For six years, the world remained silent on London. Not by choice—but because the Empire of London, as it was now officially called, had slammed its gates shut and turned its skies black. No one knew what had become of the once-proud United Kingdom. Kara Zor-El had declared it obsolete, rebranded it with regal flair, and shut the world out while she built a throne fit for villainy. She renamed it the Empire of London because, in her own words: "It just sounds badass."
The city was unrecognizable. The streets shimmered under footlights of gold-veined obsidian, every corner etched with luminous script praising the Empire. Lava pipelines ran beneath the pavements, casting an infernal glow into the skies, while skyscrapers pierced the darkness with black spires and gilded balconies. A mysterious moon forever loomed over the city of London fixed and unmoving—neither magical nor scientific by conventional means, but something stranger, and perhaps even more terrifying. No sunlight touched the capital. There were no dawns. No blue skies. "We don't need the sun," the citizens whispered, "Kara Zor-El is our light."
Inside this dark jewel of civilization, Kara had forged her empire not only in obsidian and gold, but in people. She'd taken society and restructured it from the marrow up. Every woman of the Empire was trained from adolescence in loyalty and villainy, molded into elite operatives —the juggernauts of her will. These women marched in stylized black armor and ceremonial capes, enforcing order with cold efficiency and barely a whisper. Every man? Relegated to the domestic sphere. They brewed tea, they fried fish, and they served. Entire culinary factories operated under male labor, mass-producing Empire-approved tea blends and mountains of perfectly salted fish and chips for the glory of their sovereign Queen.
For the first time in six years, the world was allowed back in. The Empire of London opened its borders to tourists—but only under strict escort. Flights arrived under moonlight, guided in by hovering drones with polite synthesized voices: "Welcome to the Empire of London. Please do not deviate from your assigned path. Long live the Queen." Heavily armored female tour guides led the guests across obsidian boulevards, their high heels clicking atop diamond-inlaid sidewalks. Tourists gawked at gemstone traffic lights and 24-karat guardrails. Some foolishly brought screwdrivers, attempting to pry rubies from the pavement. They vanished. Later, they were returned across the border, smiling blankly, their memories scrubbed clean. "Lovely trip," they'd say, "Didn't get to see much, but I think I had fun." Those who behaved remembered everything. The Empire kept what it wanted.
Far beneath the city, Elvis Presley sat inside the vault chamber, counting gold with humming precision. He was legend now, a myth, a whisper on the wind: the golden banker of the Empire. No one saw him, and yet the wealth of the city never diminished. Some claimed he had become money itself. Kara didn't question it. "He's Elvis. Don't mess with the King."
High above, within Buckingham Citadel, Kara Zor-El sat in her throne room of power. The original palace had been razed, rebuilt in blackstone, its walls armored with steel and enchanted lava veins. Gun turrets tracked the skies. Missile launchers rotated silently from every corner. The air always tasted faintly of ozone and smoke. The moonlight gleamed on her throne as she lounged lazily, her legs draped over one armrest, a steaming cup of dark Empire tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the other.
She read aloud: "'Tony Stark Escapes Ten Rings Captivity with Mechanical Suit – Middle East.'" She glanced over the rim of her cup. "Oh. He made it out."
The doors to the chamber opened. Natasha Romanoff entered with deliberate steps, a thin file in hand, her long coat catching the moonlight pouring in from the stained glass ceiling.
"He escaped," Kara said, flicking her fingers. "Didn't think he would, but I suppose that's what happens when you give a billionaire tools and a box of spare parts."
Natasha shrugged. "Wanda and I did our job. We funded the Ten Rings through cutouts. Wanda hexed a few minds. We didn't think he'd actually invent something. But hey, you wanted entertainment."
Kara leaned back. "And entertainment I got." She tapped the paper. "A suit of armor. A new power source. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"
More of the women of L.E.Y.A. entered behind Natasha—Rogue adjusting her gloves, Jean flipping through a psychic projection, Wanda walking with hands folded neatly. They gathered near the throne as Kara lowered the paper.
"I want that suit," Kara said. "That tech. That core. Who wants to steal it?"
Natasha cracked her neck and smiled without joy. "I'll do it. I'm the chief spy. And I haven't robbed a narcissistic billionaire in months."
Kara gestured casually. "Perfect. Make sure to get every byte of it. Not just the suit. I want the schematics. The arc reactor. And the AI he's been working on."
Wanda raised an eyebrow. "The butler program?"
Kara's voice was calm, measured. "Exactly. I want it so we can make our own. Do you girls remember the Red Queen I told you about? Or The resident Evil franchise? That terrifying holographic brat? I want one of those."
Jean tilted her head. "With lasers?"
"Of course with lasers," Kara said. "And chaos magic. Wanda, you'll fuse her code with your power once we get the Jarvis template. She'll be the digital manifestation of our will. A red projection of death. And her favorite pastime will be vaporizing intruders."
The idea brought quiet nods. Wanda's lips curled into something between pride and anticipation.
"Red Queen," Wanda repeated, already calculating. "We'll need a holographic emitter field tied to centralized control matrices… with visual personality anchoring. I can do it."
"Good," Kara said, rising to her feet and stretching her arms. "Because this is only the beginning. We've had our peace. The Empire has grown strong, unseen. But it's time the world remembered who we are."
The harem gathered around her at the tallest balcony of the citadel, peering over the city they ruled. Obsidian towers pierced the clouds. Streets shimmered in black and gold. In the distance, the lava moat around the citadel rippled with an unnatural light. Fireworks suddenly exploded above the city in spirals of red and violet. The Empire celebrated.
Kara raised her hand to the sky. "Let them think the world is stable again," she said, voice low and commanding. "Let them forget. Because now, we will remind them who rules the night."
Far across the sea, surveillance satellites blinked and whirred. Movement had returned to London. An entire empire, hidden for six years, had stirred again.
And in the shadows of its throne, Kara Zor-El smiled.
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