Chapter 12 — A Brave and Righteous Citizen?
The morning after the robbery, the NCPD building smelled of disinfectant, recycled air, and bureaucracy. Xen sat in an interrogation room that looked like it had been repainted a hundred times and cleaned exactly once. Across from him sat Victor, calm as a statue, while their corporate lawyer hovered nearby — an expensive man in an even more expensive suit.
Since the case involved an armed robbery, the pistol couldn't be avoided as evidence. That was the problem.
"So," the officer began, flipping through his notepad, "the weapon. The gun used by the suspect. Where is it now?"
Xen frowned like a guilty schoolkid caught copying test answers. "After I turned off the safety, I got busy helping Victor tie the guy up. I... I don't actually remember where I put it."
Of course, that was a lie. Xen had already absorbed the pistol into his system's blueprint database and dismantled it for raw material. In Night City, carrying a weapon wasn't an accessory — it was survival.
And when your weapon existed beyond the laws of recorded evidence, that was as close to perfection as you could get.
The officer gave him a bored look and shrugged. "No need to bother. We'll take care of it."
He scribbled something in the report and looked toward the lawyer, who nodded in silent approval. The city's wheels turned smoother when everyone agreed to pretend.
"With this much press attention, we can't leave gaps in the chain of evidence," the officer muttered to himself, waving a colleague over. "Hey, bring something from the vault. Something that looks good on camera."
A few minutes later, another officer returned, carrying an evidence bag. Inside was a random pistol, tagged and cataloged with a fresh barcode. The officer tore the old label off, scribbled a new number, and slid the bag across the table.
"Remember this one, gentlemen," he said. "That's the gun the robber used. Got it?"
He winked. "Don't worry, we'll get the suspect's prints on it later. Everyone's happy. Clean paperwork, clean story."
Victor chuckled softly and signed where he was told. Xen followed suit, pretending to read the document like he understood every line.
---
Afterward, they were escorted to a small visitors' lounge where the Fixer was waiting, chatting with the precinct chief like they were old drinking buddies. The man wore his trademark smirk — the kind that said every bad thing that just happened was actually a profitable opportunity in disguise.
"Victor, you're too careless," the Fixer said, greeting them with a clap on the back. "You can't keep walking around without protection. The city loves you, sure — but some people love your wallet more."
He turned his attention to Xen. "Still, this turned out nicely. I've spoken with the precinct chief. We'll be holding a press conference right here in the station. Great backdrop — police banners, the whole civic hero thing. Perfect PR."
Xen raised an eyebrow. "A press conference? Already?"
"Timing, my boy," the Fixer said, eyes gleaming. "When blood's still warm and the lights are still flashing, that's when the public listens. You'll stand next to Victor, tell your version of the story, flash that rebellious smirk, and let the cameras do the rest."
He straightened his tie, tone shifting from charm to command. "Victor, in exchange, you'll film a safety PSA for the precinct. It's a win-win. The city gets its brave citizen poster boys, and you two get sympathy, airtime, and leverage."
Then he turned to Xen again, lowering his voice. "I read the script PR gave you. Stick to it. Mention the 'Boys' Gang' slang casually — just enough to hint at your rough upbringing. If the reporters don't bite, we'll plant a question for them. It'll help build your mystique."
A mysterious street kid with a murky past, helping Night City's boxing champion fend off a criminal — the Fixer could already smell the headlines.
"The key," he said, tapping his temple, "is to stay calm. Treat those reporters like rookies in the ring. Smile when they swing, and counterpunch when they overextend."
Xen almost laughed. If only he knew I've done this dance before — just with internet mobs instead of journalists.
---
By the time they stepped onto the stage — a half-lit corner of the precinct now crowded with cameras — Xen was ready.
The first reporter asked the expected question.
"As soon as I saw Mr. Victor being threatened by that gun," Xen began, deliberately using the street nickname bean shooter, "I knew something was off. My brain just said: how dare that bastard pull something like that on us."
His voice carried a mix of defiance and nervous charm, and the room ate it up. The reporters loved attitude — especially when it came in a clean package under good lighting.
He gestured animatedly, hands slicing through the air like he was narrating a fight. "Next thing I know, he turns around, and bam — Victor sends him flying. I swear, he went two or three meters. Never seen someone move like that in real life."
The cameras clicked faster. Xen felt like a performer again, and he leaned into it.
Then came the trap question — planted, as expected.
"Xen, right?" asked a reporter in a sharp blue jacket. "We noticed you used a lot of street slang — words associated with the Boys Gang. Is that just imitation, or do you have personal history with them?"
The Fixer's cue. Xen paused, letting silence stretch just long enough to become tension.
Then he looked away from the microphone, jaw tightening, expression unreadable.
Sometimes, mystery did more work than a lie ever could.
Before anyone could push further, Victor smoothly took the mic. "Everyone's got a past they don't like to talk about. Let's not pry into the kid's. Today's his first day on the job — don't make it his last."
Laughter rippled through the room — polite, but warm. Victor had the aura of a man who could command attention just by being tired of it.
"Any other questions?" he added lightly. "Because the ring doesn't wait, and neither do press schedules."
And just like that, the dangerous question evaporated. The Fixer gave a subtle nod from the sidelines. The trap had been defused — and the myth was now alive.
---
After the cameras stopped flashing, the Fixer pulled them aside, grin wide. "You were brilliant. Natural delivery, great posture, and that silent look — chef's kiss. I've seen seasoned athletes crack under half that pressure."
Victor chuckled. "You should've seen me my first time on camera. Pale as a corpse."
"You still look half-dead," the Fixer teased, earning an eye roll.
He turned to Xen. "Good work, kid. I've got even better news. The precinct's deputy director wants to award you both an honorary title — Good Citizens Acting Bravely. You'll get a certificate, a handshake, and a small bonus."
"How small?" Xen asked warily.
"Combined total, about a thousand eddies," the Fixer admitted. "I take my forty percent, naturally."
Victor smirked. "Four hundred left. Not enough to pay for lunch, but hey — income's income."
Xen let out a small laugh. "A 'Good Citizen' award for a fake identity. Guess I'm officially a model immigrant."
"Enjoy the irony while it lasts," the Fixer said. "PR's analysis shows that while civilians love a 'prodigal son made good,' the gangs see things differently. They'll start sniffing around soon. Some might even want to test that title you just earned."
The room's humor dimmed slightly. Victor frowned. "You think they'll come after him?"
The Fixer shrugged. "In Night City, stories move faster than bullets. People don't care what's real — they care about what sounds real. And right now, our kid here sounds like a snitch turned poster boy. That's dangerous currency."
Xen leaned back, trying to act the part of the nervous rookie. "So what do I do, Mr. Fixer? Lao Wei — any advice?"
Victor gave him a reassuring pat. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out. You did good today."
The Fixer grinned, clearly pleased to have the conversation steering exactly where he wanted. "Well, there's a simple way to fix your little image problem — and to make sure it never happens again."
He spread his hands like a magician about to reveal a trick.
"Sign a proper contract with me," he said smoothly. "Full management, public image control, crisis response — the works. Let me handle the dirty parts, while you focus on being Night City's next big story."
Xen watched him, half amused, half wary. The man's smile was polished chrome, beautiful and dangerous.
The Fixer wasn't just offering protection. He was offering ownership.
Still, Xen smiled back, eyes glinting. "You make it sound like I'm selling my soul."
The Fixer's grin widened. "Kid, this is Night City. That's just the first down payment."