Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the graphic novel or the movie "V for Vendetta". They belong to David Lloyd, DC, Marvel, Vertigo, and all those other corporate entities and creative types (oh, heck, throw the Wachowski brothers in there, since they wrote the screenplay for the film and thus Sutler belongs to them). They do also belong to Alan Moore, but he would completely disassociate his involvement from this piece, since it's movieverse.
That being said, please enjoy!
Meeting the Maker
By Mimea
Adam Sutler set the order down on his desk with a sharp slap, his conscience turning the paper into stone. Once this task was done, it was irrevocable. The damage done, absolute. A few pen strokes, and the future would be set, immutable.
"What the bloody hell are you waiting for?" his zealous passion roared at him. "Don't hesitate! You do, and all will be lost! You MUST show the members of the party you are strong enough to be the leader of them all; that their faith in you will not go unrewarded. That you can rule this country with a hand of iron and a void where that pathetic thing called a 'heart' used to be. Your control must be absolute!"
The fingers of Sutler's hands stretched toward the pen, then curled back in involuntary horror.
"You are WEAK Sutler! It is weak links like you that you've been culling from the ranks for months. You give in now, Creedy will surpass you, rather than be your subordinate. He cannot win. You must NOT let him win! You have the charisma. You have the fire! You inspire the people! An example must be made. You must prove you will go to any lengths to ensure Norsefire's success. This will seal the deal. No one in the party will ever question your loyalties. Do this, and all your dreams are reality."
Sutler remembered the gloating expression on Creedy's face when he had brought in the camera footage and data files so "innocently". Saying it would be of "some interest" to him.
He had looked over the files in sheer disbelief, what he saw cutting him to the quick. He had been knocked out of his stupor only when the phone rang, a fellow party member beginning the ring of mockery he had been subjected to since. They were challenging him, tempering him. Ensuring they had the right man to unite Britain under one flag. One personality.
Strength through Unity. Unity Through Faith. The motto of Norsefire.
All at once, a deadly calm swept through him. Had not Abraham been asked to sacrifice his only son as an offering, as proof of his absolute loyalty?
And... that insidious voice he both loved and loathed whispered, did not God see fit to stay Abraham's hand at the last?
Swiftly, before he could hesitate more, he took up the pen.
"I, Adam Sutler, Head of the Norsefire Party, do this day warrant the arrest and detention of one Virgil Sutler, on the grounds of treason against the party, and possession of unlawful materials."
His signature was forceful, bleeding through to the blotter beneath.
He rang in his secretary, a rather rat-like man he doubted would last through the rise to power. But he served his purpose for now. The man accepted the paper timidly, his eyes wide and his hand trembling slightly in shocked disbelief.
"But, sir..." he quavered. Sutler sat back, stony and resolute, knowing that this man and the proper response would forever cement his unwavering determination to re-unite London under the Norsefire flag. "What of his wife? And their child? At least, the girl. She's your own flesh and blood!"
"So is my son," Sutler replied, unnaturally calm. "His wife is to be detained as is proper protocol for the spouse of a traitor. As for the girl..." The last spark of humanity winked out, and the fanatic remained. "I leave up to the discretion of the arresting officer."
Twenty years later:
"I should have made him chalk a 'V' on his door. But, alas, that would have been too obvious. Although it's really too bad that lamb's blood would make such an awful stain," V mused.
Creedy would be spared, momentarily, in order to do the task that V could not bring himself to complete with his own hand.
November the 3rd. Less than 48 hours before he sent his lovingly-restored train down the tracks he'd lain to finish a task began over 400 years previous.
True, Fawkes's building had been razed in the years intervening, but he was referring to the symbol that Parliament was. That overbearing yet ultimately benign building, whose idea of leadership by the people had been so thoroughly corrupted.
Tomorrow night, everything would fall into place.
V stared at the thousands of dominoes he'd set up. One wrong movement, one breath of air at the wrong time, and they would all fall too early. He could not have that. So he watched and waited, biding his time until the grand finale. His vendetta would be played out in its entirety, and the people would have the hope of freedom once more.
They had tried to make him forget. And he had, for the longest time. Chemically erasing his very identity until he had only what he thought was his cell number left to call himself. "The patient in room five". Five. Roman numeral "V". Yet, as the years went by, flashes of insight would come to him, until it all came into vicious clarity as he had been so peacefully and painstakingly continuing to weave his plan, to orchestrate the movements that swept the populace into action.
