Gloria Martinez: Changing Times (2)

All the stretching hallways and doors you pass through are dark grey, with a bit of black metal, scrubbed to a shine that ocassionally gives off a distorted reflection..

It looks, feels, and probably is expensive to walk on and look at. None of that helps your nerves at all.

You feel underdressed, surrounded by corpo uniforms, expensive fashion and premium chrome. The looks you get in response only increase the feeling of out-of-place-ness you have.

You couldn't even fit in your old suit, so you had to make do with the dress shirt and slacks, but you're here for a purpose, and you ain't going to be the one to quit because your top needed a little adjustment.

But even the young, all made-up receptionist gives you a hard glare as you check in and get directions for where the interview is hosted.

Her male colleague gives you a different kind of contempt. It's to the point where the smile you give him feels almost unbearable, but eventually, he tells you what floor and office to go to.

"Good luck; you're going to need it."

His parting words were enough to tempt you to just deck the fucker, but you don't want to get arrested or worse. You aren't young anymore, Gloria.

The elevator was spacious, twice the size of the one in your apartment, but empty all the same. You swear one of the other riders, a brown-haired woman with a tight bun, was really trying to kill you with a stare, her eyes flicking away whenever you met her gaze. Catty bitch.

Of course, as the elevator was about to close, a hand and then an arm shoved itself in the way, stopping the doors and delaying everyone's day, much to the frustration of the four other people inside.

"Oh, come the fuck on!"

Some weren't quiet about it either, at least until the doors opened wide and the man stepped in, a smile on his lips distinctly unlike anyone else.

"Sorry about that!"

Except for a suit who is too busy watching something with his cybernetics, everyone focuses on the rude latecomer; all are short stares and turned heads, as they weirdly shuffle in place and find new-found interest in their tablets, obviously uncomfortable.

You on the other hand, don't see anything weird or wrong with the new guy.

Sure, he looks young, bit more than everyone else; more like David's age, but that'd only mean he's loaded, or some princeling.

Huh.

Maybe you're on to something; he's dressed nice, a bit too-nice for someone roughing it in the public elevators; a well-fitting suit jacket and pants that, despite looking the same as everyone else's, looks softer; its threads, more noticeable.

The awkward air inside the elevator continues for a while, as the metal box hurtles its way up the colossal tower, pausing every so often to disembark an employee.

Through that, you have tried distracting yourself with reading through your old CV, reciting notes on what to say in the interview, and casually observing the other elevator occupants, but your eyes and attention eventually always return to the young guy.

You don't need to listen to the murmurs to know something is off about the boy, your eyes roving over his face and hands; both lacking the usual physical traits that come with cybernetics.

You're sure he has them, they're basically mandatory in Arasaka, but his pale skin is uninterrupted and his eyes seem too alive with warmth to be the glowing fakes you see around you.

What he lacks in visual augmentations, he makes up for it in looks, in what is most certainly Bioware upgrades, brushed high cheekbones, soft skin clear of pores that dot everyone else's.

His hair, almost shiny with lustre, and held in place by some pretty strong gel since it ain't flapping along with the nearby AC.

He notices your gaze, and flashes you a smile, one too pure; legitimate, to be real from a Corpo, taking your diverted gaze as an opening to start a conversation.

You knew you should have done what the other Corpos did, trying to avoid looking at the guy, but you were too caught up in your head.

Maybe those NCPD procedurals had done a number on you; normally you don't go around unravelling mysteries.

"Rather underdressed, aren't you?"

His voice is bland, accentless, but unless he was a really good impressionist, you could tell he was young.

The two remaining corporate employees in the elevator nod their heads in agreement, quickly sliding in as spectators. Dismissal radiates from them, something you're familiar with, since it happened the last time you were here.

Your cheeks colour a slight pink, a mix of humiliation and anger; you simply couldn't afford to resize your suit jacket. And even as underdressed as you are, there's a bit of itching heat that builds on your wrists and back, nervous through and through.

You swear you don't remember where you found those extra pounds; you can still fit into your fluid-protective overalls, after all.

"Haha, yeah..."

You half-ass a sarcastic laugh, a forced one that helps bury the embarrassment you feel a few inches deep. Even if the awkward gesture isn't returned by the young man, the other two Corpos are amused by cringe, joining in.

That quickly dies as he sends them a look, those warm chocolate brown eyes suddenly turning cold; you wonder who upped the AC's power. The kid, probably, with those invisible cybernetics.

The two employees stand stiffly, the man and woman not understanding why this princeling's mood has suddenly soured, his lips turning thin as they press tightly.

"Mind your manners."

As if second nature, the words leave his moisturised lips; the awkward stillness that had settled after his sudden outburst is broken when they both give in rather than picking a fight with the uppity boy.

Their mumbled apologies are aimed at the youth rather than you; they still have some self-respect, but the bowing of their heads, that's a very... Japanese thing, do they know something you don't?

