They were so close to mundane eighteen years ago, Abba and Benjamin Whitaker. They were celebrating their one-year anniversary in their living room, with French music playing in the background as they popped a bottle of bubbly. No wild parties or crazy friends and family members surrounded them, not even Suzanne. She had called in the morning to congratulate them. She had even bought them a gift: elaborate rose-embossed china. Abba could not drink alcohol since she was pregnant, but Benjamin allowed her a sip from his glass.

"Ben, I can't," she insisted, even though she had already raised his glass to her lips.

He laughed at her, and her cheeks reddened. Her vacant hand tediously swept the hairs out of her eyes. Her hair was kept in a messy ponytail, the strands were wavy, and she was clean of make-up. Benjamin looked the way Aimee had remembered him: a cordial man with thick eyebrows and faint stubble, barely even a beard. Abba returned his glass to him, and her hand rubbed warm circles on her belly.

"I have been thinking..."

"Uh-oh," remarked Benjamin, amusingly, but he sat the champagne bottle down and listened.

"Did I ever explain my project to you?" she asked enthusiastically, as her fingers hooked her hands together on the dining table.

"Hmm, possibly."

"I have finally achieved the results I wanted. AIM is finally a success."

"AIM, the project related to all those very random posters you stuck on our bedroom walls?"

"Not random," she smacked him on the arm. "I am a genius, remember? Benjamin, with what I am doing – what I have done – we can ensure that our little Aimee will be protected."

"Okay... and what have you done, my love?"

Her face lit up as she explained further, "I have invented a microchip that enhances the human body's regeneration rate. That means not only will our bodies take longer to age, but we will also heal from injury forty times quicker than any human on earth. That is AIM: Augmenting Injected Microchips."

"Injected Microchips?"

"Benjamin, do you trust me?" she held his hand.

He was still processing, "You're my wife; of course I trust you."

She inhaled, beaming, "Wait here."

She got up from her seat and moseyed into their bedroom. He waited for her, patiently, filled with anxiety as he took three gulps of his alcohol. When she came back, she had in her hands a black, rectangular case. She raised the lid, revealing nothing but a long, painful-looking syringe.

Benjamin's eyebrows rose, "That is one sharp needle."

"It is not painful," said Abba. "It took me three-and-a-half seconds to do it."

"To do what, to inject yourself?" worry flooded his mind and showed in his eyes. "When did you inject yourself? Why would you do that?"

"Hey, you said you trust me, so trust me. This will make sure that no matter what happens to us, we will always be able to look after our daughter once she's born. We will always be there for her. Maybe one day we can give our little girl a little microchip, too–"

"No!"

"Listen to me, Benjamin. It is the right thing to do."

He could not say more; he knew her better than anyone did, he knew that she was right. At least, that was what he told himself. He grabbed the syringe, and did what had to be done.

AIM #2 became a part of him.

 Aimee stared at the wall; it had become her void of nonbeing.

"Who wants tea?" queried Buckley, of course, clearly over telling backstories.

"Shut up," muttered Stefan. Buckley raised his eyebrows as though he was surprised to hear that, but afterwards, his face reshaped and showed how little he cared. "So, all these years we've been after fast healing psychos?"

"It's new information."

Frustrated, Stefan looked at Janet for truth, and she agreed, "It was just a hunch until a few days ago. Kei Kimiko gained this info on a mission last week. A gang of AIM soldiers were planning on shipping a crate of these microchips to the AIM America headquarters."

"You could've told me when you found out, Mom." Buckley ogled him. "Janet."

"Mom," she said sincerely. "And I'm sorry; we just didn't think it would matter once we disposed of them."

She leaned forward to hold his hand, but he slouched in his chair and out of reach. "It matters."

Aimee noticed his withdrawal as she calmly escaped her daze. She would not cry. If anything, she was glad to have somewhat of an explanation of what AIM was, what her parents were capable of doing and responsible for.

Janet cleared her throat and spoke to everyone, "We're just worried that these chips are the reason AIM and AIM America soldiers are so much tougher than our agents."

"Not all of them," Buckley inserted himself again. The others glanced at him. "Gavin rescued Stefan and Aimee from the soldiers a few weeks ago."

