Vantage Point: A V for Vendetta Novel
By April French

BOOK ONE: VIS INERTIA

A/N: Before I say anything about this chapter, I'd like to say a few words about my 'foster story,' aka the story I'm helping to beta. That would be Verus Visio, by ephemereal. What would I like to say about it? That it's fucking awesome. And that I as well as the story's author am extremely disappointed by the lack of response the story has been getting. Come on, people! This is fan fiction; you all know we don't get any other kind of payment for this! Reviews are our bread and scotch--er, blood and chocolate--umm... what's the word? Oh, yes. CRACK. We neeeeeeeeed reviews. We need them or we will explooooooooooooode. That happens to us sometimes. Yes, she's taking a while to develop the story. That's because she's a responsible author who cares about her subject matter. I know where VV is going, and I can guarantee you, it's a wonderful storyline and very original. Give it a chance!!! Now!!! Before you read this chapter!!! Go go go!!!!!!

Ahem. (clears throat) Now, onto my story. The idea of dividing the novel into three books, ala the original GN, was ephemereal's, as was the entire conception of this first book, which deals with the more political and social ramifications of the 'Voxer Revolution.' The characters of Parker and Winterley are technically not mine, but I didn't want to turn this into a crossover, so I changed Winterley's name, as he's going to be used more. Points to whoever can discover his real name. And I do apologize for the whiny V in this chapter. It's necessary but temporary, I promise. Thanks eternal to my beta reader, ICRepresentative, and to my illustrator Abbey Normal (you'll meet the pics soon, I promise!) Okay, enough chatter. On with the fic! ~AF

Chapter One: Vocation

Detective-Inspector Dominic Stone had to admit, he was surprised by the turnout at the Chief Inspector's funeral. Not by the Yard's presence, obviously; Finch had been highly respected, even liked by a number of people on the force, and attendance at the service was apparently considered mandatory. Detectives Brandon and Steerforth from Vice, Horn and Chaney from Homicide, Barber from White Collar, Dr. Knight from Ballistics--all had gotten to their current positions thanks to Finch's influence, and all said as much to Dominic with real remorse. Nor was he too shocked to see prominent Norsefire members present; Brian Etheridge and Conrad Heyer had been members of Sutler's advisory board along with Finch, and while the Inspector had not been friendly with them, they were at least less abrasive to his memory, although Dominic couldn't stand Heyer's wife. Roger Dascombe was there as well, as was his ever-present camera crew. Smarmy bastard, Dominic thought, gritting his teeth. The new head of the Finger, the tall and stocky Rupert Abelard, was also there, presumably as a show of force couched in one of solidarity--it was a fair given that Finch's lieutenant would be taking over the Nose, and Abelard wanted to make his influence known as soon as possible. Dominic resisted a strong urge to pucker up and flip the man off.

No, it was not the police officers or the Party members that surprised Dominic, the people who approached him before the services with their awkward condolences and overly avuncular but empty platitudes, and left as quickly as possible. It was the two men who came up to him after the service, people offering clearly heart-felt sympathies and firm handshakes. Family, so they said, even though Finch had never spoken to Dominic of any family save his late wife and son, on very rare occasions. "We were very distant cousins, a ways back on the father's mother's side, and we didn't get on, unfortunately," replied a dark-haired man in response to Dominic's question. This man, who said his name was Parker, looked rather a lot like Finch, although a bit neater in appearance, with his long face and droopy eyes, save that this fellow was younger and had none of Finch's hang-dog expression.

Another man, whom Dominic immediately assigned the title of 'gentleman' for the courteous, aristocratic demeanor he possessed and the nonchalant way he wore his excellently cut suit, despite being hampered by a walker, had tow-coloured hair laced with silver and painfully haunted grey eyes. His name was Winterley, he said, and was an even more distant cousin than Mr. Parker. "Eric was Party, you see," he said by way of explanation, very quietly into Dominic's ear, "and the rest of the family is not. So we kept away. Besides, Alan's an RN and I'm a permanent resident at the Tumbrels, so you see, it wasn't practicable for us to be on speakin' terms."

Not practicable. Meaning, not safe. Dominic gripped Winterley's hand, understanding, alas, precisely what the man meant.

He admired the man's gumption, for coming to his cousin's funeral in spite of all the prominent Party members present, and wondered which camp the man had been in to have acquired the walker and the residency at the notorious state-run sanitarium. Dark-haired Alan Parker stood at Winterley's shoulder, shorter than his companion but clearly the physically stronger one, and both men exuding quiet, subdued determination in the face of adversity, and an indefinable but unmistakable Englishness.

And Dominic wondered, staring down at the tiny data chip that had been delivered anonymously to his home the night after they had found the Chief Inspector's body, if Finch had ever possessed those qualities, and where the devil they had gone. And he wondered also, walking past Mr. Parker and giving him as subtle a look as he could manage that still said 'Come with me' without being overtly conspicuous, if he was about to do the right thing.

The men walked to their separate cars.

Dominic knew without thinking that Abelard would have him tailed back to the Yard. He could only hope that a man like Winterley--a man of obvious experience--would have the knowledge of how to avoid the unwanted attentions of the Finger.

He did. In fact, Parker and Winterley were in Dominic's office before he was, and were waiting for him when he returned to New Scotland Yard. "You wanted to see us, Chief Inspector Stone?"

The new title brought Dominic up short. Winterley was the first person to address him as such... but the office johnnies had already changed the nameplates on the office door, so he supposed he'd have to get used to it. He nodded abruptly, hung his coat over the back of his desk chair, and digging into Finch's desk, brought out the tiny red-lit device that had become so large a part of his professional life over the past fourteen months. "I'm probably making either the grandest gesture of my career, or the biggest mistake."

Winterley grinned lopsidedly. "Inspector, I approve of you highly. What have you to tell us?"

Reaching into his breast pocket, Dominic pulled out the data chip he had received a few nights ago. "This was sent to me anonymously. It's a recording of the late Inspector Finch in the last moments of his life."

Parker whistled softly. "A recording... which means it wasn't a nice peaceful death in his sleep." He rubbed his chin. "Was he murdered?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On how you'd like to see the situation." He played the recording for them. The face of the man administering to Eric Finch was never revealed, only his hands and voice. But that was enough for the three reviewing the chip.

"I know that voice," Winterley mused, tenting his fingers before his lips.

Parker nodded. "It's a hard voice to forget."

Dominic tensed. "You've heard it before?"

"Of course." Parker grinned. "All of London and a good part of Great Britain's heard that voice before. The evening of November 5^th, 2037."

Dominic rubbed his eyes, remembering. "Ah, right. Yeah, it's... a very hard voice to get out of your head. Look, the man saved my life some weeks ago. And from the Inspector's... lack of reaction..."

Winterley broke in. "You needn't say another word, lad. It's clear enough that this man V was doing Eric a favor. Maybe I'll get to shake his hand for it someday. So you may write your report as you see fit, and how satisfied we shall all be." Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, Winterley took a folded piece of paper. "Now, then, Inspector. Do you know anything about this?"

Dominic read the few lines. "And if I do?"

Parker shared a glance with his cousin. "Will you take us there?"

Dominic looked for Evey before the council meeting, eyes seeking her in the gloom of the riverfront warehouse where the rebels had arranged to gather. He swallowed nervously; it was the first time he had chosen to voluntarily attend one of these gatherings, although she always made certain he was aware of the sporadic meeting places. He finally spotted her, perched on a crate, watching him look for her. "I'm surprised to see you here," she commented as he approached, before he could say anything. "I thought you were still on the fence about us."

"I was. But now the Inspector's gone..."

"Yes, I saw that on the telly. I'm sorry. He was decent to me." She chuckled, hopping down from her box. "Even if he was chasing me for the better part of a year. I wanted to attend the services, but, you know... still a wanted felon."

"Thanks. But that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about." Dominic stopped. Then, "He didn't die of heart failure," he blurted out.

Evey's response was to shift her weight from her left foot to her right. "I wish I could say that I'm surprised. But it just... when I was watching the news coverage, June wasn't blinking any more than usual. She wasn't lying--at least, she didn't think she was lying. But it didn't feel right."

Dominic Stone was not a delicate man. And the fact that this short, slender woman with the scarred forehead standing in front of him made his stomach do strange things was not helping his ability to speak coherently. Shit, he thought. Am I really that bloody scared of her? "Was it, um... your 'chum'?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe."

Finding himself fidgety and schoolboyish below the steady brown gaze, Dominic had to change the direction of the conversation. "I brought you a few more inductees," he said, gesturing to the two middle-aged gentlemen chatting with the Sedleys. "Cousins of the Inspector's. The older one, Winterley, was in a camp called Sand Bay. For politicals," he added apologetically. Evey nodded. "And since then he's been in the Tumbrels hospital. He got out on a weekend-pass from the hospital for the funeral. The other one's a nurse at the hospital. Winterley asked me to bring them both, but they're on limited time, so I don't know how much help they'll be to you."

