Chapter Twenty-Three

Rarely did the butchered ecosystem and high atmospheric pressure see fit to bless Night City with anything more than damp humidity, the stagnant air laced with petrochemicals and other pollutants, sapping the life of its five million residents.

Yet, as the droplets of water fell in their multitude, the soft pitter-patter of the rain, the thump that came with striking concrete, the cushioned sounds when they struck man and uniform, you felt uneasy.

For rain wasn't some vague concept, utterly alien to the minds and lived experiences of the average Night City inhabitant; what the city got was a far cry from the weather patterns experienced by your great grandparents.

Nothing could thrive from acid rain, which despoiled clothes, burnt flesh and rusted metal, forced men to hide within their homes, cower beneath underpasses and loiter within their cars as a smog grew from the lines of unmoving traffic.

But this rain was not acidic; well, not enough to pose any legitimate danger to you, for every weather event was laced with the consequence of unrestrained industry.

You felt the icy touch of rainwater, your uniform growing wet from the unceasing fall.

Yet, even as your body cried out to shiver, spots of fabric clinging to the skin, rubbing against it, begging to be scratched, your hair and face guarded against such unnerving sensations by the baseball-esque Corporate cap they issued you.

You did not move; you were akin to a statue, one of the one-hundred-and-fifty-six others, your uniforms identical, not the baggy work clothes of your standard shift, but one restricted only for when working on Arasaka properties.

A long-sleeve black shirt, whose plastic fibres scratched against your skin when wetted, the thin fabric your arms only protection from the elements, your chest weighed down by a heavier Armourjack vest, the thick, inflexible piece of armour having with it a neck guard that existed for appearance's sake as it did not protect your front.

Your gloved hands lay flat against your sides; the knife-resistant materials, like your vest, served more ably as wards against the elements than you suspect they did against the weapons they were designed against.

At least the armoury remembered your shoe size; the thick-soled jackboots, black with red trimmings like everything else you wore, were pressed against one another, though your back was ramrod straight; your knees were ever-so-slightly bent, a method drilled into you during basic to avoid fainting while on parade.

Just like now, it was unusual for the external courtyard to be used for anything but large-scale deliveries, though you should have suspected something amiss by the noticeable lack of crates and other goods that usually dotted the area the last few days.

Your mouth tightened, and your eyes focused forward, honing in on one wall of the Arasaka office building; the Japanese conversation that had been a distant sound was growing louder and closer; the Corporate Executives were pausing now and again to look at an individual soldier, chatter in their language before moving on.

You never thought to those so high on the ladder; they were a different species and often came and went like the seasons, confidence breeding incompetence, and soon a new executive would rise to their position, and you'd have to be on parade again.

Do you wonder what did in the last guy?

Probably Kang-Tao related, they always enjoy precipitating a bit of vicious infighting in their competitors.