You couldn't say you were particularly close to any of your co-workers, Arasaka tended to frown upon such things as idle chatter while on the job, and your responsibilities at home meant you avoided drinking after your shift, regardless of who was paying.
That did not mean, however, that you could not trust your co-workers; it did not matter about a personal opinion or lack of it; when it came to risky jobs such as this, you were all in the same boat.
No one likes a Corpo, least of all the ones cracking skulls for the Suits sitting cosy in that gilded tower of theirs; there would be no ruinous repercussion if one of you were dragged into the crowds and beaten to death; you weren't important enough to warrant a bounty or a lethal reprisal.
So, when the trucks loitered near one of the side entrances to the massive depot, train tracks crisscrossing the concrete ground filled with cargo containers and several cars, all of whom had been looted and scavenged for everything valuable, each security officer kept an eye, not only on their surroundings but each other.
"We get a handle on the strikers; only then will the workers arrive; don't fuck this up."
Another one of the security captains, this time the Jap had a local accent, called out, not only to his men but everyone around him, reaffirming their objectives and rousing the hesitant men to follow him through the side entrance, left suspiciously unguarded.
Gloved hands squeezed your baton, your body stiffening with tension as you moved along with your group behind one of the captains, the Behemoths that had transported you here, quickly vacating the premises, the local gangs didn't take too kindly to corporate colours, much less ones arrogant enough not to be under guard.
None of you spoke; it wasn't necessary; even as the idle chatter and catchy chanting of the strikers reached your ears, each man knew what was expected of them, a grim feeling shadowing the strikebreakers as they entered the factory premises, a manager hurriedly unlocking the wire-mesh doorway only large enough for a single man to pass through.
You had never done something like this; sure, you've used your baton on a few rambunctious customers and discharged your sidearm in self-defence many times, as one would expect in a city like NC.
But strikebreaking? Never, and that unknown fuelled your fears.
That you'd fuck up, and if you didn't pay the price the Corpo way, then you're sure the locals, of whom you've likely grown up with a few, would most certainly have no qualms collectively stomping your skull against the concrete until you were little more than a stain on the parking lot.