Chapter One

One year later….November 5th.

Closing up the door to his office, Mr. Lupton hurried to be on his way out the building. He rushed to his car, his rattling keys shook in his unsettled clammy hands.

The night had once been unsafe for men of status like Mr. Lupton. Rebellious Bandits, who were scattered across London like rats, set out and killed anyone wearing a suit in tie. Those who had taken the terrorist's edict a little too much to heart. They once had a purpose; now, they are just drunken felons running from the law. There aren't that many around, but those who hide out, making shadow attacks.

But that wasn't the case now, was it? Surely the government's new militia called the "The Peace" could escape their grasp. "Could they?" Mr. Lupton thought aloud.

It was an impossible feat to be sure. Security had become extra-tight. No man, woman, or child went anywhere without the accompaniment of an appointed fingermen. Curfew was at 8:00pm instead of 10:00pm. Anyone caught after hours were immediately quarantined, questioned, and put on trial for due sentencing.

Oh yes, they were serious.

But there were rumors. Preposterous rumors going about to scare the up and forthcoming governments. Rumors of the acclaimed 'V' to have risen from the dead like a ghost, hunting down the campaign runners for office.

With the new election of prime minister, Mr. Lupton was quite uneasy of the outcome. Men in certain positions would make England the biggest dictatorship in history. Shrugging off his doubts, he finally relaxed.

"Ah…here we go." He said satisfactorily, finally finding the correct key.

He glanced in the mirror of his car to see a shadow move so swiftly, he thought it was in his imagination. Mr. Lupton then saw the red rose on his windshield.

"Oh…" His heart stopped. Turning ever too slowly, he saw the face of terror. The Guy Fawkes mask on a figure of death.

The killer had the mask of the terrorist V, and the intimidation. He wore all black, like he was an angel of Death. A long Body fit trench coat that stopped short of his ankles. Traditional black boots with the small heel. He stood in perfect posture, revealing a set of three knives on each hip. He was clearly making the statement that he wanted to be seen and he wanted everyone to know he knew.

"Who are you?" He demanded, his voice trembling, noticing that there was something completely different about this supposed terrorist.

The white masked figure of darkness chuckled slightly, before answering in a lethally calm voice. "Who? Who is but the form following the function of what... and what I am is a man in a mask.

Mr. Lupton swallowed hard trying to breathe rationally. There was a panic button on his watch. All he had to do was press it and "The Peace" will be there in less than three minutes. Three minutes was all he needed.

"I can see that." Lupton answered, nervously. He took a step back only to bump into his car. Quickly, he pushed the small panic button on his watch. Breathing was a lot more easily accomplished now.

The mask's smile seemed to expand. "Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking on the paradox of asking a masked person who he is."

"Fine. Then, what is it that you want, terrorist. And hurry because you only have two minutes and 30 seconds left before they swipe your sorry ass off the streets." Mr. Lupton spat with venom.

The figure shook his head. "No Mr. Lupton. I'm afraid; you only have two minutes and 25 seconds to listen. The document of 'Anonymous Justifications of November 5th' has the names of six, potentially seven, men. These men are in agreement that the extermination of 4,000 people on the morning of November 5th was justified.

It is also a contract, which the election of this year has to have seven anonymous votes from parliament, voting a new prime minister into office. The problem with this document, is that it corrupts London's elections all together, making the citizens' vote worthless, and miraculously putting your elected parliamentarian into office. You may wonder why I would bother to enlighten you with what you already know. As I mentioned, there are six names on that death list… and your name, Mr. Lupton…just so happens to be the first."

Mr. Lupton smirked with ignorance, as if all that the terrorist's words went into one ear and out the other. Sirens pulled up with their bright head-lights.

"Time's up." He smiled. His mirth of stupidity died when the terrorist laughed back.

V stepped forward. "Indeed it is. "

Mr. Lupton gasped as a lightning quick jolt shot through his throat. He collapsed against the car, feeling on his throat. He pulled out a syringe and took in large amounts of air. Surprisingly, he could breathe normally.

The terrorist known as 'V' faced the "Peace Force". How ironic that those two words be put in the same title. V thought, amused.

"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND GET ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!" The team leader shouted the instructions from the van. V put his hands on his head, but he did not yield.

"ACT ACCORDINGLY, OR WE WILL USE FORCE!" He attempted to deescalate the situation.

"With all do respect, sir" V stated with a cool expression behind the smiling mask. "…I prefer the force."

