Kara sat cross-legged atop her throne, an extravagant behemoth of gold-plated ironwork and melted-down war medals, sipping from a porcelain teacup lined with platinum. The throne room—if one could still call it that—was a modern-day villain's dream, fitted with holographic displays, smart glass ceilings, and floor-length windows overlooking a bubbling lava moat freshly installed by Wanda's chaos magic and a crew of baffled contractors. Towering holographic stock tickers floated midair like digital ghosts, ticking in a dozen currencies as Natasha paced slowly beneath them, tablet in hand, watching global markets twitch. Storm leaned on the edge of the polished obsidian war table, arms crossed, while Jean tapped her fingers on a glowing control console. Rogue whistled low as she flipped through a portfolio stacked taller than a body. The air hummed with potential—both monetary and apocalyptic.
"Gwen," Kara said, voice carrying with lazy authority, "status update?"
Gwen's face lit up on a hovering screen from her penthouse in New York. "We're in position. Microsoft and Apple are already showing strain. UK financial markets will feel the squeeze within twenty-four hours."
Kara reclined deeper into her gilded seat, her red cloak cascading over the side like fresh blood. "Good. Let's start taking over the world… one stock at a time."
A vault door creaked open across the chamber, and music drifted out—soft and sultry, old-world crooning as timeless as it was absurd. "Welcome to the King's vault, baby," came a familiar voice as Elvis Presley strutted through a corridor of gold bricks, decked out in a rhinestone-covered banker's tuxedo complete with a money-clip cravat and jewel-encrusted cufflinks that sparkled like miniature suns.
The harem descended after him as Kara rose and followed. Inside the vault was an empire of wealth. Mountains of bullion towered over priceless artifacts. Gold and treasure filled sub-chambers with names like "Swiss Backups," "Prime Minister's Rainy Day Fund," and "Secret EU Reparations." Elvis swiveled into place atop a 24-karat gold toilet encrusted with diamonds and lined with velvet. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned on a ruby-studded cane.
"They talk about a porcelain throne," he said with a wink, "but the King's gotta sit in style."
Kara stared, momentarily speechless. "You're the most useful man I've ever met."
"I aim to please, darlin'." He snapped his fingers, and hidden vault doors slid open with mechanical grace, revealing chambers overflowing with untouched fortunes, stolen heirlooms, and abandoned currencies no longer in circulation but still worth their weight in power.
The next day began the global assault. L.E.Y.A unleashed their wealth with the precision of a guided missile strike. Elvis moved through backroom banking servers like a ghost, funneling funds through shell firms named things like "Starlight Holdings," "Quantum Orbital Assets," and "Definitely Not Evil Corp." Within forty-eight hours, L.E.Y.A had begun discreetly absorbing significant holdings in Prada, Nike, Walmart, and tech behemoths like Microsoft and Apple.
"If we own the economy," Kara said while swirling a glass of crimson juice that looked suspiciously like liquefied rubies, "we don't need a single missile. Just dividends."
Jean and Wanda worked in tandem—Jean's psychic threads worming into the minds of critical banking officials, and Wanda twisting fate itself to cause sudden market hesitations. Natasha, always the tactician, slipped blackmail material through encrypted channels, manipulating shady brokers and asset managers into compliance. By the end of the week, LEIA wasn't just infiltrating—they were reshaping the global economy.
Still, Kara had no plans to declare herself Queen just yet. "Too many bureaucrats," she muttered. "Too many angry newspapers and pearl-clutching monarchists."
Instead, she opted for financial strangulation. Elvis called it "The Velvet Guillotine." With uncanny accuracy, he orchestrated the purchasing of stocks in key UK industries, shorted the pound in carefully timed waves, and redirected investments in ways that quietly cratered entire market sectors while bolstering L.E.Y.A's control.
"We're going to collapse their economy so hard they'll beg us to save them," Wanda said, sipping from a champagne flute she hadn't refilled once in three hours.
Meanwhile, the UK Royal Family huddled in a four-star hotel across town, displaced and rapidly fading from memory. King Charles muttered in frustration as he jabbed a TV remote with increasing urgency. "Why is there no room service after ten p.m.?"
Prince William scowled. "Why are we staying on a floor with American tourists?"
They switched on the news to see Kara's face glowing on every channel, praised as the visionary heroine orchestrating Britain's economic salvation. There was no mention of them—no protest, no concern. They had already been forgotten.
Back beneath Buckingham Palace, Rogue tilted her head and squinted at the vault displays. "Elvis," she asked slowly, "how does the gold keep increasing even though we're spending it like mad?"
Elvis sipped tea from a goblet shaped like his own head. "Don't ask questions, baby. The King always delivers."
True to his word, the vault seemed to regenerate by the hour. Some suspected Wanda had cursed it with an infinite loop of replenishment; others simply stopped questioning it. Kara once joked that they could build a space elevator out of gold and still fund twenty wars. Now she wasn't sure it was a joke.
The time had come for Kara to share her long-term plan. She stood before the war table in the newly converted financial command center—a former royal ballroom now filled with monitors, accounting drones, and one confused corgi that had refused to vacate.
"We're going to create an artificial financial crisis," she said, pointing to a map of the UK economy. "We collapse their infrastructure. Then we buy out every company that matters. Then we offer a bailout using gold they technically already own."
"And in return?" Rogue asked.
"They crown me Queen for saving them from themselves."
Jean folded her arms. "A bloodless coup by economic strangulation. Ingenious."
Natasha raised her glass. "That's villain perfection."
Storm exhaled through her nose and smiled faintly. "It's not even illegal. Just evil."
That night, Kara stood in the throne room in silence, watching a floor-to-ceiling display screen showing tumbling currencies, plummeting stocks, and the growing whispers of unrest in Parliament. She sipped her wine and let the glow of data reflect in her eyes.
Elvis raised a glass of brandy from his seat on the royal toilet-throne, perfectly content. "To the Queen. Long may she rule."
Kara didn't look away from the falling charts. "Oh, I will."
The throne of England would not be won through battle—but through banking. And Kara Zor-El had just begun collecting interest.
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