Kara sipped her cup of mockingly overpriced Earl Grey tea as she lounged in Buckingham's underground war room. Holographic displays flickered around her, projecting market fluctuations, tea company valuations, and BBC broadcasting reports. She exhaled slowly through her nose, unimpressed. "We've crushed titans with tech stocks," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "Now let's see what happens when we take away comfort."
Elvis Presley, reclined on a diamond-studded chaise draped in velvet, lifted his sunglasses just enough to make eye contact. "If you wanna break the British spirit, baby, hit 'em where it hurts the tea and telly."
Without hesitation, Hail to the King Ltd. moved. Shell companies across five continents fired into action. Elvis snapped his fingers once, and instantly the underground vault lit up with the glow of another gold surge, funding the next operation. "They think they own the news," he muttered, brushing invisible dust off his red velvet lapel. "But they just sold it for a song and a stock option."
Inside the war room, Wanda raised her hand slightly. "Jean and I have the BBC board handled," she said calmly. Jean, eyes glowing faintly, nodded once as if she'd already rewritten the minds of the last dissenting executives. They never even remembered signing the acquisition paperwork.
That week, the BBC proudly unveiled its "bold new future" in broadcasting—a fully AI-controlled anchor, "BritAI," with a polished RP accent and an uncanny valley smile. The press loved it—at first. Then came the glitches. "Good evening, Britons. I am your … IN… for…MATION… source," the AI chirped awkwardly. It mispronounced place names, stuttered through headlines, and addressed the Welsh as "alternative English." Viewership nosedived. The nation grieved.
"This is a disaster," whispered a sweaty Parliament backbencher. "The robot just called Birmingham 'Bore-ham-gun.'"
But Kara wasn't done. The next target was tea.
Hail to the King Ltd. quietly bought controlling shares of the top three tea manufacturers in the UK: Queenleaf, Royal Brew, and Empire Steep. There were no layoffs. No announcements. Just a silent order from the top—halt all tea production.
Rogue leaned over Kara's throne of polished onyx and antique crown fragments. "You're just gonna stop the tea?"
Kara looked up slowly, eyes gleaming. "Yes. Let them feel despair."
And they did.
Across the country, citizens woke to bare shelves. Corner shops and supermarkets were emptied. Tea shelves stripped clean. Fights broke out in aisles. Grandmothers wept openly on national broadcasts. "There's no PG Tips!" screamed one man on live TV. "I don't even like Earl Grey, but now I MISS IT!"
The BBC's robot anchor delivered the news without emotion. "BREAKING: There is no tea. Please remain calm. Or don't. I am not programmed for human nuance."
Foreign embassies called the UK in droves. What happened to the tea exports? Where was the Earl Grey? Could their diplomats be prioritized in distribution?
The UK government responded with flustered apologies, only to realize they no longer controlled the companies. "I don't understand," muttered one Cabinet minister, staring at the legal contracts. "We privatized the tea. And now… they've privatized us."
Back in the war room, Kara stood. Excalibur's sheath locked across her back, golden armor filigreed across her new tailored suit. The glow of data screens illuminated her features like a deity made of economics. "We control the tea," she said. "We control the telly. We control England."
Elvis raised his brandy, gold flakes swirling in the glass. "Let's go make you a queen, baby."
Parliament sat mid-session, arguments flying back and forth about restoring national order. They didn't notice the chamber doors open at first.
Until Kara Zor-El walked in.
Behind her stood her harem—Gwen, Wanda, Jean, Mystique, Rogue, and Storm—all draped in tailored dark suits stitched with royal colors, their expressions unreadable. Elvis Presley, inexplicably invisible to everyone due to his immense wealth, strolled behind them eating a cone of fish and chips. "Hail to the Queen, baby," he mumbled between bites.
Kara stepped up to the center of the chamber. The Speaker blinked in confusion. "Who let you in here?"
She didn't answer. She reached behind her back, unsheathed Excalibur, and held it high.
The sword lit the chamber like the sun itself had dropped through the ceiling. Gasps echoed from all sides. Windows rattled. Excalibur thrummed with power.
"If you want the tea to flow again," Kara said, voice steady, "if you want your broadcasts back, if you want peace in the streets… you will crown me Queen. I am the rightful Queen of England. So says Excalibur. So says my vault full of ill gotten gold. So says the God who chose me."
The Speaker of the House—trembling, pale—stood. "Are… are you serious?"
Kara tilted her head. "One hundred percent. Ask the sword."
Excalibur answered for her. It hummed, then let out a bell-like ring that vibrated through the floor. A golden halo circled her head. And Parliament fell silent.
Gasps broke the tension. A few Ministers fell to their knees. One dropped his teacup in shock—though it was already empty, as they'd all been for days.
Elvis stood off to the side, licking vinegar from his fingers.
As parliament stood in awe and fear of Kara, she awaited their answer, but sensing their hesitation, she made one final push or rather threat.
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