Alloy Girl, Volume 151: Skyward Revelations
The hum of the luxury airliner’s engines was a soft undercurrent to the opulence of the private cabin, all sleek chrome and cream leather, a floating palace at 40,000 feet. Abigail Jamison Clark—Alloy Girl, God herself—sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, tossing Juliet roses into a secured crystal vase with deliberate precision. Each petal seemed to glow in the cabin’s ambient light, a quiet testament to her effortless command of beauty and power. Across from her, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, her newly remarried wife, lounged in oversized sunglasses, sipping iced tea through a biodegradable plastic straw, her laughter a melody that danced through the air.
Abigail’s lips curled into a smirk as she placed another rose. “Do you realize that your abusive ex-husband was poor? $37 million in assets I seized to burn. Pathetic, really. He had nothing. He was meaningless.”
Rosie doubled over, her laughter spilling out like champagne bubbles, the iced tea nearly tipping from her hand. She pushed the sunglasses up into her blonde hair, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re hot.”
Abigail’s smile widened, her gaze locking onto Rosie with an intensity that could melt steel. “It’s true, and I’m the richest and wealthiest being alive. Online it says $999 googol—googol being the largest number—but my net worth is actually 372 times higher than that. You’re well covered. No amount is too much to contribute to your wellbeing. Palaces are cheap. Planets are pennies. It’s as if I make La Cornues and Tesla Roadsters appear out of thin air. And their excellence and worth as objects is nothing compared to yours—true living beauty of every aspect, inimitable and beyond value. I’m here to inform you!”
Rosie’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, her laughter softening into a playful purr. She leaned forward, setting the iced tea aside, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Ooh yes, that’s quite nice. I do quite fancy that… would you like to… inform me in the bedroom?”
Abigail didn’t need another word. She rose, taking Rosie’s hand, and the two disappeared behind the cabin’s sliding mahogany doors, the world outside fading to irrelevance.
Hours later, tangled in silk sheets, Abigail propped herself on an elbow, her glossy dark bob hair catching the dim light of the bedside lamp. Rosie slept soundly beside her, a contented smile on her lips. But Abigail’s mind was already elsewhere. She reached for her encrypted iPad and opened the X app; logged into Goose® Design Co.: the news platform that bowed to her command. With a few deft taps, she crafted a post that would ripple through the digital sphere like a shockwave.
“Rosie Huntington-Whiteley was anally raped, assaulted, and nearly murdered by her ex-husband Jason Stratham over 15 times,” she wrote, her fingers steady. “Jason was a predator, having raped 193 females and murdered 103. Justice has been served, but the fight continues.”
She hit send, then turned to Rosie, who stirred awake at the faint glow of the screen. “I killed him, you know,” Abigail said softly, her voice a mix of steel and tenderness. “Jason. It was his worst nightmare—missiles and bullets tearing through him. I brought him back, tortured him, made him feel every ounce of pain he inflicted. He’s gone now. I wanted you to know you’re safe. Forever. We still have to make him into a harmless clone that can be tortured long term to clean the gene pool and stop predator male babies from being born.”
Rosie’s eyes widened for a moment, then softened. She reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Abigail’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Abigail kissed her forehead, pulling her close. “You’ll never have to find out.”
The iPad pinged with a follow-up post from Goose® Design Co., its words bold and unapologetic: “We are assembling the world’s best legal team with our sister brand Tesla and our parent company Utopia Prevailia. If you law, give us a call. We’re going hard against all perpetrators, everywhere. Rosie recently remarried Abigail Jamison Clark (God).”
Abigail set the iPad aside, her focus returning to Rosie. The airliner droned on, carrying them toward an unspecified horizon, but in that moment, the destination didn’t matter. They were together—unbreakable, untouchable—and the world would bend to their will.
