A/N: *Movieverse* After seeing V for Vendetta, I found myself utterly annoyed by the character of Evey. I started to wonder what the story could have been like if the woman V had met in that alley had been a little stronger and a lot more determined. This story is the product of that.
A/N 2: Chapter 2 has been edited & reuploaded.
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.
Chapter Two
Keeping carefully to the shadows, Dara made her way down the eerily empty streets of London. Once upon a time, these very streets would have been teeming with life, even at so late an hour. But once upon a time, London had been a very different place, governed by very different rules.
It had been twenty years since Norsefire had taken control of the country. Twenty years since what was had been razed to the ground in favor of what now stood—and over those years, she'd learned a great deal more about human nature than she'd ever wanted or needed to.
She'd been front and center for the show, growing up just as one of the world's greatest civilizations crumbled to the ground, and a monstrosity of hate and greed rose up in its stead. She'd lost neighbors, friends and—most devastatingly—her family to the Fingermen.
Seventeen years had passed since the night her parents had been black bagged and dragged away, and it was their loss that had spurred Dara to follow in their footsteps. They had been marked for death by their participation in the resistance movement—a legacy that Dara had embraced wholeheartedly. Informally adopted by the leaders of the group her parents had died for, Dara had spent the majority of her childhood training to become the fighter that she was.
Norsefire had killed her parents, and she was determined that no one else would suffer that fate—not if it was within her power to save them. Thus the reason she went out nearly every night, stalking the shadows of London-wandering, as the group had come to call it. She helped where she could, she fought when she had to, and she made as much of a difference as she possibly could, in any little way that she could. It wasn't much, in the grand scheme of things...but it was all she had.
The shuffle of a footstep snapped her instantly from her thoughts and she stopped short when a man turned the corner from the main road in front of her, illuminated only marginally by the streetlamp behind him.
"And what've we got here?"
Her hand crossed her body, fingers crawling beneath her coat to wrap reflexively around the hilt the sword still hidden beneath the length leather. Experience had long ago taught her to be prepared for the strike no matter how innocent a man appeared. Not all government agents wore their allegiance for the world to see.
However, this particular situation was an easy read. For, as Will had so kindly pointed out, there was a Yellow Coded Curfew in effect—at home by ten, or else—and it was well past ten now.
Thus, the man before her was either a fool or a Fingerman, and the arrogance in his voice and the swagger in his step made it an easy call. Muscles tensing in preparation, Dara turned to follow him with sharp eyes as he began to circle her.
Apparently unsatisfied with her silence, the man narrowed his gaze at her. "You deaf, girlie? I'm talking to you!"
Cocking a brow at him, Dara watched even the tiniest flick of his fingers, gauging…measuring. "Were you? I'm sorry…I was paralyzed with not caring very much."
"Ooh, you're a cheeky one, you are. Not too bright though, luv…not too bright at all. There's a curfew tonight, y'know."
Squaring her shoulders, Dara faced him fully, her weight carefully balanced on the balls of her feet, ready. "Come to think of it, I had heard something like that, yeah," she said smoothly, voice betraying nothing. "But, again, there was that whole thing about not caring very much."
The man gave a throaty chuckle. "Better and better," he murmured. "What you doing out so late, girlie?"
"Just taking a bit of a walk," Dara said with a shrug. "Needed some fresh air."
"Taking a bit of a walk?" The man chuckled again, halting the slow circle he'd been carving around her. "What you think on that, Willy?"
"Load of bollocks is what I think," a second voice, this one lower and rougher, sounded from just behind her. "Total load of bollocks."
Dara instinctively turned, angling her body to allow her a clear view of both men. She held her position, quickly rethinking the plan of attack she'd been forming in her head. Fighting two was very different than fighting one—though she was still confident that she could dispatch them quickly and efficiently.
"Yeah," the first man agreed, giving Dara a lecherous grin. "What you think, luv? Think maybe you might see to us before you get back to your walk? My friend here, see…he's kinda sick…"
"Real sick—bad case of the blues," the second interrupted, leering suggestively before darting forward to grab Dara's hand, shoving it roughly against his groin. "Feel?"
