Another day staring at the screens. The millions. They were all watching, the thinkpol. Mindless, senseless, forcible censorship of themselves, while they all slaved away at work, while they spent their private lives at home having a monotonous life, keeping Big Brother in mind even as they spend their days raising children they were forced to have, running a home they were forced to live in. Proles. The most private matters too were caught on telescreens. Mindless. Mindless. All of this. He did his job well. He did it well, but he had his doubts. Who was he kidding? He could not speak Newspeak. He had to speak it. It was as foreign to him as the rival super-states were to anyone closed off from them. He was foreign, but he had to go with the flow no matter how different he was.



"No tengas miedo," he repeated to himself in his head. But he was afraid, there was no denying that. He didn't dare look up at the sky and pray for a miracle. He'd renounced his religion. He stared at his clothes, whatever he was wearing. He never payed any real attention to it. It was all the same. "No tengas miedo." He began humming a familiar tune, one that his grandmother had taught him. As he went through each word in his head, he hummed the tune softly.



He knew someone had committed a crimethought. The rest of them were on their way too. Someone had snitched, yes, someone had snitched. They were there. He was there. He'd caught the man with several others. Thomas Clough, he had the knowledge of. Another one again, he thought to himself as he took the man forcibly. Another one again. This was not good. Each passing day this did not get any gooder. What was the use of trying to make it gooder? He did not know. He did not.



He knew his abuela for three days. She died a week later. That song was still stuck in his head. That and a birthday song. He turns twenty-eight. Happy birthday, Victor. Happy birthday. He didn't get any of those; not that he cared. Today, work. Tomorrow, work. The remaining days of his lifespan, work. Despite his pointed dislike of the life he lived and observing others' lives, he felt he was growing insane slowly and steadily. He remembered the tales abuela used to tell him. How she once lived in a whole world. How she loved to see everything grow. Everything was free. Everything was there. Everything. And now, it all amounts to nothing. She's ashes now. He knew that.

Tom Clough was not afraid. He saw it in his eyes. He was not afraid.

The last fragments of this man's life he was taking away. It was strange. A feeling of guilt and remorse came over him as each article was disposed of. Each memory. Several pictures of him, plain white boring background behind him, that same blank stare that everyone had when they had their pictures taken. They were littered in his cabinets. There was one other photo that was very different. It was of a woman. Perfectly agreeable face, he did agree, but this was no time for dilly-dally. Why was he feeling like this? He felt so dedicated to his work then, but now... What was he thinking? It was an unbearable thought to think that this life that he lived now was utter bullshit, or that he would've been better off living as a Prole. An ignorant Prole.

His eyes wandered to this woman's face again. To her eyes. Squinting, he disposed of the picture and went on with his work, hopefully getting his peace of mind as he sifted through and disposed of Thomas Clough's other belongings. Just remember. BB. BB. He is all that matters. In his head, he tried so hard to think that everything was going to be alright. Something made him think otherwise; he wasn't sure what.

He exited the building, his job having been done, and walked alone through the city. He needed peace of mind. He needed it.

The drops of rain on his coat and on his hair refreshed him in that moment. He wouldn't mind getting sick every once in a while. Besides, it wouldn't hurt much. Just a cold and a few tissues. Lying in bed doing nothing. Working whilst sneezing. That sort of thing. Perhaps it was time to introduce something new in his life again, no matter how endlessly dull a cold seemed to be. He counted his steps as he faced front, each step making a small sound against the concrete sidewalk as he passed the fixtures. It was getting dark as the clouds seemed grayer and grayer with each passing moment. His train of thought was interrupted when he felt a bump against him. Pushing him slightly forward. His thoughts were out the window for a moment, wondering who might have hit him. Or if it was intentional. He did after all work for the Miniluv. There were people that just had to hate him.

The first thing he noticed was the head of hair this woman had. When she'd turned to face him, she was just an ordinary woman. She was no different from the rest of them. This was just a woman who had bumped into him. He sighed deeply as his face remained blank, and gave a small nod of acknowledgement of her mistake.

"It's fine," he said plainly, his low, rough voice voiced out silently. As quickly as she had bumped into him and apologized, he walked away. This was just great. Just another obstacle for the day. But hey. It was raining. They did need to get home. He was struck with the idea of taking her to his place for a while, or at least until the rain subsides. As she walked away, his pace quickened a bit. "Come on. Follow me. You getting soaked in this rain isn't going to get us any better. Can't have yourself compromised when you start crying of pain."

