Visagist

By Sarah Fish

"I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart."

- William Butler Yeats

It was a disastrous first meeting.

At least, it could have been disastrous, had either party been of differing temperament. As it happened, however, he was quite forgiving of the skinny girl who, in a rush to deliver the morning coffee to her higher-ups, rounded the corner too quickly, and crashed into him sending his papers and her coffees into the air, and the both of them to the floor. In the midst of her scurry to pick up his stained and dampened reports – punctuated liberally by her apologies – he had started to laugh, struck by the absurdity of the situation. She, at first shocked – perhaps frightened – caught his laughter as well, and the two sat pell-mell in the hallway for a long minute, coffee-drenched, (his silk suit in all likelihood ruined), holding soaked papers, and laughing. Amidst the laughter, he introduced himself. She smiled, shook his hand, told him her name was Evey. Evey Hammond. It was Friday morning, the blessed end of a week from hell. Things were looking up.

He'd seen her around before. Noticed her, in the way that men (older men to her, he reminded himself) who had loved, lost, and resigned themselves to bachelorhood noticed pretty young girls. Smaller than average. Thin – a bit too thin. Dyed gold hair. Lovely, really. A welcome breath of fresh air in the harsh fluorescent glow and political under workings of the BTN.

After the Great Coffee Incident, as he came to think of it, they became friends, of a sort. Though, of course, the tremendous difference in their positions prevented too much in-office compatriotism. Evey, the PA, the glorified gofer. He, the highly paid chief writer for Deitrich's relic of brighter days. Hers was a job. His a game. He adored writing, and since an illness five years past had all but ruined his voice, he had honed his art to a razor sharp edge. How much could he push the envelope, how far could he stretch the issue, how much of a statement could he make before the censors stepped in? Not much, that was for damn certain.

They'd gone for drinks after work on several occasions. Always as friends, never anything more, though he suspected that some believed otherwise. In talking, they found common bonds. His brother, taken to the camps never to be seen again. Her parents, likewise wiped away by the black bags. Her brother, killed by St. Mary's.

Evey started bringing him coffee during her morning rounds. One particular morning, Evey hung around longer than usual. She seemed distant, distracted, her mind somewhere else entirely. He didn't blame her. The supposed demolition of the old Bailey was fresh on everyone's minds. Especially his. Especially considering…well…he would have known that handiwork anywhere. Impossible, yes, but somehow, he knew.

For some reason, she chose that morning to ask about the photos on his desk. One of he and his brother some twenty years ago. One of Lila. And one of the three of them, taken in the old flat he'd shared with his brother.

"I give up. You're too alike. Which one are you?" she asked, glancing between he and his brother. He pointed.

"That one. You can tell by the eyes. My brother always looked like he was plotting something," he replied, voice rough, raspy, almost painful for the listener. Evey laughed. Now that he'd pointed it out, she could see it. In both photos.

"And who is that?" she asked, indicating the photos of Lila. He sighed. He hadn't told her about Lila.

"Her name was Lila. We were engaged. My brother met her at some underground club – it was a big thing for the young activists to do at the time – agreed to meet her for lunch the next day, then came home and made me go instead. She picked up on it immediately, of course. Laughed. Asked if I'd like to go out again," he trailed off. The next part still hurt to tell. "It was a fast engagement. But then…well, Lila was political," he said, as though it explained everything. "She wound up in a protest that turned riot. The government officials opened fire, and she was killed."

Evey put a hand to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she managed. "She was beautiful."

He did not get a chance to reply before a static-y voice came over the intercom clipped to her belt alerting her that a flatbed of packages was awaiting delivery to wardrobe. He had papers to drop off.

It was less than half an hour later when things went to hell. He was headed to the newsroom, newborn scripts in hand to give to Dascomb to be butchered and castrated. A man in cloak and hat came out of a side hallway, cutting in front of him. A knife at his throat before he could think. The mask betrayed nothing – no though, no glimmer of emotion. The blade was gone. He'd suspected. But now he knew for certain.

"Twenty years and your eyes still betray you," the masked man said, and then…was gone.

He'd managed to get out of the building through a back fire escape before things went completely insane. Almost he went to find little Evey first. But decided against it. No time. No time. How he hoped that sweet child had safely escaped.

The next day he learned the truth. The next day he heard the lies reported. Her reputation ruined. The sweet little girl who had been so apologetic about spilled coffee and a few damp scripts now a wanted criminal. He watched it ensured that she could never re-enter society. He mourned the loss of his friend. But even more, he prayed. Prayed that the hands caring for her were safe.

Months passed. Little news. Or little legitimate news. Then…a change. He noticed it, perhaps, because he looked for it. Or perhaps it was simply because he spent more time working closely with Gordon Deitrich than anyone else. Suddenly, he noticed the man's step seemed lighter, his smiles more frequent. His parts of the script more daring. And then came the ultimate affront to the higher-ups – the morning Deitrich called him into his office to aid in a secret project. A new un-censored script. It was a dream come true.

The aftermath, of course, was disastrous. Even more so than he expected. Deitrich, blackbagged, executed, his character defamed and ruined. His last remaining close friend, claimed by tyranny. Gordon had refused to let him put his name to the script, so he got off clean. As always. It was growing tiresome. He was so very tired of it all.

Nearly a year had passed since the takeover at the BTN Tower. He went to buy food one evening. Not much – bread, eggs, fruit – he was wealthy enough to afford fresh fruit – water. He picked the shortest checkout line. As he waited, he casually noted the girl in front of him. She was thin, thin. Nearly emaciated. Faint color of hair just re-appearing on her head. The poor child, he thought. Cancer at such a young age?

The cashier told her the amount twice before she managed to pull her money from her bag with trembling hands. Pity flooded his heart. Just a baby – so young to be so sick.

The coins slipped from her hands. Without thinking, he stooped to pick them up. She met him halfway, eyes locking as they stood back up.

He knew her.

Dear God. Evey. What in God's name had happened to her? This was no sickly child. No chemo patient. What her body lacked in apparent strength, her eyes compensated for. Old. Piercing. Determined. God in heaven above. He'd prayed for her safety. Was this how he was to be answered?

"Here you go, miss," he heard himself say, dropping the money into her hands. "You should be more careful."

She nodded, but did not reply. But she seemed….relieved? At what? That he did not seem to know her? Good, he decided. He had been practicing. For once, his eyes had not betrayed him.

There was a package waiting when he got home. A hat. And a wig. And a cloak. And a mask. Coincidence? No, he decided. No such thing.

He tried on the mask in front of the mirror. Unnerving. It was unnerving. But not as much as his expressionless eyes when he pulled the mask off. He didn't need it. His was permanent.

"At first, I was afraid," Evey said. "But then, one evening I was out buying food. And a friend…someone I used to work with at the BTN got in line behind me. I was so nervous that I dropped my money. But he picked it up, and handed it to me," she paused, to look at V. "He looked straight at me, and did not recognize me." She did not, however, add that some small part of her had desperately wished he had.

"It was strange," she continued. "After that, I began seeing your face everywhere."

Disclaimer: V for Vendetta is the property of its respective creators (Alan Moore and David Lloyd). I do not own them, nor am I making any money from the use of these characters.

Author's Note: This story continues in the same movie-ending inspired thought process that led to Bonfire Night, and does, in fact, feature the same narrator/lead character. If you've already read the other story, you'll have perhaps understood the nameless narrator a bit better. If not…consider the bond between brothers. And the bond between twins, which is perhaps the most sacred of all. A visagist is one who is an expert in facial disguises, i.e. masks and makeup.