Jerking her hand away, Dara retreated a few steps. She instinctively dropped backwards into a fighting stance even as she fought very hard to contain her anger. "Touch me again and I'll break every fucking bone in your hand, mate."
"Well looky there, Willy…kitty's got claws."
The second man—Willy—shook his head. "I do believe she just threatened us, Tom."
"That she did, that she did," the first—Tom—affirmed. "You know what that means, dontcha? It means we get to exercise our own judicial discretion." He pulled out a small, black wallet, flipping it open to reveal a Finger badge.
"And you get to swallow it," Willy added, brandishing his own badge.
Dara rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her utter disdain. "Sorry to disappoint," she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, "but I already knew you were Fingermen. And quite frankly, that means absolute fuck-all to me. So go on...touch me again. I dare you."
Both men laughed then, and laughed hard.
"Did you hear that?" Willy took a step toward her. "Not scared at all this one."
"No," Tom agreed, also stepping toward her. "We'll just have to see what we can do about that. I promise you this, girlie...if you're not the sorriest piece of ass in all of London by sun up…" he pulled out a knife, flicking it open with practiced ease, "…you'll certainly be the sorest."
Well. That really was that, then.
"See, I really think you've got that one backward." One hand shot out, knocking the knife aside, followed almost immediately by a kick that sent Tom flying backwards to land dazed, but otherwise unhurt, on the pavement. Spinning toward Willy, she dropped again to a fighting crouch, a smirk on her face. "Of course, that's assuming you actually live to see the morning. If I were you, I'd make a run for it."
"Tough words, kitty cat." Willy glanced back at his friend, then pulled out his own knife, taking a large step toward her, cocky enough to ignore the subtle warnings of body language that any schooled fighter would have immediately recognized. "Well come on then, luv—give it me good."
"Okay," Dara sighed, "but I did warn you." A booted foot lashed out, connecting squarely with Willy's waggling jaw, his head snapping to the side and sending him sprawling backwards into the wall behind him. A second kick landed in the center of his face, the delicate bone and cartiledge there shattering and he slumped to the ground, dead before he hit the pavement. Turning to her initial antagonist, she bared her teeth in a feral smile. "And you, Tom? You wanna be given it good too?"
"Fucking hell," the now suitably impressed Fingerman breathed, hands dropping to his waist to retrieve the pistol tucked there. "Joe! A little help…"
Dara discovered all too quickly who Joe was when a bat slammed hard into her ribs. She dropped to her knees on the pavement with a grunt of pain, arms wrapped protectively around her middle.
Should've been paying closer attention. The words rang through her head, angry and frustrated. To be caught off guard in general was bad enough…but to be caught off guard by one of these inexpert street thugs was simply inexcusable.
She barely had time to curse her own stupidity before the next blow came, the end of the bat ramming hard into her abdomen and knocking all the wind from her lungs. She fell backwards against the brick wall of the building behind her, gasping to regain the air that she'd been robbed of. She vaguely heard orders being barked, and then the bat settled lengthwise at her throat, cutting off what little air she'd been able to suck in.
"The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him…"
"What the fuck?" Her first attacker spun around. "Sod off, mate…official Finger business…"
"…disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel, which smoked with bloody execution..."
The voice flitted across her consciousness, but she was too busy fighting for breath to pay it much mind. The same however, could not be said for her remaining assailant. He turned away at the sound, the bat dropping away from her. Dara collapsed backwards, bracing herself against the wall as blessed air streamed back into her burning lungs.
Her eyes settled on the one called Joe, the one with the bat still clasped tightly in his hand. Rage colored her world in shades of crimson, giving her the strength to regain to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom thrown backwards like a rag doll…but she paid it no mind, all of her attention focused on the man directly in front of her.
She drew her sword, the humming vibration of the cold steel singing through the night as it left the scabbard. "Oi! Joe!"
The man in question spun round, eyes wide and terrified. The hands that clutched the bat were shaking almost uncontrollably.
Dara had rarely seen anything that gave her more pleasure.