"Did you not see what he looked like when he returned?"

"He's fine now. Let's remember that," said Buckley.

"We'll remember that he's a hero, a good person and not just a robot of yours," muttered Aimee. "He saved us because he's our friend, not because you said jump," she paused as the effect of her words settled in. "Now, back to the matter at hand: the microchips. Abba and Benjamin are well-off, so they must be selling them to their own agents, right?"

"Like I said, it's new information," sighed Buckley.

"Actually," uttered Janet, focusing on Aimee's words, "Abba was born into a wealthy family. And we think she decides who of her soldiers are worthy of the microchips, those who aren't may have to purchase them."

"For example," Buckley intruded. "If Kei Kimiko and Gavin were AIM agents, they wouldn't have to pay for microchips because they are top sol–"

"Okay!" Stefan exclaimed, peeved to the bone. He got up promptly, and waited for Aimee to do the same. "We have to train. Is there any more relevant information we need to hear?" – Nothing – "In that case..." he slid Janet the piece of paper that he had written on, and then he and Aimee left the room without turning back.

Training could help relieve them of their anger, but not of reality – not permanently. Aimee forced herself to ignore every AIM related question that popped into her mind; she wanted to complete her training, she had to, and she needed to focus.

Janet dismissed Buckley from her office wordlessly, looking down and refusing to acknowledge him until he left. When the door shut for the second time, she read Stefan's inscription.

 She snatched her phone from beside the penholder and dialled the hospital. There was ringing, briefly, and then a female answered, hastily stating the name of the hospital.

"Is there an emergency?"

"Not exactly," uttered Janet. "I have some questions regarding Stefan Summers and Aimee Griffiths, patients of yours."

There was tapping on a computer keyboard in the background. Janet deduced that she was using both hands because of the speed and frequency of the sound. She imagined the phone was held between the woman's shoulder and ear.

Eventually she spoke, "They aren't at this hospital anymore, Ma'am. They were discharged last week after Doctor Cavell proceeded with their surgeries."

"But he didn't."

"Yes, he did. It's right here on the system. Now, if you'll excuse me, this line is meant for emergencies. Good day."

"Right, sorry. Enjoy your –" she trailed off, realising that the woman had hung up. She placed her phone onto her desk, contemplating their dialogue.

Meanwhile, in Lorient, Otis Cavell had summoned himself into Abba's penthouse office, unannounced and uninvited. Nobody summons themself into her office.

"What are you here for?"

"I've come to report," he said. "Aimee's removed her cast."

"I thought you said you had taken care of that, that she would not have it removed."

"She didn't go to the hospital. They had it done at GINM.

"They?"

"Stefan as well."

"That's irrelevant; I do not care about the boy."

There was an awkward silence. She stood at her desk, her back facing Otis as he stationed in front of the elevator. To her, he was another useless idiot in her space. She paid half her attention to him, half to her unfurled map.

"Do you have something else to tell me, or are you just going to stand there?!" she yelled, irked.

"I think they're training for the war."

"They would be," she groaned, before another brief silence occurred.

"And I'd like a microchip."

She laughed, "What for?"

"I am your most loyal Field Soldier," he believed.

"Yes, I have many of you. Bring me Aimee and I may consider."

"No!" Otis bellowed in frustration. "I mean, I can't. They know who I am."

Abba's teeth grinded, the fingers on her right hand trailed across her desk to the metal that fit perfectly in her palm, "Otis, I do not take lightly to refusal... or back chatting."

"Me neith–"

The word 'neither' was blocked out by the sound of her gun. She had not turned around to look at him, but her bullet had made a beeline for his heart. He collapsed on his knees, his face, and Abba sat daintily in her chair, with one leg crossed over the other. She lay down her gun, and held down a button on her desk phone.

"Mademoiselle?" a Frenchman addressed her on the other line.

"J'ai besoin de quelqu'un dans mon bureau; Monsieur Cavell va tacher mon étage."

I need someone in my office; Mr. Cavell is going to stain my floor.

"Immédiatement."

Immediately – Abba adored that response.

She raised her finger from the button, and stared at Otis's body. She was genuinely concerned about her floor, but on her face was a leer of her mind's manipulation.