You look at the pale hand.

You reach out and grab hold of it.

Weakly, desperately, it holds your hand back.

You push it back down into the slime

Do you do it gently?

It doesn't matter.

It struggles, neon liquid sloshing over the edge, but you are well-fed and upright; it never stood a chance. You push it all the way under and the rest of you slide the lid back in place, securing it again. The crates thumps again. And again. And again. And then it stops.

Nothing goes amiss for the rest of the journey. You arrive on [planet] and unload the cargo, putting new cargo in its place. You travel back and never speak another word of what you have done but it weighs heavy on your chest and stains your soul.

Is it agonising? Does it keep you up at night?

I hope so.

Bad End Achieved