Who he had been. What pieces of the "V" persona were truly him, and which pieces were only a part of the mask he wore in lieu of an identity. He hadn't really much cared until recently. His mind must have taken a route purely of its own choosing. While he was only an idea, he didn't even consider that he was anything other than "V".
Until he met Evey.
She brought out what humanity had been left in him, and after she left, he found he actually had been trying to forge a connection somewhere. To find out, in essence, the man that somehow had learned to love. For a pure idea could not love, and as much as he hated to admit it, that force had come into his existence. He had felt the sensation before. He knew it. But where?
And like his dominoes would do the next day, everything fell into place, bombarding him with answers he didn't even want. It had left him weak and shaking, gasping for breath. His life did not flash before his eyes; it pummelled him mercilessly.
It took him most of the night to wrestle his emotions back away. To become the aloof idea he was most comfortable with. But he succeeded. The populace was counting on him now. If they marched, and they would march, he had promised to provide the backdrop. He refused to go back on his word.
That morning, he stretched out a finger, and with a gentle tap, sent the entire construct toppling down to give rise to a new design.
November the 4th, late evening
"I want to see his face."
Such an ironic request. And yet, it gave him fierce pleasure. Now he was the one in control. He was the one that had sent down the order of execution. The condemned had died and stood resurrected before a weak little man who felt the weight of death crushing him.
The black bag was removed. Sutler stared at his surroundings in frenzied panic.
No, this man had never known true pain. He had not been baptized in fire or rain. He had held ideas fervently, putting them before even his own family. In this respect, there was little to choose between them. They were both killers. Yet V was the more honest kind. He had gotten blood on his hands more than figuratively. He did not deny he was a monster. V knew that death was his due, and would come soon. He would find peace in it. He would never again know the terror that turned the charismatic Sutler into a whining, snivelling scrap. He supposed he should have thanked the man. But he was not feeling particularly charitable at that moment.
V came closer to Sutler, taunting him. Would he realize? Would he see beyond the mask?
Sutler's eyes widened even further, his body now shaking uncontrollably and his pleas more incoherent. V met those horrified eyes with his own, and recognition was unmistakable.
He nearly wavered. Nearly undid all that he had planned. Yet then that same cold resolution that he knew must have swept through Sutler so many years ago froze his heart, stunning his conscience. That ice carried through to his voice as he spoke. "Shoot him."
V could not watch. All he heard was Creedy's contemptuous sneer. "Pathetic." Then a single gunshot.
Beneath the mask, unheard by any of the others in the dank platform, V murmured to himself, "Don't hold your parents up to contempt. After all, you are their son, and it is just possible that you may take after them."
Then he turned to at last bring everything full circle.
November the 4th, approaching the midnight hour:
"V!"
Oh yes, he knew that voice. Evey had been waiting for him. He'd known she would be. She was quite intelligent, but she was very good at ignoring subtle hints she wasn't interested in comprehending. As he crumpled to the floor, he wondered if she even had an inkling of how much he had told her, how much of himself he had revealed in his parting bon mot.
"Where're you going?"
"The time has come for me to meet my maker, and to repay him in kind for all that he's done."
He could not share the memories of his past life, and he felt a curious sense of relief that she had never seen that the eyes he kept so well hidden were an exact copy of those that had stared a nation into submission for nearly a generation.
But, he could make one last confession. Even if his sins were too great for absolution.
He would make her understand that he loved her. He had to live long enough to tell her that, if only just.
For the last time he had loved a woman, the last words he had said to her were not kind at all. When he died this time, death of body, not only of spirit, he would make sure his beloved knew how much she meant to him.
Fin
The quote V uses about becoming your parents is by Evelyn Waugh.
Author's Note: This is what happens when a vicious plot bunny sinks its teeth into you and won't let go until you've gotten it all out. The concept for this piece had been floating around in my headspace ever since I saw the movie for the fourth time, and that particular line about meeting his maker struck me.. what if he wasn't just talking about "meeting his maker" as "he's going to die" and "he's going to face off with the man who made him who he is", but rather Sutler literally made him. Or at least, can claim halvesies. The catalyst was seeing "Twistedmind"'s challenge to write about V's past at the Vigilante forums. It came to me, all at once. Even I didn't know how it was going to turn out, but I really like the way it did.
As for the references to V's possible pre-Larkhill family, it's all in my headspace. I do know what happened to them, but I'm saving it in case the potential novel in my head actually pans out for once.
All reviews are welcome! Constructive criticism and praise are both adored. Flames will be used to roast marshmallows, yum!