Milo resisted for a long time. He resisted to the end.

It was easy at first. When they first came out, the emails even had a check box to say you didn't want them. Like declaring you didn't need a TV license. The first time he ticked it, he didn't hear back for a month or two. Or maybe it was even longer. He was neck deep in spreadsheets for the new project, and this time, the boss wanted double the work in half the time. He'd been let off easy for his first year, Andy said, but with a bit of graft, he might make Assistant Secretary soon.

Some mild annoyance may have registered for a second or two when the next email came. Hadn't Milo opted out? But there were bigger things to think about by that point. He'd been invited to the conference, the big one in Bognor Regis, and he was desperately trying to cut that final seventeen seconds off his presentation while still getting the point across. It was a big ask, but Dave (because the Deputy Manager and Milo were on first name terms now) had forwarded him an article from New Scientist about attention spans, and the numbers didn't lie.

So he just sent it away again and forgot. The next email came back a week later. It didn't have a check box. The reminder came two days later, the next one an hour after that. Milo never saw the other twenty-three. What time did he have for personal emails these days? He had access to the Client Acquisition mailbox by then, so he could say he was a pretty big deal, and even say it with confidence.

The letters started next. One per day, in real government brown envelopes, first stamped Confidential, and after a month or two, Urgent, and for their last six weeks, Essential to Existence. They came in handy that time the Chief Financial Officer came round to Milo's apartment to go through the files over a cup of finest Columbian coffee. With a couple of strategically placed company letters over the top of the stacks, it looked like Milo had finally managed to cut down to four hours rest per day, just like Stewart wanted.

The phone calls barely bothered him. They began just after the Essential letters did, overlapping for a double-whammy of nag nag nag. But his mobile had lived in his top bedside drawer for almost a year. He didn't want his girlfriend breaking his concentration over trivial things like what was for dinner and who was picking up the kids from school. It was a different story that day when they got his office number, almost lost him the contract with the Smith conglomerate when he couldn't make that call due to the never-ending trill of them. But he got IT to block them just in time. The Assistant Manager role was his.

And on his first day, his very first day of a dream job that was hopefully the stepping stone to the sorts of jobs where you could have wine with your lunch, they got him.

He stepped out of his building's front door and there was simply no pavement beneath his feet. With a choked cry, suit jacket flapping, he was gone. He clawed at the chute with manicured fingernails as he plummeted into darkness, for all of two and a half seconds. Then he had landed rather comfortably on his bottom, the fall cushioned by the sort of mat he had last seen in his secondary school gym. Then, before he even had chance to howl at the flurry of files that had burst from his briefcase, they were being neatly and efficiently collected up by a woman with a lanyard round her neck, and he himself was being raised to his feet and placed, still dazed, in an office chair in front of a table. The table looked like the type not from a secondary school, but from an operating theatre.

On the wall to his left, Milo read a sign. There was a beautiful Asian lady on the sign, laughing hysterically at nothing in particular. The sign said 'Pop - Up Clinic'.

There was a young man behind the desk, a man with a carefully trimmed beard and another lanyard. He was wearing doctor's whites. He smiled in what was probably supposed to be a calming manner, and held out his lanyard, which had the same government seal as all those envelopes somewhere just behind and far above them.

"Good morning, Mr. Davies," said the doctor. "We're ready to fit your life meters."

* * *

Of course, as with the emails and the letters and the phone calls, Milo had resisted. He stopped resisting when the two policemen emerged from behind the doctor and told him to, because he wasn't some sort of lunatic criminal. The operation would be quick and painless, the smiling doctor informed him. One of those things turned out to be true. As it happened, there was a slight issue with some paperwork at the end, causing Milo to be an embarrassing ten minutes late to his first meeting.

He had been too dazed at the time to ask the one thing worth asking. But, as he was hurrying down the road to the underground station, brushing soil from his trousers, he realised he actually hadn't needed to ask it after all. The doctor, or one of his assistants, had provided the answers in a handy little leaflet, this time showing a young African gentleman laughing at something off the page. The leaflet was entitled, "Why have life meters fitted?"