A deeply satisfied smirk accompanied the practiced twirl of the blade that sent his weapon flying across the alley. She lunged again immediately, this movement a quick, fluid forward thrust that hit its target with unerring accuracy. Meeting Joe's eyes with her own blazing ones, Dara leaned in close to him, her lips brushing his ear. "Just deserts, Joe," she growled. "Just deserts."
Lifting one booted foot to rest against his thigh, she shoved him backwards, extracting her sword from his chest. He was dead by the time his body hit the pavement, the blood which had been flowing freely from the heart-wound already beginning to slow.
Eyes trained downward upon the man she had just killed, breath still coming in labored gasps, Dara suddenly realized that she was not alone in the alley—her good Samaritan tarried still. Slowly drawing her gaze upward, she took quick and careful note of the man she now owed her life to. He—like she—was dressed all in black. However, it was there that the similarities in their chosen garb ended.
Her clothing consisted of an eminently serviceable pair of jeans and a simple cotton jumper beneath her long leather duster. The man standing across from her, on the other hand, looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a costume shop. From the boots and the breeches, to the doublet, cloak and hat, her rescuers garb harkened to the seventeenth century…in a very twenty-first century sort of way.
And then there was his face.
Her eyes were drawn to his—or rather, to the blank, black eyes of the white-faced and eternally grinning Guy Fawkes mask he wore. She was English—it was easy enough to recognize that caricatured face; even Norsefire's best efforts had been unable to completely wipe the traditions of Bonfire Night from popular memory.
The mask stared back at her, as unmoving as the man whose face it hid.
After a very long moment, the chin of the mask dipped slightly, the black sweep of the pageboy wig she only then noticed shifting along the pointed jaw-line as it angled down and slightly away from her. "A hit," his booted foot lunged out, turning her felled foe upon his back with a firm shove. The grinning mask tilted back up to her and she could almost swear that she saw the matching smile on the lips beneath it. "A very palpable hit."
The ghost of a grin curved her lips as she pulled the cloth she always carried from her pocket, drawing her blade through it with practiced ease before tucking it away and re-sheathing her weapon. "An Englishman who knows his Shakespeare," she acknowledged with a nod, "how refreshing."
Again, she swore she could see him smile. "Formidable of both hand and mind," that oddly compelling voice complimented, clearly impressed by her recognition of the quotation. The masked man bent at the waist in a formal bow. "I salute you."
Eyes drifting down to his kill, Dara stepped over to the body, dropping to one knee and retrieving the knife still embedded in the corpse's neck with a sharp twist of her wrist. Studying the blade for a moment—admiring the austere beauty if its simple lines—she weighed it expertly in her palm as she stood. "Gorgeous," she commented, offering it to its owner. "And perfectly balanced. Thanks for the help—your timing was impeccable."
The masked man accepted the knife from her, returning it to rest beside its fellows in his belt. "'Twas nothing," he demurred. "Any true English gentlemen would have done the same."
Lips quirking upwards, Dara eyed the fallen man she'd just removed his knife from, and then looked back to her rescuer. "Yeah…right. Most English gentlemen I know would've run the other way as fast as they could—they certainly wouldn't've risked being black bagged for a complete stranger."
A short bark of laughter issued from behind Fawkes' ever-smiling mouth. "An unfortunate testament to the travesty of this, our reality," the blank, black eyes were back on her again. "England is not what She once was and neither are Her gentlemen—but I have hope that both shall one day reclaim the dignity that was once so wholly a part of them."
"A day that can't come fast enough," Dara agreed. Silence fell again, and she took advantage of it to study the man before her with ever-mounting curiosity. "So who're you, then?"
"Who?" The masked man intoned the word gravely, though with an undercurrent of amusement. "Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask."
Dara arched a brow at him. "Well, yeah," she acknowledged tartly. "I can see that."
The masked man dipped his chin in agreement. "Of course you can," he said. "I am not questioning your powers of observation. I was merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is."
"Touché," she laughed. "But that wasn't what I meant, and you know it. What's your name?"
