On Writing Advise

I share these sentiments quite a lot. Going through severe problems in life and want to go back to writing that, the simplest things become a very daunting ordeal.

Karma in Black

The alley was dark and sinister while two figures within its shadows mirrored the same in their hearts. A black figure towered over a large woman on the ground, shuffling about like some humanized pig, back pressed flat against the cold, indifferent wall, trying to inch away from her judgment.

“You’re a murderer,” she choked out. “A cold blooded villain!”

The mask just smiled while lips, beneath, pulled easily into one, almost warmly in its coldness.

“No, madam,” he said softly, almost kindly in his explanation as if she were a child. “I am not the villain of the piece. I never was and I never shall. For Truth, though easily vilified for the one reason that it *can’t* be truly vilified, will always be virtuous and victorious.”

The skin around her neck shook as she trembled, breathing heavily from fear.

“The past is just that, isn’t it,” he asked unhappily. “It means nothing, nothing but a moment in time and hardly carries over to the future. Like a soul not able to carry on beyond this life. But if that wasn’t so, then why remember at all? Why carry the scars from the past if it mattered so little?”

All rhetorical questions and the woman knew well not to answer any of them as she gazed, blinking at the masked figure. His black, inhuman stare pierced her into stillness.

“History repeats itself … turning and turning in this ever widening gyre.” He mused to himself on the machinations of the universe and the main equation that wouldn’t leave him alone and what tried to destroy him time and time again. Was trust so easy to break, a life so easy to throw away?

“Perhaps you exist to evoke the same memories, the same treachery so that you can finally give me an answer to that seemingly unsolvable equation.” The light from a street lamp caught the cold silver glint of a dagger being silently unsheathed. He held it in a painful grip – a weapon that was an extension of himself, an extension of his hate. And through the flames of destruction, he would be redeemed of this old and familiar injustice. No doubt, he did miss the excitement that destruction brought, the joys of locked muscles and raw force colliding into a body like a train into a building. It all felt painfully familiar – everything. The shock, the despondence, the desperation for answers …

“At least I apologized for hurting you.”

“As I will be sorry for killing you. Come now, what kind of logic is that, you stupid woman?” He wouldn’t be sorry. He looked forward to it as he stared into her beady eyes set in a round, fat face. Her mouth pressed in a defiant line, the only evidence he knew that she would not give him what he asked for, denying him, just like them, the answer to his ‘why’s’. And being denied the answer, the equation would come to him again in a different form, in a different guise to play out the same damned way. And he would be there, like he is now, to stare down at them in their moment of disgusting indifference as he’ll stand in the fires of his truth and one more body will be added to the bloody foundations.

In a flash of movement, the blade was arched back, the weapon grazing the strands of the wig at his shoulder for the fraction of a second, muscles locked and tight. Like a switch blade, his arm hammered forward. The dagger sliced through air before gliding, effortlessly, across the flesh of her throat. Silver drew a line of crimson across flesh. The skin opened up and she gasped for air, holding her neck together with shaking, blood-stained fingers. He listened to her choking for breath like a drowning fish, watched the life drain from her eyes through black slits that forever had none. Always, he stood, watching them in interest and fascination as they died — its own macabre painting. The woman slowly slumped to her side, gagging through blood as the mask just smiled. He couldn’t wait to leave this world of flesh and blood to a place beyond this wretched existence with all of its callous and wretched misery. Some would say he was doing them a favor.

But it was certainly not a single individual that suffered, was it? Of course not. The dagger was sheathed and with the same hand, drew a tiny, silver object from the depths of black. He leaned down and set the razor in her bloody, outstretched palm, as if it always belonged there. A pity, really, that she had had a history of self mutilation. Though she was happy on the outside, for life was just turning out in her favor, inside, she was going mad with depression. A simple suicide, a simple open and shut case, nobody would ever think that she was murdered. V’s dark deeds would go as unnoticed as his shadow which slipped away from the corpse. Boots thudded upon the pavement and the masked figure disappeared from sight even as the sirens wailed their distress into the night.

Nothing Like the Stories …

“When is he coming? I don’t see him.” He began to fidget, the large, wide brim of the hat nearly toppling from his head.

“Be still.”

A gloved hand squeezed the cloaked shoulder of a little boy, masked like his mother. He looked up, trying to discern her face beneath the heavy screen of black. Everyone stood at solemn attention – shoulder to cloaked shoulder, waiting in silence, all eyes upon the prestigious and iconic clock that neighbored the symbol of their chains and their unfair sentences as the dark spires of Parliament rose ominously into the chilly night.

It had been a long walk, and the boy, Elijah, remembered well the fright he felt at the sight of those armed guards, guns pointed straight at them, as they had approached. For a wild moment, he thought they would’ve opened fire. He didn’t know what had changed their minds for he was swept away in the sea of black that sifted through the armed surveillance’s fingers like water and spilled out onto the main road towards Parliament, towards freedom.

The crowd had been overwhelming, as it still was, and Elijah felt a little claustrophobic. He remembered seeing the man on the telly when he had made the BTN speech. He had spoken in plain words that even someone as young as him could understand and find hope in. Elijah knew that something was always off about this country, but he had had no idea how to go about it – until now. And all they had to do was wait, just like the masked figure had said. But Elijah wanted him to suddenly appear and make everything all better, like in the stories that were banned that he had kept hidden away in the floorboards of his room. Bad guys always lost, good guys always won, and everyone always had a happy ending. So how delighted he was when he had checked the post that day and seen that mask smiling up at him from the opened box – his uniform for war.

“… then I ask you to stand beside me, one year from tonight outside the gates of Parliament and together, we shall give them a Fifth of November that shall never, ever be forgot!”

Even after a year, the words of that masked figure known as Codename: V still rang in his ears. He burned for revolution, for change – words that were forbidden in today’s vocabulary. He began to suspect that, if they could, the government would find a way to make sure that even a man’s thoughts in his head were no longer sacred, and anything that was violated was punished by death.

The boy shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold wind. He raised his face up once again to try to see through the bodies that surrounded him, bumping a few in the process, curtain of black to his left, to his right, in front of him, and behind him, packed so tight together. No one said a word nor turned to look at him in the same smiling visage that covered his own face. They stood as still as statues –the costumes a mockery of the government’s conformity to the people that they all must be the same – a single unit, just like the slogan:Strength through Unity, Unity through Faith. They certainly were now. Where is he, he wondered. When is he going to come and tell us what to do?

In insurmountable finality, the old clock ticked to twelve midnight. The bells chimed out, seemingly on cue into the night – an angelic choir. Unbeknownst to them, a woman, hundreds of feet underground, heard the same thing. It’s time, Elijah thought. It’s officially the Fifth of November. Heart began to beat faster in his chest from anticipation. And then the music started. Beneath the smile, he opened his mouth in astonishment. He had only heard it once in his life, but he would never forget it. The same music that played during the Old Bailey demolition now began to pour from the speakers. It was so stirring, the chords reaching into the very depths of his soul and he knew that they all were a part of something integral to their existence. The music reminded him of the patriotism long before he was born, to a time and place where everyone had the freedom to think and speak as they saw fit, to have a difference in opinion and the freedom to voice it! The volition to keep any piece of art they wanted, from books to paintings to films. Freedom existed in that song, and as it reached higher and higher to its crescendo, so too did all of their hopes and ambitions. It was there that he would reveal himself, Elijah was sure of it! Gloved hands clasped tight in front of him in excitement. Any moment now …

The shaking of earth nearly threw him to the ground. Elijah stared, wide-eyed as the building in front of them exploded in a brilliant, bright flash. The roar of fire and stone falling away in its blaze of defeat was deafening. The music played on as Parliament continued to collapse and crumble in on itself. Everyone that bared witness to it could slowly feel the shackles give way around their wrists and ankles. The fires licked and ate at the brick and cement, ripping it down in its fury with each new blast. The destruction traveled up the length of Big Ben, chiming even as its face exploded into a mass of rubble at their feet. It was glorious as it was life altering. No one would be the same after this. Like a celebration, fireworks began to whistle and explode into the night sky, heralding the dismantlement of totalitarianism. Elijah felt like jumping for joy and shouting his euphoria to the heavens, but something inside him told him to be quiet, to regard what he was seeing with absolute, holy reverence. After all this, Codename: V would show himself, maybe after the fireworks. They continued to light up the sky and a wave of movement flooded the crowd as they all began to take their masks off – showing their identity and uniqueness underneath. Elijah did the same, his opened smile couldn’t have been wider. Reds and golds, purples and greens and brilliant whites lit up the sky. It was a sight Elijah had never known in his young life. He didn’t want it to end. And like a grand finale, symbolizing the boy’s promise, V arrived as a sharp whistle rent the air and a stark red blade of fireworks ripped through the sky in his iconic soubriquet – V for Victory.

“It’s beautiful, Mum,” he said softly while the crowd began to stir. He still didn’t know what was to happen. Codename: V hadn’t shown up physically. He was still lost as to what to do.

Maybe his parents knew differently. “What’s going to happen to us now?”

“I think we’re free to do whatever we want to,” his father said on the other side of his mother.

“I won’t have to hide my books anymore.” The relief he felt at that confession was incredible.

Far away, the familiar sirens of the Finger’s vans began to howl into the night as the last of the omen scrawled upon the sky began to glitter back down to earth. Elijah felt different about the world, he felt emboldened, powerful, and that no matter what happened, they would be as victorious as their masked hero. The sirens, having chilled his blood before, seemed like a distant memory now, even as they arrived behind the mass of people dressed in black. Cruel and armed men tried to ruthlessly take control of the situation. Elijah was too far away to see, but he felt something bad was going to happen, even as his mother clutched an arm around him protectively.

A club cracked against a skull and a body fell to the ground in a heap. Screams and shouts took the place of explosions and fireworks. Their happy celebration was swiftly cut down to its knees as government officials sought to slit the throat of any opposition. No more orders from the High Chancellor or Creedy and they were now left to their own maddening devices. Anyone caught with one of those masks were to be arrested and being out after curfew – they all were guilty. Like a wave, the crowd churned and frothed, all adamant in standing their ground. They had bared witness to the impossible and if Parliament could explode in front of their eyes, they could rise off of their knees and take back what was rightfully theirs.

