Winston sat, head in his hands. Tears glistened in his eyes. Something within him, some wall had broken and he found himself loving Big Brother.
Or… no. No, that wasn't right. It wasn't Big Brother he loved, but the thought of Big Brother. Imagining himself killing Big Brother, shooting him over and over again. That, he loved. Not Big Brother. Never Big Brother. The wall that had broken within him was merely the last of his inhibitions. This time, he thought, things will be different.
Winston hated Big Brother.
The tears in his eyes came from laughter now, or perhaps they always had. His shoulders were heaving, looking like the heaviest of sobs, but inside he was jubilant. He had lost his first battle against the Party, but he had survived to fight another day. They had thrown their worst at him and he had survived. Now he could survive anything they sent.
As if on cue, two Party police walked into the Chestnut Tree Café. They scanned the sea of customers, as if looking for someone in particular.
"Winston Smith!" called one in clipped tones.
Winston replied in similarly clipped tones - and by that, I mean he emptied a clip right into the policeman's head with the machine gun O'Brien had given him.
The bar exploded (A/N: Not literally) into excitement and noise as patrons dove for cover. The other policeman had just enough time to spin and see Winston before his head was blown into pieces by Winston's righteous gunfire.
"And for the record," Winston said coolly, "my real last name isn't Smith. It's Churchill, motherfuckers!"
"Winston."
The voice was quiet, unassuming. And yet something about it made Winston's skin tingle in excitement.
There was a man in the bar who was not cowering. He was standing straight and tall, and staring ahead with a steely gaze. As Winston watched, the man reached for his large, black beard and pulled it away from his face, revealing his features underneath. Winston recognized him immediately from the cover of a book he had read once, in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
"Emmanuel Goldstein," said Winston. "I'm a big fan of your book."
"Always happy to meet a guy with good taste," replied Goldstein. "Far too few of those these days."
"Well, count me in as one more," said Winston. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."
Goldstein looked at Winston approvingly. "You'll learn. For now, though, you're clumsy. Your shots made noise, and the Party will no doubt send reinforcements…."
He peered out the window and contorted his face into a badass grimace. "See for yourself."
Winston walked over to the window and glanced out. Surrounding the building were dozens of Party policemen and what looked like a full company of Oceania's finest.
Speaking of Oceania's finest, Goldstein grabbed a bottle of it off the bar wall and took a long swig. The bartender was too busy looking at him in awe to protest.
"Um, Goldstein," said Winston, looking worried. "I hope you have a way out of this."
"Only way out is through, old sport," said Goldstein, drawing a pistol. "And I always come prepared."
Winston glared at the pistol in disbelief, as if expecting it to sprout flowers from its barrel. "A pistol? All you brought is a pistol?"
"Not quite," said Goldstein with a superior smile. He drew another pistol with his left hand. "I brought two pistols."
Winston nodded approvingly. "Back to back?"
"Back to back," said Goldstein. "And hold on to your ass, Winston Churchill. This could get double plus ungood very fast."
