5. Solitude’s Price

Certain little things could easily set his mind reeling and bother him like nothing else, as was just the case in this moment as V sat in a chair, leather fingers drumming on the arm rest as he remained deep in thought. A book lay open, flipped on its pages in his lap. It was within those pages that had caused him a sudden headache with his ceaseless thinking.

It wasn’t always like this, he knew. But the important question was how and why. He couldn’t have an open discussion about this. He’d feel she were humouring him, sighing impatiently and he, having to hold his tongue lest he openly say, “berate me already.” That wasn’t it.

He couldn’t help but feel so grateful, yet it was instinct to question it — to question everything. Because he questioned happiness, he felt he was allowed to question misfortunes for as long and deeply as he wished.

V silently wondered when it would all fall, as the stars in the deepest night portended and promised that it would. He also secretly imagined exacting revenge, no matter the cost, no matter the repercussions. But was he doing it for her or for himself? He seemed the only one still deeply troubled by it all and he feared it would always remain in the back of his mind as a nagging reminder that, for a time, she wasn’t his. But she couldn’t hide the furtive glances towards the telly, the nervous rubbing of her arms, the fear in her expression when memories would return unexpectedly, conjured up from anything. A part of her seemed always on vigilant watch. He wanted to end that, more than anything, even if it meant …

V shook his head and slipped the first two fingers underneath the mask and rubbed his temple. If there was anything that could cripple words and make them weak, it was lack of action. They were meaningless without. And oh the actions he wanted to do that would vindicate them both from such a choking memory. But he remained silent upon the matter and instead drove himself crazy thinking about it, going so far as to plot about it.

She had been in the Gallery upon his return, as he had predicted correct. V remembered her arms wrapped around his neck, the tiny kiss on the mask’s cheek, and the deep adoration and relief in her eyes at the sight of him. Not long after, she had tried to question him about his whereabouts, more so who’s blood it was that stained his attire but he gave a vague enough answer, waving it away with a hand before locking himself up in one of his studies on a lower floor.

No need to elaborate on the irrelevant.

V picked the book up, the pages slowly folding together as he closed it. A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he regarded the title fondly. It was her favorite, one that she could read a hundred times and not get tired of — the things that never grow old in one’s eyes.

A reflection struck him again. He thought of thrusting it away in favor of the happy reminiscence but he let it come; it would be kindling for later. The person of his absolute hatred looked upon her as V now looked upon that book — an object and nothing more. But V always looked upon her as an ideal, a person — that much was certain in his blind adoration back then. Yet, it was that same blindness that made him the fool. But he wasn’t anymore. There was no more reason to be suspicious of anything but there was still every reason to be wrathful. But he didn’t want to make the same mistake as before … the mindless and gratuitous killing.

He breathed in deep, holding it in before letting it out slowly. No more killing — that was the whole of the law, that was her law and he wouldn’t break it, not again. The walking dead would be judged by other means in lieu of cruel steel and pools of blood.

4. A Broken Shadow

Dark brick rushed past. The sound of his boots upon the cold cement thudded in time with his heart as he walked briskly through the alleys, weaving in and out of the shadows, staying hidden, seeking solitude. There was solitude to be had in his abode underground, but the memories there would voraciously eat at his mind; judge him — something he could do without at the given moment. The crisp air and the clear night from above were calming in its chill and for the briefest moment, he was content with this. V finally stopped, leaning haggardly against an alley wall. A black gloved hand clutched at his chest and he swallowed hard as he tried to gain control of his sporadic breathing. His legs were weak and he succumbed at last to its will, slumping down onto the cold cement, bowing his head, withdrawing into himself to help ease the overwhelming pain that refused to go away.

He killed them unremorsefully and with dark pleasure. It was all a misunderstanding — everything.

What problems he and she had had, there was nothing they couldn’t get through, nothing that couldn’t be overcome. He realized that now. He was not one to act without thinking, to see the whole of the situation through every angle possible, leaving nothing overlooked — the bigger picture. But it was quickly eluding him. It had eluded him for quite some time now.