Like its own explosion, the crowd burst upon the Fingermen, even as they began to apprehend them. It was as if a pot had been boiling for years and only now, was the lid blown off. Masks were replaced with black bags and the people were thrown and shoved into the vans. No one was spared; adults and children alike shared the same fate. Though tired and fatigued from their long incarceration and deformed by the smallness of their cells, the vox populi opposed with rancorous cries and surprising strength. Orders were shouted into walkie talkies. A helicopter patrolled the skies, beaming its intense light down upon the chaotic scene. A uniformed official had his face beaten in. Blood flew from the force with each bone crushing punch.

“Stay where you are! Stay where you are!”

A single voice rose above the tumult as three cloaked citizens bore down upon a man with vicious intent, a shaking gun pointed at them. The ghost of an idea reigned and fueled each and every one of them. It was suicidal to have even come to witness what they did – so this asked for nothing less. They had something to believe in and now, something to die for. With no signs of stopping and no hesitation, the man opened fire on them. The bodies dropped to the ground. A sharp pain raced down his spinal cord before he too joined them with a crushed neck.

As the crowd began to disperse and thin out, Elijah lost connection with his father.

“Elijah, get out of this mass as fast as you can and run straight home. I’ll try to find your father.”

Elijah was one of the few who had put the mask back on. Glad that it hid his fearful expression, his heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t know what to do. He was utterly torn between throwing his life upon the spikes of this corrupted government and join the fray and help his fellow man to usurp that terrible regime, with following the orders of his mother and running away like a coward. He was too young to die, but in his young life, he understood that before this moment, he hadn’t lived at all.

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” She turned to him, her red hair falling down her shoulders. The light from above highlighted the absolute fear and uncertainty in her expression when she looked at him. It made his stomach clench. He felt sick.

“You can do this.” Gloved hands cupped his masked face as she spoke fast and urgently. “A miracle happened before our eyes and I need you to be the hope that continues it. Can you do that for me? Can you be strong for your father and I?”

Elijah couldn’t speak as tears welled up in his eyes that his mother would never see. It took great effort but he finally nodded. She suddenly hugged him tight.

“I love you.”

Before he could respond, he was suddenly thrown off his feet as something heavy slammed into him, crushing the boy to the ground. He heard his mother’s shouts of his name before it was swallowed up by the din and noise of chaos, causing his fear to follow suit and nearly swallow him up in kind. Pain bit into his face, his nose and forehead smashed against the inside of the mask. He struggled with the weight until he wriggled free from under it and pulled himself to his feet. He looked down. An old man stared up at him with lifeless eyes, mouth hung open. Blood drained from the bullet wound in his head.

Dark eyes looked around, regarding the carnage with stoic indifference. Elijah never felt more small and helpless. The real life situation was nothing like the romantic ideals found in stories. It was darker, more unforgiving, and far more merciless. He tried to move, but his legs felt paralyzed. Looking about himself, he saw nothing but cloaked figures and uniformed men fighting for ideas that were bigger than any one life. A lot of bodies littered the ground. A van drove away, probably filled to the brim with his fellow citizen. Guns went off, screaming and shouts sent shivers down his spine. He doubted that he’d ever be able to forget. To his left, the building continued to smolder, smoke rising up into the far more peaceful heavens. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen! He lied, he lied to us! He never showed up! He probably never planned to! Anger took the place of fear.

“Oi! You sodding little git! Come with me.”

He turned towards the voice to see a large man coming straight towards him. Elijah felt freer than he had ever felt in his life. The mask seemingly fusing to his face, he stared out into the visage of evil from the impenetrable black pitch of Elijah’s eyes. The costume became him.

“No,” he said defiantly.

A fire burned in his heart, licking and coiling around the muscles of his limbs, giving him strength, giving him purposeful resolve. No more fear, no more uncertainty. He was ready. To die, if need be.

A piercing shriek stopped the man in his tracks, giving Elijah enough time to calculate why it sounded so familiar. Without another moment’s hesitation, he turned and raced across the expanse of ground, jumping over dead bodies and leaving the man behind to fend against the fire of the people that still blazed around them. He stopped to catch his breath and could easily see the red hair of his mother several yards away. She was on the ground, cradling the head of his father in her arms, her gaze upon a uniformed man. Elijah could hear her voice, rebellious and strong through her tears.

“This won’t change anything! No matter how many you take away, no matter how many you kill today, we are free and we will always be free! You have not won.”

The blast of the gun ripped through his insides as he saw his mother collapse over the body of his father. Elijah just stared. His mind refused to connect the events together, to see reality for what it was. This had to be a dream. Before going into shock, it felt like something hit him in the face with a brick. What happened happened, and he needed to leave as fast as possible. Numbness overtook him, but his legs still moved beneath his body as Elijah blindly ran. It was a comfort when the shouting, screaming and gun fire dissolved away into the background. Elijah ducked into an alley and collapsed into the darkness. He ripped the mask from his face and spilled the contents of his stomach out onto the ground. He wretched and heaved until his stomach hurt. Breathing heavily, a sob escaped him but he quickly cut it off while a gloved hand reached up to rub his face, rub the tears from his eyes. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t relieve himself of the image of seeing his mother killed in front of him. He was alone …

“Elijah?”

“Is that him? Oi! Come, come! Quick!”

He flicked his eyes into the deepest part of the alley and could barely discern shapes moving within. He forced himself to his feet, boots trudging through his sick as he went, the mask still in hand.

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

Arms embraced him but he didn’t feel it. His tongue felt swollen and his throat scratchy. He didn’t feel like talking anyway. Eyes adjusted more to the gloom and he saw the familiar contours of his two friends, David and Cassie, cloaked and masked like him.

Much to all of their surprise, the fires from the building and people alike dimmed away after months of terror and turmoil in its aftermath. A beacon of hope had risen up above the city of London like a star – a woman by the name of Evey Hammond tried to bring order to their trembling and starved world. The three children followed her diligently. After a year, things went from bad to worse – from one evil end of the spectrum to the other. It was still chaos and madness out on the streets and the name of Evey Hammond seemed to disappear from the face of the earth – much to Elijah and his friends’ dismay. It was believed that she had died. Collaborating together, the three of them picked up where she had left off, and began work in reminding this country of what it had sorely forgotten. After much self-consoling and trying to find reason in his thoughts, Elijah slowly began to understand just exactly what Codename: V had meant in his address to the country. He had been there that night – not just as the letter V scrolled upon the sky, or the raw destruction of Parliament, but as the masked figure next to him in the crowd, and in front of him, and behind him. He was Elijah’s father, his mother, and his friends. V was also Elijah. He was all of them.

Even as the three set up around the burning trash bin on the side of a street corner a year later, Elijah smiled beneath the mask as he regarded his two friends in equal guise. Ever since that night of confronting the man in uniform, Elijah had had a feeling that V had helped steel the boy for that moment – and for the moments to come. V had lead him away from that horrible nightmare and had dropped him into the alley where he just happened to be reunited with his friends. And every time he put on the costume that was so much more than that – a raiment, a uniform for war – Elijah felt him, giving him hope for another day’s protest, V’s words from the BTN speech flowing into him unconsciously. It would be a long time before change would come, but the boy was sure that their actions would not be in vain – that it could be just enough to topple down the dominoes that would evoke a turning chain of events that would deliver them all. Fate would be on their side, for, unbeknownst to them, the fire of their absolution would soon catch the eye of a despondent ghost of a woman that is destined to bring about the change that so many had defended and died for.

Love Wrapped in Wire and Steel

She seemingly held her breath in the dark as she waited for him, trembling inside of the memories that had, undeniably, captured her attention. She wanted to feel him again, so near, so close, so sure of giving all of herself to him – her wants, desires, and every secret. She trusted him, but she wanted to make it worth it. She wanted to know, without a doubt, that he wanted her and no one else. Light soon framed the darkened door,spilling inside with sharp and painful contrast. At sight of his tall silhouette just beyond the threshold, as black as the shadows that lingered in the room, her heart skipped a beat. He stepped forward, magnifying her desires with each footfall that sounded on the newly laid linoleum. Oh, indeed, he took such immaculate care of her, the way a lady should always be treated. He touched her in ways that no one else had ever done. Black gloved hands smoothed along her front while the grinning smile she had grown to love over the course of their affair now shown in the reflection of her eyes. He spoke and she stilled to listen.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. Will it be tonight, I wonder?” Yes, she pleaded in her mind. Yes, it will.

Their courtship was different, something special –hardly the fiery passion of Anarchy, or the bitter betrayal from the newly vicious-heeled Justice. V knew he had to employ a different tactic to the coy but powerful Fate. But his Mistress knew well who he was loyal to, merely a means to an end. V sat calmly in the leather chair, hands stroking along the cool, metal surface before him, his visage staring back at him through the monitor screen. Five displays were laid out before him, blank and vacuous. Pressing a button, she hummed to life but the screens remained still except for the middle one, which glowed with various codes and numerical equations all begging to be solved. Oh indeed, she made it very hard, and he delighted in the chase, in the pursuit of her very core. He calmly brought forth the keyboard and began typing away, stroking at spots he knew she would respond amorously to. V already had an intimate understanding of her and in the coming days, he’d have every inch of her under his hands.

A particular code proved frustrating but V was determined to crack it, to outwit the very system that held this nation under its coerced surveillance. No wonder Fate sang for him in such dulcet tones. Her Master knew only the cold comfort of steel and machine, ignorant to the warmth of a woman’s thigh. But V’s touch was gentle and alluring, cajoling her to dance with him beneath miles of concrete and earth. Every twirl unraveled a new number; every romantic dip deciphered a new code. He stepped, and she followed,moving with him in a rhythm that mirrored the very machinations of the universe in a constant swell of calculations and equations. A few careful key strokes later and the screen suddenly glowed white, the other four following suit.

V’s eyes widened beneath the mask. He had done it. He had found his loop hole. A slow and satisfying smile pulled at his lips and he leaned back to rest his tired shoulders, surveying the fruits of his labor.  At long last, Fate was now his to command and he was only too eager to punch new holes in the cards of reality. Everything was linked to Fate and Fate was linked to everything. V leaned forward in the chair, eyes passing over all five screens symbolizing all five sections of the Head of Government: The Finger, the Mouth, the Nose, the Eyes, and the Ears. V imputed another string of complex numerical equations into the system, connecting to Salisbury about fifty miles away. With a few more keystrokes, he plunged the city into a blackout. That should keep them busy a while, he thought. Now that he had bedded Fate, it was time to add to his collection.

