He knew he didn't have much time left. The sounds of wet flesh sloshing across the floor outside of his apartment, superpositioned with the hydraulics of augmented knees, proved to him that the biomechs were already here for him. There was no point in barricading the door - the raw strength from even the cheapest civilian-grade pair of pneumatic legs could shatter pavement. Their feet, which had been replaced with what looked to be two fleshy sacks, could move over rough terrain and far faster than any humanoid feet could.

So, there he sat in his abode, waiting for them to make themselves at home. The paranoia wasn't unwarranted - anybody could die, at any time, for the right price.

A knock rings out at his door.

"Open the door. Don't try anything stupid."

In his previous occupation, he was an executive in an important corporation. He was the one ordering and conducting corporate espionage and security in his favor. He was also the one sorting the company's darkest secrets and classified information. He knew a lot, and it was no surprise to his peers when the pink slip showed up on his desk. He didn't do anything wrong at his job except accepting it in the first place - almost all companies dispose of their hired executives after a couple years of service to prevent them from moving any further up the corporate ladder. Cleaners were also commonplace in this corporate society, and would "deal with" characters deemed too mentally unfit for the cruelties of business warfare. There are billions of other people in the world, and the value of an individual's life isn't too high.

Oblivious to these facts, he took his job and worked diligently from the day he was hired to two days prior, where he was practically handed his death warrant. Now, here he was, jobless and hopeless, filling out application papers to another workplace until he heard the knocks. His apartment wasn't very modest, but it was the best you could do without embezzling company money or starting your own business. His next occupation, he feared, would be as a red stain on his neon-tiled floor.

He got up from his chair and disconnected the life extension module from his frontal lobe. That was the most expensive thing on his entire body, and he was certain that it wouldn't be going to some braindead mech's "tip" for a job well done. He threw it against the wall and it shattered, leaving a sizable hole on the checkerboard wall. With that serving as the warning shot, he snatched the zip gun from his kitchen counter. In this highly regulated depression-fueled society, civilians aren't allowed any kind of commodity, whether it be pornography or weaponry - but that certainly doesn't stop them from being sold through shadier means. The gun was no bigger than his hand, and it held three or four bullets in its magazine. The rounds themselves weren't powerful, but they would do.

He racked the slide, flicked the safety off, and steadied it on the doorway. He knew what was coming.

"We know you're in there. Prepare to face termination."

With that, the door exploded into shrapnel, with a couple of hefty splinters flying directly through the former executive's shirt and into his chest. The blood started pouring, but it didn't matter - the convenient implant wired in his spinal cord dulled a good majority of the shock and pain associated with pierced skin and shrapnel. Unfortunately, this implant causes his back muscles to protrude at some pretty hideous angles.

This would be his first, and most likely last, opportunity to observe the biomechs. There were three of them in the doorway, and all three were far taller and bulkier than he could ever be. They all looked far more hideous than he did, with severely discolored skin, blotches of metal alongside what used to be mortal flesh across their arms and legs, and metallic boxes randomly strewn across their back and chest for implant maintenance. Their faces were beyond horrifying - clearly bloodshot eyes, wrinkled skin with a metallic sheen, and a chiseled shape that almost looked as if their skulls were manufactured in a factory. They looked more machine than man. All three were armed with suppressed pistols, and one even appeared to sport Enhanced Response goggles and a munitions vest. If anything was a rejection of biology for tactility, this was it. The only thing that looked remotely human about them was the shape of their body - and even that was pushing it.

In a blind panic, the former executive started firing the zip gun. The first bullet ricocheted off of the metal plating on one of the biomech's skull, staggering him as the other two mechs stormed the apartment. The second shot misfired, obliterating the executive's right hand. Three of his fingers blew off immediately, with the other two being severed down to the metacarpals. All he did was look in shock - it looked almost as if he had ran his hand straight across a table saw.

The leading biomech took this distraction to his advantage and fired a suppressed shot into the executive's chest. This bullet pierced straight through his chest and lodged in part of the circuitry embedded in his spine. As the implant shorted and his sense of pain quickly recovered, he could only wonder why they didn't aim for a lethal shot - did they perhaps miss, or did they plan on other nefarious acts? He wished they had, since now he was on the floor writhing in pain, clutching his chest with what used to be his right hand. He didn't scream. He didn't even have time to.

"Threat neutralized. Checking for Class-II executive property."

The leading mech stepped forward and moved towards the dying man. He had already given up. He knew it was coming the second they knocked on the door, and there was no way he was negotiating his way out of this situation. His vision was fading by the time the mech had turned him over and observed the entry wound of his shot. The protruded back muscles on the dying man's back were seared by the malfunctioning circuitry, and it smelled quite obviously like burning flesh. The other two biomechs, after quickly surveying the apartment for company property, accompanied him in this pseudo-vivisection. The mech, disgruntled that he hit a potentially valuable implant, pushed the near-carcass of a man back onto the floor.

The man, now turned over onto his back, peered at the pistol now brandished in his face. This would be the last thing he'd ever see, and he'd be damned if he didn't cherish it. His suffering finally came to a close as the mech squeezed the trigger of the pistol, and a lone bullet was lodged straight into his skull. His head recoiled from the force and made a crack as it smacked the floor.

"We're done here. Moving to the next target."

It was over. A man's life, with his suffering materialized as a large red puddle pooling on the floor and bits of flesh strewn across the apartment, was ended in just under a minute. The three biomechs exited from the doorway. The man's corpse would never be found, as he had no relatives or loved ones, and his rent was paid for by his former employers for the month. The shock and disgust associated with discovering a corpse had been artificially displaced from humanity decades ago. Overpopulation meant that death was commonplace now more than ever, and his role in corporate security would be replaced by thousands of other similarly-fit candidates that were as willing to die for their employers as he was, and the business machine would keep turning.

His death meant nothing to anybody. His futile attempt at fighting back would be wiped from the mechs' memories within time, and his corpse would eventually be scraped clean by the apartment's ecosystem of fleshroaches and rats. There was no post-mortem money to be made here, as he was not famous or particularly talented, so no business entity or government would bother any longer with this person.

He wasn't a person as soon as the metal was jammed into his skull. In that moment, he turned into a number, a sick experiment to see how far the limits of the human body can be pushed. What was one a flourishing, harmonizing system was now a sack of now-rotting muscles and fat with bits of circuitry and wires embedded into its organs with the intent to achieve mortal perfection.

Unfortunately, there is no perfection here.

The flies started picking at his flesh.