The light of Excalibur glinted softly across the walls of the penthouse suite as Kara stood at the tall window, the blade now perfectly at rest on her back. She barely looked at it anymore; it had submitted, it had obeyed. Her harem lounged across silk-covered furniture, half sipping wine, half scrolling through news feeds about their current conquest of the monarchy. Kara, bored, picked up her phone, flipped the camera, and with the most casual tone she could muster, whispered, "Hi. I'm Kara Zor-El, the future Queen of England." Five seconds. Maybe ten. That was all it took. She posted it to her public account, just to amuse herself and maybe let the girls giggle at it later. She set the phone down and went to sit. Rogue glanced up from the tablet in her lap and muttered, "That better not crash the internet again." Kara just rolled her eyes and kicked her boots up onto the ottoman.
By morning, the internet had melted down. Not literally, but close. The video was everywhere. People assumed it was art. "It's minimalist! It's satirical! It's performance cinema!" declared one blog. Twitter and TikTok exploded with edited compilations of Kara in slow motion, Kara with angelic filters, Kara staring straight into the soul of Britain. Influencers began recreating the video in front of Big Ben, mimicking her posture, tone, even her smirk. Hashtags trended overnight—#QueenKara, #KaraRules, #ExcaliburEra. Critics called it "The Short Film That Changed Cinema." One even went so far as to compare it to the Lumière Brothers' first train film, saying, "It changed how we perceive narrative itself." All from five seconds of Kara being Kara.
Then came the letter. A formal envelope, wax seal and all, delivered by courier. Kara had been nominated for a BAFTA. Not just a BAFTA—Film of the Year. It had exactly one nomination. Hers. For a five-second selfie. There was also a second nod, tucked into the bottom corner of the page—"Actress of the Year: Kara Zor-El." Kara read it aloud and then stared at the others, her expression blank. "This is… a joke, right?" Jean snatched the envelope and examined it. "Nope," she said, tapping the corner. "It's real. And we're going."
The Royal Festival Hall in London practically bent under the weight of camera crews as Kara stepped out of her private car. The red carpet lit up in tandem with her appearance. She wore a radiant red dress, sequined with actual diamond dust, hand-stitched with fine alien silk, and paid for entirely by Magneto's endlessly suffering credit account. Excalibur hung from a sheath on her back like a glowing halo. She was flanked by her six deadly escorts—Mystique in tailored midnight velvet, Gwen in gleaming silver, Wanda with eyes outlined in crimson shadow, Jean in blood red silk, Rogue in black leather with golden accents, and Storm in a white couture cape that flowed like cloudfire. The press went insane. Paparazzi shouted Kara's name from all directions. "Queen Kara! Look this way! Your Majesty! Over here!"
Inside the BAFTA committee hall, beneath the domed ceiling of the Royal Festival Hall, Kara sat stiffly in a seat cushioned with far too much luxury, the golden ticket with her name on it gleaming in her hand. Wanda leaned over and whispered, "This is only the beginning." Kara raised an eyebrow. "Of what? Me starring in a five-second franchise?" Rogue stifled a laugh behind her wine flute. "You'll have a trilogy by next week." The ceremony began with all the usual theatrics. Grand orchestral openings, long-winded thank-you speeches, breathless introductions. Kara mostly tuned it out until the host adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and lifted the golden envelope labeled Film of the Year.
"And now, the winner of Film of the Year. This year, we only had one nomination, which was, uh, a first for us. The winner is…" A pause for dramatic effect. "Kara Zor-El: The Future Queen of England." Thunderous applause. The five-second clip played on the massive screen behind the stage, and for five glorious seconds, it was as if the entire room held its breath. The lights dimmed as her face glowed across the projection. "Hi, I'm Kara Zor-El, the future Queen of England." Cut to black. The audience erupted in cheers. People stood and clapped. "Long live Queen Kara!" someone shouted from the back row. Kara blinked, entirely unsure of how this had happened.
The women beside her nudged her forward. "Go," Jean whispered. "Own it." Kara rose to her feet and made her way to the stage, each step catching the light on her crimson dress. Excalibur shimmered at her back. The golden BAFTA statue was placed in her hands as the host stepped aside, bowing slightly. Kara looked out at the crowd, at the endless sea of people applauding her as if she'd cured disease or ended war. She cleared her throat, raising the trophy in one hand and resting her other lightly against the hilt of Excalibur.
The room went silent. Every camera zoomed in. Every spotlight followed her.
As Kara raised the trophy in one hand and Excalibur in the other, a hush fell over the room. She stepped up to the microphone, lips parting, and said—
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