“She'd been told the planet was empty. That was accurate, as of last Tuesday.”

Now what appeared to be fuzzy motes of mold with antennae and legs were scurrying out of this open face tuna sandwich like an erupting volcano of gross. Some of the motes had even formed a small hive on the rocks, reproducing and erupting into brand new disgusting fuzzy motes. What bozo left planetside without cleaning up their lunch?

In that moment, it struck me. Only Matilda from HR would do this. It wasn't even a week ago that she was caught stealing Stevie's leftovers from the company picnic.

That thought gave me pause. The rumbling in my stomach was louder than my sense of reason. Matilda may be from HR but that didn’t make her untouchable. She had one telling weakness I could exploit.

A weakness not borne from fear, ambition, or spiders. No, it was an intrinsic and subconscious fear she had sown herself with years of condescending article and subsection recitation. It was policy. Policy, and the unwavering adherence to it, would be her undoing. Matilda did not interpret. She complied. Which meant all I needed was something compliant enough to pass, and cruel enough to hold. I opened the form, the faint rumble in my stomach now less a distraction than a reminder. Every field filled, every clause aligned, every approval anticipated. By the time it reached her, it would already be inevitable. She would read it. She would sign it. And then, with perfect fidelity, she would ensure it was done. The execution of her own demise by compliance.