A/N: Hello all! Here's the first official chapter of the story. I'm sorry if it's a little boring without V, but I SWEAR he will show up in later chapters. Promise. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own V for Vendetta. NONE OF IT. I do own a copy of it, though. And I didn't even pay for it! A friend gave it to me. XD

Chapter 1: Life Ruled by Oppression

Whack!

My head shot up from my desk. The teacher, Mr. Dawson, had a yard stick in his hand.

"Miss Roderick…if you wish not to be sent to the principal's office, I'd suggest you stay awake for the duration of my lecture," he said in a snooty, English accent.

"Yes, sir," I said quietly. A group of students sitting in the front right corner of the classroom began snickering. Mr. Dawson threw the yardstick across the room and hit one of the snickering students in the back of the head, knocking him out. The student fell out of his chair and hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Mr. Dawson let out an angry sigh.

"Dammit! That's the third time this week…I hope I'm not reported to the Fingermen…" he muttered to himself.

Too late for that one, asshole, I thought. The Fingermen were basically patrol officers hired by Sutler to…"enforce"…the law. The Fingermen were corrupt beyond belief. They were extremely menacing during the day but if you ran into them after the curfew…you had better be ready for an ass-whipping. Anyone unfortunate enough to be out past the curfew was beaten to within an inch of their life then taken to one of their "stations" for "interrogation." Only the bravest and the dumbest of people went out past curfew. In coalition with the Fingermen, there was also the regular police force. They weren't as corrupt as the Finger, but they were just as menacing. If you were caught outside after curfew by a policeman, they would just put you under arrest for the night. However, the fine they charged was horrendous. It was equivalent to near one thousand dollars of American money. (Here in England, the British pound was used, not American dollars) So it was either a beating and then some, or a hefty fine. Or you were stealthy enough to slip past both.

Mr. Dawson went to the classroom phone and dialed the infirmary number. "Yes, one of my students has been injured by a blow to the head. No, it wasn't fatal. Yes, I know it's my third time! Don't remind me of things I already know! Alright then, thank you very much." He hung up the phone and placed it back on the receiver.

"Now let us continue, if there won't be any more interruptions…" he said through his teeth. No one said a word.

"Good. Now then, let us continue."

Mr. Dawson resumed writing his lecture notes on the whiteboard. This time, I chose to pay attention, not wanting to be sent to the principal's office. While I was taking notes, a student slipped a piece of folded notebook paper onto my desk. I put my pen down and opened the note.

Bloody hell, Mr. Dawson is quite the asshole, don't you think?

I grinned as I read the note. I turned around and smiled to my best friend who had written the note.

His name was Rodney Wells, a fourth year at my school. I had met him in my first year when he beat up some punk who was giving me crap about my heritage, for I was an American. Rodney had received a beating for his punishment, but he didn't care. He was a firm believer in true justice, just like me. Like many, we secretly opposed Sutler's regime, but we dared not show nor voice it. Instead, we just lived with it, hoping that one day, someone would be courageous enough to stand up to Sutler and his men.

Eagerly, I wrote back on the paper:

Mr. Dawson is always an asshole. He's so…I don't know…picky about everything. It's always about "following the regime with faith" or "being loyal to Sutler" or just any other crap like that. I'm quite sick of him, to be honest.

I foldedthe paper back up, and handed it one of my other friends who sat next to me.

"Anthony, pass this to Rodney for me," I whispered. Anthony nodded and took the folded paper. Anthony Conelly was one my other friends who hung out with Rodney and I in our rather large group. Anthony was like Rodney and I, sharing that same passion for justice. He was a second year, a grade below me. Along with his passion for justice, he was also extremely intelligent and good looking for English boy of 15. He was tall, muscular, had jet black hair, had bright blue eyes, and wore glasses. Rodney stood at about 5' 8", three inches taller than me, had chocolate brown hair and eyes, and was skinnier than a light post. Despite his lightweight frame, he was easily as strong as one of the varsity rugby players. Unlike Anthony, he didn't wear glasses. Me? I was 5' 5" with light brown hair, (most think it's blonde) hazel eyes, and glasses. Although it didn't look like it, I had the muscles of a varsity rugby player as well. The group called me "the strongest girl in the school," which was true. I could beat up any other girl and I could even go after most of the guys. Back in my days of illegal, underground fighting, I had never lost a match to anybody. The fighting had left me sculpted and as strong as an ox. However, I quit the fighting matches, despite the protests. What would happen if Creedy's men came?

So here I am, in probably the most brutal school in all of London under the most brutal regime. There wasn't much I could do, except hope for a better future.

When Rodney received my note, he looked at me and nodded his head, agreeing with me. Before he could write a response, the bell rang. Mr. Dawson stopped mid-sentence and gave a sigh.

"Alright, remember where we left off. Cheerio, class."