The summer night was humid, the sky cloudless. A blanket of stars shone warily in the dark; the moon absent from the backdrop of the scene. The players would soon be in position – the drama soon ready to unfold with bloody anticipation.

Boots thudded harshly against the concrete, cloak flowing behind with the brisk movement. Creedy’s men guarded the main arteries of the city, as well as a few lingering in back alleys, wasting their time on a smoke and a piss. They were only dogs after all, sniffing their own rear ends and scratching at fleas from the filth that dripped from the sins of their actions; they enjoyed rolling in it, ensuring that the infection would never be cured. The disease and debauchery sickened him. But V was on his way beyond the quarantine line, where buildings of archaic prestige stood to rot and decay. He hoped that what he was looking for was still there, still salvageable.

“Wotcher think of Keves getting a blowjob, eh?”

“Wot bird would do that?”

“No bird. His Beretta. Blew him clean off.”

Three large and mean looking men stood on a vacant street corner, black haired and dangerous. After confirmation of patrolling a nearby sector, one walked off a ways, leaving the two to stand alone on the sidewalk, taking a break from the usual harassment of society. The stockier of the two laughed.

“That’s the best damn joke I’ve ‘eard in yonks, Gary.” His tone changed suddenly, flat and cold. “He won’t be missed.” The butt of a cigarette fell to the ground just seconds before a carefully polished shoe stamped it out. “That’s wot happens when people in our position don’t pay attention – we get offed, even if gits like that do it themselves.” The man, Brigham, turned and stared out at the darkened street, angry and bitter. “In this business, you don’t live long.”

Ironic to his statement, he pulled out a stick and lit it. Puffing on it, he blew a plume of smoke into the air.

“You’re right,” came a deep voice behind him. “Men in your position don’t live long at all.”

The Fingerman whipped around, hand instantly thrust in the inner pocket of his jacket for a pistol. He stared into depthless black eyes and a grinning smile towering over him. A glance at the ground told him all he needed to know about his partner – laying dead behind the mass of black before him. How did this happen? He didn’t hear a thing! Not a god damn thing! Where was Barry?

“Who the bloody hell are you? … What are you?”

The personification of judgment stepped forward regally, cloak wrapped tight around him, seemingly conjured from the very shadows that surrounded them. Only the mask stood out, always smiling.

“I am the hammer that shall fall hard upon this corrupted anvil and bear the sins of the world to bring about salvation – virtue in the guise of vice.”

Silence settled around them like a noose. Gun in hand, the man’s brow wrinkled in a frown, blue eyes racing back and forth like a cornered animal, searching for a way out. To V it was all a chess game and the wide brim of his hat obscured a part of his face as he cocked his head down slightly, his tone malicious.

“You’re move.”

The gun wasn’t cocked. He was already close enough that at this range, any shot would be fatal, even to some fucked up wanker like this. He just stood there, staring at him with those creepy eyes and that smug looking mask. Thumb on the hammer, he couldn’t help but tremble as he pulled it back, thinking that the sound would cause a burst of action from this lunatic and he’d be done for. The sound was painfully loud. Neither moved. The Fingerman’s chest heaved with each deep breath, adrenaline and fear

clouding his judgment. V stood calmly, waiting.

“Move and I shoot, chummy.”

The third Fingerman, Barry had now returned, an additional gun added to this seemingly unfair stand-off. V didn’t move nor did his black gaze waver from the man before him. It was still his move.

A finger twitched around the trigger and not a second later, the glint of a dagger lunged out from the curtain of black, catching Barry in the throat; a gloved hand sought the thick wrist that held the pistol. Bones broke, the sound renting the air with the gurgled dying of the man with a neck full of steel. The gun clattered to the ground. The blade caught in the back of his larynx, using the momentum to turn with the body as V stepped behind him. Blood spilled down his front, dripping from the wound as he coughed and hacked it up. Colour swiftly drained from his pudgy face. Limbs began to shake with the near prospect of death.

It all happened in the blink of an eye and Brigham shot at the moving black shadow. The bullets missed their mark and instead imbedded into his partner being used as a human shield. The sound of the gun clicking sunk his heart. With painful force, the body was shoved straight at him, the dead weight nearly throwing him off balance. V came forward, a smiling shade, as a new dagger was silently unsheathed and raked with cruel intent across Brigham’s face in a morbid flourish of ferocity, slicing through flesh and bone and the jelly-like substance of his eyes. With a cry, he jerked backward, holding his mutilated face while blood poured from between his fingers.

V shook his head, a mockery of pity that these men were forever incapable of. Stepping forward, just as calm and smooth, he turned about to face the screaming Brigham, amidst his jerking and tossing about in pain and blindness. The same dagger that took his sight was now forced right underneath his breast bone. A dying gurgle pushed from his throat followed by the sickening sound of the blade being retracted from his chest. He collapsed to the ground in a heap of limbs, face smashed against the concrete in his own blood, arms and legs twisted at odd angles. V stood over the sight, of the three men lying there upon the ground, appearing almost thoughtful in his brief reverie. Kneeling down, fingers gripped around the handle still protruding from the man’s throat. With a harsh jerk, it pulled out, letting the head slump back with a thunk upon the ground. Both daggers returned back to the darkness beneath the cloak as steel subtly rang against the metallic grooves that held them in place. V slowly turned and strode down the street in long, purposeful strides, as if it was customary to do so well after curfew, as if nothing was wrong — exacting one’s civic duty never was.

The buildings that stretched beyond were dilapidated and forgotten, like so much culture drained from the minds of old and youth alike. But V remembered, and it was his solemn vow that he would bring back such richness to the people. In this moment, he sought something truly special. An abandoned theater came into sight and V headed straight for it. Crumbling and withered, the old building appeared to sigh its last breath. Black eyes searched through the gloom, through the cracks of broken glass and dirty paper littering the ground. Stepping carefully, gaze focused upon the walls, he began to doubt if he’d find it, or if he would, it would be in a saddened, hopeless state as its tomb. After a few moments of searching, lips parted in astonishment as his sights focused upon a framed picture coated with dust and neglect, but there was no doubt, he had found what he was looking for. Stepping forward, a reverent gloved hand smoothed away the dirt that collected over its surface. How many years has it been? Close to twenty before he last heard from her, putting a face to the words that he knew so well, that had saved him, that had transformed him. Gripping the frame, he lifted it from the wall and began peeling the backboard off. As venerably as he took care of her letter, he rolled up Valerie’s Salt Flatts movie poster with equal care, gripping it tenderly in a gloved hand. V would make sure her image was placed back behind polished glass and frame, under lights and amidst her beautiful roses, safe with him and not in this place of forgotten dirge. She deserved better and he would provide. V tipped his hat to the past before journeying back to the Gallery, as silently and anonymously as he had come.

Monster Hunter Stories Announced For Nintendo 3DS

I will definitely keep my eyes peeled for this. 😀

My Nintendo News

Capcom has announced Monster Hunter Stories for Nintendo 3DS. The publisher has also released an announcement trailer for the forthcoming role-playing game, which focuses on a young boy who hops on a winged creature to outrun a larger monster that seems to be after some sort of egg. Monster Hunter Stories is slated for a 2016 launch in Japan. A teaser site for the game is now live.

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Ch. 4 A Ravaged Reminiscence

The dim light was kind and gentle, warming the very atmosphere with its golden glow. Harmonious with the shadows, light ebbed and flowed with darkness, dipping and diving along stone walls, renewing and enhancing ageless time itself. They embraced the artifacts as they embraced each other in an almost loving and venerable way, as if the artwork had always belonged there. For everything had its place, its order; nothing was cluttered and every piece was given careful reverence to – one never outshining another. All were equal in beauty and significance.

Brown eyes marveled at the sight, hardly able to take it in. A few curious fingers touched upon the rich mahogany of the piano, musing to herself if it was used for functionality as well as for decorative purposes. This place was the epitome of elegance and perfection, the likes of which hardly existed in the grey world from which she came from. This new world was filled with dazzling colour that heightened her senses. The Shadow Gallery felt alive, like it was a heart muscle beating new life into her veins, and its warmth certainly spread through every hall and corridor and room – its own living entity, just as it spread through every inch of her. A tall, handsome grandfather clock stood against a wall, marking the time that seemed to be nonexistent here. Though it was quiet, the sound of the clock didn’t cut into the silence, rather, the light sound and the lack of it complimented each other – just as everything did here. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon, it couldn’t be known so deep underground. It only added to the Gallery’s charm. Despite having been here a few days, Evey always found something new to marvel at around the main chamber – either an elaborately stitched tapestry hung upon a wall or a great, artfully carved statue sitting on the stone floor. The stories they must’ve had, the history behind the paint and marble … It was hard to fathom that this place was actually real and not something from a dream. Eyes scanned over the many books in their shelves as well as the few piles stacked upon mantles and tables, her footfalls steady as she went. None of the titles sounded familiar except for an occasional Shakespearean play that whispered from the recesses of her childhood – reminding her of her mother and the books, in general, reminding her of her father. Surely, one man couldn’t have procured all of these things by himself though, in the back of her mind, it was easy to believe he did. She smiled to herself, something that had been so rare to do but now came so easily. Though she was alone for the most part, she didn’t feel alone – not with so much history and culture surrounding her, as if the books, paintings, and statues had voices and they spoke to her in their own silent tongue.

“… a great feast of languages … liv’d long on the alms-basket of words.”

His deep tone pierced the air, causing her heart to trip over itself as she jumped in surprise and whirled around, hand on her chest. “You keep scaring me … and sneaking up on me.” Her eyes were wide as she accused.

V stood before her, gloved hands clasped around a book as the mask grinned at her, hardly moved by her response. The words he spoke were the opposite of its expression and were very sincere.

“I apologize,” he said at once, dipping his head down slightly. “I thought you might like to read something whilst you were here, so I brought you a personal favorite of mine. But every book you see here can be read at your leisure for you stand amidst the well-spring of knowledge and you may drink your fill — as much as you desire.”

