Chapter 9 — Considerations for Creating a Personality
"Goodwill means you'll get face time with several city councilmen — but only if the plan actually goes through," the Fixer said, folding his hands like a man who loved contracts more than people.
They were in a quiet corner of a corporate lounge, away from the roar of the arena and the clinking of glasses. The Fixer liked places where deals smelled faintly of citrus and old money; they made lies taste honest. Victor sat across from Xen, watching him with a slow, appraising gaze. The champion had that look of a man who'd been forged by hard rounds and harder choices.
"Those councilmen show up at corporate galas and ribbon cuttings," the Fixer continued. "If you know the right people, you get whispers — construction bids, sponsorships, which promoters to avoid. Little pieces of inside information that look trivial on the surface, but in a pinch? They'll buy you a bed, a lawyer, or a blood bag."
Xen kept his expression neutral. He'd learned to hide his hunger behind a smirk. But inside, the gears were turning. In Night City, small data points were currency. A councilman's whispered preference could mean the difference between a safe sponsor and a backer who'd sell you out when the price was right.
"Don't underestimate that stuff," the Fixer added, lowering his voice. "You're not just fighting in the ring. You're stepping into politics, too. Titan Sports—well, we don't have Arasaka's pull—but we can nudge the right people if we look profitable enough."
Victor shifted in his seat. "It's not just profitability," he said. "Reputation matters. If we push you as a role model, you get access — schools, public service campaigns, ambassador slots. Public events cost them money, but the visibility's priceless."
The Fixer had already mapped it out: sponsorships, municipal ceremonies, charity matches, a string of staged goodwill moments that would glue Xen's face to the public mind. Each event fed the next. The city would reward the narrative with resources, and the corporations would buy—well—everything else.
"Of course," the Fixer said, watching Xen's reaction. "If you fall into scandal—if you get caught on the wrong side of a table or a camera—City Hall will sometimes move to cover for you. But don't kid yourself; nothing stays hidden forever. Hackers and disgruntled ex-employees sell dirty secrets for naked credits. Sometimes you can buy the silence. Sometimes you can't."
He offered an illustration that tasted like old money and worse decisions. "A food conglomerate once discovered a tainted batch. Calculations showed compensation was far cheaper than a recall. The PR team bought up every exclusive story and buried it. The public never knew. That's how the game is played."
Xen absorbed the anecdote as if it were a lesson from a teacher who'd loved the wrong things. "I hear you," he said. "I won't do anything stupid."
The Fixer's smile was a professional thing. "Smart people still get sloppy. You'll be around money, easy credit, and fans who smell opportunity on you. We protect talent — but protection costs. That's why you need allies in the right seats."
---
The Fixer leaned forward, changing tactics. "Now, sponsorships. Councilmen adore philanthropy. They'll fund scholarships, sponsor training halls, pay medical bills. All of it makes you look noble, and the middle class eats that kind of story for breakfast."
Xen blinked. He knew his handwriting was a mess—scrawl from years of passing notes on the wrong side of a city. But the Fixer wasn't after his penmanship. He wanted a brand that could be polished and sold to people who liked to believe in second chances.
"If you climb to national-level recognition," the Fixer said, "you'll be rubbing elbows with the Secretary of Education and Sports in the NUSA. That's a big stage. But to get there, you need a persona that works in polite company. A kid from the streets who reads and can give a speech at a fund-raiser is ten times more useful than a kid who curses in every interview."
Victor, who had fought long enough to respect a tough life, added softly, "We can't have fans asking whether you know anything beyond the ring. A public image needs layers — humility, education, and authenticity. It's a crafted thing, not a lie."
The Fixer tapped a holosheet. "We'll get you tutors. Private instructors, placement programs, scripted interviews. We can fast-track a diploma if needed. Your past is malleable — but it has to be credible."
"Fast-track a diploma?" Xen echoed. "You mean fake my papers?"
"Not fake," the Fixer corrected. "Optimized. Home study, private tutors, supervised exams. We give you the structure; you provide the performance. If you play it right, you get the degree, the speeches, the boardroom invites."
Xen considered it. He'd always been suspicious of institutions. Schools had been places where the lucky learned the rules of the world. Now they were tools—ways to move from street to stage. There was a strategic beauty to it, a leverage he could use to buy more blueprints, more access, more R&D points.