"Thank you, Inspector, in any case," said Evey sincerely, hiding a grin at his obvious discomfort. "I'll talk to them later."

"Good." Dominic paused. "Do you want to see?"

"See what?"

"The recording. Of the Inspector's... well."

"That's all right."

"He was there, Evey. And he sent me the recording."

"Oh, I believe you. It's something he would do. And no, I don't want to see, thanks. Are you looking for him about it?"

"Not officially, no, but... I would like to talk to him about it."

Evey's answer was a crooked smile. "You'll have to get in line for that privilege." She crossed her arms, thinking business as best she could. The number of people at the meetings was growing, and Evey was getting nervous. "Maybe we should start splitting these up," she confided to Dominic, nodding to Hugh and Alicia Drummond. "They've traveled here from Brixton three times in the past two months. They're going to attract attention soon, if they haven't already." Evey paused, then looked at Dominic consideringly. "Inspector... you have access to computers and databases. Could you set up a system that would link all the members of this group together? Something that would let us function a little less conspicuously?"

Dominic frowned. "I might be able to, if I can find one of the techies who won't turn right around and sell me to the Finger." He hesitated. "Isn't this the sort of thing your chum should be doing? He must have a system of his own somewhere; he made enough of a hash of ours this year." The look on Evey's face was not encouraging. "Or no?"

"My chum's out of commission for the moment," she replied finally. "And this is taking on a life of its own. All these people Finch brought to me? They need to take some responsibility for this revolution."

"But Evey--the revolution hasn't actually started yet."

"They're here, aren't they? Inspector, I can't tell them what to do forever."

The remainder of her plea hung unspoken between them: Because I don't know what to do. But she still stepped forward. "All right, people. Let's get this night started."

V was sitting at the piano when Evey returned. It was very late up above, but Evey knew from experience just how easy it was to lose track of time in the Shadow Gallery. How easy and pleasant, to sink into warm blankets and sleep for days... Evey had slowly begun to lose her fear of the dark, thanks to the implicit safety of V's home.

But how much longer would it be safe, she realized, if V took no steps to keep it that way? She knew only enough about how the Shadow Gallery functioned to keep the heat and light constant and set to their appropriate cycles. She knew nothing about V's security systems, where he kept his computers, where he made his bombs... Evey shivered, pulling her jacket more tightly around her shoulders as she stepped slowly closer to V's elegant black back. His hands were drifting over the keys in melancholic fashion, coaxing an achingly sad tune from the instrument; a melody that brought to Evey's mind the image of thousands upon thousands of roses, all different colors, bright and muted both, in a garden filled with gently flowing fountains. She gasped softly, the vision before her eyes so real she could almost smell it.

"How strange..."

Those roses weren't a hallucination, Evey knew. Rather, they were the product of so many months in the Shadow Gallery, coming to understand--rather against her will at first--the man who called himself V. She saw stories in music now--worlds in music--because he had taught her the importance of seeing them.

V let the last note go, lingering in the cool air that smelled slightly of basements: wet stone, dust, old wood and metal. "You're home."

Evey hadn't expected to smile, but she did. V's welcome was as much assurance as it was salutation. It revealed an undertone of painful uncertainty in this man who was otherwise placid and passionate by turns that Evey found both endearing and highly worrisome, and the smile had faded before V had turned around to see it. "I'm home," she acknowledged. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Approximately half past four in the morning." A pause. "Are you hungry?"

"A bit. Are you cooking?"

"If you like."

"Will you eat?"

"Later, perhaps." V rose from the bench and went into the kitchen. Evey watched him from behind as he walked, noticing with a sharp pain that his clothing looked looser than it had only a few weeks before.

She followed him into the alcove. He had already taken eggs from the fridge and a bowl from the cupboard, but the preparation process had been suspended while V stared at his hands. "I suppose I don't really need to wear these in front of you anymore," he commented hesitantly.

"Your hands don't put me off my scrambled eggs, if that's what you mean," Evey replied, taking bread from the bread box and arranging it in the toaster. "I don't care if you wear your gloves or not." She took out butter and honey. "Did you cook with them on before you met me?"

"No. It's..." He sounded sheepish. "Hard as I've tried, it's rather difficult to crack eggs while wearing cowhide gloves."

Evey grinned, and V took off his gloves.

He scrambled the eggs expertly and fried them until they were fluffy and creamy yellow, and slid them onto a single plate. Evey poured out the very last of the orange juice--V had staunchly refused to explain where he had found anything even related to oranges--and offered him toast. "I'll eat later," he said again.

Evey sat down with a huff, frustrated. Frustration with V was a state of mind she was becoming more and more familiar with. "I hate having you just watch me eat," she groused, shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

"I'm sorry if it bothers you." He sat down and folded his ungloved hands on the table. Some disjointed part of Evey's mind noticed, as she did every time she saw his hands, that they were very large. She wasn't sure why she always noticed that particular facet of him; there was no other thought attached to it. "I like watching you eat."

Evey gulped down her toast, surprised. "Huh?"

"I enjoy watching you eat."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Survivor's compulsion, I suppose."

"Shouldn't you be compelled to actually eat instead of watching me stuff my face?"

V didn't respond. He looked down at his hands. Standing, he grabbed his gloves from the counter and pulled them on as he strode from the kitchen.

Evey grimaced. "Dammit," she growled into her juice.

High Chancellor Oliver Ducane was a radically different man from the late Adam Sutler. A tall, spare man in his early forties, with auburn hair and cool grey eyes, Ducane had been Sutler's personal secretary for many years, almost since the inception of the Norsefire party, relied on and confided in as no one else in Sutler's circle had even dreamed of being, and as time passed and Sutler became more and more reclusive, he had had the privilege--not to say, the opportunity--of having dealt with increasingly delicate missions of trust, so that by the time Sutler died, Ducane knew more about the actual state of the country than did the man ostensibly in charge of it.

He leaned back in his expensive leather chair and surveyed his new advisory council across the gleaming inlaid wood expanse of his desk. The five men were arranged in a semi-circle of chairs opposite him. He had chosen to meet with the Head in his private office in the City, rather than through the video technology Sutler had preferred. He liked personal touches in his business dealings.

Despite having been rousted out of bed for an 6 am emergency meeting, unscheduled and therefore unanticipated, all the representatives of the various departments looked reasonably alert--Roger Dascombe was his usual dapper self, Conrad Heyer and Brian Etheridge were looking reassuringly jittery; the new leader of the Finger, Abelard, was there, appearing bored and too large for his pricey suit... and new-minted Chief Inspector Dominic Stone, of the Nose. Ducane studied him without seeming to, his curiously heavy-lidded eyes taking in everything before him. Stone was... nervous.

Well, the boy had just taken over a very large and central part of the state operations. It stood to reason he would be a bit jumpy. And he had never attended a meeting of the Head. But these were not the Downing Street chambers--there was no looming video screen or all-seeing cameras peeping out from every corner to record every nuance of voice and expression and gesture. There was only polite, solemn Oliver Ducane, in his cozy, book-lined office like an old-fashioned family solicitor's chambers. There was no real reason for Chief Inspector Stone to be nervous.

Ducane smiled, and leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. Dascombe, Heyer and Etheridge snapped to attention, someone at a loss as to what to do with their legs and hands and folders of papers, in the absence of a communal table. Abelard continued to look uninterested--a useful tactic in politics, the chancellor knew. Stone, like Ducane, watched them all.

"Gentlemen, I bid you all welcome. Mr. Dascombe, Mr. Heyer, Mr. Etheridge: welcome back. Mr. Abelard and Chief Inspector Stone: congratulations on your promotions. I only wish they had not come, as mine had, at the cost of such valuable lives."

To their credit, no one present betrayed their true feelings by so much as a snort. More importantly, not one man raised any objection to Oliver Ducane's right to call himself High Chancellor.

Ducane nodded, deeply satisfied as only a man who suddenly has the world at his fingertips can be, and allowed his pleased smile to almost reach his eyes.

"And now, gentlemen: to business. Time is slipping through our fingers, and the country must be reassured that although we have faltered, we have not fallen."

Evey sat down on the couch next to V, glancing at the book in his hands. To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. He looked to be about halfway through, but without knowing how many times he had read the book before, she had no way of knowing. It was a well-worn copy, as most of V's books were; he could have just opened the novel to that particular section. "I saw Inspector Stone at the council meeting."

"Indeed. So the new chief has turned the other cheek."

"I think he's doing it out of guilt, rather than conviction."

"It's a start."

"Is it, really?" She cocked her head at V and stared at him until he put his book down. "Stone's doing this because Finch would have wanted him to. He was given Finch's job because that was what Finch wanted. Is Stone truly doing the wise thing?"