And that was all it took. The Leader of the fingermen gave specific orders. The men jumped out the van and charged toward V like a pack of hungry wolves. This was no matter. V patiently waited as they were all aligned. Unsheathing a dagger, the men could barely keep up with the terrorist's movements.

"There are three daggers in my left hand gentlemen. Three daggers that will undoubtedly end the lives of three of you before the others join you. Which one of you would like to die first?"

The question was polite and courteous considering the situation, but that is not what the police were curious about. There were in fact only two daggers in his hand. The fingermen glanced at each other with a smirk.

The captain chose to make a comment. "Genius, there are only two bloody knives in your hands..." A wind blew past him.

Two of his men fell to the floor in a single heap. "Bullocks!" He turned to face the terrorist just in time to see the third knife aim straight for his throat.

"Three." V said solemnly.

The remaining three charged at V, trying their hardest to get a hit in. V stole one of their batons, skillfully beating the two while one watched from afar with a bloody nose. Sending one into a pavement wall with a cracked skull, and another with a broken neck, V patiently waited for the last one to make a move.

The last fingerman was young, scared, and frozen in his comfort place-the corner. V stared straight through him. The man dropped his weapon, putting his hands up in defeat. He watched as V walked into the darkness, passing a now very dead Mr. Lupton clutching his rose.

V returned home to his beloved shadow Gallery to find it exactly how he had left it. Well not exactly. He knew Evey wouldn't be here. She was everywhere, and she was nowhere. A trait she had obviously picked up from him. All the revolutionaries know her as a mystery. No one had encountered with her after November of last year. She was a gypsy in every sense.

In the past six months, tracking her down was like chasing a ghost. This is the nickname that the rebels gave her.

Walking to his beloved jukebox, he played moonlight sonata. The soft music of Beethoven filled the air. In his kitchen, he poured himself a glass of wine. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed there was a manila envelope.

Taking a seat, he saw that it was addressed to him. Opening its contents, he read the letter.

April 5th, 2006

V,

The thought has not eluded my mind that I am no doubt writing to a dead man, but I feel the need to put these feelings into words, even if for my own peace of mind. It's been exactly six months since your death, and as you can undoubtedly see from the heavens, that things have gone terribly wrong. You were right. The world isn't the same. People have changed. Some for the best, others….

There are three angles to work with now. There is a new bread of fingermen called the Peace Force (how ironic). They do the new commissioner's work whose name I'm not privy to. He orders these men to do his dirty work. Pigs. Yesterday, I witnessed a young boy being carried away with a white sheet over his entire body. He had been wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. The revolutionaries, whom you had set free, breathed life into, were subjected to the firing squad, not one minute after the burning of parliament. Those left hide in the shadows of the London streets. They're truly lost. They won't conform, yet they're afraid to have voice, being a witness of the butchering of their loved ones. Most of them have gone completely madd from being disconnected from the world. It's heartbreaking. Lastly, the fighters. Oh V, they would have made you proud. They don't give up; they bow down before no man. The live to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Defiant to the end. There were many, now only a few remain. Only 30 out of 150 people. Most were killed on the spot, or sent to a concentration camp. My heart goes out to them, but I know that they are laughing in the dictators' face. What you gave them cannot be taken away, and they know that death is blessing, not a curse.

In these vicious times that approach, it is with a heavy heart that I become the tyrant. I can no longer do things from your perspective. I must take a new approach, and overcome through peace, not war. This is not betrayal. After so many gifts you have given me, it would be vindictive of me to not express my gratitude for you.

I don't believe I made it distinctly clear in our last moments together. I love you. I love you to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach. I love who you are, and who you aren't. I love that I've never seen your face, but long to do so. I love that you saved me. I loved that you tortured me. And I love…I loved how you loved me even when I was too blind to see it.

Why write all this in a letter? Why say all these things? I've never officially said goodbye to you. Not to you. And for six months, I didn't believe I could. But now...now that I am to be wed soon, I've finally mustered the courage to say…. Goodbye.

Truly yours till my last breath,

-E.

V threw his glass against the brick wall, watching it shatter into a million pieces, much like his heart. Married! How could she tell him something like this! How could she write…

Calming himself, V took a swig of the wine from the bottle this time. No one has seen or heard of Evey Hammond in the past year. No One. The name is half whispered like a curse.

"Evey, weather you are aware of it or not, this was a direct challenge." V scolded, his glare cut to the letter. Gathering his thoughts, he focused on his plan.