Chapter 11 — The Bad Boy's Last Free Time
"Victor, you seriously need a bodyguard. You're not the street kid from Watson anymore. Too many people want a cut of your luck."
Xen tugged the robber's belt tighter until the bindings bit into the man's wrists. He'd already stripped two crude prosthetic components from the kid's cyber-arm—cheap parts scabbed over with rust and hasty repairs—so the man couldn't get up and run even if he wanted to. It felt oddly efficient, like patching a leak that would otherwise sink a boat.
Victor dialed the Fixer without a second thought. This was business now, and business had its procedures.
"You called me first instead of NCPD? Smart move," the Fixer said over the line. "Good. I'll ping someone inside the precinct. PR will meet you there. Don't make it ugly—let them have the narrative."
The Fixer sent them a pin a few minutes later: a police station a little way from where the attempted carjacking had happened. The robber would be transported there. Xen and Victor would give statements. There would be cameras. There would be spin.
Victor shook his head once, a small guilty motion. "Sorry, kid. I didn't expect your last free night to end like this."
Xen grinned as he hoisted the twitching man toward the trunk. "Last free night? That's the point. If you're the bad boy, you gotta have one last authentic moment before corporate takes the mic."
Victor laughed despite himself. "Authentic, huh? You're getting dramatic."
Xen shoved the robber into the trunk and slammed it shut with a satisfying thud. Victor hopped into the passenger seat, hands already finding the handbrake. The old champion seemed lighter now—content to sit and watch the city churn.
"You worried about your license?" Victor asked with a grin when Xen climbed back into the driver's seat. "You're an illegal resident, remember."
Xen waved the concern off like it was a fly. "I don't exactly have a lot to prove to a clerk. Besides, you taught me how to handle a car."
Victor pretended offense. "Hey. vic taught you, not me."
They both laughed. Driving through the city felt like stealing the night. Xen slipped the car into traffic with practiced ease, cutting a lane here, nudging through a gap there. Victor clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's it—don't get soft."
As they rolled, the Fixer's PR team started to work the lines. A scriptwriter called and asked about tone, gestures, the slang of youthful gangs, and lighting for the photo ops. The Fixer wanted narrative currency: a few rehearsed moves, a catchphrase, a staged moment that would play well on every holo and news feed.
"Do you know how teen crews greet each other?" the writer asked, voice crackling with practiced energy. "We'll need to put a couple of lines into the interview. Keep it authentic, but not dangerous. Slide in one or two bits of slang—nothing that links you to actual gangs."
Xen frowned. "I don't even know what teen crews say."
"Then we'll coach you," the writer replied breezily. "Simple stuff—nods, slang, little gestures. You can learn it in an hour. It's not about reality; it's about texture."
Victor rolled his eyes at the phone theater. "Just don't make him look stupid."
Xen mouthed the writer's suggestions absently while he drove; the whole world felt like a rehearsal. He liked it and hated it at the same time.
By the time they reached the precinct near the city center, the station's front steps were already a chaos of lights and microphones. Two hulking humanoid tactical mechs—police hardware, silent and imposing—stood like statues at the entrance. If you didn't know the city, you'd think a small army was waiting for an event.
Reporters swarmed as they stepped out. Questions came in waves.
"Mr. Victor, your fans are worried—are you considering Arasaka security?"
"Mr. Victor, how did you subdue the suspect?"
"Can we get a statement on the city's safety?"
Xen moved through the crush like smoke, sidling to a mecha and peering up at it. Hardware like that had pedigree—military-grade frames repurposed for city enforcement. In the corner of his vision a holo flared:
> [Detected: Military Tech Drone MINOTAUR — Blueprint scan complete. +10,000 Research Points.]
Xen's heart gave a quick kick. Tech like that was knowledge gold—an entire arsenal of engineering and tactical schematics. Even if the code was locked behind corps, the sight of it sparked ideas: stabilization gyros, actuators, power cores. He logged the blueprint mentally, hungry.
"Xen!" Victor's voice cut through the moment. "Come on—don't go wandering."
