Chapter Eighteen

You hear the sound of fighting, the usual authoritative shouting of an Arasaka security officer and the dull thumping of a baton hitting clothed flesh, but panicked shouts and the raw violence of a fist connecting with bone, a cracking sound that you're surprised to hear over the din of a shouting crowd.

It is an unusual sight to see Diana, who you had previously assumed to be out for the count after that pretty vicious baton thrust to the stomach, break the jaw of an Arasaka officer as she successfully turns aside a baton smash and jabs another goon in the throat, forcing the poor sop on his knees; desperately choking on air as she then delivers a swift roundhouse kick to knock him out.

You don't see the original third Arasaka officer who had been part of her initial apprehension in the fight, then you sight the man finally, slumped against the door of the looted car, huh; either she's a lot more capable than you last remembered, or recruiting standards have been knocked down.

Then again, maybe her sister shelled out for some pretty decent cybernetic upgrades; that bitch was kitted out, even by Arasaka standards.

A captain decides to deal with this mess, pulling two security officers from the already stretched-thin human barrier, but; realising this isn't a battle she'll win and shouting some insults at the bastards around her, the woman is quick to push her way through the crowd of scabs, taking advantage of their bodies and the chaos of the confusion to make a successful break for it.

You have to turn your attention away from the fleeing woman and back to the crowds after one of your co-workers punches your shoulder, shouting for you to "keep your head in the game" as the strikers continue their rowdy and cowardly ways.

But, you don't think anything more will come of this; the wind has been taken out of their sails; they can turn to violence, yes, but all that'll do is invite a more lethal response by Arasaka, and their lives aren't worth scaring off this batch of scabs.

They'll need to find work elsewhere, no matter how hard that is to come by.

You can see their hopelessness, shoulders sagging, heads lowering, hear their subdued voices, a thick haze of grief and depression that befell over the parking lot in the wake of the scab's arrival.

Many are murmuring amongst themselves, trying to figure out how they'll pay their bills, make the rent, and afford to feed their families, all fears that you share with them, creating an odd kinship by virtue of such similarities.

You still work this job to help pay rent, to help feed your family, and you know, if you were ever given the pink slip, there would be a significant chance you'd either turn to crime or swallow some lead to save a rival gang the effort.

Maybe that's why you restrained to shouting and physical pushing rather than using the baton when the command came to evict these interlopers; that one day, you'd be in that very same position, and that took the joy out of being the oppressor for the day.

Fuck, you need a drink.