Turning Point

Inspector Finch quickly shut off his torch and held still. He could hear voices further down the tube tunnel.

He frowned � There shouldn't be anyone else down here � at least, no one foolish enough to allow themselves to be heard. Then again, this section of the tunnel shouldn't even be open.

Rounding a corner, he stopped in shock at the sight of an utter impossibility. An underground train faced him at a platform some fifty metres distant � not the sleek steel-and-glass construct that had ruled down here for decades, but an elegant gold-filigreed confection from a century long-gone. A shudder rocked him as his brain fought the initial instinct to leap clear of the mechanical behemoth � the train wasn't moving.

Staying in the shadows, he crept forward with his firearm at the ready. He could see shapes moving on the station platform, and could discern a man's voice. It sounded eerily familiar, albeit strained� and now a woman's voice could be heard, sounding breathless and high-pitched with distress.

Looking cautiously beyond the train, he realized he'd found what he'd been looking for. Codename V lay in a heap on the ground, apparently injured, and a woman the Inspector finally recognized as Evey Hammond crouched over him. There was blood on the ground � a lot of it.

So, Finch reflected, that was likely the cause of the gunshots he'd heard. Apparently Creedy had gained the upper hand against the terrorist after all. But... if that were true, where was Creedy? The place should have been swarming with operatives, and yet here these two sat alone. The surreality of the whole situation was setting Finch more and more on edge.

Using the surrounding dimness and the pair's momentary distraction, the Inspector climbed onto the platform and creptinto a darkened corner to observe his quarry. He glanced to the train once again, and could see that it carried something within. Lilies, he saw with some confusion� a small ocean of white lilies, stacks of wrapped bundles...and wires.

Dear God, Finch thought with a chill, the train had been made into a giant rolling bomb. This was Codename V's plan, then � he was indeed going to finish what his predecessor of four hundred years had begun, and destroy Parliament.

And if Creedy hadn't made it here to stop him, then it could actually happen.

It was up to him, now, he realized. Even though Codename V looked finished, there was no telling what the Hammond girl would do. He had to move quickly, while he still had something resembling an advantage.

Even as this thought passed through his brain, though, something held him in place. Fear, curiosity, uncertainty... he couldn't have said which. Small puzzle pieces of evidence and personal experience came together in his detective's mind to stay his hand, and he continued to observe them from the darkness.

The Hammond girl was speaking, pleading with the terrorist. Her bloodstained hands fluttered over his wounds and she was weeping openly. God, the Inspector thought to himself, it was worse than he'd initially thought; she wasn't just his accomplice, she was in love with this killer.

"V, listen to me, please," she was saying. Her hand stroked along the side of his mask as though it were his actual face. "You said a different world begins tonight, for different people to shape. You gave me the choice to do as I will with what you gave me." She cradled his head tenderly and shifted to look into the eyeholes of his mask. Tears still tracked down her face. "If this is my world to shape," she was saying, "then I say there is a place for you in it if you want one." Her demeanour softened, then, and Finch had to strain to hear her. "If you want me to let you go, I will, with all my love..." He could hear her smile through her tears. "I'll give you a Viking funeral that'll make the gods themselves take notice! But if you want to stay," she continued, "I will fight those same gods with everything I am to keep you here." Her back had straightened with these words, and Finch had no doubt she'd do exactly as she'd said. The Inspector continued to watch as she took Codename V's hand in hers and clasped it to her. "The choice is yours," she told him.

Finch watched the two of them, fighting the urge to look away from such an intimate scene. Some part of him's human, he had told Dominic once of Codename V. If the blood pooling on the ground wasn't proof enough, the raw emotion he was witnessing sure as hell was. Not for the first time, he found himself asking more questions than he knew were prudent about the orders he'd been following. The wars... Larkhill... Three Waters... the man lying wounded on the ground was at the center of all the information Finch had been gathering. And that center had been drawing the Inspector closer and closer to a place in his psyche that he'd thought dead long ago.

Looking on the tableau before him, Finch couldn't help but wonder � if his own position were reversed with Codename V's, would Dominic show as much concern? Would anyone? What sort of world was he really trying to defend, that he could even ask himself that question?

Evey Hammond's words had been about a different world... one that the masked man was "giving" her, that apparently he hadn't expected to survive to see. It was completely insane, but the tiny thought in Finch's mind kept circling... what if this destruction, all this madness, was actually the right course--?

