"With grave aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed a pillar of state... princely counsel in his face yet shone, ... *majestic* ... though in ruin."

V made the announcement dramatically ... proudly ... as he gazed into his dressing mirror. A new face stared back this evening. A cunning and plotting face. Where rosy pink cheeks usually highlighted crisp white 'skin', this face was an almost solid, bright deep red. The painted on moustache was still there, but now it turned down at the ends, suggesting a hint of danger beneath. Yet there remained a grin. A smirk far less charming than Fawkes's, but a grin nonetheless. ... ... Because even in his malevolence, the devil always grinned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Evey laughed as she appeared behind him. She leaned down, using the mirror to adjust strands of glittery white stars that dangled from her earrings. A fluffy white angel was nothing if she didn't have her stars.

"From Milton's Paradise Lost," he clarified. "An expression of Satan's dignity -- retained even in the depths of hell."

"So you're sure you're ok with this?" Evey asked tentatively. Something didn't sit quite right about having *this* man dress up like the devil. Too many people had called him a crazy, evil terrorist in the past -- including, she was loathe to admit, she herself. She wanted him to see *no* hidden messages in this. But in all practicality, of all the costumes she'd looked at during her shopping spree, this one did provide the best mask ... the most similar to what his face was accustomed to.

And in fact, he had already customized it even further, having installed a screen behind the mouth and eye holes. Self-protection at its finest.

"It's quite comfortable," he assured, lifting his arms to test the red and black robes. Even the outer cloak was ideal. -- -- It would hide his belt of knives very well. "And philosophers have opined for centuries that there resides a devil within each of us. I have no fear of my own."

Evey smiled with relief, placing her hands on his shoulders and bending further to prop her chin atop his head. A full-length neck and skull cap covered his scalp, and she had to position herself between the two horns that jutted up on either side of her jaw. And from such a pleasant vantage point ... a peaceful lull in this Halloween evening's dressing ritual ... the pair simply watched each other.

A black leather-clad hand rose to lie atop the delicate white lace that made up her own small gloves. And her angelic white dress stood out in stark contrast to the more primal black and red of his own costume. So different, and yet so close.

"The line between devil and angel is fine, love," he mused. "The devil was nothing more than an angel himself ... cast out of heaven and fallen to Earth. Whatever other aspersions men have cast upon him over the ages, he was -- in truth -- nothing more than a fallen angel."

Evey nodded thoughtfully, her head shifting his ever so slightly in its movement. Yes. Perhaps her costume selections had been more astute than she'd realized. -- -- Devil and angel. So different in some ways. So alike in others.

... ...

"I fear you'll be rather cold though," V stated, as he finally rose from his chair. The skirt of her costume only barely reached her knees. And while it was indeed multilayered, and while he knew from experience how warm those white leather boots of hers must be, this was, after all, the last few hours of October.

"Then I guess it's up to my date to keep me warm," she replied without skipping a beat. And the glance she shot him was far more devilish than his mask.

His hand landed lightly on her back, sliding to test the flexibility of the downy white wings she wore. They bent and collapsed easily under his touch. Yes indeed, he would be able to warm her quite well beneath his layers of robe. Such an interesting image they would make ... a devil shielding an angel, and the angel loving him back.

"Might I inquire, my dearest Evey, what your date's name *is* for the evening? Your friends will surely ask."

Evey had been wrapping a strand of crystal stars around her neck, and paused at the question. V used the opportunity to assist, taking the strand from her hands and fastening it while his mate pondered her answer.

"I hadn't thought of that, actually." Then she grinned in mischief, even if he couldn't see it. "All I've told them so far is that he's tall, dark, handsome ... and I met him in a dangerous back alley."

V chuckled behind her, finishing with the crystals then laying his hands atop her shoulders. White fluff from the wings wisped up around the leather ... how soft angels always were. "On the first two descriptors, I yield to your observational skills. On the third, I'm humbly flattered. And on the fourth ... ... I must admit you're correct."

"Erve," she decided, pronouncing it in two syllables as a Spaniard might. She remembered that night, years ago, in the dangerous, dark back alley. Their first moments, when he had taken such a fascination in manipulating her name around to match his own. ... ... Time to return the favor. 'Erve' did sound a bit like 'Evey', didn't it?

