who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
She could hear them, in the streets, in the halls of her building, coming up towards her apartment. And she knew this was going to be it, in a matter of seconds she was going to be one more person who disappeared under one of those black bags. Like everyone else she knew.
The phone rang.
She almost didn't answer it.
But it rang, and rang, and rang.
"Hello, this isn't a good time right now, sorry, I'm about to be arrested."
"Miss Hammond, it's vitally important that you do exactly as I say. Now, go to the window and look out. You will see a man in black, sitting on the curb across the street from you..."
Chapter Four
November 7th
The Shadow Gallery
London
Waking up from a serious amount of drugs is an unpleasant experience, one that Matt is unfortunately versed enough with to be able to recognize the moment the ceiling even begins to blur into focus. It's high and vaulted, and his first thought is that a colony of bats would have a field day in here.
Rough hands lift a glass of water to his lips when he groans and gasps, and he can taste something that's not water in it, but before he can complain the world swims out of focus again and he falls into a restless, miserable sleep. His shoulder hurts and Mello is screaming at him somewhere in the distance, but he can't find him.
The dull ache of the wound wakes him again, and although his internal clock is even more fucked up than he is right now, he knows that he must have been asleep for a very long time. For one thing, his head is clear. Pounding, but clear in a way it wouldn't be if any of the sedative or painkiller or horse tranquilizer or whatever the hell that was, was still in his system.
The first thing he notices, not because it's important but because it's human nature, is that he's shirtless. Given that Matt likes as many layers of cloth as possible, this is more than a little unsettling. But it's not shirtless in the 'hello molestation' way, but rather in the 'neatly bandaged and stitched up shoulder' way, probably with a bullet no longer embedded in his flesh, which is just plain handy. The second thing he notices is that his shoulder isn't hurt that badly at all, so it must have been pretty clean.
Then, in some tenuous order of 'all at once' and 'far too slowly given that he's technically a genius' he works out that the stone ceiling is the same as before, that the little bug Near stitched into the inside of his waistband is still pressed against his side, though it's effectiveness will be compromise given how deep they must be underground, and that given the colour of the stone he knows exactly where they are.
And yes, they are underground, and yes, it's deep, and for some reason he thinks he can hear Nat King Cole playing in the background. He sits up, and experiences a wave of disorientation. He's been asleep for nearly two days; he's never slept that long in his life, and no longer than five hours in a row in the past decade, probably, thanks to Wammy's House. It's not a sensation he particularly enjoys.
Now, Matt knows that any sane or normal person would stay lying down until someone came and brought them water and was some kind of help, but Matt has never been called sane and normal, except in reference to Mello as 'slightly more so than,' so he gets up and makes his way to the nearest door. Lucky him, it's a bathroom.
A moment or two later, with water splashed on his face and dried off, he makes his way out and starts searching for the door that'll lead him to the source of the music. He has a feeling that that's where he'll find his host. He makes no move to pick up a sheet, or look for a shirt or anything else to cover himself. He won't act like it makes a difference. He won't look for shoes either, the advantage of padding silent and barefoot is too much to give up.
V is standing over a nice old fashioned jukebox when Matt finally finds him, and maybe his shoulder was worse than he thought, because he's out of breath and has to lean against the door frame with his good shoulder and breathe for a moment before addressing him.
"Morning. Or hey, evening, or midday, or whatever."
It's impossible to tell if the man behind the mask is startled, but Matt pretends to himself that the abrupt movement might indicate that. Who knows? It might. It'd sure make him feel better, and with the queasiness in his stomach right now, he could use a pick me up. Or twenty.
"You are awake," says the man with an accent that can only be described as cultured. Matt remembered how he sounded on the television, but it's even more noticeable when they're face to plastic face.
"Yeah. Thanks for, you know, averting blood loss, arrest and major torture." V inclines his head, and Matt makes himself not look at the smiling mouth and watch, instead, the slant of his shoulders, what he's doing with his hands. It's impossible to read a masked man's face, but they tend to forget to disguise their body language, so the little things they don't want you to know come through loud and clear. Like now, for instance. All Matt can really think is a tired 'uh oh,' even as V starts talking again.
"And many thanks to you, for though you are a stranger I have no doubt that had it been but for you, my little endeavour at freeing our country from its current yoke would have been derailed in its very beginning stages. Forgive me, I say 'our country,' but reason suggests that you have been raised elsewhere."
Matt smirks. If V expected him to be impressed with that much, he's sorely mistaken.
