Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

=Story 1=
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861 Link]
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He won't stop talking. He never stops talking. Chuck. He could've gone by Charles, Charlie, whatever the fuck his middle name is. But no. 
Fucking. Chuck.
For the first few months, you went along with it. It was just common courtesy. Workplace politics. Keep the peace and play along. Like Mitch said when he introduced you to everyone on your first day, you were the "new girl" at the office. Fresh meat... Best to keep your head down. Just work your ass off, be your best self, and try not to make any waves.
So you smiled, nodded, agreed, affirmed, and pretended not to hear his "off-color" remarks. You chuckled politely where it seemed like the "punchlines" were supposed to be. You clenched your smile so tight it might crack the enamel as his eyes slithered down your chest and back up again. Uh-huh, oh yeah?, that's awesome!, right?, thank you, that's very flattering, oh, I appreciate it but I can't, I'm sorry, no thanks, I've got plans that night, maybe another time, I'm sorry, we'll see, I've really gotta get back to work, I'm sorry, Mitch is really on my ass about this account, you know? I'm sorry... You too!
By the end of the first year, he was lucky to get a nod and a "yep." But he wasn't getting the signals. Or maybe he just didn't care. Every time you said "no," he heard "better luck tomorrow." You kept making excuses, dropping hints, faking phone calls, apologizing. Why? For what? Best not to make waves. It could be worse. So much worse... No thanks. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry but... But he just keeps talking. 
Chuck gestures with his hands when he talks. Every day those wagging arms and flapping wrists were creeping farther and farther into your cubicle, until one day they were touching your shoulder. The next, your arm. Then your hair. Your face. Your ass that one time in the breakroom. You asked him politely to stop. Please don't do that. It makes me uncomfortable. You forced a smile where you thought the fucking punchline was supposed to be. He was just being nice, he said. Don't get so worked up about it. It was just an accident. Lighten up. He laughed. Alright, jeez. Better luck tomorrow then. He punctuated it with finger-guns. He even said "pow pow" when he did it.
If you ran this place, there wouldn't even be an HR. Grab a coworker's ass? Fired on the spot. Throw-up some finger-guns? Taken out to the loading dock and shot in the back of the head. Pow fuckin' pow, creep.
You told Mitch about Chuck last Spring, but he just brushed it off. Just ignore him, he said. He didn't mean anything by it. You know how Chuck is, how he gets. He's just a little too friendly sometimes. Look, don't make a thing outta this, okay? HR means paperwork, then investigations, then a million hours of "sensitivity" training, Christ. It'll derail the whole office for weeks, months even. God knows how many accounts we'd lose. Look, it's not that I don't understand your... concern. It's just that we've got bigger shits to fry, you know? And we gotta think about what's best for us, for the company, understand? 
I'm sorry, you said, without thinking, without meaning, with regret, wondering why you said anything at all--Okay great. Good talk!--angry at yourself for being there, for putting yourself in this situation, it's not his fault, maybe if you were, if you just, if you didn't...
You saw them together an hour later having lunch in the breakroom, laughing at a punchline that sounded a lot like you. You spent your lunch break locked in a Starbucks bathroom, crying. You hated yourself. You knew you shouldn't. But you did. 
And then you cleaned yourself up, brushed yourself off, and went right back to work like nothing ever happened. It felt like a victory, at least a personal one. A testament to your strength and resolve. You were showing them what you were made of, dammit. You could overcome anything this world threw at you. You're a survivor. You're just a strong as any of them even wish they could be--more! 
But it's been three years and he's still here. Still asking, staring, touching, laughing. And he never stops talking.
You haven't really heard a word of what he's said since, what, fifteen minutes ago? Twenty?  You haven't heard a word since your name slid off the slimy membrane of his tongue, stinking of last night's vodka and today's gas station sausage. You're staring at your monitor. You're clicking randomly between spreadsheet tabs. You're typing emails you'll never send. He's leaning against the frame of your cubicle, legs crossed at the ankles, flapping his hands around to make his words seem important. You've had a headache since you woke up this morning, but now it's throbbing its way into a migraine. You look up just in time to catch him leering at your tits. You'd have been surprised if he wasn't.
You turn back to the screen and open Outlook for the thousandth time. Your head is pounding. And now that you think about it, those cramps in your stomach are aren't just gas. You can't be sick. Not now...
