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serialkilluh-1996 · 21 hours ago

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𝗩 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗦 [ᵛ (ᶠᵒʳ ᵛᵉⁿᵈᵉᵗᵗᵃ) ˣ ᶠᵉᵐᵃˡᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ]

1. sᴀᴠɪᴏᴜʀ

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: technically underaged drinking, drugging (not by V), assault, descriptive violence, murder / death, not proof-read, themes of misogyny (not by V), let me know if I missed anything,

A/N: I watched V for Vendetta yesterday and I think I'm obssesed with the film. My mother used to have this movie and she's always had good taste in films, so I checked it out. Absolutely no regrets. Anyways, let's watch as a spiral into obssession with this anarchist as if I don't have several other fics I'm editing.

☠︎︎ Synopsis & Parts☠︎︎

Even in such a corrupt country, life came easy to a girl like you. The chancellor's daughter was expected to be spoiled like fine royalty. Sutler adopted you as a baby, after your parents were executed for acts of domestic terrorism. In this time, any form of rebellion against the UK government could cost you your life. He never cared about the families he tore apart or the lives ruined under his regime, much less the little orphaned babies who would be thrown into the system as a result, but he saw something special in you, and when Sutler wanted something, he got it.

He raised you like a princess, spoiling you with toys and jewelry, even going so far as to buy you your first Porsche at only fifteen. You weren't very humble about it either. Sutler couldn't name a time you went out with an allowance any less than a thousand pounds. That's just how life was for a girl like you.

You watched your flat screen TV with boredom as Prothero rambled about his disgust towards homosexuals and the likes, ranting and raving about unity and law. Despite having grown up around proud supporters of the country's totalitarianism, you cared little about such beliefs yourself. You weren't concerned with the sexualities or beliefs of others. "That's enougha that." you turn off the television, plopping back in your bed in deep thought. Your lace-trimmed silk dress laid gently against your body, creating a seemless tension against your freshly bathed skin.

It was one of your favorite pajama sets. Tomorrow is your twenty-first birthday, the day you truly became an adult. Old enough to smoke, drink, and completely fuck your body up with little to no repercussions. Very many people will be there, as you are an important figure. That bothered you deeply. You despised social gatherings. Not out of shyness or anxiety, but a deep disdain for the surrounding individuals. Your father was in charge of the guests and planning, so you could imagine it wouldn't be the most entertaining event. Old white men with jagged teeth and skin that appeared rotted were regulars around this time of you, given they are most of Sutler's supporters. They prided themselves on using their money to impress, so skin care and basic hygiene were out of the door.

Every year, you prayed that at least half of them would kill over, but in your twenty years of living, only five have passed. Alongside the wealthy, filthy men, there were there wives. They smelled far better, but they were just as, if not more pretentious than the men. It was almost as if the pearls around their powdered and contoured necks held some sort of curse. Maybe the sparkling, glistening dresses possessed them, made them self absorbed and prejudiced. But, you knew well it was the money. Doctors, lawyers, and politicians alike attended your birthday parties with the glee of children, but it was never anyone YOU invited. You had no real friends. They were all cherry-picked by Sutler, and it was the same copy and paste phenotype of women. All straight, modest, conservative and "beautiful."

Long hair, manicures, pencil skirts, and faces full of "natural" makeup that masked their true selves. They didn't speak unless spoken to, they never raised their voices, and a majority of these women were already married, if not expecting children. In high school, you were only allowed to speak to those with the highest of grades, best attendance, and of course, those who were pre-qualified for some of the best colleges in the country. Sometimes, you would dream of a man. A little harmless fantasy. A prince who would appear in the midst of your celebration, sweep you off your feet, and bring a little extra spice into your oh-so perfect life.

Your fingers twirled the little silver cross pendant on your neck as you stared over at the boo on your night stand. "PSYCHO" written by Robert Bloch, an American author. You always promised yourself that you would read that stupid book, but you never would get to it. Not a single word. You exhale. You don't feel like reading. There's nothing interesting on TV right now, unless you find yourself entertained by the prejudiced complaints of an annoying British man with a surname that sounds like a type of spicy cheese.

The only solution to your boredom was to go for a late night ride in your pretty little corvette. So, you grabbed your keys, your purse, threw on a jacket, and made your way out of the house. It wasn't very hard making it past security. To your chagrin, the idiots were concerned with something else at the time. It was surprisingly foggy out that night, but it wasn't entirely hard to see while driving a few clinics here and there, a pub, and a closed down eatery right before you passed The Old Bailey. It wasn't long before you noticed a bar. You had never been allowed in one before, not only because of your fathers' restrictive parenting, but you simply weren't old enough. You pulled your car into the crowded parking lot, noting the groups of smokers that ogled at your sports car. Way to be discrete about sneaking out.