V had tried to remain strong for as long as he could but he felt it was all a backlash from the previous block of time that had been relentless to his mind. He should’ve been happy then yet what sorrow settled over his heart had remained. It never left. There were reasons for it, he knew. Nothing just happened. But it was clearly beginning to feel like it did. Taking a deep breath, he let his hand fall in his lap and leaned his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, taking in the night sounds, the tranquility of the moment that seemed to have passed as his chest rose and fell. The familiar ache caused his brow to furrow as if in physical pain.

He lead a double life. One of pure idea and the other of flesh and blood — torn in two in every possible aspect. And she deserved so much more than what he had been giving to her, or not giving to her. He blamed himself. Even now in this impenetrable night as he sat, appearing as if he were one of his makeshift dummies. He didn’t blame her … he never did. Not even then, when the grass had been alive with snakes and underhanded corruption, deceit, and manipulation. He had lost faith then, in that he had confessed to himself. Something can only be broken down into its basic elements … and once achieved, it can’t be broken down further. He felt he was eroded to the core and any further means was irrelevant.

He grunted as he stood up, using the wall for balance as he slowly got to his shaky legs. He wouldn’t go back even though a note would be polite, he couldn’t risk her being there … She may not realize it, but V was doing this for them. He knew when he wasn’t right. And he would rather face it all himself than burden her with his tripe and needless issues.

In this world, it was all or nothing. There is no in betweens.

No, he thought wearily to himself, it’s not forever. The sun was bound to come up sooner or later and shadows needed to withdraw from its garish light.

The last week of October’s wind blew, rustling his cloak, beckoning him on with the decision that he had so suddenly made. The night would return, he reassured. In due time, all would be made right.

3. Justice Unwarranted

The rooms were dark and still. The lights were dim in the main chamber and the ambiance was hushed, if not a little tense, as a black shadow passed over the concrete floor. The cloak swept around his feet as the figure walked, the leather boots thudding loudly upon the hard stone. Silver glinted at his waist for the fraction of a second when the man had thrust the left side of the fabric over his shoulder to pluck the Jacobean hat from its stand. Setting it atop the black wig, V felt empowered at last, his heart beating fast in his chest, like a soldier garbed in uniformed attire before heading out for war. The silence within the walls of the labyrinthine underground had been different before because he had been ignorant of its true meaning. The truth was revealed at last, even though the smoke and mirrors persisted to obscure it, allowing him to make that first step into a heated conversation that he would rather not partake in at the moment, hence, his going out.

V ascended to the Upper World, using the lift in lieu of the train tunnels; Victoria Station would be too bogged down with passers by and tourists. He soon felt compelled to abandon that familiar exit and entrance to his home, though because of that, he kept vigilant watch over the bottom most stairs that led to the tunnels, assuring that no one would find the way by accident. So, it was to the rooftops that he would leave.

As he passed over the threshold, clanging the old metal door shut behind him, V was struck with that terribly familiar sight — the grey concrete of the roof spread out before him, the skyline of London lit up seemingly for his view alone. It was here that she had been born again, casting aside her childhood fears; shedding the scared little girl named Evey to emerge as an assertive and unafraid woman named Eve. He had never felt more proud of her as she had embraced the rain, filling its light into her soul as he had done the same with its opposite element so many years before. As wonderful as the moment was, it had also been bittersweet as V had known well that she would leave him soon. What a pang in his heart that he had had to suppress.

With a dark sound coming from the back of his throat, V thrust the memory out of his mind, turning away roughly into the wind where it caught his cloak. It blew strongly, almost pushing him back, trying to deter him from what he was about to do — what he felt compelled to do and *needed* to do above all else. He mocked the very wind, the very heavens themselves and all the earth that lay before him as he raised his porcelain visage — his true face to the sky. This was what he was and what he would *always* be — the personification of the deepest hatred, that familiar inferno raging just beneath the surface of the skin that had been eaten away by that same fire. How it coursed and writhed within his veins.

For the wind to be so protestant, the clouds certainly were in his favor as they floated ominously over the moon, causing what little light that could be seen to diminish and the shadows to become even more menacing in their deepest pitch.