"Am I right?" he asks, and your stomach turns. Do you have any sick days left? Not like it matters. You can't afford even half a day. You can barely afford lunch. Besides, Mitch will rip you a new one if you even ask. He'd rather you drop dead at your desk than cost him an account.
"Is today my lucky day or what?" he asks, biting the tip of his slimy tongue through the corner of his smile. Your gag reflex kicks-in and you don't have time to make it to the toilet before the words come spewing out of your mouth... "I'm sorry, but..." 
His smile drops a little at the edges but it's not going anywhere. It never will. It'll be like this every day, forever, until he gets that gross little smirk smacked right the hell off his bloated, sweaty goblin face. He'll just keep eye-fucking you until your bullshit catastrophe-only health coverage finally kills you. And even then, it'll just be some other poor woman going through the motions, following the rules, like she's supposed to, sucking up and staying quiet just to scrape together some slumlord's rent in Hell. Forever. Until, of course, someone finally grows the balls to doing something about it, MITCH. Somebody needs to put him in his goddamn place. Like he deserves. Like they all deserve...
"You alright, cutie? You don't look so good."
Every cell in your body is screaming FUCK YOU, YOU GOBLIN-FACED PRICK! But you don't say it. You don't say anything. You just wave him away, doubled-over in your chair, trying to keep it together, trying not to fucking scream, but it only makes your head hurt even worse. Your skull feels like a pressure cooker, slow-roasting your brain and jimmy-rigging a bomb between your ears. Your guts are roiling and ready to spew up a bellyful of knives. And he won't stop talking. 
"Ohhhh," Chuck says, eating so much shit you're surprised you can even see his grin. "It's that time of the month, huh?"
A) Run for the bathroom. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=32E460DA640B5457438AE8368B4E8CE368CC458823DF8DAB36EFE7DFEB6D6E92
B) Grab the trashcan. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2D4E8D74A6DAA295D22E2E972C8118530DA2ABEC7AD7CAF6D2DBAC43E7CE4ECC
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==Run for the bathroom==
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=32E460DA640B5457438AE8368B4E8CE368CC458823DF8DAB36EFE7DFEB6D6E92 Link]
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You look up from the screen as he looks up from your tits. Your eyes meet. He smiles in yellow. It's not helping. You push yourself to your feet. The headrush is worse than the time you pissed yourself on some frat house's stairs. It's a struggle to push the words up and over the bile clawing its way up your throat. "Fuck... goblin... DICK!" Close enough.
You push past him, hands clasped over your mouth. "Uhhhh..." he says. "Are you, like, okay or...?" You're already halfway down the hall.
The bathroom is empty, thank god. You don't even have time to close the stall door. The knives churching around in your guts don't even have the common courtesy to let your knees hit the tile before they cut and run. You heave harder than you ever have in your life. So hard your head jolts up like a garden house, out of your control, at the mercy of the puke. Again. Cough. Heave. Try to choke it back. Try to call it quits. But it's not your call. Again. Your hair is wet. Toilet water. You hope?
When you finally catch your breath and open your eyes, all you can see is red. Bright, vibrant red, shimmering in the fluorescent lights. The toilet is red. The water is red. The walls. The floor. Your hands, your hair, your only good blouse. Holy fucking shit.... what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck fuck fuck fuck... You stagger to your feet and nearly slip in the giant pool of vomit that definitely can't be blood. There's no way. There's just too much. You'd be dead for sure. Five times over. Spaghetti sauce? Or... You did have a couple of bloody marys... three days ago... What the fuck fuck fuck...
You leave the stall and go to the sink, leaving a trail of red footprints as you walk. At least you wore flats today...
You wash your hands clean before you get the courage to look in the mirror. Oh fuck. You look like the girl in a slasher flick right before the credits roll. The mousy brunette who's too literate to fuck, soaked in gore, hair caked and dangling over a face streaked in mascara, a real hot fucking mess. You can't go back out there like this. You phone is in your cubicle. Right next to your handbag. With your keys.
Remember what YouTubeYogi1979 says after every Casper Mattress ad... Deep breath. Accept the reality of the situation. Stay positive. Be honest with yourself. Find the silver lining, no matter how small it may seem. Deep breath. I accept this. I will get through this. I may look like roadkill but, if I'm being honest, I've never felt better in my whole fucking life. Huh. Okay then. You splash your face with water. You smile in red. You look good, all things considered.
So... now what?