"And if the public peels the onion?" he asked. "If someone digs up my old alley friends?"
The Fixer shrugged. "Every narrative has tuck points. We write contingencies. The PR team feeds counter-narratives. They pay off certain journalists, or they launch competing stories to drown the others. Politics is messy; we'll use the mess."
Victor's voice was gentler. "Look — school could actually do you good. It'll teach strategy. Discipline. Tools for when muscle and reflex aren't enough."
Xen looked at the two men across from him and felt the weight of choice. The Fixer sold opportunity. Victor offered mentorship. Night City offered both love and ledger. He had to pick what to barter for his future.
---
"And what about this 'friend clean-up' you mentioned earlier?" Xen asked. He knew the Fixer expected him to have loose ends—people who might not fit into a polished narrative.
"You don't want old ties blowing up your whole arc," the Fixer said bluntly. "We can manage them: relocation, sliding them some credits to disappear, or—if they're a liability—pay for 'rehabilitation.' We do what we must."
Xen felt a prickle. In his old life, friends were scarce and solid; they were the people who wouldn't let you vanish without a fight. But here, friends were liabilities, potential PR bombs.
"I don't have anyone," Xen lied easily. The lie was small and clean. The Fixer nodded, as if he had expected that.
"Good," the Fixer said. "Less baggage. We'll script your past, get you into a respected high school program, and set you up with a university recommendation down the line. We'll bolster your image with community appearances and a few staged street rescues. By the time the Pacifica campaign rolls out, you'll be someone they want to save."
Xen could already see the threads: training montages, tearful testimonials, a mayor's handshake on live holo. He could see his face on bus shelters and corporate holo-boards. He could also see the price tags.
"What's the real cost?" Xen asked. "Not the money. The other cost."
The Fixer's smile thinned for a second. "You trade spontaneity for longevity. You trade anger for controlled anger. You'll be the product we all sell. The city will love you while you're useful. If you stop being useful, they'll put you on a museum wall. If you betray them? They'll sell the story of your fall."
Victor reached across the table and put a firm hand on Xen's shoulder. "Do this for the right reasons. Learn to control the narrative. Don't let them control your heartbeat."
Xen's jaw tightened. He wanted to be the author of his fate. He wanted to use the Fixer's ladder to climb and then kick it away. But he also knew ladders were hard to climb without losing fingers.
"Alright," he said slowly. "I'll take the tutoring. I'll get a diploma. I'll let them train my public face. But no permanent strings. And if anyone tries to rewrite my memories—no. I keep what I remember."
The Fixer's eyes flicked to Victor, then back to Xen. "You'll have to sign for structure, kid. Contracts do tie hands. But we can limit them." He tapped his comms chip. "I'll have legal draw up the home-school program and the outline for Night City University admissions. We'll start PR training next week."
Victor nodded once. "I'll help scout the school trainers. And I'll be around for sparring. Don't let the fame hollow you out."
Xen felt both fear and relief settling into his bones. He had negotiated terms with a city that ate the naive for breakfast. He'd chosen a path that traded a little freedom for a lot of protection.
"Good," the Fixer said, smiling like a man who'd already banked his margin. "We'll make you legible for the right people. We'll turn your scrawl into a signature that commands respect."
Outside, the city hummed — neon arteries pumping a future Xen was only beginning to touch. He folded the napkin contract he'd signed into his pocket, the paper's edge a small, quiet weight against his ribs. It felt like both a promise and a chain.
He walked out into the neon and noise with Victor at his side and the Fixer already dialing the first of many calls. Xen breathed the city air, tasting opportunity and risk in equal measure.
"Just one thing," Xen said as they reached the curb. "If I play the prodigal son—you get me the papers. No staged deportations or fake court dates that end in more strings. I want the real deal."
The Fixer looked at him long enough to weigh the risk of honesty. "We'll get you legitimate status," he promised. "But everything worth getting in Night City costs. Be ready to pay in ways that aren't always numbers."
Xen nodded. "Then I'll pay. In ways I control."
Victor grinned, a flash of white teeth under the neon. "That's the spirit. Let them sell the dream. You'll be the one who decides what the dream pays for."
They melted into the crowd — champion, fixer, and street kid turned actor — each carrying different maps of the same city. Xen's map had the faintest ink stain where his past had been. He'd keep the stain in his pocket like a talisman: a reminder that whatever they polished, he still had something real to hold.