V was silent at first, then leaned around her. "Erve?" he asked incredulously. "That is utterly horrendous."

"Yes, and that's what I'm calling you tonight."

He let out a breath. ... ... "Well ... at least you kept the V."

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The main event of this All Hallows Eve, was a chartered tour through various haunted locales of London, planned and reserved for various government officials. Evey just could not turn down such an opportunity, especially on a night when V could wander above in plain sight.

No one would know him. And if, by some stroke of misfortune, someone would recognize his voice from his televised address to the citizens years ago, it would only add one more rumour to the mix. The rumours were already circulating as it was -- V knew that. They always did about those who 'died' in such mythical ways. And if he did not fear rumours under Norsefire's rule, he certainly would not fear them now.

He *had* considered wearing a mouthpiece. A distortion device for disguise. The idea had been abandoned however, upon watching their combined reflection in the mirror. -- -- Abandoned; never even told to her as an option. He was too anxious to retain some familiarity with his mate. His gloves were one thing she would continue to recognize as 'him', his knives beneath the robes were the second. And if she could see neither of those, she would have his voice.

Of course, in the end, the decision was especially fortuitous when another gentleman on the trip -- someone Evey recognized from the Transportation Department -- showed up wearing nearly the same costume. Twins, the two devils could have been.

Evey had laughed at first, wondering if her own masked man would be in some way offended. But on the contrary, he seemed mildly amused, taking advantage of the situation on at least a few occasions.

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One graveyard gate, in fact, had created a brief test for angel Evey. Between the need to pass in single file, the chat Evey had been having with another guest on the tour, and, admittedly, a playful moment on V's part, the two had been separated briefly. And on the other side, it was up to *her* to choose her devil, neither of whom were even looking at her. -- -- One, because he didn't even care; the other, merely feigning disinterest.

Feigning disinterest? 'No small task on his part,' she thought wryly to herself as she walked directly up to V.

Maybe it had been some subtlety in the gloves. Or a slight disparity in height. Or maybe V had just been trying *too* hard not to watch her. But whatever the reason, her selection was affirmed when a gloved hand reached out and took her own, pulling her into his arms for a whispered, confirming endearment. It was a proximity and place she especially chose to stay, once the guide began discussing the purported spooks that haunted the graveyard around them.

Kensal Green Cemetery. ... This was a very 'Dickensonian' graveyard, said to be haunted by Charles Dickens himself, despite the fact that his own body had not been laid to rest here. And soon their guide was shepherding her guests through any assortment of the literary giant's deceased acquaintances.

Illustrators who had supplied artwork for his publications; publishers; real life people on whom many of Dickens's fictional characters had been based; friends til death and those who had fallen out -- often amidst considerable animosity. Even two physicians who had cared for Dickens, one of whom had performed a surgery without the benefit of anesthesia.

Along the way, V ... or rather, 'Erve' ... had been drawn into discussion with another gentleman wearing a costume based on Edvard Munch's 'Scream'. V had always liked the painting, and had to admit a certain appreciation of the costume's simple flair. -- -- Especially the mask.

"I'd always heard Dickens was a bit loopy," Mr. Scream commented. "My great, great, great grandmum was supposedly some sort of cousin. The family rumours about his more outlandish behavior are still coming down through the years."

"Ah, but he was the driving force of his day," V argued. "An inspiration for generations of those who both enjoy, and craft the word. You should be proud."

"No," Mr. Scream disagreed. "I should be scared. Probably shouldn't even be on this tour. Morbid curiosity, I guess." ... He laughed nervously. ... "If I end up being a target of Uncle Charles's wrath, you might want to steer clear of me."

"I shouldn't worry," V continued. Dickens's distant relative would apparently not be dissuaded from his belief in spectres, so V was left taking a different tactic in offering reassurance. ... "According to our esteemed guide, his worst haunting consists of nothing more than staring at passing visitors."

"Yeah," Evey interjected playfully. "And being stared at can be quite nice sometimes. Erve taught me that, didn't you Erve."

V squeezed her hand twice in response. ... ... Once in acknowledgement of her amusing accusation -- -- no, she no longer seemed to mind the weight of his eyes upon her. And once for her insistence on using that horrid name as frequently as she possibly could. Before he could craft a verbal reply however, they had arrived at a rather demure, but tidily elegant tombstone.