Xen jogged back just as Victor and the officers pried open the trunk. The robber, tied and groggy, was dragged into the open like a prop in a bad movie. Camera drones swarmed closer, licking light. Xen felt the weight of the city's gaze: curiosity, hunger, the slow purr of commerce waking.
The officers cuffed the man and began the paperwork. A detective with tired eyes took statements, his face only half interested in the spectacle. The Fixer's contact inside the station ensured everything would be framed properly in the report; the PR department would have their footage coordinated with the official statements.
"Good job," the detective told Victor, as cameras recorded the line. "You two look sanitized. We'll make it clean—no messy headlines."
The media fed the feed in real time. Camera mics picked up Victor's even voice, measured and calm. Xen kept his head low but kept a watchful eye on the press. They were predators, all of them. Even the sympathetic reporters were predators.
After the formalities, the Fixer's people pulled Victor and Xen aside for staged interviews. The script was tight: heroism, humility, warnings about safety, praise for police effectiveness, a few lines about youth programs and community initiatives. Xen parroted the phrases like a man learning new speech for a role.
"Don't forget to say 'community' and 'support'," the writer whispered in his ear. "If you can sound grateful, we'll get the mayor to show up."
Xen nodded. He felt like an actor reading someone else's grief. He did it because he had to—because a paper napkin and a signature could buy the safety he needed.
When the cameras were off, and the reporters drifted away for the next hot lead, the Fixer tucked a business card into Xen's palm.
"Good work," he said, eyes calculating. "You handled that well. That trunk bit—cinematic. Victors stepping onto the streets. We'll use it."
Victor leaned in. "You were good. Fast, calm. That kick—nice work."
Xen shrugged. "Learned a few tricks on the streets. Don't mention it in interviews."
They started to walk away, but Xen's mind snagged on the Minotaur blueprint again. He'd seen military hardware before, but never with a scan so clean. If he could find a friendly garage, pull a few components, invest a handful of research points, who knew what he could prototype? The R&D system insulated him from immediate scarcity, but it also tugged the hunger in his ribs toward bigger prizes.
"Hey Victor," he asked casually as they headed for the car, "do you ever get tired of the cameras?"
Victor exhaled. "All the time. But you learn to use them. Make them point where you want. Use the noise to hide what you're actually doing."
Xen chewed on the idea like a nugget of metal. Use the noise. Hide in plain sight. The strategies that had saved him in alleys could be scaled up—applied to larger stages.
A junior reporter darted up one last time. "Victor, will you stay in Night City and help with the rebuilding plans? Will you be part of the Pacifica initiative?"
Victor glanced at Xen. "If it helps the kids, I'll show up. But don't expect miracle fixes. It's politics. It takes time."
The Fixer, ever the operator, listened and calculated. Newport towers and corporate lobbies spun threads across the city like invisible spiderwebs, and tonight they'd snag another fly.
When the night wound down and the cameras peeled away, Xen stood under the neon drizzle, the city humming around him. Victor clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You did good tonight, kid. Even the trunk looked heroic."
Xen laughed, a short, tired sound. "I'll take it. For now."
Victor tightened his grip. "One more thing. Keep your guard up. Fame brings friends and sharks. Learn to tell them apart."
Xen slipped the Fixer's card into his pocket like another talisman. The city was big, and his name was getting bigger. He'd uncovered the Minotaur blueprint, survived a carjacker, and walked through a crowd of reporters without falling apart. That counted for something.
As they drove away, Victor steering and Xen in the passenger seat this time, the city loomed like an industrial god—noisy, hungry, and full of opportunity. Each alley, each feed, each handshake was a vector. Xen breathed it in, the hum of opportunity filling his lungs.
He'd been a scavenger for survival, but now he was learning to navigate the machinery—using appearances, alliances, and small, surgical acts of violence when required. Night City taught fast and it taught hard. Xen had a long way to go. But tonight he had more than he'd had yesterday: a name, a contract napkin in someone's file, and a map of blueprints in his head.
He wasn't free yet. But the bad boy's last free night had ended on his terms—not with headlines, but with lessons. And in this city, lessons were everything.
For advanced chapter's ahead in our patreon
patreon.com/Thereator