"You should never ask your compatriots to be as solely motivated as you. Only as driven and loyal."

Evey blinked. "What?"

"Everyone who sticks with this revolution will stay because they have their own personal reasons. For some, deeply personal. Never require purity of thought."

She was quietly insulted. "I think I know enough not to make that mistake," she replied.

"I hope you don't forget it," V said fervently. The stiff set of his shoulders told Evey the conversation was making him deeply uncomfortable. He attempted to change the subject. "Inspector Finch was a good man," said V quietly. "He shall be missed."

"Why," Evey had to ask, "did you help him?"

"Are you angry?"

"I want to know. Inspector Stone is confused and hurt, I think, but... I just want to know."

"Because if I had done nothing, he would have died alone. And I have seen so many die alone..." The amount of feeling in his voice was wrenching. Evey waited, sensing he had more to say. V leaned back, breathing deeply. "There's a policeman with an honest soul that has seen who head is on the pole, and he grunts and fills his briar bowl with a feeling of unease. Then he briskly frisks the torn remains for a fingerprint of crimson stains, and endeavors to ignore the chains that he walks into his knees."²

Evey nodded. "You think Finch was a prisoner, the same as you were."

"And you. And all of us."

"And that's why you helped him kill himself."

V seemed unable to meet her gaze. "'To die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly. Death of one's own free choice, death at the proper time, with a clear head and with joyfulness, consummated in the midst of children and witnesses: so that an actual leave-taking is possible while he who is leaving is still there.'"³ He sighed deeply. "The inspector wasn't allowed that."

"You felt sorry for him."

"Finch was as much a product of Norsefire as I was," V said shortly. "He was old and tired and as disillusioned as he had become with the reigning regime, he was in no condition to withstand its overthrow and the creation of a new order."

"So you killed him."

"'A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own,'" V pointed out, with the irritatingly cold pragmatism he displayed at times.⁴

She wasn't going to get a straight answer, so Evey dropped the subject. "Stone brought a few new people to the meeting. Some relatives of Finch's," she added. "He told them how Finch died."

"And their reaction?"

"They... were rather grateful," Evey had to admit, chagrinned. "They said... if Finch wanted to go, it was better that he wasn't alone. Although I still don't know why he would have chosen to trust you."

"I'm afraid I can't answer that." V's voice smiled slightly. "I don't have an answer that you'll accept."

She nodded. "Probably not," she agreed, and turned the conversation yet again. "One of them--Finch's relatives--is a former lord."

"Oh?"

"Mmmhmm. Nothing impressive, or so he says. Just a minor title from before Sutler had the nobility disenfranchised. Winterley, his name is." She raised an eyebrow, but nothing in V's demeanor suggested that he recognized the name as one to be cautious of. "He was very charming and funny and polite," she continued, "nothing like those stuffy old codgers in the propaganda films. Something about him makes me think he was a perfectly well-bred ass before the Reclamation. Now he's just..." She paused. "Dignified. And very sad. A camp survivor, the inspector said."

As she had suspected, that got V's attention. "Which camp?"

"Sand Bay. Not one I'd ever heard of."

V nodded. "In Sussex. One of the original prison camps for 'dangerous political agitators,' and one of the most notorious. The staff there was supposed to have been particularly vicious."

"He's crippled."

"Then he's one of the fortunate ones." V paused, aimlessly caressing the spine of his book. "I doubt he escaped, in his condition."

"No. Inspector Stone mentioned a place where he lived with his cousin, a hospital called The Tumbrels." V made a low growl in his throat; Evey jumped. "Is that a bad thing?"

"You've never heard of The Tumbrels either, I take it." She shook her head. "It is the unofficial and much more accurate name for the Oscar Sutler Memorial Sanitarium, near Stratford. It is a private government hospital for former inmates of camps who have sworn fealty to the Articles of Allegiance but who are physically incapable of contributing to society."

That didn't make sense to Evey. "And they still keep them alive?"

"That hospital is a freak show, Evey. It's used as an 'educational tool.' Parties of schoolchildren go through The Tumbrels just as people centuries ago used to go to Bedlam to stare at the insane." He stared down at his book and then abruptly tossed it aside.

It was clear V wanted to talk about this subject even less. "Should I not be trusting Mr. Winterley, then?"

"You shouldn't be trusting anyone. But I might single him out for especial scrutiny. People who survive the camps only to side with the government that put them there... I would watch him."

"Should I?"

"If you think you should." V suddenly covered his face with his hands and bowed his head. His shoulders shook imperceptively. Evey waited, outwardly calm but terrified inside. "'It is such a secret place, the land of tears,'" he said finally.⁵

Evey turned away, allowing V to remove his mask and wipe his face. When she sensed he had composed himself, she spoke. "We have to move soon, V."

"Yes." His voice was hoarse.

"Will you help us?"

"No." He moved to the piano and began playing, a cacophonous piece that had neither structure nor melody to Evey's ear.

She swallowed what felt like a growl. "Will you help me?"

"Within reason. What do you want?"

The question brought Evey up short. What she wanted was for V to take the reins back from her inexperienced hands. "Advice," she decided at last. "What are we doing? None of us really knows."

V's leather-covered fingers tripped frenetically over the keys. "You must be comprehensive. Complete. Your work must encompass not just London, but the whole of Britain. Not just the body political, but the military, and society. An entire revolution."

"We can do that gradually."

V shook his head. "London just underwent an upheaval in leadership. How many people stopped going to work because Sutler and Creedy were killed? How many people do you think have even noticed the change in administration? Finch was very careful to keep things quiet, to prevent an all-out frenzy, but it's worked better than he may have anticipated. Ducane and Abelard are purposely staying below the radar--not because they're afraid to take power--but because they don't want to alarm anyone enough to make them take notice of the changes. It is the same gradual insidious working that allowed Norsefire to take power in the first place."

That made sense, but... "But V--you spent nineteen years working under the radar, and only the last one making any noise."

"I was... preoccupied." He shook his head and shot off the piano, and turning around, he finally seemed to meet her eyes. "Find people. Many people. Then... Make noise. Make lots of noise."

"Percussions instruments should be the Voxer specialty?"

V nodded. "But Evey? Remember: 'The only winner in the War of 1812 was Tchaikovsky.'⁶ Don't let any of your people look for glory or fame. They won't find it."

After discussing recruitment drives for the Finger, agreeing on the appropriate funds for new equipment for the Eye and the Ear, hammering out a preliminary new schedule for the BTN, and reinforcing the remaining government buildings against any further attacks from the terrorist organization called V, the High Chancellor checked off the last item on his list. "Well, I do believe we are finished, gentlemen," he announced, noting the time and the yawns of his cabinet. "Good morning to you all. Oh, and Inspector Stone," he added, gesturing to the youngest member of the Head, "would you please spare me a few minutes of your time?"

Stone was inexperienced, but he knew better than to deny that request. He lingered before the Chancellor's desk, a file folder in his hand. Ducane waited until the others had left, making some notations on his pad. "Please, Chief Inspector, sit," he said congenially, gesturing to the chair Dominic had just vacated. Folding his hands, he fixed the new chief of the Nose with a clear gaze. "I know you're quite tired, Inspector Stone, and still highly stressed from the recent upheaval of the country, and from the late Eric Finch's death, of course."

"Yes, sir--Chancellor."

"So I will not keep you long. But there is a particular question I should like to ask you, and your answer will determine a very important decision I have to make, so please: be frank with me."

Dominic's skin began to crawl. "Of course."

"You and the late Inspector Finch were in charge of the search for Codename V. You are still pursuing that search, I take it?" Officially, the file was still wide open, so Dominic nodded. "Good. Well. Here is the question of importance, Chief Inspector: have you uncovered any evidence as to the identity of the terrorist?"

The question caught Dominic so completely off-guard, he couldn't answer with anything but the truth. "Nothing concrete, sir. I think Inspector Finch had something more solid, but he wasn't allowed to share his information with me. Classified documents."

"You refer to the diary of the late Dr. Delia Surridge." Ducane's smile turned a bit sly. "If you had access to that book, Inspector Stone, do you think it would help your investigation?"

"It--it might, sir. But I was under the impression that it had been destroyed."

"So was Sutler." Opening a drawer in his desk, Ducane reached down and pulled out a thick binder. He pushed it over to Dominic. "This is a copy of the Surridge Diary. The original is safely hidden away; however, if you believe that it contains the clues you need, I shall grant you access codes to it."

Dominic blinked. "Sir... I don't think I understand."