A) Call for help. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=A5F60B02EF54663D8CE43F4B4D1C37A6D4ABFEF27A36D9581616487105B000D9
B) Go for help. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=23BBC80A70B6602A1C1E179047E151BDF7591CE26A932667A4E674BE39D266C3
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===Call for help.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=A5F60B02EF54663D8CE43F4B4D1C37A6D4ABFEF27A36D9581616487105B000D9 Link]
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There's gotta be someone out there. There's what, three dozen people on this floor? 70% chance they're either female or over 55 or both. Pretty decent odds. Could be worse. So much worse.
You press your body up against the door and push it open a crack. You can't see shit, so you push a few more inches to get a better view. Chuck sees you out of the corner of his eye as he walks by. 36 to 1. Fucking Chuck. 
He stops mid-stride and walks backwards like a rapey Daffy Duck. "Hey, um, everything alright in there?" 
"Well, I..." you say, staring at the ground. Your first impulse is to lie, say yes, shut the door, say something about tampons to make him leave, but... "I kinda need you..." you say in a cutesy baby-voice that somehow sounds seductive to men who spend all day criticizing cosplay nudes on Reddit. The hell did that come from? That's not you... Something deep inside your head, whispering. Not a voice. An instinct? Urge? Push. 
"Yeah?" he says the way PornHub taught him to. 
"Yeah," you say, like the 15-year-old Chuck wants so badly to fuck.
He inches up close to the door, smiling in sickly yellow. Closer... Smile back... Yes... Closer...
When he's two inches from the crack in the door, you swing it open hard, cracking him across the nose. "FUCK!" he whines, doubling over, hands over his face. You grab him by the collar and pull him into the bathroom. 
"You--you broke my nose!" he whines, whines, whines ... God, he never stops talking. You grab the back of his head and shove it into the mirror above the sink. It doesn't shatter, which is kinda disappointing, honestly, but it cracks. He falls to the ground, yelping like a bitch.  
"Whadafug! Thyu bish!" he groans. You kick him over and over until you're pretty sure you landed one on his tiny little balls. 
"Your shirt!" you hiss. "Give me your shirt!"
"Pweess... Stah..." 
You kick him in the ribs this time, just to be fair.
"SHIRT! NOW!"
He feebly puts his hands up in surrender, unbuttons his shirt and struggles to get it off. You reach down and pull it off him, throw your shirt over his face and put his on. "Was it good for you too, Daddy?" you say, smiling in pitch fucking black. He's crying. Whimpering. Wheezing. Bleeding. You could kill him, you know. Easy. You can do anything you want. But you'll be merciful. After all, this is sensitivity training. 
You kick his balls one more time just to make sure he won't get any pleasure from you digging through his pockets. You pull out his phone. No password. Dumbass. Click Gallery. You don't even have to scroll to find a dick pic. No surprises, huh, Chuck? Click Share. Click Outlook. All contacts. Send. You toss the phone in the toilet and kneel down close to his quivering, blood-streaked face. "Is today my lucky day or what?"
You spin on the heel of your flats and walk out the door.
You walk as fast as you can without making a thing of it. Head down, sidelong glances, just breathe. You get to your cubicle and grab your shit. You catch eyes with Cheryl. Keep walking. Don't run. You make it to the hallway. You've made it this far. Ignore the murmuring behind you. Just go. 
Your view of the sunlit doors goes dark. Mitch.
"Hey, hey..." he says, reaching out to touch you. "What's going on? What happened?"
A) Ignore him. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=BE2996BF21FB9A863B71B65EFE7882E384E90C495B19E57DBAAC9015C878E5E7
B) Respond. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=56F4B5C8A02DDB657040C8C1B34D2BF36E02902E14C2E5DE6B18DE6AA5AE0C1C
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====Ignore him.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=BE2996BF21FB9A863B71B65EFE7882E384E90C495B19E57DBAAC9015C878E5E7 Link]
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You shove him hard into the wall. "Jesus! What the fuck?!"
Just keep walking. You throw open the front door and walk out into the street. You should be crying... You would be crying... But they don't deserve that kind of satisf-- A horn blares and you jerk your head up just in time to see the oncoming car. "Oh, of fuckin' cour--"
https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861
(back to the start)
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====Respond.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=56F4B5C8A02DDB657040C8C1B34D2BF36E02902E14C2E5DE6B18DE6AA5AE0C1 Link]
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"I had an accident. I need to go home."
