They did not show her a cage of rats. They showed her a mirror.
"Would you betray Winston Smith?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Her plan was simple. She had done it before. You find the lonely intellectual, the one who writes "DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER" in a secret diary instead of just learning to want what the Party wants. You offer him your body—a clean, functional exchange, like trading a ration of gin for a packet of chocolate. It distracts them. It makes them feel heroic. And while they compose their doomed manifestos, you stay alive. Sandra Newman - Julia.pdf
O'Brien glanced at her. "Julia. Sector 487, Records. Two years of exemplary service. Your mother was a caster of anti-Party slurs, wasn't she? Vaporized in '58." They did not show her a cage of rats
A flicker. A tiny fracture in the china plate. Then Julia smiled. "I have no mother, comrade. Only the Party." Her plan was simple
And then, for seventy-two hours, they played a recording of Winston's voice. Not screaming. Not crying. Talking . Explaining, in the calm, precise language of a man who has been completely unmade, how he had never loved her. How she was a tool. How her body was a piece of meat he had used to masturbate against the Party. How her name—Julia—was just a noise he made to pass the time.