Vivified: a Verbose Vignette
By: Sinead

Chapter Three

.v.V.v.

V awoke with a start, which set him about gasping in renewed pain from his gunshot wounds of the day before. Everything came back in a blurry rush. Evey's help in preparing the explosive-lined train. Her eyes watering as he kissed her the morning of, before he put his mask on . . . and kept it on. He couldn't face her knowing that there was still a high possibility of his dying.

When he could focus his eyes correctly again, he noticed that Evey was still sound asleep by his side, breathing deeply and peacefully. He carefully moved his head to kiss her forehead, letting his nose breathe in the scent of her skin and the shampoo she used upon her barely-inch-long hair. But then it came across a salty smell . . . cooking?

"Evey?"

She shifted, and V repeated her name in a soft and meaningful whisper. Finally, with a bleary gaze, she replied, "Mm?"

"Did Finch stay here last night?"

"Nn . . . yeah." Evey sat up, yawning, her very-short curls a lovable mess.

"Did that younger man come back?"

"No, and I requested that he didn't."

V sighed and relaxed upon the bed again, feeling every wound pain him each in a unique new way. "Thank you. I don't like him."

"Because he hit me?" Evey very slowly moved out of the bed to grab and put on a large cardigan that V had left hanging in one of his closets. It was black, matching the rest of his wardrobe, but it was an Irish Fisherman's knit, the likes of which had long since been banned from being viewed upon England's streets.

"Well . . . that too," V admitted, smiling as she was lost within the folds of the worn sweater that he had often used before she had come to live with him. He knew that it smelled of him, and Evey enjoyed that smell . . . which he, oddly, could never pick up.

"Finch assured me that he couldn't find his way out of a paper bag."

"Interesting. Is he making breakfast?"

"I'm assuming so. I hope that it's not eggs in the basket, though. I'll only eat yours."

"Made with all of what I can put into it, my dear."

Evey leaned low to brush his forehead with another kiss. "Let me see what he's burning, and then I'll come back to feed you some painkillers with a light breakfast."

"Many thanks."

She waved that off, leaving the room and keeping the door only a crack open so that it remained in a delightful twilight. Walking into the kitchen, she saw that everything had been set up, cooked, and waiting with steam still rising upon plates kept upon what Evey would assume to be a still-warm stove. One had scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries. Hence the salty, onion-like smell. The other was a soup, quite possibly tomato with green flecks? Ah, oregano. Another spice that Evey almost forgot that existed.

Finch was sitting with his head bowed over one of the old volumes that V so fondly collected, his food finished and a good foot away from the old book. As Evey watched, he turned a page with a tender, careful movement that spoke more of how much he truly appreciated the formerly-banned materials. She much doubted that they would be banned for any longer than they had to. The inspector looked up, then indicated the still-full plates. "Dominic couldn't find any place that would be able to make breakfast foods that would be open this morning, so he just got the supplies."

Picking what had to be her plate up, she sat and ate her food with quick bites. "What of how things are going on topside?"

"Well . . . see for yourself." He turned the TV on with the remote that had been resting upon the table beside the book, and the images on the screen showed not riots and looting . . . but scenes of peaceful people, masks pushed up onto the tops of their heads, capes held tightly around their sides while they watched the smoldering ruins of Parliament, or the sunrise, or the restless movements of the troops while they stood where they had been told to. There were no more orders to be given them from a higher-up.

V's weary voice spoke from the doorway as he saw this. "It seems that they need someone to tell them what to do."

"They're soldiers, V," Evey replied to the still-masked-and-wigged man, a blanket held around his neck and shoulders, all skin carefully and skillfully hidden. She stood and rested an arm around the back of his waist, keeping it carefully casual, and made sure that he was aware that the specific stance she had taken would help support him. "Rest. I'll get you the soup that was prepared."

"No real food?" he appealed as he subtly leaned upon Evey's shoulder, catching his breath. She helped him to the couch, setting him in a reclining position, tucking the blanket around his sides and picking up another one to wrap around that previous one, covering his feet to keep them warm.

