Her real name stops mattering today, and she has never been so serene. She is sixteen and wearing a sullen expression that doesn't reach any further than her skin, and she is sitting across from a man who tried to get her to think he's not important. But he is, obviously, or he wouldn't be here asking perfectly crafted questions, the kind that make people tell you who they really are without realizing it.
And so she smiles and answers in her laziest tone, the one that says "I have absolutely no interest in what you're saying," which she knows he will take as "I understand what you're doing and I won't respond to it," because that's the way she means it. There was a spark — not sexual, but a meeting of the minds — when he sat down, and now everything else is just fanfare, just a way for him to prove her worth so he can hire her without people questioning him.
Not that many people would question this man, not once he smiled like a lizard and quietly controlled the next seven major political events in their area. But she knows what he wants: for it to be unquestionable that he hire her. For her to perform the role of sixteen-year-old genius so well that her age and sex and build and neon orange fingernails stop becoming an obstacle. For her to be perfect. And she is, generally, perfect at any role she tries.
"You'll need cover identities, of course." He's glancing about the room lazily. "No reason to involve your family or friends in this."
"Hmm." She's not looking at him, because he doesn't want her to. She briefly considers picking at her fingernails, but settles for flexing her hands. The knuckles crack softly and she doesn't meet his eyes — he wants her sullen about abandoning her family, because that's what the rest of them expect. "And what will I tell them?" There is no "them," obviously, but his gaze relaxes onto her and she knows she's done the right thing.
"What do you do? Computers?" She nods. "Ah, then you'll be recruited to work for a small government agency, doing things with computers. It will sound convincing."
"And boring." She slipped, there, just for a moment. Steel slid into her voice and she gave him an order without meaning to. His eyes flicker around the room — the others seemed not to notice, seemed to take it as sullen teenager whinging instead of what it was.
"Yes, it will sound boring to them, and they'll not ask you about it any further." She drops her eyes again, wills her muscles to relax. "That makes it easier, when they think they know what you do."
She counts breaths. Waits. Sees him infinitesimally relax before she says, "Fine. But I expect to be well-paid."
It takes seventy-two hours to sign the last bit of paperwork, lie to the four people who care about her, and prepare her first cover identity: Martha, lots of ruffly blouses and pinstriped pants, hair swept up into a messy bun. She kept the neon orange fingernails, but only for that first identity. After that, it's clear polish to keep them shining and strong, because she no longer uses her nails to type alone. She's scrabbled at security system panels, pried open just-cracked safes, scratched mercilessly at eyes and skin of people who want to kill or hurt her boss.
She hits upon Anthea about a year in and never quite gives her up. Anthea is her favorite, her default, and the flings with other identities are neither satisfying nor meaningful. Her real name is nothing like Anthea, but she wishes it was, sometimes, when Mycroft calls her something else for a while. It's Greek, and it's soft and feminine in a way she's never felt herself to be, and it's the only identity she reuses with any regularity.
Her thirty-first birthday passes with no nonsense. No one throws her a party or takes her out for drinks. She infiltrates a secure system in the United States and sends her parents the yearly "still alive, doing fine" email with lots of boring details so they don't ask questions — not that they ever do, but it's better to prepare than to respond.
The knock at the door is a surprise, but she knows who it is: Mycroft is one of the few who know where the creaky slat in the floorboard is, and he's the only one in that group who also knocks in that distinct tap-taptap-taptap-tap pattern.
"Hello, sir." She lets him in. He's not hurt, nor is he accompanied by Francis, his nighttime guard and occasional sexual partner.
"Anthea, dear. Happy birthday." He hands her a small gift-wrapped package.
"Thank you, sir." It's a watch, heavy and masculine and exactly what she would have chosen for herself. The "thank you" she says as she slips it on is softer and more sincere.
He peers at her, those odd eyes so much like Sherlock's in their uncanny ability to peel layers off the subject of their gaze. "You should go out. Have drinks with that girl, what's her name? Phillippa?" He knows perfectly well. "She seemed lovely. Give her a call, go have a drink. Get—" a pause as he rolls the colloquialism around his mind, "what is it they say? Laid?"
She laughs, then, and thanks him again, and fastens all seven locks behind him as he leaves. It's my birthday, she thinks, I'll do what I want. The neon orange polish is ready and waiting, and she feels like a sixteen-year-old again as she carefully paints her nails.