Chapter 7 — Inside Information
"Xen, don't rush. We've got nowhere to be later."
After the selection, the Fixer led Xen away from the arena into a Westbrook restaurant whose entrance was guarded by a discreet bolt of chrome. Inside, chefs moved like meditative machines, plating produce that still smelled faintly of soil. Everything on the menu was curated, labeled organic, processed by hand. It was a luxury Xen had never seen outside of curated holos.
For a street kid who'd been scraping by in Watson, it felt surreal.
"Mr. Fixer," Xen said, trying to keep his voice rough and casual, "this is the first time I've eaten something this good."
He didn't bother with the bad-boy act here — not fully. The persona was useful, but it had limits. Even thugs needed to eat.
The Fixer chuckled, a sound like coins. He slid a folded napkin across the table. On it, in quick handwriting, were the basic terms of a contract: a three-year agent agreement, forty percent of Xen's income to the agency, plus priority signing rights if other agents tried to court him at the contract's end.
"This won't be the last time you taste food like this," the Fixer said. "You'll get used to it. You might even get sick of how 'natural' it is." He spoke like a man selling everything from shelter to salvation.
Xen toyed with the napkin. The gesture reminded him of old stories he'd heard once in a shadowy corner of a forum — athletes signing life-changing deals on tavern napkins, fortunes made from scribbles. For a second, he thought of a famous soccer contract he'd once read about — a kid signed on a napkin and became a legend. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.
He set his fork down and picked at his food, eyes drifting to Victor across the table. The champion watched him with the quiet, patient interest of someone who understood what being hungry meant — not just for food, but for meaning and escape.
"Go on," the Fixer said. "Sign it. We'll get you legit papers, a promoter, travel, training. Goliath Sports has the pull. You'll be wearing a sponsor shell in no time."
Goliath — the name had weight. Corporate backers like Arasaka, Militech, BioTechnica, and Kang Tao loomed behind the brand. A Goliath athlete didn't beg for cred; logos replaced the begging.
Xen laughed softly. "I'm not great with contracts. My handwriting looks like somebody punched the paper."
The Fixer smirked and handed the pen to Victor. The champion's handwriting twisted into a flourished signature that looked nothing like Xen's scrawl. The Fixer sealed the napkin in a clear folder, treating it like treasure. Xen felt the ritual, the promise of an effort that might actually change his odds.
"It's symbolic," the Fixer said. "We'll draft the real terms. Lawyers will iron out the fine print. This is about the story. You give them the image, we'll take care of the rest."
Xen watched the way the Fixer handled the napkin — with both practical greed and a theatrical care. He knew the Fixer made money off margins and myths. The Fixer didn't do altruism. He facilitated narratives and sold people the illusion of destiny.
"So… what next?" Xen asked.
The Fixer's expression shifted. The pitch became quieter, more pointed. "We ran your situation through legal. You've got two main routes."
Xen leaned in.
"One: we build you as the orphan who clawed his way up," the Fixer explained. "No past, no parents to buffer you. You're the self-made story. The drawback? You have to bury any public reference to your origins. You don't mourn publicly. You play the card of absolute independence. It's clean. It's potent. But it asks you to forget."
Xen's eyes narrowed. "Forget? How do I forget people I don't remember? Feels… easy."
"Not that kind of forget," Victor said quietly. "You'd be asked to withhold sentiment — no references, no interviews about lost family, nothing that tugs at the press's heartstrings. It's a performance. They want you to be the phoenix who rose from nothing."
The Fixer tapped his finger against the table. "Two: we put you through an immigration formalization route. You're processed through the system — an illegal-immigrant case that becomes legitimate. We stage a court hearing. The city gives you sponsorship, a neat narrative about the refugee who becomes a star, and City Hall might even pitch in with community support grants and PR. The payoff is public sympathy and official backing. The drawback is complexity: you'll be tagged, your identity will be scrutinized, and it's a political tool."
