It's always the self-moralising honour roll girls that are the wildest, and if you were to describe Diana Harris in a single word, it would be crazy.
She thought she was too good for the shithole of a school, and it showed; if it weren't for the fact her older sister is involved in organised crime, she'd have been taught a lesson about mouthing off a great deal earlier.
Thankfully, she didn't, and when you introduced yourself, she saw a kindred spirit as you were, forgive the ego-polishing, a reasonably intelligent lad, at least as far as your bottom-of-the-rankings high school had to go for it.
She tried to get you involved in student activism, attending a few meetups of some unions, the rally for some short-lived anti-corporate movement and, more importantly, some shithole bar that her punk friends decided to make their hangout.
You are not ashamed to admit that you only bothered to deal with the woman and excessive baggage out of a desire to see what she was like with the clothes off, and when she finally caved into that adult pleasure that she hid beneath layers of denial, narcissism and protagonist-centrality, you were not disappointed.
That bitch was crazy, and you were surprised that you were the first to pop her card; but considering she preferred anal and her family would later scare you away from their darling child, you shouldn't have been.
Whips, chains, slaps and beatings; her accessories weren't only for looks.
You remember those days with a forlorn look, back when you still had both the time and charisma to get ass; shit, you did it in the lavatory with her once, she got a taste of something new, and that seemed to be her new fixation for the time.
A few of your co-workers who provide their own commentary when they catch you looking at Diana notice the lascivious smile that has grown on your lips, alongside that distant look partially concealed beneath your cap.
"That's a hot piece of ass, that's for sure."
"Fuck, when this shit's over, I'm finding the nearest joytoy and going to town."
She won't recognise you in all this uniform and equipment, which is half the purpose of Arasaka gear, to dehumanise you; make you part of a larger mechanism, ceding individuality and decision-making to someone else.
But, damn, wouldn't it be funny if she did? Bitch lost her V-card to a fucking Corpo; it'd be worthy of a drama serialization.