"My late predecessor was possibly the biggest help the terrorist ever had. He tried to dehumanize Codename V, make him into a monster. But in the end, all he accomplished was to turn the monster into a hero, a glorified symbol of anarchy." Ducane's expression turned hard. "I want to make V as human as possible, turn this symbol back into a man, so that when we do finally catch him and put him in front of a firing squad, his death will be I>permanent. As the man with the most experience in hunting him, I want you in charge of this operation." He proceeded to briefly outline what the project would entail. "Do you understand, Inspector?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you believe this is a task at which you could succeed? Oh, please, don't answer right away. Take a few days, think it over. And take this with you." Ducane held out the binder. "It may help you in making your decision." Obediently, Dominic took the black binder. "You'll see, Inspector. This man V is a medical mistake. He's not really the type of man we want making decisions about our country, now, is he?"

The binder was tucked securely into Dominic's briefcase. "No, sir. Thank you, Chancellor."

"I shall expect you here in three days, Chief Inspector, with your decision. Good morning. Oh, and Inspector?" The smile was back. "England prevails."

V might have been able to still whatever food supplies he needed, but Evey was certainly not capable of robbing a government supply train by herself, so if she wanted food, she had to go shopping for it. Presenting the last of her carefully hoarded food coupons and her fake ID to the clerk in the market, Evey was able to purchase a bag of limp vegetables, a loaf of fairly fresh bread, a block of cheese that was only moderately hard and blessedly free of mold, some beef bones--always cheap, thank God--a few apples and a bit of oatmeal. It would be enough to get her and V through the next week at best. After that... She had the money to purchase more food coupons, but the prices had gone up again, and the coupons themselves were becoming scarcer by the day.

Things weren't this bad in all the groceries, but in the ones that Evey could afford... She took her receipt, cringing at the price she had paid for the food in her bag, and the single coupon she had managed to save, a milk coupon. Then she turned, not meeting the sympathetic cashier's eyes--Evey knew she still looked pitiful, thin and ill-clothed, with shorn hair--and quickly walked out of the market. She tried her best not to look at the other people in line, many just as poorly fed as she. One young woman caught her eye, with her dark hair and the defiant way she carried herself. In her arms was a baby, barely more than a few months old. The woman cradled the child closer, protectively, when she saw Evey watching.

It was Caroline, the woman Evey and V had found attacking Dominic Stone, the night of the first Voxer meeting. She hadn't been back; now Evey knew why.

Palming the milk coupon, Evey slipped it into the purse hanging from Caroline's shoulder as she passed.

Returning to the Gallery after many hours above, Evey put the bit of food away in the kitchen alcove. She thought about making some tea, but never even bothered to boil water. Instead, she went and lay down--almost collapsed--on the living room couch. She drifted in and out of sleep, until she awoke, unsure of the time, to find a smiling face peering down at her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm tired," Evey replied, closing her eyes again. "I had a lot to do today." She sat up at last, groaning softly. "Tommy Sedley and I were testing out a system of coded messaging, so Vox members can identify each other in the streets without appearing to communicate."

"Is it progressing?"

"It needs work."

V did not take the proffered opening. "What else?"

"I had a meeting with Eileen McCumber, the Treasury Minister. I'm assuming that funding a revolution needs money?"

V nodded, then cocked his head, sparrow-fashion. "Are you actually trying to fund the overthrow of a government from inside the government's own vaults?" He chuckled lowly. "How ingenious."

Evey hated to admit it, but the compliment warmed her. "Well, we haven't exactly had any filthy rich recruits, and I can't just keep stealing what we need." Again, if V noticed the invitation, he did not acknowledge it. "Actually, she seemed so receptive to the idea that it makes me wonder if she hasn't been cooking Sutler's books for years. And why she'd welcome an overthrow."

"Perhaps her cooking is becoming too hot for her to handle."

"Speaking of cooking, I did some shopping. I think I got everything you need for vegetable soup. That should keep us going until I can get some more food coupons." V nodded. "And I got a tip that there might be someone fairly high up at the BTN who is possibly willing to support us, so I tried to follow up on that... And then after all that, I went to the market, and then had to take a bloody roundabout route so's to make sure that no one followed me back here." She dropped her head back against the couch cushions. "Yeah, I'm tired. So what have you been doing with yourself while I've been gone?"

V shrugged. "Nothing impressive. Cataloguing the books in your bedroom, mainly."

Evey nodded. She had checked the kitchen both before leaving that morning and while putting the away the food. V had cleared away her breakfast dishes, but impeccably neat as he was, there was no way for her to know if he'd had any meals today at all. She yawned suddenly. "What time is it, anyway?"

"About a quarter past ten. You should go to bed."

"I know." She paused. "I'd rather watch a movie, though."

"And fall asleep halfway through it?"

"Yup. Will you watch something with me?"

"What would you like?" V asked, crossing over to one of his many shelves of media.

"Something horribly, disgustingly, reassuringly British," Evey responded promptly, retrieving a ragged and comfy afghan from the armchair.

Chuckled, V popped the first disc of Pride and Prejudice into the DVD player.

Evey wrapped herself in the afghan and snuggled up against V's side as he sat down next to her; he responded by draping an arm over her shoulders. Neither put any conscious thought into their closeness. It had been so long since they had been able to just sit and watch a nice sappy movie. Almost a full year, Evey realized, remembering the first time they had sat on this very same couch and watched a film.

V was a romantic at heart; Evey had always known that. It was just one of the reassuringly human facets of his otherwise obscure personality. It was the part of him that wanted desperately to be someone's knight in shining armor, chivalrous and honorable; it was the part of him that had most attracted Evey, and probably the part of him that she missed most now. When she had first met him, she had wanted to be taken care of--needed to be cared for and protected from the big bad frightening world. V had fulfilled that need admirably... for a while. No, Evey didn't need to be protected anymore. But she didn't feel confident enough that she could care for him. This V was uncertain, depressed, with a deep vein of sadness that Evey just could not fathom. Had that always been there, hidden under his passion for change and music and pyrotechnics? This wasn't the first time she had sensed the sadness in him...

"No. You were right about what I am. I have no tree waiting for me. All I want, all I deserve, is at the end of that tunnel... I'm finished, and glad of it."

Biting her lip, Evey tried to burrow further into V's ribcage.

Alone in his small flat, the only light from the street lamps outside and the glowing end of his lit cigarette, Dominic Stone sat at his kitchen table contemplating a bottle of scotch. It was the last of Finch's private store, but Dominic felt sure he could give the liquor a good home.

In his early days as Finch's Detective Sergeant, Dominic had deplored his boss's habit of solitary drinking. Finch never went out drinking with the other Yarders, not even when specially invited. He preferred to drink alone. Dominic had stopped asking after a while, after hearing bits and pieces of Finch's history, but he never really tried to understand why his superior did what he did.

Now, he was afraid he understood.

Dominic would never have called Finch a drunk. Then again, he wouldn't call himself a drunk, either.

Was it the pressure? he wondered. Just the sheer weight of having the entire city's safety on his shoulders, that was what being head of the Nose amounted to. The Nose dealt with law and order; the Finger handed out the terror.

Sighing, Dominic reached for a small tumbler, rolling it around in his hands.

He thought of himself as a good honest copper. Good was right and bad was wrong, and he had always known which side of the law he belonged on.

Where do I stand now? he wondered. Where do I belong?

Ducane had no more legislative right to call himself Chancellor than Dominic had to call himself the Archbishop of Canterbury, yet there he was, sitting high and giving orders to the Head. Evey Hammond was a known terrorist and the most wanted woman in Britain... but she had sympathized with the parents of that dead little girl. The propaganda machine at the BTN was working overtime to crank out more slander against the fomenting rebellion, and yet Codename V had saved Dominic's life, and helped to give Eric Finch a better death than any of them probably deserved.

I should go back to pounding a beat, Dominic decided, grabbing the bottle of scotch by the neck. I'm not cut out to make these kinds of decisions. He started to break the seal, to pour himself a glassful... but the memory of Finch's long, mournful face and tired eyes seemed to stare back at him out of the empty tumbler.

Dominic put the whiskey away. He would never blame the alcohol, but he did not want to end the same way Finch had ended. He went onto his third-floor balcony and stood there for some time in his jeans and t-shirt, his dark hair tousled by the strong wind, smoking his cigarette and watching London sleep. There was rain in the wind, clouds rolling in fast over the Thames. There would be a riot tomorrow at the coupon printers in Threadneedle Street, if water coupon prices didn't drop after the deluge that seemed likely from those clouds. As a high-ranking member of the Nose, Dominic never lacked for basic necessities like food, water, clothing--no, he could even afford tobacco. Most of the working class sods in London saved for weeks to buy just one packet of gaspers.

The High Chancellor would want an answer soon.

To be perfectly honest, Dominic hadn't been able to force himself to read Dr. Surridge's diary. The little Finch had told him had scared him badly; he had liked Delia Surridge immensely, had wished--for his boss's sake--that she and Finch could have had something more than their on-again, off-again business. Dominic grinned suddenly, remembering the river of cheerful profanity that had flowed from Finch's mouth, the one time Dominic had mentioned the coroner to him like that. He'd had no idea the chief could swear like that, and his light, barely Irish accent had made it all the more eloquent.

