[Short Story & Choose Your Own Adventure!] The Interview

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This story is not for kids. It is at least PG-13.

Instructions: If you've never read one before, a Choose Your Own Adventure is a story where you get to decide what happens! Traditionally, this would be something like, "To go into the cavern, turn to page 56." But in this case, please scroll or use ctrl+f to find the numbers that you choose.
The objective of a Choose Your Own Adventure is usually to make the right choices the first read through and not die. Let’s practice:

ONE: Don't this story.
TWO: Read it.

ONE
A three-headed serpent slithers out of cyberspace and consumes all of your dreams and hopes as punishment for not reading the story. “You ssshould go to TWO and read the story if you want your sssoul back,” it hisses, slowly moving your dreams and hopes down its throat.

TWO
"Sit down," they said.
I idly adjusted my tie as I lowered myself into the chair.
"Can you hear me?"
"I just sat down, didn't I."
There was a pause. "Right."
We both began speaking at the same time.
"Excuse me," I said. "Go ahead."
I heard a faint sigh. "So you're a newcomer."
"Affirmative."
"You've been there how long?"
"Ten months." I propped my feet on the desk.
"How are you enjoying yourself so far?"
"How did you?"
"I'll ask the questions," the voice shot back, drawing a shrill whine from the intercom.
"That good?"
"If you aren't going to take this interview seriously, we can terminate early."
"I'm sorry," I replied. "Long day." It was 9 AM, but they deigned to let this pass.
"Tell me about your time at the Infirmary," they continued.
"I enjoyed it well enough."
"What did you enjoy about it?"
I let my vision blur, drifting back to that time. I saw the receptionist's messy desk calendar, the nicked clock on the wall behind her, the revolving doors that children loved to rush through. The round scent of disinfectant and the way the staff were always moving swiftly. My first time drawing blood from a patient. The comforting, cold hum of machines. Images, smells, sounds, and experiences washed over me.
"It was the weakness," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"The weakness. Ordinarily, people try to present strength. They puff themselves up, they get aggressive, defensive. They hide damning and painful truths from themselves and their companions. Even when they show sadness, they're often using it, whether or not they realize it, as a tool to acquire empathy, sympathy, love. And that's all true sometimes in the Infirmary, too. But you also get something else there: honest, open weakness. Weakness on bare display. When a person thinks they might die, or is badly wounded, or knows their health is at risk, an entire lifetime of barriers and defenses can melt away. 'Help me,' they're saying. 'I'm very weak, so please help me...'" The desk hazily drifting before me became nearly superimposed with an image of a soldier I had once watched die from gunshot wounds. A proud figure reduced to a whispered plea.
"And you see this as a good thing?"
"It's good for me." I blinked the memories away and straightened.
"How so?"
"It makes me feel strong. In the land of the sick, a healthy man is king. To someone who would die without assistance, a doctor is like a god. And even though I was only an assistant, I enjoyed watching pure weakness -- the honesty of it. And the stench of death. I don't mean the physical smell. It's like an aura that surrounds someone on the brink. That aura has always brought two contradictory feelings to people: 'I feel sorry for this person.' And, 'I'm glad it's not me.'"
"Would you say that you require weak people in order to feel strong?"
"No," I replied. "But the greater the divide, the more prominent my own strength becomes. Whether someone else is weaker than average or I'm stronger than average, the point is the divide."
"Why is strength so important to you?"
"It's one of my strengths. I like to capitalize."
"Do you believe in our organization?"
"With all my heart."
There was a pause. "Proceed to room 505.”
I walked down the hall in search of room 505, and was surprised to find that its door resembled that of a janitor's closet. I opened it without knocking. The moment I saw what lay within, I quickly rushed inside, shut it behind me, and locked it.
"Good," the voice said. I took a more careful survey of the room, which was fairly larger than a closet. The walls were grey stone. There was a single table at the side of the room with a variety of tools laid out: serrated knives, hammers, pliers, and so on.
"You're not fucking around," I murmured.
"This man is part of a rebel faction." I turned to look once more at the man cuffed to the stone slab in the center of the room. "This is the kind of person we'd be asking you to interrogate. We understand that you might not have experience in such matters. However, we'd like to get a feel for your instincts and capacity to handle the emotional elements of the job."
"Of course."
"What we want to know is where the rebels are based and what their plans are. Good luck." I heard the crackling sound of the intercom cutting off.
I resumed my inspection of the tools. "Aren't you going to say anything?" I lifted a scalpel. I wondered if they put it there to remind me of my Infirmary days, where my job had been the opposite of this.
I sauntered over to him. He was a young man. His dark hair was damp with sweat. Despite his obvious efforts to present a strong front, his swiftly-moving chest betrayed his weakness. "That's OK. We don't need to talk. I'm happy just for the opportunity to practice." I lifted his shirt -- should I cut it off? -- and began to lower the scalpel to his chest.
A distant blast interrupted me. An airstrike. Here in the city.
A different voice on the intercom boomed, "Attention everyone. The city is under attack. Proceed to the basement immediately."
I slipped the scalpel into leather pen case in my back pocket and began to move for the door.
"Hey!"
I turned back. "You do speak."
"You can't just leave me here! I'm a valuable source of information. You can't let me die in a bomb blast!" He strained against the handcuffs. I could hear people running down the hall.

