I shall tell you a story now, with varying degrees of verisimilitude, to vindicate a victim (part-time villain), one viewed between vermin and valor; a virago, so to speak. My crimes—or those to be—are voluminous, but I seek very little but virtue and to be veracious in my every venture. Verily, it is up to you, dear reader, to stray from variants, for we know the truth is prone to vicissitude.
Ah! But fear not; I shall no longer vex you with Vs, for you see, even my vocabulary does not give room for that; I hope to keep you vitalised, vibrant, and not to talk in riddles much longer.
My name is V. I need not ask you to listen well, for it is a name that you will hear many times in the future, from both the mouths of liars and artists alike. Make of it what you will—a sound, a title or number—but it is what it is, as I am what it has made me; one short, sharp syllable, one that I hope will stick fast in the minds of the masses, but at the same time one with no layers. I shall have no clever anagrams, no! Nor shall there be a deep meaning behind it.
My real name—no, that of my birth—was perhaps more personal. No matter; fantasied simple eloquence and possible exotic origins aside, I shall let you know a secret now. I am not a man, and have not been since my flesh was burnt away (flesh already dead, in my mind) and my memories cast asunder. And you, gentle reader, are the first to know of my truth; I am simply an ideal, and I shall fade away into the nothing, that even the fires could not drag me under, once enough people believe. Believe and break out of their own brutal oppression.
I have a mask, and I am sure it will become something of a symbol in days to come. Hard and smooth, made of good quality ceramics: modeled after a certain Mr. Fawkes, though I am convinced that he needs no formal introduction from the likes of me. I wear it as part of me, yes, often when there is no one to see, no one to hide from, but—now this you must take particular note of!—this is not my face.
It is your face, and the face of all you know; and yet we are not one mindless being as the government so greatly wishes to convince us all. There will be murder and there will be lies, and I will torture the innocent until their madness makes them fearless; and under a black sky and white ceramics we shall be equal
Sadly, it seems I have told you no more of a story than I have the ramblings of a man gone half-mad (or half-sane? Who can say?). I must apologise, faithful reader, and ask of you one last thing: please, enjoy the fireworks.