"Gee. And watch you gleefully review it over your marble floors after you move the wrong way and pain turns your stomach? No thanks."

V saw the images being reported by the BTN, and asked, "So the Mouth still speaks, mm?"

Finch nodded, even though he knew V wouldn't be able to turn to see it. "Dascomb says that it's his job to report the news. They found Sutler and Creedy."

"When?"

"Only an hour ago. Put it on the air, too. People wanted proof."

"So what does this mean to us, now?" Evey asked after a pause. "What are we going to do?"

V angled his head upwards a bit to look at her. But it was Finch who replied, "We need someone who can appeal to the public and ask for peace while we set up a new government. Someone who can become the face of the new era, fresh, previously unknown to the public."

"Or . . . virtually unknown." V looked away from Evey's face and towards the screen again.

She just looked at the two men, snorted, and crossed her arms. "I'm not stupid. V, I know your reasons why I should help rebuild, but Inspector Finch?"

"You've been involved with the actual Revolution," he replied, standing to walk to the back of the couch, looking at the young woman for a moment before diverting his gaze to look at the television screen. "You know both sides of what had been a subtle conflict. You were associated with V, you were labeled his accomplice, but I am still curious how the two of you truly came to be allies. And it was Norsefire who took your parents, made you an orphan. People will relate to you because of it. There was St. Mary's, which still more people will empathize with."

"How do you know about that?" Evey hissed while V slowly turned his head to look at the inspector.

He assumed that V was quite possibly glaring at him, but paid that no mind as he replied, "We had to research your background in order to figure out how you and V were connected. We never could quite figure out how."

"That story may be told at a later date," V replied icily.

Yeap. He was glaring at Finch, and the man had to be glad that the mask kept it from view. From the tone of his voice, V was not a very happy man that Evey's past had been brought up. Sighing, Eric shook his head. "I am merely stating truths. The public would most likely take to Evey as an interim leader while she helps us set things up. If . . . that is, if you are not opposed to it."

V's mask turned back towards Evey, but she was watching the television again. Seeing the peaceful demonstrations. There was not one shot that had destruction within it. Perhaps watching Parliament blow sky-high was enough for one day . . . hopefully, for a year. For more than a year. Evey started to think both sides of this over. She did not want to become a public figure, as she had seen what good becoming a public figure could entail; hatred of leadership in general. She did not want to become a public figurehead of any movement.

She only wanted to be Evey Hammond . . . and she only wanted to be defined by how V saw her. He was everything to her. His motives were her own for the last year . . . and now . . . now what? Finding herself staring at the Guy Fawkes mask, she whispered, "This isn't something you can ask of me lightly, Inspector."

"Things will be happening quickly. Remnants of Norsefire will most undoubtedly rise back up to try to take control again," Finch retorted in a rapid-fire pace, watching her face flit from one emotion and thought-process to the next.

"But you cannot assume that I will have to take up–"

"Evey," the metallic whisper came forth from the injured man seated upon the couch. He sighed. "Evey, just think upon this for a moment. You cannot assume to take this responsibility on in one day of contemplation. The good inspector is most likely just thinking too fast, which in other times is a magnificent trait–"

"Thank you," Finch said, knowing that complements came all too rarely from the former terrorist. Or was he a terrorist?

"–however, that quick thinking is not always the best form of thought-process when formulating long-term plans, Mr. Finch. We are only upon the first day of the new era; please try not to terrify my dear Evey into a position which she most assuredly will not commit to under pressure."

With that, V turned his mask most firmly upon the screen showing Dascomb himself standing at the edge of Trafalgar Square, which was still blackened with the forms of V-costumed revelers. They were not drinking, they were not throwing Molotov cocktails at the soldiers, or at property. They were singing old tunes. So many old and formerly-banned songs that it was disconcerting to hear, and yet . . . more musical and sweet than any of Mozart's, or Beethoven's, or Handel's masterpieces.