With new eyes, the Inspector returned his attention to his targets. The figure in Evey Hammond's arms was silent for several moments, save for the sound of his laboured breathing. Then, incredibly, he seemed to gather strength in spite of his injuries. Finch looked on as Codename V shook from the effort of raising his head to face her. "'For where thou art, there is the world itself...'" He paused, his fingers twitching closed around hers, "...'and where thou art not, desolation.'"¹

It was a quote, Finch realized, although he couldn't tell from where. Regardless, it had a galvanizing effect on the Hammond woman, who was now holding true to her word. The Inspector's training screamed that he had to act now, before the terrorist's plan could be completed.

The young woman had laid Codename V's bulk back down on the concrete floor as she feverishly struggled with his blood-soaked clothing, and the masked man had his head turned away from the approaching Finch. The woman herself was murmuring urgently to him, her attention completely absorbed in trying to stop the man's bleeding. This was the best chance Finch was going to get.

But instead of taking aim and firing, as all his years of duty had taught him he must, he moved forward, stepping out of the shadows. He watched as Evey Hammond gasped at his sudden appearance, and then bristled at him with near-superhuman fierceness, her body moving to shield the masked figure beneath her. With faint, mad amusement Finch watched her expression transform into confusion as he sank to his knees where Codename V lay. Feeling the weight of decades lift, he spoke:

"How can I help?"

. . .

"Help him."

This was the imperative given to Chief Inspector Finch by a woman whom he'd considered, until moments ago, a dangerous and potentially violent fugitive. She'd looked at him for a moment � more like through him � after his sudden offer of assistance, with eyes that were old beyond her years. Their brown depths held him, reading him, until at last she blinked and returned him to the here-and-now. Evidently she was satisfied with whatever she'd discerned, because those words were the only ones she spoke to him before turning back to her�lover? Somehow Finch didn't think so, in spite of the obvious intimacy between this woman and the terrorist she now protected. ("Terrorist"? Could he use that term anymore, doing what he was doing? What's in a name, his shell-shocked mind tittered at him.)

Miss Hammond, as his brain had finally settled on calling her, took the man's hand and promised, "I'll be back, V." Something passed between them in the brief silence that followed, and then she was gone up the passage. The inspector was a half-beat too late to ask where she was going � he could only hope that she knew of some means of aid that he didn't. But who would be able to help in this mad circumstance, he wondered, then mentally shrugged; he'd come, hadn't he? There seemed to be all sorts of things being made possible on this night.

He removed his jacket and carefully reached to the side of V's throat to check the pulse�and bit back a cry as his wrist was caught in a sudden, crushing grip. If not for his would-be patient's weakened state, Finch had no doubt his hand would have been rendered permanently useless, if not the rest of him as well. Carefully he leaned forward to address the man panting with effort behind the mask. "I need to check your pulse." His voice was admirably steady, he thought, considering he could feel bones creaking in protest. "She told me to help you; that's all I'm trying to do." A tense pause, and he prayed his wrist would hold out. "I don't think she'd take it too well if I let her down," he attempted, and at last got a response.

The shuddering grasp eased and Finch gingerly tried to flex some feeling back into his hand. He reached in again, being as careful as he could not to disturb the mask. The pulse he found was rapid and faint; the clock was ticking even faster than he'd feared.

He didn't mince words with his charge. "It's not good. I need to get to your wounds, and I need to do it now. You want to kill me for that, that's up to you. All right?"

Receiving no answer to that disclaimer, he set to work. His jacket was quickly rolled into a makeshift pillow. "Here," he moved into Codename V's view with it, telegraphing his intent to the mask. He was permitted to lift his patient's head to place the jacket beneath it.

The Guy Fawkes outfit didn't present many options for access. There were no obvious closures, and every inch of the man was covered. Further inspection revealed multiple clasps that proved reluctant to part. A control freak, Finch surmised. Wasn't that just his luck.

Acutely aware of precious seconds ticking by, Finch struggled with the doublet. Wishing for something to cut the heavy material thwarting his efforts, he cursed. "Bloody brilliant time for you to be without your knives..."

The answer was a cough that might have been a laugh.

Finch continued a one-sided conversation as he worked, aware that he was chattering out of nervousness while his fingers fought to reach V's wounds. "Prothero...Lilliman � damn!...Stanton...bloody Rookwood... was this part of your plan too? Get me curious enough to come find you and show up to save the day?"

To his shock, he received an answer.

"hnn�no... Noth... planned...for th-this."

"...Does she know that?"

"P'robly." A hitched sigh. "Sh's very...observant." Finch sensed a private joke in that comment.

