"I'm good at…physicalities. I can get in and out of tight places. I'm fast on my feet. And I think we need change."
That was enough for the Monicans. They welcomed the new recruit with open arms and hearts. She couldn't shoot worth a damn, but they were willing to teach. Besides this, she was young, able-bodied, pure-minded and eager for adventure. Just what they sought in recruits. The instructors saw her as something of a godsend, fresh blood to invigorate the entire organization. Aeon's blood was on fire; she had never been more free.
They didn't know her background. That was the thing with the Monicans-no matter your past, you could come in new. A better person. Clean. Pasts were things kept to oneself. They mattered not. All the Monicans cared for was the now and the future. A new world. An improved city. Not the skeletons littering their member's closets.
Aeon kept word of her childhood from the ears of those around her. As forgiving as the Monican council could be, she didn't think such a personal connection to the chairman would be well-received. So, she remained silent. Without a doubt they would know, someday. Then they could decide whether she was loyal. But for the moment, Aeon needed protection. She needed a stance. The Monicans could provide her with this.
In a few months, Aeon Flux was adept at assembling, using, and taking apart a wide variety of weapons. Though young, she impressed those around her without leaving behind an unpleasant emphasis of ego.
And then, she was one of them. The rebels that would see her family dead, the fraction of the population seeking change and progress.
It unsettled her, the idea of Trevor and Oren and Nanny and Una dead. Aeon was determined to rise in the ranks enough to encourage imprisonment, rather than executing. At least for Una and Nanny-they had done nothing wrong, why should they share such a fate with the council and her uncles?
Which was not to say she wanted either Trevor or Oren dead. They were family, the only family she had in the world. Trevor had meant no harm, he didn't deserve such a merciless demise. Give him a trial.
Whispers of Aeon's philosophy circulated through the Monicans, and she found herself in an audience with the central council one afternoon.
"The Goodchild reign must end," they told her simultaneously, their voices a single drone. "You see this? They have injured our society and our peoples."
Aeon did not argue. She reasoned. "Won't we be perceived as being just as ruthless if we execute them without trial? It would not be a good first move to assassinate the chairheads without any sort of public tribunal."
There was a pause.
"We will consider your words, young Flux. If a hearing were possible, it would be ideal," someone finally said. "But we cannot guarantee it."
Aeon stopped talking to others in the organization after that.
Still, she slowly began to sink into the common fear and loathing of the Goodchild regime. It was hard for the Monican hate not to rub off on her. She could see, with burning eyes, the flaws in the system. The souls missing, the people hurt. It was clear to her. Now she was outside of the capitol, she could see the effects. The mourning parents. Missing facing. The helmeted officers manning every street. A clear aversion of the white outer walls.
It was sad.
Nevertheless, she always mentally separated "the Goodchild regime" from Trevor. From Nanny, and Una. From her favourite councilmen and women, from those who served the household. They were not the same people that ordered or supported the pain that Bregna endured.
Either way, she was going to take them down. "For Bregna. And Una."
-XXX-
They gave her a hole-in-the-wall, a two-room, oddly shaped place that looked out over the capitol. She liked in well enough. The first thing she did was find some bead curtains to hang around her bed. When feeling melancholy, Aeon would run her hands along the beads, allowing them to tinkle faintly. Closing her eyes, she could feel the cool breezes coming off of the pools, and smell recently-fallen cherry blossoms that had once surrounded her world.
She missed Una. It was hard to leave her, most of all, far harder than Trevor. She had always had Una. Una was her duty, her task, her charge; her delight. It scared Aeon to leave her sister to face Trevor's miserable wrath (which she acknowledged as unlikely) alone.
The girls had never seen their adoptive uncle greatly upset. There were evenings, of course, after particularly straining council meetings, when he was frustrated with people and the world and he raged. But this was always taken as directed to others. And these tumultuous emotions were always reined in by the girls' quieter words. He could not be angry around them.
Even so. Aeon worried.
She simply couldn't see Una without endangering both of them. To visit, she would have to enter the capitol-something she was not willing to do unless heavily armed and with plenty of backup. Besides, she had been told the sole time she would be returning, it was to be under a specific mission. One she knew nothing of, and greatly anticipated.
On occasional, she would come to the marketplace. Una and Nanny still went there every week. Claudius came more and more often. He was always at Una's side, bright and buoyant to her drained expressions. Aeon approved of the relationship- - - Claudius might very well get her out of the capitol. At seventeen, he already had his own house in the East district. She knew Oren liked to boy, too. That would help.
Sometimes, in the park, she would see Trevor. He was always dressed in very understated clothes, quietly observing those around him. Blending in. She was always able to recognize him—latched hands hanging behind his back, the solid stature, bright hazel orbs. Aeon questioned why he came. Was it to watch people? Try to feel out how his people were, if they thrived?
Usually he stood near the tree, the one she'd climbed up all those years ago, scaring him and bringing on a slew of gym instructors. He would touch the parchment bark of the birch, a curious look in his eye. The young woman wondered what it was he thought of, if he missed her, regretted anything. His face was impassive, musing a complete mystery to her. Sometimes, he would bring a book, or some blank tome in which he scripted something-thoughts, feeling, observations? His folded hands sometimes shook. And Aeon often thought she would be very sad to see him gone. She would be very sad indeed.
-XXX-
When she was twenty-two, only three years out of the capitol, Aeon was sent on her first solo mission.
