Chen flew down the D-Class hallways, his feet not even touching the ground. He wasn't sure how long he'd been trapped in that testing chamber with that accursed light show, nor was he sure how he'd even manage to escape, but he did know one simple fact:
He'd had enough.
His room seemingly passed by him in a blur; he was surprised as just how quickly he could run. This level of fitness was unknown to him…or perhaps it was just the adrenaline.
Some D-Class left their rooms and stood in the center of the hall, blocking his way. He screamed something unintelligible and passed right through them. Aside from one of them looking around and frowning, none of the others seemed to notice.
Chen finally found what he'd been looking for; the locked security door that imprisoned those with no future, the monument to his boiling blood, and the reminder that a cup of coffee rendered his worth to be equivalent to that of low-lives, rapists, murderers, and crocodile bait. Even now, he could see the Senior's face, dark and grim and full of delightful hate.
He fantasized about her bloodied and beheaded, preferably with a wide-eyed gaze forever frozen on display atop a red-drenched pike. An overwhelming heat radiated through his body. He took several steps back, slammed his fist into the wall, screamed, then charged shoulder-first into the door. He wasn't sure what the fuck he was doing; anger knew nothing of rational thinking. Braced for impact, he closed his eyes as his body met the door full-force…
…and promptly phased right through the six-inch thick reinforced steel, fell face-first onto the floor, and ate a mouthful of dust-encrusted linoleum. He lay there for a moment, awaiting pain that didn't come, and attempting to spit out dirt that didn't even enter his mouth. His breath came out…silent. Breathless. He wasn't breathing. In fact, not only was he not breathing, but he simply…wasn't.
Rolled onto his back, he realized his vision could penetrate walls; some weird black residue had smudged upon the white bricks of the D-Class hallways. It flowed like ink and reeked of hate. A sudden realization struck Chen: he couldn't feel his hands.
He had no hands…nor feet. Ethereal dark mist drifted from each empty stump and leaked into the Noosphere. His gaze lingered on the reality of his fate for far longer than he intended.
A single hot stream of something oozed from his mockery of eyes, empty and black and devoid of life, befitting of the man who was once known as Chen. He turned his head upwards and wailed, a maelstrom of black specks pouring freely from his mouth. Droplets of jagged black etched themselves deeply into the walls and light fixtures, peeling back paint, and shattering light bulbs in little showers of sparks.
Just as soon as he let it all out, he immediately bottled it all back up. He rose, limbs fixed by his side, like a spiritual statue. He would have plenty of time to grieve and feel sorry for himself once he took what he deserved.
Her life.
Chen located her office with more ease than he expected. Turns out everybody had their own memetic signature, and hers was smaller and more pathetic than everybody else's.
Go figure.
Despite the short amount of time he had spent with his new form, he had already made peace. Being abused and forgotten was all he had known, after all. History was easier to accept when it did nothing but repeat.
Before long, he found her office.
Assistant Site Director Melanie Garland
He fumed at the sight of the gold-plated plaque. How many