[ WP ] It 's 2029 . The Purge has become a reality . Due to the expansive reach of the internet , however , the wealthy are now outnumbered by a cohesive unit of outraged poor led by a charismatic , and extremely strategic leader .

Hank's attention was glued to the pin on the dead man's shirt. 
 
 He had seen such a pin before, back in college - his friend, then what one would call him, a `` hipster'', wore it proudly on his plaid jacket. `` Eat the rich'', the little tin disc said. 
 
 Eat the rich. 
 
 His friend's father was a Morgan Stanley analyst, that's how the little shit even got into MIT in the first place. Then again, by the time Hank celebrated his 20th birthday, the notion that the majority of the population suffered a permanent and debilitating, cognitive dissonance, had become old news to him. 
 
 Amidst the unfolding Mexican standoff, the dead body of the unlucky Purger lay on the oak floor like a demarcating Rubicon. The ragtag team of masked Purgers that managed to break through the automated defense system of Hanks' villa versus three GreyForge mercs ( embellished by SWAT, SAS and some Russian inner security ), including Hank himself. 
 
 None dared to cross the line again for the time being. 
 
 Hank calculated the odds, quickly - four against at least ten, with who knows how many outside in the yard, and automatic weaponry making it all the more unpredictable. Aside from the mortal fear that coiled like a metal mattress spring in his stomach, Hank felt a growing anxiety over the fact that too many incalculable variables were involved. 
 
 Such unstable systems were his forte as an analyst, but when his own life was at stake, his resolve slowly crumbled under the pressure; the bigger picture fell apart, not letting him think as clearly as he really could. 
 
 The leader, Chicken Head, pushed forward, a shotgun held confidently at the hip. Something in his lazy gait, in the red, goose-bumped large hands, in the light-brown eyes that Hank still could see under the ridiculous get-up, whispered into his ear with a faint familiarity. 
 
 Shifting on his tongue like a hair that got stuck to it. 
 
 `` You've heard of me, I think'', the man rumbled with a clear Boston accent from within the cockerel rubber mask. `` We come to restore justice. Make life a bit more *fair*. No need to be so inhospitable. People out there want to eat, they need housing, shelter - and fairness, of course... So few have so much in this country, while so many suffer... We'll correct that.'' 
 
 A man in an Obama mask nodded vigorously by the Chicken Head's side. 
 
 `` Got ta redistribute the wealth, twitchy! Got ta fess up'fore you die!'' 
 
 Hank's lips spread in a wide, shark-like grin that made the contrast shadows under his brow grow deeper, strengthening the similarity with a deep water predator. Sure, he heard of him. The town's two last devastating Purges ripped through the wealthy suburbs, all orchestrated by a particularly clever Purger in a chicken mask - he even managed to build something of a loyal mob in the process. Not like that required some effort, in Hank's eyes - bit of populist slogans, a tiny drop of charisma, and some above average intelligence to keep ahead of your followers. 
 
 Still, notoriety or not, talk like that never sat well with Hank. Not after what he has been through to get where he was, with this house, these artifacts, these GreyForge grunts. They had no idea and no right. 
 
 Purge or no Purge, he wo n't be fed pre-school morals to. 
 
 Life was not fair, oh yes. Hiring ex-military to survive was n't among Hank's ideas of life being fair at all. 
 
 `` Spare me the bullshit'', he motioned towards the dead man with a gun he got from one of the mercenaries. `` Poverty is, for the most part, a social maladaptation, a mix of mental deficiency and purely human desire to brush off responsibility. It's nice to think that someone evil steals you from so that you do n't have to face the possibility that maybe it's *you* who's a pathetic waste of space with nothing to contribute instead!'' 
 
 He chuckled, but his shoulders sagged. Idealism was such a joke. 
 
 `` You, however, are resourceful. Cut the power to my house, managed to shut down and reboot the SafeHouse OS, took the cameras out... brought a whole mob of welfare leechers, fired up, no less, by a rousing speech on how `` the man'' owes'em everything for all the'ard work!'' Got ta use the Purge to fix `` da injustice''!'' 
 