Xen let that sit. He'd never pictured citizenship as a commodity. In his world, papers were either forged or stolen. The idea that a city could trade in narratives — legal status as a PR stunt — smelled like something only Night City could do.
"You said the city helps?" Xen asked. "Why would they care about me?"
"Because of refugees," the Fixer said. He leaned forward, voice low enough to stop ears. "After the Unification War, the city is choked with displaced people. Some are war refugees moving in from the north, others are established gangs who took over places like Pacifica when it fell. The mayor's office — Lucius Rhymer, right now — wants to rehabilitate areas like Pacifica and show investors they're serious about rebuilding. That means resettlement initiatives, public-relations campaigns, and image control."
Victor added, "City Hall needs faces to attach their policies to. They'll back somebody who makes them look humane and competent. You could be the face of a program that helps integrate refugees into Night City — provided the story is right."
"So they want me to play charity," Xen said flatly. "Act the poor orphan, sign a sad-sack origin story, and they give me funds and legal status?"
The Fixer shrugged. "More or less. But it's not charity, kid. It's leverage. You get protection, funding, and legit papers. You play your part, and you get doors opened. The PR value is real — the city loves to wave a rescued child around when they need votes and investors."
Xen pictured the city's cameras, the uplifted hands, the headlines reading City Saves One More Soul. The fame felt strange, like a hand reaching down and grabbing his life. He wanted the papers. He wanted to stop watching his back when he slept. But he also wanted something unmarketed: a kernel of control.
"What do you think?" the Fixer asked.
Xen stared at his meal, the steam curling in neat spirals. He thought of the R&D system, of blueprints and forgings. He thought of the moment in the ring when Victor had raised his arm — borrowed victory — and the Fixer's eyes glittering with plans. He'd come here to survive, not to become a press puppet.
But survival in Night City often meant bargaining pieces of yourself.
"The orphan route," Xen said finally. "Make me feel like I built myself. If I can get the papers later, fine. But don't stage me like a refugee. I don't want some official sympathy show."
Victor's hand closed on Xen's shoulder. "You'll have to be cautious. The orphan myth is pretty — but people will pry. They'll want background. They'll push for the story's hard edges."
The Fixer nodded slowly. "It's doable. You'll trade away public grief. You get more creative freedom. We store the rest of your history, offline. No media mentions. But there's a catch: the sponsors like clean narratives, and politics likes a tidy face. If you want flexibility later, we'll need to renegotiate."
Xen thought about gratitude, about revenge, about the blank timeline that hummed in his head. He chose what he could live with.
"Fine," he said. "Make me the orphan. But I keep my memories. I don't want anyone deciding how I remember my past."
"That's brave," Victor said. "But it's also dangerous."
The Fixer smiled, half-promise, half-threat. "We'll draft the pact. Lawyers will do the paperwork, and we'll stage the napkin as the origin piece. We'll spin it into legend. You say the line, they buy the ticket."
They talked long into the night: strategist talk, legalese softened into plain speech. The Fixer laid out training schedules, sponsor timelines, and market strategies. Victor offered to vet trainers and keep an eye on Xen's technique. Xen drank the information in, learning that acceptance into the city's systems required barter — sometimes your silence, sometimes your posture, sometimes a little theater.
Before Xen left the restaurant, the Fixer folded the napkin back into its folder and gave it to him. "This is yours," he said. "Not because you own it, but because possession sells. Keep it in your pocket. It'll mean something to the cameras."
Xen slipped it into his jacket, the weight of paper and promises pressing against his ribs. Outside, Westbrook's lights glittered like promises he wasn't sure he trusted. He had a path, messy as it was. He had allies — ambiguous, profitable, necessary.
As they stepped back into Night City's air, Victor murmured, "Remember this: don't let them write your last line."
Xen looked up at the neon sky and smiled without humor. "Then I'll write it myself."