404: Doom Not Found

- 11 years before canon -

V sat hunched over the rigged terminal, her legs pulled up onto the cracked leather seat of the arcade booth, chewing on a neon-colored cable sleeve as the encryption cipher crawled across the screen.

The room smelled faintly of ozone, copper, and stale cola — all soaked into the bones of the old place. The room had been cleaned and refashioned to suit the monarch's taste. 

Victor stood behind her, arms folded, face lit dimly by the light of a jury-rigged monitor. He said nothing. Just listened.

The two had spent the last day or so attempting to contact the original buyers, the threat of leaking the shard to the public circulating quietly. 

Old channels were opening up, and V, the ever-so-persistent, managed to lock onto a faint signal seeking the case's whereabouts. 

Careful not to leak their location, they eventually came across the original buyers, the chat logs and code words parallel with what was held within her database.

Doom had not just sent V money but also her chat logs and network of connections, including the spoofed connection from the original contractors. 

The signal was weak, spliced through three proxies and rerouted twice through the old Netrunner safe zones along the abandoned fibre lines in Kabuki. But it held.

A voice crackled in — synthetic-sounding, but real enough.

"You're not what we expected. You're crusade has left many eyes. We wished for a more discreet approach," the voice expressed dimly.

"And we weren't expecting three solo's up our asses but here we are." V blasted.

A pause.

"You're attitude will be your downfall. We will not be doing business again," The voice threatened before changing the subject. "Do you have the package?"

Victor glanced at her. She nodded slightly and tapped a key. A falsified hash verification blinked into view — just enough to convince the caller.

"...That's it. Good. You've saved us all a lot of time."

Victor leaned in, barely whispering: "Stall him."

V gave a short nod.

"Problem is," she said, cocking her head, "I don't work for free. And I don't run blind. Who the hell are you, and why do you care so much about a busted logistics shard?"

Another pause. The silence dragged — uncomfortable, like dead air on a cheap braindance track.

"That information isn't relevant. What matters is that you deliver the case — intact — to the location I'll provide. Watson. Three hours. Alone."

V frowned. "That's a long leash for someone who won't even drop a name."

Victor's eyes narrowed. He stepped slightly closer, arms still folded.

"You'll be compensated. Handsomely. Don't make the mistake of testing our patience."

"Already tested it. Still standing," V said, biting back a grin.

Victor reached forward, muting her mic for a second.

"Accept their terms," he said simply. "We shall leak the necessary information. Midnight's crew will no doubt rear their heads. Draw them in."

"You think they'll bite?" she asked under her breath.

"They've lost control of the situation," he murmured. "Desperate dogs take desperate bait."

She tapped her fingers on the console, then unmuted. "Fine. Three hours. Send the coordinates."

"They're already in your cache. Don't be late."

The signal cut.

A flicker of static blinked across the screen, then the rig shut down automatically, as if whoever was on the other end didn't want to leave any chance for backtrace.

V leaned back and exhaled.

"Well. That was charming."

Victor tapped a key, pulling up the data packet. Coordinates. No name. No promise of safety.

He looked at her, dead-eyed. "You're not going alone."

V snorted. "Wasn't planning to. Figured you'd wanna hide in the rafters or something, all dramatic."

"I'll do more than that," he muttered, walking toward his desk. "We need to set the board before they arrive."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a folded schematic — an aerial map of the meeting site. Abandoned scrapyard along the edge of Watson, long since stripped of anything useful. Dirt paths. Cargo crates. Gutted husks of trucks. Perfect for a trap. 

"I'm surprised at how bold they are in not changing the drop sight."

"Still water leads to stagnation. The rulers of this city have gotten used to playing by their rules. Let them."

Victor unrolled it on the table, tapping points with precision.

"They'll come from here," he said, pointing toward the elevated access ramp. "Their sniper Jäger will likely take the high ground. Mother Midnight will keep to cover, avoiding any direct point of precision, but remaining close to the sight. Ruckus? The brute will no doubt charge straight in."

"You sure about that?"

"Facts rule certainty. " Victor boldly claimed, eyes scanning the layout. "They've shown their tactics. Predictable when pressured, they no longer have the initiative."

"What of the enemy Netrunner? What makes you so sure she's going to be nearby?" 

"If what you claim is true from the net, then no doubt our recent movements have led to Netwatch and Corporate-affiliated Netrunners to circulate. Remaining within the net and afar will make her stronger, but also an easier target. She'll remain in Night City but from a distance."

He stepped back and looked toward the door, the last threads of early dusk bleeding through the cracks.

"I see... I guess you got a point." 

"We let them think they're intercepting the case," he continued. "Then we isolate. Take the netrunner out of the equation."

He didn't answer.

Instead, he clicked his jaw once dry, mechanical sound, and tapped the reinforced lining of his coat.

"If by 'murder-hobo' you mean eliminating threats while lacking a permanent residence, then yes, perhaps I am overdue."

V stood smiling, grabbing her combat jacket off the chair. "Well… guess it's a party then."

Victor gave her a final glance before stepping toward the rear exit.

"Three hours. Get ready."

Two and a half hours later, Watson was drowning in twilight.

The scrapyard stood silent in the fading light — a desolate graveyard of old world industry. Towering cranes frozen mid-motion.

Steel containers rusted through like termite-infested coffins. Crows loitered above the debris, keeping watch like feathered sentinels.