As you hopped out of your car, you instantly dropped your head, praying you wouldn't be recognized as you clutched your purse. "Nice ride." A guy says as you pass him. "Thanks," you responded meekly as you hurried into the doors of the bar. It was a dim spot, people in every crevice of the establishment. You decide to sit at a bar, not able to find any regular seats available. Grimy, filthy men surrounded you. You could feel their eyes on the tip of your skin. "Hey, pretty girl. You must be new here." A guy sits beside you. "…yeah, I am."

"That's nice. It's always good to see a new face. What's your name, pretty girl?" the man asked. He appeared to be in his late thirties or older with sleak brown hair and a tired face. He wore a brown airman jacket and a white wife beater. "Vivianna." You lied through your teeth. "That's lovely. My name's Henry, I own the place. I've been runnin' this bar for the past twenty or so years. How bout I get you a drink on the house?"

"That would be very fine, yes." You smile as he orders you a small martini. "So, what brings a young thing like you out to a place like this?" "eh….curiosity?" "heh…yeah, I know the type. Young and yearning a little excitement in life." Your lips purse awkwardly as you pick up your martini. "You could say that," you giggle as you begin to slurp your drink. "Woah, Woah, Woah, Sweetheart!! You tryna black out? You're not supposed to drink these that fast, you'll be three sails to the wind in no time. That's a dangerous game to play at midnight."

You choke on your drink and he carefully takes it out of your hand, placing it on the bar. "Midnight?!" "Just a few minutes after, sweetheart." He assures. "I- I have to go." You hop down from the bar in a panic. "Wait!" he calls out for you as you run out of the door. You could feel the martini kicking in, warping your senses as you stumbled towards your car.

It seemed as if everyone in the lot had disappeared, maybe just out of your reach. You tripped against the wall, nearly falling as you struggled to hold yourself up with the crevices of brick. "Woah, there, pretty girl." The man holds you up. "You know, it's not very smart for a girl like you to accept drinks from men you just met Wasn't hard to slip a little "magic dust" in your drink." He teases as he brings you around to an alley, propping you against a stack of wooden crates. "I wouldn't expect much smarter from a girl who's too young to drink."

"wh…what?" "You think I didn't notice? You were so obvious, sweetheart. I mean, no ID, and you expected to get away with it? Such a crime cannot go unpunished, can it?" He looks to be removing his belt, but your vision is blurred. "Please…" you begged in a tired tone, just on the tip of consciousness. "Begging won't work in your case, sweetheart. You've been very irresponsible. Driving home in your condition would kill someone. You know the saying. Spare the rod, spoil the child."

He raises his belt into the air with the intention to strike, and his arm is immediately snatched down backwards, breaking it loudly. The man screams in pain as he is thrown against a brick wall by a dark figure, falling to the ground with a groan of agony. His pocket knife falls out of his jacket, sliding across the pavement. With his good arm, he reaches out for it, his finger crushed by the heavy foot of his attacker. He squeals in pain, begging the man to release his now broken fingers. The man slowly rubs his foot back and forth, twisting the man's bones over and over as he looks down on him.

He tilts his head as he stares. "It is ever so often that the perpetrator blames his victim, cosplaying as god when he knows he best suits the devil. Why is that? Does it make you feel more morally justified in your attempt to molest and beat a woman?" He places more weight onto the foot. "Mercy!" the man sobs. "Spare the rod," the man pulls out a knife, "Spoil the child." The man quotes, plunging his blade into the defenseless man below. He turns to you, his cloak flowing in the wind. "You. Are you alright? Where are you clothes?" He interrogates. He's a strange looking man. Long hair, a big hat, dark clothing, and an odd mask. It seems to be theatric, like those used in plays, it's a smiling man with a small split mustache and black eyes.

"My…clothes.." You stare down at your body. All you had on was your silk pajama dress and a black jacket from your closet. "oh….these are." "Pardon? ah. tsk. Forgive me. I forget you are under the influence. It's a little dangerous to be out so late, don't you find?"

"who…are you…" "What a silly question. "How so?" You may ask yourself, but the who is originated in the question of what, and what I am is a man in a mask." "what does that mean?" "It means that you must see the irony in asking a man in a mask who he is."

"Well,.. why exactly are you dressed like that? and what should I call you?" "Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V." He bows.

"Are you mental?" your question earns a subtle sigh. "Some would say that, yes. Some would say I am crazy, even. But it takes crazy to be as dedicated as I am." he stops his speech, noticing how drowsy you look. "I must say, getting roofied by some arrogant bloke wasn't your best experience, was it? Let's get you out of this alley." He lifts you into the air, carrying you away bridal style. "Myy carrrr." You whine with exhaustion. "Worry not, my lady. It will be found by authorities soon enough and all will be dealt with, In the meantime, let's get you somewhere with safe."

Thank you for reading!

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