---

THREE: Leave him.
FOUR: Set him free.

---

THREE
Ignoring him, I threw open the door and joined the people running down the hall. The stairs were a flood of panicked people shoving to reach safety, but it didn't take long for them to pour into the basement. Once inside, I dug through the crowd until I found a place against the far wall. After everyone was in they shut and bolted the doors.
A man climbed onto a chair to speak. I recognized him: it was the Director of the Security Office.
"Everyone, please be calm. Be calm!" Slowly the noise decreased as people alerted each other. "Thank you. Now, I know this is a very frightening situation, but I assure you that our forces will repel these invaders in short time. Until that happens, we'll be safe here."
"What if they bomb the building?" someone cried. A number of voices echoed the concern.
"I won't lie to you: that is a possibility. And while that would be devastating, the harm would be to infrastructure alone." He smoothed his hair, scratched his neck. "This basement is the safest place to be right now, and I can tell you with confidence that it would withstand any attacks from above. So until such a time as our capable forces have ousted the enemy, please remain calm. Thank you." He stepped down from the chair.
The noise of hundreds of voices rose again, but it was more subdued this time. People began moving through the crowd to seek out friends or loved ones. What a day for an interview. Come to think of it, this could be an opportunity for me. Everyone who worked at the Security Office was here, all the way up to the Director. I waited for everyone to settle a little before finding my way to the Director. He was speaking to the Assistant Director about the enemy.
"It's St. Clarks," he said in a low voice. "Although with the potential alliance between them and--"
"Excuse me, sir," I said. He turned to me with a false smile. "I'm sorry to interrupt."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere for a while," he laughed. "What can I do for you?"
"Mark Durant," I said, extending my hand and giving his two firm pumps. "I came here today for an interview, but--"
A heavy crash sounded above. I heard gasps and shrieks all around. A series of further shocks, and the building was crumbling. The basement couldn't bear the impact of so many floors. People were screaming and clinging to each other. I looked up just in time to see the ceiling thunder onto us. Everything went black.

You have died! Please try again.

FOUR
I perused the table and searched the whole room for a key, but there didn't seem to be one. Could I break the thick cuffs with one of the tools?
"In my back pocket," the guy said.
"What's in your back pocket?"
"A pick."
"I don't know how to pick handcuffs."
"Just hand it to me."
It was nothing more than a bent bobby pin. I placed it into his hand, then watched dubiously as he contorted his fingers around to press the pick into the lock, fiddle around at some other point, and move the pin back again. The cuff clicked open.
"Were you planning this the whole time?"
"I'm surprised they left my clothes on, to be honest." His other handcuff clicked as he spoke. He made short work of the cuffs at his ankles, and I threw open the door. As we ran down the hall, I heard another blast, closer. The time it had taken to remove his cuffs had been enough for the entire floor to clear out.
We slammed open the double doors to the stairwell. We were on the fifth floor. It was sheer good luck if we made it to the basement. I'll probably die for this bastard. I counted the floors as we raced down each flight of stairs. When we came to the very bottom, we were met with another pair of doors. They were locked.
"Hey!" I pounded on them. "Hey, let us in!"
"Step back against the wall," a man's voice replied. "Get all the way back. Who are you?"
"I was here for an interview." We pressed against the opposite wall.
A door opened just enough for the man to peer out, then instantly slammed shut. I heard the locks move back into place.
"I know that guy. He's a traitor. I saw them bringing him in. You can take your chances with the enemy."
"I'm not on his side! I was here for an interview. I don't know this bastard!"
There was no response.
"OK," the traitor said, as if making a resolution. He ran back up and went through the first floor doors.
"Hey!" I ran after him, followed him out into the street, and grabbed him roughly. "Listen. I risked my life to save you. So I'd say you owe me. At the very least, what happens to me, happens to you."
He eyed me a moment resentfully. "Whatever you say. Follow me. I know a safe place."
Safe for whom? I wondered, but followed after shedding my business jacket and tie. We ran for over ten minutes before bombs fell on the building we had just left. We stopped momentarily to watch the smoke rising. Then the plane circled back to bombard it again.
"Just five more minutes," he said, turning away. "Come on." I sensed smugness in his tone implying that he had done me a favor. For someone who had been one second from torture less than an hour ago, he was feeling pretty damn full of himself.
A moment later, the shadow of a bomber fell over us. I admit that it frightened me for an instant, but then it had moved on, joining three others and soaring out of sight. "I think they're leaving," I gasped, winded from running.
"They might be," he replied. "OK, in here." He turned down a dingy street and stopped in front of a crumbling one-story building that didn't even have a front door.
"Yeah, this is real safe," I said sarcastically. Ignoring me, he walked across the dim room to a disgusting carpet, which he kicked aside to reveal a metal door built into the floor. He threw it open.
"Hard to get much safer than this. Nobody will ever look here."
I peered into the darkness. "Hell no." The nearby sound of gunfire punctuated the screams and sirens that currently characterized the city.
He seemed to nod to those sounds. "You don't want to come? That's your problem."
"I don't mind hiding out for a while," I said. "It's you I mind being down there with."
"You don't trust me? If anybody has reason not to trust someone, it's me! I know you were going to do it back there."
"Do what."
"Don't play dumb. You were all ready to cut me up." He stomped over to me. "You were going to enjoy it. I could feel it. That's why you were interviewed, isn't it? They chose you. They like sick fucks like you." All at once, he was trembling with hatred or anger or both.
"Yes," I replied. "I would have enjoyed skinning you. I would have enjoyed tearing out your fingernails. I would have enjoyed removing parts of you. And you would have deserved it. And you would have talked. Because you're weak."
"Fuck you!" He swung and hit. My head flew to the side with the force of the blow.