Evey found the action almost touching and very different from the black hurricane that she had witnessed in the alley. The V then, had indeed scared her – with all of his daggers and explosives and insanity. This V, though, was starkly different by comparison – a gentleman, always aware of his manners, and who took such kind and careful steps around her. She knew he was the same entity, but it was still hard to fathom the two residing in a single body.

Large, gloved hands held out the book; small, feminine hands reached out to take it.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile until it faded away into awkwardness. It was very unnerving, not to mention challenging, to regard someone with an expressionless smile – the oxymoron that it was. What was he thinking? She wondered if she would ever find out his identity but always, it was only his warm, deep voice that seemed to carry the most expression, as well as his graceful movements that were nothing short of formal to her. In that way, coupled with light and shadow, the mask was expressive, but it was certainly something she had to dig deep or read between the lines to decipher.

With the slightest nod, he turned on his heel and disappeared down a dim hallway. Where it led, she didn’t know. She never had thoughts of following him to find out nor had she thought to explore the rest of the Gallery just yet. She honestly didn’t even know if it was allowed. Evey glanced at the book, a thin layer of dust upon the cover. Wiping it off, she settled down upon the black leather couch to read. Letting it rest in her lap, her mind slowly began to take in the reality of the situation. This morning, when she had apologized to him for her childish reaction the other night, it all seemed a blur as time melted away from all logic into forgotten memory. She was scared to remember; scared to take it all in for fear it would swallow her up. She was being held captive by the terrorist Codename: V for a year, yet she had helped him. She had maced a detective that had him stopped at gunpoint in Jordon Tower, the same detective that had been after her for having been with V when the Bailey blew up. The entire Nose was out looking for her, believing that she was his accomplice, and not to mention the terror of the Finger, all because she had dared to venture out after curfew. Yet here she sat, about ready to read The Cask of Amontillado when all instinct told her to run. Run from the safest place in London? V had assured her, with his utmost veracity, that the Shadow Gallery was the safest place in the country and that she could sleep soundly here in this sanctuary that was miles beneath the city’s streets, from any kind of government surveillance, and any black bag lurking in an awaiting van. She pressed her palms against her face and took a deep breath. She truly was out of her mind.

Dim shadows enveloped him as he left the warmth of the light behind with his new guest. Gloom seemed to feed off of his black clothing, encouraging his movements in lieu of hindering them and his heart flickered in response, remembering and knowing the joy that comes with darkness. V weaved in and out of rooms and corridors with ease, so fluid was his steps, great purpose within each footfall. As he journeyed further below its depths, the temperature changed abruptly. It was colder, more foreboding as the chilled air from the long forgotten train tunnels stretched and reached up through the Gallery’s veins and arteries, lingering like a sickness. But V made sure that the heart of his beloved home would never know such an ailment and dutifully kept that part of the Gallery very warm. His invisible path suddenly opened up to the mezzanine. A gloved hand smoothed along the iron of the railing which abruptly led to the backbone of the Gallery – a long winding, impressive set of stairs; one of many. Heading downward, he was really ascending up towards its optic nerves and neurological connections.

The girl would be preoccupied enough with the books and displays within the main chamber to get in the way of his immediate endeavors and for all the doors that held such secrets within were carefully locked from inquisitive minds and curious hands. V was hardly worried — not about her and certainly not about the things to come. The mere thought of the impending climax of his orchestra quickened his blood in its delight. Will it be only less than a year when the culmination of his life’s work can finally come to an end? Ooh, the things he had to show for it. For those not killed in the fires of a virulent past, V judged them all – every single one that ever worked at that facility; except for three — the three he was saving for the grand finale – the final act before the year was out. Valerie, you would be proud, he thought in immense veneration. A door stood ajar; gloved fingers pushed it open to reveal a room lit up by an entire wall of working televisions. The monitors cast a stark white shine upon the solid veneer as V walked calmly along the glowing wall, hands clasped behind him as he observed the many moving black and white images with great care and interest – his metaphorical chess board. There were interior scenes as well as images showing the grey streets and buildings outside. Some flickered on and off of illegal broadcastings and tv shows. A select few had sound. Bits and snatches of dialogue from the common people reached his ears, all recounting, in hushed and awed tones what had happened yesterday at the BTN — of the masked terrorist that spoke of words that seemed long dead in their vernacular vocabulary, words like ‘hope,’ ‘justice,’ and ‘freedom’ that slowly began to lift the fog of oppression from their eyes and rattle the chains that had them shackled to Tyranny’s wall. The fuse had indeed been lit and change was coming — the masked figure had assured them that.

V stopped to gaze at the image of an interior office room high up in Jordon Tower. A dark smile twisted scarred lips. He was glad to know that Dascombe had discovered his little present that he had left for him in the control booth. Who knew the bloke knew how to disarm a bomb under such taxing pressure? He cared about that place in the same way that Prothero cared about his plastic dolls, both heavily guilty of personal vanity. It was a pity that it held more importance than the flesh and blood of the citizens they are in charge of protecting and informing, treated like prisoners in a penitentiary. The fact that Jordan Tower still stood was a minor setback, nothing that couldn’t be worked around. A meticulous mind had innumerable options all leading to the same grand and vicious end. And though it wasn’t blind yet, London’s government would still be violently eviscerated, starting with the cutting out of its tongue.

A metal smile shown in the reflection of the television screen and unfeeling black eyes watched as a sandy haired man sat at a desk, talking fervently on the phone. V glanced to the side at an adjacent monitor of another interior scene – an office of the Nose where the chief inspector was in deep conversation with his partner. Ever since the destruction of the Old Bailey, they were dutifully assigned in tracking the terrorist down. Only when his work was finished would V ever think of “turning himself in.” Until then, they would have to be content in chasing after a ghost. Stepping back a pace, black eyes soon focused on the entire wall of television screens as a whole — all the players and pawns slowly making their way to their respective tiles, to be sacrificed or used to further his righteous means before they too, would be wiped from the board completely. Eyes roamed over the monitor wall until they spied a stocky looking man stepping out onto a street corner, no doubt the Voice of Fate on his way to record the daily taping for the evening — puppets on a string, the whole bloody lot of them. Gloved hands turned a knob near one of the monitors and a voice broke the stillness.

“Yes, Patricia. He’ll be staying late again, as usual, so prepare yourself, you know how he gets. Extra sugar, please. Thanks. I’ll need it. Right, right. I’ve got it here, I’ll look at it.” Dascombe set the phone in its cradle and heaved an irritated sigh as he ran a hand through his mousse sculpted hair.

A sound escaped the slit in the mask at Dascombe’s words and V’s mind subsequently returned back to the girl that was floors above him. It was at the BTN that his guest had worked and she’d most certainly have a key card on her, perfect for his reunion with the Commander. Like plugging variables into an equation, he placed the moments, situations, and connections in place and as always, it fit perfectly; all that was needed now was to solve it. V had no qualms at all about using her without her knowing and no matter how deep she’d be in with the Nose, she’d be safe here in the Gallery, away from their needless interrogations and away from the Finger’s black bags – she was utterly immune to their dangers so long as she remained Underground. But she was already a prisoner in their eyes, born into chains, as they all were, cogs in the corrupted machine of their radical ideology, too weak to pose any resistance and merely waiting to be dragged, broken in every way, behind the chemical sheds and shot – the fate of all that do not see and dare not do. Indeed, she was safer in his care.

There was a methodical method to V’s madness, each player having a vital part to play. Though he vacillated between hero and villain, he was ever focused on the bigger picture, the grand tapestry that was so meticulously stitched around them – the widening gyre of his making that would be the noose around their corrupted necks ere he would send the bottom out from under them, jerking their bodies to a final stop and leaving them to sway in their venal mistakes. And as he had told Evey in the alley, he did not think that their meeting was coincidental and as the days progressed, it proved all the more true. For now, he would water her malnourished mind with knowledge, history, and culture that she so desperately needed with his left hand and with his right, he would push her into the allotted tile that would be the most integral in this vicious cabaret.

“The hell is this?”

A voice pulled V out of his thoughts and he regarded the man with renewed amusement as Dascombe read aloud:

“I love you from the depths of me,

I love you with each breath.

A pity that you lie to me

And strangle Truth to death.

Is this a bloody joke?” Frustrated, the paper was shoved onto his desk with an irritated sigh.

“Enjoy my love note,” V murmured to the image of Dascombe as the man slowly rose from his desk, a cell phone pressing to his ear. V turned away from the wall of televisions and stepped towards the threshold, softly closing the door behind him.

Returning to the main chamber, a passing glance told him all he needed to know. Her head rested on the cushioned arm of the sofa closest to the hallway, body laid out on the couch and deeply engrossed in the book he had given her. V would never be seen as he made his way silently down the other end of the corridor towards his room that was now hers. Not making a sound, the door was pushed open. V entered and eyes swiftly scanned desks and dressers for various odd ends of her personal effects that were, perhaps, laid out for her convenience. He found nothing. The bag that was around her when he had first brought her here was the only personal possession she had and he suddenly spied it lying upon the bed. Stepping forward, gloved fingers pulled it open without hesitation and rooted through it. It didn’t take long before they suddenly clamped upon exactly what he was looking for. The mask appeared to smile in a maliciously satisfying way before the ID card was pocketed and his presence disappeared from the room completely, leaving the bag exactly as it was found.

It was a collection of short stories, but Evey read his favorite first, the story of a man that was so detail orientated that nothing got passed him to exact revenge upon an old friend turned traitor. And the scary part of it was that he got away with it. It sent a chill up her spine as her mind began to really think about whom exactly she shared this abode with, what all he did, what all he was capable of, and what he would do. But his kindness always seemed to assuage her fears and she pushed that growing feeling out of her mind and enjoyed the compilation of stories. She couldn’t understand why they were banished to the Black List, but there was a lot that she didn’t understand. The way the author wrote and the images that were conjured in her mind were vivid and beautiful, if not a little morbid at times. Growing up, it was always said that it was for the citizenry’s own good that anything not green lit by the government would be sent to the Vaults of Objectionable Materials. Being only a child, it went above her head the significance of those metaphorical bars closing before her and her family. A sad sigh escaped her as she turned a page.