You try to sidestep him, but he grabs your shoulders. Deep breath.
"Hey, hey," he says, stroking your hair the way a kidnapper would. "You're okay. Okay?"
"No, Mitch," you say. "I'm not okay."
You slap his hand away and he steps back, defensive, hands raised.
"Whoa, whoa... Calm down and just..."
You can see his mouth moving but he has nothing to say that you need to hear. 
"I am calm," you say, calmly.
Your right hand is on his throat. You didn't put it there. But you did. But it wasn't a choice. An impulse. An instinct. A primal command. It's just where it belongs. So you squeeze.
His eyes are wide, bulging. He's gasping. He's clawing at you to free himself. You can barely feel it. He's so weak. So pathetically fucking weak. 
"Stop!" shouts a voice behind you, weak.
You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. 
A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17
B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
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=====Let go.=====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17 Link]
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Your first impulse is to do the right thing. Just let him go and put an end to all this. Put your hands up. Sort this whole thing out. But you're getting pretty fuckin' sick and tired of your first impulse's shit. Your right hand squeezes 'til you hear a wet crack and can feel your thumb touch your fingertips through what used to be Mitch's trachea. But you believe in compromise. You don't wanna leave your First Impulse out to dry. So you do the right thing. You let Mitch go. And he crumples in a heap next to your blood-streaked-but-sensible flats. Lick 'em, Mitch. Lick 'em good.
And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. You're not sure where the bullet ended up, but it wasn't you. You look Winston in the eyes and say, "I'm sorry." And for once in your entire adult life, you genuinely mean it. 
And then you charge. The old coot's still got some fight in him, and he struggles to straighten his glasses and cock the revolver. He's had a rough life and got a raw deal. It's not fair. You'll make it quick. He deserves that much. 
Before he can raise the gun, you've got a hand on each side of his head. You twist hard and fast. He never felt a thing. You pry the revolver from his twitching, liver-spotted hands, and gaze out upon the sea of cubicles, button-downs, and sensible blouses. Deep breath. Accept the reality of your situation. 
This is war.
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=====Let Mitch go.=====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659 Link]
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Your first impulse is to do the right thing. Just let him go and put an end to all this. Put your hands up. Sort this whole thing out. But you're getting pretty fuckin' sick and tired of your first impulse's shit. Your right hand squeezes 'til you hear a wet crack and can feel your thumb touch your fingertips through what used to be Mitch's trachea. But you believe in compromise. You don't wanna leave your First Impulse out to dry. So you do the right thing. You let Mitch go. And he crumples in a heap next to your blood-streaked-but-sensible flats. Lick 'em, Mitch. Lick 'em good.
And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. You're not sure where the bullet ended up, but it wasn't you. You look Winston in the eyes and say, "I'm sorry." And for once in your entire adult life, you genuinely mean it. 
And then you charge.
And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. It's an odd feeling, the sudden pressure in your chest and back. The stars dancing across your eyes, flickering in and out, glowing and fading, beautiful and intoxicating.
"I'm sorry..." whimpers the old man. "I'm so sorry..." He's choked-up and sniffing. You can't see anything but his feet, the gun clattering onto the hideous green-grey pattern of the carpet and finally going still beneath the leaping, twirl of a galaxy, in-and-out, as the green-grey goes vibrant red, lush and beaut--
https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861
(back to the start)
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===Go for help.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=23BBC80A70B6602A1C1E179047E151BDF7591CE26A932667A4E674BE39D266C3 Link]
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You can do this. They'll understand. It wasn't your fault. You're sick. It might be blood. It's not blood. It's fine. You're fine. But what if it's blood? Just walk fast, don't say anything, grab your shit and go. Text Mitch when you get home. He'll understand.
He'll fire you.
He won't. You're sick, that's all.
You'll lose the account. He'll fire you.
But it's not your fault! 
So what? He doesn't give a fuck about you. He'll have a replacement by the end of the day. And she'll be prettier. Younger. Naive. Vulnerable. Put out or shut up. And the cycle continues. Forever. 
Deep breath. Fuck it.
You throw open the door and walk briskly down the hallway, head down, trying to be inconspicuous, trying not to make waves...
And there's Chuck.
"Holy sh... What happened to you?"
You keep your eyes on the floor. "I just need to go," you say. "Excuse me."