He missed his boss. Hell, he missed having a boss. "Barely a week, you ponce," he muttered, taking a last drag on his cigarette before tossing it over the balcony. Ignoring the wet cold of the approaching London winter, Dominic leaned on the railing. Barely a week since Finch's death and his own promotion, and he already wanted to chuck it. He missed being the one who prodded someone else to ask the hard questions, missed being the handsome second banana who got to drive the shiny police car--he knew what he was cut out for. Sure, he'd wanted the Chief Inspector-ship, at some point. But he'd never expected it so soon. Never wanted it to be like this.

The rain came down with a voice like thunder, wetting Dominic to the skin in a matter of seconds. And he wondered, very abruptly and without knowing why, if Evey and her 'chum' were under shelter somewhere.

"Mr. Bennett was horribly mean," Evey decided, as the last DVD ended some hours later.

"Why?"

"Because he's always making fun of his wife and Mr. Collins, and they don't know any better."

"If they understood, would that be better?"

Evey considered, then shook her head. "No. That would be torture." She knew the moment the words left her mouth that it was the wrong answer; V flinched as though she had struck him.

"You're right, of course," he said, his voice husky and low. "Understanding is a three-edged sword." He took his arm away from her shoulders as he stood; Evey's neck felt cold. "Good night, Evey."

"Good night, V."

Evey had no way of knowing whether or not V slept that night. She only knew that she did not.

A day or two later, she found a message from Dominic Stone in her secure e-mail, asking if she had time to talk. She met him for a drink that evening at a pub called The Tom O'Bedlam. The proprietor, a slim young-looking fellow named Barber, put them into a snug corner booth just out of sight of the compulsory Eye cameras, and far enough in back where they would not be overseen or overheard by the other patrons. "He knows you," she said without preamble, sliding onto the bench.

"A lot of the Yard comes here," Dominic replied. Pulling a scrambler from his pocket, he flicked on the small silvery device and hid it behind a drinks list. "His wife's an officer in the white collar crime division. You want something, Anne?"

Acknowledging the name on her fake ID, Evey nodded. Her slight frame didn't allow her to put away too much alcohol in one sitting, but after the past several weeks, she felt justified in indulging in a pint of Smith's Nutty Brown. She didn't drink it, exactly; she just had it. She enjoyed the smell of the ale and the smooth round weight of the tankard in her hand, and sipped the liquid from time to time.

"Are you just going to hold that?" Dominic asked finally, halfway through his own pint of bitter.

"I like nursing my drinks."

Dominic stared into his beer. He had asked to see her, but now that she was here, he couldn't get the topic he most wanted to discuss out of his mouth. The Chancellor would want an answer soon, he knew...

"You wanted to talk to me about something?"

The Inspector blinked. "Oh, right, yeah." He couldn't do that again. He couldn't afford to coddle his alcohol, certainly not around this woman. Nasty, the butterflies she put into his stomach. Well, he'd either have to get used to it or get over it. Out of habit, he lowered his voice. "I met with the High Chancellor a few days ago."

"What's he like?"

"He's a fright. Cold, mainly. Thinks differently than Sutler, much more of a slick politician. He and Abelard are tight, though. With Ducane's brains and Abelard controlling the Finger, it's going to be tough for your people to break through this."

"Our people, Inspector Stone. Unless you're still on the wall?"

Dominic covered the awkward pause with a gulp of his beer. "I've been offered a position as head of a new government office, 'Project Macbeth.' Ducane's hoping to uncover the true identity of the terrorist Codename V."

Evey fingers spasmed around her tumbler. "Tell me more."

"Ducane feels that the more the government knows about V--about the man V--the more he can twist the media to turn the public against the revolution." Dominic swallowed. "I don't know if I can accept."

"Why?"

"'Why?' How can you even ask me that?"

"Inspector," said Evey, very quietly, very calmly. "I have no idea where your loyalties lie. I am putting myself, the man I love, and the entirety of this organization in jeopardy by meeting with you because of it. You're here because Finch believed in us... or was beginning to believe in us. If you think that this country can best be served by destroying that name, then go right ahead. I'll do everything I can to prevent that, obviously, but I'm not going to try and dissuade you from doing what you think it right."

Swirling the last of his beer in the bottom of the glass, Dominic mulled that over. The man she loved, eh? He wondered if she knew about the office pool at the Nose, the one betting on the likelihood of the terrorist and the girl from the BTN being secret lovers. "What would your chum say about this?" he asked finally.

Evey knew who he meant, of course. She hesitated. "I'm worried about my... chum," she said finally.

Dominic blinked, considered, then downed the rest of his beer. "Well, let's hear it." Despite her comments about his lack of stated loyalty, Evey still explained as well as she could. She simply had to talk to someone, and if Chief Inspector Dominic Stone was the only person, than so be it. She trusted him with V, she realized, definitely more than she should, but he was all she had. The result was a story without names, and so circuitous as to be nearly useless, but Dominic got the drift. "You really think his behavior has to do with his time in the camp?"

"It's the only explanation I can think of other than the one he's given me. I mean, for a while, it looked like he was going to be fine, but after I found that diary..." She trailed off. "Everything changed."

Dominic munched on a sandwich. "I think you should talk with Ashton Winterley."

It took Evey a moment to put a name to the face. "The man with the walker who came to a meeting a last week?"

"Yeah. He's a camp survivor, too, remember. And his cousin Parker's been taking care of him all these years. Maybe he can give you some insight."

"Alright," Evey gave in, "I'll talk to him. Where is he?"

Dominic looked slightly sheepish. "Er, he's gone. He and Parker went back to the Tumbrels after the funeral."

"What?"

"They were only here for that weekend."

"Then how the bloody hell am I supposed to talk to him?"

"I'm driving out there in a day or two. You can come with me."

Evey fixed Dominic with a suspicious glare. "Why?"

He grinned. "Parker's been in contact with me. He thinks there are a lot of potential recruits among the patients at the sanitarium. Among the staff, too."

The suspicion turned to thoughtful consideration. "But I thought all of the patients at that hospital were loyalists."

Dominic shook his head. "It's just another prison. A nursing home with high security, according to Parker."

"And you're just automatically inclined to trust these two men? Just because they're Finch's cousins?"

"No. I'm a cop. I'm don't trust anyone." He smirked. "No more than you do."

Evey stood. "I should go."

The inspector nodded. "It'll take a few days to get the quarantine clearance."

"You know how to contact me."

"Right. Anne," said Dominic suddenly, catching hold of her sleeve as she moved to leave. Evey looked down at him. His smooth, handsome face was carefully clear of emotion--neat trick, that, very good poker face--but his eyes were just short of terrified. "What should I do?"

"About...?"

"Macbeth." To a casual listener, one might have thought they were discussing a play--dangerous in and of itself, since Shakespeare was very thoroughly banned. "His plan... it could work. Should I do it?"

Evey smiled dryly. "I can't make that decision for you, Dominic." He frowned, but released her. She pulled a few pound notes from her pocket.

"Don't worry, I'll get it," Dominic waved away her money. "Buy yourself a sandwich or something, you look like a scarecrow."

A few days later, very early in the morning, Dominic Stone was behind the wheel of a police car headed to Stratford-on-Avon. In the passenger's seat was a young woman with a full head of dark hair. Her ID said her name was Anne Campion, officer of the Nose; ostensibly, she and Chief Inspector Stone were headed to the government hospital-cum-prison to interrogate several inmates in hopes of ascertaining any lingering ties to anti-government organizations.

"Doesn't that wig itch?" Dominic had to ask after they had passed over the London border without so much as a blink from the bored checkpoint guard. As Chief Inspector, he had carte blanche quarantine clearance; the time-consuming task had been getting a pass for a fake ID. Finch had been right about one thing, though: the amount of graft in the Nose was appalling, but it did have its uses.

"A bit," Evey admitted.

"Did you swipe that from his makeup case or something?"

"Something like that," she grinned. "He does have quite the extensive costume wardrobe."

Dominic remembered the Rookwood ploy, and lapsed into a moody silence.

Evey studied the small bits of information she had been able to gather about their destination. The Oscar Sutler Memorial Sanitarium had been named for the late Adam Sutler's father, a Church of England man of rigidly upright morals, and was located in Stratford. How ironic, Evey thought, that this hospital should be located so close to the home of V's favorite writer. Pity Norsefire killed the tourist trade, she grinned wryly to herself. Otherwise I could get him a souvenir.

The chief inspector was very quiet during the trip. He missed Inspector Finch complaining about his reckless driving; perhaps in compensation, his driving had become safer. Or maybe Evey was just too preoccupied to care.

"I think you should do it," she said out of the blue.

"Sorry?"

"I think you should accept the Chancellor's proposal."

"You... you actually want me to go rummaging around in your chum's past?"

