V: Remember, remember, the fifth of November, The gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.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 it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified. 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 vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.
V: Remember, remember, the fifth of November, The gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.
Evey Hammond: Who--who are you?
V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what... and what I am is a man in a mask.
Evey Hammond: I can see that.
V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking on the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
Creedy: Defiant until the end, huh? You won't cry like him, will you? You're not afraid of death. You're like me.
V: The only thing that you and I have in common, Mr. Creedy, is that we're both about to die.
Creedy: How do you imagine that's gonna happen?
V: With my hands around your neck.
Creedy: Bullocks. Whatchya gonna do, huh? We've swept this place. You've got nothing. Nothing but your bloody knives and your fancy karate gimmicks. We have guns.
V: No, what you've have are bullets, and the hope that when your guns are empty I will no longer be standing, because if I am you will all be dead before you've reloaded.
Creedy: That's impossible. Kill him.
Bishop: Please! Mercy!
V: Oh, not tonight, Bishop, not tonight...
Willy Fingerman: If you're not the sorriest arse in London, by tomorrow you'll definitely have the sorest!
Finch: If our own government was responsible for the deaths of almost a hundred thousand people... would you really want to know?
Sutler: What we need right now is a clear message to the people of this country. This message must be read in every newspaper, heard on every radio, seen on every television... I want *everyone* to *remember*, why they *need* us!