Dum Spiro, Spero
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me and I'm certainly not making any money from them.
Chapter 11
New Scotland Yard
There was a knock and a detective entered the Chief Inspector's office without waiting for an acknowledgement. Finch looked up from the papers on his desk, eyebrow raised in inquiry.
"Sir, we have a situation out front," said the detective urgently. "You had better come down quick."
"What is it, Harris?" Finch asked as he stood, adjusting his pistol holster and buttoning his jacket.
"Well…" Harris began hesitantly. "There are people gathered out there. A lot of people."
Finch gestured the man out the door of the office, following him down the hall as the detective continued to speak.
"They're not doing anything yet. Just standing around right now," Harris said. "Most of them are wearing those bloody costumes. They just keep saying they want to talk to you."
Finch's brow furrowed at the last sentence. They reached the foyer. Through the large windows Finch could see a thick wall of policemen facing toward the street. As the Chief Inspector reached the glass doors he could see the crowd beyond the policemen. A sea of black clothing and white masks met his gaze. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands stood in the street at the front of New Scotland Yard. He paused at the doors, absorbing the tableau.
"Sir, I'm not sure I recommend you going out there," Harris said. "We're severely outnumbered here. If that crowd turns ugly there's no knowing what will happen."
"And if I don't go out there now, while they're still being polite?" Finch asked, with a sidelong glance. "And they start to lose their patience?"
Harris didn't answer. Finch looked back out at the crowd. "Harris, get me a bullhorn."
"Yes sir," Harris replied smartly, and hurried off to comply with Finch's request. Swift footsteps made Finch look behind him. Dominic strode up, a worried look upon his face.
"What's this all about?" he asked without preamble. Finch shrugged.
"I think I'm about to find out," the inspector replied.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" Dominic asked, casting a concerned look at Finch.
"Probably not," Finch said. "But I think ignoring them would be worse, don't you?"
Dominic scowled at that, but nodded anyway. Harris came rushing back up, bullhorn in hand. Finch took it from him and walked through one of the glass doors. Dominic and Harris followed on his heels. The line of policemen parted as the Chief Inspector stepped out onto the chilly sunlit steps. A harsh muttering rippled through the crowd at his appearance. Despite the cool breeze stirring up the air, the atmosphere felt stifling in front of the massive crowd. Finch was aware several uniformed policemen were edging farther down the steps, prepared to step in front of him if violence erupted. He brought the bullhorn up to his mouth and pressed the trigger.
"I was told you wanted to speak to me," Finch said as clearly as possible. Another hiss of whispering swept across the crowd before a man near the front spoke up.
"That's right!" the man said. Finch had to strain to make out his voice, muffled behind a mask. The man gestured to the uniformed police officers. "You in charge of this lot?"
"I am Chief Inspector Finch," he replied.
"Well, Chief Inspector Finch," the man said. "We're here to inform you that the services of the police are no longer needed."
A rumble of assent came from the crowd, punctuated by scattered yells. The crowd seemed to surge and eddy with the sudden energy triggered by the man's bold statement. Finch could sense the uniformed officers pressing closer, their bodies tightening up with the rush of adrenaline. A single misstep here would cause a riot.
"What do you mean?" Finch asked. "Who will protect the citizens if there are no police?"
"The only people we need protection from are the police," shouted a woman's voice from a different part of the crowd. "The police and the Fingermen!"
The crowd roared at this statement, throwing fists into the air defiantly. Most of the police officers had drawn their batons. They were lifted in readiness as the people got more excited. The crowd lapsed back into angry grumbling after a few minutes. Finch swallowed and raised the bullhorn again.
"Right now the police are only concerned with people who are breaking the law," Finch said. "People who are harming other people or destroying property."
"That's bollocks!" a man called out from the middle of the crowd. "My wife was arrested and beaten by the police for taking food from an abandoned store."
More shouts came from crowd, detailing various injustices suffered at the hands of the police and the Fingermen. So many voices were calling out that Finch couldn't make any of them out clearly. The crowd started to edge forward and the threat of violence hung heavy in the air. Finch raised his hands, trying to gesture for quiet.
"Please," Finch yelled. "Please just listen to me for a moment."
The noise level dipped slightly, but only just. Finch would have to shout into the bullhorn to be heard.