"What with the gun and the hacking equipment? Not to mention consistent failure to behave in a sheep-like manner?" The world spins, and whatever V is hiding, they will have to argue about it later, because Matt can feel his knees giving out. He can't even complain when V escorts him back to bed and makes sure he actually climbs in this time. So, back to sleep it is for him. He can practically hear Mello teasing him.
The next time he wakes up looking at the ceiling, it's practically familiar and makes for a good deal of irritation. He decides to lie still and breathe for a long moment, to be sure he isn't going to nose dive this time around. That's only excusable behaviour once, and then it becomes a habit, and then that means it's a weakness, which isn't something he can afford to have right now.
Promptly after making this decision, he climbs to his feet and looks for his shoes, because as pleasant as this has been, he kind of wants to get out of here and he has a sneaking suspicion that V might not actually be inclined to let him. Which is completely unfair, since Matt did technically take a bullet for him, but he supposes that's gratitude for you. He feels right now that the best course of action is to simply avoid the argument by looking for the stairs, doors, or lift out of here on his own.
V finds him, an hour later, on his knees, picking a lock, and doesn't know whether to be amused or irritated. He settles on stern and parental, and approaches to take the needle firmly out of the visitor's hands. Needless to say, he isn't expecting the powerful kick Matt delivers to his face, but it doesn't surprise him or hurt him enough that he can't grab the man by his injured shoulder and pin him with it against the wall. It is both a reminder that Matt is hurt, and in no condition to be fighting, and a reaffirmation of V's ruthlessness.
Matt yells in pain, and lets himself be dragged to a couch, and falls on to it almost gratefully. Only with a profound amount of irritation, too, because this is already getting old.
"If you'd unlock it," Matt mutters mutinously, succumbing to the desire to hug a pillow to his chest because his arm is killing him, "then I wouldn't have to break out. I'm going to make it, so you'd save yourself a lot of worry in the future, and probably a broken down door or two."
There's a soft huff of laughter from the masked man. This time he really is laughing at him, but Matt is deadly serious.
"Come on. What harm could I possible do leaving? It's not like I can actually go to the police and turned you in. I'm wanted for assaulting a police officer, and not technically legally in the country." V's shaking his head, and Matt knows why, but hell, it was worth a try. He forces himself inch by inch to relax, because having his back tense will make his arm worse, and appearing calm will make the argument easier.
"It is not what you would divulge willingly that worries me. Now, we have not made each other's acquaintances properly..."
Matt takes a slow breath, and wishes he had a cigarette.
"I know who you are. Call me Matt. We're less than twelve blocks away from the apartment I'm living in, and I fucking want a cigarette but know pretty much exactly how the ventilation must work so I know that's impossible."
V is silent as his captive speaks. He is not precisely awestruck, but he is most certainly impressed with the man. Or perhaps boy, he couldn't be much older than twenty.
"I'm nineteen, I'm a nicotine addict, and most of the time I'm a very pleasant person," Matt tells him, casually, "usually easy going. Ask anyone. The exception to this rule is when I'm a prisoner in an underground lair, hurt and without cigarettes. This cloak and dagger shit is not my style. You know I have reasons not to be caught by the government. Trust that I'm good enough not to let it happen."
There is a long moment where Matt thinks he might just stand a chance. V settles down on a nearby chair, and Matt can see the moment where he stops considering it and decides it's too much of a risk. Matt's too much of a risk. Fuck.
"First of all, while you are not working with the BTN, I have nothing to assure me that you are not merely from a higher branch, who felt it convenient to be covert." Matt knows that this is horseshit. "But mostly, I simply must say that I have no reason to believe that you will go to any length to keep my secrets. Or that whatever organization you are a part of would even want to."
Matt opens his mouth to argue, but V cuts him off.
"You are probably a good man, Matt, but this is a fight you must have a reason to win before you can enter."
"A," Matt snaps, "that's faulty logic. I am male, ergo I cannot be a feminist. B, my people are already in the fight, whether we have your blessings to be so or not, commodore, and c, I'll be sure to tell my boyfriend you said so. Asshole."
V thinks the last part is altogether too convenient, so he ignores it. He ignores all of what Matt's just said, actually, filing it away for further examination and instead rising to his feet.
"You should not have betrayed to me that you knew where we were, you know," he bends to take Matt by both arms, and pull him to his feet. Struggling will just hurt his shoulder worse, so Matt comes quietly, "Cloak and dagger as it may be, I cannot possibly let you go now. You should lie down, and have another painkiller."