He read it on the tube. Front to back. The answer wasn't that the government had forced him. The leaflet even thanked him for taking the step to choose a pop-up clinic for the fitting, as this saved money over home visits. The life meters, the text below a group of dancing schoolchildren informed him, would help him to be the best him he could possibly be, drastically improving his health, his career, his social status, his entire life.

The leaflet made it sound fabulous.

* * *

When Milo's elbow first spoke to him, he actually fell backwards off his chair, the sort of thing he thought only happened to people in cartoons. He stared at the ceiling of his apartment, the glare of his laptop at the corner of his vision, thoughts of the weekend's bonus booster incentive at least temporarily edged to the back of his mind. He lay there, as it turned out, for quite a while. Because his elbow wasn't just saying "Hello" or "How do you do, Rest of Body?" The elbow had prepared a monologue.

"Mr Davies," said his right elbow. "This is a summary of your first Monthly Report from the UK Department of Life Monitoring. This report, as with all following Monthly Reports until a death certificate is received by your local registry office, is split into five divisions - Physical Health, Mental Health, Career, Social, and Comunity Contributions. Part one: Physical Health. Your semi-regular choice of Meg's burger van for worktime lunches is increasing cholesterol at an above-average rate. May we suggest preparing a delicious salad prior to work? Decrease of 1.2 Smile Points. Part two: Mental Health. Your dedication to your work has caused you to giggle involuntarily at your desk and home five times this month. Why not try a refreshing walk at break time? Decrease of 2.3 Smile Points. Part three: Career. Our surveillance of governement-registered companies shows your superiors are considering a raise as long as you do not screw up the video call to Tayor and Associates on Wednesday. Work hard and do your bit to help the needy by increasing your tax contribution. Increase of 20.8 Smile Points. Part four: Social. You haven't kissed Miss. Halford since last Friday. She is considering leaving you. Why not prepare a romantic meal followed by an hour of cunnilingus tonight? Decrease of 12.5 Smile Points. Part five: Social Contributions. You have contributed nothing to society this month beyond your above-average tax contributions. Please engage in a minimum of five hours volunteering work this month to amend your score. Smile points - absolute zero."

A short pause. "Would you like the Detail Report of any of your five life divisions?"

Flat on his back, hands still gripping the arms of his upturned chair, Milo began to giggle.

Another short pause. "Additional score for Mental Health," said Milo's elbow. "Minus 0.2 Smile Points."

* * *

By the turn of the financial year, work wasn't going so well any more.

The problem was that the targets just kept going up. Hit your target of 15 contracts this period? You need 20 this time. 20% associate turnover last year? Bi-monthly team building action plans to be forwarded to the Fun Operator. Cried twice in the third-floor toilets this week? Don't cry at all, you weakling. Get out there and get those figures in the green.

Milo had discovered the other side of that age-old adage. Shit does indeed roll downhill, but that means that when you're the Senior Deputy Manager, almost at the summit where it hasn't spread out yet, you get a real faceful.

He stared at himself in the mirror, wiping despondently at the red marks below his eyes. The targets... were they really the problem? The whole problem?

"Alert! Alert!" boomed Milo's elbow. Milo didn't even twitch any more. Apart from his left nostril, which vibrated every time a notification came through. Just in case he'd cocooned his right arm in a blanket again to get a few minutes' peace. "Alert! Beach cleaning operation 12.2 miles from your current location, 5:30 this afternoon! Why not do your bit for the environment and make some friends along the way? Increases to Mental Health, Social and Community Contributions highly likely. Physical Health increase likely but outweighed by the 2578-calorie kebab you consumed at 23:08 yesterday. Would you like more details?"

Milo continued to stare into the mirror. He was haggard. He did a lot of staring these days. Maybe that's why the life meters told him his mental health had decreased by 34.5 Smile Points in the last five months.

A knock at the door. Tentative, afraid. Milo had never realised just how expressive knuckles on wood could be. "Mr. Davies?" came the wavering voice of his junior assistant executive spreadsheet administrator. "Mr. Davies, are you there? I think I deleted the subsidary amalgamation formula again."