It was nothing grand. Lately, she had been sent on message runs, delivering notes and such. This was not so different-slipping into the gallery of post-Bregna art and hiding a package inside of a particular canvas-but it was her break. One day of planning, another to scope, revise the plan, and the operation went down in under two hours. No one was hurt. There were a few disoriented, but that couldn't be helped. It was, in all ways, successful. Aeon went by unrecognized.
She was still surprised she could pass through the city unnoticed by. Trevor had sent out legions the night after she went missing. The camera-watchers were coded to find her face. And yet, she was never spotted. It was curious. Bothersome. True, she went out of her way sometimes to cover her face, wear a veil, but even on the days when she went bare, there was nothing. No one to apprehend her. No one calling out her name. Nothing. Which made her paranoid that there was some bigger scheme. Had someone in the ranks realized she was with the Monicans? Or was it Monican protection that was her grace? She was certain they by now realized who she was, where she came from. Yet no one said a word. It was accepted without comment.
At twenty-four she began to head her own missions, mostly those dealing with communications. There were standard interference operations, then some used to collect data. Information was gold, and Aeon had a mastery to getting it. She thrilled in the drama and complication, lived for those last-minute escapes that left her heart pounding and skull splitting. The others teased her. "You're going to be caught, Flux, if you're not any lighter on your feet."
She always waved them off. "At least I have feet."
Transplants were becoming popular. The offer was made, more than once, but Aeon rather liked the limbs. And her shoes.
On a few recon operations, she caught sight of the chairman. There was one particular encounter in the industrial quarter that was a close shave. She had been sent in to implant a bug in the managing supervisor's office. It was to be done during the day, with Aeon posing at a Bregna Sentinel reporter in for a quick interview. She was ushered in very politely- - - industry men were always on the lookout for good press- - - to be seated in the marble-and-brass waiting room. There were many mirrors, a set of magazines and newspapers for perusing, and one of the perky receptionists offered her a coffee. Aeon (or Bethany Windle, as she was known as for today) declined the coffee, but did accept a glass of water. It was offered with a lemon slice, three sugar packets, and never-melt ice. Excess was the industry's name.
While she waited, another soul entered the reception room. She was browsing a very boring architecture rag when he walked in, so her first sight of him was of his backside while he spoke to the women at the desk. He was also directed to wait, and moved to sit across from her in the black leather box seat. Aeon glanced up casually from behind the magazine. She was shocked into a dazed state for several seconds when she realized who, exactly, she was sitting next to-the chairman, dressed in his pomp-and-circumstance councilman clothes, browsing the selection of periodicals. When he looked her way, hazel eyes curious, Aeon automatically shoved the architecture piece back in front of her face.
There was a pause.
"Excuse me?"
She ignored him, pretending to be absorbed in a passage about flying buttresses and their move back into "style." But when he spoke again, she had to look up.
He inquired after knowing her, very politely. Aeon thanked the gods that be that she wore a hat which shadowed half her face, and had decided contacts and a wig were appropriate. She loathed these dress- - - up missions-she wasn't one for anything but the shadowy subtle work- - - but had to appreciate the disguise today. Her hair was a russet brown, almost matching the copper eyes she'd selected for the day. Nothing like herself, especially when paired with the smart blazer and pencilskirt in a solid pink, trimmed with a lighter pink satin at the hems. It was a little small, stretching across her breasts in a manner that she was not used to and pushing them up…someone had described it as "sexy," which she wanted nothing to do with. Her hat was small, but dipped down to cover half of her face, and included a small fan of net that acted as a veil.
"No, I'm afraid not, Chairman," she responded, equally polite.
Goodchild apologized. "You recognize me," he said, lips quirking. Smiling.
"It is hard not to, sir."
"Yes, but you would be surprised," he leaned back in his seat, relaxing. "Most will stare, wondering if it is, in fact, me, or if they're seeing what isn't there. Not you, though."
Aeon smiled back, then returned to her magazine. This clearly bothered the chairman, as he spoke again.
"I'm sorry, but you remind me of someone." He wasn't sure where he was going with that, but added, "Forgive me. Are you sure we haven't…not at some gala, or opening? Do you work? Where? Or have we perhaps bumped into one another on the street-I do go out into the streets, you know?...not there, then. Where?"
Amused, Aeon shook her head. "I do not recall it, sir. It is highly unlikely-I am no one to be noticed."
"A dream, then." He sat forward eagerly. "I know you, I must. What is your name-?"
But he was cut off by the arrival of Mr. Terrance, the managing supervisor. "Sir, we were not expecting you." He turned to Aeon. "I apologize, miss, but I must ask that you wait a little longer. I have business with the gentleman…thank you. Right this way, Chairman Goodchild."
Goodchild hung back for a few more words. "I should very much like to know you. What did he say your name was?"
"He didn't," she reminded him, half-smiling. "You ought to go ahead, Chairman. You don't want to miss your meeting."
He returned the smile, then followed Terrance into the office, looking back once to say, "Shall I interrogate you after, then? Coffee, with me? I'll wait for you."
"I'm nearly half your age," she warned, still amused.
"The better half, I should hope. Will you see me?"
She didn't answer. As soon as the door shut, she excused herself to the ladies room, where she would wait out their meeting. Listening carefully, she heard him later ask the receptionist where "that remarkable young woman" had gone. Naturally, they knew nothing. The chairman left, and Aeon returned to the waiting room, was invited into Mr. Terrance's office, and planted the bug.
A close call. Later that night, she sat on the window seat, overlooking the capitol. She thought maybe she could pick out the warm little glow that was Trevor's quarters. His light burned deep into the night, and she hoped that maybe he was thinking of her. Just a little.