Discalimer: Don't own V for Vendetta, won't own V for Vendetta. Don't get cranky.
Evey Hammond sighed and slung off her black cloak. She was getting too old for this. At 56, her joints were stiff from the damp cold of the Shadow Gallery and her reaction time was slower than it was. She had never been as fast as V to begin with, but now, she was becoming a risk to the legend of V. After all, ideas are immortal. They don't have arthritis, they can't throw out their backs and they don't wake up in the morning stiff in the neck and too sore to move. Being V was a job for someone younger, someone with the same lightening reflexes that she, at least, had once had, preferably better. Evey sighed again and glared at a wisp of graying hair that had escaped her black wig. Now, which one would it be?
Walking into the piano room, and running her fingers over the keys, she pondered her three children.
"Varick?" She muttered, wondering on her eldest son before shaking her head. The lad was young, but a 28, he had a family and a good job. He was a good man, but he was too logical, there wasn't a whimsical bone in that boy's body. And V was as much about drama and fantasy as he was about justice and ideas.
She sighed again. "Verena?" She shook her head even sooner at the mention of her first. Her only daughter was not the choice. The girl was brighter than a summers day. She was not a thing to be hidden behind a mask and kept in the windowless labyrinth that was the Shadow Gallery. Besides, the girl had no training whatsoever in self-defense and was as likely as not to be as clumsy as a drunken rhino. She sighed one last time and turned to look at the photograph perched upon the piano.
"That, Varten, leaves you." She whispered to the young boys still face. The picture simply smiled its handsome half-smile and was silent.
sighs Sorry it's short. Usually, my chapters are longer, but this one didn't want to be lengthy. It wanted to intro-ish, you know what I mean? Anyway, TBC?