It's been five years now. Five years since that fated day that I allowed my heart to see what I had known for most of my life. Out society that had been crafted for us needed to change. He had shown me its flaws, and the beautiful things denied to our country to keep us under control. To keep us passive. To keep us safe.

V. How the sound is sweet to my ears and fills my soul. With what? Too much for words. A man with a face that destiny denied me even a hint at. It was never important though. Every word that echoed from his lips held my heart at a stop for just a moment. Even that ridiculous line that he threw at me when we first met. It always brings a smile to my lips when I think of it. It reminded me that despite his self-learned appreciation for life, he had never been given the chance to live it.

I wiped away a tear before it could fall. I would make this a world he had hoped for. A world he might have had a chance in.

The revolution started the year of the explosion. From our place on the balcony, the inspector and I had seen the magnificent view. It was a funeral like no other, and a birth of the next stage in our country's history. However we had been fools to think that it would end so easily; that a revolution of one relatively small group of people on one section of our country's land would be able to change the course of a nation overnight. There was a lot of violence that first year.

Naturally, it was not that way at first. Those who had been in direct authority had been subdued for eternity, but it was not the end. With the fall of Sutler, the opportunities presented themselves. Funny thing about those in politics, is they never seem to stop coming.

One man, by the name of Fredrick Thomas took responsibility of the title of 'Chief in Command' until things were to get more in order. It was an elected title and placement between the most wealthy and highest leaders that still remained. It was a farce to those who cared to look. It was merely happening all over again, but the people were trying.

At first it seemed to work. Thomas and the remaining aspects of the government claimed to agree with the needed changes. They took it upon themselves to get things under order once more as a number of people decided to start some form of negotiations. We had our representatives; people who spoke out in protest when there were new 'solutions' introduced. Jack Fulner, an owner of some of the larger agricultural facilities, was one. As well as Alissa MacDonald, one of the wealthiest women in London, and Michael Higgins, a small-time shopkeeper with a loud voice. There were many others…but those were a few of the first and most influential. The concept of privacy was reintroduced. It was pushed to the side, temporarily they said, until the rash outbreak of violent crimes calmed down. Crimes they claimed were initiated by the issuing of masked costumes.

And so the negotiations were created and continued. Groups of people started arranging community meetings separating into sections of the city of London and its surrounding neighbors. Someone would be elected to go represent them, those represented would be heard, and somehow manipulated to seeing things the way Thomas had presented it to them. It had actually become a pattern. They rarely ever came back to the gatherings. We heard it was a 'personal' meeting with the man, just the two of them to chat. That was all. The news would hold an interview later agreeing that problems were being worked out and until that time, to decease any unnecessary violence or treasonous acts. People who consulted with those fanatics would be dealt with accordingly, it was proclaimed.

Higgins stood at the Chief's side that day. His normally warm brown eyes no longer displayed either, instead the strange shade of metallic blue that we had noticed from every other previous member upon exit. It was unnatural. We still to this day, have people investigating into what occurs during those meetings, but it ends in failure or a loss.

BTN was reconstructed under more strict guidelines. Everyone was profiled before being allowed access, let alone a position. Laws were created to 'ensure the validness of the broadcast.' Yet only those allowed access could determine if the laws were being followed. We had four to five close members who worked for them. We knew the restrictions were bull.

The military itself held its tongue as usual, not showing its true face during the day. But night became another story. Through fear and propaganda, people were quick to believe the newly created stories that the curfew was an important process in the changing powers. They were quick to believe the stories of the aggressive revoltists who ran free under the cover of night to attack as they pleased. It slowly became worse and worse. True to form, there were in fact those who prowled the dark, but it was not the revoltists. We were accused for the actions of those corrupt men and women who were handed weapons and a little bit of power.

They continued to monitor everyone closely. People started disappearing. There were threats. Suddenly, things we had been trying to push into becoming accepted, becoming public, were further pushed into secrecy. The people backed down again. Was it worth it to put their children in danger? Their loved ones in the path of something that could be prevented with mere acceptance of the social limitations?

Dwight D. Eisenhower once said that freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed. Or else, like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die. I learned that from one of many of the random selection of books found in the comforting walls of the hidden cove I had inherited. The inspector had known where it was, but he had been found dead no more than a year later. No one else was ever told, nor had anyone discovered the Shadow Gallery's existence. I vowed to keep it that way.

The people had lost their voice. Every one that had come to take the stand had fallen of a will that fought against, not for the people. There was no longer a face they could look up to. How many years had it been since V had so valiantly given the nation a nudge only to fall, near forgotten through the years? I kept his story told, for what little I knew through writings and the meetings we still kept in secret. We shared knowledge, and experiences. Tales of oppression and rebuttal.

But I was tired of waiting for a hero that could never return. For that opportunity that would never come. Waiting for a people who would be encouraged by their own inspiration and actions. Under a mask, all seemed to grow in courage. But once that mask had faded, once the illusion of immortality had passed, the cowardness of years of conformity were allowed to surface once more.

I've tried the more conventional means. I've tried to mingle in the slow moving revolution of this determined political domination. Something needs to change, and it needs to change soon.

…………………………..

The young woman looked down at the scrolled paper on the wooden table. A quill in her hand. It had the look of his touch. Elegant, even for something so simple as the reminiscence of the changes and lack of in the past few years. She briefly worried if someone read it years later if it would be of any use. It was only one of many. This one she had determined to create as a summary she had long put off.

E.V.

The letters of her signature flowed from the ink with an ease of skilled practice. Ever Vigilant, she had vowed in what seemed so long ago. Vigilant to the cause but more importantly to the people. Something she had realized was lacking. She like so many others had grown quiet. For what was vigilance without any hope.

The pen was placed down, and she leaned down blowing lightly on the quickly drying ink. Evey gave it a moment before rolling it tightly, clasping it with a richly colored ribbon of red. She took it to Valerie's shrine and to the loosen brick she had discovered. As it was pulled away, other similarly crafted scrolls were revealed, pushed into the condensed space. Another memory, another thought added to the time capsule. When replaced, the brick hid any suggestion of misplacement. Just in case. It never hurt to plan ahead.

She quickly drifted into V's bedroom. It had never been turned into her own, opting to keep to the one he had first given her. A replica of his costume lay on the bed. A mask hung with dusted care off a corner of the mirror. To the side, another mask was hung. It was a blood red hue with a feminine design. It was made to cover only a partial of the face, around the eyes and down the bridge of the nose. She removed it, placing it on her own face and tying the black silk around her tightly bound hair. She had a man she was going to meet.

The woman checked her black clothed body. Her leather gloves pulled firmly. A small smile formed as she made her way to the exit.

"Better not be late…" she whispered to no one other than herself.

……………………………….

Voice Over: In film terms is when there is a scene portrayed and a narrator (character of omniscient) has a recorded voice that plays while the film is screening. Often it refers to a person speaking of the past or explaining a situation.

A.N.- Thanks for those reviews that are coming in. I luvum very very much. Not giving away anything yet. But would love to hear if you like where this could head, or if you had any ideas as well. Will consider if offered, but until then, going along with what's coming to me.

Cat Soup- glad I inspired something, and hope to see it soon!