"What's in a name?" he mused, backing a few steps away from her. "Certainly not the mettle or the meaning of a man, thus—on this most auspicious of nights—permit me, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona." He paused, bowing his head, hands clasped together before him.
Brow arching, Dara crossed her arms over her chest, her expression one of hesitant confusion. "What..."
"Voilà!"
The interruption was unexpected, and Dara took a startled step back.
Flipping his cloak with practiced ease, the masked man flung his arms wide. "In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified," his voice lilted upward, and the words began to come faster and louder and angrier, "and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition."
Spinning toward the wall, he lunged at an old Norsefire poster that had likely been stuck to it for years, carving a perfect vee into the already crumbling paper with one adroitly wielded blade.
He paused after re-sheathing the knife, and the entire alley—the entire night—seemed to have gone deathly silent. A moment later, a slow and deep exhalation broke the stillness. The masked man tilted his head back toward her, offering the profile of the mask to the street lamp's glow. "The only verdict is vengeance," he said in a low rumble, the resonance of the words sending shivers along Dara's spine. "A vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous."
Another pause, and then he laughed; the sound a strange mix of delight and self-consciousness. "Verily," he began again, lighter of both tone and air now, "this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose," he drew his hat from his head, dipping her a gallant bow, "so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V."
Silence.
Nearly a full minute of silence followed—a full minute during which Dara struggled to decide what, if anything, she should say. Because no matter how odd it had been, she felt that such a carefully prepared and enthusiastically delivered speech deserved a response that was just as intelligently worded and passionately delivered. Unfortunately, she was feeling neither impassioned nor clever.
"Right," she paused, grasping for something to say. "Nice…alliteration."
"My thanks," he said, and she got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her. "And now, my dear, I would ask the same of you…to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"Dara," she said, offering him a grin. "Dara Turner."
He nodded once, that sharply pointed chin bobbing in acceptance and thanks.
"Dara," he breathed. "A lovely name." The black eyes of the mask settled upon the faint bruises already beginning to bloom on her neck. "Tell me, Dara, are you hurt?"
One hand lifted to rub lightly against the tender skin, self-conscious beneath the weight of his gaze. "I'm fine," she said with a small, dismissive shake of her head, "a little bruised, but fine—thanks to you."
"Please," he protested, "I merely played my part—think nothing of it. But tell me, my dear…do you like music?"
The question—apropos of nothing—caught her off guard. Frowning a little, she nodded. "Yeah...why?"
"I am a musician of sorts, you see. And tonight, I am giving a very special concert and would be most delighted if you would accompany me."
"A musician?" She looked him up and down, mildly disappointed. She'd assumed he was like her—from some resistance group with a flair for the dramatic that she just hadn't heard of. "What sort of musician? That the reason for the costume?"
Again, the unshakable certainty that he was smiling even wider than the mask he wore. "But of course," he replied with a flourish. "It is, as I said, to be a very special performance. And as for what sort of musician...percussion is my particular specialty…but tonight…tonight I shall conduct the entire orchestra in all her sweeping glory!"
There was something irresistible about him—despite the fact that he was without question the oddest man she had ever met in her life. In the end, it wasn't even a question really. With a smile and a nod, she committed herself to being his companion for the evening, following along after his beckoning figure—following all the way to the rooftop of an office building, standing at his side and staring out over the skyline of London.
"And here we are," he doffed his hat, dropping it to the ground beside him.
"It's beautiful up here," Dara commented absently, eyes skimming over the vista before her.
"A more perfect stage could not be asked for. I think you shall find the acoustics particularly satisfactory."
Blinking owlishly, slightly puzzled by both their location and the man himself, Dara glanced around feeling more than a little confused. "I don't see an orchestra."
"My dear Dara, your powers of observation continue to serve you well. Indeed there is none to be seen…but it is there. Oh, I assure you, the orchestra is all assembled, and waits only for the right moment to begin."
Tilting her head to study his profile, Dara shivered slightly at the odd edge in his voice. "The right moment?"