"If you don't choose to lead up this project, Ducane will find someone else to do it, someone who I don't know and probably won't want poking around in V's life. You'll have access to this country's lost files. Who knows what you could find that would be of use to us?"

"Yeah, and who knows how many tiny pieces I'll get chopped into if Abelard finds out that I'm a double agent. I want to keep my skin, Evey. Your group's too tiny to offer me any kind of protection if I'm found out." Shit! When did I even say I was in her group to begin with? But he was in with the Voxers too deeply now to get out.

"No, I can't," she agreed calmly. "But it's not just chance that you were offered this job right after coming to a council meeting. This is meant to be, Dominic. You just have to trust me."

Dominic slammed his foot on the break.

"No!" he shouted. "You have to trust me. Goddammit, woman, do you have any idea how pissall scared I am of what I'm doing? I didn't want a revolution, I didn't want this job--and I sure as hell never wanted to be running around Stratford in winter with you! Gimme one good reason not to pitch you out of a moving car!"

"You think I wanted to be a revolutionary?" Evey shot back. "This is not what I thought I'd be doing with my life."

"Sorry? You maced me. And there wasn't even any Guy Fawkes there to twist your arm."

"I just didn't want you to shoot him."

"And now? You're just doing what he tells you to."

Evey bit back a snort. "Not really. Somewhere along the line, what he wants became what I want."

"There's a name for that, Evey. It's called Stockholm Syndrome."

Evey wrenched open the car door and tumbled out. Sputtering, Dominic turned off the ignition and got out as well. She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him over the bonnet of the car. "You want me to trust you, Inspector? All right, how about this: you tell me what you know about me, and I'll tell you what's right and what's not. Ask me anything--anything at all."

"Okay, fine." Punching at his palm pilot, Dominic pulled up the reports he and Finch had compiled on Evey Hammond. "Your parents were detained when you were 12. You spent five years in a juvenile reclamation project and then went to work at the BTN when you were 22. You spent the intervening years in little piss-ant shop clerk jobs. And at some point before the destruction of the Old Bailey, you became involved with the terrorist."

"Wrong," said Evey triumphantly. "I met V the night the Bailey blew up."

"Bollocks."

"Nope. He saved me from getting gang-banged by a group of Fingermen, then invited me to a 'musical performance.' I had no bloody idea what he was talking about or what I was getting myself into."

Dominic gaped at her. "So you had no clue he would be at the BTN tower the next day."

"Not a clue." Evey grinned. "I told you: I only maced you because you were going to shoot him. I owed him a favor."

"Shit," said Dominic ruefully, scratching his head. "What about the murders? Prothero, Lilliman, Delia Surridge. Your log ID was on Prothero's elevator."

"He stole my ID."

"Saved your life then pinched your ID?"

"I never said I agreed with everything he did."

"But you were at Lilliman's."

Evey felt a slight twinge of remorse. "I was. I didn't want to help V kill anybody; at that point I was still scared of my own shadow. I offered to help V so I could get out of... of where he was keeping me. I did try to warn the bishop, but he was more interested in getting his hands down my bloomers."

"Yeah, well... Can't say I was too sorry Lilliman copped it, after the shit we found in his bedroom. What about Dr. Surridge?"

"I wasn't with V when that happened. Actually, I read about her death in the papers. Another case of 'apparent heart failure.' The pattern was there, if you knew what to look for." Evey cocked her head and fixed Dominic with that look of intense consideration that gave him such a wobbly stomach. "Did you ever find out what the connection was between V and those three murders?"

"Yeah, a detention center called Larkhill, near Salisbury. Inspector Finch knew more, but he wouldn't tell me too much. Didn't want my head on the chopping block if Sutler decided to have him hauled off." A beat. "Do you know?"

"Yes," Evey replied. "Maybe I'll tell you about it some day." She climbed back into the car. "We should go."

The sanitarium was a sprawling old manor house of weather-beaten granite, saved from the general leveling of the grand estates only by the need for a monumental symbol of oppression. It looked like it had been lifted straight out of a gothic novel, crumbling and ominous.

The tone of voice V had used when speaking about the place made Evey quite certain he would love to blow it up.

The doctor in charge of the Oscar Sutler Memorial Sanitarium was a middle-aged man named Cameron King, tall and all angles, with exhaustion and professional annoyance almost concealing the far deeper weariness in his limpid blue eyes. "They've barely just gotten back!" Dr. King exploded when Dominic explained who he and 'Miss Campion' were here to see. "Winterley and Parker were in London all of three days--and that for a family funeral. What kind of trouble could they have possibly gotten into?"

Dominic smothered a sudden ironic grin. "You have no idea, doctor," he said seriously. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out the now ubiquitous silver scrambler. "May we see Mr. Parker?"

Dr. King's tired expression melted away, replaced by one of cunning, probably born of long years of practice. He gave Dominic a long, probing look, then Evey. Then he picked up his phone. "Parker to the main office," he stated blandly, and hung up the receiver. "May I ask what this is concerning? I don't like having my staff and patients harassed without cause."

"These are state prisoners, Dr. King. Legally, I don't need a warrant to question any of them."

The doctor visibly gritted his teeth. "I am aware of that, Chief Inspector. But I still have a right to know why you are in my facility."

"Miss Campion and I--"

"You mean Miss Hammond." Dominic froze. "I recognize her from the news reports."

Evey had to smile. "I'm impressed. Not many people know me anymore."

"I have experience with torture victims, ma'am."

Dominic turned. "Is that what happened to you?"

"Something very like, yes."

"Very well," broke in Dr. King brusquely. "You and Miss Hammond are here because... why? Obviously not on any official business. Evey Hammond is one of the leaders of the new revolution fomenting in the city; Dominic Stone is the new leader of the Nose; they are here together. Ergo...?"

"Oh, hello, Stone," said Parker cheerfully, coming into the office and shutting the door very quickly and quietly behind him. "I see you got my message."

"Er, yeah." Dominic looked from Parker to King, sure he was missing something. "I didn't except this good of a reception."

Evey had been studying Dr. King for some minutes. Then, "Who did you lose?" she asked softly.

The doctor's haughty demeanor drooped. "My mother," he replied, "in one of the camps. My father wouldn't be taken; he shot himself. And my sister... is a patient here."

"How did you come to be the administrator of a place like this?"

"I'm not allowed to leave the premises. What does that tell you?"

Evey nodded. "Dominic," she said, turning to him, "I'm going to leave this business to you. It was your idea, after all. Dr. King, I would like to speak with Mr. Winterley privately, if possible."

King gave his permission, and Parker directed her through the damp, cavernous building to the wing in which Winterley lived. "Give me a moment with him," the nurse asked. "Make sure he's up to talking." Evey waited while Parker prepared his cousin for his interview. The door opened to admit her. "He's fine today," Parker reported. "Some days he's tired, and most of the time he's in pain, but he's looking forward to talking to you. Just shut the door when you're finished, and come back to the office," he said by way of a last instruction, and left her alone with the invalid.

Evey shut the door quietly and sat in the chair the tenant indicated. Ashton Winterley, leaning heavily on a cane, lowered himself painfully into a seat opposite her. "My cousin Alan tells me you have some questions for me, Miss Hammond. He seemed to think they would be of a delicate and personal nature."

"Some are, but they can wait." Evey studied the former nobleman. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the small silvery jamming device V had loaned her, a mirror twin of the jammer Dominic carried about with him. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Winterley, what camp were you in? And for how long?"

If Winterley found the question obtrusive, his good breeding won out. "Sand Bay Detention Center, in Sussex. For five years. 2016 to 2021," he added helpfully.

"On what charge?"

"Violation of the Collier Act of 2015," responded Winterley promptly.

"Erroneous charges, of course..."

"Oh, no, the charges were real enough. I can't say the same for the act."

Evey knew all about the evils of the Collier Act from her days at the BTN. "Were you in television?"

"Oxford Undergraduate Dramatic Society. Students radicals and all that. Hardly threatening to the rising powers, but certainly annoying."

"So you got five years in a prison camp for being an annoyance."

"As you say. People got shot for less." Winterley motioned to his visitor. "And you are asking me all of this to ascertain... what?"

"I'm trying to figure out why a former state prisoner--who took the Oath of Allegiance to get out of prison--is now trying to get involved in an effort to overthrow the same government that's been supporting him for the past fifteen years."

She had expected him to be defensive, or perhaps to blithely deny her insinuations. Instead, Ashton Winterley's long face crumpled, and he suddenly seemed very, very old. "May I ask you a question, Miss Hammond?"

"All right."

"What camp were you in?"

Evey was quite taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"It's in your eyes. I saw it at the meeting."

"I wasn't in a camp. But..." she paused, wondering how to best explain her trials. "I was held for interrogation."

"Ah," Winterley nodded. "And did you give them what they wanted?"

"No."

