Peter’s mere existence is a crime against the Party, so he figures that anything after that is fine. In the eyes of Big Brother, one crime is enough to get you sent to the labor camps, or tortured, and Peter really isn't itching to go to Miniluv.
His parents, his birth ones, the one he barely remembers, were vaporized when he was five or so. Peter never knew what they did, but he figured it was some form of rebellion. Either way, they managed to install some basic principles into him before they went. Trust no one, hate the Party, follow the pack, and retain your humanity.
After his birth parents were vaporized, he was sent off to live with a very nice couple that might have been his Aunt and Uncle if family ties were a thing that the Party really cared about. The official story was that his parents were crushed in a bombing done by the Doubleplusungood Enemies of Oceania, whoever they might be at the time.
But then, well. Peter doesn’t know exactly how it happened, but one morning he woke up with the ability to climb on walls and lift things far beyond his normal ability (especially with what he was being fed). He panicked, told no one, and ran away.
Living with the proles isn’t too bad. There’s never enough to eat, and he’s always dirty, but they get to sing and talk and live their lives, and isn’t that better?
Peter works in one of the factories of the Party, and he goes home, and he pretends that he isn’t fifteen and that he’s been a prole his entire life, and everything is fine. Really.
There aren’t as many telescreens in the prole quarters as there are in those belonging to the Party, but sometimes Peter can hear the faint buzzing in places one wouldn’t expect. Bathrooms. Bars. Antique shops.
Once he comes home, to the tiny one-room apartment he lives in alone, and hears what he thinks is the electronic buzzing of a telescreen before he realizes that it’s just a fly, and even so, that’s not enough to cut through the giant panic attack he has. But still. Better than the Party, right?
Trust no one. He doesn’t, even when he makes nice conversation with a girl around his age named MJ. Her dark eyes are brighter than the ones of the proles around him, and he really, really, really likes her, but he knows that she’s either a spy, or that one day she’ll be dragged from her own worn-down home and shot. She’s too smart, too clever.
Hate the Party. Easy. When Hate Week sweeps into their lives, and even the proles begin to rage against the current enemy of the Party, all he feels is disgust. He’d throw up, but he can’t, because he must follow the pack.
Follow the pack. He throws bottles at pictures of Goldstein with the rest of them, he screams along with the patriotic Hate Songs that last for a week, and rages and rages and rages outside while inside he tries to do what his parents told him years ago.
Keep his humanity.
“Hey, neighbor,” MJ says. She leans against the wall opposite the door to his apartment, very casually (too casually?).
“Hey there, MJ,” Peter says, cautiously (but not too cautiously). He needs to get to work, and he keeps that idea in mind as he shapes his tone. He’s still got a hand on his doorknob, but it’s not like he can go anywhere. “You live here now?”
“Yeah,” she says, just as casual. She raps on the door next to where she’s leaning. “Hell of a steal, too, getting this. Last place got overwhelmed by bugs.” MJ makes Meaningful Eye Contact with Peter.
Ah. Okay.
“Oh, then you’ll be happy. We’ve been bug free for as long as I’ve lived here. Now, I gotta go, but maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Count on it,” MJ says, and watches as he walks away.
Peter nearly cuts through his hand making bullets at the factory, he’s so distracted. If it wasn’t for his danger sense, he’d be done.
He resolved to pay more attention, but his thoughts kept wandering.
It was a rough day.
They fall into a kind of routine. They talk a lot more than they did before MJ moved, but still, everything’s got an underlying tension to it.
Peter wonders if MJ thinks he’s Thought Police too.
He thinks that, but he doesn’t say anything about it, until they’re both standing in the street, shopping for shoelaces and bread. They stand together shoulder to shoulder as they shop, keeping each other safe, and it just spills out of his mouth.
“You thinkpol?” He asks, and immediately wishes he didn’t.
MJ doesn’t look at him. “No. You?”
“No.”
But that doesn’t clear up anything, and it doesn’t mean anything, either. The Party is full of empty words and promises.
There’s a commotion across the street, and they watch silently as men in all black drag a man and a woman out of an antique store. Peter had only been in once before he heard the buzzing and booked it.
“Huh,” MJ says. “I was wondering about those too. Seen them before,” she adds, and picks up a piece of paper-wrapped charcoal. She looks at it with what Peter thinks might be longing before putting it back.
“Yeah?”
“Not easy sneaking around when you’re Party. The overalls,” she says, redundantly. “And they come here so often.”
“How’d you know?”
Peter and MJ still aren’t looking at each other, their eyes firmly on the goods they’re buying, their voices low.
“I keep shop for the general store nearby.”
Peter wants to live. Peter wants to follow the rules his parents left for him.
Peter also wants to live, and what’s the point of being a prole if you can’t live at least a little?
“I was Party when I was little,” he says, barely audible over the sound of his own heart racing. “Ran away a year or so back. I’m a—” there’s no word for what he wants to say. “I’m wrong. I’m sticky.”
“Come again?” MJ still doesn’t look at him. She picks up the charcoal again and puts down a pack of chips with a kind of resolute sigh.
“Let me show you. Back home?”
Finally, her eyes meet his. “Sure.”
His explanation is quiet, in case of prying ears, but he leaves the window open in case he needs to make a speedy exit.
“So,” MJ says, after a long pause. “You’re strong. You’re fast. You’re,” she actually laughsa little, and it’s the most amazing thing Peter’s ever heard. “Sticky, I guess,” (Peter had picked up one of his own parcels, palm spread wide, to demonstrate). “So you’re not quite human, are you?”
“No,” Peter says. He waits, breath held, for MJ to pull out a weapon, or a miniature telescreen, but she doesn’t.
Instead she breaks into a wide grin, her entire face lighting up.
“That’s amazing,” she breathes, and laughs again. “You’re amazing,” she says.
To himself, Peter says, “Fuck it,” and goes in for a hug. Entirely non-sexually. He just wants some physical kindness. MJ stiffens for a moment before hugging him back.
The best moment of his life is interrupted by two things, happening simultaneously and terribly.
Nearby, the air of his room breaks apart into colorful ripples mixed with dark streaks of black, and him and MJ pull apart quickly.
As they seperate, Peter can hear the heavy footfalls of many, many, big booted people running up the steps of his apartment building.
A boy with curly dark hair and bright eyes comes out of the hole in space. He looks at them curiously, and beckons a tall, sandy haired man into the cramped room.
The steps get closer.
“Well, hey there,” The man says slowly. “I’m Peter, this is Miles, and we’re-”
The man looks like Peter, almost, like himself but older which is absolutely insane—
The door to his apartment slams open, crashing into the wall opposite. Someone below them screams, a baby behind to wail—
Peter looks to MJ, to the man and the boy, to the hole.
MJ’s hands meet his at the same time, and they jump through together, followed by the man and boy, yelling in surprise.
When they land into a vibrantly colored room, Peter looks to MJ and smiles.