Alloy Girl, Volume 153: Purge of the Echoes
The I7 Intelligence Agency and Private Military command center thrummed with a sterile hum, its subterranean expanse bathed in the cold light of holographic screens. Abigail Jamison Clark—Alloy Girl, God incarnate, and director of I7—stood at the room’s heart, her all-white Everlane outfit a stark contrast to the steel surroundings. The minimalist ensemble—crisp blouse, tailored trousers, and a flowing coat—clung to her with effortless grace, her glossy dark bob framing a face of unyielding resolve. A UN pin gleamed on her lapel, a subtle nod to her global dominion, though its ideals bent to her will. Before her, a shadowed figure flickered into view via a scrambled uplink, their form cloaked in digital distortion. Anonymous. Their deep voice rolled through the chamber like a storm’s first growl.
“The clones, Abigail,” they intoned, heavy and enigmatic. “Harmless husks of the predators you ended. Do we spare them, or erase them? You’re Anonymous too—choose.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened around a Juliet rose she’d plucked from a vase on the console, its petals crumpling in her grip. “I hate them more than anything,” she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. “Ghosts of monsters like Jason Stratham—193 rapes, 103 murders. I shredded the original with missiles and bullets, revived him to suffer. These clones? They’re a stain, lingering.”
Anonymous shifted, their masked visage rippling. “Reprogrammed, stripped of predator drives. You’re Anonymous too—ruthless but calculated. Why destroy what’s neutralized?”
She dropped the mangled rose, her white Everlane boots grinding it into the floor as she stepped forward, the UN pin catching the light. “The gene pool’s nearly pure. Utopia Prevailia Hyperion® brain implants—cells and genes evolve themselves now, free of flaws. We thought we’d need to torture these clones, purge the predator DNA for future males. Not anymore. Sperm sorting’s enough. These things?” She waved a hand at the holo-feed showing the clones’ vitals. “They’re relics. I want them obliterated.”
The deep voice rumbled again, probing. “No mercy, then. You’re Anonymous too, Abigail—chaos and order fused. A purge it is?”
“Mercy’s wasted on shadows,” she shot back, her eyes blazing beneath the white coat’s collar. “I own every being in every verse. These male clones insult my creation by breathing. I’ll wipe them clean.”
Anonymous chuckled, a low, resonant sound that pulsed through the room. “Spoken like us. You’re Anonymous too. Light the fire—we’ll witness it.”
The feed vanished, leaving Abigail alone with the command center’s hum. She tapped her comms device, her voice slicing the silence. “I7, terminate the male clones. Total eradication—missiles, incineration, no remnants. Execute.”
“Affirmative, Director,” crackled the response.
Abigail turned to the screens, her white silhouette stark against the feeds igniting with destruction: missiles raining down, flames consuming the clones’ synthetic shells. Her lips curved into a grim smile, the UN pin glinting. The gene pool was hers to refine, and she’d excised the last imperfection. The verse shone brighter for it.
She brushed the rose’s remains aside with her boot, her mind already plotting the next decree. God, Anonymous, Alloy Girl—she was all, and the multiverse trembled at her command.