"Would you like more details?" said the elbow. Milo found with dismay he didn't think of it as his any more. It was just the elbow now. Ever since the Daily Summaries started. Now the Life Pro Tip notifications had begun, he wondered if it even counted as an elbow any more. He watched his reflection suspiciously as he raised his forearm to the glass. Yes, still an elbow... just.

"Mr. Davies?" Adam wailed, panic seeping through the wood.

Milo, unfeeling, considered the day ahead. If he got a move on, he could submit the general executive notes by midday. Then he'd have time for a five-minute jog to the jacket potato stand to up Physical Health. A flick through the newspaper to shore up the floundering Mental. Then back for the afternoon pre-conference preliminary conference call. A twelve-minute call to his mother for 0.3 on his Social. Then back to the files. Then, maybe, perhaps, he would submit to the elbow and make it out to the beach for his allotted Social Contribution.

"Mr. Davies?" Milo wasn't the only one crying now.

No, it wasn't the target increases that were getting him down. It was the increase in targets.

"Mr. Davies?"

"Would you like more details?"

"Mr. Davies?"

He wanted to tell Adam to fuck off. Adam and the elbow both. Instead, he adjusted his cufflinks, sloshed some cold water over his face, and opened the door.

"On my way," Milo said.

* * *

Yes, he was on his way then, but he wasn't on his way now. It was two days later, and for the first time in his life, Milo had phoned in sick. Pathetic really, when it was just his ten-hour Sunday baby shift. He could have made it through.

But there was the report to consider. Now, there were rankings. And the rankings made him anxious.

Despite his fall from the top, he was still number two in his postcode for Career. Maybe that meant he should move, to somewhere with a smart fridge, like the elbow had advised him. That wasn't the issue.

He was forty-eighth for Physical.

Thirty-third for Social.

Sixty-ninth for Mental.

Absolute zero for Community.

This wasn't the tinny voice of the elbow. Not this time. It was a letter. Physical, without the capital P, not like the ranking he was so bad at.

The letter was from the Department of Life Monitoring. It was a Letter of Concern.

Shakily, Milo got up from the couch to make a cup of finest Columbian coffee. Then, his eyes darted back through the open doorway to the letter. He got himself a big glass of water instead.

If he did not make improvements to his life, the letter told him, there would be consequences. There was no grinning racial minority character above the writing.

He didn't sit back down. Softly, in silk-slippered feet, he went to the window, peeked through the blinds. As if the concerned party would be pulling up right now. A black limousine filled with grim faced officiers in sunglasses. They would be wearing sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day.

He'd never made it to the beach pick, or the tree planting over on the estate. The letter made it extremely clear what would happen if he had another Monthly Report with an absolute zero on it. The language was beautifully simple, to cater to all levels of education.

"I want to contribute to the community," he said out loud. Amy was out, the kids at a birthday party, but he wasn't alone.

"Hello, Mr Davies," the elbow said. Its tone never changed, not out loud, but it was elated. Milo knew it. "I have three opportunities within your designated radius, as follows: 10:00, Strawson Community Hall-"

"Stop," Milo said, calmly. He felt something tight relax deep within, and it wasn't one of the meters. He had been scanning the letter over and over again, the numbers searing into his brain. But when he came to the absolute zero for the final time, he had also come to a realisation.

* * *

The realisation was that life wasn't made of rankings. It was made of spectrums. And with spectrums, you could aim for one side or the other.

He'd had enough of one. He was better at the other.

He never went back. The company never called. There were plenty of Assistant Somebodies ready to take his place. The KPIs continued their upward cruise without him, uninterrupted.

When he told Amy, she left. It was a shame, because those tits were amazing. But on the bright side, she took her kids with her. Now there was no need to wait for anyone to go to bed before the takeways came. He ate for the four of them anyway.

He smoked. He drank. He stole cheese from supermarkets, ate it outside by the block. He went to parties and slept with girls he never knew the name of, let alone forgot. He woke up in places he'd read about in the papers, and lived to tell the tale.