"Yes," he said, "my moment." Lifting his eyes high, he pointed toward the gilded and blindfolded statue crowning the Old Bailey. "It is to Madame Justice that I dedicate this concerto—in honor of the holiday she seems to have taken from these parts, and in recognition of the imposter that stands in her stead." Slowly, that masked face turned toward her. "Do you know what day it is, Dara?"
Another of those bizarre, incongruous questions—but she answered him nonetheless. "November the fourth."
Just then, Big Ben began to chime, sounding the midnight hour in his sonorous, ancient voice. V went still at the sound. "Not any more," he breathed, the words a mere whisper. And then, in a stronger and strangely unnerving voice—"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot…I know of no reason, why the gunpowder treason should ever…be…forgot."
Not knowing what to say…or even if she was expected to say anything, Dara kept her lips firmly shut, watching as V drew a conductor's baton from the pocket of his doublet. Tapping it upon one of the pipes beside him, as if calling as yet invisible players to attention, he raised his arms high.
"First the strings," he murmured, his arms beginning to rise and fall rhythmically. "Yes…yes…the strings…the strings…"
Ears straining, Dara frowned even deeper. "I don't hear any…"
"Wait for it!" V interrupted. "Now the brass…ah, yes…the brass…now can you hear it?"
And suddenly, amazingly, she could. It was the 1812 Overture, a piece she knew well. Sucking in a lungful of cold air, Dara surged forward, hands curling over the sides of the balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. "I can hear it," she breathed, eyes seeking out the source of the music.
When she did—when she connected the sound to the loudspeakers placed on every street corner—her head whipped around, staring in wonder at the masked man moving his arms in perfect time with the music. "V…how…?"
"Hush, my dear…hush…for now, we await the best part of all. Turn around, Dara, turn around…you certainly won't want to miss it."
She did as she was told, turning back around to face London. "Miss what?"
"Wait for it," V repeated his earlier censure, his voice rising. "And now, here it is…the crescendo!"
And then it happened. Just as the music exploded into the most familiar chords of the overture, so too did the Old Bailey. Bombs went off all along the length of the building, sending it crumbling and crashing to the ground, the explosions almost perfectly timed to the music sounding defiantly through the night. The fireworks came next, exploding across the sky in an array of colors—a pyrotechnic display such as she had never seen before.
Dara watched the spectacle with wide, unbelieving eyes. It was an odd juxtaposition, V's delighted laughter behind her, chaos raining down before her. Only when the last mortar had exploded, branding the sky above the raging inferno with a red V embedded within an equally red circle, did Dara turn around.
V stood behind her, his arms raised high and suspended, motionless at the level of his shoulders. Black gloved hands reached outward, as if he would draw the image before his eyes to himself—as if he would embrace the fire that burned below them. Dara watched him for long moments before bringing herself to speak.
"You did that."
The words shook him from his reverie, and his arms finally dropped to his sides, the baton stowed swiftly back inside his doublet. "I did," he affirmed, calmly—proudly.
"Why?"
The question surprised him. Not because she asked for an explanation—that he had expected—but because, instead of the accusation he had anticipated, it was asked with nothing more than honest curiosity. "Because, my dear, it needed to be done."
"Needed to be done," she echoed, almost beneath her breath, studying this enigmatic man before her with probing eyes. "Needed to be done why?"
"For the people," V answered simply. "And for England. Because the abomination that has taken both hostage must not be allowed to stand."
So she had been right all along. He was just like her. "Revolution," she murmured, excited. "You're talking about revolution—about taking Norsefire down." She turned to look once more over the smoldering ruin of the Old Bailey, then back at her companion. "And about bloody time, I'd say," she said with certainty, and grim satisfaction.
His entire bearing shifted then, the angle of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, revealing clearly that her words had pleased him. "It is indeed," he murmured, satisfaction coloring the words. "Dare I hope that you share my vision?"
"Oh, I do," Dara said, grinning slightly. "If your vision is an England free of Norsefire, then yeah, I really do indeed."
V was silent, and Dara could feel the eyes behind the mask measuring her.
