It was all very ironic.
The Arasaka Corporation used ground transportation for its low-level security operations and contracts for NC, but it was a particular brand and type of vehicle.
The Militech Behemoth was an armoured personnel carrier rated to resist small-arms fire and IEDs; they were cheap (for their kind) and easily purchasable on the open market; it's usual black plated exterior painted with the crimson outline and symbols of the Company, but otherwise virtually indistinct from the one's Militech uses.
That the Arasaka Corporation would be using their main American competition's product rather than their own was a source of great amusement and commentary for you and the near-dozen other Security officers shoved into the repurposed boxcars.
That said, trucks, now forming a convoy six deep, were driving to the site of their next contract, one snatched from the hands of Militech, which only made the entire situation even funnier; someone in the NC Tower had a sick sense of humour when organising all this.
You had been briefed, however short it was, by your superior, a designated captain for each ad-hoc group of twelve being transported in each Behemoth, though throughout the ride, your cybernetics fed you more specific details in regards to the contract, your role and responsibilities.
A Freight Depot, one of many located in the north-eastern section of Santo Domingo, was paralysed by union activities, their attempts at transitioning their full-time workers to a more financially viable zero-hour contract being met with strike action by the entire facility.
The truck bounced over a pothole, and the man you were seated next to, slammed his shoulder into yours by accident, the faceless mook issuing an apology as he bent down to pick up the baton he was polishing.
It was noteworthy that none present carried firearms, something extremely out of the ordinary for Night City and Arasaka.
But that was why the Depot looked towards the Arasaka Corporation rather than a small-time company or your more American competitors in Militech.
Because the latter two would have slaughtered the strikers, which wouldn't look good to the Cargo Depot's European owners, no sir; they were civilised folk who preferred a gentler approach, at least when the cameras were recording.
"We're nearly there; check your equipment over, and don't get isolated."
The Captain calls out, his thick Japanese accent making his words sound mushed and imprecise; it was almost comical how the higher-ups at the Security Division thought that their ex-pat officers wouldn't be laughed at when overseeing the native workforce.
Your hand moves to your baton, removing it from your belt and holding it at both ends as if it was a stick, which it was in a sense, but it looked nice, and you could hit people with it without worrying about the weapon breaking.
Your job here wasn't to inflict violence; though it was likely that things would get very bloody, your primary responsibility was to ensure that the scabs hired by the Freight Depot's parent company could enter the facility and go about their business without being stopped by the union.
Huh, somewhere down the line, you became lost on the road of life; it was a weird twist of fate that you were now in the position that was very familiar to your drunkard of a father; he never did recover from getting his head cracked open by a strikebreaker's baton.
Serves the fucker right; you hope it still gives him migraines wherever that deadbeat is.