You try to walk past him but he grabs your shoulders in the worst possible way. 
"Are you okay? You look like...  blood..."
"Please just..." You push past him and duck into your cubicle. You grab your things, turn off your monitors, and he grabs you again. 
A) Keep your head down. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D5BF027AFB6C8D53E8A2F3055F39E0176C756E2D11A4B438DC6BD8AA94A10545
B) Be your best self. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863
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====Keep your head down.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D5BF027AFB6C8D53E8A2F3055F39E0176C756E2D11A4B438DC6BD8AA94A10545 Link]
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"I'm sorry," you say, of course. "I just... Excuse me."
You manage to break away from his grip and half-run for the door.
You can hear him over your shoulder. "Ohhhkay whatever, bitch." 
Deep breath. Just keep walking. You throw open the front door and walk out into the street. You should be crying... You would be crying... Are you crying? They don't deserve that kind of satisf-- A horn blares and you jerk your head up just in time to see the oncoming car. "Oh, of fuckin' cour--"
https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861
(back to the start.)
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====Be your best self.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863 Link]
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Your left hand reaches out reflexively. You're barely there at all. It grabs the 3-hole puncher off the desk. You're entirely here right now and you know it. You hold the puncher up like a club, spittle shooting from the corners of your mouth (red?) with every labored breath.
His smile abandons him there alone, stammering and grasping desperately for whatever words haven't already up and run off with his shriveling dick. "Wha... Hey! I was just being nice!" he says. "F-f-fuck you, bitch!" The fear dilates his titfucking eyes wide enough to drown an army. And you know what? You kinda like it.
You swing the puncher hard and crack him across the nose. He doubles over, hands over his face. "Fuck! Fuckin' bitch!"
You turn to run but immediately collide with Mitch's soft, shapeless chest. He grabs your shoulders, hard. Or at least as hard as he can... "What the hell is going on here??"
You don't even think about it. You don't have to. The 3-hole puncher in your right hand makes a gross cracking sound against his eye socket. He can barely utter a pathetic little "hrmph" when his knees give out and he crumples to the ground like a bitch.
The voice in the back of your head, the impulse, the instinct, you, YOU drop on top of him, straddling this weak, fragile, wretched excuse for a man, and raise the puncher high. He feebly attempts to shield himself with his stubby little hands, sobbing, whining, as you bring the puncher down and draw fresh blood. The sight of it gives you a strange, exciting, anxious feeling, radiating out from the pores in your scalp and the gums around your molars... Like the anticipation of a starving person about to take the first bite into a perfectly-cooked filet mignon. You toss the puncher aside and wrap your right hand around his throat.
"Stop!" says a voice behind you, trembling, weak.
You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. 
A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17
B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
(same as responses under Respond)
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==Grab the trashcan==
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2D4E8D74A6DAA295D22E2E972C8118530DA2ABEC7AD7CAF6D2DBAC43E7CE4ECC Link]
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You want to clapback so fucking hard. You've got, like, ten deep-cuts in the clip and one in the chamber. Locked and loaded to make it fuckin' RAIN on Chuck the Fuck. You could straight-up ruin him right here, right now, in front of everyone if you weren't desperately fumbling for the plastic trashcan beneath your desk. 
"Oh damn, let me help," he says, knocking heads with you as he bends down, foiling your trashcan grab and throwing the world into frat-drunk spins. "Shit. Sorry, let me just--" he says, crouching in perfect form and perfect time as your guts decree--without discussion or opportunity for redress--that you've crossed the event horizon. There's no going back. You don't want this anymore than he does. (Well...) Deep breath, Chuck. Accept the reality of your situation.
Your stomach turns. Your diaphragm contracts. Your mouth opens. And it wouldn't TECHNICALLY be a lie if you said you were aiming for the trash.
"Jesus FUCK!" he screams, toppling back onto his ass, hands over his face. "You puked in my EYES, you crazy bitch!" 
You want to laugh. You SHOULD be laughing. It's perfect. Poetic, even. But... It's just... He's soaked in it, the carpet's soaked in it, even the trashcan you missed completely is spattered with it. And it just... It looks a whole fucking lot like blood...
