Disclaimer: Ah, always a disclaimer. Right: I don't own V for Vendetta. Alan Moore and his associates do...not to mention Warner Brothers Entertainment. Me? I'm just a loser writing fanfiction. That is all.
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"In sooth, I know not why I am sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you:
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff't is made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn."

The Merchant of Venice, Act 1:1

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"Authorities made a gruesome discovery today twenty miles west of Norwich. The bodies of over thirty men and women, all presumed dead or missing as of November of 2030, have been found in mass graves outside the once-infamous Green Willow rehabilitation and detention centre. It is believed that at one point the victims were prisoners within Green Willow. Their identities are at this time unknown.

"In other news, discussion of rebuilding the Parliament building was debated today in the—"

Click.

The room abruptly became silent. I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes, bringing up two hands to massage my temples. A headache was looming in the back of my skull, throbbing quietly with a warning of what was yet to come. I tried to ignore it. Unless I took an aspirin soon, I had a feeling that the pain was only going to grow worse.

But it had been like that for the past five months. Always around the late evening, a gnawing feeling started at my back and chewed its way up to my brain, burrowing in for what seemed like a permanent stay.

I know why they happen, of course…Never the less the pain is no release. It is, if anything, a restriction upon my life.

Abruptly the loud gong of a grandfather clock pulled me out of my reverie. Without opening my eyes, I counted along with it, groaning with frustration as the realization came that is was three in the morning. This was the second night with no sleep; anymore and I'd collapse from exhaustion. It was time to try to sleep.

I finally opened my eyes, though with exaggerated slowness, and stared dully at the television, lids flickering and drooping as they fought to stay open.

There was nothing on to watch. Though BBC was on all hours of the day, it mainly consisted of garbage. Granted, no longer was BTN in service—nevertheless the news was rarely good. But what is one to expect? The country had just undergone a revolution, for God's sake.

And yet…

It seemed like the span of a blink. One minute I was staring dully at nothing, fight to keep away sleep. The next minute the clock barked once again, heralding the arrival of four a.m.

Blink.

Time moves too fast for any to really comprehend it. This was no special situation.

A small vibrating noise came from my right. Slowly I swiveled my head to glance at the mobile lying on the cushion next to me. A moment's pause, before the phone was picked up and turned on. Without speaking, I brought it to my ear.

"Evey," a sleep-weary voice said, sounding just as tired as I felt, "got to sleep."

Beat of silence.

"Good morning," I said, taking the greeting literally before punching 'end'.

Nothingness once again impounded the area. I rose off the couch, stared one more time at my phone then staggered around the furniture, oblivious to the homey grandeur that was now my home. I had taken what V had promised me to the heart. For some reason, to turn it down seemed if not stupid an insult to his memory. He had given me my freedom and self. This seemed like the least I could have done.

The bedroom was still the same—precarious rows of books herded about the doorway, the bed, the walls. Some climbed up the sides of the room, reaching nearly the ceiling and then on, oblivion. Others seemed to be clinging to one another by just a sun-faded page, barely hanging on. Always I wondered how V got the books the way they are, and then I decided that ultimately it was irrelevant.

Glancing over at the nightstand, the lamp dimly illuminating the room, I spied Macbeth lying spineless and dog-eared. It had seen better days, and my sudden and voracious reading of Shakespeare only seemed to make its condition worse.

"Go to sleep."

The words rang through my head, quietly reminding me what I really needed to do. I had to hand it to the man. Though Finch, a detective and an (ex)-member of the Party and I had been on opposite sides of society, myself being carted around with a terrorist and he the one who was chasing the terrorist, one thing or another had brought us together and created an awkward friendship. We both never slept, though it seemed that I was winning the horrible contest at the moment, and we both had seen V. Granted, Finch knew more than I about the past of the man who had completely changed my life than I did, but the fact existed we had both been there when V's body, wreathed with roses, fertilizer, and a dream, slowly started it's journey on the Underground to Parliament. We had both heard Tchaikovsky's most famous overture blaring over loudspeakers everywhere. From then on, we became careful friends.

Don't think too deeply into what I just said—Finch is merely my watchdog and I his.

Staggering over to the bed and wearily pulling back the already rumpled covers, I fell backwards onto a pillow, burrowing down like a hedgehog or something and curling up. Suddenly it occurred to me how tired I was, and within minutes, I was out.

I didn't even bother to turn off the light.

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"Jesus, Effie. You look like shit."

Blinking at Christine beneath my cap, eyes expressionless, I slowly took a sip of my tea. For a moment we both evaluated each other before she raised her hands in exasperation and shook her head.

"It's almost pointless for me to try to tell you anything, isn't it?"

Another sip of tea. Christine grunted at my silent reply before leaning forward across the table and motioned me forward like she had a secret to tell.

"Do you remember Evey Hammond?"

A nod from me.

"The one who got black-bagged a year and a half ago?"

I sipped louder this time to make a point.

"They found her body."