Black as his eyes, as the clothes that he wore and the hilt of the weapons at his belt, the shadows were his to command. Melting into their malice, V fluidly pulled himself over the side and used a pipe to make his way to the alley ways below. He kept the hat pulled low over the ivory brow, his head bent down as he raced down the length of the alley, reaching its end and turning without breaking stride. V wasn’t careless, it was as if he knew who would be out here, who he would meet and when; knowing well that their end would come by his hands. He could see it vividly in his mind. The images excited him, causing the blood to pump loudly in his ears and to be in synch with his heart. Vehemently vivacious, vivid, and venomous this vagary …

Amidst the dark excitement, even darker memories began to creep to the front of his mind. Whether it was to stop him or drive him forward, V didn’t know, but it made him insanely livid. In his growing anger, he ripped two daggers from his belt, gripping the hilts so tightly his fingers grew numb. It was kindling for this unstoppable fire.

He had been willing to drop everything, abandon even reason itself for a love that could only dream of being real — trying to sustain itself through something as fragile as a thought, an idea — words. If there was anything he understood, it was that — and oh, how unfeeling and emotionless it could be. He was an illusion living an illusion.

His boots thudded purposefully upon the hard cement as he walked. He could sense they were near. The sound of his breath magnified beneath the mask as it came heavy and short, making his skin hot. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep control of the emotion, restraining it until the precise moment as he stalked maliciously along the dark brick wall, nearing a juncture. Voices floated back to him on the protesting wind. A dark smirk pulled at his lips. Fate, you stupid, stupid force. How you offer me completely what I want and you don’t even realize it.

He heard two distinct voices, chit-chatting about things V hardly registered. What they had to say was of no importance, vastly insignificant; inferior wastes of life. V suddenly swept around, revealing himself, a black fire burning within the sockets of the grinning visage.

“These violent delights have violent ends,” he quoted in a frightfully deep and low tone as he twirled the blades in his hands. The two men just stared, rooted to the spot. Their eyes widened in recollection.

“Dear Christ …”

“The ghost of Christmas Past returned for verisimilar retribution,” he continued, advancing forward slowly.

V remained calm in this growing ecstasy. How his arms tingled, the need to lash out becoming all the more prevalent, coalescing and fueling with the memories that flashed through his mind; the injustice against his person.

And then he saw it — the scales tipped, the other side of the coin revealed. He hadn’t felt the need to fight an already losing battle — what would that get him? Nothing — the same as what will happen to the two men before him: ripped, bloody and broken beyond recognition. V’s insides burned at this thought, having felt much the same way, a metaphorical hurt paining him physically; the shadow of what he used to be flitted through his mind in fragments.

Guns were pulled but it seemed as if vertigo captured the world in its clutches and made everything sickeningly slow in motion. V rushed forward as two prominent clicks of the hammers being cocked shattered the silence. He had forsook them, forsook them all for her mere image so very long ago. How he had blindly adored her, how he easily had gotten drunk off that feeling until that bastard had come between them and ripped it away.

V’s arm raised up and a shot thundered and roared through the air, easily missing this violent monster of death’s personification. He grinned cruelly, like skulls with their cracked, toothy smiles, a disconcerting and unnerving sight. The empty black sockets peered from the ivory bone of metal that was Guy Fawkes. The ridicule he had had to endure, the absolute injustice — and the son of a bitch had felt compelled to watch his apparent suffering. It was V’s turn to watch. It was V’s turn to thrust and rip, slice and lacerate. He had been the victim of false accusations and now he would be the villain with cruel, steel blades.

An agonizing shout cut through the air as the dagger embedded itself within the crook of the nearest man’s shoulder, burley and heavy set and nearly as tall as V himself. V’s other arm came up from below, impaling up to the hilt in his groin. The dark haired man was lifted from his feet and slammed against the nearby wall. He coughed and spluttered, blood spilling from his mouth as he clutched at the gushing wound between his legs. V’s focus rested on the second man, standing at an average height with a much smaller, skinny frame, but this was far from over. Blood dripped from the dagger in his right gloved fist; he abandoned the other, leaving the weapon protruding from the first man’s neck. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to rip it out nor in any state to use it against the man in a mask.

The barrel was pointed straight at him, a familiar sight indeed but this time, V was lacking a breast plate. A shot at this range would, more than likely, be fatal, whether he had one or not. The hand moved subtly as the sandy haired man began to squeeze the trigger. The masked figure was on him before he had time to blink. V had moved so fast that it took the Fingerman a moment to figure out why his hand was in excruciating pain. The ligaments and muscle had been severed, rendering the hand useless as blood spilled from the cut in his wrist. The gun fell from his grip as a black leather hand wrapped around his throat.

