Chapter Four

A watchman had many duties, ranging from patrolling the premises of their employers' store or apartment complex to serving as a quasi-employee, ever watchful for possible theft, but mostly present to dissuade such attempts while rendering aid to confused customers.

You have often relegated duties at the front of whatever store was prosperous enough to contract Arasaka security for their protection.

The distinctive uniform that all Company Security at your level wore was intimidating enough; it dehumanised the individual to a degree where they were interchangeable with any other Arasaka watchman.

Your loose, knife-resistant clothing, the Kevlar strapped across your stomach and chest, the cap and most importantly, the intimidating baton and handgun; all came together to create the picture of a man not to be messed with, and that was enough to dissuade the average ganger.

But to some customers, you were a target; Night City was a place of Dreams and Ego, where most derived pleasure, not from themselves, but from the misfortune of others; and nothing made a rich kid feel like a man than bossing around the help.

The most vexing of your postings almost always led to this; a private car dealership, built into a garage in the subdistrict of the Kabuki in Watson, a front most likely for the Tyger Claws, but one respectable enough that they hired Arasaka rather than rely on the overt presence of Gangsters to keep the peace.

Here, the rich kids of Night City and rising stars of the Tyger Claws would present their peacock feathers to whatever birds have wrapped their arms around them this night.

The Night Shift was always the difficult time for the dealership; that's when youth, drunk and confident, staggered into the place to look at cars, buy a few; but mostly promise whatever whore they're fucking, that they'll get them a nice ride if they gave out.

Tonight was no exception; you were going to be stuck here from nine till six in the morning, surrounded by scam artists who thought they were better than you because they sold cars for a living and their customers; who liked pissing inside the showroom, and took offence when told to do it outside.

"We got a problem."

You had sighted said problem long before the dealer came up to you, his snazzy suit worth more than your monthly income; long neon hair slicked back, in an almost effeminate way, the man snapped his fingers at you before pointing at the small crowd of drunk college students who were busy being rowdy around a showroom truck.

"Get rid of them; I think one of them's already taken a shit inside the passenger side."

Waving for you to go, the man scurries off, probably to file a scathing review about your inattentiveness, purposefully ignorant that they had explicitly forbidden you from interacting with the customers with orders.

Withholding the groan that threatens to break from your clenched teeth, you march, back straight and stride long towards the partying youths, whose loud discussions of inane topics ranging from drag racing to getting pussy can be heard over the din of pop music.

One of them immediately picks you out from the crowd of other customers and scam artists, soon alerting his fellow apes to the fact that security had been called on them; one of the more cocksure drunkards, squaring his shoulders, and after patting his airy hair that sprung up in response to his touch, moved forward to confront you.

He looks up at you, the slight natural height difference between the two of you magnified by the workboots you wear; the boy, however, takes that as a challenge to puff up his chest and, very nearly, rub his chest against yours.

You stare impassively at the man in response, taking note of his neon-blue eyes, small windows popping up in his irises revealing that he's cybernetically enhanced, his skin unsettlingly clear of blemishes, also lending credence to the idea that this is a rich kid trying to act hard.

"Damn, you smell worse up close; what cologne do you use? Eau de toilet?"

The man speaks loudly, likely so his friends can hear his terrible joke and erupt in a chorus of laughter, his smug grin only growing wider at the perceived support of his friends.

"Management would like you to vacate the premises, Sir."

You empty your mind of thoughts, allowing his insults and barbs to flow over your empty mind; reacting to his words will only get you into deeper shit; there is a fine line you must tow when it comes to the children of the wealthy; one overreaction and you'll be out of the job.

"We're paying customers; if I want to shit in the truck I'm buying, I'll damn well shit in the truck, and ain't no minimum wage Corpo goon going to tell me what to do!"

You hadn't legitimately believed the boy would shit inside a car, never mind in public, but alcohol, bravado and degeneracy; would make the rich and wealthy do anything, especially if equally as degenerate friends were egging them on.

"We're not selling you a car, Sir; go home; you're drunk."

You've always found the non-violent middle class the most problematic to deal with; while technically, it is within your purview to force men like this off the premises if they're related to someone important, or worse; recording, you'll be in deep shit for damaging the Arasaka Brand.

It's these kinds of idiots who end up needing to employ Arasaka Security, after all.

"Are you telling me what to do? Who do you think you are? I'm a fucking Schmidt! I own your ass!"

He starts poking your chest with a finger, the man's face contorting into a look of rage and superiority, jumping on this opportunity to dunk on one of the poor, especially one that's armed; he knows you can't do anything against him.

"Sir, this isn't a request; the Police have been called; please vacate the premises."

You grab his hand, which had been prodding your chest; taking careful care to avoid holding it at any discomforting angle so the boy would not take this as a sign of aggression; unfortunately, his friends would answer in his stead.

"Hey, don't touch him!"

A burly jock, well, he would be one if he lost a few pounds, shouted at you, his jowls shuddering with each word.

At that point, you were put on the back foot, a number of them advancing on your person, while two of your co-workers, alerted from separate floors, converged on your position, hesitant in drawing their batons.

"Sir, this isn't a request; please leave."

You release your hold on the man's hand, but that does little to defuse the situation; they're amped up, and one's already brought out his phone; they're in it for the pride and clicks now.