Probably, which is making you worry, shit, who the hell are you talking to?

Fresh coldness dissipates again as he returns to look at you, a soft smile on his face, eyes warm as he tries to prod you back into the conversation, to the point even when the elevator reaches your floor, you can't leave, not without pissing off this suddenly scary Corpo.

"An EMT? Huh, like Trauma Team?"

He has questions, and his complete indifference or ignorance to things that every Night City denizen has experienced only further lends credence to the idea that you're talking to a princeling.

Shit, add in a love triangle, and you'll be living the soap opera dream.

You've really been watching too much TV.

You know you're in deep shit when the other two Corpos decide to jump off at the next stop, leaving you in a conversation that you can't excuse yourself out of without offending the princeling.

You're already past the customary thirty-minute waiting period, where you'd check in and linger to be called in for the interview.

The elevator moves further upwards, away from the level you're meant to be on, and into areas that'll get you cuffed by security when the cameras find you.

As flattering as it is to have the attention of a younger attractive man, especially one who seems to take your advice and experience on Night City seriously, he's fucked up your chances at getting the job.

He finally picks up on the mix of irritation and despondence that has surfaced on your face and lingers in your voice, his eyes arching, lighting up as if he's just realised what he's done.

"Oh, where are my manners, Yoshikage Shiro, at your service!"

And, completely misses the point, introducing himself formally and shaking your limp hand with his own, soft and delicate, lacking the creases and wornness of your own; he's never done a hard day of labor in his life.

"...Listen, I got an interview I'm late for; I gotta go."

You decide to finally tell the guy your problem to his face, hoping that you don't piss off the spoiled suit, but the young man seems to take your dismissal for further conversation as another opportunity.

"Oh, you're interviewing for a job here? As an EMT, right?"

"Yes, I'd be worki- Look, I have to go; I'm already late!"

The elevator has been moving up and down the Tower, occasionally admitting new occupants but, for the most part being a private cubicle for the two of you.

"Oh dear, this is my fault; I'm sorry."

He looks worried on your behalf, and something about this entire exchange is off for a kid that's treated so carefully by other suits; he's surprisingly... chill?

"I'll have a quick chat with the recruiter, Miss?..."

"Gloria, Gloria Martinez."

Arasaka architecture has a distinctive look to it, something you'll never get used to. It's all so pricey and sterile, entirely at odds with the real Night City.

Walking alongside the young corpo, he tries to involve you in a more intimate conversation, revealing that he's a recent transfer from Kyoto and isn't familiar with his posting or his co-workers. No one really reveals that much to strangers, do they? ​​

That does make you feel a bit sorry for him though. The boy looks lost in his new workplace, and you don't think his lavish upbringing has prepared him for being chucked into the deep end.

He's gonna get eaten alive in here, poor kid.

Before your thoughts stray to worries–that this will be David's future if he somehow lands a job at Arasaka–you arrive at your destination.

Rows of glass cubicles stretch as far as you can see, intricate frosted glass panes serving as barriers for each office; they mute the conversations within, but still allow you to make out the repetitive shapes and dull colours of the occupants.

"Which office was yours being held at again?"

You feel a bit bad having the guy tag along with you all this way. He's probably going to get into trouble for overstepping his bounds, but you didn't have any hope of landing the job, to begin with, so you give him the number and point him in the right direction. You, for one, memorised the number and floor days ago.

But he goes, totally confident or oblivious to how things work, knocking on the glass door a few times before opening it himself when the interviewer doesn't let him in themself. Even you were never that naive–were you?

You can't hear the conversation, so you're left standing outside the office like some truant schoolgirl who's waiting for their inevitable punishment; fuck, you're too old for this shit.

Odd stares are directed towards you from the adjoined rooms–you swear there's more than a few snickers.

The seconds drag onto minutes, and you start fidgeting and looking around. Trying to distract yourself from mumbled and unintelligible words you can barely hear through the thin glass barriers, you don't see any other applicants.

Did you miss everything? You really fucked up this time, Gloria. You double-check the room for clocks, but the hard-to-read metallic timepieces seem to indicate you're at the right time and right place.

Morose thoughts shift to dinner plans. You hope your boss doesn't make you do a midnight shift to make up for the missed hours; you'd like to feed David something that isn't instant-ramen. And that fine, too. That won't be cheap.

Abruptly, unexpectedly, doors slide open, and the young Corpo steps out, shaking you out of your thoughts with his sudden presence, body brimming with confidence as he flashes you a smile.

"I put in a good word for you! Good Luck!"

He flashes you two thumbs up with his hands, an awkward gesture that looks stupid on the well-dressed man, but you thank him nonetheless.

"I got my work to do, so I'll leave the rest in your hands!"

You give him a wave, elated at this sudden turn of fortune, you don't think a newbie's word will do much good, but you were cheered by the fact there are still some decent people in Arasaka of all places. Too bad you're not coming back.