A note to the readers who've been sending me "I don't get it" messages, to help them keep along with it.

Allen, as you (reader) have noted before, is not actually named Allen. (you met him in Chapter 8, he was drunk… yeah that bloke, the bald one!) Though his first wife, funnily enough thought it was his name. Just as a throw back for those who need it, he was an ex-inner city fingerman along with Roger, who has sadly, since you last saw him, passed away in the fire at the hospital. His story-arch is over. But Allen's (William's actually… that's what he was christened as) is coming up now.

Yes, his name is William though he's been called many things. He was there, along with Peter and a few others. He was there in the tunnel…

…now where were we…

…ah yes…

Evey was instantly enveloped in the darkness of V's cloak, the dim light from the tunnel snuffed out. Keeping her shrouded and pulled tightly against him, V moved around her in the black. He grabbed a coffee cup from the kitchen table at his side and in the excess of a second it smashed against the doorframe, spattering wet plaster into the faces of the intruders.

Temporarily confused, the front man found himself with a knife in the chest before he had time to move for his gun. He collapsed to the stone with a wet slap drowned in the sound of gunfire. William blasted victimless shots into the void , trying to hit what he could hit.

What he did hit was the jukebox, but little else. The same knife from Henry's chest slid soundlessly greased out of its place and slashed across Williams arm. His gun rattled on the tunnel floor, empty. V, barely scathed, broke his nose as he was hearing it fall. At the back of the group a second gun was fired, this time hitting home next to V's clavicle.

As the masked man's one arm slid a blade easily along the neck of a third victim, he felt warmth enveloping him from the back. A crushing feeling. Drugs. He slid the needle out of his shoulder, just barely having time to throw a final blade into the assailant's stomach before heavily crashing to the concrete tube tunnel's floor. As a second needle hit his back, the first chords of "Round Midnight" strummed from the Jukebox.

As he fell Evey let go of his massive body and, now exposed, was tranquilised from a third dart to the thigh. Along with V, she was collected up into eager arms and dumped in the back seat of an Earman's patrol van. Edward was the driver.

There were seven of them there that night, only four left alive. As much as it hurt to say, Edward convinced himself that it was worth it. Peter was dead and so were a few others… maybe… he didn't know. He hadn't turned around to see. It was completely worth every soul that was lost though. He was disgusted at his joy. His mind was abuzz with endorphins. In a flash his mind brought him back to Monica, wrapped up in his arms. Safe with him. It was all worth it. It was completely worth it.

Eric Finch gave up. It had taken two days of solid thinking, but it was done. There was no conclusion. There was just solid objects and what to do with them. Personally he'd like to just pick them all up and get out of town.

He was a top man, a head man. And the only man among very, very few. He had no money, he had no job. His only solace was that there was no one out there ready to get him. So he was alone, like he always had been, and it didn't matter where he went or what he did. His options were practically limitless and he had spent two days running over all the things that he could be doing. He couldn't help rebuild this county. Not with the things that his men had done. If he exposed himself, he may as well be hanged. He would never fight for Norsfire. He had more raw hate for everything he'd contributed to now than ever before. He'd let people die. He'd let them suffer. He'd followed a bag of money away from all the burning and the genocide and just let it all happen.

He didn't know who Eric Finch was anymore. He just put it all down and gave up.

In the afternoon he had slid an old bottle of imported Hathaway's into his jacket pocket and headed out for a walk to clear his head. He walked towards the ocean. He kind of missed the ocean. When he got to the docks he almost turned to head back, but didn't. He wandered off towards the East End and just kept going.

By the time he told himself he wast going to come home again, he was heading out of the slums towards the abandoned M1. The sun was setting and he watched it as it went, standing silent. Finch felt cold all over, especially on the inside. Before continuing on, he rested a moment by a fire, a burning brotherhood bin, with a couple of old probably homeless men. *As he approached he heard a milky sweet voice…

"Oh God, not another one! How many of you tramps are living out here? It's… wait a minute… Finch?"

He stood dumfounded, trying to piece her face out of the darkness. "Finch? Is that you?"

"Mrs. Heyer?"

"Oh God. Edward Finch isn't it? Edward, I'm so glad to see you!" She ran up and hastily threw her arms around his waist. "The mob turned my car over on the way out of London and took everything! I've had to shelter with these louts just for protection…" Carefully, unsurely, he wrapped his arms around the sobbing woman. He hardly recognised her without makeup but her heavy fur lined coat spoke volumes at him. "And now you're here, that's different. I've always known you weren't like Conrad or Creedy or the others. You're like me," she looked up into his eyes, desperation running in tears down her face. "You're a survivor!"

Taking a moment to breath, she pulled him against her tighter. Eric couldn't remember the last time he'd even seen her… She spoke from the folds of his jacket. "Do you know how long I've been here?

"Eddie we need each other. Together we can salvage something, this mob aren't much but given time we could build a small army. We can restore order. Oh Eddie, we can do so much together, you and me… What do you say?" The homeless men looked on as if they saw nothing. No one spoke. Silently, he pushed her away.

As he turned for the highway, she called out behind him.

"QUEER!" YOU BASTARD POLICE ARE ALL QUEERS! GOD DAMN YOU!" She went on and on as he paced the crumbled pavement. The men at her sides tried to help calm her with chants of:

"Ay, c'mon Jeannie 'n' sit down wi'us." and "Issa way yet, till morning." **

It was a way till morning, he knew, he thought, he took a sip of rum and continued on over the embankment and along the abandoned road. That was the last time he set foot in England, that night. The man who was no longer Eric Finch paced the open concrete till his shoes wore out. Then he went on without shoes.

James and Jarrod found a medical kit and stitched up William's (Allan's) arm. It was about 6 in the morning when the screaming started.

Everything between * and ** was an excerpt from V for Vendetta the Graphic Novel. I needed Finch to have some resolution so I gave him his original resolution and therefore I co-wrote this with Allan Moore and David Lloyd.

Like my mother once said: "FUCK YEAH!"

(Btw, we're almost done here.)