He watched nonchalantly as this young girl was attempting to make the conversation light and easy. This woman was not to be trusted. There was something in her sparkling blues that told him that there was something behind her; that she had ulterior motives. He just knew it was there. He felt it. But then again, he trusted no one. Not even himself. It wasn't as it was before. The comforting ease of a family that, perhaps, he would never have anymore. His hypocrisy to his own ideals frightened and angered him at the same time. All of these emotions that he'd been trying to contain whilst erasing traces of Thomas Clough. It was hard to keep it in. It was hard to keep it all in. His co-workers were watching him. His 'comrades'. This was supposed to be fair? This was supposed to be a society worth living and dying for? Oh, to have the ignorance of a common Prole. To live in ecstasy and die for nothing; that would've been something. The life he lived, it wasn't a life. It was hell. Each day of it.

This girl's pearly whites could not even faze him. He stared at her plainly with eyes that resembled dark pools of mud that gathered in the dirtier streets, the neglected streets that held nothing but poverty and suffering, all covered up with assurance that everything was going to be okay as long as Big Brother was there with them. These thoughts surprised him. He continued to stare for a second more, before he groaned a bit and made a small hand gesture to follow him, once taking a harmless, yet somehow hateful glare at the telescreen before walking away naturally, hopefully not inciting any suspicion on the third party watching them, following their every move. A reckless move, but otherwise useful. She looked like she could be of use. She could be of great use indeed.

Getting to his apartment, just about ten minutes away from where he'd had his most recent job, he produced a key from his pocket and unlocked his apartment door. It looked like it still had enough space -- he'd cleaned his messes and disposed of those that were no longer needed. And approved by the watchful eyes of the government, of course. This was 'home'. This was where he ate, slept, 'lived'. The propaganda on the telescreen had to be watched, otherwise the neighbors would've thought there was something wrong with him. This was driving him absolutely nuts. Luckily for him, he knew just how to hide his emotion. The warm smell of leather and cigarettes and coffee swirled through the air and into his nose -- the ever familiar scent of home, where his father smoked cigars and his mother made breakfast. They had been from Spain. His family had been from Spain. They were gone now. It had been nineteen years. The memories he had as a very young boy felt like the only things that were keeping him sane now. Memories from some twenty-odd years ago, long before the crazy war. Like nothing else would help heal the hurt.

"You drink?" he asked again, the same flat, uncaring, monotonously rough voice. "Unless you're starving yourself off poor rations."

"Yes. All of us do," he said as he shuffled around his apartment, taking off his black coat and setting it on a nearby chair. "All of us have to for him." He ran a hand through his jet black hair, slick with water from the rain, and sighed as he slowly unbuttoned his rain-saturated uniform slightly. He reached out for a towel and half-threw it at this stranger, not waiting for a complaint about how it was given to her or not. The bottle of Victory Gin on the table was enough to silence him further. There was a tinge of disgust on his face, but he merely sighed as he walked over to the cupboard to get two small glasses for them to drink with. He poured himself a glass before pouring this strange girl one and handed it to her. As he took a gulp, a feeling of burning racked through his body as the burning melted away into a kind warmth, like a familiar happiness he knew. Not a single trace of a smile or amusement was to be seen on him at all, but inside he was confounded. Did the government fess up and make better gin? It wasn't possible at all. He set the glass down and put both of his hands on the table, leaning on it slightly. It was crazy. Confusion didn't mix well with alcohol. With his head hung low, looking blankly at the table, he looked back up at her, and saw the mischievousness that she'd been trying to make him see for the short duration that she was inside his apartment. Once again, he had to mask his surprise. He didn't want to amuse this girl. He'd leave his thoughts for later.

"Impressive move, yes," he said, trying to relay a message despite the brevity of his speech. He took another small gulp of whatever he was drinking, and ran his hand through his hair yet again as several strands became stuck to his face with the water and small droplets of sweat that were now dripping from his forehead. The sounds of the propaganda annoyed him so. He turned the telescreen off for a minute. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he lit it and took a deep inhale, letting out a cloud of smoke that just enhanced the warm smell of the apartment. "Great." He held out the pack to her and tilted it slightly as if to offer one to her.

"What were you doing wandering the streets?" he asked suspiciously, eyeing her with a distrust that Thought Police usually had. He set himself on a nearby chair and just stared at her.

