Author's Note: Thank you for all of the reviews on the last chapter. Some of you heeded my warning, some of you didn't. I'll add that while you may guess, and I love to hear what you're thinking, I'm not going to respond to any theories, right or wrong.
IV.
"Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism - how passionately I hate them! " -Albert Einstein
Topside, the gears are still turning. The people have grown apathetic where the revolution is concerned, and no one has appeared to efficiently take the reins. Instead, there is talk again of Norsefire. Of the need for a return to order.
Funny, how the oppressive government suddenly seems attractive in comparison to the suffering the people have bought themselves.
Word of Sutler's death finally becomes official as Dascomb gets smart. In an attempt to regain the people's good faith, he makes a public announcement.
The people gather around the public viewing screens because there is no power in their homes.
"Good evening, London," says the perfectly manicured Dascomb, taking a page out of a wiser and better man's book. "Allow me to thank you for your time and attention. I bring you breaking news regarding the recent incidents of disorganization."
Somewhere in the crowd, obscenities ring out. Nobody bothers to turn and look. Words of anger have become the new soundtrack for the rebirth of London. On the screen, sixty feet of Dascomb's face continue to smile implacably.
"The difficult truth, which I regret I must divulge to you in the spirit of honesty, is that Chancellor Sutler was found dead early this morning. The damage to his body showed that he had likely been dead for several weeks." Dascomb grimaces politely, a man wracked with passion for his country. "The ugly truth is that he was betrayed by one of our most trusted leaders. It appears that Mr. Creedy became overzealous in his love for England. He worried about the Chancellor's ability to cope with recent events, and felt that he had to take action in the country's best interest. He did as he did not because he loved Chancellor Sutler any less, but because he loved England more."1
Another dramatic pause for effect. In the crowd, people are growing restless. From somewhere far back, a stone flies at the screen.
"Mr. Creedy has been subsequently punished for his actions," assures Dascomb, smiling once more. "Actions are being taken to ensure a swift return to normality. I know that we may be assured of the support of each and every one of you. If you are ashamed to stand by your colors, you had better seek another flag."2
There is, conspicuously, no mention of the Terrorist or the Revolution. More rocks fly from the crowd. As sparks begin to fly, the screen goes black.
"Something the matter, Chief?" asks Dominic, as Finch shucks off his coat like a tired stalk of corn. "You've been looking ill since…" He trails off.
"Anyone who has not been feeling ill lately," says Finch ominously, "is seriously lacking in conscience." He shuffles his way over to Dominic's desk, suddenly looking like a very old man.
Dominic flinches a little as Finch catches sight of the mask that's been lying on his desk since the fifth. He has wondered repeatedly what devil drove him to wear the thing, yet he does not regret his decision. There is something deeply satisfying in knowing what he has done, particularly in knowing that it was honest, a claim Dascomb will never be able to make.
"What is this, Dominic?" The older man picks up the grinning piece of plastic and contemplates the inside of it for a moment. He cocks his head at the jammer sitting on his partner's desk.
"I uh…it's mine, chief."
"Yours, Dominic?" The barest hint of a smile softens Finch's weary features. "Is there something you ought to be telling me?"
"I wore it," says Dominic firmly. "To Parliament, on the Fifth. I'm surprised nobody else knows about it yet."
Absently, Finch holds it up to his face and looks at his young partner through the eye slits. "You're very lucky in that regard, Dominic. Perhaps you've more people looking out for you than you thought."
"Come on, chief," scoffs Dominic. "You've never been one to go for that religious crap."
"You're right, of course," says Finch, handing back the mask and taking his seat at last. "What's today's order of business?"
"Riot during Dascomb's address, or so the hearsay goes." Dominic hands Finch a picture of the crowd, taken by a surveillance camera. Far back in the assemblage is a dark-haired man, his arm outstretched and a rock in his fist. In the picture, someone has circled his head with a red marker.
"Just one man?" asks Finch, taking the photo. Of course their job must continue; they will help in the return to order. Yet he is not ready yet, not ready to put behind him the life-shaking events of the past year. He has not gotten his answers yet, and no matter how many times he tells himself it's finished, he finds that he just can't let go.
"Retinal identification?" He has a feeling it wouldn't be on his desk were it that simple a matter.
Dominic shakes his head. "Unfortunately not, chief. The picture's good enough, but there appears to be some kind of genetic anomaly. Doesn't match anything in our database."
"Damn it," says Finch, a knot of acid frustration surfacing in his stomach. It has been his constant companion of late. "Seems to be our luck lately, doesn't it?"
"We're never going to find the bloke out there," says Dominic, and Finch knows that he is right. "Nothing but a bloody photograph, and he's one in a million dissidents right now."
"I know, Dominic," says Finch tiredly. "But we'll put up a good front trying."
Looking at the mask on Dominic's desk, Finch thinks that perhaps the man deserves his freedom more than they deserve their jobs.
In the streets, a masked figure watches as the screen sparks and pops. The people have turned on each other suddenly, searching for the man who has started the stone throwing. He is alone in a crowd of hundreds, and yet somehow they manage to pinpoint him almost instantly. Strange, how a mob can locate an individual so much more efficiently than the Finger's most advanced technology.
Quickly, the crowd collapses in on itself as the rioters make a beeline for the man. They are out for blood.
With a swish of black fabric, the figure dives into the crowd.
1 Inspired by Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.
2 Author Unknown