The cuts, the lacerations, the impalings, they weren’t enough. They wouldn’t easily sate the fire in his veins, coiling his muscles, offering V an energy like nothing else. They didn’t suffer enough, he thought voraciously.

The man gasped painfully as his air passage tightened, alarmingly on the verge of being crushed. He reached up to grip and claw at the masked man’s arm. Blood stained the black fabric of his assailant’s long sleeved jerkin, spilling heavily from the man’s wrist. Sheathing the dagger, the hold on his neck receded slightly and V’s free arm gripped the Fingerman’s wrist and swiftly twisted it, hearing the bones crack and break before his scream rented the air.

Gloved fingers found their way around the hilt again and a dagger was calmly and unknowingly pulled back out. V hushed him. A simple sound as it was almost comforting. V almost found the vociferous screaming to be insulting. Of all the things he had had to endure in the facility of Larkhill … what was a cut and broken wrist? The man silenced at once, perplexed by that sudden uncharacteristic action or half hoping that, if he complied with everything this masked man asked, he would be set free.

Without another moment’s hesitation, the blade was plunged in between his ribs. V sharply and roughly twisted it back and forth until the man before him was choking and drowning on his own blood, a sure sign that a lung had been punctured, as was the intent. He quickly dropped the lout who crumpled to the ground, the sounds of his gagging becoming fainter as the moments passed. Soon, he was still. Now to retrieve what was rightfully his.

V turned on his heel, a looming and towering shape of blackness in this hell on earth. The white mask stood out harshly amidst such pitch, grinning all the while, finding humour in such gratuitous violence. The black eyes bore themselves into the half closed and disoriented eyes of the burley man at his feet, still clutching fervently at his crotch. The dagger still protruded from his shoulder.

“Why,” he wheezed painfully.

V stepped near. As he did so, the man instinctively tried to back away, shuffling about like some fat, lopsided fish on land, hoping to melt into the hard wall with no avail. The masked figure kneeled down, the white grin inches from his sweating and shaking face. No pupils. No discernible trace of emotion to be found, merely an endless black void.

“You are deserving of it,” V said simply, his deep, velvet tone filling the terrible silence around them. The man’s eyes started to cloud over.

“I believe you have something of mine,” V continued. “I would very much like to have it back, if you wouldn’t mind.” His tone was chilling in its calmness, as if he were asking for the return of a beloved book, it was so conversational. It was perplexing to V as it must have been to the dying man in front of him that the vehement fire was so quickly replaced with a calming coldness. Gone was that insane desire to rip and maim, along with the tingling sensation in his limbs. But he wasn’t the only one to deal with a sudden change. Gripping fear was no longer evident in the dying Fingerman. Acceptance and defeat took its place. The end was near for them both.

The man watched, wide eyed as black leather-clad fingers wrapped around the hilt protruding from his form. He was well aware of that white face remaining inches from his own. He couldn’t look into those depthless sockets and focused his last thoughts upon the weapon and the black gloved hand that held it.

The grin seemed to broaden with a tilt of his head as V peered into the man’s half turned face. V watched unremorsefully as he purposefully pulled the blade out with sickeningly slow gratification. The man winced, opening his mouth in a silent groan of pain. Blood spurted from the wound when the dagger was finally removed.

“He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery.”

His deep voice pierced through the burley man’s sporadic thoughts, causing him to look at V again. His skin was a sickly greyish tint as he shivered and shook with nerves. A silver glint caught the corner of his eye and he instinctively raised his hand up, the quickest reflex. V’s arm reared back and the blade ripped across the man’s thick throat, his eyes glazing over completely. A last gurgled cry and all was silent. Crimson slowly stained his front. The man’s hand fell back to his side, minus a few fingers.