I had to try very hard not to spit out the tea I just had taken a drink from, surprised at my name—or, the old name I had had—being spoken of to the extent that I was dead. If we wanted to be frank with ourselves, I was. Evey Hammond died in the January of last year after being found in a house that contained the Koran. Everyone else knew me as Effie Hasbrook. It wasn't the most original name, but no one really seemed to notice.

Christine noticed me lurching in surprise and grinned, mismatched teeth glittering mischievously.

"Shocking, isn't it?"

I nodded quickly, putting a napkin under the little tea splotches I had just made on the table.

"You know," she said, cocking her head and watching me carefully, "if you had more hair you would look a lot like her."

I raised an eyebrow in reply.

"No, I'm serious. I mean, you have the same nose, same voice…but your eyes are different. You look a lot more determined then Evey. She let everyone walk all over her."

Clearing my throat, I spoke quietly.

"Were you good friends with her?"

Christine gave me a surprised look at me actually talking before forcing a Parisian-like shrug. "Nah. But she had worked at the BTN with me. Mainly moved boxes around and whatnot. She was the random tasks division of our work force."

"And then?"

Christine once again shrugged, and her gaze grew stony. "What else? She was black-bagged along with Dietrich in January, never to be seen again. They had killed him on the spot for having the Qur'an in his house…I'm not quite sure what happened to Evey, though."

Inwardly I felt a twinge of sadness at Dietrich's name. He had taken me under his wing, and in the both we died.

Or, at least, Dietrich and Evey died. I'm not quite sure about Effie, though.

"Effie?"

I shook my head, trying to banish the demons. "Yeah?"

"You alright? You look frazzled." Christine eyed me carefully, watching for a reaction.

I gave her a forced but polite smile. "I'm fine," I said gently. "Just a little tired."

"Hmm," she said, reaching for her cup, one blond eyebrow raised above mottled hazel eyes, "you look a lot more than 'just tired.'"

I shot the woman an annoyed look.

I had known Christine when I had worked at BTN, but obviously, we were in a different world now.

For a week after V had blown up the Parliament widespread anarchy had ensued. Theft, arson, murder…Like all countries after a revolution, England had been in chaos. But suddenly, just as fast as it had started, the riots and anarchy ended. We all got a hold of ourselves and tried to piece the country back together. I had ran into Christine as she was charging her way down the sidewalk north of Regent's park one day after November 5th and the beginning of the pandemonium. We had both apologized profusely, but then abruptly got into a conversation and then Christine had invited me over for a cup of tea, though I believe now that she had done that just to get us both away from the rioting not too far in any direction. From then on, we were friends. Besides Finch, she really was the only friend I had.

Christine put one hand up to signal defeat at me shooting her a look of death before leaning back and putting her tea down on the table. Christine glanced around for a moment, then looked down at the small gold watch on her wrist. Her small form abruptly stiffened and she shot up from the table.

"Oh shit!"

I looked at her expectantly.

"I'm late for work." Christine explained, pulling on her overcoat and wrapping a scarf around her neck. I blinked once to emphasis I had not been notified of this change in her life, and as Christine pulled on her gloves she elaborated. "I just got hired to work as a writer for BBC."

A gentle smile from me.

"I know," she continued, beaming. "It's a great improvement for me..." Christine glanced once again at her watch and muttered under her breath before glancing at me and throwing some pounds on the table. "I'm so sorry for leaving like this, Effie, but I'm sure you understand. Bye!"

And just as fast as she had come, Christine was gone, moving quickly out of the café and onto the sidewalk. I watched her heavily padded form weave its way through traffic and then she was gone. In her absence, quiet conversation from nearby tables began to filter my way.

"And so I says to him—"

"Do you really think they're going to rebuild Parliament?"

"We just found the papers. Anna didn't stand a chance."

"This is great tea, James. Why didn't you tell me about this place before?"

"Well, I—"

Within seconds another headache began to gnaw impatiently at my skull. Wincing, I lowered my eyes to the pounds lying forlornly on the table and then at my own watch and sighed.

It was about time for me to go, anyway. I had a shift starting at 12. Where was it?

A bookstore, believe it or not. Not that Sutler was gone, millions of once outlawed novels began to flood in. England was ravenous for knowledge, for the things they had lost for more than twenty years. And they got them. Bookstores rushed in and out with Eulicid's The Elements, Shakespeare, Mein Kampf, War and Peace, and thousands of others. It was incredible.

Though I was just happy that I had a job where I wasn't watched every moment of my life. What was in a bookstore was truth—or something pertaining to it. For some reason, it had brought me closer to my father. He had been a writer, and though my memory about childhood was often very foggy I remember him reading to me. To be able to have the gift myself made me feel like he was still there.

Though Finch had told me he had died in camp, just like almost everyone else.

Time to leave.

I sighed deeply, then began to bundle my coat on. Christine had paid for the tip—there wasn't a lot I really had to do.

Slowly I turned my eye towards the outside and noted the ever-darkening clouds. Another day of gloom. But who was to say it wasn't for the best?

Who knew. I began to walk my way outside and within minutes was swept up into the crowd.

Just another anonymous piece of flotsam in the sea.