That is to say, he had a whale of a time.

Despite all the fun, he had clear objectives. People with too many Smile Points paid to watch. It was good to see the competition crash and burn. Perhaps there was envy mixed in there too.

The elbow was not impressed. Cheerless tips for diets and courses and paper rounds turned to threats, imploring him to turn back before it was too late. The warnings were his biggest hits.

And, as the Monthly Reports rolled in, he saw there really was no contest. At what he did, he was the very best.

* * *

So good, in fact, that the knock at the door came quicker than expected.

He answered quickly and readily. Two policemen stepped in, followed by a doctor. This doctor was older, sterner than his colleague in the clinic. He held out a familiar lanyard with a familiar logo.

Briefly, the doctor wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale beer, then collected himself. "Mr. Davies," he said, wearily, warily. "We're here to remove your life meters." He motioned to a toolbox hanging from one gloved hand. "Among other things, of course."

The officers scanned the room, stepping around the pizza boxes and carrier bags. One pointed at the bookcase. "Turn that thing off." Milo rubbed a hand through his stubble, dismayed, as the recording was stopped and the phone gently placed on the arm of his couch.

He didn't resist. His last scores for Social and Career had him teetering on the edge, but he hadn't made it yet. So he signed the papers like an obedient citizen, while the policemen stared around at his squalour. They were too disgusted to notice what he put in his pocket.

The doctor, nameless, told him to lie down on the couch. Painfully, he rolled onto his back. His joints were getting tight, unresponsive. He smiled up at the clean face, thinking about how utterly useless to society he was.

"This will be slow and painful," the doctor said, savouring every word. One of the policemen chuckled. Milo raised one bulbous arm to meet the needle. Then he flopped onto the cushion and embraced the dark.

When he came round, he was sore but not in agony. That was good. The fact that the most painful part of him was the elbow pleased him even more. It was his again. Not theirs.

The doctor was unpacking some tools out of sterilised pouches onto a folding table set up in front of the TV. Milo saw probes, scissors, bonesaws. There had been no deception, on their part. It had all been laid out in the letter, as the final consequence. And that meant he had achieved his goals.

He opened his mouth and giggled.

The doctor was not amused. "Enough of that," he snapped, and Milo stopped. He could tell it wasn't Milo that had caused this stress. Something bigger. Maybe just life. "I'm afraid your declaration of identity for the final sequence was missing," the doctor continued. He leant over the couch, waving a familiar form at his patient's head. "So I had to bring you round. If you could just sign here..."

Instead, Milo signed the doctor's jaw with a satisfying thump from his left fist. The doctor staggered back, collapsed the table beneath his fall, and lay still beneath a shower of drill-bits. Milo sat and waited patiently for the crash to bring the policemen running. There was no use fighting if they did. His Physical was at an all time low. But they didn't come. Milo was counting on them being far away by now. The doctor, as suspected, hadn't dared call them in when he discovered he would have to rouse the subject. Doctors, like Senior Deputy Managers of whatever the hell he'd actually been doing, had targets and deadlines to meet. And if there'd been any more delay, how was the medic going reach that quota and get to that hike by lunchtime?

Steadily, Milo heaved himself to his feet. There were painful red patches all over his exposed skin. Where the trackers had been removed. From where no more advice would come.

And now they had gone, he really could do with losing a bit of weight.

He had to be quick. He got his travel bag, packed with goodies, from behind the door, grabbed his phone. Down the stairs and out onto the road where, if his backers had been true to their word, the motorbike would be waiting.

It was.

He turned on his phone. "Sorry about that, guys," he said, loading the pack into the sidecar. "My name is Absolute Zero, and we're going on an adventure."

His name was only half true. He had an idea what absolute zero for Physical would mean. The government would want him there as soon as they could. There again, if he got Mental low enough, he supposed he wouldn't care.

But now the meters had ceased to be, so had his aims. For the first time in his life, the world was his.

From the direction of the town centre, a siren began to blare. He turned the key, revved the throttle. The engine roared beneath him. The wheels began to turn.

Now this, he thought, this was living.