I eagerly packed my notes up and waited for Rodney and Anthony. All three of us walked out Mr. Dawson's Language class, into the hallway, and outside. The outside of the Nelson High School looked almost like prison. The courtyard was mostly made up of dirt, which turned into a huge mud hole whenever it rained. The school wasn't huge by any means. The front of the school was a rather magnificent office building, made of brick and consisted of Victorian architecture. Going out from the left and right, was a square, entirely made up of classrooms and student lockers in the hallways. Each classroom was a bore when you stepped inside. They had grey walls, a stone floor, and creaky, old desks that would easily break under anyone. Every single teacher's classroom was devoid of any posters, pictures, or any other personal effects. And the teacher's themselves were devoid of any personality, besides Sutler's beliefs and ideals. Fall asleep in class, and you were awoken with a yard stick to your desk. Sometimes the teachers "missed" and hit you on your back or head. The asshole teachers actually woke you up with a blow to your back, dragged you out of the classroom and into the middle of the courtyard and beat you until you were a bloody mess. Everyone would watch you get beaten mercilessly from the classroom windows. Mr. Dawson was known for doing this, so I was lucky he didn't do it to me. Probably because I had the highest grade in his class. Go figure. All the teachers favored the smart kids a little more than everyone else, but not by much. They wouldn't beat you as hard if you had good grades. The teachers weren't supposed to beat their students, but no one really paid much attention to that rule. They just weren't allowed to knock out students in class, like Mr. Dawson did today in his 2nd period Language Arts today. For that, the Fingermen could come and arrest them. Two teachers had already been arrested and it wasn't even October yet.

Rodney, Anthony, and I met our group in the middle of the dirt courtyard. Our group was rather large, for it consisted of every grade. Anyone was welcome to hang out with us, so long as they kept the peace. One of my other good friends, who was a first year named Jamie, gave me a high five.

"Hey guys! How was Dawson?" she asked.

"Same old crap. He knocked out that punk bitch Patrick with his yard stick. He whacked my desk since I fell asleep, and he and his friends in the front right corner started laughing. Then he just threw his yard stick and bam! Hit James right in the head," I explained to her.

"Bloody hell! Did Dawson call the infirmary?" she asked.

"Yeah, but they didn't show up. He's probably still in there, knocked out on the floor. You know how long the infirmary takes."

"Fucking hell…we better not fall asleep in class, eh?" She playfully punched my arm and everyone laughed.

"Hey man! Not cool!" I exclaimed.

"But she's right," a sophomore named Henry said. "We better be careful from now on."

"Right, we should listen since it came from you, Genius," Anthony joked. Everyone broke into laughter again.

"Oi! That's not funny!!" protested Henry. Henry Gallager was the easily the smartest kid in the school, thus the nickname "Genius." The teachers basically let him get away with whatever he wanted. He could call a teacher a "fat, ugly, two-faced twat" and not even get in trouble. One time, he called Mr. Dawson a "twat who slept with Fingermen for money" and Dawson didn't even give him a second glance. Needless to say, Henry was a good guy to have on our side, despite his "nerd" nature.

RIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGG.

"Damn, break's over. Now it's time for that fucker, Holt," I said.

"Oi, don't worry 'bout 'im," said James Ross, a third year and another friend of mine. "You got me, Rodney, Anthony, and Jamie in your class! Holt ain't so bad with us, now ain' it?"

"No…I suppose not," I agreed.

"Hey! Let's get goin' before we're late!" Rodney said.

********************

We walked into Mr. Holt's history class, and sat down in our seats. Mr. Holt was short, bald, and his stomach hung over his pants. He easily weighed three hundred pounds and was easily the most cruel, criticizing, teacher in the school. He was known for courtyard beatings even more than Mr. Dawson and he wasn't nice on the smart ones like most. It didn't matter if you were Henry Gallager or Patrick Dunn, the dumbest kid in school and the same Patrick who was knocked out by Mr. Dawson earlier. If you pissed off Mr. Holt, you didn't get a warning. He just automatically dragged you out and beat you senseless. Also, Mr. Holt was especially hard on you if you weren't British. He loathed Americans, saying that they were "groveling, godless beggars." Obviously, Mr. Holt was a big fan of Lewis Prothero, the "Voice of London." Lewis Prothero was a man who also despised America since its fall, and openly voiced his loathing of America's inhabitants. Unfortunately for me, several of my teachers, including Holt, didn't like me for my heritage either and used it against me. Thus the reason why I began underground fighting in the middle of my first year. Anyone who made fun of my background went to the hospital with a broken nose, two black eyes, and several missing teeth. Only two people have ever made fun of my American heritage: Patrick Dunn and Elizabeth Monroe. Patrick suffered from Rodney but I took care of Elizabeth personally.

Elizabeth was a third year when I came across her. Every day, she would say the most horrible things she could make up about Americans. So, one day at lunch, when she passed by the group and called me a "stupid, slutty, bitchy whore," I stood up, tackled her to the ground, and beat the living shit out of her. I don't remember much of the fight since I was so angry but I do remember that her face was so swollen and bloody, that she couldn't even talk, much less see two feet in front of her. The principal suspended me for three days and I never saw Elizabeth Monroe again. After that fight, no one has ever dared to say anything about me being American. If they did, they'd end up just like Elizabeth.

