Kill Vickers, and reprogram your badge yourself

The old man has never been anything but good to you, but you only have so many magic beans in a day. And you have permission from a Goddess to do whatever you want, so you guess normal morality can take a hike.

"Hey, is that a spider on your coffee machine?" Vickers spins around, newspaper raised. The man hates spiders with a passion. Desiring silence, you manifest your black ice rapier, take a half-step around the counter, and ram it into his back.

Vickers detected something odd about your movement, or the shadow of your blade on the wall, and he twists to see what you're doing. Instead of a clean stab through his heart or lungs, you cut him badly but nonfatally across the back. He grits his teeth and growls instead of screaming, while drawing his weapon. You suddenly remember that Vickers was actually a veteran of some dirty little war in a jungle, and that the old man has more fight in him than you'd suspect.

He lunges towards you instead of going for the security alarm button, with **** in his eyes. You parry as best you can, backing up and slashing at him, trying to keep you back. It's no use, though. He's too corpulent to be dissuaded by even rather severe cuts, and he keeps his guard up to prevent any immediately fatal strike to his neck or his heart. He rams you against the wall and begins tasing you, repeatedly. Your limbs go alternately stiff with agony and numb. "I've got you, you little sonofabitch! I don't know what your problem is, but you're going to prison, you understand?"

Your rapier is pinned between you, point up uselessly at the ceiling. You can't free it, can't do more than put little cuts on his uniform. You're screwed if you don't get it together, even though you can feel your magic protecting you from the worst of the electricity.

Suddenly, you change your rapier into a pistol. Trapped between your average body and Vicker's heavy rolls of fat, it's adequately muffled as you pump four or five rounds directly into his chest. It doesn't actually matter how many rounds, because your .45 never seems to run out of ammunition. Vickers stumbles back, his eyes full of shock at the pointless end his life has come to. Not many go to work expecting to die, and Vickers sure wasn't paid enough for it.

You go to quickly reprogram your ID badge, and find instead that you have to slowly reprogram your ID badge. You don't understand how any of his software works, and it takes you long minutes to puzzle it out. Realizing you're in serious trouble if you get caught, magic or no magic, you shut down all the security cameras and erase all the recordings for the night. That part, at least, is easy.