"I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence," he said at last. "And as such, I think, perhaps, fate has dealt me a prodigious boon this night by guiding me to you, my dear. Tell me though, for I cannot help but wonder—do not you find me a trifle…mad?"
The fact that he actually sounded self-conscious nearly made her laugh—it also assuaged any doubts she had about his mental state. The truly insane don't know they're insane after all. "Though this be madness, yet there is method in't," she quoted, her smile broadening. "Everyone thought Hamlet was a nutter too," she continued, "but that's only because they couldn't see the big picture, wasn't it?"
"And you can see the big picture, can you?"
She grinned. "Nope, I was just giving you the benefit of the doubt. It'd be awfully rude of me to tell you I think you're completely barmy when you've only just saved my life, wouldn't it?"
He laughed, and this time, there was real fondness in it. "Oh my dear," V breathed, his words bathed in admiration, "you are a happenstance that I could never have foreseen—indeed, that I could never have imagined. I think I must give the greatest of thanks to the powers that set your feet to the dark and dangerous pavement of this great city upon this night, of all nights."
She wished that it wasn't, but his words were a stark reminder of the duty that had driven her from her door in the first place, and her smile faltered. Brow creasing, she glanced down at her watch, noting that it was nearly fifteen past midnight. She had a meeting on nearly the opposite end of the city—and less than an hour left in which to get to it.
"What has upset you?"
The concern in his voice warmed her from the inside out, and she marveled at the strength of the affinity she already felt for this strange masked man. It was because of that new and still tenuous bond—paired, of course, with his loudly proclaimed desire for revolution—that she actually considered telling him the truth. However, that urge to share the reason for her sudden solemnity was quickly and easily suppressed. She had absolutely no doubt that this man before her would make a powerful ally to them, as they would to him…but she simply couldn't reveal anything without discussing it with the group first.
Thus, it was with a small shrug and a light smile that she returned her gaze to him. "Nothing really," she said, "Just realized how late it's getting is all. I should be getting home."
A siren blared nearby, followed swiftly by several more. "Especially considering what just happened," she continued. "The streets are gonna be crawling with Fingermen."
"Yes," V agreed with a sigh, "I daresay they shall." He moved forward, coming to stand beside her to watch the nearly unending line of black government vehicles tearing down the street below. After a few long moments, he tilted his head toward her. "I do not like to think of you traversing such treacherous conditions on your own," he said. "Would you, Dara Turner, allow me to escort you home? I feel it is the very least I can do in return for the very great pleasure of your company this evening."
She was, at the same time, both frustrated and delighted by his offer. The prospect of a bit more time in his company birthed the delight…but the hindrance that such company would be to her purpose fueled the frustration. In the end though, the enticement of the former overcame the inconvenience of the latter, and she gave him a bright smile. "That'd be lovely," she said, and meant it.
After all, it would be simple enough to slip back out into the shadows once he had left her at her door.
"Well then, my dear," he paused just long enough to sweep his hat from the ground, donning it with a flourish and then offering her his arm with a gallantry that was all charm, "shall we depart? The Finger shall most certainly begin cordoning off the area, and I should hate to rescue you from one threat only to deliver you into another. "
Her fingers had slipped around the solid strength of his arm before the idea to do so had even fully formed in her mind. The movement brought her closer to him than she had been yet and she stared up into the black-screened eye slits of the mask intensely. "I don't know why," she said, her voice low, "but I trust you. And I don't think you'd let that happen."
For a split second, he stilled beneath her touch, the only hint that there was a living man beneath all the black a tremulous exhalation of breath that would have spoken volumes had she known him better. It lasted only for the barest of moments though, and then the life flowed back into him, the muscles beneath her fingers shuddering beneath her touch. The mask dipped infinitesimally toward her, and she found herself wishing with striking intensity to be able to see the eyes that she could feel burning into hers.
"Indeed I would not, Dara." His voice was low, heavy with something she could not identify. "Indeed I would not."
Without another word, he turned them toward the door by which they had ascended to the rooftop, and Dara once again let him lead her through the building and out into the night.