The sound of metal clinking upon the cement didn’t go unnoticed as V stood up from the grotesque sight; neither did the silent figure watching in the shadows escape his observation. V twisted around, the black cloak furling behind him. His arm reared back to throw the cruel blade at the onlooker. A feminine shout stopped him at once. He remained motionless, his arm still raised, his muscles coiled and tensed, his breathing suddenly fast and short. Cloaked in shadows as she was, V could easily discern her, calculating in his head the detail of her features. She looked to be about fifteen or younger, her deep brown eyes widened in shock, her hands covering her mouth. Luscious brown curls fell around her slim shoulders. V’s eyes flicked all around them, in silent pursuit of anyone else lurking within the nearby vicinity. There was no one.

Comforted in that thought, he slowly lowered his arm and sheathed the terrible weapon. His main concern was finding out how much she had seen. Merely chancing upon the aftermath was damaging enough without having seen its virulent execution. Repeating his words from, what seemed, a life time ago, he said softly, “I assure you, I mean you no harm.” She remained in the shadows, even as he held his hand out to show his sincerity.

He remained still and calm as she remained silent and watchful, terror mingling with a hint of curiosity etched upon her young face. And for the first time in memory, V felt regret at what he had done. This girl had brought all reason back to him and he finally saw the selfishness of the act — Fingermen or not. He slowly withdrew his hand into the folds of his cloak and lowered his head slightly. “I’m sorry.”

Such passion and truthfulness in those two words must have stirred something in her, for the girl slowly crept out of the safety of the darkness, staring cautiously up at him. It was uncanny how she resembled Eve. He half wondered if he was not mad enough to see her everywhere, be it in paintings, in books, or in mere strangers. It was almost a little vexing. But he relinquished himself to the throes of the vicissitude of fate. The less verbal communication he had with the girl, the better off they would be, he concluded. And he turned away in the direction of that metallic sound heard earlier.

Gingerly, he plucked the severed finger from the bloody pool it had created, dripping once or twice as he brought it close for scrutinizing. It shone dully, a simple gold band clutched just above the laceration. Surprised that it hadn’t fallen off in the landing, he gripped it and pulled it from its prior owner and rested it within the leather palm of his hand. A more ornate band lay hidden underneath the leather of his left hand, sharing the same purpose, the same meaning behind the symbolism. Like the hazy images of a dream, it all melted away to reveal what he should’ve seen from the beginning. The shadows had betrayed him, giving him a false sense of isolation. The black cloak rustled gently at his feet, feeling the mockery of the wind as it blew through the alley way. His fingers curled around the ring, nestling it within his fist. He breathed a deep sigh. “No more killing,” he whispered softly.

The masked and cloaked figure wearily turned around, losing much of his imposing grandeur, and regarded the girl through black slits, the fire having dissipated, the anger vanished, and the smile upon Guy Fawkes returned to its jovial and amiable grin. He slowly stepped forward in hopes that she wouldn’t run off prematurely. When he stood in front of her, she gazed up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open slightly, awed by this stranger and fearful of what he had done and what he would do. Wordlessly, V withdrew his hand from the folds of his cloak and turned his palm up, opening his fingers to reveal the gold ring, standing out starkly amongst the black leather.

“A ring of such prominence does no good amidst such dirge, such beauty in the tangible wastes of a gratuitous faux pas.”

His hand remained outstretched, waiting for her to pluck the ring from his palm. Her big eyes never left his own as she finally, hesitantly, reached her hand up and gripped the ring gingerly between her fingers. Abruptly, V withdrew his hand and straightened.

He stepped forward, a hand at her back and quickly ushered her away from the terrible sight. She didn’t object as they walked down the length of the alley, the din and noise from the main artery of London’s streets increased in level as they drew near. A street lamp washed over the girl and V stepped back into the safety of the shadows. His words reached her ears on the air.

“All that you see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.”

Turning back to face the masked stranger, she was greeted with nothing but the darkness of the mouth of the alley.

2. A Story Behind Every Painting

It was silent, aside from the dull ticking of a clock nearby. The black eyes flicked to its face, the hands pointing at five and four. Whether it was nigh to five thirty in the morning or evening, he didn’t know. Day and night were irrelevant within these walls, and time itself as well, if it were not for the clocks keeping vigilant time in the Underground. V felt he should be tired yet he wasn’t. The activities that used to give him solace, comfort, something to do, seemed to have outlasted their usefulness and he now sat, with solitude at his side, upon a cushioned bench as he gazed upon one of the many paintings that adorned the museum like walls of his abode. He had many paintings and tapestries hung and strung from the ceiling and walls with great care and reverence, displayed as they were as they were meant to be seen, never diminishing their worth.

