Chapter 13 — I Can't Afford to Pay No Matter How Much
They all sat at the same table when the contract was finally laid out — the Fixer in his neat suit, Victor with the quiet gravity of a champion, and Xen with the raw edge of someone who knew how to survive. Joking had been the prelude; now it was time for signatures.
"Isn't this penalty clause a little extreme?" Victor asked, studying the page with a frown. He wasn't opposed to the money or the schedule; he understood the game. The split was fair, the training plan solid, and the ethical clauses sensible. But the liquidated-damages figure made him pause.
The Fixer smiled, the kind of smile that always had a business rationale behind it. "Five million may look steep," he said. "But it's a guarantee for the people we're putting at risk. We're investing serious capital — image campaigns, training, legal cover, travel. This clause protects that investment."
Victor nodded slowly — exactly what the Fixer wanted. Champion approval was worth more than any spiel the Fixer could make. A nod from Victor reassured potential backers; it was a signal that the product was legitimate.
"Young fighters burn hot," the Fixer continued. "They're impulsive. This penalty keeps you honest. It's mutual: we don't want executives using you as a publicity lab experiment either. If anyone abuses you, the clause works both ways."
Xen read the contract line by line, his brow furrowed. He could see the legal craftsmanship — lean sentences stitched into a steel mesh of clauses. Still, one paragraph snagged him.
"What's this bit about prosthetics?" he asked. "It says no performance-enhancing prosthetics, no implants that alter competitive ability. Does that mean I can't get network pods or life-support augmentation either?"
The Fixer leaned back, indulgent. "Ring rules keep the ring honest. You can have practical prosthetics — a finger replacement, a medical brace — but not competitive augmentations. No powered knuckles, no integrated accelerators. Victor established that principle years ago, and now it's part of the brand."
Victor's voice warmed. "I pushed for it. Boxing should be a test of body and will, not who's fresher in the lab. It's part of what made people believe in the sport again."
The clause did more than preserve a sport ideal; it was a marketable purity. Fans loved the idea of flesh against flesh. Corporations loved predictable rules. For Xen, the clause was safety disguised as a straightjacket — but it was a straightjacket with a visible key.
He thought of the late-game world he'd known; he remembered black-market matches where chips controlled muscle, and fighters were puppets to the highest bidder. He didn't want that. The clause would prevent corporate execs from turning him into a walking ad or worse — a remote-controlled performer.
Still, the penalty number made his stomach tighten.
"Could you—" Xen started, cautious, "add another zero? Make it even more—more emphatic? It would show you're serious."
The table went quiet. Victor's eyebrows rose. The Fixer's amused smile froze.
"Why?" the Fixer asked. "You can't possibly afford it."
Xen's answer came out honest and almost soft. "That's the point. If the penalty is astronomical, it constrains everyone. It stops them from treating me like collateral. It's not about me paying — it's about them thinking twice."
Victor watched him for a long second, then let out a small laugh. "You're trying to make them too afraid to touch you."
The Fixer considered the idea, fingers tapping the digital pad where the contract glowed. "A larger clause makes the company sweat. It's theatrical. But it's also a tool. If we set the number high enough, it becomes an effective leash."
He swiped, and the figure on the screen changed. An extra zero appeared like a sting. "Fifty million," he said, and the contract re-rendered on the tablet. Xen watched the number blink in neon-blue type, a line of digits that could buy a small island or sink an agency.
"Now you've got something that actually bites," the Fixer said. "That will make certain people sleep badly."
Victor grinned, a hero's easy smirk. "Good. If you're going to be the face of a city, make it hurt to abuse you."
Xen exhaled. In his chest, the R&D hum seemed to quiet. The clause was a paradox: a shackle and a shield. He knew he wouldn't be able to pay it — not really. But its existence would scare off a lot of predators. It was a bargaining chip disguised as punishment.
They signed.
The Fixer and Xen inked, Victor supplied his witness signature, and the agency lawyer stamped and sealed. The contract would live in corporate servers and a vault; the napkin gambit had become something formal, heavy as metal.
When the paperwork was done, the Fixer, never one to miss a moment, produced a chilled bottle of champagne. He popped the cork with theatrical efficiency and poured the first glasses.
"For a new era," he declared, raising his glass. "To the kid who will carry the torch — and to the people brave enough to sponsor him."
Xen accepted a glass, feeling the fizz slide down his throat like a cold promise. Around him, the Fixer chatted about plans: city-wide exhibitions, charity shows, a training tour through Night City's districts. He spoke in marketable phrases — "visibility acquisition," "audience retention," "brand monetization." Xen listened, letting the music of the plan drift around him.
Victor clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll be careful," he said. "You'll train harder, learn to talk to cameras, and we'll keep you honest. That's my part."
"And my part?" the Fixer added, eyes bright with calculation. "I'll turn this into revenue and protection. My cut keeps you safe and media-hyped. You won't like every decision, but you'll be fed, patched, and put in press rooms that matter."
Xen raised his cup, thoughts sharp. He'd traded the dark alley for a gilded cage — and then negotiated the size of the bars. He wasn't naïve enough to think the Fixer would never pull the strings; he knew every handshake in this city had a set of invoices attached. But the clause made the invoice terrifying enough that few would write it.
"Deal," Xen said finally, and his voice sounded steadier than he felt.
As they celebrated, a sense of vertigo crept in — not of celebration, but of realization. He had bought an arc: the prodigal boy, rescued by the champion, polished by PR, legitimized by a city that bought stories. In return, he'd hand over a portion of himself to a machine that turned trauma into headlines.
The champagne tasted like future debt. Xen let the bubbles slide down and smiled, a practiced gesture that might one day become real.
Outside, Night City pulsed in neon. Inside, the contract glowed like a promise and, perhaps, like a threat. Xen folded his hands on the table, feeling the paper's edge under his fingers — a small, hard truth he could carry in his pocket, the first real thing he owned in this life.
"Keep it," the Fixer said, sliding a copy across. "It's yours to hold."
Xen pocketed the document. He'd already learned how to survive. Now he had to learn how to thrive without losing the part of himself that refused to be sold.
For a long moment they sat there, clinking glasses in a room that smelled of expensive cork and colder calculations. The city hummed beyond the glass, infinite and hungry. Xen had signed his name to a future he didn't fully trust — but he'd signed it on his own terms.
And in Night City, that was the only kind of leverage that mattered.
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