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FIVE: Just take it.
SIX: Fight back.

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FIVE
He continued pummeling my body and face, but I just stood there. I didn't even lift my arms.
"Fight back!" he yelled in frustration. I didn't move. Slowly he stopped attacking me. "You're so fucked up. You know that?"
"Between the two of us," I replied, wiping blood from my lip, "you're the only one who has hurt someone."
"Oh, that's great. Really great." He grinned furiously.
"Sh!" I turned around. "I hear something." I crept to the doorway and peered around the side. It was a group of enemy soldiers, moving down the street in our direction.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Come look," I replied. "Careful." While he was occupied doing so, I slipped the scalpel into the loose pocket of his cargo pants. Then I moved into the street.
The soldiers instantly raised their guns. "Don't move!"
I held my arms up. "I'm a rebel. I'm on your side!"
"The hell happened to him?" I heard one of them say.
The traitor had no choice but to come out after me. "Don't listen to him! He's a liar!"
"Alright, both of you shut up." The group drew close, guns aimed at our chests.
"It'll be easiest for us to just kill them," one guy suggested.
"Sure, because the public just loves it when we kill civilians who are trying to surrender."
The woman who had told us to shut up stepped forward. She motioned to me. "You. Speak. What happened to you? Your face..."
"I was captured. I was in the Security Office. This guy was torturing me for information."
"It's the other way around!" he shrieked.
"He still has the scalpel he was going to use on me. I saw him put it in his pocket."
"What?!"
The woman motioned to a soldier. "Check him."
He found the scalpel right away. "That's not mine! He must have slipped it in!"
"And he must have beat his own self bloody, too, huh?" She looked at him with disgust, then turned to me. "Alright, check this guy for weapons and take him back. An inside rebel could have a lot to tell."
"You saved my life," I told the soldiers as they led me away.
"You'll be alright now, man," one of them replied. "The shit that goes on in this city."
Behind me, I could hear the traitor still trying to explain when they gunned him down.

Congratulations! You have survived.

SIX
My fist caught him on the jaw. He stumbled back, and I seized the moment to tackle him to the ground. I started whaling on his face. All I had to do was beat him to death, and I could use his convenient little hideout. I grinned as the blood flew. I kept punching him as he struggled to get back at me, but he couldn't get his arms around mine to reach my head, and his blows to my tensed gut weren't near as effective. He tried to throw me off. I slammed him back down. "See?" I said, watching his face turn into a bloody mess. "You're weak. You got captured, and even with a lucky break like this, you're still going to die." I was so focused on beating him that I didn't hear the people approaching.
"You there! Stop right now! Stand up slowly with your arms raised." A woman's voice. I climbed off the traitor and turned to face them. It was a group of enemy soldiers. "Why were you beating this man?" she demanded.
"Torturer...the government..." the traitor managed.
She looked back to me. "Is that true? You're part of the municipality?"
"No," I quickly replied. "I just work in the Infirmary."
"Sources tell us the Infirmary closed a week ago." She glanced at my dress shoes. "OK, we don't have time for this. Take him out." She motioned to the soldier beside her, and before I could react, a bullet crashed through my skull.

You have died! Please try again.