* * * * *

The hard covered book had been old and nearly faded when it was first given to her, and it still retained that archaic look as trembling fingers lovingly caressed over the cover. Evey’s eyes were blood shot and very dark underneath from lack of sleep. The aspirin only helped so much. She sat in a chair near the bed, the pitch darkness of the room providing her its own kind of comfort. There was so much there in the annals of her mind that she wished to keep new and dust free, and this book was one of them – one of the very rare things that she thought to keep for herself, salvaged from a decrepit, decaying tomb. She never saw him again the rest of that day but she knew what all he did, if the next day’s events were any indication. It was that evening, after she had grown weary, that she had retired for the night and began to check in her bag for a single picture that was the only thing retained from her childhood when she noticed her card missing. She had no idea … she had no idea. Oblivious of her own sins that were committed well above her head, V’s actions made the world believe that she was his accomplice, that she helped him kill, and that she agreed with his morality and sense of justice. Even now, it made her nauseated to think of it. It was wrong … wasn’t it?

“Why are you asking me? I seem to recall that you wanted to make a deal.”

A feminine cry sounded in the haze of a broken mind as young Evey hugged the only person that had ever cared to help her, that had made the most difference in her life. She felt the warmth of his body emanate beneath the jacket. Evey wanted to help him morally, a tiny hope that maybe she could deter V from that violent, unforgiving path the way he had stepped in and intervened with her. They could save each other.

“I won’t do any more killing, V …”

“… not even for you,” she whispered despondently to the quiet and solemn shadows that hugged her form. They empathized in a way that nothing else of flesh and blood could hope to come close to. Her young, naïve voice coalesced with his deep tone and it wasn’t long before more memories flashed beneath her eyelids. Even when her eyes were open sometimes, it came like a torrent and she had no choice but to see it through, every muscle in her body locking up and her heart beating fast in her chest until she was finally released from the visions. It was physically painful and incredibly exhausting. She was haunted, day and night by the ghost of an idea and the trials and tribulations of her unforgiving past. Though solitude was vicious and unremorseful, the darkness only cloaked her further in its strange consoling way. Like a process that she had experienced daily, warm tears slid down her face next and it wasn’t long before she pulled the book to her chest and sobbed into the night.

“You think she’s going to be ok, Chief?”

The cop car stopped at a traffic light, the red signal glaring off of the windshield. Finch’s expression remained the same as before as he glanced over at his partner.

“You keep asking me that, Dominic, and what is it that I always say?”

“I just worry about her. It’s not healthy, not normal …”

“Her entire life’s not normal, Dominic. She’ll come around, one day though. You can never put a time limit on grief and that girl’s been through more than anyone should ever have to.”

Dominic grew silent in thought, feeling a growing suspicion that Finch knew more than what he was letting on. After having met briefly with Miss Hammond during that year that she and Finch helped get the country free from its chains, it was found out, from the Chief Inspector that she had only been forced into those seeming coincidences, and not of her own volition, that connected her with the Terrorist: her escape from Creedy’s men, her ID card information at the scene of a crime, records of a mix-up at the agency concerning Bishop Lilliman … The law was the law, and if she had been helping him out, she would’ve had to have been taken in. But the Terrorist had succeeded anyway. But it was worth it, Finch assured him later after they could stop to breath for a moment after scrambling about in panic with everyone else that night. It was hard for him to believe the Inspector’s sentiments now. This country went from one evil end of the spectrum to the other – how was that better? How had that even been possible? It’s all gone wrong, he thought, and remains so.

Dominic had asked him if he had found anything in the tunnels when the Inspector had disappeared down the stairs of the abandoned Victoria Station. The only reply he had gotten was a shake of his head and a somber, “No.”

“You didn’t see anythin,” Dominic pressed once the two were back at Headquarters after the madness of the destruction of Parliament. Finch continued to shake his head but there was a strange look in his eye, as he turned away, that nagged at the young cop. This whole case was bollocks with too many coincidences that, more than likely, drove his friend and superior mad. He had never seen him so obsessed – or possessed — with finding the truth and bringing the Terrorist to justice. But they failed. The building was blown up anyway with no arrest or a body – just hundreds of thousands of those shit-grinning masks and hours of phone calls, paper work, and corpse ID tags.

He blinked, willing his mind away from that night that still sent a shiver down his spine. It had been chaos and more than a few times, he had feared for his life. All of those screams, all of that needless violence. If only no one had shown up that night, it all could’ve been avoided.

But finally, after a year of tracking down a ghost and another year of watching the country slowly crumble in on itself, they were finally going to do something about it. The country needed leadership, a sense of direction out of this spiraling anarchy that only made good people go insane with greed and crime. It needed a proper governing, before Sutler had been appointed Chancellor and before his establishment of the Head. Dominic just hoped that she would see it their way and agree with this underhanded dealing that was nothing short of desperation.

“You alright?”

Dominic blinked again and looked at his friend. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Um, how did you know where she’d be?”

A grunt as the car turned into the lot of headquarters and into a parking space. The ignition was turned off. “Wot’s that? Who?”

“Evey. How did you know where she’d be?”

At the question, a very rare thing happened — the corners of his lips pulled in the smallest smile. “I had a feeling.”

Ch. 3 A Child’s Revolution

“Remember, remember the Fifth of November!”

The famous rhyme drifted on the air by children’s voices. Cold and dark, the night was strangely quiet. These days, it was rare for the stillness would always be disturbed in some horrifying way, either by the busting in of a window, frightening shouts, or gun shots ending in severe bloodshed. Though government surveillance was usurped, evil remained the same; merely under a different guise. It was a luck of the dice or foolish bravery that lured a person out after dark.

The only incessant sound came from the crackle of a fire that burned in a trash bin at the side of a lonely street corner with three figures huddled around it. A car passed by every now and then, headlights spilling upon black clothing and wide brimmed hats. The fire continued to burn, providing necessary warmth and light; the flames basked their pale, white faces in a warm glow. The only words that were uttered had been that first line of the poem made famous by the masked man that came before them. Whether it was because they didn’t know the rest of the rhyme or merely said it to embolden their hearts in such a dangerous time, it couldn’t be known. But that masked figure had enkindled a part of their young hearts that not even Anarchy’s wrath could destroy. In lieu of picket signs, their image was the stranger’s own – a stark white mask, a wide brimmed black hat, black clothes, black gloves, black boots, and a sweeping black cloak. He was the symbol that gave them freedom and would be the symbol that would lead them home again and turn chaos to order — or so they wanted to believe. Even amidst decline and riots, and shortages of food, money, and jobs, the three children, brought together by a terrible turn of events, remained united for a single, admirable cause. They rendezvoused almost nightly at the same street corner. Some days, it would be longer, other days, it would be shorter, but always they put their safety on the line to peacefully protest against the injustices of the only world they knew.

Black eyes looked up from the fire, the smile grinning out into the darkness beyond the ember’s light. The masked figure stiffened and straightened at the sound of footsteps drawing near. Silently, the other two were alerted of this new occurrence and inched nearer to the taller and oldest one. All looked on, waiting, as the silhouette of a woman came into view. Shocked brown eyes stared back into three pairs of black slits. Her lips parted in surprise. The masked trio had never seen someone like this before, but ever did they remain silent. She would pass them by soon enough and a few more moments of standing round the fire would be enough of their protest for tonight.

It took everything to stop the tears that wanted to well up in her eyes at the terribly unexpected sight. Evey had been on her way to seek out food stamps or a grocery card, but it was a fruitless endeavor – much like chasing the shadows in her mind. She wandered aimlessly, until a bright light caught her attention and here she stood before three figures dressed as V. A couple blocks away, the sounds of a heated argument began to drift to them on the air. Noting that and staring at these strangers, she asked, “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out here?” The oldest one, coming up to Evey’s chin, lifted his head up slightly, the wide brimmed hat raised in kind as he replied, “We do. But unlike everyone else, we haven’t forgotten. And we never will. It’s a chance we’re willing to take. If even just one person remembers what happened that day, it will be worth it.”

“At the expense of your life?” Evey couldn’t believe what she was hearing as the older boy nodded his head in affirmation. Why were so many willing to throw their lives away for nothing? Didn’t they understand that they stood on a foundation of corpses and that their death merely added to the blood and violence? It wouldn’t change anything; V’s own sacrifice was proof enough.

A muffled, feminine voice sounded from the mask on the boy’s left. “Even if nothing else, it gives us hope. It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Evey’s gaze lowered at once to the shadowed concrete, feeling her chest clench in pain as she suddenly voiced her darkest confession. “I did try … and I failed.”

“Then you have to find a different way – one that will work. But you can’t stop trying.”

Evey’s head snapped up to glare at the grinning, masked face that was too big for the girl wearing it. A venomous but righteous retort was on her lips when the sound of a window crashing in startled her out of the moment. Heart fluttering in her chest, she watched as a crazed woman beat the windshield of a car in; angry shouts and yells drowned anything else out. The man she argued with threatened to take the bat and once he did, Evey’s gaze fell upon the face she knew so well.

“I think you should go home before things get worse.”

“But miss,” came the voice of the figure on the eldest’s right, “even if we do go home, it won’t make it go away. We’ll just be burying our heads in the sand, and my friends and I, we’re tired of hiding. We want to make a difference.”

“By dressing up for Halloween every night? Go home to your parents!” Evey began walking away, putting the costumed individuals and the fire to her back. She’d round the corner and make her way to her flat and away from the shouting couple a block or so away and from the nightly horrors for another few hours. The oldest spoke again, his words more than cutting into her and causing her to stop in place.

“Our parents are dead.”

“Your father is dead.” Evey stood in the middle of the street in broad daylight and watched as the man known as Codename: V collapse to the ground in a heap of clothing, a tape recorder clattering to the concrete. Another trick — another stupid piece of the puzzle to solve on her own and left to fend for herself — left to die for all he seemed to care.

The image flashed before her brown eyes and it was night again, just as alone, just as confused about her current situation. She swallowed hard and slowly turned back towards the smiling faces.

