One shot. Tells of the events directly after V's escape from Larkhill.
"TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them." E.A Poe, The Tell Tale Heart
But to call it a disease was madness in itself. To be honest, he didn't really know what it was. But he did know that he was now able to think more clearly than ever before! He could take in information from books and remember it to the punctuation mark. Which is, of course, how he was able to form that crude batch of mustard gas and napalm to free himself from Larkhil.
But the sad thing was, it had destroyed his identity. He could remember nothing of his childhood, his parents, or even his name. All he could remember was being thrown into that small room, and listening everyday as more and more people were being thrown into the furnaces. The only thing he could remember was that room marked number V
But, where was he going to go now? He was running down the street, naked, and was being pursued by countless finger men. Then he saw his chance. An abandoned costume shop. But how would he get in? "The gas!" He grabbed the vial he had carried with him, just a small vile, but enough. He threw it at the ground and it shattered. An enormous blinding flash of light, followed by the deadly gas filled the street, and he was gone.
He wandered around, looking at this and that, then he noticed something. An opera mask with rosy cheeks, a triangular moustache, and those narrow eye slits. It came in an ensemble with a cape, suit, and a hat. He put it on, and it fit like a glove, especially the glove parts. Apparently this shop was larger than he thought. He went downstairs and found the most elaborate mansion he had ever seen. And it was in the basement for crying out loud.
Suddenly he remembered all of the people that had been killed in Larkhill. Those innocent people who had been killed merely for being Black, or Jewish, or Gay. It wasn't right. And the things he read in the modern history books, England had fallen into a more bleak state than if Hitler had taken over. It was worse than that! He had to do something, and he knew what that something was.
"Look, I'm telling you, I never slept with him in my life!"
"Save your breath, Fagot, just follow us outside and we'll take care of everything! Isn't that right fellas?"
The group grunted in approval. Then, a small noise was heard outside of the small apartment. They turned, and the lights went out. A few guttural noises were heard, and the lights went back on. The finger men were dead. The two others looked at him. He held to knives that were drenched in blood.
"Who are you?" One of them asked.
"I'm the king of the twentieth century, I'm the bogeyman. The villain. The black sheep of the family."
"Well, what's your name?"
"I don't have a name. You may call me V!"