"And here," announced the guide, "we find the grave of Mary Hogarth. In the terms of proper society, she was the beloved sister-in-law of the great writer. Ward of Mrs. Dickens, who was Mary's elder sister. Questions were raised, however, when Charles himself insisted that he one day be buried alongside this very tombstone. His documented letters to his good friend, John Forster, express deep grief over having been cajoled into allowing the burial of Mary's younger brother here instead, when the young George Hogarth died a mere four years later. It was a grief that Dickens claimed he might never recover from, despite his continuing marriage to his wife."

Evey glanced up at V, a clear challenge in the quirk of her smile. Did he have an answer for that one, in defense of this literary hero of his?

"Well," V opined in a whisper. "Those of genius often have their quirks."

"I'll agree with that," she laughed quietly, knowing how easily she could list at least a dozen for her mate. "All the same though, I don't think I want a Dickens bedtime story in any near future."

... ... And then ... ... 'Snap!' ... went something in the woods, off to their side.

With everyone's nerves already a bit jangled, it was no surprise the exclamations that went round the group. Nor the speed with which Mr. Scream went running off into the night.

"Evey!" V exclaimed, surprised by her sudden grab of his torso. There were knives under there, and he preferred that neither he nor she end the evening with an injury.

"I saw *eyes*," she insisted, her own eyes widening in alarm.

"Animals have eyes," he explained gently.

"They were *staring*, and didn't look the least little bit happy."

"Well if I were a badger," he theorized, "and this many unexpected guests paraded through my foyer, I might not be best pleased either."

He received a light thump on the chest for that ... admonishment for not taking her seriously. Meanwhile, the guide was using the moment to its fullest effect, urging everyone to stay together and suggesting that 'perhaps, out of respect, they should all leave the area'.

"Evey," he soothed, tugging her closer. "Consider this ... ... why would a spectre, with no Earth-bound body, snap a twig?"

She gave him another look, grudgingly trying to believe him ... or maybe grudgingly admitting that he was right ... he wasn't quite certain. "Alright," she relented. "But let's get out of here."

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But with all the ghosts and spirits supposedly watching them that night, the most unnerving location, by the time the tour was nearing its end, was disturbing in a far more personal way. -- -- To both Evey and her masked man.

It was the Old Palace Yard -- just outside of Parliament's remnants -- where centuries earlier, four of the Gunpowder Conspirators were put to death. This was a place Evey usually avoided, and she and her mate took up a position at the back of the crowd ... as if just a few more feet distance might lessen the blow of the display that was about to come.

During the year-and-a-half her mate had hidden his life from hers, she had regularly heard the old stories of Guy Fawkes, dug up and re-instituted as a publicly glorified legend. The new world had their 'new Fawkes' -- in the form of V. And in V's veneration, the memory of his centuries-ago predecessor received its due as well.

In fact, she'd heard both stories retold over and over -- -- that of her own masked hero, and that of the hero from long ago. The many memorials and dedications, held around London after the worst days of fighting had ended, almost always made mention of the two men. She herself had even recited such tales, the day she'd dedicated the memorial of the black bags.

But hearing the details of the original Fawkes -- *now* -- *here on this spot* -- seemed almost worse. Enduring such things in honor of V's memory, when she thought he really *was* nothing more than a memory, was one thing. But listening to it now, while her beloved stood living and breathing behind her, was a new form of mental torture. -- -- She knew the details to come.

This place ... where the gallows stood resurrected with as much authenticity as possible ... was indeed purported haunted, but had taken on more power simply for its history. And just as that history would be recited four evenings later on the Eve of the Fifth, it was to be repeated to the Halloween tour as well. Every governmental official grew somber. Events of the revolution had taught all that 'hero' and 'villain' were relative words -- dependant on history and ruling power, as much as on actual events.

A reading of the names began ... ... Sir Everard Digby, Robert Wintour, Thomas Bates, John Graunt ... ... four of the Gunpowder group who had been hung just one day earlier in Saint Paul's Churchyard.

Then the four who had met their deaths right here ...

... ... Robert Keyes,

... ... Thomas Wintour,

... ... Ambrose Rookewood ... ... the only name that drew even the slightest smile to Evey's lips. Yes, she'd heard the tales of her mate's numerous aliases.