"You see, that is the great difference between us," declared the crippled man sadly. "I did. Oh, I had no information to give, but that was never what they wanted. Me... they wanted to break me, as they wanted to break all the remnants of the aristocracy. They broke my body and they broke my spirit." He looked up then, looked at Evey with such a fire of self-loathing in his eyes that she felt her skin crawl. "And I let them.

"That's why I'm here. Because all of those wonderful qualities that the British nobility was supposed to stand for--chivalry, bravery, honor, integrity--I tossed them aside in exchange for a warm bed and a decent meal three times a day." He let out a small humorless chuckle, dry and cold. "Rule, Britannia."

"'Our integrity sells for so little,'" Evey whispered, remembering. "'But in the end, it is the only thing worth having.'"

Winterley stared at her. "Yes," he said hoarsely.

"And that is why you came to us. Not because of what they did, but because of what you did."

He nodded, once. "I would like a small chance of redemption before I die."

Evey felt an upswelling of pity for the old man. She still wasn't going to trust him implicitly, but there but for the grace of God when she and V both. "I hope we can help you do that," she offered sincerely. "I will say, I'll be grateful for whatever help I can get."

"You speak like a woman thrust into a task she never asked for."

"You have no idea."

"Hmm," Winterley made a considering noise in his throat. "But this was not what you came to talk to me about, I take it? As personal as your revolution may be--and as delicate a subject--not what Parker thought you'd be chattin' about."

"No." Evey took a deep breath. "I have... a friend. A very good friend. Not involved in the revolution, although I wish he was. He'd be a big help. But he's a camp survivor, like you."

"Ah. Herein lies the crux. You're looking for experienced advice."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"What's wrong with the chap?"

"That's the trouble. I'm not really sure."

"How did he get out?"

"He escaped, about fourteen years ago, I think. And he's been going and going for the past fourteen years, all on his own, with no one to help him, and he's done fine. When I met him last year, I thought he was crazy. Brilliant, but very scary."

Winterley chuckled. "'It is pleasant at times to play the madman.'"⁷

"Then he got shot by some Fingermen a few weeks ago, and while he was recuperating, I found a diary he'd written after he got out... and everything changed. He became... quiet. Reserved. Depressed, and so sad. And I don't know why, and I don't know how to help him."

"I see." Winterley tented his fingers in front of his lips. "That was not the most detailed story of camp survival I have ever heard. You're still protecting him."

"I have to."

"I know. And I appreciate the difficult situation you're in. I suspect the person you should be talking to is Alan, not me, since he nursed me through the worst of my depression after I got here. I was quite suicidal for about two years."

The word hit Evey like a gun to her temple. "Suicide?" she repeated.

"Your description does sound like depression, and if it's severe enough... Hadn't you considered it?"

"But... why?" She couldn't wrap her brain around the idea. "After living through all of that?"

"You say he was completely alone?" Evey nodded. "'To dare to live alone is the rarest courage; since there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet.' Charles Caleb Colton."

That was a bit unnerving. "Do you always quote this much?"

"Dreadfully sorry and all that. Bad habit. One picks it up, when one has nothing to do but read and read and memorize and read some more. But you say also that his behavior changed abruptly after you found this memoir?" Winterley tilted his sleek head. "It may be that he was only driven so long as he had no one to lean on. Given the opportunity to collapse, he did. And finally telling even one person about the horrors he had been through... for some of us, the telling is cathartic, cleansing. It lets us begin again--not to forget, but to live again. For others, the telling is an end, a last will and testament of sorts."

"This is my gift to you, Evey. My home, my books, the Gallery... this train, I'm leaving to you, to do with as you will."

His almost all-consuming inability to talk about anything pertaining to the revolution, his insistence that she be able to stand on her own... the poignant sadness in his voice when he spoke of Finch's death and how he could not let the man die alone...

Winterley saw the impact the realization of the probable truth had on this apparently frail young woman. "Has anything about him changed?" he asked gently. "His general habits--sleeping, eating, bathing... has he given up anything that had great meaning for him?"

Evey huffed. "He gave me everything he owned. Technically, he's living with me now."

"His hobbies, then. Has he stopped indulging in them?"

She thought, then shook her head. "He still watches his films and reads his books and plays his piano. But if a person's depressed enough to want to die, wouldn't more of his routine change than just his eating habits?"

"The symptoms change with each sufferer. How well did you know his original routine?"

"I lived with him for a year," said Evey without thinking. Than she blushed.

Winterley seemed not to notice. "Even so, he sounds a very mysterious and secretive chap. It may be that much about him has changed, you just don't quite realize it."

It was that last statement that stuck in Evey's head, all through the rest of her meeting with Winterley, even when Mr. Parker came and joined them, and when she finally withdrew to regroup with Dominic. Was there really something about V that had changed? Well, certainly, plenty about him had changed since being shot, but was the transformation couched in something so minor that it had escaped her notice?

He had stopped cooking, Evey realized with a start as she walked back from New Scotland Yard to her small flat for a change of clothing. The impact of the revelation stopped her cold on the sidewalk, not even caring about the Fingermen that might be closing in to harass her for breaking curfew.

Not only had he stopped eating, he had stopped cooking. It had been weeks since she had seen him eat, days since he had cooked for either of them.

And now that she thought of it, she hadn't any idea of whether he was caring for his flowers anymore.

His flowers... Dear God. If he had abandoned his flowers, what hope did she have of saving him?

V's view of his book was suddenly obscured by a blur of pink and cream. He blinked, staring at the lovely blossom that had seemingly fallen from heaven.

"I don't know all that much about gardening," came Evey's voice from the other side of the couch, "except for what you've taught me. I don't know much of anything, actually, except for what you've taught me. And here's the proof that that's not enough."

V cradled the flower in his palm. The very tips of the petals were turning brown. "Haven't you been watering them?"

"Watering, mulching--I've been bloody singing to them. They're still dying." Unseen behind V, Evey was standing, staring and soliloquizing furiously to the back of the couch. "Know what I think? I think they miss you."

"They're flowers, Evey."

"They're Valerie's flowers, V," she corrected sharply. "You grew them for her, so you could give the world what she wanted it to have."

"A great abundance of roses," whispered V softly, stroking the flower with black leather fingers.

"And you've given up on her."

V stiffened. "What?"

Evey smiled. Finally... "You're got your revolution; you've had your revenge. But she never wanted any of that. All Valerie ever wanted was for the world to have roses--and the only people you've given them to so far are the people you've killed.

"I can't keep those roses alive without you, V. I can't keep this fight going without you." She sighed. "I'm trying my damnedest to give you something to live for." She clenched her fists. "But by God, V, I'm not just going to stand back and let you die. Not yet, not while England needs you."

"And if that is what I want?"

Evey took a deep breath. "Well, we can't always get what we want."

A moment passed, in which V might have blinked in surprise. "You've been at my vinyl records."

"I had to do something while you were sick. Come on, I'll make supper."

"I'm not hungry."

Something inside Evey snapped. "Y'know, I am so sick of hearing you say that! I never thought a man who'd escaped from a concentration camp would choose to end his life by starvation." She reached over the back of the couch and grabbed the book from V's hand. "You've been alone with this book too much," she decided, holding The Count of Monte Cristo out of his reach. "Besides, Edmond Dantes didn't give up."

"Give it back, Evey."

"No. I have a revolution to help with," Evey snapped, "and I refuse to let you lie here and be bored and just wilt away." She stalked over to Valerie's shrine and ripped back the curtain. "Your roses still need you, even if you think your country doesn't."

V visibly struggled with his next words. "You're asking me to do something I no longer know how to do," he confessed. "It's too much."

"I'm asking you to be a man, not an idea. Is that really so much?"

"More than you realize."

"Why? Because it's better to be an idea? A symbol? Or because it's easier?" Something in V's body language changed, and Evey knew for certain that he was listening. "Ideas are wonderful, powerful things. They can change the world; I know that. But you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it, or hold it. Ideas do not bleed. They do not feel pain. They do not love. And it is not an idea that I miss." She squeezed V's hand. "It is a man."

She felt the minute trembles shooting through his body, but he said nothing, only turned and suddenly buried his face in the curve of her neck. And for the rest of the night, Evey held him.

"I need quarantine clearance," she said without preamble. She could hear Dominic fumbling for the line scrambler.

"Dammit, Evey--"

"This is important. I need to go back to The Tumbrels. I need to see Winterley again."

"It's only been two days; someone's going to notice. What can't wait until next weekend? And how in hell are you gonna get there?"

"I'll get there. This is serious, Dominic." She could hear the plea creeping into her voice. "I can't do this by myself. I need help."

There was silence on the other end, except for a small tapping that sounded like fingers on computer keys. "It'll take at least a day," he said finally.

"Then I'll be at the Yard tomorrow," said Evey promptly, and hung up. She dug her fingertips into her temples, feeling the pounding of blood beneath the thin skin. "I'm not giving him up without a fight. I can't let him die."