The works of Shakespeare had been one of the first pieces of literature to be banned in Sutler’s time. Probably because of the symbolic and chilling nature that some stories could, often times, materialize into reality without warning — as were tragedies’ wont to do in such violent and virulent times. Sutler had tried with all of his might not to be succumbed to such assassinations. Perhaps not as shocking as the death of Polonius or as violently vehement as the death of King Claudius, but a bullet to the brain would verily suffice and all the players were well justified in their ends. So, it was only natural that any and all paintings depicting such famous scenes from Shakespeare’s plays would be black listed as well. And V now stared at one of most remarkable and exquisite beauty.

It looked real, as if photographed instead of painted but the fine brushwork upon the canvas proved well that it was crafted by a delicate and gifted hand than a well trained eye of living composition. Her skin was lily white, her hair an auburn brown as it cascaded over the woman’s shoulders and down her back in rivulet curls. Her equally pale, white dress hugged her body and the ruffles of ornamental quality added a noble and aristocracy flair. Cradled in her left arm, she held a bouquet of an assortment of handpicked flowers.

Her right arm was raised up, as if in farewell or a beckoning gesture on her way to merriment and mirth. Her body was in profile as she looked over her shoulder towards the viewer, her expression reserved or maybe it was contentment. It was clearly springtime as deep green grass grew at her feet and the great old tree behind her was in full leaf. And the sun — oh how the sun shown down upon her form, highlighting her hair in gold and alighting her dress and skin in a warm glow. To anyone that wasn’t familiar with the story behind the painting, would assume that she were a bride or a woman of noble blood, having an innocent walk through the woods. But the truth was dark indeed. This was no ordinary woman — but the tragic Ophelia on her way to her watery grave.

With that fact, everything seemed to be overcast at once. The sun was not as warm or loving, her expression that of silent mourning — the loss of an already broken mind, having no where else to go or anyone to turn to.

V couldn’t deny the striking resemblance to Ophelia and his Eve — before he had unremorsefully shaved such beautiful locks from her head. Sometimes, he would envision her in that dress and marvel in his mind how radiant she would look. But not today. It wasn’t clear what had made Ophelia go mad, but V knew well what nearly drove Evey over the edge. In the small corner of his mind, he wondered if she would forever hate him for what he had done. Either way, things were not as well as they could be. She spent more and more time away from the Gallery and when they were together, there was a strange ambiance in the air, a sliver of dark familiarity that crept up his spine. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, except sit and gaze upon beautiful misery as memories drifted in and out amidst his mind.

In a strange way, he felt like Laertes, denying the insanity of his sister — denying this moment was happening again and that life — fate wouldn’t ruin all that he had cultivated, all that he had made right.

V bowed his head, closing his eyes as the silence wrapped around him, blocking out even the incessant ticking of the nearby clock. There was something else that was nagging him, something that didn’t have to do with the crumbling of a foundation — but with the very place he called home. He felt compelled to deny that as well. For only the ignorant live in innocent bliss. No, he thought to himself. He would merely be aware and take heed of such an under current and hope he wouldn’t be swept away with it. But clinging to the rocks felt like such a futile effort, but it was the only choice he had for the moment. He would weather out the storm again, as he had done so many times before. The one thing he wouldn’t deny, was how hard it was swiftly becoming to remain steadfast and resolute.

The chime of the grandfather clock in the main chamber cut through his thoughts. Three times, it rang. And thrice more after until silence finally seized it by the throat and killed it.