Then came a retelling of those requests some of the condemned had made for the Crown's mercy on beloved family left behind. ... Their proclamations of innocence. ... Their oaths of continued loyalty to Catholicism and its ruling Pope.

They were words of strength. -- -- Every single one of them. But they were still difficult to listen to, and Evey was at least comforted to be in the arms of her own revolutionary hero while she was forced to hear this.

And then, the disemboweling of the corpses, already hung to death.

... ... The quartering.

That should have been the worst part of the story. That was what routinely made many audience members squeamish and repulsed. But for Evey, it was the description of the *eighth* man that held that dubious honor. -- -- The last moments of Guy Fawkes ... alias Guido Fawkes or John Johnson ... each of his monikers being read with careful enunciation.

... ... Fawkes's refusal to make a parting speech. Carefully controlled silence ... something Evey's mate was equally capable of.

... ... Fawkes's being dubbed 'the great devil of all', when the journalists of the time had then relayed the news of his execution. How especially ironic, as she stood enfolded by the angelic devil behind her.

... ... Fawkes's need for the hangman's assistance in climbing the ladder ... his body having endured so much torture and illness during his time of imprisonment. In the blink of an eye, Evey was back in those tunnels surrounding Victoria Station, watching the man she loved stumble toward her -- bloodied and battered -- barely managing to collapse into her arms. ... ... ... Oh God. ... ... ... And she turned her head, instinctively pulling V's arms tighter around herself.

... ... Fawkes's resolute 'jump' into the fall; breaking his neck; taking and accepting his own death quickly. ... ... What more was there to say?

"I know, love," V murmured across the top of her head. "I do know." ... Then he broke his grip, just long enough to raise the edge of the outer cloak, positioning it between his love and the tour group before them. She would have her privacy while she wept.

... ...

Was the spirit of Guy Fawkes himself here, as had often been claimed? Perhaps watching the events from the sidelines, even if Evey had detected no staring eyes?

Would he have been offended by the mask V usually wore? Or would he stroll right across four centuries of time, and congratulate the masked man who had drawn inspiration from him? ... Who had taught people to look for the best hero in even the worst villain. It really was all relative, wasn't it ... lacking of any greater absolutes. One did what one must, and let the pieces fall where they may.

Yes, she was pretty certain, having heard the story yet again, that Fawkes's reaction would be one of congratulations. And so she offered her own as well, turning and burrowing into her mate's embrace. She was still anxious to leave ... she really was. But she would be alright until then.

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Their final destination for the night was the infamous Tower of London ... where Fawkes, like so many other criminals of Merry Old England, had spent their last days of life.

It was currently closed to the public, undergoing repair work and careful reconstruction. While Norsefire had initially declared such landmarks to be of high value and therefore worthy of only the best upkeep, like many promises, those words had soon rung hollow. More than a few areas needed precise and prompt repair before the damage and decay became permanent.

And so scaffolding had been erected around many of the buildings, for stone workers, masons, carpenters, and craftsmen in almost any building trade under the sun. Cement mixers stood at the ready, prepared to shore up foundations as needed. A scoop and shovel truck ... not for destruction, but for removal of rubble that got away from the repairmen before it could be salvaged. Even a crane to lift new support beams.

This was considered to be one of the most haunted sites in London. Indeed, in all of England. Would the ghosts be frightened off by the daily workers? Or would it be the other way round? These were the questions posed in good humor by the expert guide, then answered with his own resounding "Have no fear! The ghosts were still here!"

The Murdered Princes, the Lady in White, Henry VI, Lady Jane Grey, even the headless figure of Anne Boleyn ... all were promised to the visitors this night. Not that V believed any of it, mind you.

And not that the ghosts would have much time to greet their guests, even if they wanted to.

One of the first stops on the tour was Constable Tower, where the small group made their way into Sir Walter Raleigh's prison room. It was not, however, Sir Walter that they were looking for. Rather, the hope was to see the Lady in White, known to haunt the windows of the White Tower across the way. And while the group waited for any wisps of white in the distance, their guide regaled them with stories of the great Sir Walter.

A Renaissance man, he was praised as being. Explorer, soldier, philosopher, historian, poet. ... A man of surprising breadth of knowledge.