Victor crouched atop one of the gutted truck shells, his coat stiff with sand and sweat. The wind nipped at his burnt cheek as he adjusted the micro-camera he'd set along the rusted lattice.

Beneath his gloved fingers, the remnant warmth of the thermite core hummed faintly.

He'd been laying traps for the last hour — carefully placed sensors, rigged explosives, signal jammers, and high-voltage arc wires woven through the skeletons of scrap. The area was a kill box. Not flawless, but enough to buy him options.

A ping came through the comms.

"Ey. You in position?" V's voice crackled in his ear. She was wired into the surveillance feed, hidden across the street in the abandoned loading dock, tapping into one of the old Corpo antennas. "You look like a pissed off gargoyle from here."

"I'm in," he replied, adjusting his stance. "Any signs of their arrival?"

"Not yet. But I'm bouncing a spoof ping through the local net. Gave it just enough signature to mimic the shard's signal."

Victor allowed himself a faint smile. "Good."

"Yeah, well. I've also masked my own trace so it doesn't lead back to us. Just in case they've got backdoor eyes."

"They will."

"Figures."

He paused. "If anything happens—"

"—Don't start, grandpa. I'm not here for a heart-to-heart."

Silence fell between them for a beat.

Victor continued checking his gear—pistol loaded with armour-piercing rounds, the backup sidearm fitted with a custom suppressor.

The thermite bomb — smaller than the last — was concealed beneath the cab of an old delivery drone, dead but still mounted on its track. His gloves pulsed quietly, the high-voltage capacitors recharged and ready.

Another was placed within the case. 

His breathing had slowed. His body was still aching, the gel he'd applied to his shoulder and ribs still doing its work. But the pain didn't matter. He had something to finish.

The two were positioned awkwardly afar, V remaining close

"V," he said at last.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for remaining." 

"Didn't do it for you," she said quickly. "Just… didn't want to owe you another one."

Victor allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. Fair enough.

"Got visual," V murmured suddenly.

He stiffened. "Where?"

"East side, they're easing in," V murmured. "First car just coasted in from the west. Tinted windows, no lights. Corpo-style. Big money."

"They'll sweep before committing. Standard playbook."

Victor flicked through his overlays—thermal, motion, and comm intercept. Still only two heat signatures in range: his own, and V's ping, masked and scrubbed. If MM was riding a new drone net, it was silent. More likely, she was just being cautious.

He checked the countdown on the trip sensors. Fingers danced over his wrist rig. Then he patched into V's line.

"Stay locked. Monitor all three bands. When MM shows—flag her. Nothing else matters."

"Copy. You worry about your killzone, I've got the rest."

Victor didn't reply. A single comms-click confirmed.

Below, a black Archer Quartz Executive glided into the junkyard, sleek and armoured, like something that didn't belong in the dirt. Windows opaque, engine purring low.

The front doors opened in tandem.

Contractor muscle stepped out. All blacked-out armour, visors reflective, weapons slung low but ready. Smooth, fast movement—drilled precision. They peeled off in pairs, sweeping angles and moving into cover without a word.

Then, from afar, another signature began to move, Ruckus.

He emerged first—his massive frame stuffed into a reinforced coat, chromed arms glinting under faint light. He sniffed the air like an animal.

A soft landing followed—Jaeger, climbing the broken scaffold to the south-east, long rifle unshouldered, optics scanning. His ping came as no surprise; he tripped one of the sensors. 

"Eyes on two heavies," V whispered. "Ruckus on foot. Jaeger's already covering high ground."

Victor's breath stayed even.

"Still no MM," she added. "Either cloaked or remote."

"She's close. She'll want to watch."

Across the field, movement shimmered—a flicker in the shadows. Light-bent figures moved like ghosts, positioning themselves in the blind spots of both V's uplink and Victor's line of sight.

Then came Maelstrom.

Three engine roars, loud and grating, echoed through the dead junkyard. Red headlights. Chrome-tattered paint.

A hacked-out Colby C240, followed by two mismatched vans, pulled up fast and sloppy to the east corner. Gangers spilled out laughing, one throwing a bottle at the fence just to hear it shatter.

Victor frowned.

"Uninvited," V muttered. "Maelstrom's early."

"An expected interference... Although volatile in natured."

"Your definition of 'expected' needs work."

"They serve a purpose."

"Yeah? What's that?"

Victor didn't answer. Instead, his eyes followed Jaeger, who had shifted, rifle paused, pointed toward the new arrivals. He tapped a comm bead. Silent coordination passed between him and Ruckus. The mercenaries shifted position, tense, alert.

Somewhere in the dark, MM was watching. Maybe from the back of the Quartz. Maybe uplinked nearby. Close enough to enter the local grid. Close enough to burn everything.

But not seen.

Not yet.

Ruckus approached the corporate car's trunk, one hand brushing over the latch. Waiting. Testing. Not stupid. He moved with uncanny perception that defied their earlier interactions. 

Victor's hand drifted toward the detonator tucked inside his coat. He didn't grip it—just touched it. Enough to feel that it was still there. Still real.

Tension buzzed across the lot.

Maelstrom gangers loitered dangerously close, hollering, gesturing at the corp muscle, wondering who'd flinch first.

"Maelstrom's crowding the perimeter," V hissed. "If this goes, splash radius hits all of us."

Victor didn't speak.

The trunk creaked.

No gunfire. No shouting.

Just silence.

The kind that came right before metal tore and people died.

Victor exhaled once. Controlled.

The game board was set.

The match had been struck.

Now they waited for the flame.