Chapter 8 — Good News
"What kind of details?" Xen asked, trying to sound indifferent.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, spoon still in hand. Despite his interest in anything that involved Night City's politics, he couldn't afford to look too sharp — not in front of the Fixer. A street punk wasn't supposed to care about politics. He was supposed to care about fame, food, and fighting.
So he spooned up some stew instead, keeping his act perfect.
"Put the spoon down first," the Fixer said, smirking. "I'm afraid you might choke when you hear this."
That one line revealed everything about the man — manipulative, charming, always half-joking but never without purpose. Xen obeyed, setting his spoon down and wiping his mouth on the napkin beneath his plate.
Only then did the Fixer begin to talk.
"As a street kid, you probably already know what the Haitian refugees are like," he began. "Always raving about the end of the world, muttering about gods in machines, talking to ghosts in the Net. They're a lost cause — but a convenient one."
Xen didn't react. He knew better than to challenge a man who profited from prejudice. But inside, his thoughts churned.
The Haitians — he remembered them. Not from this world, but from the Cyberpunk 2077 he'd played before transmigrating. They were the Voodoo Boys, a gang that treated cyberspace like religion. They whispered about rogue AIs beyond the Blackwall — entities so powerful that they could crush human minds like paper.
The Voodoo Boys believed the future belonged to those machines, and they wanted to be first in line to serve them.
Ironically, the AIs they worshipped eventually fried their brains in the digital void.
"Yeah," Xen said carefully, playing along. "They're crazy. You can't talk sense into zealots. That's why Pacifica's a wasteland."
The Fixer gave a knowing smile, misreading the remark as agreement.
"Exactly," he said. "And that's where things get interesting."
---
The Fixer leaned forward, his expensive wrist augment glinting under the light. "You see, not everyone in City Hall agrees with how the mayor is handling Pacifica. Some of the council members think it's a mistake to lump in the honest war refugees with the Haitian extremists. They're forming alliances with several corporations to propose a new policy."
"Corporations?" Xen asked. "What kind of alliances?"
"The kind that rebuild cities," the Fixer said smoothly. "Before the war, Pacifica was supposed to be Night City's crown jewel — a luxury resort district. Militech, Arasaka, and a dozen other megacorps poured money into it. When the war hit, construction stopped, investors panicked, and everything went to hell. Now the corps want their investments back. They've been lobbying City Hall hard to reclassify refugees as a legal labor force."
Xen stirred the thought around like the remnants of his stew. "So… City Hall gives them papers if they work construction?"
"Exactly," the Fixer replied. "It's simple and efficient. The corporations get cheap labor, City Hall gets political credit, and the refugees get to 'earn' temporary status. After the project's done, they can either renew their contracts or apply for permanent residency — assuming they're still alive by then."
The Fixer's tone was too casual for the weight of what he was saying. To him, it wasn't a moral question. It was logistics.
He took a slow sip of wine. "Once this policy is officially announced, you will be the first to benefit from it. You'll be the poster boy — the example that makes it all look righteous."
Xen blinked. "Wait. Me?"
"Yes," the Fixer said, smiling with a kind of oily warmth. "Don't worry, you won't be sent to break concrete on a real construction site. We'll handle the narrative. You're not labor; you're living proof that the system works. The prodigal son redeemed through civic grace."
The way he said it made Xen's stomach twist. He wasn't a man — he was a billboard.
---
Victor, who had been quietly sipping his drink beside them, finally spoke. "Pacifica needs rebuilding, sure. But I don't like the idea of turning people into mascots."
The Fixer waved the concern away. "It's just PR. Everyone wins. You get to train the next generation of boxers while the city fixes its image problem. And our boy here—" he gestured at Xen "—gets his legal status wrapped up neatly in a golden ribbon."
Victor frowned, but didn't argue further. The Fixer, pleased, pressed on.
"To sell this story, we'll need attention — real, city-wide buzz. Fame, recognition, coverage. Your last match in Watson got decent numbers, but it's not enough. We'll expand the selection event to the entire city."
"Another tournament?" Xen asked.
"Not just another," the Fixer corrected, "the tournament. Every major district — Westbrook, Heywood, Santo Domingo, Pacifica, Watson, and even the City Center — will host preliminary fights. You'll travel, compete, dominate. By the end, Night City will know your name."
