Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

====Respond.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=56F4B5C8A02DDB657040C8C1B34D2BF36E02902E14C2E5DE6B18DE6AA5AE0C1 Link]
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="overflow:auto;">
<pre>
"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
</pre>
</div>

=====Let go.=====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17 Link]
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="overflow:auto;">
<pre>
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.
</pre>
</div>

=====Let Mitch go.=====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659 Link]
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="overflow:auto;">
<pre>
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)
</pre>
</div>