The only verdict is vengance.

A yellow coded curfew is now in effect.

The monotone voice echoed its warning as you rushed through the empty streets of London. How typical, you thought, that the one time you dare act outside of your routine you are late, and breaking protocol, no less.

Looking over your shoulder, you round a corner and run into a rather plump wall, before the plump wall begins to speak.

"Excuse me, miss."

A large man stands before you, dismissing your apology and excuse before another man the plump wall introduces as "Willy" appears.

Your heart catches in your throat as the two men step closer, making obscene and vulgar remarks, the kind of remarks that have you reaching in your coat pocket for mace. One of the men roughly grabs your hand before you brandish the mace as your form of protection before the plump wall reaches into his pocket and brandishes his own; a Fingerman badge.

Your blood runs cold and again and you begin to apologize. More vile threats leave the plump wall's mouth before you attempt to run in a last ditch effort to save yourself, but another wall grabs you, this one armed with a baton. You desperately struggle and cry for help. You broke the rules, you think, and now you pay the price.

Your screams and thoughts are cut off by a voice from the shadows, and peering out, you can see the shadow is masked.

"The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him."

The men stop, and angrily turn and curse in the direction of the shadow.

"Disdaining fortune, with his brandish'd steel which smoked with bloody execution."

The masked shadow steps forward, slicing in half the plump wall's badge -which was presently being brandished as a sort of justification for his transgressions- with a single stroke of his dagger before moving with such grace that you would not expect from a man of his strength, which was on blatant display as he threw Willy into a brick wall.

You watched him as he seemed to dance around the Fingermen in incredible, fluid movements, throwing them around as if they weighed nothing to him. Upon disarming the last of your would-be-assaulters, the masked shadow puts his weapon down to his side.

Was this an attempt of mercy, you wondered? Kneeling on the floor from being thrown aside, you peer up at the shadow, attempting to gauge his intentions from the details of his mask. You wince as, suddenly, he's punched but then he's moving again, throwing the failed attempt at mercy into a wall. He walks over to Willy, who is now on the floor, crying out for help much like you yourself were just moments ago.

"We are oft to blame in this- 'tis too much proved- that with devotion's visage and pious action, we do sugar o'er the devil himself."

The masked shadow moves to strike Willy down, for good this time, you think to yourself. After peering down at Willy's motionless body for a moment, either daring him to get up again or making sure he's dead, you can't tell, he walks towards you now with silent footsteps and looming figure as you reach for your mace for the second time tonight.

The shadow stands a few feet in front of you and you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. He wears a Guy Fawkes mask, cropped by a curtain of dark hair. You take in his all black attire, and the way his voice rumbles as he assures you he means you no harm.

"Who are you?" you demand, just barely finding your voice.

"Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask."

Ah, funny, you think sarcastically. You'd say it out loud but, having just seen this man dispose of four Fingermen with ease, you bite your tongue and decide to keep the remark to yourself.

"But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis personae. Voila!"

You flinch at his exclamation and watch almost amusedly as he theatrically suggests the character of the dramatis personae. At some point, his theatrics turn into passion, and his passion quickly spirals into anger. No, not anger, rage, you think to yourself. Producing a dagger more quickly than you can process he slices a "V" into a poster promoting Sutler's values on the bricked wall of the alley as his dialogue comes to a halt. Again, you flinch.

"The only verdict is vengence- a vendetta...", he adds with a deep, rolling voice. His back is turned to you while his mask looks over his shoulder. You have whiplash from his mood swings; you are hanging on to every word he says.

Finally, he turns back to saunter in your direction before he removes his hat and bows deeply, introducing himself as V. V raises his mask from the ground to look at you, and you feel a chill as the smirking mask stares into your soul.

"To whom, might I ask, am I speaking?" V inquires, almost cheerfully as he rises and fixes his hat back on his head.

Introducing yourself, V repeats your name, once as a question, once slowly- as if testing it on his tongue.

"Of course you are", he remarks thoughtfully. You shiver.

"What does that mean?" you ask quietly, afraid of provoking the masked shadow.

"It means that I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence." He offers his gloved hand out to you on the ground slowly, like you are a frightened animal. "Are you hurt?" V quietly asks as you accept his hand. The leather is high quality and cold, and the fingers underneath hold your own with such caution- like he feels you might run from his touch.

Even at standing height, he is much taller than you.

You tell him that you are fine, thanks to him, as you take in his appearance once more. You take note of the multiple daggers he has strapped to either side of his body. They look razor sharp and shine a ghostly silver in the moonlight, though now there is a splash of crimson across several of them.

"I merely played my part. Tell me, though, do you enjoy music?"

"I suppose."

"You see, I'm a musician of sorts", V declares, "and on my way to give very special performance. I would be honored if you could join me". There is a hint of mischief in his voice and again, you feel the mask stare into your soul. No, you think, it's the eyes. The black voids of the mesh eyes are pinning you to your spot, and somehow, it feels as if he is studying your face with a burning intensity.

This is a stranger, you suddenly remember. An armed stranger, whose several blades seem to be instruments of their own, and he better than a musician of some sorts. "I don't think so," you hesitate. "I should be getting home". You hold your coat closer to you out of habit, eyeing V with caution.