Author's Really Long (But Really Important!) Note: I watched the movie on opening night, fell in love with the characters and bought (and read) the film novelization the next day. Which I prefer, I really can't say. I think the Wachowski brothers did a great job of channeling the message of Alan Moore's work, and I think by the end you feel the same way about all the characters featured in the film as you do reading the book. The portrayal of the characters throughout the film, on the other hand, I think is a different story; not that that's a bad thing.Anyone who has read a book and watched the film knows what I mean when I say there are certain aspects of a character that you simply cannot as deeply explore in a movie as you can in a book or comic book. I for one really like the V and Evey in the movie, though I admit there's no doubt I wouldn't have been nearly as enthralled by the comic if that were the extent those two characters in particular were drawn out.
That said, in this fic I am going to be drawing from both interpretations of the story. If you've only watched the movie and haven't had a chance to read the book yet, which you really should because it is just that great (but who's forcing you ;) ), I'll only say keep in mind comic book Evey is a bit younger than film Evey. Also: for the first two chapters I am going to use dialogue from the comic, but afterwards it will be predominantly original. Happy reading!
Disclaimer: The characters of this piece do not belong to me. They belong to Alan Moore, David Lloyd, the Wachowski brothers, Warner Brothers, Vertigo comics, DC Comics. I am making absolutely no profit from the distribution of this work.
One Night in Westminster
By MysticAlly
It was chilly outside in the November night, but the people of London for the most part were spared the discomfort of venturing out in the cold; anticipating the evening chill, they'd run their errands and delivered their forms in daylight hours and now when evening descended sat warmly inside their homes, blithely bereaved of further engagements. Reclining on sofas or seated at tables, listening with stomachs fed or while still grappling with dinner meal, the people of London for the most part could be observed recognizing to some degree or other the daily evening broadcast, nodding with familiarity at the odd emphasized word and duly taking notice the clenched fist or angry brow. Where citizens slept Lewis Prothero's sketchy edifice glowed onto the bedroom walls, washing dark rooms in a shifty blue glow that could be seen through the windows from the city streets just out. A white van with a satellite receiver perched on its top drove slowly through the night and sped up minutely when it passed these sleeping houses, the apparatus' node lights forever blinking fervently at the vehicle's helm. It was an operative extension of the Ear, and it duly confined its ventures to the residential areas of the city. Where the homes seeded out and the industrial and bureaucratic aspects stood rooted, shapes beyond those of authority moved. They were concentrated in the heart of central London amongst the public squares and ancient monuments grown mossy from age.
One in particular belonged to a young woman. Her boots clicked after her as she crossed a moonlit open square to Westminster bridge where a man in a long brown coat was leaning against a brick wall in the laywork and taking a smoke. He obliged her an acknowledging glance when she addressed him.
Long blond hair framed the girl's face. She clutched at her purse and jacket as she spoke.
"Uh…would…would you like to…uh…," she hesitated. "Um…sleep with me or anything? I mean," she added, "for money?"
The man looked at her coal-rimmed eyes and garish makeup inquisitively, reaching to pick the pipe out of his mouth.
"That's the clumsiest piece of propositioning I've ever heard."
"You've not been doing this very long, have you?"
Exhaling, the girl slouched down towards the sidewalk in resignation, turning away from the man she had sought to please.
"Oh god, I must be really terrible," she admitted frankly. "Yeah, you're right. It's my first night. You're my first, first…"
"...customer?" the man offered.
Evey nodded at the proffered term, eyes still studying the littered sidewalk.
"Customer. Yeah."
The reminder that this was supposed to be a pecuniary transaction brought Evey back to focus and she raised her chin to face the comfortably dressed gentleman.
"I... I've got a job in munitions," she said. "But the money, is, you know, it isn't enough… Look mister, I really need that money. I'd be OK. I mean, I'm sixteen. I know what I'm doing..."
She studied his face for some sign of acquiescence. Her eyes followed as he straightened himself and reached into his coat front for his wallet.
"No, you don't know what you're doing."
The hand withdrew a leather flap open to a gleaming badge.
"Because if you did you wouldn't have picked a vice detail on stake-out."
"Oh Christ," Evey breathed. "You're a Fingerman."
"That's right. And these are my colleagues."
Big hands grabbed her by the upper arms and pushed her against the wall. His arms bolted around either side of her and a band of men suddenly appeared around them. It smelled heavy of cologne and cigarettes everywhere.
"You know the laws on prostitution. That's a class-H offense." The man in the brown coat taunted, "That means we get to decide what happens to you. That's our prerogative."
"Oh no," said Evey, distraught. "Look, please, mister… it was my first time. I'll do anything you want. Please don't kill me."
Somewhere above them a dark shape moved with practiced stealth.
"You've got it wrong, miss."
Another pair of hands reached to restrain her.
"You'll do anything we want and then we'll kill you. That's our prerogative."
Evey let issue a string of unintelligible pleas, weeping.
"The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him..." a deep voice interrupted.
Turning immediately to the source of the intrusion the motley party was met by a tall black-garbed figure standing several feet away. For a face he had a white theatrical mask with a ceaseless painted smile and immaculate black sockets for eyes. He faced, unmoved, the flabbergasted patrol unit, his cape hanging centimeters from the ground.
"Who the hell…"
"And Fortune on his damned quarrel," the intruder continued unfalteringly. "…showed like a rebel's whore."
Someone snorted in derision.
"Who's he?" muttered an agent with a bald head that reflected the street lamp light.
"I dunno. Must be some kinda retard got out of a hospital," an agent wearing large, ocular glasses responded. "Hey you!"
The bespectacled agent strode angrily to the intruder and grabbed his gloved wrist in a vice. The masked man posed no struggle and only calmly regarded the agent with his painted smile.
"But all's too weak; for brave Macbeth… well he deserves that name…""What are you doing?" The Fingerman seethed into the mask.
"You're in trouble, chum," another started. "Big trouble," the agent holding the mantled intruder in his grip affirmed with an angry furrowing of his brow. "This woman is a criminal. We're police officers. She's wanted for interrogation. So keep your..."
With a sudden burst of movement the intruder charged the agent's four comrades. The bespectacled Fingerman stared gobsmacked at the false hand in his grasp.
"Disdaining Fortune," the masked man soliloquized, casting wide his arms brandished with two silver daggers, "with his brandished steel." Two agents lunged at him and he assailed a knife across the throat of the agent grasping tremulously at a pistol and rounded to thrust an ebony hilt to the abdomen of another.
"Which smoked with bloody execution."
Evey blinked in surprise as the man came to approach her. The two remaining agents had groveled to their felled comrades in dumb horror and the masked crusader now considered the object of his efforts, seeming to scrutinize the wide-eyed incredulous expression of the girl staring up at him.
"Like valour's minion, carved out his passage," he professed to her. "Till he faced the slave."
He wrapped a strong arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Evey watched awe-struck a gaseous substance issue from his extended sleeve and envelope the pair in a swirling white smoke.
"With ne'er shook hands," he recited solemnly, with only the girl Desdemona and the billowing clouds that concealed them to hear of the captive Macdonwald's unfaltering resistance to the merciless Macbeth. "…nor bade farewell to him."
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