"Things are very uncertain right now," he began. "We're doing the best we can. We need your help if we're to get through this time."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Finch knew they were the wrong ones. The crowd roared and advanced again. They were now against the concrete barriers in a line at the base of the steps. People in the front were gesticulating and Finch could hear some phrases about "never again!" and "and make it easy for you?" The police officers took a step forward, tightening up the row. Dominic stepped up close to Finch, his hand on his pistol.
Suddenly a petite figure clad in a costume climbed over one of the barriers. Several officers rushed forward to confront the person. The crowd roiled angrily and pressed against the barriers. The figure held up its hands as the policemen surrounded it. The police took the figure's arms and started to drag it back to towards the barrier. The person called out over its shoulder to the Chief Inspector.
"Maybe they'll listen to someone else, Mr. Finch?"
Finch felt his jaw drop as he recognized Evey Hammond's voice. He rushed forward and ordered the officers to release her. She straightened the sleeves of her tunic after they let her go.
"Are you willing to try, Ms. Hammond?" Finch asked, gesturing toward the crowd with the bullhorn. The black hat and Guy Fawkes mask tilted forward as she nodded. She stepped over to Finch's previous spot, followed closely by the Chief Inspector. Police and crowd alike were both bewildered by this change of events. Evey removed the hat, wig and mask and handed them to Dominic before taking the bullhorn from Finch. The crowd quieted when she lifted it to speak.
Shadow Gallery - Two Hours Earlier
Evey had spent the morning putting the finishing touches on her modification of one of the spare costumes. Given the marked discrepancy in height between her and V, the cloak had to be shortened significantly. The difference in measurements made modification of the rest of the existing costume impractical. Instead, she had sewn a simple black tunic and set of trousers the day before. Her inexperience with the tailoring arts made it a time-consuming process, but the black cloth helped to hide any minor imperfections. Boots and leather gloves had been purchased earlier during a trip above ground. The hat, wig, and mask could be used without modification.
With a last check of the length, Evey hung up the finished cloak on a hook on the wall of the costuming room. She put away all the tools she had used and turned off the lights as she left the room. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the circular center of the lower level of the Gallery. She angled over into the communications room. The monitors were already illuminated when she entered. A soft murmur of voices came from the speakers. Evey had discovered that people were starting to broadcast on various FM frequencies using illicit radio transmitters. Monitoring these frequencies was an excellent way to keep up on general attitude of the populace.
Something significant was happening though. The monitors showed groups dressed in V costumes gathering at pubs, cafes, even private homes. Gatherings like these were not that unusual of late, but it was the timely concentration of the groups that was curious. Evey had been skipping along the radio band, seeing if she could get some clue as to what was about to happen. It was right in the middle of the FM band, just 2/10ths of a frequency below the government's official frequency that she found the information.
People were planning to march on New Scotland Yard and demand the disbandment of the police. At noon they would all gather and demand to speak to the head of the Metropolitan Police Force, who just happened to be Eric Finch. The radio speaker, becoming louder and more impassioned by the minute, spoke of the injustices perpetrated by the police force on the populace. The Fingermen were out of reach, guarding the compounds of the Norsefire officials, so the police were the next best thing. Evey noted that the man on the radio gave no specific course of action should the head of the police refuse, but the implication of physical violence hung over the monologue. Evey had an uncomfortable flash back to Prothero's wandering vitriolic rants. The speaker ended the speech with a call for marchers.
Evey checked the clock, noting it was an hour until noon. She turned the volume down on the speakers and gave the monitors once last glance before leaving the room. They showed the groups of people were multiplying. Evey strode back to the costuming room. The various pieces of the costume she had made were laid out on one of the long workbenches, in the same arrangement as they would be worn on the body. The mask was one of the sturdy plastic spares. Evey picked it up and turned it over in her hands thoughtfully. She looked up at the costumed mannequin standing in front of the wall.
"Time to rejoin the world?" she asked aloud. She began pulling on the pieces of the costume lying on the workbench. "I think so."
Nearly an hour later Evey approached the fringes of the large crowd gathered in front of New Scotland Yard. The vast majority of the protesters were costumed like Evey. She felt an unexpected tightness in her throat at the sea of masks that flowed and eddied in front of her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself she started to work her way through the crowd. The people seemed to part and ripple around her like water around a smooth stone in a river. A few minutes later she arrived at the waist-high concrete barriers in front of the steps of the Yard.