Suddenly remembering something and cursing himself for a fool, the Inspector reached into a pocket. "Not as fancy as yours," he produced a small pocket knife, "but it's better than nothing." As carefully as he could, Finch wrestled and sawed his way past the slippery fibers of the doublet at last and cut open the blood-soaked garment he found beneath that.

"Jesus..."

He was met with such a mess that it took him several seconds to realize he was looking at scar tissue and not bullet damage. Not entirely, at least. In addition to the blood leaking from seemingly everywhere, swaths of red, twisted, angry tissue covered every inch he could see. Larkhill, he realilzed, and felt sick. Delia's � no, Dana's journal told of the explosions and subsequent fires that destroyed that place, and spoke of "the man from Room Five" who had walked right through the flames. It seemed he hadn't done so without consequence.

Even so... no one should have been able to survive the damage Finch was seeing beneath the blood whose flow he had to stanch. Quickly he took his knife to the vigilante's cloak. If Dana Stanton's words were to be believed, this man survived all the horrors Larkhill had to offer and then took a stroll through an inferno before systematically dismantling Sutler's regime. Somehow � whether from Larkhill or some innate something in him � he had survived things that would have killed anyone else. It was nothing short of amazing, Finch had to admit as his hands swiftly applied makeshift dressings to wounds.

In spite of the respect he couldn't help but feel for this man's achievements, Finch had no illusions about him. The man was anything but innocent, as the Inspector of all people knew. He'd killed dozens of people � among them officers whom Finch had known and in some instances had even liked. He'd made it abundantly clear over the past year that he was extremely dangerous and never to be underestimated. But neither was he an evil man; this Eric Finch knew with absolute certainty. That was what kept him working for the vigilante's continued survival, cutting away garments, finding bullet holes, and bandaging them as best he could. Whoever Codename V was, he'd endured things most people didn't even know to have nightmares about and had continued to live God-knew-how for two decades, apparently for the sole purpose of bringing down the force that had done these things to him and kept the country in such blind misery. He hadn't killed indiscriminately� Civilian casualties had been minimal; Dominic had had him at gunpoint and still been spared; even the embarrassment of the Rookwood episode proved that his motives hadn't simply been to kill. And whatever his link was with Evey Hammond, he'd inspired something in her that ran strong and deep.

But now Creedy's bullets were in him, and his life was in danger of seeping away. Finch grimaced; the thought that something of Creedy's might end such a man's life suddenly felt obscene.

"Don't give up, damn you..." Finch reached down to secure yet another improvised pressure bandage. "After all the headaches you've given me, don't think I'm going to let you slip past now." He cast a critical eye over his efforts, murmuring, "She'd likely have both our heads if I did."

Hurried footsteps faintly sounded from the passage, and V stiffened at the sound.

"Ev�" A pained grunt escaped the masked man as he shifted, and Finch instinctively moved to cover the skin he'd revealed in a faintly absurd impulse to preserve his charge's dignity.

Miss Hammond rejoined them, carrying a large knapsack and, of all things, a military-issue stretcher. Without ceremony she set it down and knelt at Finch's side to look V in the eyes once again. "Just as I promised," she smiled. She surveyed the Inspector's work and looked a question at him. He nodded in answer, slowly and steadily. I've done all I can.

She returned her attention to V once more. "It's nearly time."

The injured man nodded, reaching to clasp her hand tightly in his. Turning slightly, she regarded Finch. "We need to go up. He needs to see."

The Inspector frowned. "See what?"

Soft brown eyes met his with perfect serenity. "Everything," she smiled.

. . .

The chimes of Big Ben sounded faintly from above, causing the Inspector to flinch slightly. The odd shapes his life had taken on since he'd found these two had served to insulate him temporarily from events above, but this sound brought that world snapping back into focus all of a sudden.

He's still got sixteen hours. The words from a year and a lifetime ago came back to haunt him. Now time was up.

He looked up and saw Miss Hammond's eyes flash for a moment at the sounding of midnight.

"It's time." Quickly she rose and moved to the explosives-laden train.

"Wait!" The word escaped Finch automatically and he reached out.

The young woman turned calmly. "Are you going to stop me, Inspector?"

Everything was happening too fast, suddenly. "�Just� tell me why."

"Because he was right."

"About what?"

"The world needs more than just a building right now. It needs hope. We need hope."

Hope.

This was the feeling he'd been experiencing, he finally realized - the thought that there could be something better; the determination that kept him trying to save a man who by all rights should be dead; the buzzing energy within that had him feeling more alive than he had in too many years to count... it was hope. He'd always thought of hope as something tiny, weightless; something that was routinely crushed underfoot without so much as a whimper. But he'd been wrong.