Victor's expression softened, his excitement returning. "That's… actually not bad. I've always wanted a city-wide scouting event. A way to find talent outside the usual circuits."
The Fixer grinned. "See? Dreams can be monetized."
He looked at Xen again. "You'll be the wall they have to climb. Every young fighter who wants to join Goliath Sports will need to beat you first. Think of it as… brand synergy."
Xen couldn't help but laugh under his breath. "So I'm the boss fight?"
"Exactly!" the Fixer said, pointing his fork. "But don't worry. The process will be designed for maximum media engagement — pacing, rival arcs, personality clashes. You'll crush them all, but we'll make it look earned. It's sports entertainment, kid. We sell the illusion of struggle."
---
As the conversation carried on, Xen kept nodding at the right times, but his mind ran elsewhere.
The Fixer's plan was brilliant — and terrifying.
He wasn't building a boxing career; he was building a narrative ecosystem.
Xen would be the face of reform, the living embodiment of redemption.
Every punch he threw would become propaganda.
And if he failed? If he lost?
The story would just shift — the fallen hero, the disappointment, the lesson. Either way, the Fixer would profit.
Xen's fingers tightened around his glass. "You said this policy comes with 'goodwill and funding' from City Hall. What's the catch?"
The Fixer raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Sharp question. There's always a catch. City Hall's goodwill comes with visibility. You'll be expected to show up at charity events, fundraisers, maybe record a few hollow messages about 'unity' and 'hope.' You'll cry for the cameras if they tell you to."
"Cry?" Xen smirked. "I don't even remember the last time I slept without one eye open."
Victor chuckled. "Welcome to show business."
The Fixer leaned in again, lowering his voice. "The funding's the real prize. The mayor's office will cover your training facilities, medical expenses, and publicity. In return, you're their face. They get to say, 'Look, we turned a street rat into a champion.' Meanwhile, I get to build your brand into something worth selling."
"And I get…?" Xen asked.
The Fixer's grin sharpened. "Freedom. Legitimacy. You'll have your papers, your income, your fame. You'll stop running and start living like someone who belongs here."
That word — belong — hit harder than Xen expected. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he could actually build something in this world without being hunted by it.
But Night City didn't deal in belonging. It dealt in ownership.
---
"So," Xen said finally, voice calm, "you use me to sell City Hall's refugee plan. You make Victor's dream tournament look like a miracle comeback story. You get corporate sponsorships. And I get… a clean name and a spotlight."
"Precisely," the Fixer said, lifting his glass. "To mutual benefit."
"And when it's all over?" Xen asked, eyes narrowing. "When the story's old news?"
The Fixer's smile thinned. "Then you find another story to star in."
The silence stretched. Victor broke it with a quiet laugh. "You're too honest for your own good, Fixer."
"I'm just realistic," the Fixer said. "Honesty's part of my charm."
Xen pushed his empty plate aside and rose from his chair. "Fine. I'll play along. I'll fight whoever you throw at me, I'll smile for the cameras, and I'll make your little redemption arc look like gold. But when this is over, I walk my own path. No contracts. No napkins. No strings."
The Fixer's grin didn't waver. "We'll see, kid. Night City has a way of tying knots you don't notice until they're cutting off circulation."
Xen turned to Victor. "Guess I better start training for this 'city-wide redemption.' Sounds like it's gonna be a long tour."
Victor clapped him on the shoulder, the heavy, reassuring kind of pat that could crack ribs if meant differently. "You'll handle it. Just remember — don't let the fame punch harder than your opponent."
Xen smirked. "Good advice, old man."
---
As they left the restaurant, the Fixer stayed behind for a moment, watching through the tinted window as Xen and Victor disappeared into the buzzing glow of Westbrook's nightlife.
He tapped his comm implant, linking into a secure corporate line. "Yeah," he said quietly. "The kid's in. Start drafting the Pacifica campaign. I want his first public fight in three weeks — full sponsorship coverage. And tell PR to rewrite his family history. Make it tragic, make it poetic, but keep it clean."
He paused, smiling faintly. "Oh, and one more thing — get City Hall on standby. When the boy wins, I want the mayor himself shaking his hand. We're selling salvation this quarter."
The call ended with a soft click.
Outside, Neon City pulsed, hungry for the next spectacle.
And Xen, unknowingly walking into its light, had already become its next product.