Evey turned, about to comment to her mate how much he too resembled that description ... a much more pleasant comparison to draw than those back at the gallows ... when she discovered he wasn't even paying attention.

"Erve?" she asked, being sure to use his faux name. Mr. Scream had finally calmed a bit after his fright back at the cemetery, and had fallen back into step with the couple. He too looked over, when he heard the girl's question left hanging in the air.

"Oh what the devil art thou?" V murmured under his breath, watching his costumed-doppelganger. The red and black devil -- the *other* red and black devil -- stood near the door, studying a table and small book meant to replicate that of Sir Walter's.

"Have you not noticed?" V whispered, leaning toward Evey's ear. "From the very moment we entered this tower, he has been distancing himself. He feigns interest in another subject, while avoiding that which is the true focus of the tour. And the disparity grows still more pronounced."

For a few moments, she watched the rest of the group as they gathered closer to the room's two windows -- searching for the ghostly show. Then her eyes made a sideways return to that second red and black devil. He had picked up the book, flipping through it ... almost ... ... nervously?

That's when the jangling was heard ... the brief sound of a chain, coming from somewhere beyond the old stone structure.

"What was that?" she asked, flinching in surprise. Mr. Scream reacted similarly, his earlier panic beginning to re-emerge. Indeed a mumble had begun within the entire group, speculating that unearthly chains were being rattled out there in the night. The ghosts were coming! The ghosts were coming at last!

"Well it's not a spectre," was V's counter conclusion. "A spectre would no more shake a chain than snap a twig." He spoke idly, remembering the incident in the cemetery, his mind whirring over a myriad of possibilities -- -- and none of them paranormal. His doppelganger had looked toward the direction of the sound for no more than a second, then taken his first step out of the room.

It was no coincidence.

And V was just beginning to follow, already making his move toward the door, when new exclamations of surprise rose from the group. "Oh my God, it's going to hit! It's going to hit!"

Then another metallic clang, this time from right outside the tower ... ... ... and this one was followed with the loudest BANG!

The building shook and the people screamed. They tried to get back ... they tried to get away. But the wall ... even the floor ... was already crumbling. The explosion itself may have missed them ... maybe it was even *intended* to miss them ... but at least a portion of Constable Tower was succumbing right out from under their feet.

V grabbed Evey's arm with lightning fast reflexes, just before the floor began to crumble. Under the weight of the people, it was going down.

He made a lunge for a more stable stronghold ... a support pillar that formed one side of the doorway. Attached to the solid stone stairway as it was, and assisted by other supports embedded within, at least that area had a chance of survival. Kicking out his leg, he managed to hook his foot around the pillar, his body dropping to an area of the floor that did crack -- but then held. And on the other side of him, Mr. Scream was going down too. V's second hand flashed out, snagging the man by the collars of his shirts.

V was correct, and the stairway held fast, allowing him to work his way back onto it ... ... hauling a squirming, panicked Evey -- and a screaming Mr. Scream -- along with him.

"What the hell was that?!" Evey demanded as she struggled to her feet. Shrieks were still going up, cutting through the cloud of dust that rose from the old, collapsed rubble. A very few people had likewise managed to catch onto something sturdy on their way down, and were now left clinging to the jagged edges of the structure's remains. Others had fallen within the rubble ... some to their deaths, some merely crawling and struggling toward any safety they could find.

And then came that clanging sound again, this time with an audible but faint whip of the air around it. A thick chain came flying toward the rubble ... and V understood. Something heavy had been shorn off the end, exactly where a *crane* hook might be. Whatever had been delivered, had been delivered by the swing of that missing hook. -- -- So the culprits were most likely at the other end.

"Go!" V insisted to his mate. "Find safety." And before she could even consider protesting, he had jumped out from their ledge, grabbing ahold of the chain and swinging out into the night.

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Some distance away, two men sat in the control cab of a crane, congratulating each other on what looked liked a remarkable success. They were new to the rebel cause and had taken this as their first assignment. A bit of a test, they assumed, and they were passing with flying colors.

Constable Tower now had a gaping hole, as if a claw had reached inside and scraped right down to the ground. And although they couldn't see all that well through the darkness, the cries of the victims proved that some had been injured, if not killed.

Did their contact escape unscathed? Their mole within the Transportation Department?

