The cage of Flesh

—

The collective buzzing of a column of rectangular white lights echoed within the hallway no wider than 10 meters, pipes hissing from above and a couple of other lights flickering--casting erratic shadows from the pipes below them, accompanying the choir of humming lights. 

"Yes."

A man was seemingly conversing with the air. The cybernetics replacing his organic flesh were evident. Dawning in a fine all-black suit, the long white sleeves extending on his wrists, his black metallic hands, and his murky dark eyes with yellow hues for pupils confirming that he was indeed packing in Chrome. He strode down the underground hallway.

"Yes, we're on schedule. Supposedly in 3 hours. You will receive the products by early morning, 3 am."

Fortified with concrete and metal was the ground, grey and bland. The scent of rust was evident in the air, the underground not having been maintained for a while now due to the lack of awareness that it exists.

It was obvious it was made in secret for transactions like this.

The walls, however, had a clear large streak of light green paint pasted along its length, stretching to how long the wall of the hallway extends to with the gargantuan number "06" written in black paint.

"No..."

He uttered again.

"Yes, we do."

Then silence.

A long beat…

"No. No, we don't accept additionals. It's part of our regulations."

"..."

"Your order is set. It can't be moved or rushed. It has to be through our rules. Not through your words, sir."

"..."

"In all honesty, I don't care if your wife finds out. It has to go through my men's terms. If you can't deal with that fact, I'm canceling."

"..."

"Three hundred grand?"

"..."

"No--"

"..."

"...Alright."

In a moment, he sighed, signifying the end of their transaction, each step from his leather shoe landing on the concrete ground with a notable thunk reverberating within the enclosed walls.

Taking into a sudden halt amidst the vast stretch of the underground, the lights flickering from time to time, he turned to his right, stretching out his hand; his metal-infused palm clasped onto the doorknob to another room and twisted it open.

The adjacent room was in shambles. It was dark. The darkness of this room stretched endlessly onto the man's right.

 Another unfinished hallway.

He could tell since slabs and heaps of rebar and concrete laid still and left to rust at the end even amidst the pitch black supposedly shielding his vision.

It was easy for him to know that.

Now, gazing up, a few of the ceiling's pipes and wires laid on the concrete floor connecting from the ceiling, sparking, lighting up the incomplete hallway momentarily, and hissing unknown gasses; the scent of ozone teeming within the room.

The man stepped over a pile of wires from the threshold. Waltzing passed torn pipes that were hissing gasses before abruptly reaching another door, opening it, and stepping into another room.

The mentioned room was cleaner. It was well-lit, the ceiling was properly in place, and even amidst the few flickers of lights, the concrete alloy room had the scent of antiseptic mixed with a bit of ozone.

Residing in that room was a man.

Standing in the middle of it.

A man in clad thick black metallic armor from neck to boot, only leaving his head vulnerable, revealing black streaks from the corner of his eyes down his cheeks, signifying his merge with metal. He had straight neck-length hair and dull, black, lifeless eyes.

He spoke.

"Is it finished?"

The latter replied. "Yes," then he flicked his wrist, revealing a Rolex watch, enveloped in the color gold, checking the time before gazing back at the man in black. "How many?"

"About twenty-eight."

"Ages?"

"They vary. Client wants them fresh. Didn't necessarily specify until what category. So we just took as much as we could."

"I see."

There was an unsettling silence between the two.

The man in the suit broke the silence. "Shipping is in 3 hours. Put them to sleep. Don't overdose."

The man in black scoffed. "I'm not retarded."

"Naturally."

—

The sight before the man in clad black armor was daunting; to say the least.

As of late, they were inside another metallic alloy room, the scent was still evident with antiseptic, this time, however, it mixed with sweat and odor. The said room was lit by a single faint red light, blinking, embedded just at the wall. The said blinking light was typically used for emergencies.

Before him were 28 individuals. All leaned onto the cold metal wall, hugging each other, clasping for the warmth of their kindred's flesh.

They were organics. Naturals. The humans that refuse to merge with metal.

And those that aren't in the proper stage of being fused with.

These individuals were

Women

And

Children.

The man in clad metallic armor said nothing, injecting a transparent substance into each arm present in the form of a syringe. 