"Provided it's not poisoned?" asks Matt, darkly, "Do they still make nicotine gum in this shithole country?" V just laughs, and feeds him his medication and lies him down to sleep. It might have gone alright for Matt, if he had stopped talking, or if V had just left the room right away, or any number of things. But as it was;
"L will find me, you know. L can find anyone. Bet you three joints I'm out of here by the end of the week." His voice is drowsy and slurred, with drugs and pain, but the words ignite a bright light behind V's eyes, even though he can't remember why. He knows that L is something important.
The fifth day of Matt's captivity finds V reflecting that he might have to increase the dosage of sedatives he's been slipping his guest. So far he has found the man breaking into his cabinets stealing carving knives and utensils appropriate for lock-picking, nearly out the front door, and wandering the back halls of the wing of artificial cells that V has constructed. V briefly considers locking Matt in one, but since the man will have to stay here for the next year, he thinks it would probably be better to earn his good faith.
That, and he wouldn't put it past him to Houdini his way out of a prison cell. V's other locks have only barely stopped him as it is. He's even somehow gotten out of and completely destroyed the pair of handcuffs V tried on him once. If he broke out of there, then V would certainly be in trouble. Not that he wasn't now.
Matt stands beside the jukebox, a small (antique, priceless) bronze statue, in hand, and a serious expression on his naturally deceptively passive face. "I'm serious. You now have a hostage situation on your hands, V."
V wants to roll his eyes, but knows it will be a wasted gesture. He's a little more inclined to listen when Matt seems to pick up on this, and turning, sends his favourite suit of armour falling to the ground with a powerful kick. It lands with an enormous crash, and Matt returns to his stance, ready to bludgeon his source of music to an early death.
"I am not fucking waiting around here at your leisure. Things to do, people to fuck, regimes to topple."
"Matt," says V, nearly gently, "this is going to get you nowhere. I will not sacrifice my ideals in exchange for physical luxuries. An intelligent man would be able to see as much instantly."
"An intelligent man would have fucking checked me for bugs, Sherlock," answers Matt, "but then, I'm good enough that you wouldn't have found it. Still won't, since it's not on me any more. It's hidden in here, which means it's very, very likely that the metaphorical troops will soon descend."
V feels his heart skip a beat. However, given the amount of time it's been, this is likely an empty threat. Still, he's prepared to admit he might have underestimated Matt initially.
"After all this time?"
Matt snarls, and grabs a tapestry behind him, ripping it hard off the wall. V can't help but flinch slightly. That was old and precious, and his patience is fast running out. He knows that he is not going to tolerate Matt destroying anything else.
"Listen to me." Matt points at him with the statue. "You have no right to do this. This is your country, and you can fight for it, I appreciate that. Hell, I'm grateful, I grew up here, once upon a time. I know better than most people how badly it's gone, but you're nothing more than some cheap Kira knockoff if you're going to kill anyone who gets in your way."
Ah, V thinks, so he noticed. The pommel of the knife sits heavy in his palm. It would be oh so easy to hurl it and end the situation right now. He could throw it and very easily have it land in one of Matt's bright, intelligent eyes. Or his throat, using the flickering pulse point as a bulls eye. He watches Matt swallow, nervous behind his own, different kind of mask.
"I no more want to kill you than you want to die," he tells him, sliding the knife into open view even as his other hand goes for the syringe. Matt's eyes stay riveted on the shine of the blade, which is as it should be. V walks forwards, and Matt stands frozen. He looks exquisitely peaceful, for someone who's heart is beating so very, very fast. V wonders who he was, before he became the nuisance of a man systematically destroying V's Shadow Gallery.
"Just let me go," Matt whispers, and doesn't even flinch as the needle slides into the side of his neck and V's arms fold around him. Maybe, V thinks, he did see it coming after all. What a strange person. "I need to fight this too. Just let me..." the statue drops to the ground with a dull thud, and Matt sags like a ragdoll into V's arms. He moans once, and V knows that the hallucinations must already be starting.
Once Matt is in his bed, drugged to the gills, and pale and twisting in the sheets with fright and confusion, V sighs and makes his way to the lift upstairs. He's calculated the dosage precisely. He has six hours, which is all he needs to sort out dear mister Lewis Prothero. That's also six hours before Matt is up again, and wrecking further havoc. V won't let that happen, the needle will go in again in five and a half.