(Disclaimer): Je ne possède pas « V pour Vendetta » ou n'importe lequel de lui est des caractères. Merci.

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"Every man has memories which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal to even his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind."

Notes from Underground—Fyodor Dostoevky

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> "Hello?"

"How 'important' is this matter, really, Mr. Finch?"

Pause.

"Evey? Is that you?"

"The name is Effie, now, Mr. Finch. But how can I help you?"

There was another longer and more frozen pause over the line. Already, though, it spoke volumes. I had a feeling I was not going to like the news I would hear.

"There are some things," the Lieutenant began slowly, "that I believe I have to discuss with you."

Instantly I was on my guard. Granted, Finch and I regarded each other as uneasy allies, but I was still careful. I did not want to be prosecuted, did not want to somehow trip my way into a trap. I had done that many times before, and every single time I only bruised myself up to the point where there was barely recognition, mentally and maybe physically.

"Like what?"
There was a faintly aggravated sigh from Finch. The man wasn't in the mood to play games, and usually I wasn't, either. But that night hadn't been ordinary. I had been plagued by monsters that I thought I had shoved back into the closet a long time ago.

Apparently, though, that was not the case.

A voice emanated from the opposite side of the connection. "You know, Evey, what and whom I am talking about."

This time I was the one who gave a beat of silence, mouth partially open as though to speak and hand clutching my mobile in a claw.

"Evey? Are you there?"
I blinked twice, shuttering my eyes to regain normalcy, cleared my throat. Reflexively one of my hands went to my head, running through the fuzz that was becoming hair. It felt strangely comforting, that gesture I usually did when nervous. It calmed me down.

"I'm here, Mr. Finch."

"Well?"

A small flicker of movement darted into my peripheral vision. It was only the telly, which I had turned to mute. Nevertheless, for some reason it caught my attention, the odd and distorted fading, jumping and amplifying of the light across the screen as it created images. Normal, yes, but strangely enough it gave me resolve.

I firmly began to believe I was going mad. What kind of person becomes calm and makes their mind up after staring at a television?

I turned away from the television and braced one hand under my elbow, eyes roving the front room.

"When, and where?"

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Simplicity is something very difficult to come across in life nowadays, and yet, as I sat, perched on the metal café chair, legs crossed and hand cradling a mug of tea, I couldn't help but feel somewhat—simple. At ease.

Maybe it's true, then. All you need to make things better is a cup of tea.

…Maybe.

It was the night after my phone call with Mr. Finch. The arrangement was a simple one—meet at the Felix café across from where Evey Hammond had lived. I didn't need to say much beyond that—Finch had understood almost instantly what I was talking about. Which was good.

There was a motion on my left. Instead of swiveling my head complete to observe what I knew was coming, I merely used my eyes to watch, allowing them to follow the movement as it drew across the front door, dodged clumsily around a couple of chairs and finally came to rest in front of me, giving a somewhat perturbed glance around before pulling out the other steel chair and sitting down—though slowly, as if old and weary of the world.

Which, ultimately, Mr. Finch was.

Our greeting was a respectful silence. Finch gave me, the cup of tea, and the table a look before speaking. When he finally opened his mouth, it sounded as though he had just recovered from a cold.

"Are you drinking Earl Grey?"

A bizarre conversation starter, maybe, but this was going to be a bizarre conversation.

I shook my head.

"Orange spice." I replied, giving a closed smile. "I outgrew Earl a long time ago."

The good detective cocked his head curiously at the statement, then shrugged.

"I'm not much of a tea drinker, anyway."

He quickly flagged down a waiter—pimply kid who clearly had not grown into his skin yet—and asked for coffee

A bit of dead nothing dropped on the table, covering the area in a sort of conversation fog. For a moment it clouded both our vision, causing the air to seem unbearably hot and my chair to be as though on fire, but then…just as fast as it came, the fog drifted, moving to some other table and to another conversation, ready to make everything more difficult to talk, listen and see through. I began to peel myself away from the chair, leaning forward, uncrossing my legs and placing my hands flat on the table. Finch glanced up from glaring at the floor in front of him and blinked. I kept my face blank.

"What is it, Mr. Finch, that you want to talk about?"

He sighed, face wrinkling into something resembling distaste, sadness and discomfort, before leaning forward as well, hands grasping at the edge of the table.

"The recent," Finch began slowly, "departure of our government has left this country in a rather precarious situation. We are unstable. Though it's been eight weeks, there's still looting, still some mayhem. It might not be obvious to you, Evey, but to someone who works within the police force it's a very big thing."

I nodded quietly at the statement, letting the words revolve around my head, letting them sink in through the filter and become something understandable. It occurred to me that obviously he wouldn't be telling me this without a motive, and quickly I started to talk.

"What do you want me to do about your problem?" I said, giving an exasperated bark of laughter. "I'm no one, Mr. Finch. I'm, I'm—"

"You're a survivor, Evey Hammond." Finch interrupted, words sharp. "You're someone who lived through hell and came back mind intact. That is what makes you someone. That's why I need you.

"What do I want you to do?" The man paused, mouth pursed in a slash and eyes frustrated, "I want you to listen," Finch tapped the table for emphasis, "to what I have to say. I want you to tell me if it makes any sense...If somehow, it could fix this mess of a country."

Taken aback, I tilted away in my chair and regarded Finch carefully. He looked tired. Old. Sick of living. The man had lived through more than me—granted, he had been in more shit than me, but he still had seen more. He had seen V. Knew what he had planned. He was valuable, Finch. He was one of those few people who knew what I knew.

And right now Finch was looking at me pleadingly, desperately.

I thought about what he had said for a moment.

Maybe it was more than a moment, but it seemed shorter.

And then made my descision.

"Fine, Finch," I said, voice quiet and for once not using the formal address I normally gave the detective. "I'll listen to you. What is it you have to discuss?"
Finch seemed shocked at my calm demeanor, shocked that I was willing to listen. But he was a cop. In seconds the face became blank, a gray slate.

"I have a lot to talk about, Evey. Quite a lot."