They'd followed his movements into the Tower complex, observing his silent signals. Of course, finding two people dressed in the same costume was a bit of a surprise, but no matter ... *their* devil knew the plan. And perhaps the twist of a second devil would prove fortuitous in the end ... acting as a screen for their own devil to disappear.

Was he to join up with them here? Or back at rebel headquarters? They weren't sure. But they certainly did *not* expect him to come flying down on the crane's lift chain.

There was the devil himself ... their devil? ... aimed to whip past just yards above where they sat. Mouths open, they looked on in shock as the figure released the chain, crashing through the cab door.

A knife was pulled, then stabbed quickly and brutally into the crane driver's skull.

"Holy shit!" shouted the other rebel, making his escape by literally falling out through the opposite door.

V saw the man go, but had little concern. He retrieved his knife, feeling no guilt over the sickening grinding sound it made as it disjoined from human bone. These men had forfeited their lives weeks ago ... possibly months ago ... when they had first targeted Evey's tour group. This was merely reality catching up to what was already ordained.

The second rebel did manage to cover a full ten yards ... no small feat ... before V had scrambled over the newly deceased corpse. The knife left the hero's hand with deadly accuracy, severing the fleeing man's spinal cord as it found its mark.

That knife too, V retrieved, shaking the dead body in the process, his fury reaching a high point. And when he rose again ... when he took his first step around the crane ... he saw a flash of red approaching from the distance.

A red devil's face, stopping in its tracks upon seeing its perfect reflection grinning right back at it. But V was *not* grinning beneath.

The doppelganger turned and began racing back into the darkness. But he had no prayer against the knife that was soon chasing him, embedding smoothly and cleanly into his thigh.

It was one last opportunity. V's suspicions had grown throughout the evening, and the man's arrival *here*, from where the rebels had launched their attack, was damning enough in V's opinion.

One last opportunity though. The man would have one last opportunity to prove his innocence.

V was on top of the man in seconds, hauling him up by his neck and hurling him a good twenty feet against the side of a cement mixer. The doppelganger hit with a thud, the air expelled from his body as he slumped to the ground.

"Why do I believe your presence is not by chance?" V growled sarcastically, taking the man's neck in his hand and forcing that devilish red mask to greet his own.

In his stupor ... in the reeling of his badly jarred brain ... the poor sod apparently could not grasp the question. In fact, he was still quite befuddled that another had been sent in a duplicate costume. Had his contacts within Norsefire betrayed him? How else could the man looming over him now, have had any idea how to escape the collapse, or where their rebel compatriots were?

"Why did they send you?" the traitor asked between forced inhalations to retrieve some air to his lungs. "We did exactly as instructed!"

V shook his head. Ironic, wasn't it?

Instructions?

His *own* instructions had been quite clear, had they not? Mere months ago, when he'd quite generously spared the life of one rebel? ... ... Did they not listen? ... ... Did they not believe him? ... ... That they would still choose a target that included his dear mate?

His patience was reaching a limit.

Leaning even closer, V stared at the befuddled traitor, and snarled in his anger ... "He was warned. The consequences he knew. And so with his life, he will give the *devil* his due."

A snap of the neck, and the doppelganger fell limply to the side.

... ...

"Oh my God," came Evey's voice from the background. V spun to find her standing only a short distance away. Her hand was covering her mouth in shock ... her eyes wide.

What a strange, frightening sight he must make, V realized. Rarely had his love actually witnessed him kill so cold bloodedly before. And even more disturbing, that this might happen *tonight*, when he literally wore the devil's garb.

That sent another worrisome thought flitting through his mind. -- -- She did realize which devil had been victorious, didn't she?

His concerns were put to rest with her next outburst. "We have to get out of here!" she demanded, looking straight at her V. "We have to *go*! The police are already on their way, and I *don't* think you want to be questioned!"

"Indeed," he agreed ... perhaps the understatement of his life. His foot kicked aside the corpse's leg, where it had landed over his boot. Quite unceremoniously ... true. But his anger would take more than this criminal's death to quell.

For tonight though, he and his mate should be back in the Gallery ... where no rebel could threaten her, and no official magistrate could demand details of *his* existence. He grasped her hand, and off they sprinted.