This was the sight and sound of freedom being reborn anew, breaking forth with a vengeance that would cause the world to tremble . . . and to look to their own governments.

.v.V.v.

"What would he want me to do?" Evey asked quietly as she helped V with his warmed soup. Finch had gone to the topside, presumably to set some plans into motion concerning his police and investigational force.

"I'm not sure," V replied, doing his very best not to dribble when Evey spooned him the broth. That would lead to her unending amusement and his ignominy. He really was too tired to care about much, however, when around Evey, he wanted to be his very best. That he wasn't able to protect her right now was a very bad situation that he found himself in.

As she pulled the tablespoon away, she whispered, "What if Finch affirms that you had offed Sutler and Creedy?"

"I doubt that it matters much, dear Evey," the reply came. Casting his eyes downward, V sniffed twice, hoping that his nose wasn't going to start bleeding again, then whispered, "The public already knows that it is me."

"But what if someone wants to get rid of you for it?"

"Then I will face him and–"

"No. You will not. V, I absolutely forbid it."

"Evey!"

She placed the bowl down upon the coffee table, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her face was hard and unyielding. "V, you are in no position to refuse. This is a situation where you will take the healthy way out and let the proper authorities take care of it."

"But others would be killed for it, Evey. I cannot allow someone to stand in for me and be killed for me."

"V, enough."

"But Evey–"

"No, I said enough. If they wish to defend you and die defending you, then you have to allow it."

His face was beginning to turn a slightly deeper shade of red, which Evey had found on the previous months to mean that he was furious. "I will not allow that!"

"Good. Now you realize what I had to feel when you said that you were going to face Sutler and Creedy. You understand how much I wanted to knock you out, hide you somewhere, and have someone take care of him for us."

The scarred man deflated instantly, and his mouth opened to comment, but then shut again. After a few more minutes of silence, he whispered, "Evey, you cannot be good for my health."

"Imagine adding a child to the scene."

"Is that something I should have ignored?" Finch's voice said from the doorway. From that angle, he couldn't see V's face. It was a small blessing.

V's back stiffened, but Evey casually picked his mask up and placed it upon his face, tying it in place with the same careless manner, as if it didn't matter that Finch nearly saw V's face. She rested her hand upon V's shoulder, smiling at the inspector. "It's an old tease, and an inside joke, inspector."

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude."

"Might as well come all the way in, seeing as you're already here," V replied snarkily.

"V, stop it. He offered an apology."

V only hitched the blanket up around his neck a bit more, never minding that it was bandaged from a passing wound. He didn't like anyone but himself and Evey in his home.

Finch stood to once side, seeing the set of V's head, able to see that it was an angry pose. He decided that it would be beneficial to make this as short as possible. "Things are going all right topside. However, they want to see you, V."

The mask slowly turned towards the other man.

Evey asked the question. "Why?"

"He was the one who called them out. V, you're the reason why we're free from Norsefire."

.v.V.v.

Dascomb stared at Finch in total and complete shock. "You've met him?"

"And spoken with him, yes. He's in no condition to be doing much right now. He had knives; Creedy's men had guns."

"Will he die?"

"No."

Roger Dascomb turned and walked a few paces in his office. With a sigh, he sat upon the side of his desk and looked up at the inspector. "The people want to see him. They're demanding him. Whenever there's a broadcast, I'm watching the public television screens. Everyone stops to wait and see if Codename V will appear. Every mention of him is greeted with the crowds leaning forward, wanting to commit every comment, every mention of him to their memory."

Thinking upon this for a long while, Finch looked up at Dascomb, his voice low. "Have you mentioned the Hammond girl?"

"Here and there . . . why?"

Finch pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing the number of his spare mobile phone. Evey picked up. "Hello?"

"If he cannot be on air, what of the Hammond girl?" Finch waited for the response.

It came after a sigh, but her voice was smiling lightly. "He won't like it, but I'll do it."

"Thanks."

They hung up without any further words, and the older man said, "You'll have Evey Hammond to interview."