A line of uniformed police officers stood between the restless assembly and the front of the building. Several men in suits stood near the glass doors marking the entrance. Periodically someone in the crowd would shout to the men, demanding to see the head of the Met. The men in suits conferred for several moments before one of them disappeared into the building. Minutes later, Chief Inspector Finch came out to address the people. The throng became more agitated as he spoke. Evey found herself pressed against the barricade as people moved forward.
"We need your help if we're to get through this time," Finch said, and Evey was crushed against the barrier as the crowd roared and shouted. She found herself instinctively climbing over the concrete divider, first to escape the crowd. But once she made it over, and a pack of policemen swarmed down on her, Evey felt compelled to speak. Finch's response would have been comical had the situation not been so serious. He urged her over to his previous spot and handed her the bullhorn after she removed the coverings on her face and head. Dominic took the items from her hands, then stepped back to flank her on one side. Finch stood at the other shoulder. Silence fell on the crowd when she lifted the bullhorn.
"My name is Evey Hammond," she said. An explosion of furious whispering met her simple statement. "Will you let me speak to you?"
Several affirmative answers were called out from the crowd. Evey paused a moment to collect her thoughts. She took a deep breath and depressed the trigger on the bullhorn again.
"I was listening to the radio today and heard about this march," she said. "The man on the radio said we were now living in a state of anarchy; that institutions like the police force were no longer needed."
Evey hesitated a beat before saying the next sentence. The people seemed to lean forward in anticipation of her words.
"I'm here to tell you he was wrong," she said firmly. Shocked exclamations met her pronouncement. One man near the front called out loudly.
"You telling us we've got to just swallow what they're feeding us?" he demanded. "Just eat it up and ask for seconds?"
"No, I'm telling you this isn't anarchy," Evey replied. She took a step down, closer to the speaker. "These past days have been unchecked chaos. Your family, your friends, your neighbors, the people you care about…would you feel comfortable letting them walk alone at night right now?"
A thick silence fell after her question. Evey looked into the masks in the crowd, willing the wearers to hear what she was saying.
"Anarchy means without leaders, not without order," she continued. "It's a state of voluntary order, not taking what you want or hurting others just for the hell of it. It requires the ultimate personal responsibility."
Evey gestured toward the man in the crowd that had called out. "Are you prepared to take on that responsibility? To prevent criminals from terrorizing your family? To put out fires in your neighborhood? To help heal the sick and wounded? To make sure food is being distributed?"
She paused again, to let them consider her words. She then said, "I can't tell you what you should do here today. That is your own decision. But you should consider the responsibilities you will take upon yourselves."
Evey turned back to hand the bullhorn to Finch. Several cries from the crowd distracted her before she completed the exchange.
"Where's V?"
"What did he say?"
"V should tell us what to do!"
"Where's V?"
Evey's hand convulsively tightened, nearly cracking the plastic grip of the bullhorn. She turned back to the mass, now chanting "Where's V?" She had to clear her throat before speaking.
"You wish to know where V is?" she asked. A roar sounded in reply. "You need only to look around."
Confusion met her answer. Costumed figures were turning to regard each other, clearly puzzled.
"He is here today," she continued, voice gaining strength. "He is all around, in all of you. V is all of us."
Evey felt Finch's hand come to rest on her shoulder. He squeezed lightly. Evey looked back to him, holding his serious gaze. She gave a small nod of thanks. The moment was broken when someone else shouted from the throng.
"If we don't bust up these Yardies now, then they'll just be a waiting army for Sutler and Creedy," claimed the male voice. "I say we end it now."
The babble of voices increased exponentially at that assertion. Evey found herself speaking before she really considered her words.
"Sutler and Creedy are dead," she shouted. Shocked calm washed over the crowd momentarily, before a wave of voices blasted at her. Finch's hand on her shoulder tightened almost painfully. The police officers were turning to one another, too astonished to keep formation at this extraordinary proclamation. The tumult was so great that Evey saw the disturbance in the center of the mass too late to react.
