Chapter Three

Many of your contemporaries found the duties of a lowly watchman extraordinarily stressful and unfulfilling, something you could not dispute; At the same time, the wage was generous enough for someone who came from the highrise slums of Arroyo, it was not a sustainable lifestyle.

Most would end up resigning or be fired from their positions after slacking off one-time-to-many; the long hours, constant presence of gangsters and being treated as common help meant that most would inevitably burn out and need to be replaced.

Then there were the others, the kind of scum who revelled in their position; and actively enjoyed the tasks of victimising the poor and using brute force to defend their charges, regardless of whether it was necessary.

Those men, though you would describe them more as monsters when recalling the sight of a beaten homeless man, whose only crime was lounging too long near the storefront, would be quickly transferred to divisions more applicable for their skillset, and with it, a more generous compensation package.

You would like to think that you were different, you were a model worker, you showed up on time, did your duties with a practised smile on your face, and never got a complaint from the local store managers of wherever you were posted.

There had been offers for internal security, rapid response, and higher-grade guard postings; each carried its advantages.

But you had always refused; you were perfectly content in what you were doing.

It paid the bill and had enough left over that you didn't eat recycled plastic for dinner.

You were the unambitious dull watchman that an area manager could rely upon to do their job without complaint and unintended consequence, but that always meant you were given the worse postings because; where others were ground down by the realities of work, you merely existed.