“The day when everything changed …”, explained the older boy, “…when everyone was outside waiting like he asked … when the building exploded …”

Evey’s face constricted in pain and empathy, remembering how much she feared seeing, on the telly, her own parents killed in their revolutionary struggles. She wanted to clench her eyes shut, but she feared the vision would only intensify. She remembered that day well; how could she forget? How could she forget what it felt like to watch V die? To listen to his music and experience every single moment they had had playing over and over in her mind until his name, scrolled upon the sky, dissipated with the chilled November air; the smell of smoke and blood stained in her memory? No one would ever forget that night. In the beginning, she had had no idea what V would bring to this country with all of his violence and catastrophe wrought from his black gloved hands – but she knew now. He had created an unstoppable vacuum and left her in this world to fix it, to shape it, to gain control over it. She had tried … Oh, how she tried.  It was as if the country’s bare foot had stepped onto the government’s vicious serpentine body and it had sunk its fangs deep into the nation’s ankle. Was there an antidote strong enough to stop the poison coursing through the country’s veins?

“Get back! Get back, I said!”

All it took was a single shot from an uncertain hand and everything was thrown into a panic. The people were emboldened now, more than half still wearing the grinning mask, while others, their teeth gnashing and a wild, unfettered look in their eyes, thought to take matters into their own hands. Everyone had just witnessed the impossible – the destruction of Parliament exploding into smoke and rubble before their eyes. They would not be put back under lock and key again. A terrible black wave fell upon the rocks of dark, uniformed officials. Shouts and screams rent the air, rising higher above the tumult of gun shots — so much screaming, so much bloodshed.

A loud crack cut through the noise, followed by a piercing feminine shriek. A man lay dead upon the ground, blood spilling from the open wound to his temple. The chaos was so great, no one could stop to see or help. A gun was cocked and a gruff command was given for the woman to shut the hell up. And when she didn’t, she joined her husband on the ground while a child, wearing a Guy Fawkes mask looked on, witnessing the death of his parents through black screened eyes, a numbed expression beneath a wide grinning smile. The same man that had killed them was suddenly choked from behind by a cloaked citizen while another figure pummeled and beat the officer to death on the ground. More enforcements came; vans pulled up, empty and ready to be loaded with anyone and everyone that resisted. Tear gas poured into the crowd. A lot of people scrambled and scattered to get away. Others were succumbed, apprehended, and thrown into the awaiting vans or, if the officers didn’t feel like struggling with them, were shot point blank in the head.

Evey opened her eyes and she couldn’t help but tremble away the visions as she stared at the children in front of her who had more courage than a majority of adults.

“Another way,” she asked tentatively. The three masked faces nodded. The noise from afar died down and the two strangers down the street disappeared in separate directions as a car rumbled by. That eased her nerves a bit and she stepped forward into the comforting glow of the fire.

“He needs to come back,” said the older boy. “That’s what we’re waiting for.”

She swallowed her growing sadness down. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

The silence settled around them and only the fire crackled and burned but its strength was slowly dying. She wondered what they were thinking but her main concern was getting them to leave this street corner and go home.

“Please,” she said softly, “go home now.”

They remained silent and as still as statues and she wondered if they would move at all. The oldest finally nodded and motioned for his two friends to follow. She watched them cross the street until his voice reached her ears on the air as a black eye regarded her over a cloaked shoulder.

“It’s not impossible! He’s all of us!”

Those familiar words seemed to resonate in her entire body and root itself in her mind. And yes, she did fight against it, because she knew the horrible and malignant truth of it all. These were only children with childish hopes – the way she had had in the beginning when she had thought to turn this country around without the aid of violence and killing. But she was grown up now and knew of grown up despair and sorrow. She watched them leave until their dark forms disappeared around a corner and she shut her eyes, feeling the sting of tears slide down her cheeks. She roughly turned away and began making her way to her flat.

The darkness comforted her in her sorrow as she walked, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Evey breathed in the chilled air and looked up at the sky. Stars blinked down from above, a reflexive and unremorseful response. Her mind tried to avert her attention back to her childhood but she shook her head. To think about her childhood would also have her thinking of V and the time when she had been a child in the beginning of that year that she had been forced to stay in the Gallery against her will. All she wanted was some aspirin and a warm bed and a dreamless sleep. As she passed, the wind blew from the mouth of an alley, chilling her and causing her arms to wrap tighter around herself. Instinctively, Evey turned her head to stare, in near defiance, into the murky darkness, as if she were staring down a long brick corridor of memories – the blind trying to see. Within its secret depths, she felt she could almost discern a kind of shape within – the kind that made her heart flutter in familiar recognition. She humoured the idea, as absurd as it was, and fed off of the romantic possibilities that he could somehow be alive, watching over the country, watching over her; her suffering. But her muscles knew of the great dead weight that she had had to pull and drag up onto the train, the silence that passed between living body and corpse as she reverently placed each lily on and around his person, felt her heart cave in at the same time that her soul alighted with new hope in the flash of the explosion as the ground shook, causing her insides to reverberate along with it. Her mind contradicted the whimsical fancies of her heart with too many alibis to prove it false. He was gone. There was no coming back from death – and that was his last great secret – his last great victory. He always had his reasons for keeping things from her until the very end – leaving her to figure it out on her own, and he may have guessed that she would’ve tried to stop him. He didn’t want to be stopped.

Anger and sorrow mixed together like fire and ice and it was only when a car pulled up did she find the resolve to swallow it down and turn away from the sight, from the recollection.

“Evey!”

“Mr. Finch …” Her voice was a mumble and she hurriedly wiped her eyes as she stepped towards the cop car with the window rolled down and the inspector’s dark head leaning out of it.

“It’s time things changed,” he said in the same tone of finality that she had used on him time and again in their limited phone conversations. She blinked, as if in a daze before she turned back once more to the darkness of the alley. Her heart was playing tricks on her as her eyes centered and focused on the slightest movement of shadow within. Finch called her name again before she could get lost in another memory and she turned back to him, nodding as she gripped the door handle to the back seat and got inside. Instinct told her it wasn’t safe to linger.

The car rumbled down the street as Finch held the wheel a little bit too tightly as he stared ahead. Dominic, sitting in the passenger side, glanced out the window. Evey, in the back seat, sat with her hands between her knees, staring down at the floor. Dominic stole a glance at her.

“It’s decided,” Finch said suddenly, “but before a signature is written down, I wanted to make sure it was ok by you first.”

Evey slowly glanced up. “What is it?”

“This country is drowning in its own chaos.” His tone changed, filled with a mixture of sadness and fatherly worry. “And you’re drowning in your own mind.”

Evey raised her delicate but strong chin and stared squarely at Finch’s reflection in the rear view mirror. Her eyes, made more prominent from her lack of hair, stared darkly at his always-mournful looking face. Dominic noticed and raised his eyebrows in surprise at her.

“Now is the winter of our discontent … in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”

Finch ignored her quote as he turned a corner. He knew it was chaotic madness out on the streets, a swirling, violent vortex that no one seemed to have control over; only the ghost of an idea still reigned over the entirety of the situation. “Evey,” he explained, “the nation’s been thrown into a damned vacuum. It’s a race, now, to get out of it and the first one to do so will dictate what happens next. I won’t let this country fall back down on its knees. Not if I have anything to say about it. I don’t want the past to be repeated anymore than you do. And this is not what he would’ve wanted. So let’s start going in the right direction. Surely, he didn’t want absolute anarchy in the streets – without order, always in a constant state of chaos. My God, we’re going on over a year of this. That’s got to change. I spoke with a man who has the same visions as we all do. I need your signature to help bring him into office.”

She felt the tears come at the silent mention of V and felt them turn to anger as he continued. The term ‘Chancellor’ was abolished after Sutler’s reign and ‘Prime Minister’ was being returned into the vernacular but honestly, change the word, it still had the same malicious meaning behind it. Because it had been years upon years that a new individual has been elected, it was being held a lot differently – almost in secret. Maybe it was. Something didn’t feel right but the alternative was to let Anarchy continue her destruction. Evey really didn’t have a choice.

“We meet with him in the morning. I would like you to meet him, too before a final decision is made.”

Evey rolled her head to the side to stare out the window, watching the familiar apartments go by, her eyes instinctively flicking to the roofs, childishly hoping to see a dark, shadowed shape silhouetted against the night sky. Three words kept pounding in her head and piercing her heart … ‘I miss you …’ … There really was no other choice and she swallowed hard.

“Evey …”

A different voice. She flicked her eyes to the front seat to see Dominic staring back at her.

“It’s going to be ok.”

The corners of her lips pulled in a small smile, almost grateful to hear the sentiments but disbelieving every word.

“Thank you, Dominic.” She watched him smile in reassurance before her gaze shifted to the windshield and she pointed to her flat. “It’s that one.”

The car stopped and she got out. Finch gazed up at her. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.

She felt her throat tighten up and all she could do was nod. She walked silently to her flat, not looking back as the sound of the car driving off met her ears. Stepping heavily up the stairs, she unlocked the door and made her way inside.

She made due with her promise and took some aspirin and fell into bed. The atmosphere of the small room was enough to put her into a coma of indifference. Shifting over onto her side, she silently agreed that things did, indeed, have to change – but it wouldn’t be in her lifetime.

Until then, sleep was best.

Ch. 2 Sour Anniversary

A heart beat fast as the sub-consciousness released her from its clutches and thrust Evey into the waking world. She bolted upright in bed, hastily rubbing her eyes of sleep before she held her face in her hands, breathing heavily. Another one, but this one felt more real, more different than the ghosts of before.

Her gut always felt as if it were being gored out with a cruel, blunt meat hook. A blanket of depression wrapped tightly around her, an insufferable, unending madness that had no end. Sometimes, she felt as if she were going insane, but she was always aware of reason and logic. There was nothing wrong with her mind after all; it was the spirit that was irreparably damaged; not once, but twice — a thousand times over. Fingers would curl into fists as the anger grew, threatening to dominate over every other emotion. It would end and she would again burst into tears in sheer agony. And the cycle would begin anew.

Every day she questioned why. Evey could barely understand the situation let alone the final denominator that would, inevitably, cancel his variable out. V and his damned equations, she thought bitterly. She tried to understand but it was as if she were blind and trying to comprehend abstract untouchable elements of shadows, smoke, and fog. Every time she got close to something, it would vanish before she could even hope to catch a glimpse of the answer.

