Chapter Seventeen

A bit of rough-housing is needed to keep the people in line, the situation cooling down from its previous intemperate pressure, while they continue to chant, yell, spit and insult; they studiously avoid entering within baton range of the Arasaka enforcers.

It takes another few minutes of this status quo to continue until your commanders see fit to authorise the arrival of the scabs, buses full of them, each one bright-eyed and ready to work; one and all from across your border, you can tell; they don't carry the air of disillusionment all Night City natives possess.

Were you ever like that, walking with your back tall, not out of a false sense of self-superiority and ego, but because you legitimately looked forward to the day?

Probably not, your eyes turning away from the shuffling feet of the scabs who pass through the line, suffering even more verbal abuse and rubbish than you had; while you are beating them, you aren't putting them out of a job.

You keep your Baton ready, your hands clenching each end, just as your co-workers do, a silent wall of flesh meant to keep the peace, and with this renewed tension, you give your would-be victims another, closer, once-over.

Their faces are weathered, even more than yours, an orangish-brown stain from the petrochemical fuels they've been exposed to, day in and day out, their voices hoarse and deep; you can smell the stench of cheap liquor from where you're standing.

They all have muscles, their work necessitating a fair amount of lifting, but layers of fat offset it, the average working-class diet in Night City being takeout and cheap microwavable meals.

That doesn't mean you'd be confident in a fight with them, those punches still pack some weight behind them, and they have a numerical superiority; it is only the instinctual fear the underclass possesses when it comes to Corporate Enforcers that is maintaining the peace.

It feels good to meet their scornful eyes because when they realise the beast is staring back at them, you can count the exact process of responses they go through.

There is a surprise to be picked out from all the ones, hesitation, as they realise it may not be a good idea to be belligerent against a Corporate goon, and then it settles on fear, as your eyes never deviate from his; he knows the kind of violence and brutality you can mete out, and he starts questioning what decisions led up to this moment.

The hatred and revulsion give way to concern and fear; that's the power this uniform gives you, one of the paltry few positive experiences that working for the Devil has given you.

It's the twisted comfort of knowing that you're the boot stomping on someone else's face, that there's always going to be someone else worse off than you.

You think Diana had a word for it, what was it again? A Class Traitor.