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Their return underground was uneventful. A devil and his angel were unlikely to be questioned, even this late on Halloween Eve. In the distance, emergency vehicles of all sorts were blaring toward the Tower of London.

And Mr. Scream? He was fine, thanks to the masked hero he had unknowingly allied himself with that night. He was the first to regale the police with the story of the superhumanly strong man who had saved his and Evey's lives.

Evey would have to do quite a bit of 'damage control' the next day. And to that end, she pulled out her mobile during those last minutes before she and V slipped back beneath the earth's surface. ... ... A message, left on the answering machine of a friend who she knew would be out. A request that the police be assured of her safety, and that she would be in contact the next day.

By the morning, it would all be in the hands of the government's Department of State Inquiry, which would redefine the whole issue anyway. From the perspective of 'terrorism' investigation, the legend of V would be recalled and considered with much more interest ... even if the definition of 'terrorist' had changed 180 degrees over the last few years.

"Your arm is hurt," V concluded with regret, once they'd entered the Gallery's main rooms. He had suspected as much from the way she'd held her phone. But this time, when her hand drifted away from his, it moved to rub her opposite shoulder.

"Just a little," she admitted, rubbing the aching joint.

It was from her near-fall in the collapsing tower, obviously. Or more precisely, the jolt when her drop was halted by his grip. He coaxed her around to face him, pulling her into his arms and letting his own hand take over the massage of the afflicted area. His silent apology, even though both knew how unavoidable the injury had been.

"It does not feel swollen," he said with relief. "But we must be mindful of it tonight." ... Then he drew back, watching her with significant concern. ... "Are you alright otherwise? Are you certain?"

"Yeah. Just," ... her head shook and she let out a puff. "Just shaken. Tired. ... ... Frustrated."

He took her chin in his hand, tilting her face for a proper inspection. ... ... No, there was no other damage as far as he could tell. Or rather, no other pain was translating onto her features. Only the emotions she had listed. Yes, she was indeed shaken ... making him all the more angry at those who simply would not give her peace. Pulling her properly into his embrace, he offered comfort in his arms; the affectionate press of the devil's mask to her temple.

... ... And that needed to change too.

... ... The mask.

It felt different. He wanted to return to Evey the familiarity of the man she loved. -- -- Not only the 'second him', of Fawkes mask and black fabric skin. But the man *beneath* as well. The man who, at heart, would rather curl around this woman in peaceful sleep, than have to fell the enemy in violence.

He would do the former tonight, healing both of them, hopefully, after such a harrowing evening. She would have her V back, with as much tenderness as ever.

But the next day ... by God ... he would also do the latter. The rebels would encounter him as well. They would experience that darker part of him. -- -- His fury and his anger.

The bastards had been warned.

He had been serious.

And he would be quite busy for the next day or two.

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Epilogue ... the next morning:

"No, these were new, Sir. Recruits. I've talked to the contractors doing the on-site work. Seems these boys got themselves onto the crew a few weeks ago. Probably stayed after hours, then swiped some blasting caps from company storage. That's what was on the crane hook. Remote detonated. Not their best operatives ... that's the good news. Although this does mean that another cell is growing."

Evey recognized the voice as she stepped up to the open doorway of Agent Eric Finch's office. The speaker was Agent Dominic Stone. Yes, she had heard that he'd been promoted over here as well, right along with his long-time superior. The dynamic duo of terrorism investigation.

*But*, that might be very much to her advantage.

"What I can't figure out, is," ... ... Dominic stopped as he dropped a file on Finch's desk, having caught sight of their visitor out of the corner of his eye. Most people were not allowed to just walk right in here. But then again ... Ms. Hammond wasn't most people in this day and age. And after the events of the previous evening ... ...

"Sorry ..." she apologized. "I was just hoping to speak with Agent Finch."

Dominic eyed her suspiciously for another moment. It had never quite left him that their first 'impression' of each other was this woman spraying mace in his eyes. But after the events of the revolution, such things were probably meant to be left in the past. Still ... ...

"I'll be at my desk," Dominic told his superior. "I'd like to have some more words with the contractors."

Finch nodded, rising from his chair and motioning for Evey to enter. "Oh, Dominic ... give Del a ring for me too, will you? Tell her it looks like it's going to be a bloody long day." His sigh was one of resignation, as his assistant left and Ms. Hammond took a seat on the opposite side of his desk.

