominating, godlike.
The Vice President turned to Natalie.
"You're heading Project Liberty, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
The Vice President paced, each step echoing ominously.
"For those not briefed, Dr. Hart, explain it. All of it."
She swallowed, then nodded. She stepped to the center of the room and opened the leather folder she'd been gripping like a life raft. Inside were charts, gene sequences, serum samples, and pages redacted with more ink than text.
"Project Liberty," she began, "is a classified initiative launched in 1945 under presidential directive—code-black authorization—after intelligence revealed the Reich had begun human augmentation."
The generals shifted uncomfortably.
"Our objective," Natalie continued, "was to create a countermeasure. Not just a deterrent. A response. An American symbol strong enough to rival anything the Reich could build in a lab or parade across the world stage."
She tapped a page—schematics of molecular diagrams glowing under ultraviolet ink.
"We began researching selective gene amplification, viral delivery systems, neuromuscular reinforcements. In short—how to build a super-soldier. Our focus is biochemical," she continued. "Gene activation, regenerative amplification, neuro-muscular enhancement. We've run simulations. Preliminary trials in animal models show a 600% increase in strength, reflexes, and recovery. Ethically. Responsibly."
The Vice President raised a skeptical brow. "You mean slowly."
Natalie met his gaze. "I mean without burning men alive to see what sticks."
The CIA Director spoke up. "And the Nazis didn't care who burned."
"Exactly," she said. "They tested on infants, prisoners, even their own volunteers. Most didn't survive. But some… like Eric… clearly did."
General MacArthur exhaled, rubbing his brow. "So where are we in comparison?"
Natalie flipped to a second page. It showed a blood profile.
"We have a subject."
She exhaled slowly. "We have a subject in mind. Decorated war hero. Good genes. High trauma resilience. But we haven't begun active augmentation yet. The serum's not stable."
MacArthur cut in. "But it can be."
Natalie didn't look convinced.
"I'll need full access to classified Nazi biochemical records captured. And support from biophysics and metallurgy teams."
"You'll get it," said the VP immediately.
Then he looked around the room. His voice was firmer now.
The Vice President leaned in. "And do we have a candidate?"
Here, Natalie slowed.
"We have a shortlist. One name stands out."
She pulled a photograph from her folder and slid it across the table. A man in uniform. American flag patch. Steady eyes.
"Logan Hunter. First Infantry Division. Normandy survivor. Silver Star. Distinguished Service Cross. Medically resilient. Psychologically stable. Strong moral compass."
MacArthur smiled faintly. "I know him. Good man. Real soldier."
"Set up the contact. I want him brought in within the week."
Natalie closed the folder, but the weight didn't leave her shoulders. She was walking a line between science and sacrifice.
"I'll handle it."
As she turned to leave, the Vice President called out:
"Doctor Hart."
She paused.
"Make him a symbol we can live with. We don't have the luxury of waiting. This Übermensch of theirs isn't just a superweapon. He's a symbol. The Aryan ideal—made flesh. The world is watching Berlin again, and not with horror this time. With awe."
MacArthur leaned on the table. "Which means it's not just about creating a countermeasure. It's about restoring faith—that America still leads the free world. That we have our own symbol."
The room went quiet.
Then the Vice President straightened up, smoothed his tie, and made the declaration official:
"We greenlight Project Liberty. Effective immediately."
Aide-de-camps scrambled to make notes. Orders would be signed by morning.
Natalie felt her gut twist.
Somewhere, deep inside, she feared what they were about to build. She remembered Logan—her childhood friend, her brother in all but blood. He'd returned from war scarred but still human.
Now, they were going to turn him into something else.
She swallowed hard, staring at the frozen frame of Eric on the screen.
"I just hope," she murmured, "we don't lose him in the process."
"God help us."
Meanwhile – Moscow
In a bunker beneath the Kremlin, General Boris Komarov lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
"He's not a soldier," he muttered. "He's a weapon. A message in human form."
A junior officer adjusted his glasses. "Sir, we should prepare a counter-program."
Boris narrowed his eyes.
"We don't need a counter-program."
"We need a guardian."
That Night – Berlin
Eric sat alone in his chamber, the cheers still echoing from the marble outside.
He looked at his hands. Bloodless. Unscarred. Perfect.
He'd lifted a monument and thrown it into the sky.
But the applause hadn't felt real.
Not like the child he remembered—crying in the training compound.
That memory still lingered like a stain.
Behind him, Greta's shadow fell across the door.
"You did well," she said.
He turned to her. "They cheered. But they feared me."
She smiled.
"That's the point."