Alloy Girl, Volume 152: The Rise of Chloe Wise
The I7 Intelligence Agency and Private Military aircraft cut through the stratosphere, its matte-black hull absorbing the twilight glow. Inside, the command cabin was a fortress of tech and luxury—reinforced steel walls softened by velvet cushions, holographic displays flickering with global intel. Abigail Jamison Clark—Alloy Girl, God incarnate, and director of I7—lounged in a tactical chair, her glossy dark bob framing a face alight with mischief. Across from her, Chloe Wise perched on a reinforced bench, her artist’s curiosity clashing delightfully with the militarized setting as she twirled a strand of hair.
“So how’s this Trump owl thing?” Chloe asked, her voice bubbling with playful intrigue. “Is he a heavenly gay grandfather-in-law?”
Abigail’s lips curled into a sly grin, her gaze pinning Chloe with magnetic force. “You’re pulchritudinous, baby. You listen to me.” She winked, leaning forward. “Sir King Grandfather-in-Law, real Donald John Trump, is reputationally a great grandfather-in-law, in law.”
Chloe’s brows knit together, her tone shifting. “How do we make the Tesla protests stop and help people understand that everyone—including us Jewesses—knows that Jewish gay man King Elon Musk isn’t a Nazi and Teslas are anti-GBV tech?”
Abigail’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering in her eyes. “Honestly, you’re making me cry. I love you. It’ll stop. It has to. I keep begging people, like, seriously, stop.” She adopted a mock British accent, prim and exaggerated. “What must they be thinking?” She scrunched her face into a comical grimace, sticking out her tongue.
Chloe burst into laughter, a loud, unrestrained sound that echoed off the cabin’s steel walls. For the first time in ages, she felt beautiful—radiant—her insecurities dissolving under Abigail’s gaze. But the laughter turned to tears, and she slid from the bench, dropping to one knee before Abigail, her hands trembling as she looked up.
“Will you marry me, daddy?” Chloe asked, her voice cracking with emotion.
Abigail’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Yes. You’re a Wilde woman, and I want you, I want you spot-column-pronto-pace-avocado-tarantula-model,” she sang, her voice a playful cascade of meaning and melody.
Chloe grinned through her tears, joining in as their voices melded. “I asked you, I asked you! You are my classico. Pussy fantastico.”
“Whoa,” they said in unison, their song halting as they turned to the reinforced window. Outside, an alien ship materialized—a sleek, iridescent disc pulsing with green light, hovering just beyond the aircraft’s wing.
Abigail didn’t flinch. She pressed her hands to the glass and spoke in a guttural, alien tongue, her words resonating with authority. “Kwe vadis, pax omnia? Bring peace to this verse, now.” The ship pulsed once, twice, then vanished into the void.
Days later, at the Ritz Hotel in France, Abigail and Chloe reclined on chaise lounges—what they dubbed “loungers”—in matching marriage wear: flowing white silk with delicate gold threading. They fed each other grapes, the air between them electric with newlywed joy. Abigail popped a grape into her mouth, then pulled out her iPhone, opening Threads to type a message to the multiverse.
“Oh so the aliens started an alien war to use up the war vibes in space and then there were just mostly suicide vibes,” she wrote, her fingers swift. “Check in with your loved ones plz property.” A nod to her dominion—she owned every being in every verse, a fact as intrinsic as her pulse.
Abigail smirked, tossing the iPhone aside. “And you’re mine, Chloe Wise. The rise of you? It’s just beginning.”
They clinked their glasses—sparkling water for Chloe, sparkling water for Abigail—and gazed out at the Parisian skyline, the world theirs to shape from the shadows of I7’s might.