"Was that her?!"

"Yes."

"Is she really connected with V?"

"You'll just have to wait and see."

.v.V.v.

"England, we thank you for your great amount of patience during this tumultuous time. I am Roger Dascomb, the head of the BTN. With me today is not Codename V, however, this amazing individual has been televised during the last days of Norsefire." He paused, keeping his face serene and guarded, then spoke again. "I have with me today Evey Hammond." Turning, he smiled reassuringly to the young woman who dressed in the navy and dark blue colors that he had, in his week of meeting with her, never seen her choose outside of for her wardrobe. "Good morning, Miss Hammond."

"Mister Dascomb, I thank you for contacting me." She was calm, collected, smooth, cool, and without a doubt exactly what the public needed to see and hear after the chaos that had been beginning to settle upon the streets.

"It was my pleasure. Now, the public have been calling in questions about the how and why you are associated with Norsefire's downfall."

"Well, I'm not at a full liberty to speak of all the details, however, I can tell you a few things, I suppose." That caught him off-guard, and she smiled, saying, "Should you start with the questions you prepared, or the questions that England has?"

"The public, of course!" He shuffled through his papers, then pulled up a few sheets. "Ah, we sorted these through with the most pertinent questions near the top." He read the first question. "Dorris from Southend-on-Sea asks the one that most people have sent in to us: Were or are you involved with the 'terrorist,' Codename V?"

Evey smiled, and nodded. "Yes. He and I worked together intensively towards the end."

"Towards the end? He hasn't–"

"Oh, no, no!" Evey exclaimed. She smiled a little, clarifying, "Towards the end of Norsefire. He lives, if wounded."

"That leads me to the next popular question: Was he the one who killed the Chancellor?"

"Yes."

The bluntness of her answer again left Dascomb grasping at straws again. But he recovered rather quickly, oddly unsettled and unused to the feeling. "Were you there?"

"No. He wouldn't let me." Shrugging, she appended, "Not when he knew that he needed one of us alive, and able to answer the questions that would surely arise."

"Such as the ones I just asked."

"Exactly."

They both paused, and Dascomb sat back a touch, the pose of his shoulders indicating that he now respected how she held herself and how she answered the questions without saying anything more than had to be said. Deep within, he knew that she had learned these traits from V. He also knew that she was just what this nation needed: a steady, strong young woman who knew the horrors of Norsefire, lived through them, and rose above it. After all, once the "undesirables" had been "detained," all who had been left to dominate were the women.

"Before I ask you a few more questions about V, might I ask some about you, Miss Hammond?"

She thought upon this for a moment, then nodded once, allowing him. His voice was quick, if smooth. "From what the investigations about you have said, you have had several brushes with the Norsefire party during Chancellor Sutler's reign."

"Interesting label to call his terror-driven term of office."

"I quite agree, but I was asked to use that particular phrase." Nodding at his words, understanding that he had to show a truly neutral face to the audience, she indicated with leisure that he could continue. "It was understood that you were the elder of two siblings, and your unfortunate brother had once attended Saint Mary's."

"That's true."

"And is it also true that both of your parents were placed in detainment?"

"Again, that's true."

"What happened to you?"

"The 'Reclamation' project for the children of political activists." She paused, then continued. "At seventeen, I was released, deemed 'fit' for public, and went my way about trying not to be noticed."

"If that is so, then how did you fall in with Codename V?"

Evey was just as quick with her own words. She had known that something like this would come up in her interview, and had discussed with V what to tell both Dascomb and the public. "Creedy's Fingermen had pinned me as I was making my way to a friend's house past curfew. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Somehow, and I've never gotten how he was so close to me and the predicament I found myself in, but V was in the right place at the right time. He literally saved me from what would have been a brutal raping in the so-called name of justice, and asked for a favor from me in return."

"I do hope it can be spoken upon television," Dascomb interrupted, instantly wary.