A) Take responsibility. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AD41061203ED8A987CDF7DF72510FD26B317D30EAEAA841205AD92FC868377A
B) Take the opportunity. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D046B5794D36511E4BF67E67D0F997C66EAC733CCF8827EC40A0DA04915CC16D
</pre>
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===Take responsibility===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AD41061203ED8A987CDF7DF72510FD26B317D30EAEAA841205AD92FC868377A Link]
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"I'm so sorry!" you say. It comes tumbling out of your mouth like the last bitter chunk of vomit before the heaves go dry. He's screaming. "BITCH! YOU BITCH!" He's scratching at his eyes. He's writhing on the floor. Your first impulse is to grab the tissue box and frantically rip out enough to make a towel. But you're not moving.
 It can't be blood. It's too much. It's not your blood. He's bleeding. Blood that's definitely not your puke (which is definitely not blood). It's dripping out of his ears and mouth. No, it's gushing. He's having a seizure. 
People are gathering around the cubical, screaming. CALL 9-11! GET MITCH! WHAT HAPPENED?! OH MY GOD! You're frozen, staring at the pools of red blooming from nowhere beneath his starched white shirt. Someone shoves you out of the way. Cheryl, that bitch. She's probably been dreaming about a situation like this. Any excuse to hurt you. To be the hero. She crouches over Chuck. He's stopped moving. He's still bleeding.
Cheryl checks for a pulse, her fingers disappearing beneath a cascade of ruby red something. She jerks her head around and snarls at you, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU CUNT?!" You open your mouth to say something, but she's already turned back to Mitch, positioning her hands on his chest just like the posters in the break room tell you to. You've read that poster at least a thousand times, waiting for the Keurig machine to beep. You don't remember a word of it.
"STAND BACK!" she shouts, all dramatic and self-righteous, the star of her own fucking show. She shoves down hard on Chuck's ribcage and a geyser of vibrant red erupts from his slimy, vodka-sausage mouth hole, directly into Cheryl's smarmy fucking face.
She screams, chokes, growls, spits, and vomits sheets of definitely-not-blood. Everyone is screaming. You grabs your purse, push your way through the throngs of button-downs and sensible blouses, and make a mad dash for the door. Behind you the screams seem to be growing louder. You hear a crash and a crunch and screaming and screaming and screaming. You don't look back. You push open the door and stumble out into the street. You don't look back. Or up. Or to the left. The horn blares and--
https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861
(back to the start)
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===Take the opportunity.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D046B5794D36511E4BF67E67D0F997C66EAC733CCF8827EC40A0DA04915CC16D Link]
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He's screaming. "BITCH! YOU BITCH!" He's scratching at his eyes. He's writhing on the floor. Your first impulse is to grab the tissue box and frantically rip out enough to make a towel. To clean up the blood... It can't be blood. It's too much. It's not your blood. He's bleeding. Blood that's definitely not your puke (which is definitely not blood). It's dripping out of his ears and mouth. No, it's gushing. He's having a seizure. Your hand reaches out for the tissue box but comes back with your purse.
People are gathering around the cubical, screaming. CALL 9-11! GET MITCH! WHAT HAPPENED?! OH MY GOD! The chaos and cacophony blurs and fades into a low drone beneath your own inner monologue. But it's not you. But it is. Inner dialogue? Something deep inside your head, whispering. Not a voice. An instinct? Urge? Push.
You raise your foot high in the air, higher than you even knew you could--YouTubeYogi1979's video lessons might actually be paying off--and you bring it down hard on Chuck's shriveled little goblin balls. You hear a crunch. A gasp from somewhere in the droning sea of murmurs. You can't tell if he even felt it. He's still seizing.
Still bleeding. 
Mitch is running toward the cubicle as fast as his stubby little legs can carry him. Cheryl, that bitch, clearly seeing her chance to be a fuckin' hero, tries to shove past you to get to Chuck. You shove her back, hard, and look at you! Standing up for yourself for once! She topples backward, knocking over the cubicle wall. 
Mitch is clawing at you, your one good blouse. He's shouting but you can't hear him. Or maybe you just don't care to hear him. He's trying to restrain you. At least you think that's what he's going for. He's just so pathetically fucking weak, it's kinda hard to tell. 
Your right hand is on his throat now. You didn't put it there. But you did. But it wasn't a choice. An impulse. An instinct. A primal command. It's just... where it belongs. So you squeeze.
His eyes are wide, bulging. He's gasping. He's clawing at you to free himself. You can barely feel it. 
"Stop!" shouts a voice behind you, weak.
You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. 
A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17
B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
(same as Respond above)
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