Now, this was getting interesting. With a sarcastic smile, he shook his head at her sudden answer and looked back up at her again. "Of course, you didn't," he said slyly. "But then again, I have let you seek shelter from the rain in my house. You are merely a stranger; I don't wish to know who you are, I don't wish to know your ulterior motives. I know you know the harsh realities by now. No one trusts no one."

As he poured them both a tiny bit more, he swilled the small amount and looked her in the eyes, the weird feeling of amusement with toying around awash in his system. "Unless you'd rather leave, of course. The rain isn't going to get any better for about half an hour."

He lit her cigarette before stopping for a moment to rest. Oh, life, was it to be this complicated? Especially now that he had acquainted with someone new? He took in a puff and slowly exhaled the smoke, the clouds oddly entrancing to look at as they swirled around in the thick air.

Stunningly enough, Victor had been stumped by this young lady. The feeling of annoyance at it was there, but at the same time, he was amused with the refreshing discussion they both had. He was just relieved that the telescreen was off. Victor could only let out what seemed to be a chuckle of amusement. Now, this was a situation he liked to be in. He shot a look of agreement to this stranger and went back to downing some more small quantities of gin.

"Touché," he said, raising an eyebrow before he set his glass down gently, the immediate action that his left hand's fingers took was to drum them on the table.

"Everyone has ulterior motives," he simply stated, taking another drag and tapping the ashes on the table. "Suppressed, but strong nonetheless. And you, young lady, are no exception. Luring me in like that, you should be ashamed of yourself." Staring off blankly at his window, simply assessing the view outside, he heard this girl's next reply tinkle through his hears. "I said that you may stay until the rain has abated. And you will."

He took one last drag of his cigarette before he pushed it against the side of his glass, putting it out, before he set it on the table. So. She did know Thomas Clough. Whilst trying to form theories in his head, he listened to every single word this girl was saying. "I can barely describe the look on his face when we erased him," Victor said, pulling out another cigarette to light. "But it was a long time since I've seen something that human before. I'd have to thank the man before he makes it to the Ministry."

"Correct," Victor stated, once again taking a drag and enjoying it. "May I comment on something? You seem to know more than you should for someone of the Outer Party. You must be from a Ministry."

He couldn't help but stifle a laugh at him having ulterior motives. This was ridiculous. Why would he have wanted a stranger in his apartment, much less anyone? He had no idea why he had brought her here, but it was ultimately the part of his heart that still remained human, despite his environs. The part of his heart that remained beating for a chance at a better life than this. Those beats had to be quieted so he could live. Not one of his superiors would like having a human worker in their midst. It'd have him erased. And he wouldn't mind. He wasn't afraid. He was never really afraid. "Did you really think I'd wanted to meet you when you bumped my shoulder?" he said incredulously. Another drag, another cloud of smoke. "Don't be foolish, girl. I intended to go home, and I intended to go alone. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Nobody's ever ashamed anymore," he said, his face returning to its previously intimidating monotony. "Et voilà. The saddening truth. Like the saddening truth that people still have feelings. Well, let's wish he has a pleasant erasure now, shall we?" The last sentence was spoken rather sarcastically, with a silent chuckle. He tipped his chair slightly backward with his one leg for support so it stood on its rear legs, his jet black hair hanging from the open space as his head hung backward. "You're Ministry, alright. Truth. Eres una buena mentirosa, niña. I salute you."

He hesitantly took the hand in his and gently shook it, letting go after about three seconds of shaking. "Pleasure," he merely said, the words barely meaning anything and his face barely showing the pleasure as his gaze diverted to the gin yet again. One, two, three, four, there you go. he counted to himself as he poured the gin into his glass slowly. Very slowly. As if time was endless and he had all of it to himself. His fingers unconsciously took the glass and swirled the liquid inside; the motion hypnotized him until he was able to speak yet again. The silence was his only solace. This woman diverted him. Her prole market introduction surprised him, but it was expected. This girl broke rules. That sparkle in her eyes was not usual in Outer Party members. He'd seen them all. He'd kept a close watch on them. Not one. Except for her.

"Victor," he gave as an introduction. Vic-tohr, he enunciated. He was half-expecting this lady to say Vic-ter. Everyone else did. He wasn't expecting them to understand, anyway. "Another drone from the Miniluv. The world was beautiful before the war. The Miniluv's all I've got now."