SURGI-DOC 

  The Surgi-Doc beeped and whirred, then the drill at the end of one of its fingers started to spin.

  "You have a 5.83 percent chance of reaching your quota before the end of your allotted work time," it said, its voice monotone and mechanical. 

  Alvin wasted precious seconds glancing up at it, searching the filament in its glass tube eyes for any hint of humanity. 

  "Demerit. You have purposefully remained unproductive for a period of ten sustained seconds. Your pay for this shift has been reduced." 

  "What? No. I..." Alvin stammered before looking back at his computer. 

  He worked as quickly as he could, but couldn't help but cut his eyes up at the Surgi-Doc. 

  "Martin? Is there really nothing of you left in there, man?" Alvin asked. 

  "You have a 1.11 percent chance of reaching your quota before the end of your allotted work time." 

  Sweat was already soaking the back of his button-up shirt as he tried to focus, racing through the lines of code on his screen. With less than a minute left in his shift, Alvin knew that he wasn't going to make it. His right arm started to itch; his body already starting to reject what was about to happen. 

  "Overtime request," Alvin said.

  "Request denied," the Surgi-Doc responded. 

  A few seconds later, an alarm sounded and Alvin's computer shut itself off. Before he could consider running, metal restraints emerged from his chair, holding him in place. Beeping in a way that almost sounded joyful, the Surgi-Doc rolled forward. It pressed a button on the chair, and it reclined, pulling Alvin down into a lying position. It felt like his right arm was on fire now, even before the Surgi-Doc grasped it with a clamp. 

  "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to be here anymore!" Alvin yelled. 

  The Surgi-Doc made four holes in his forearm, then its multi-fingered hand rotated, selecting a laser scalpel next. Alvin closed his eyes, no longer able to watch as it made its cuts, then peeled back his skin. The smell of burnt flesh and hair filled his nostrils. He partially opened one eye and watched as the Surgi-Doc harvested a single vein from his arm, then replaced it with a thin blue wire. A tear threatened to slip from his eye, so he squeezed it shut, catching it before it escaped. He wasn't going to give the Surgi-Doc the satisfaction. A few moments later, it finished sealing him up, and the restraints on the chair retracted. Alvin stumbled to his feet. 

  "Early forecasts suggest quotas will be 3 percent higher tomorrow," the Surgi-Doc said cheerfully. "Rest well and return ready to work in the morning." 

  Making his way to the door, Alvin flexed his right arm, trying to discern if it felt any different than it had before. How many was that now? He'd failed to hit his quota so many times in a row that he couldn't keep count. It drove him mad not knowing exactly what percentage of his insides were now machine instead of man.

  Alvin stopped at the door, glancing back. How much longer until he was replaced fully, a body filled with mechanical parts and oil instead of organic material and blood? 

  How much longer until he was turned into the next Surgi-Doc, cursed to inflict this same sadistic motivation routine on the next sad sucker that ended up working here?

  "Do you require assistance getting to your vehicle?" the Surgi-Doc asked. 

  Forcing a fake smile, Alvin shook his head.

  "No, no, not at all. Everything's great." 

  Everything's great.