1. Tinkering and Thinking

It was quiet in the lower floors of the Gallery as V tinkered nonchalantly with a particular piece of equipment. There was no more need for any destruction, no more killing. But to keep his mind busy, he made bombs and poisons simply because that was all he had programmed himself to do for the past twenty years. Old habits died hard. A bit more dangerous than reading a book, but books conjured up other things than merely the stories within their pages; he wasn’t able to focus on the words anyway. His mind kept creeping to the upper floors where there was nothing there but the silent museum-like displays, elaborate tapestries and iconic busts and statues, not to mention the multitude of books resting neatly in their shelves or stacked upon the floor. Even the piano, telly and his beloved jukebox remained somber in their stillness. However, a few days ago, such strained silence was non-existent as the Gallery was alive with her light foot falls, her voice, god, her very presence. They were parted again, and the solitude, now, was unnerving. He vaguely remembered a life before her but after having met on that auspicious night so many months ago, he couldn’t fathom any day without her. Granted, he *had* been without her for two months before and it nearly crippled him. His mind certainly had a roller coaster ride of a terrible time. But as with all train tracks, no matter the dizzying twists and turns, it all lead to a final destination.

The slightest fold around his finger was the only evidence of the ring he wore, safely concealed beneath the leather of the glove. The ceremony had been quiet, for the most part, but serious, as he had wanted it. They were joined through holy matrimony, a feat V never imagined he’d ever experience and to the woman he had always loved and would forever love. It was miraculous, V thought. Positively extraordinary in such precise execution of a vast orchestra such as this. The pieces perfectly aligned, the events hurtling and charging down their path, but, as he knew only too well, were really falling into place.

A soft but pronounced click broke the stillness and V was once again brought out of his thoughts as he stared at the fifth bomb he had been absently constructing for no reason than to relieve him of the incessant metaphorical noise of his imagining. Nothing good ever came from pondering in solitude’s sanctuary. It lead to dark things that V would gladly leave on the dusty, cob-webbed floor. He didn’t want to worry of her but it was instinct than a conscious choice to do so. He set the screwdriver down on the table and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was only an hour until he had grown tired of watching people go about their day-to-day meanderings on the numerous screens covering an entire wall within that particular room on this floor, but not before he had tended to the roses or before he had mixed up a few concoctions for no particular reason than to ward off fatigue and concern. Amidst his wanderings, his feet had finally led him to the table he now sat at as he diligently decorated its surface with dangerous ornaments.

He had no idea what the time was. But his body was letting him know that he was extremely fatigued, even if he was too stubborn to heed it. He would certainly try to hold it off for as long as he could. The tips of his fingers absently caressed over the ring, lost in thought again, not trying to thwart it with menial habits anymore. Her words would always drift into his mind, as if giving him advice when needed at that precise moment. The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips and he closed his tired eyes. He recalled the many times he would memorize her face and he felt his head roll back, his body slowly leaning back in the chair, reveling in the image behind his eyes. That familiar ache in his chest slowly returned as a breath passed from his lips. He wondered if she was alright, how she was doing. He fervently counted the days when she would be home. He expected her quite soon, actually. But tonight would not be it, much to his dismay. He felt empty, lost. He countered it with thoughts of the future — and something quite grand that he had prepared, the idea weaving and slowly being constructed in his mind. It was still too soon yet for any execution of such caliber.

He was planning again, and coupled with thought was quite the recipe for a deeply impending disaster. He had been so overjoyed, elated, and giddy at the mere thought of it that he failed to recall the numerous other times he had planned for things of which the results of such plans left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t long before his happy reverie began to get clouded with doubt and second-guesses. If he had to, he would will it to work in his favor for it was the only thing sustaining him through such long days. He opened his eyes at last, a sigh escaping his lips as he heavily stood up. V was sure the night air would cure him of the weariness that was cast over him, like a net. Stepping out of the room, he slowly pulled the door closed, enshrouding his creations in darkness.

Holy Books, Holy Souls

He sat in a chair, gloved hands resting in his lap, head bowed. Beneath the mask, his eyes were closed, his body still. He appeared to be praying. Every so often, a hand would rise up to press lightly to his chest. From afar, dark brown eyes regarded the masked figure with immense sadness and empathy. She stepped closer, a graceful arm reaching out to touch his shoulder. He didn’t look up but he couldn’t be more grateful for her company.

“I’m not well, Eve.”

“I know.” She kneeled down in front of him to try to peer into his face, her hands enfolding over his own.

“You’re going to be fine, V. You’re going to get better.” She sniffed and wiped at an eye.

He blinked back tears of his own as he squeezed her hands.

“You are strong, so strong and you’ll get through this. And you’ll be back to jumping over roof tops and sparing with the suit of armour in no time at all.” At that, a sob escaped her throat and she wrapped her arms so tight around him.

