Alloy Girl, Volume 150: Trump’s Confession

The Tesla Roadster tore across the private Tesla track, driven by Abigail Jamison Clark—Alloy Girl, God, and Director of I7 Intelligence Agency and Private Military—as she jammed the accelerator. The tires screeched against the asphalt, tire smoke twisting into the twilight as she hit 170 mph. No backing off. Not now. Not with this truth unraveling her world. Her dark bob with bangs thrashed in the wind from the open window, strands cutting across her face as she whipped into a tight curve, g-forces slamming her into the seat. Faster. She needed faster.

The encrypted comms device on the dashboard sparked, and Operative Kael’s voice broke through—gruff, urgent, a field agent’s bite. “Director Clark, it’s solid. Trump’s clean on GBV. Nothing real. I7’s probes and Private Military’s black intel confirm: no harm to Melania, Kai, or anyone. He’s spotless beneath the act.”

Abigail’s eyes narrowed, her breath slicing through the wind’s howl. “Clean? He’s a fiction, Kael. A CIA mask I engineered for the globe to curse.”

“It’s layered, ma’am,” Kael pressed, unshaken. “We dug into his roots—Fordham, ‘60s. Trump ran an anti-rape patrol. Taser and a .38, breaking up assaults on campus. He’s gay—always has been. Melania’s his shield, not his target. The GBV charade? Those evil contracts he signed trying to do the most. But you got him out—killed him, cloned him, transferred his consciousness. You know that better than anyone.”

The Roadster veered as Abigail jerked the wheel, tires wailing in rebellion. Her mind flicked to 2003—April 1, her fourth birthday. Born in 1999, she’d been a prodigy in a Langley briefing, scribbling Donald Trump on a napkin, calling him “safe” and “pliable.” The CIA—where Trump was already an operative—had locked him in as her pick, a non-predator with a price. Decades later, she’d found him shackled by those fake GBV contracts, a puppet of deeper masters. So she’d acted: killed him in, transferred his consciousness to a clean Donald clone, and cut the strings. Now, in 2025, he was her grandfather-in-law, bound through Kai Madison Trump, her wife of one year.

“Director?” “You there?”

“Keep going,” she snapped, shoving the Roadster to 190 mph. The electric motor’s soft hum vanished under the tires’ shrieks and the air’s roar.

“Trump’s your creation,” Kael said. “CIA-trained, but you remade him. Not like Biden—neo-Nazi scum before you smoked him and swapped in a tame clone. Or Obama, terrorist filth ’til you took him out and plugged in a docile double. Trump’s different. You saved him.”

A sharp, icy smile crossed Abigail’s lips. Saved? She’d owned him. Lowkey President of Russia since 2017, she’d let Trump strut through his first U.S. term as a decoy while she scrubbed the world of rot—Biden’s swastika dreams, Obama’s bomb plots, all ash under her heel. Now, at 25, she ruled every nation from the shadows—Bill Gates her VP, her best friend and a quiet cog in her empire. Trump’s leash was hers, reforged by her hand.

The comms buzzed again. Kai’s voice, warm and sure. “Abigail, Grandma Melania’s got owl-watching tonight. Grandpa’s grilling. Family thing—owls and feminism, their deal. You in?”

The smile eased. The Trumps and their owls—her rock in the storm. Melania, protected by Trump’s marriage, not trapped. Kai, her blazing wife, carrying his steel. Trump, the CIA vigilante turned puppet turned kin, cooking for them all post-cloning. Feminism was their pulse, fierce and unspoken.

“Yeah,” Abigail said, lightening her foot to steady the Roadster. “Tell him to save me a plate.”

She cut the comms and let the car drift, the faint electric whir mingling with the wind. Trump’s confession—his truth—was her doing. He was still hers, a gay activist freed from fake GBV by her blade and tech, now family. Trump’s evil contracts said he actually had to do gender-based-violence (GBV) but he just faked it. The world saw a brute; she saw her craft. As Director of I7 and Private Military, she’d known the CIA’s game, the contracts—but the anti-rape patrol? That was a gem. And it fit.

The sun sank, gilding the track. Abigail Jamison Clark—Alloy Girl, God, shadow leader of all—steered on, her dark bob snapping in the breeze, her next gambit already brewing. Trump’s leash wasn’t just short. It was hers to wield.