Friday Night Firefight - A Cyberpunk 2077 Isekai

Friday Night Firefight - Chapter 53

I wrinkled my nose at the scent coming from the cheap cigar the foreman was chewing on. Even though he hadn't lit it, the smell coming from the thing still clung to the air of the office, mixing with the faint odor of machinery and oil that seemed to soak into every inch of the factory.

My suit was itching like hell – an off-the-rack number I'd picked up at one of the night markets in the city for next to nothing. It was the cheapest thing I could find and didn't fit right. The cheap synthetic fabric was too stiff, the sleeves were a touch too long, and the jacket sat tight across my shoulders. That was the whole point of it though. I was going for the 'desperation chic' look; the kind of image that said I was so-hard up for cash that I'd take any job and do whatever my boss demanded of me.

I tapped my fingers nervously on my thigh as I watched the foreman thumb through my sad excuse of a resume. He had greasy hair and a permanent scowl on his face as he occasionally looked from my resume up to me. The shoes I was wearing were killing me too. Hard, synthetic leather that felt like they would give up any minute, rubbing raw against my heels. I forced myself to sit still and to wear my discomfort like a badge.

Finally, the foreman's eyes flicked up from my application and gave me another once-over like I was just another piece of faulty tech clogging up his production line. "Rancho Coronado Public High, huh?" His tone was flat, disinterested, like he already knew the answer before I even nodded. "No college degree. This your first degree?"

I swallowed hard and nodded, trying to look just the right mix of hopeful and hopeless.

His chuckle came out dry and cynical, the kind of laugh that says he'd seen the story play out hundreds of times before. "Figures."

My public persona didn't have a lot going for it. At least, not the one that Indrajit had made for me all those months back didn't. Graduate of Rancho Coronado Public High School with a C average. No college. No internships. No corporate gigs. No part-time work. Just one massive blank space where all my experience was supposed to go. My background screamed one thing: street rat. I was the kid who never made the cut, never found a way into the corpo world, and definitely couldn't hack it in the violent streets. Hell, if I was talented enough to work for a gang, the foreman would have known it because we would have met with me pointing a Unity in his face during some back-alley mugging instead of strolling into his office begging for a job.

The whole charade – the cheap clothes, the nervous fidgeting, the shit resume – was working. I could tell. A week of schmoozing at the dingy bar where a bunch of local factory workers drank had paid off. A couple rounds of drinks and some half-decent conversations, and a few of them had promised to put in a word with their foreman for me. It was enough for him to give me a shot.

The foreman leaned back in his chair, giving me another long look. "Let's be honest, kid. You don't have the credentials for this job. Hell, from where I'm sitting, you don't have any credentials at all." He tossed my application down on the desk like it offended him. "But...I need someone willing to do what they're told. No questions, no complaints. Just yes sir and no sir. And you? You look like you need the money bad enough to keep your head down and your mouth shut."

I swallowed again, letting a bit of nervousness show.

His smirk grew, and I could feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him. He knew exactly what kind of power he held. "But there's a catch," he continued, leaning forward. "You start tomorrow, and we gotta train you up. I'm taking a great personal risk on you, and I expect to be rewarded for it. So, I'm gonna be taking a 30% cut off your paycheck every week – for giving you this chance."

I thought he'd ask for twenty. At least, that's what all the workers at the bar has said to me. In exchange for the job, the foreman would collect a "fee" off my paycheck. It was supposed to be just enough to line his own pockets while keeping desperate workers on the hook. Thirty was steep. It would leave me scraping by on around 360 eddies a week. Barely enough to survive, even in the worst parts of the city.