Chapter Twenty-Four

Your Lord and Masters pause in their passage between the neatly organised rows of Arasaka Security, though you do not focus on them, keeping the power of will to continue staring unblinkingly forward; they exist in the periphery of your vision, like eye-floaters.

There are three of them, two of average build, albeit carrying with them the traditional short stature that you associate with the corporate class of Japanese supervisors, and a third, though equally small in height, though making up for it in width, a man with a taste for food, it seems.

One of them is carrying a stick; a bamboo rod, if you were to guess, something you had become uncomfortably familiar with during your months-long training; Arasaka may have hired you for the most menial of security positions, but that did not mean they would skimp out on your training.

The corporeal punishment was enough to keep most in line, and if that did not, the almost ritualised beatings they forced trainees to commit against their failing brethren certainly did.

The long rod tapers off to a narrow and blunted end, which was, at this moment, pointed at you, delicately tapping your chin, cheekbones, and forehead, and then moving onto your shoulders and chest; each time, he would say a word, likely a number in his alien tongue; that would elicit either a simple nod from his fellows or arouse a brief conversation on the topic at hand.

It felt dehumanising, being measured like this, for you were being counted as cattle would by a herdsman; the company, and the executives, in particular, did not see you as human, though you took small comfort from the fact that they saw none as equally worthy of human dignity as themselves.

Then, as quick and unflinching as the man had been when measuring you, he had moved on, your existence shuffled out from his mind, the inspection stopping for no one.

Still, you stood there for what seemed to be hours, unfailing in your duties; your mind turned into a blank slate as your thoughts vanished beneath the oppressive boredom of standing still; every so often, your body would twitch into fast motion to allow your blood to flow before returning to their original rigid position.

The ignorant would question why this was necessary, what point was it to train mall cops to act like soldiers on parade, and what point was it to push them through months-long training regimes before they were called upon to man the doorway of a jewellery store.

They are called ignorant for a reason; the Arasaka Corporation is, foremost, a security company, but merely labelling it as a private enterprise would be to underestimate its capabilities severely; Arasaka was an entity that oft stood among the venerable ranks of nation-states.

You may be part of its money-making apparatus, but you were a soldier; for a neo-feudal private enterprise that only decades prior had fought a globe-spanning conflict that took the lives of millions, bathed many a city in nuclear hellfire and pitted corporate armies against their national counterparts.

You knew how to shoot, how to stab, how to stem a bleeding wound and apply a tourniquet, you knew how to drive an armoured vehicle, how to man a machine gun and field strip your arms, accustomed to carrying your bodyweight in arms and equipment on long marches through the badlands and inured to the sight of blood, your own included.

Like sheets of metal welded together efficiently and sanded down into a reflective gleam, one would be forgiven for failing to see the cracks in your being, the parts broken and reforged by Arasaka, for the mark of the beast is insidious; it can be carried upon your person; on your shoulder, your cap and your armour.

But it is also indelible to the soul, something in how you look, speak and respond, clear enough that those you grew up alongside and lived amongst could sniff it out as clear as day.

"Company! Left Turn!"

A voice calls out in accented Japanese, eliciting a synchronised turn from the assembled security officers present; as one, they turn left and stamp right heeled boot once before straightening out the line, soles grinding against the harsh ground for a few seconds.

These grand inspections always precipitated something significant, and with a sinking feeling, you began to suspect what it'd be.