She did find a way to Stratford, in the cab of a supply lorry with a load of food for the hospital. The driver wasn't part of the Vox movement, as far as Evey knew, but he didn't make her skin crawl, and so long as she had her quarantine clearance, he was willing to accept her money, and Evey was equally willing to accept his offer to take what she liked from the back.

When she got to the sanitarium, Dr. King raised an eyebrow at her unannounced appearance but gave her permission to enter the grounds. He even escorted her personally to Ashton Winterley's room.

"Every human being needs a purpose," said Winterley quietly, when he had listened to Evey's report, "even if the importance is to no one but himself."

"He had a purpose," Evey replied, not without bitterness. "And a rather important one. But he gave up on it."

"Why?"

"He passed it on to me." The eyes of the two fugitives met, and Evey realized with a shock that Winterley understood rather more plainly than she had intended.

"If he's passed it on to you, he won't take it back. He must find something new for him to do with his life."

"But why? I'm not ready for this! Why can't he take it back?"

Winterley's fingers curled and uncurled absently around the handles of his walker. "For some of us," he said at last, "the world has never again resolved into those shades of grey we were all once so comfortable with. The trauma of acute imprisonment and torture, the agony of every day summoning enough force of will to keep living--it paints the world in stark angles of black and white. Your friend sounds to me like one of those people. When it comes to those points of morals or ethics that make other people squirm and want to pass the decision on to some other blighter, your friend does not waver. He must be right or he must be wrong; he cannot be some of each."

"So... what? He won't take the fight back because... that might mean he was wrong?"

"He gave it to you because he no longer believes that he's qualified to lead it."

"And he thinks I am?" Evey snorted.

Winterley ignored her. "If you convince him that he was wrong--not only about his own capabilities but about yours--he will become nervous, less confident, forever second-guessing himself." He paused, choosing his next words delicately. "If I understand you correctly... such a change in his perception would be fatal."

"So I should... just let him alone?"

"No!" said Winterley fiercely, grey eyes stern. "Push him, pull him, make him angry or miserable--but force him to find something to live for. I have seen more men and women in in this place die pitiful, lingering deaths than I did in the camps, because most of the people who made it to the sanitarium had given up the last shreds of dignity and principle they had." He smiled bitterly. "It is nearly impossible to die with dignity, but those people no longer had the strength to even live with it."

Evey started to say something... and then stopped.

Winterley studied her face. "If he hasn't already, suggest your friend read Dylan Thomas. Force him, if necessary. No," he corrected himself. "'Force' is not a good word. You can't force a person to live, or to want to live. 'Convince,' perhaps. Or 'persuade.' 'Coerce,' now that's a good word..."

"I didn't want to do any crossword puzzles..."

"Words offer the means to meaning," Winterley pointed out, "and to those who will listen, the annunciation of truth." Evey wondered if he knew he was quoting someone, or if he realized just who he was quoting. "Whichever term you prefer, you will become the villain for a time, and you will be a powerless one. If your friend chooses to give up... do you have the strength to allow him that choice?"

"I..." She narrowed her eyes, staring at the former nobleman and not seeing him. "I love him."

"I understood that to be the case already," replied Winterley with a slight smile. "But that wasn't what I asked."

"I don't know."

"If you don't have the spine to grant him that final decision, then I'm afraid you're not doing him any good."

"So I should stand back and let him die. I should give up."

"You should never give up. But understand that he might, and if he does, you'll have to let him."

Evey stood. "I won't believe that." She offered her hand. "Thank you, my lord."

"Ashton, please." He smiled, his grey eyes twinkling. "And may I say, Miss Hammond, that I look forward to working with you again in the future."

Winterley watched her leave, admiring the determined set of her spine. "'So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.'"⁸ He shook his head. "He may live, he may die. Either way, my girl, it will be because of you."

Again she descended into the abandoned tube tunnels and heard the rich, indescribably sad music emanating, not from V's jukebox, but from V's very hands. Evey softly closed the heavy oaken door and stood in the corridor. Again the image of the rose garden hung wistfully at the edges of her vision. A great abundance of roses. But the petals were withering, falling silently to the still surface of the waters, the almost-perceptible scent of their perfume, sour and powdery, as Evey listened to the music.

The song of a dying man.

Evey felt her nails curling into the dark wood, felt the splinters digging into her skin. She felt rage, and joy, and crippling fear on behalf of another.

If he was willing himself to die, there was nothing that could be done... or so she had been told.

As though her face was set in stone, Evey walked forward, hands welling blood. She came up behind V and wrapped her arms around him.

The music stopped abruptly.

"Evey?"

I don't want you to die.

"What happened to your hands?" asked V abruptly. Evey released him and backed away.

"Dammit, V..." She had no idea what to say to him: she never did. He stood smoothly up from the piano bench.

"You hurt yourself," he accused. "Why?"

"Better me than you," she retorted.

"'You purchase pain with all that joy can give, and die of nothing but a rage to live.'"⁹

"At least I've got rage. What have you got? Nothing but self-pity."

A puff of sound behind the mask and the droop of V's shoulders galled at her. "'We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.'"¹⁰

"Bollocks! Bollocks your quotations and bollocks that shit! You do not just walk away from your own revolution," Evey snapped, resisting the urge to take him by his elegant shoulders and give him a rattling good shake.

"It's your fight now."

"Yeah, it's my fight. So will you abandon me just as easily someday?" He refused to answer. "Why isn't it your fight anymore? Just 'cause you're not running the show anymore doesn't mean we can't use you!"

"A live martyr is of no use to anyone."

Evey snorted derisively. "Saints and martyrs rule from the tomb, V. And frankly, I don't care what you think: you're of no use to anyone if you're dead. Stay behind the scenes if you like. No contacts, no witnesses. Isn't that how you operate best?"

"Oh, definitely. But that 'no witnesses' bit is a messy business."

"It's all messy. And the sooner you stop hiding from me or from yourself or whatever, the sooner we can clean it up."

V looked down at his folded hands. "There is no difference between vengeance and justice to those on the receiving end," he pointed out, rather sadly. "And it is easier to commit murder than to justify it.¹¹ I don't know what I'm capable of anymore. Better not to find out."

Evey just stared at him, shaking in anger. "Is there nothing worth while left for you in life?"

"I accomplished what I set out to do."

"So that's it? There's no more challenges for you? Nothing more to do? To learn? To teach?"

"Like Alexander grieving that there are no new lands to conquer... One can only read so many books and listen to so many songs before they all begin to look and sound alike. And whom would I teach?"

"Me, for one."

"I've given you everything you need."

"Almost. There's one very important thing you're holding back."

V stared at her. Finally, "I didn't die because you didn't want me to. You need to tell me why I'm still here, Evey. You must give me a reason to keep fighting."

"What about your roses? Valerie's roses, V. They'll die without you. And what about me? I'm not a reason?"

"Not a good enough one." Evey stepped back, stunned. She had already known she wasn't enough to keep him alive, but to hear it from his own lips still had an indescribable sting. "It's all right," he tried to soothe her. "You'll survive whether I live or die. You want me to live, but you won't need me, not forever. And the roses... well, perhaps it would be best if they died with me."

Why couldn't she understand? He didn't want to just live--to just exist. He wanted meaning, purpose. And the fight he had brought to life didn't have that anymore. He took her by the shoulders, willing her comprehension. "For the second time in my life, I find myself with nothing left but my life... and my integrity. Leave me the one, Evey, and allow me to dispose of the other as I see fit."

Evey's fists were balled so tightly, her knuckles had turned white. "No." V's hands jerked away from her shoulders as though she burned him. "I let you go once, V. You can't ask me to do it again."

"Not even for my sake?"

"Nor for you, not for anyone. Not when I need you so goddamn much. You said you loved me--"

V turned away. "Evey, please don't."

"I don't want you to die. I need you to live. And I will fight you tooth and nail--I will personally fight all your demons for you if that's what it takes--to keep you here with me."

Detachedly, V admired her determination, and in a strange way, loved her better for it. "I won't be your prisoner, Evey," he warned her softly, sadly.

"Is that how you see this life now? As a prison? You think death is the only release you can have?"

"You are the only thing keeping me here. I have given you everything, Evey. I have relinquished everything I have--everything I am--"

"To do with as I will," Evey reminded him, bile rising in her gullet with every word and hating him for making her treat him this way. "If you're in a prison--if you're in my power--it's only because you put yourself there."

To that, V had no reply.

End Chapter One

1 Robert Browning
2 Alan Moore
3 Friedrich Nietzsche, Expeditions of an Untimely Man
4 Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
5 Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince
6 Solomon Short
7 Seneca
8 John Milton
9 Alexander Pope
10 Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
11 Aemilius Papinianus

Next: Chapter Two--Vaniloquence