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It was strange, but she hadn't really been afraid up till that point. There was nothing to be afraid of: if she died, she died and that was the end of it, the result of a single evening's carelessness and a chance mistake in some unremarkable bar. All this—drama because of a single ID card, her face in the snapshot blank-eyed and blatantly bared. She hadn't even realized V had returned her ID to her old coat and it had tumbled out with loose change when she dug into her pocket, card surface gleaming on the bar-top by the arm of the Fingerman. If not for her name printed brazenly in full across it, she was sure he would never have recognized her. As it were, the few seconds of uncomprehending disconnection between the ghost-child in the card and her shorn-headed face had given her a few futile seconds of head-start before the man hollered to his companions.
Not that it matters now, Evey thought, and there was a bitter twist of satisfaction that she could blame V for this second death. Because for all his eloquence on choices and freedom, the only real choice she ever made for himself in his presence was to leave him, and even this, even now he wouldn't let her finish it on her own. Must he always be there, always in the darkness waiting? Wasn't it enough that he haunted her still, even with a whole city between them, even after two weeks? It wasn't fair, wasn't fair that even during the day there would be flashes of him, making her ache with all the savageness of a betrayal: steadying warmth, darkness impassive, the taste of cool rain and leather…
And now he was here and she hadn't really believed it till he'd dropped the knives. The metallic rasp as the blades hit the grit-ground sang through her mind: a harsh, warning note that snapped her awake better than any slap.
V never lost control of situations. Evey stared at him blankly and had the distinct feeling he wasn't meeting her eyes. He couldn't…really...
'You got ten seconds!' Her attacker's voice was a reed now, high and strained. 'And if you move one more fucking step—if I even fucking think you're going to move—this bitch here is going to die. You think you can get to her faster than me? You think? YOU THINK? Take off the fucking mask!'
A cry sounded. 'Don't!' Evey realized it was her; her voice was thin and stretched as well, and carried high over the Fingerman's panting. The man jerked her like a ragdoll but she didn't care, there was something cold tightening in her stomach and shaking her spine—'Don't listen, don't do it, don't—'
'SHUT UP!'
'—he's lying, don't do it, go—'
'SHUT UP! I SAID SHUT UP! TEN—'
The shock came like a blow: V was still standing there, hands empty and half-raised by his side, and dear god, she could actually see him thinking, could actually see him struggling. With what? She was afraid to know; it had to be an act; this was V. 'Get lost, go away, go away,' she wanted to scream, but the dread tripped her tongue and the words came out as a croak.
'EIGHT!'
No, Evey thought. The venom behind it didn't surprise her, there was no time for pretense now. Not like this, the thought whispered desperately, not like this, not for me—
'SEVEN!'
--and V started to move, just a slight tremor of shifting weight, just a change of breath, but a terrible hope was starting to grow when instinct intervened: she could not help making a small choke when blade dug deeper into her flesh, spilling bright red agony. V stilled immediately, and she saw him stop breathing—
'DON'T MOVE! I'M WARNING YOU! I WARNING YOU! SIX SECONDS, BASTARD! FIVE!'
--and there was a wet hotness staining around her neck, and a flash of shame at her own weakness, her pandora betrayal, and Evey knew, knew with blinding clarity that V would never make it even if he tried: he could not save her. The wire-mesh covered too much and those few seconds he needed to get to the right angle to throw a knife would be her last—
'—go away, I hate you! Go away—'
'I SAID SHUT UP! FOUR! THREE!'
--and therein lies the rub, Evey realized dizzily. No matter what happens, he will never forgive me for this. He was invulnerable, once, and now…--
'TWO!'
'Don't, he's lying, DON'T—'
'SHUT UP! ONE!'
'He's not lying.'
The alley fell silent, but a roaring thunder was rising in Evey's ears. The Fingerman was breathing heavily but the note in V's voice had silenced even him—it had sounded far off, quiet.
Resigned, the voice whispered. No.
Not like this.
It was very clear, suddenly. So simple she would've laughed, if not for the strange ache in her chest. It could be the blood loss, but why lie?
V's hands were rising to the mask slowly, as if underwater. In the cloak and boots and dark suit, he looked less like a creature cut from the shadows itself rather than a mere man in a costume. A man with certain skills at knives and clever words, yes, but a just another Londoner in a foolish mask nonetheless. She could almost hear her attacker seeing this, this dawning realization, and her chest squeezed unpleasantly.
And in front of her, V was dying.
'Wait.'
She did not raise her voice. She did not have to.
V paused, and she knew even under the patterned shadow of the wire-mesh, he could see her as clear as if she was standing next to him. Could see her shaven head pale and smooth under the bleached moonlight, her dark eyes like a ghost's, the splattered rose-red like a noose around her neck.
An old instinct whispered this to her, from the way the way his hands stilled, the way he looked at her, and for a heartbeat, she almost understood why...
How nice... that he is haunted, for a change...
Evey gave the frozen man a hard, crooked smile and heard the Fingerman behind her draw in a breath to speak. There was no time to think of anything clever, anything witty like he could-- she opened her heart, all the fragile pieces of it, and gave him the most precious shard.
'My choice,' she said simply. Then Evey took the hand shaking under her jaw and pulled the knife hard across her throat.
Therein lies the rub-- Shakespeare
Also, take this as Chapt one, directly continued part B.
Concrit and feedback greatly appreciated, always. :)