Today, Mr. Holt didn't seem to feel like throwing insults at me and just left me alone to take notes. Any day that Holt wasn't bashing me was a good day.

About halfway through the period, someone banged on the door of the classroom and a voice boomed: "For the High Chancellor, open this door!!" Everyone froze. Only two task forces ever said that: the Elite Police or the Special Forces that served under Sutler's right hand man, Mr. Creedy. Mr. Creedy was a coldhearted, cruel bastard. He was in charge of the interrogation camps outside the city, where those unfortunate enough to be the Chancellor's "enemies" went. They had the nickname of "black bag camps" since those arrested had black bags thrown over their heads, sent to the camps, and were never seen again. Mr. Creedy even got the nickname "The Black Bagman" since his forces arrested so many "criminals" that defied the "glorious" rule of the High Chancellor.

So I was left wondering: Whose going to get bagged right now?

Mr. Holt hurried to the door and wrenched it open. The Special Forces swarmed into the room, flattening Holt. There were about ten of them. They started to head toward the back of the room.

Oh no…they're not after… I spun around in my seat, facing the back of the room. I was right.

The ten men gathered around James's desk, their MP5's pointed straight at him. James didn't move. I couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

The man who was directly behind him moved forward and shouted in his ear, "Do you, James Ross, traitor to the Chancellor, surrender to the Special Forces!?"

James closed his eyes and nodded. Not like he has much of a choice… I thought.

The man who had yelled at James dragged him out of his chair and cracked him in the jaw with the butt of his MP5. I heard a sickening crunch as it was broken. James curled up on the floor clutching his now broken jaw and buried his face in the floor. Two men grabbed his arms, pinned them behind his back, and slipped a black bag over his head. The two men dragged him out of the classroom. The rest of the team followed suit. The last man exited the room, turned around, and put his hand on the door handle.

"Let this serve as an example to the lot of yeh!" he yelled and slammed the door shut.

It was silent. The adrenaline was coursing through my veins and my breathing started to get ragged. I had just watched one of my good friends get taken away and I would probably never see him again. I turned to Anthony, who was sitting next to me. His face was as white as a bed sheet and he was gripping the sides of his desk so hard, I thought he was going break two large chunks off of it. I looked at Rodney, who sitting behind Anthony. He was sweating bullets and his face was even whiter than Anthony's. Lastly, I turned my gaze toward Jamie, who sat on my right. Her hands were balled into tight fists and she was quivering with anger and fear.

For the rest of the period, everyone just remained in their seats and didn't say a word. We had all been too traumatized to even pack up when the period was almost over. Mr. Holt had been knocked out when the Special Forces flattened him on the way in, so the lecture was basically over when James was taken away. When the bell rang, it seemed the trance had been instantly broken, for we all packed up hurriedly and rushed out of the classroom to 4th period.

********************

4th period was a daze. I didn't even pay attention what Miss Gregson's math lesson. When the bell rang, I instantly grabbed my backpack, ran out of the classroom and into the courtyard for lunch. When I got to our hangout spot, Anthony, Rodney, and Jamie were already there. When the group slowly began to arrive, they instantly knew something was wrong. By the time the whole group assembled, they knew who was missing.

I broke the silence. "By now, you all know who's missing?"

Everyone nodded.

"James was a good man. He always saw the bright side of life. This place never really bothered him much…"

Rodney cut in. "Fucking hell! That's the seventh one in two weeks! What the blazes are we going to do about this!?"

"Rodney, we can't do anything about it!" I exclaimed.

"Yes we bloody well can! Alright, does everyone know the old, abandoned house on the outskirts of London?"

"You mean the Bolston's house outside the city limits!?" I said with shock.

"Yes, that house! What other bloody house is there!?" Rodney retorted. "Everyone meet there tonight at eleven."

"Eleven?!" Jamie exclaimed. "That's curfew! Besides, do you know what the punishment is for going outside city limits!?" The punishment for going outside the city after curfew was a one-way ticket to a black bag camp.

"Yes, I bloody well know that!!" shouted Rodney. "Now listen. We've all met there before…except the first years…so everyone else, it's just another go. First years, go out at ten and go into the sewer system. It'll lead you right past the walls of London."

"But…if we get caught, we'll-" Henry started to protest.

"Trust me. Follow the sewers. It works every time," Rodney said gently. "If you don't want to go, say so now."

No one said anything.

"Then I'll be seeing you tonight."

Whenever something major happened, the group always met at an old, abandoned house out in the country. It was perfect for secret meetings since the Fingermen and the police never gave anything outside London a second glance. Also, it wasn't far from the sewer passage back into London, so one could sneak out and be back in the city in less than an hour. Ten minutes to the sewer system and ten minutes back to London. And then however long it took to slip past the Fingermen and find your way back to your home.

Lunch ended without much discussion and the rest of the day flew by. Soon, school was out for the day. I had no homework and walked back to my apartment in less than twenty minutes. The whole time I walked, I thought of James and I wondered what Rodney had in store for us that night.