She lost her mother, her father, her brother, her best friend, and now … She couldn’t bring herself to voice it, to give that ugly horrible truth life with the mere thought of it. V was a nurturer in a loving, passionate, but respectful way, treating her as if she were one of his beloved roses. Why wouldn’t she be? He did seem to have handpicked her — appearing out of nowhere to save her from the bogeymen of the world, showed her the country with which she would inherit, and instructed her on how to keep it sustained and from falling into the corrupted abyss of yesteryear.

‘It’s stupid and pointless to rely on anyone but yourself,’ she thought scathingly. ‘Look what happens! I’m going to let you down. You’re going to ultimately fail because I couldn’t do my part. How could you put so much faith into me, V? How could you have been so foolish to trust that I could do the impossible? You were good at that, not me.’ The pain was unbearable and she wept openly into her hands, the tears hot and wet as they ran down her face, her nasal passages getting stopped up and her head soon throbbing with congestion. She didn’t care. She wept like a child — crying for the first time in years, it felt. She sobbed for V, for Gordon, her brother, her parents, and for everyone else that had been lost unjustly and prematurely at the hands of outrageous misfortune. ‘Why couldn’t it have been me,’ she cried in her mind before her broken voice sounded to the indifferent air:

“Why couldn’t it have been me?”

The chill morning air had no answer for her when she had finally ventured out onto the patio. Neither did the larks as they began their song with an andante of a flourish in the wake of the garishly bright sun. It felt a lifetime ago since she had heard his deep and velvet tone recite that old childhood rhyme as he threw his arms out, a tight but delicate hand gripping a baton ere the explosion of Madam Justice and the undoing of everything that she had been; the beginning of so many ends. Her fingers wrapped around the porcelain tea cup as she calmly brought it to her chapped lips in hopes to soothe her aching ailments. The warmth was a comfort to her insides and a kind reprieve from the agony of a few moments ago.

With her nerves comforted, her mind began to tug and drag her back to the reason she was so shaken. The dream was so real, so lucid. Her heart remembered the dread it felt to be back in that cell, and the sorrow of all the memories it brought with it. Her skin remembered the ceaseless pounding of the water, the very sight and faintest hint of the room conjured that real memory up almost instantly. Her soul remembered the sick anguish she felt when she found herself alone again – always alone. She shut her eyes tight, fighting against the phantom figment of her double persona. She had been so carelessly reckless and utterly disrespectful. Her fingers twitched around the tea cup, they, too, remembering an aspect of the dream that felt all too real – the coolness of the mask around her fingers as she threatened to rip it off the way he had ripped the prison garb off her body. The sob threatened to push out of her throat as the very thought choked her and she silently prayed for V’s forgiveness, as if she had really tried to. Only once did the thought enter her mind, but he had made it very clear, then, that he was no longer a man. Even as he lay within the train, cold and still, she never thought of taking the mask off. She loved and respected him too much. To know would take something away and something about him would be diminished forever — the idea that he personified would go away forever … The tears came now, sliding down her cheeks in hot, wet trails. Not that it mattered in the end. The people forgot anyway.

What madness was her sub-conscious trying to convey? The dream clung to her like a stain – the deed of her pulling the mask away imprinted into her mind, but she also remembered that nothing had been there. No face scarred beyond any kind of description — just air and the clothes that had fallen at her feet like some twisted ceremony. Her heart beat fast to remember beyond that – how it felt to put on every piece of clothing that made up his sum. Her soul quivered beneath her skin. She had felt him there as surely as she remembered the times he had physically stood near her in the inviting warmth of the Gallery. Setting the cup down, she slowly reached her hands up to press the tips of her fingers to the flesh of her cheeks, her image in the reflection’s surface coming back to her. And she only felt alive and looked alive when she stripped away her body of flesh and blood and became the very essence that he always was – symbol and idea.

She blinked and shook her head and gladly took another sip of tea, letting it warm her insides once more and jolting her mind back to the reality of her dilapidated present. She was still a woman, she was still human. She could never let that go for something so grand that overwhelmed her at the very thought of it – the very thing that asked too much and went against too much — her very principles.

The phone rang, disrupting her out of her thoughts. She closed her eyes with a despondent sigh and wiped at her face, before she rose from the seat and stepped back inside. The phone continued its vociferous ringing on the bedside table. Setting her cup down next to it, she picked up the receiver with her other hand. ‘Could it be anymore early for these things,’ she thought bitterly as she finally pressed the button and responded with a monotone voice.

“Hello, Mr. Finch.”

“Hello,” came the somber reply on the other end. He got right to his point. “Evey …” He said her name as if he were pleading with her, and in all reality, he was. “The country demands something. Anything. Ever since the Fifth –”

“It’s their choice, not mine,” she cut in. “They have to learn to save themselves.”

“Evey. Isolation is not going to fix the problem.” She knew he was talking about her. After a pause, she finalized their conversation.

“Goodbye, Mr. Finch.”

“Evey …”

Before he could say another word, she pressed the button again and set the phone into its cradle.

In the beginning, she had had hope. She barely had space to contain it as she drowned in its light in lieu of the sorrow that lingered beyond the darkened threshold that was ever so ready to grab her unawares if she wasn’t vigilant. She had grown her hair out to its previous luxurious length as a symbol that V’s new and better world was more than just a vision or a dream but a soon-to-be reality, that things could — and *would* change for the better. Gathering the people together, making speeches, helping rebuild — slowly but surely, the country began to rise off its knees. She didn’t work alone. Finch was ever at her side, ready to help and offer sage advice — a freedom fighter with a face working side by side with a known figure of the nation’s government.

Having tracked the masked terrorist down beneath the city’s streets, Finch had found V’s corpse upon a steel funeral barge and had confronted, instead, with the woman that was famous for helping him. An uncertain gun had been pulled on her but her words had spoken to his conscience.

Evey had not been afraid at all if she had gotten shot that night. So long as the train made its way down the dry canals towards its destination, she could die happy. The smallest part of her, then, certainly wanted to while a large part of her already had. But she had been strong for V. Never would his death be in vain. But reality had far more different plans than the whims of her fantasies.

It had been a short lived victory, as most always were. It had been a swell, only for it to come crashing down the next moment, leaving everything in disarray in its aftermath. What little strength the country had had was now gone and it lay face down in the muddy,

dirty ditch of its rejected ideology. Riots were everywhere, gangs crept out from darkened corners, crime sky rocketed and chaos settled itself back down over everyone and everything. Supplies were short and in high demand; money and jobs were scarce. It seemed everyone had forgotten their masked savior and the woman that was Evey Hammond to help guide them from the path of Perdition — she had now been reduced to a nobody. Everything seemed to have come back full circle. Only this time, there was no mysterious man in a mask to appear out of the darkness reciting Shakespearian quotes and save her, like out of a story again, anymore. He was gone. So she was too for all the country cared.

It was proper for a new Chancellor to be put into office, a new Prime Minister, but the people were wary, so afraid that the shackles would be put back over their still sore wrists and ankles, so afraid of losing their freedom again. But what was freedom without order? It was chaotic madness that they chose to wallow in like pigs in a sty. Anarchy was nothing without its other half and V’s half lingered in its iron grip. He was the destroyer and she the creator. But she couldn’t hope to build from such decaying rubble that was quickly forming before her eyes like a cancer. When the first shots rang out, when the first mournful cries sounded in the night, when the first body hit the ground, Evey knew that her plans of a new and better world would never come to pass in the way that she had wished; it sifted out of her fingers like sand.

Evey was aggrieved by the present during the day and tormented by the past at night as she slowly melted into the backdrop of obscurity. When she lost her faith, her hope, everything else swiftly unraveled and she became what she had feared most — a statistic.

The anniversary of the Fifth had rose and fell on a sour note.

The curly locks of her head had fallen all over the floor and in the bathroom sink in her efforts to return to a time and place that did not kindly welcome her back. She had kept her head sheared ever since. Finch, as well as Dominic and several others that were on their side had fervently tried to reason with her. In a way, Finch reminded her, a little, of V. The two were both stubborn as hell. Every day, Finch called her flat, hoping that she would somehow have a change of heart but her answer was always the same — defiant to the end.

The memories flooded her mind, one right after the other in flashes of a white mask and a black cloak as Evey stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She let it come; she let her mind lead her through the trials and tribulations of the past two years of her life that eventually dumped her in the small loo she was now standing in. Running a hand over her sheared head, she looked as she did in the dream – starved and dying, a gaunt expression with red circles under her eyes where she had been sobbing. How was it that a body could keep itself fused together when she was so broken inside? A sigh escaped her dried, chapped lips as she turned away from the shadow in the mirror and closed the door behind her.

Ch. 1 Transformation

Brown eyes snapped open and dread instantly threatened to choke her as she quickly realized where she was, where she had returned to. Dingy concrete walls surrounded Evey, the smell of sweat and pungent air was overwhelming and a chilling cold settled into the marrow of her bones. Far off cries rent the air. Evey slowly picked herself up from the cold cell floor. ‘It’s ok,’ she thought sporadically, naively. ‘He’s going to rescue me as before. V’s going to come for me like out of a story — before they hurt me.’

A piercing shriek froze the blood in her veins as silent tears slid down her grimy cheeks. She waited, shaking and trembling. The quiet sounds of the Chancellor’s speech drifted in to fill the sudden, silent void. Evey forced herself to crawl into the right far-off corner, clutching her knees to her with talon-like fingers and buried her sheared head in her curled up limbs. Evey tried to stop the involuntary shaking as her muscles twitched violently while a sob threatened to push itself out of her throat. She swallowed it down — a vain attempt to cease trembling and the knowledge that, all too soon, she too would be ripped from this dismal cell.

The door was wrenched open with a harsh slam, the booming sound of metal turning her insides into liquid. The fear was so great that she began choking on her own breath while mentally searching for an escape, though knowing that there was none. Hands seized her, rough and hard, smelling of leather. Too fatigued to put up any kind of true resistance, she grew limp in the wonderfully cruel hands as they yanked her from her quarters. Fear drained any strength she might have had left. With her legs dragging behind her down the long hall, the shadows moved and she begged the darkness to swallow her, to force itself into her body and crush her lungs, allowing sweet relief from this hell. Death would bring her closer to him – her only love, but she would be denied it; the blackness only a bystander — curious to her suffering.