The sunlight glinted off the silver pistol as it pointed at her. A bright flash, the pistol bucked upwards, and a fiery pain ripped into Evey's side. She heard Finch grunt behind her and then she was falling. The stone steps seemed to rush up at her and she struck them painfully. Chaos erupted with the sound of the pistol's sharp report.
Sterling General Practice – Two hours earlier
"People like you would put me out of business," Dr. Sterling said as he removed another surgical staple from V's abdomen. "They would just stay home for a few days, rest up a bit, and then go on back to work."
"I am sure skills such as yours will always be valued, Doctor," V replied politely. Sterling merely gave him a wry look while dropping the staple into a plastic sharps container.
"I see my clever attempt at engaging you in a conversation as a means of distraction has failed," the doctor noted. He pulled out another staple. "You were supposed to argue with me about the likelihood of there being other people like you."
"My apologies," V said, a hint of humor in his tone. "Clearly my convalescence has had an adverse effect on my ability to spot conversational cues."
"Take heart," said Helen from across the room by a supply cabinet. "At least he didn't try to tell you that dreadful story about the night the busload of dancing girls came in the ER from that double-decker accident."
"Hey!" Sterling exclaimed, pointing the staple removal tool at Helen. "Every word of that story is true and you know it."
"I never said it was false," Helen replied airily. "Merely that it was dreadful."
V watched this verbal exchange with the same keen interest he always felt when observing the interplay between the Sterlings. He often wondered how the interest and affection so apparent between them could have been sustained for forty-plus years of marriage. The plays, novels, and movies that made up the majority of V's understanding of human relationships usually dealt with the thrill of first meetings and immediate infatuations, or the pining of silent unrequited love. Long-lasting unshakable unions such as the Sterling's were sorely lacking in literature and film. V supposed this was because they made for poor drama.
Dr. Sterling removed the last staple and placed it in the container. He then began to apply sterile wound strips over the abdominal incision, covering the tiny holes left by the staples. "If we'd left these in another day I think the skin would have started growing over them."
"Then I thank you for removing them today," V said. Dr. Sterling laughed.
"I think he's feeling better, Helen," the doctor said. He finished applying the strips and cleaned up the supplies from the staple removal procedure. V pulled the covers up to his chest.
"That's good," Helen said, stepping over to the bed with a shoebox in her hands. "I have a surprise for you, William."
"Yes, Madam?" V inquired.
"Well, go on," Helen said, handing V the plain brown box. "Open it up."
V pulled the lid off. Inside the box, nestled among crumpled sheets of tissue paper, was the preserved Scarlet Carson rose. V reached down with a slightly trembling hand to touch the rose gently. It had a strange texture from the matte sealant. Dr. Sterling quietly left the bedside to dispose of the refuse from the procedure and to give V a moment to compose himself. Helen watched him sympathetically.
"You were clutching it as though your life depended on it when you showed up here," she said softly to V. "It was the least I could do."
"You have my sincerest thanks, Mrs. Sterling," V said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat and quickly replaced the lid. "You both do. There is no way I could ever hope to repay your generosity."
Dr. Sterling walked up to stand at Helen's shoulder. He looked at V seriously before speaking.
"What you've done for England in the past year far and away pays for any kindnesses from us," he said. Helen echoed the sentiment. V dropped his eyes to the box in his lap.
"We'll leave you to rest up, lad," Sterling said. The two bid V good bye and left the room. V contemplated the plain box before he gently set it on the bedside table. He swung his feet around and stood beside the bed. The IV line and monitoring electrodes had all been removed earlier that morning. A quick visual inspection of his body revealed new pink skin covering the bullet wounds. V touched the skin gingerly, pleased with the progress of his healing. He pulled on the clothes that Dr. Sterling had left.
V heard the code being keyed into the electronic lock on the door. He hastily pulled the hood over his head and was facing the door with his bare hands clasped behind his back when it clicked open. A young man, perhaps in his late teens, slipped into the room and quickly shut the door behind him. When he turned away from the door to face the room, and saw the black-hooded form of V regarding him, he jumped slightly. V merely tipped his head to the side a fraction of an inch. The young man seemed to gather his nerve before speaking.
"I know who you are," he said in a rush. He swallowed thickly, his brown eyes wide underneath a shaggy mop of dark hair.
"Then you have me at a disadvantage," V replied. "As I cannot make the same claim."