"We've been looking for you," he stated quite obviously. "Bit of deja vu for me, if I do say so myself." ... Then he smiled slightly, proving that he was neither surprised, nor terribly angry. "How nice of *you* to come to *us* this time round."

Evey's mouth twisted in sarcastic bemusement. She'd shared passing conversations with the man over the last years, usually the small talk always required at government functions. But this was the first time those days of old were so blatantly referenced. He could apparently look on them with good humour ... ... which might make her task easier in the end.

"I needed to regroup last night," she replied guarding her details carefully. "I figured the case would be transferred over here by morning. Thought I'd come directly to you."

... ...

A moment, while Finch thought. She was hiding something ... not too difficult to tell.

Casually, he sat down on the corner of his desk, then picked up one of the many folders that had amassed there in mere hours. "I gather you and your date ... one 'Erving'?"

"Erve," Evey smiled, enjoying the unplanned break in tension. "It sounds a bit like 'Evey', don't you think?"

Finch corrected his pronunciation. -- -- But then, that wasn't the point, was it. -- -- "We haven't been able to find *him* either, I note. Not many references to go on, other than a few witness statements. And the fact that he was wearing the same costume as our renegade official. Would you mind telling your friend that we'd like to have a chat with him?" ... Finch's tone turned suspicious. The cat that knew the canary, even if he didn't have the bird in sight yet. ... "The gentleman appears to be quite strong, based on a statement from another of your group. Not to mention agile; quiet; well-learned. And rather out of the loop when it comes to records or documentation."

Evey glanced down, clearing her throat. "That's actually why I came to you, Agent Finch. I thought you, of all people, might understand. ... ... You see ... I'd like him to *remain* 'out of the loop'. Quite honestly, I don't think he's in any position to give you a statement. Nor do I think he should. So I'm afraid I can't help you on that front. ... ... In fact, quite the opposite. I would be grateful for any assistance you could offer *me* in preventing a search for my friend."

... ...

You could actually see the puzzle coming together in Finch's mind, each piece falling into place at a rapidly accelerating pace. As a rule, it's difficult to solve a jigsaw puzzle with no prior knowledge of what it's actually supposed to look like. But once you've seen the cover of the box -- once you've spent an entire year studying the whole picture -- the solution isn't so difficult anymore. And no one had studied either V or Evey as thoroughly as Finch had done, just three years prior.

The senior agent took a breath, swallowing around what he was about to ask. ... ... ... "Is it him?"

Evey thought for a moment, then countered with her own question. ... "Are you willing to help me?"

"There have been rumours," Finch noted, continuing the bargain they seemed to be striking. "Just whispers. Bits and pieces. Some from reputable sources. Others from insurgents who would say anything to throw us off their trail. But rumours that do raise one's eyebrows."

He looked down at his papers again, searching for a specific description. ... "So it's interesting to hear that you were rescued by 'a uniquely strong man in a devil's costume." ... Finch's eyes returned to Evey. ... "A costume that, I note, includes a full facial *mask*. And to find the perpetrators of the attack turned into pin cushions ... well, it does take my mind in certain directions. So I'd like to ask you again ... ... Is it him?"

Evey shook her head slightly. Not in disagreement, but because the deal had still not been struck. "You've always seemed to be an honorable man, Agent Finch. My impression is that you take the value of your word more seriously than some others might. Which is why I must ask *you* again ... Is this Agent Finch questioning me for the record? Or is this Mr. Finch, private citizen of the new England, asking out of his own interest?"

... ...

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that yes, it was a bargain he could live with.

"It's private citizen Finch", he replied. "Who would be honored to thank the man for freeing this country from its own fears. From its own inaction and its own denial. And yes, Ms. Hammond, Agent Finch would consider steering the investigation toward the rebels, and away from 'Erve'."

... ... Evey smiled.

... ... She'd been right.

"As it turns out," she began, her demeanor lightening as she began speaking of her mate. And V's words from earlier that evening were still clear in her mind. -- -- The moment that devil and angel first peered into the mirror together, wondering if the differences were really all that great. "Heaven wasn't ready for him. He was cast out again ... fallen back to Earth. Maybe for himself. Maybe for me. Maybe for all of us. But yes ... ... it's him."