 Hank's mocking tone did n't bode well with the `` hardworking masses'', eyes glistening menacingly from within the masks, weapons rising. Vladislav, one of the GreyForgers, lay a hand on his boss's chest, trying to push him behind their armored backs, but Hank could n't help himself. 
 
 He was tired. He waved his pistol around, accentuating the motion mostly on Chicken Head. 
 
 `` If any of you fuckers ever worked a real job that you earned with your brain and brawn, if your parents were smart people and not drunkards that left you with no capital, but with a shit school and shit education, guess what - maybe you would n't be such miserable fuckers, ey? Novel concept, is n't it?'' 
 
 `` Shut your trap, pig!'' 
 
 `` Yeah, you fucking piece of shit! I'm gon na fucking cut your head off, try to take *that* to your insurance company, asshole!'' 
 
 `` Get him, chief!'' 
 
 Hank held the gun to his face, wiping his nose with the top of the pistol in a nervous tick. He could feel the other man smiling, feeling the power of the mob behind him, rifles, hatchets and axes raised, eager for blood, fueled by misplaced righteousness. The leader was the locus of it all, for certain. 
 
 `` Oh, and your leader! Wonder where he has such profound knowledge of the SH OS, of all my villa's systems, of the type of bots we use for patrol - no, do it! Anyway you spin it - if he worked in the company, if he was a repair man, or - oh my, what a twist! ``, Hank's face contorted into a mask of pretend horror. `` If he was a customer himself, means that you little rabble-rouser is a capitalist swine *himself*! Is he not?'' 
 
 Chicken Head shifted on his, his stance changing just a fraction, but it told Hank that his shot was true. It was no disgruntled war vet or an Appalachian farmer raging against social economic inequality during the Bloody Night. 
 
 No, there was intellect, one that took advantage of free resources without shame. Hank could almost respect that, if his life did n't hang on the line. 
 The police-grade body armor he wore felt paper-thin still. 
 
 `` My men are placing charges under the west wing of your mansion, Mr. Norris'', he drawled. `` The only thing that's gon na change here, is if you'll be dying quick or slow... You fellas included. You're outnumbered''. 
 
 Ah. 
 
 His name, in that voice. 
 
 Hank's job was to have a good memory, and not just of numbers. 
 
 His name, in that voice. 
 
 In a split second, it all clicked into place. *Mr. Norris*. The Boston accent, the county golf club, the awful lobster-red tan only an Irishman would get, the shreds of a conversation caught in the men's room about hunting trips. 
 
 Hank licked his lips, and turned his head from one invader to another, from one grinning Purger mask to the other, from one gun barrel to the other. Then, he looked as Fischer, his bodyguard and smiled helplessly, all the previous hardness gone from his face. 
 
 `` See, Fischer, I was right. These folks were duped, and it's a common theme with them. Common root to why they are poor - they let wolves in sheep clothing guide the herd'', Hank's face relaxed. `` Get ready, we're about to be shot and hacked at''. 
 
 As the GreyForgers tensed, Hank moved behind them, stepping back into the shadow of his home, ready to shoot and flee if his investment into the PMC sector turned out to be a fluke. From behind his bodyguards backs, he called out to the Chicken Head, as the latter pulled a detonator out, about to fulfill the promise to blow half his villa up. 
 
 `` Mr. O'Connor! If you wanted to add that Matisse I got in my vault to *your own* already impressive collection, you should've just contacted my assistant! Have a chat in the golf club! Not start a bloody proletariat revolution, ey!''. 
 
 Hank remembered the pin, his friend. Well, this was entirely calculable. Someone who ca n't even make their life tolerable enough to not be an angry piss-stain, would n't have come up with such a good plan. 
 
 But an investment banker? Dog eat dog, Hank thought. Not just the rich. 
 
 