"I'm Tommy," he said, then cleared his throat and continued in a deeper voice. "Er, I mean Thomas. Thomas Sterling."
Tommy strode forward, emboldened by V's calm demeanor, and stuck out his hand to shake. V inclined his head politely, but made no move to take the proffered hand. He also pointedly did not offer his own name in return. After an awkward moment Tommy dropped his hand to his side.
"I presume you are one of Dr. Sterling's grandchildren?" V said, his intonation making it clear he was asking a question.
"Yeah. There's me, and Jacob and Sarah," Tommy replied. "We've lived here ever since Mum and Dad were taken away by the Fingermen."
"I'm sorry," V said, sympathy in his voice. Tommy looked at the floor before responding.
"Don't be," he said. "Honestly, I don't remember them all that well. Jake and Sarah are older. They miss them more."
Tommy seemed to fall into a reverie after that statement. V gently cleared his throat.
"Much as I am enjoying our introduction," V said. "Would you care to explain why you slipped in here, against the orders of your grandparents?"
Tommy looked up at V. His eyes burned with a sudden passion.
"I'm here to ask you to come to a rally," Tommy said. V's brow creased at this statement, but his response was hidden by the black cloth covering his face. Tommy seemed to take his silence as permission to continue.
"There's a bunch of people going to march to the Yard at noon today," he said, words spilling out in a rush. "They're going to tell the cops they're no longer needed. I figured you could come and encourage us…"
Tommy's voice trailed off. V considered the earnest young man carefully before replying.
" 'Singular indeed that the people should be writhing under oppression and injury,' " said V. " 'And yet not one among them to be found, to raise the voice of complaint.' "
"I'm sorry?" Tommy said with a puzzled expression.
"I apologize, it was a poor attempt at irony," V replied, further confusing the young man. "It sounds to me as though you have courage enough for the task ahead."
"Look, you don't have to say anything or even let people know who you are," Tommy entreated. "I think if he ever finds out it would make Grandfather feel better if he knew you were there with me."
V spoke after a long pause. "Perhaps it would be good to take in the air."
Tommy sighed with relief.
"That's great," Tommy said. "Um, look I need to run and get my costume. I'll be back in a few minutes. We can take the moped!"
Tommy dashed from the room; V watched him go with a bemused air. He walked over to the plastic container against the wall. Boots and gloves were pulled from the box and put on. The wig followed in short order, after V pulled off the hood. He hesitated as he pulled out the cloak. The garment was clean, but still riddled with bullet holes. The mask also still bore the signs of the encounter in Victoria Station. V traced the bullet gouges on the surface of the mask. The uncertainty that had assailed him in previous days returned full force. To put the mask on again was a simple thing, but it carried with it the whole of V's identity of the past twenty years. An identity that V was no longer sure fit. It was a simple thing, to put on that mask; as simple as it was irrevocable.
But the mask in his hands was not the same as it had been before Victoria Station. Perhaps it was possible to change an identity crafted over two decades. V decisively brought the mask up to his face, tying the straps snugly. The cloak was thrown across his shoulders with the same firmness. His hat capped the ensemble. Tommy entered the room just as V was settling the hat on his head.
"Ready?" he asked V. The young man's eyes widened as V turned around to face him. Tommy held a mask, hat and wig in his hands. A cloak was already settled on his shoulders.
"Lead on," V replied.
Tommy and V left the moped several blocks away from New Scotland Yard. The crowds were becoming thicker as they approached their destination. V found himself mirrored in all the faces around him. Some people stared curiously at V's haggard appearance, but he ducked past them. Tommy followed in his wake. They arrived near the rear of the large gathering in front of New Scotland Yard. V found he had to restrain a feeling of claustrophobia at the thick press of bodies. The feeling worsened when Finch began to speak to the restless throng. People pushed and shoved insistently as emotions ran high.
Despite his greater-than-average height, V couldn't see the immediate cause of Finch's sudden descent down the steps over the forest of black hats. When Evey mounted the steps in Finch's place, V found his breath stolen away. Even over the distance that separated them her beauty moved him. To see her stepping into the role of teacher and creator of order, shook V to the core. It was only by sheer luck that V noticed the man about thirty feet in front of him.