What he was feeling now... it towered. He could feel it pushing him past his own fears and fatigue - he could run for miles, right now, if asked. He could see it fairly blazing in the eyes of the woman before him, lending her an aura of strength that transcended the underfed frailty of her bird-like frame. He recognized it in the actions of Codename V, who had achieved the impossible several times over and might do so again even now.

Yes � the people did need hope, if this was its power.

No wonder Sutler had worked so hard, and for so long, to crush it.

The inspector let his hand fall back to his side and watched as Miss Hammond entered the train with its sea of flowers and explosives. She looked over to V for a moment and smiled, looking almost angelic, then smoothly pulled the lever to set the train in motion. Stepping quickly away as the doors closed, she rejoined Finch to watch it rumble away. Her head tilted slightly, and she gave him an inscrutable look.

"Do you like music, Inspector?"

. . .

They reached the rooftop in a blur of shadowed passages and secret doors, ultimately supporting V between them so that he might meet the night on his feet. He was not at all diminished by the second cloak wrapped hastily around his tattered frame, or by the tremor in his posture as he fought to remain standing under his own power. Somehow, even now, he retained the strength of presence that Finch had sensed from the first grainy images he'd seen from the security cameras.

Turning briefly from his wary observation of the figure he supported, Finch looked out over the city below them. As he automatically pinpointed their location from the surrounding landmarks, it occurred to him once more just how much he was being trusted. He still didn't know why, not really. A thousand questions still clamored to be asked, multiplying with each new riddle presented to him� and every damned thing was a riddle with these two. He'd been led here, he knew, to this point on the rooftop and in his very life. Somehow he'd been picked out � which meant, presumably, that he'd been watched by this man as well as his own government. He felt very much the pawn in this huge, violent game, and didn't like the feeling any more now than he had when he'd learned the truth about "Rookwood". Even so, he still found himself preferring V's machinations to those of Norsefire. At least his interactions with the vigilante, no matter how unpleasant, led to truths instead of obfuscations and threats. Or perhaps his judgement had finally given way under the pressures of his work, and he had let himself fall under the spell of a madman; without a doubt, Finch's world was now stranger than any storybook, with the Cheshire-cat grin on that blasted mask leading the way.

As if to underscore his musings, a fanfare of trumpets slowly blossomed in the air around them, coalescing into a melody that was all-too-familiar.

"That music..." The music that had begun everything for him; the composition commemorating a bygone conflict, shouting victory against a hostile foe and urging all who listened into action. He thought suddenly of the costume he'd received in the post, and the recent incidents involving Codename V look-alikes. What was happening out there now? Were hundreds - thousands? - of would-be Vs trying to march on Parliament? They'd be slaughtered... What about Dominic, where was he now? And oh, God, the explosives... the train had been full of explosives, how much had there been, what was he thinking--!

As the music swelled, he had just enough time for a wave of fear and dizzying anticipation to hit him. Dear God, what had he done?

Through the sudden ringing in his ears he could just make out a whispered affirmation, full of quiet joy:

"Yes. His music."

And then there was light.

A dim glow in the distance at first, followed seconds afterward by a rumbling cannonade that shook them even at this distance. As the bombastic melody shouted its joy far and wide, fireworks lit the sky with thundering multicolored explosions and a series of flares once again etched the sigil "V" into the night.

It was done. Sutler had failed. For better or worse, in this moment at least, V had emerged victorious.

God help us all if I was wrong, the thought skittered through Finch's mind.

At his side, the masked man stirred. The inspector and Miss Hammond adjusted their grip to accommodate him as he took a heavy step forward.

"'O...Beauty,'" he sighed, yearning toward what would have been his funeral pyre. "'Til now�I never knew thee�'"²

For one impossible moment, as Finch watched, he appeared as himself once more, standing tall and still while the music soared and the distant fires painted life-like colors onto the ever-smiling mask. Then the light and sound faded, and the illusion followed suit.

Sagging slightly, V turned away from the inspector to face Miss Hammond. "Thank you, sweet Eve." His gauntleted hand cupped her face with the utmost gentleness, and he slowly bowed his head to hers. Releasing her, he turned haltingly to face the inspector. "And you, Inspector," he nodded gravely. "Good luck� t'you�.both..."

Just in time, Eric Finch rushed forward to catch V as he toppled.

~ Finis ~

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¹ _{Shakespeare, Henry VI - Act III scene ii}
² _{Shakespeare, Henry VIII - Act I scene 4; quoted by V in the GN.}