“I wish I knew what was wrong,” he said through a constricted throat. “I wish I knew … I never felt more miserable.”

He slipped his arms around her in kind and pulled her up into his lap. She felt so delightfully warm against him and he filled his thoughts with her loveliness.

“I love you, my sweet Eve.”

“I love you too, my darling V.” She nuzzled her nose against his fabric-protected neck. A pained sound escaped him as a wave of misery washed over him suddenly. Eve lifted her head to gaze squarely into his black eyes.

“It feels like my soul is trying to tip out of my body … or burst out of my chest.”

He watched her expression change from that of determination and steeled resolve to a broken angel as tears slid down her cheeks in wet trails. She openly sobbed against his shoulder, clutching him tight again. He smoothed his hands consolingly against her back.

“If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. For so long, I’ve murdered sleep. But sleep, perchance to dream, aye, there’s the rub.”

Each breath he felt it, that strange, malignant malady that threatened to destroy him from the inside out. His skin beaded over in hot flashes and instead of shaking, he held onto her tighter.

“You’re my one and only. You always were and always are. Before I met you, I was a shadow looking for an identity, a place to belong.” She tried to stop him with a shake of her head but he continued. “So many places I wandered while the pieces were set and aligned for my destiny. And when I saw you, everything changed. I saw truth in your eyes and felt it in my soul. Through you, I found identity and purpose. Through you, I live. And that’s what you’ll do, my sweet Eve. Live for me and I promise that I will wait for you in that world within worlds. I will wait for you until we’re together again. You know this isn’t all there is to life, that flesh and blood is bound to grow weak and die … but our souls endureth as they had lead us to each other and will guide us to each other again beyond this life. All of my victories and defeats have paved my road to you and verily I came to your siren call. You have made me incredibly happy, even in my darkest days … You were there with me. It was hard to communicate in my vehemence, I know, but you were there and you’ve never left me.” A gloved hand reached up to caress her wet cheek. “I wish I could feel you … physically feel you …”

She gripped his hand suddenly and pressed it to her lips in a sweet kiss, tears falling upon the black leather. “V …” she pleaded with him. “Stop talking like that. Stop talking about that death and dirge! You’re not going to die!”

“Ooh, Evey …” He rarely used that old name unless he knew she was being too puerile to understand. He said it with a great sadness, the vowels and consonants forming on his tongue with great care.

“I am the Book of Revelations, Destruction, and the End … You are the Book of Genesis, Creation, and the Beginning. It’s only natural that we are pulled in our given directions, as Anarchy demands. I must prepare, as meticulously as I can … but if it be now, I am fortunate that you are here with me at the end of all things.”

She leaned forward and pressed wet kisses to the mask. The gesture, alone, meant the world to him – a gesture that he would never feel on his skin beneath. But he felt it in his soul and that was enough. She leaned back and traced a finger along his frozen smile.

“You are so rich in spirit; it shines through this hardened and unfeeling mask.” She leaned down and bumped noses with him before resting her warm brow against his cool one.

“You think about the end and I’ll think about the beginning. And together, we’ll both think about the present. And you’re not going to leave just yet. There’s still much you have to do and to see and experience. And even if you’ve seen a million sunsets, you haven’t experienced one with me yet. Not everything is steeped in machinations and equations.”

A low rumble escaped him as he smiled to hear her speak.

“Simple things are far more down to earth … V?”

She felt his muscles relax and she grew worried suddenly. “Are you falling asleep?”

“I can’t fight it. And with you, it feels far more inviting.”

She smiled. “Wouldn’t you prefer a bed?”

His grip suddenly tightened around her, his tone final. “No. I don’t mind sleeping in the chair. I fear my body won’t let me sleep in a bed.”

She had wondered, often, why it was that he would get up in the middle of the night. Now she knew.

“What of you? Are you feeling any better?”

“Knowing that I’ll see you alive and well in the morning, yes.”

He smiled beneath the smile. “I think God will grant me another glorious morning. I’m sorry, Eve …”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad you’re feeling better. So glad you’re going to be ok.”

He nodded and squeezed her gently just before his consciousness slipped into a calming darkness.

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.