The man wore a costume, like all the others in the crowd. What made him stand out was the marked lack of response he exhibited to Evey's speech. The man raised his hand to the side of his head. V could see a glint of light flash off the golden metal of the communication device in the man's hand. Only members of the Norsefire government carried such devices. V started to push his way toward the man. The Fingerman, as V was now convinced that's what the man was, put the communication device into his pocket. He then drew a silver pistol from a holster in his waist, and aimed it toward the steps. V began violently tossing aside the people between him and the Fingerman.
The pistol fired before V reached the man. People screamed and tried to run away from the gunman. Some reached out to grab the Fingerman, and he turned and fired at them. Bodies fell around the man, and he turned to aim at toward the steps again. Just as his finger was tightening on the trigger V clamped down on his wrist with his left hand, crushing it mercilessly. The pistol fell to the pavement. He jerked the Fingerman around and started to strike him in the face. There was none of the deadly elegance that usually characterized V's fighting style. The blows were savage and brutally effective. The mask shattered on the first blow. The second, third and fourth blows drove the man to his knees. The fifth blow broke his neck. V dropped the limp body to the ground.
V turned back toward the stone steps. His gaze locked with Evey's and his breath left him once again.
Evey
Evey struck the stone steps, followed shortly by Finch. He threw himself over her, trying to shield her body with his own. Dominic scrambled down a few steps and also placed himself in front of Evey. His pistol was in his hand. The two lines of police officers collapsed toward the fallen trio, swarming over them. Evey was aware of a great confusion of bodies as heat and pain spread down her left side. Finch was pressing her into the cold stone, vocally urging her to stay down. Dominic faced the now-fleeing crowd, one hand on Evey's shoulder and the other holding his Glock.
Evey tried to sit up, to see what was happening, but the men kept her from rising. She tried to look past the forest of bodies between her and the crowd of people. It was all a blur of dark clad forms rushing to get away from the shooter and the advancing line of policemen. Evey almost turned away when a gap suddenly appeared in the mass of moving people. Time seemed to slow down and she saw the scene with a hyper-realism that magnified all the details.
She saw a tall costumed figure in the middle of the street gripping the wrist of a man on his knees. The kneeling figure was beaten bloody, his free arm weakly trying to fend off his attacker. The standing man savagely struck him in the face and Evey could see the man's head turn at an unnatural angle from the force of the blow. The dead man fell limply to the ground as the other man released his arm. The standing figure turned his masked face toward Evey. He seemed to look right at her.
Evey bit back a cry at the minor imperfections she saw on the mask's surface, barely perceptible at this distance. The cloak swayed sideways from the force of the man's turn and she could see daylight through several small holes in the fabric of the garment. Evey's mouth formed the name "V" as she stretched a hand toward the figure. His own hand rose toward her across the distance.
Their tenuous connection was broken when the gap was closed by more advancing policemen. Evey found herself lifted and carried toward the building. She tried to push the hands away, tried to fight them off so she could look again. Their grip was implacable and Evey was whisked away from the figure in the street.
V
V felt his hand rise of its own volition, stretching toward Evey. The moment of shared connection was broken when their gaze was interrupted by a flood of policemen moving into the street. Evey was gathered up and carried away. V took a step toward the building, his intentions unclear even to himself. Tommy ran up to his side and grasped his arm. Faintly, through the curious silence that had enveloped him, V heard the young man urging him to flee from the line of police. V looked at him with scant comprehension, and then looked back toward the steps. Evey was gone.
V gave in to the insistent young man's tugging on his arm and turned to leave.
End of Chapter 11
A/N: Some more borrowings from the GN in this chapter. As always, thank you for all the reviews and I want to thank my wonderful betas as well!
A/N2: I'm a little puzzled about Finch's actual title. In the movie he's called Chief Inspector, though the impression I get is that he should really be the Chief Constable (or Commissioner) since he seems to be the head of the police. The novelization implies that these titles were abolished when the new regime came to power (but then Dominic calls him Chief and Inspector). So, I've kept the title as Chief Inspector for continuity, but he's the head honcho for the Metropolitan Police Force here.
Quotation:
Abraham Lincoln, remarks in the Illinois legislature, January 11, 1837.—The Collected Works of Abraham Lincoln, ed. Roy P. Basler, vol. 1, p. 65 (1953).