Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

===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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