Evey was brought into that familiar room of her water torturing. Her skin crawled at such recollection. Without warning, the orange garb was ripped from her body, turning into a black cloak the moment it hit the floor and her arms instinctively covered her chest. Her legs refused to hold her and Evey crumbled to her knees in front of her captor, words lost on her lips as she cried. It wasn’t for mercy. The word no longer existed. It was an involuntary sound that was the prelude to an unending nightmare. Her defeated gaze soon traveled up the length of her captor and stared into the face she knew so well, into the blackness that was his eyes. The frozen white grin appeared to leer in mockery. “I didn’t put you in a prison, Evey. I merely showed you the bars. You’ve been in a prison all your life.”

A malicious cold swept through the room. She shivered uncontrollably again as the unfeeling prison melted away to the warmth of the Shadow Gallery. He continued to stand before her, unmoved by the sudden change in scenery. “You must know whose face lies behind this mask but you must never know my face.”

She stood on shaky legs, staring in confusion into the black pitch of his eyes. The grin infuriated her, as if he secretly took pleasure in her pain — him and his stupid tricks and teachings. Finding a burst of strength, she leapt towards the mask, having all intentions of ripping it off. This wasn’t him — her V. It was some imposter. V wouldn’t do this to her, not again. Her fingers wrapped around the edges and tore the solid veneer away. There was nothing — nothing but air as the clothes folded upon each other in a bundle upon the floor. Frustrated, she threw the mask on the hard stone with a cry where it shattered in several fragments.

For a wild thought, she wanted to be imprisoned again, anything to rid her of this painful solitude, and she could live in the illusion that he was there — torturing her, yes, but he would physically be there. There was hardly any difference between then and now. How she hurt. Physical pain was nothing like this … She fell on her knees, hunched over, and gripped the cloak around her chilled, naked body, eviscerated by her personal hell, blinded by tears. After a long while, she calmed significantly and slowly focused her attention on the heap of garments still lying there, patiently waiting.

She reached out, fingers gripping over the familiar leather gloves atop the pile. Bringing them close, Evey inhaled deeply. She got lost in the scent and felt as if she hadn’t learned how to breathe until that moment. She loved him so much, missed him — was that so selfish? She continued to breathe in the sweet smell, breath it into her soul until she could barely stand it, her tears wetting the material. Without thinking, as if it were someone else doing it for her, she slid his gloves over her hands. The interior was warm, familiar, comforting. It felt like his hands were enfolded over hers. At that realization, she burst into tears as memories and the truth returned to harrow her chest cavity out again in racking sobs. She had to get control of herself! It was more someone else’s wish than her own. Evey scrubbed her face with her newly leathered palms, gradually piecing herself back together before she slowly crawled on her hands and knees towards the garments. Numbly, she slipped the grey shirt over her bare torso and buttoned it up. She slowly got to her shaking legs and put on the black trousers and lastly, tied the cloak around her shoulders. Evey turned, an invisible force at her back pushing her in the desired direction – pushing her to her destiny.

The dressing room desk came into view, her reflection slowly filling the mirror as she walked mechanically into the room. She didn’t recognize herself anymore. Somber eyes scanned over the desk — clean, neat, and orderly, just as he was. The lights surrounding the mirror brought needless detail to her gaunt, haggard and pale features. She looked sick, starved … dead. Evey’s gaze continued to pass over the desk — over his black wig that sat on a mannequin head, over the hat that rested upon the flat, mahogany surface, the wide brim hovering precariously beyond the edge, and lastly rested her gaze on a Guy Fawkes mask that hung from a nearby stand. Lucidly, she drew near and took the mask down, staring into its eternal grin for a long while, stroking a thumb over the smooth porcelain cheek. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself turning the mask over, staring into its hollow recess. Again, she hesitated.

What immense threshold she stood at, whatever would come, there was no going back. For the first time since her torture, the scared little girl threatened to take over her mind. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could see what would happen and the reverberating outcome that would occur because of it. It felt so wrong …

A warmth wrapped around her, causing her breath to catch in her throat. There was no mistaking it now. She could feel him. V was there, guiding her in this last final test.

Slowly, the mask was brought over her face and buckled behind her head. It felt frightfully claustrophobic at first — an unfeeling cage enclosed around her face. The fear in her heart became replaced with a suffocating desire. His spirit surrounded her and she had no qualms about drowning in it — to meet with him in the world within worlds.

There’s no time for fear or doubt. There is much still left to do.

The wig was placed over her head, the hat following soon after, and she finally looked at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t Evey Hammond, it was V that stared back from the reflection’s surface. What stopped her from breaking through the mirror to get to him on the other side, she’ll never know.

The more she stared, the more she felt herself dying, every human flaw burning, being purged in the wake of something else — something that wasn’t her but at the same time was — something familiar in the unfamiliar, perfection in the imperfection. This was the epitome of V, the symbol, the idea, the very essence of what he was and it, now drove itself — impaled itself into her being. And oh, how she let it.

Where Souls Can Rest

The sun poked through gentle grey clouds, while a warm wind blew across the land and through the green valley. It was a picturesque scene from the most cliché of books and movies, but clichés were made into existence for a reason, weren’t they? Some grain of truth had to exist within the meaning of the word. It was ideal and V beheld it from the eyes of his beloved who stood at his side, calm and peaceful. She embodied it, she was the personification of the word just as V was easily the personification of hate and everything that was destructive. But Eve took that away with the subtlest of touches to the dark jacket he wore, pressing just enough that he could feel it beneath the layer of black fabric. This was her world and she allowed him a moment’s reprieve from the toils of London’s rain-slicked and dirty streets. The notion of such a juxtaposition was illogical at that given moment. It was easier to let go … let go … let go … she ever insisted in her silent way. She told him without words that this was only a mere glimpse to the real thing, like the very flicker of a thought that was so small, it could hardly be called a thought, for where she resided, there was no need for masks, no need for symbols and flesh and blood – but the very light of the soul which was finally able to take shape. For V’s still mortal mind, she kept the guise, because that was what he remembered, and what he would have to live with when their special moment had to end.

Time seemed an impossibility to comprehend in this realm of existence. The wind blew the strands of his wig and through her hair, and it felt like it blew through their bodies and V never felt more elated. It made him want to laugh, though he hardly knew why. He had enough of regarding the world around them and fixed his dark gaze upon her and his heart swelled so much that the feeling spilled from his chest cavity. Emotions no longer had to remain inside; they could be seen as well as felt. Eve smiled and V felt and saw the same thing issue forth from her and it was near overwhelming in its euphoria. Gloved fingers gripped slender pale ones and he brought her close, nuzzling her with the cold, hard cheek of the mask. “You never felt more warm,” she said softly. The mask was no longer a barrier and if she wanted, she could touch it and he could feel every grazed path made by the pad of her finger on his scarred face without it ever needing to be taken off. She rested her head against his shoulder, touching her fingers, gingerly, against his abdomen. He pressed a gloved hand upon her waist. “I saw the first letter of your name in the sky a couple days ago,” he murmured softly. “The way the sun filtered through the clouds and lit it up was beautiful. I felt you there with me.” She reached up and splayed her hand against his chest.

“I was there with you.” She paused. “I know how you are, V. You’re so determined to live with this notion that the world can’t go on without your help, that it won’t change until its darkest absolution is felt beneath everyone’s feet. I know what you hope for, but will that truly make things better? Living is for now, light is for later.” She smiled in everlasting adoration as she dipped her head down, her eyes closed as she listened to his heart beat. “You know what you must do, V. It’s been ingrained into the very make up of your being. And you are dearly admirable for all of your good qualities, and your convictions shine just as bright as the sun. But things remain so pressing within you that makes me incredibly sad.” His voice was strained when he spoke, holding back the sorrowful emotions that, he knew, in this place, she felt and saw – everything was out in the open.

“You can help in that regard, Eve. You can make all of that go away, and you know how. Just come to me, please … so that I won’t feel like I’m crazy anymore, pining for a damned vision, an illusion.” “It’s not time yet.” “Then it won’t be time yet to let that hate and vengeance go.” “I never took you for a bargaining soul,” she said calmly, a smile on her lips. Where she was patience absolute, V was ever the opposite – as it was meant to be. She endured his frustrations and his quick, violent temper and washed it away like rain over the scarred remains of a building. “You fight too much with yourself. Do I not sound familiar, yet?” She moved her head subtly to look up at him with her deep, brown eyes and only then did he realize who he had been truly conversing with all those years ago. “And what I said then remains the same. Keep hope and faith, and you’ll be rewarded in time.” V was too stunned to respond, even back then … she had been there, long before that mutilation of spirit was to take place. Tears welled up in his eyes and his voice cracked. “I’m just so tired …” She shushed him gently, placing a gentle finger over the mask’s lips. The warmth of her finger burned his mouth beneath, it was so sudden. “You’ll be fine, V. Everything will be ok, because I will be there with you, just as I’m with you now.” She reached up and pulled him down to press a venerable kiss to his brow. “You have bridges to fix. Never burn them, like I know you want to.” A soft laugh escaped her as she added, “I know you’ll be tempted.” “Temptation is always a bitch,” he couldn’t help but say and she reprimanded him for it by swatting his arm playfully. “I’m so crazy,” he suddenly blurted out. She wrapped her arms around him while he mirrored the action. How they embraced so tightly and their souls reach out so strongly. “You’re not crazy,” she murmured against him.

“And you’re not stupid,” she added, knowing that was the next thing on the tip of his tongue. “You’re my V, that’s what you are. My one and only. And we will meet in the place where there is no darkness. I promise.” She pulled back, seemingly to sift out of his arms like the very water element she was attributed to. She gripped his hands, and dreading what was coming next, his hold on hers was almost painful. “You have papers to write. The wrinkles of your interior have been smoothed down as much as they can, for the moment. And I know how you procrastinate.” She smiled endearingly. “You’ll find the strength and resolve to do what must be done. You’ll find the way. You always do.” Her expression saddened, not liking what had to happen either. “I love you.”

V woke with a start, eyes snapping open and the vestiges of the dream left him almost instantly, though the feeling in his chest lingered. But it, too, soon vanished with the fury of his anger and frustration as he grabbed the book in his lap, that he had been reading and hurled it, with all of his might, across the room before he buried his aching head in his hands. He began to wonder, truly wonder, if the violence in his heart would ever go away. He feared that if it didn’t, that he’d never see her beyond that mortal threshold.