Author's note: I'm off to watch Inception again because it gives me the most vivid dreams I've had in a long time, like those flying dreams that I thought had left me two years back on indefinite hiatus. It makes me so giddy!

Warnings… twisted slash (O'Brien/Winston), language, semi-brainwashing.

1985

When I was still young enough to retain some aesthetic masculinity and old enough to be responsible for my own decisions, I had come to the understanding that it was easy for everybody to forget, to forget the past and the wonderful, happy life that was associated with my childhood, to forget the wars and rats, to forget everything Big Brother declared that we've been at war with Eurasia/Eastasia and don't try to question it because we've always been at war with Eurasia/Eastasia. I couldn't forget and I didn't know why everybody else does. But at that time, I didn't think that it was my problem.

I sat by the window of the Chestnut Tree Café, a place I've haunted since the beginning of the Revolution when the Party moved my living quarters to the Victory Mansions and sure to haunt for years, decades, depending on how long I'll live, to come.

My name is Winston Smith and I'm 24 years old.

My fifth shot of Victory Gin didn't taste like victory but like caked saliva and old men's breath. The telescreen, rattled and scratted, was singing little jingles of marching, marching off to what we need. I flagged the waiter and motioned at my empty glass. You see? I wanted to tell the other loungers; you don't even need newspeak to cut down English, you just need gestures and motions. The glass was filled half-empty; I rubbed my hands together to rid them of the cold and wrung them out. My fingernails were blue.

"Expecting company or shall I sit here?" I looked up. The man was tall and broad, powerful with his hair already in the mid-stages of graying. He must have been more than 10 years older than me with eyes that were black depths, sucking in the light from his face. He was a marble statue.

"You again?" I felt disbelief and slight disgust, "I didn't think you would want to see me after three weeks."

In one smooth motion, he sat down. It would take me years to pull off that sort of grace, I glared at him and he stared back, emotionless. "You remember me?"

"You're too hard to forget, hmm?" I snarled and tried to channel the force of a rabid dog, "Especially after you were displeased with my last answer." I chugged down my sixth glass and purposely allowed much of the gin to dribble out the side. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and challenged the man before me: no response. I snorted, "Still not going to tell me your name, are you?"

My glass was refilled. The man looked at the yellow-gold liquid and murmured, "You drink and you still remember."

I ignored that statement, "You're an Inner Party member and you're trying to get yourself killed by asking me these questions. What if they get you?" I motioned at the telescreen, "they're everywhere." I placed my hands flat on the table, it was sticky and not cleaned properly, I usually avoid touching the surface, "I'm not changing my answer: it doesn't matter what type of love it is. Any type of love is forbidden and a death sentence so you might as well forget about it."

"You are frustratingly ambivalent and vague on everything I asked you," his reply was too mild. I frustrated you? I shrunk back as I nursed my drink, scowling and shivering. Last time, the moment before the man left, his eyes were black pits of malice. It brought unpleasant nightmares for the next two days. Some people at the row of bar stools look over curiously, but they were drunk and they liked to look at everything curiously as if trying to remember what were they just doing and why were they here?

"With those questions, it was like you're trying to court me…" I muttered and then promptly cursed my loosened tongue. I hoped that he didn't hear that. I peered through the glass at the other inhabitants and watched their bodies distort comically when they moved in the world of yellow shades. Small conversations popped out and dissipated among the room, but nobody was willing to move much. It was a lazy day. I turned back to the man and clasped my arms together, "You could be one of them, testing our loyalties to Big Brother."

He gave me a look that said: you would be dead if I was. "You are an anomaly."

"…Thank you, comrade."

"There is no one out there like you." Flattering, that.

"What about you?"

"I am what they expect me to be. You, on the other hand, remembered me."

I squinted at him; the amount of gin in my body is starting to take hold over my actions. "So I was supposed to forget, like the others. You're one of those lurkers, am I right?" I whispered excitedly, casting a glance at the other customers, knowing that if I speak about this without any other eavesdroppers, I would still be allowed to live, "Instead, in order to survive, I live in those realms that you call doublethink or I like to say athink because you don't think about those sorts of things. That's why Big Brother runs so smoothly, right? People are supposed to forget, after a generation or so, no problems would arise."

He smiled grimly, "Machiavelli's principles."

"Sorry?"

No reply. I leaned back and crossed my arms. The man called the waiter over and said something to the waiter's ear, I saw a small packet switch hands, and the waiter nodded and retreated to the back kitchens. I swirled my drink around and imagined a small whirlpool sucking up all the yellow liquid into an extra-terrestrial dimension in the bottom of the glass. My left knee was beginning to twitch.

After a few minutes passed, faint aroma drifted from the back doors and dispelled into the room. It was strong, a universal silent warning that all Outer Party members and below were to leave the premises. The telescreen turned off on its own. Men and women, all overweight and wearing navy overalls or rags stood up and began strolling to the exit doors. I pushed back my chair to follow, but a rough hand grabbed onto my wrists and pulled me down. "Comrade? The rules?" I dryly asked.

"Sit down," the man said. "You like the scent, just enjoy it." I warily pulled my chair in, we resumed our original positions. The smell grew stronger; I took a deep breath and sighed happily. The front doors closed and the cold air lingered in the general area. My chair was uneven; the walls by the windows were a dark mahogany. The telescreen turned back on and sang.

The sunrise is purple and red as our happy blood

We spill for Big Brother our motivations pouring

Women are inside to brood

Men are for gold and glory.

"So." I cleared my throat. "Last week, I slipped into this antique store; the owner told me his name was Mr. Charrington, he seemed nice." He was probably one of you, comrade, you can kind of tell with these things. It's all in the eyes, that is, if you can see them. Old men like Mr. Charrington could pretend that they have cataracts and they squint their eyes shut but Mr. Charrington only did that a second after he saw me. Do you know each other? "He asked for my opinions of the Proles."

The man made a lazy gesture. Go on.

"And I said that they are all sheep." I finished my drink and pushed the glass off the table where it shattered on the floor, bits and pieces landed on my shoe. "Each Party is a herd of sheep and a single wolf, no sheep is different." Mr. Charrington had taken offense at that.

"I wonder how he reacted." So they do know each other.

"You don't want to know." The back doors opened, the waiter entered bearing a single mug with rising steam. The aroma was sharp- was that…? "I told him that he's a grain of sand, not a snowflake, no matter how much he wants to be one." I flicked my wrist, "Did you hear me, comrade? You aren't a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are made up of organic trash, just like everyone else in the world except for the wolves, which was the ethereal, metaphysical being. You know him, the wolf is Big Brother. He's not even truly human."

The mug was set down before me; I look in and saw dark brown liquid with a bit of foam at the center. I ignored it and continued to talk, "The only thing that defines you is your actions. If you don't do anything, you are nothing. I'm ok with that, I like being nothing." I pull the mug closer; it warmed my fingers, "What is this?"

"Coffee."

"Drugged?" I turned the cup around and peered inside.

"Obviously," the man replied, "we placed our fast acting special concoction that we made specifically for you, unique snowflake."

"It's more potent than Victory Gin?" I sipped a mouthful, it was repulsive, "I never had coffee before. My mom did before rations ran out. This will make me forget everything."

"Suppress, not forget," he corrected, "You must drink the whole thing. If this doesn't work, then…" He trailed off. I understood.

"I'll never see you again, comrade. I'll never go through your inane questions and meetings." My visions were already fuzzy and beginning to tilt. I tipped the cup up in salute, "To sheep and Big Brother." I started drinking till I was halfway through, then I paused, laughed, and grinned widely, "To Goldstein!"

I chugged the rest down and my world spun.