Her face soured, and Evey continued. "As a result, I ended up standing upon one of the many roofs that Madame Justice of the Old Bailey had looked down upon. His favor that he asked of me was to stand beside him in the very first moments of November the Fifth, that day that everything had all started upon."

The Mouth's voice was quiet, repentant as he commented, "So that was you."

"Yes. Upon that day, V almost blew up the very tower that we are now sitting within. He didn't know I was within it, nor did anyone else other than Inspectors Eric Finch and Dominic Stone. They had visual evidence of my accompanying V to the rooftop the night before, and were looking for me for clues upon how to get to him."

"So it was you, then." Dascombe smiled, nodded his head, and replied, "I knew that you were familiar, and I regret that I haven't been able to place you before now."

"Believe me, Mister Dascombe, it is quite all right. This last year has been a busy and a rather life-changing one for all of us."

"I have another question, and this isn't upon either of the two lists. You speak about Codename V as if he were a close friend. You call him V as if he were indeed close to you. Can I ask if I'm right in assuming that you and he became acquaintances?"

"Yes, indeed you would. After Inspector Stone had knocked me out just over a year ago, V made the decision that to leave me behind would be to assist in my eventual death. It wasn't a burden he knew he could carry, so he brought me to his home. During the first months, it had felt as if I were imprisoned, however, he was kind to me, allowing me my space." Evey's face fell as she remembered her recent past. "Then I was asked to help ensnaring Bishop Lilliman. I did help . . . and I admit to it. He was an evil and very twisted man. But I ran from V, and went to Gordon Deitrich's house. I had often brought him tea while working here at the BTN, and we had a working friendship. Within two months, the Finger had caught up with me, even though I very, very rarely walked outside his house, and never outside his garden." Her voice broke. "They killed him. I miss him. I truly loved him as a brother or father, and again, another whom I had loved was taken away by Norsefire." Gathering herself and clamping down upon emotions that she knew weren't going to obey her, Evey continued, skipping ahead, glossing over details that wouldn't have fit in with the public's vision. "Knowing that I couldn't survive, I changed. I changed my hair, how I viewed my surroundings, everything. And I came to the knowledge that I couldn't live without friends. I was lonely. And I wanted to change a very wrong vision of who and what England was."

"You went back to V."

"I went back to V," Evey confirmed. "Not only that, but when I went back to him, it was as equals. Between his mind and mine, we simplified plans so that they would survive and flourish."

"Parliament," Dascombe whispered.

"The masks," Evey added.

"You say that the man survived."

"Yes, and is recovering slowly. V lives. And if he had died, it would have been through us, the living face of England, that his dreams and aspirations taken from our former faces would have lived on through. Can you understand that?"

"Easily."

They fell silent for a moment, before Dascombe asked quietly, "Will you send my regards and well-wishes to him?"

"Tell him yourself; he's watching."

Facing the camera completely, Dascomb's face was sincere, quiet, even his own reporter's facade of self-righteousness and suave ability to overcome any odd circumstance shattered, dulled. This had not been what he expected. "V, upon behalf of those who have been wishing to ask you personally, thank you. Rest and recover; we will do our best to keep England in one piece until your return."

Evey smiled to herself, wondering what V would make of that. As Dascombe sat back, he looked at her. "Was that all right?"

"I believe so. One never knows with V. I doubt that I will ever be able to know what he thinks."

Looking at a clock, the man winced and sighed. "Unfortunately, I believe that is all we have time for . . . I apologize. I had wanted to ask a great many more questions, but . . ."

"I can come back. Possibly in a few days."

"Then I look forward to that greatly."

They signed off, the cameras shut down yet the soundstage remained silent. Evey Hammond stood, then looked around at the people watching her. Unexpectedly, someone near the back whistled and clapped, causing all the others in the room to catch on. Smiling shyly, Evey walked down among them, shaking hands and smiling, accepting their well-wishes, replying that she would pass them on to V.

And Dascombe watched her leave from his chair, his face perplexed, his mind upon two questions:

How well did Evey really know V?

Would she ever tell him?