The women whimpered, and the children cried.

Due to the women's maternal instinct wired into the very core of their minds the day they were conceived, they comforted the children and muttered sweet nothings that'll never come to be.

"Boss," A man said in a silent, hushed tone, seemingly materializing into view behind the man in clad black armor, the faint, blinking red hue shading away any of his facial features aside from the heavy weaponry held in both arms. "It's almost time."

"I know." The latter retorted, grumbling as he grabbed the last present woman's arm and injected a dose into her fragile human flesh.

She screamed in protest but that was before the substance took effect, putting her to sleep. There she lay with the rest, limp, unmoving, vulnerable.

The man in black threw away the syringe. "Alright. Prepare the containers at Sector 03. Make sure the trucks at Ground 12 are working. Check the wheels. We need at least seven men in those vehicles. More than one truck on the road will lead to less suspicion. Three or four will do."

"Will get to it, Boss."

"Good. Now, go--"

Bₒₒₘ

A faint explosion echoed within the room. Even if the explosion was vague initially, due to the sheer silence of the alloy room and the silenced screams of the Organics, the man in Black and his goons, heard as clear as day.

"What the fuck was that?" The man in Black uttered in a monotone voice, mildly irritated. "Did someone snitch?"

The goon behind him shuddered. "No--"

"I don't care, go FIND where that came from."

"The cargo sir--"

The man in Black needn't make a move, for only his mere stance in the way he stood silenced his goon.

"I hate repeating myself twice."

---

Underground, twenty-seven meters deep down the web of corridors was a certain vast parking lot lit by multiple rectangular-shaped lights beaming and buzzing in the background with the scent of fresh paint and decaying meat.

From a brid's eye view, multiple rectangular pillars half smeared in Yellow and the other half in gray paint with the number "37" besmeared onto it, indicating what level it was while reinforcing the ceiling a hundredfold, making sure it never would collapse. 

Said empty parking lot stretched seven kilometers wide, and its height was Three kilometers tall.

It was obvious this parking strip was used for cargo shipment placements and idle standby for mega trucks.

Amidst all of its potential, the parking lot was never used. 

Instead, it was used for other means.

Now, at the very center of the Parking garage, there was a man. A man wearing a black leather vest with a decorative overexaggeration of a bloodied skull pasted on the back of said Vest.

It was clear he was high on Chrome, his arms no longer possessing the human flesh that he was conceived with, but now with grey metallic arms, he purchased for the strength he yearned for.

His facial features were distorted with chrome, seemingly mauled, his chin smeared in black metal while his eyes were merely lenses wielding vision that can stretch 17 kilometers away and other specific uses. 

Wielding a black mohawk on his scalp, sharp black arcs scattered throughout his exposed scalp, indicating his use of Chrome evident on his cranium.

He wore black leather pants and black boot shoes. 

On the palm of his hand, was a gun. His finger on the trigger.

In front of him was an organized row and column of carcasses wrapped in body bags, a layer of tape tightening the seal on the waist, neck, and feet. There were approximately several hundred. Each of them neatly lined up with the other continued; stretching for a mile long vertically. 

The man pointed the tip of his barrel behind a civilian's head. Said civilian was on his knees, his eyes blinded by the cloth wrapped around his sockets, his hands bleeding portions from being sliced as he waited for his imminent doom.

Shlck

The man pulled the trigger. 

Another one has been added to the bag.

The man with the mohawk grumbled. "Is this all of it?" His voice was static and robotic as if his voice came from a digital voice box.

"Hardly, you're going to need to flatline seventy more," the man in the black suit replied, before sighing; abruptly placing a finger on his ear, listening to comms. He scoffed. "I've been informed there's a breach. Could either be the E.I.P.F, or the MiR5."

"I prefer the latter."

"At least you know your limit."

"I'm a serial killer. Not a mindless killer."

Then the man in the black suit placed his finger back on his ear. "..."

"What else is it?"

"..." The latter frowned. "A kid breached our defenses."

The man with the Mohawk turned his whole body to his co-worker. "You're kidding."

"I'm not. One's an astonishingly tall female, and the other one's a boy."

"Ugh. I have to kill them now I guess."

"That is your job, yes."

"I hate killing kids. They scream too loud."