404: Doom Not Found

- 10 years before canon -

Han tapped through the terminal feed again, rewinding a section. He slowed the footage, frame by frame.

Doom stepped into frame—his silhouette sharp in outline, but his gear? Distorted. Blurred by the same tech masking his face.

"Pause that," River said, leaning in.

The screen froze. The weapon holstered at his hip, likely a pistol, except the resolution fractured around it like broken glass. A ghost image flickered—a blade, maybe. Another frame showed a rifle, maybe. Or both.

Han squinted. "This isn't a standard anti-recognition algorithm. It's dynamic. Adapts in real-time."

River exhaled through his nose. "Smart camouflage?"

"Smarter. Whatever it is, it's masking his entire loadout—gun, armour, melee gear. Every time we get close, the blur shifts. Can't pin anything."

River ran a hand through his hair. "That's intentional. Means he doesn't just want to avoid being seen. He wants what he's seen to stay fluid. Myth."

Han leaned back. "Ever heard of a solo carrying weapons no scanner can log? Even Militech has regulation software for their gear, just for blacksite oversight."

"He's not Militech," River muttered. "Too surgical. Too… theatrical. He's making a statement."

Han glanced at the evidence board. "What kind of solo needs to make a statement like that?"

River didn't answer. His eyes fixed on the footage, on the masked figure moving like smoke through the slums, his weapons shifting like a dream trying to be remembered.

Han muttered under her breath. "A solo who doesn't want to be copied."

The holo-footage closed with a final flicker as Han shut the screen off. The room dimmed slightly, the hum of old fans rising in the quiet.

River leaned back, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Two Scavs dead and another with brain damage. Dozens of stolen cybernetic parts recovered. And twelve out of seven kids pulled out alive—one with infected augment ports, another with organ degradation. All of them were half-starved."

Han crossed his arms, nodding toward the sealed case file. "We should be filing a citation of gratitude. But the guy who did it? He crushed a man's neck like it was nothing. No hesitation. No restraint. While the three witnesses didn't speak, it doesn't help when street cameras got a view. Camera's cut, so we don't have much of a lead either."

River didn't speak right away. Instead, he stared at the evidence board, past the blurred figure and the dark alleys of Watson, where it all happened.

"You hear what the little girl said?" he asked finally.

Han arched an eyebrow. "She didn't say much."

"Exactly. She didn't cry. Didn't ask for her parents. Didn't want food. Just sat there. Quiet. Watching."

"Trauma," Han offered.

River shook his head. "Maybe. But there's more to it. Doc said she refused psych evaluation. Refused placement with city care. Just asked to be left alone. Didn't even flinch when they showed her footage of the masked man."

Han exhaled. "You think she knows who he is?"

"I think he talked to her. And I think she listened." River turned his gaze to the window, the neon city bleeding color into the sky. "The others said she saw him first. Said he spared them."

Han was quiet. Then: "That makes her dangerous."

"Maybe," River replied. "But maybe it makes her loyal."

Han opened the file again. "Three safehouses were cleared because of this. Each had high-volume cybernetics stolen from victims, including black market Sandevistans and illegal ocular arrays. We should be celebrating that bust. But this Doom—he made us irrelevant. Again."

River's jaw flexed. "You feel it too, don't you? It's not just vigilante justice. It's targeted. Strategic. He didn't leave messages or slogans, but every time he acts, the pieces change."

Han snorted. "You sound like you admire him."

"I admire a man who can move in Night City without making noise," River said flatly. "But no—I don't trust him. He saved those kids because it fit his goal. Not because it was right. And next time… maybe it won't."

Han gave him a long look. "The girl's bonded to a phantom. That's a dangerous thread, River."

River nodded. "We follow it anyway."

Han looked down at the blurry still of Doom's armour, outlined in jagged white from the camera scramble.

Then he muttered, "The city needs heroes."

To which River replied, "Then why do we keep getting monsters?"

---

The old monitor above the surgical rig buzzed with muted headlines, pixelated text scrolling across in quiet urgency.

BREAKING: ARASAKA BODYGUARD INTERCEPTS ASSASSIN'S BULLET DURING EMPEROR'S VISIT TO KYOTO. SECURITY DETAILS TIGHTENED ACROSS ASIA-PACIFIC.

...and in unrelated news, the last wild shark has died. Geneticists confirm the species extinct in the open ocean. Captive breeding efforts fail.

Victor stood at the tool bench, still as the image of a hammerhead flickered briefly before fading behind static and shifting text.

No more sharks.

He closed the bio-hatch on the reconditioned neural cord, sealed it tight, and began sanitising the work table. Across the room, Viktor Vektor let out a quiet sigh, arms folded as he leaned against the diagnostic rig.

"You see that?" he nodded toward the screen.

"I did," Victor replied, voice low. "The shark."

Viktor snorted. "Thought you'd care more about the guy taking a bullet for the Emperor."

Victor paused, gaze lingering on the soldering iron before him. "Loyalty is predictable. Extinction is not."

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "That a philosophy thing, or you just pissed you won't get to see one?"

Victor didn't answer. Instead, he resumed work on the optic array, fingers moving with precision. The lens was damaged beyond standard repair—he'd need to fabricate a new casing, maybe even a fresh light lattice if he couldn't pull one from the salvage box.

"Hell of a way to go out," Viktor muttered. "A whole species, erased."

"Every system has a final predator," Victor said. "But even predators die if their world becomes small enough."

Viktor studied him for a beat, then nodded to himself. "You ever think you're that predator?"

"No." Victor snapped the optic casing into place. "Predators feed. I build."

The conversation stalled into silence, broken only by the soft chirp of Victor's datapad finishing another calibration.

Viktor sipped from his cup. "You been quieter lately. More focused. But something's twisting under it. You ain't just fixing gear anymore."

Victor gave a slow nod, mask pulled up onto his brow for a moment of air. "Purpose is a better motivator than survival."

"Yeah, well, survival pays the rent."

"I've done that. Paid yours, too," Victor murmured. "Three months, three days a week. Two hundred eddies a day. Not a bad internship."

"Better than most get." Viktor smiled faintly. "And you never botched a patch job. Not once. You've got a brain wired for control."

"Control," Victor echoed, eyes flicking back to the screen as the image of the Arasaka agent flashed again—his body mid-lunge, intercepting the bullet without hesitation.

Viktor tilted his head. "You miss it, don't you? Whatever world spat you out."

Victor didn't deny it. "That world had rules. Mysticism. Sacred lines between power and cost. Here, those lines are smeared in neon and blood. Nothing means what it should."

"Night City don't believe in shoulds." Viktor tapped his mug against the bench. "Here, things either work—or they don't."

Victor studied his gauntlet. The arc-reactor embedded at the wrist pulsed faintly, synced with his biosignature.

"I'll make it work," he said.

Later, alone in the alcove he'd claimed as his own, Victor sat cross-legged, mask off, breathing deep. The lights dimmed to a low hum.

He reached inward, not for peace, but for calibration.

The magic within him, fractured and chaotic from the cosmic storm, surged faintly beneath the surface. A pressure without shape. His hands, once capable of weaving spells, now trembled if he held the threads too long.

He centred himself. Focused.

He could still project his spirit briefly. Still glimpse the plane between matter and meaning. But without a stabilising leyline, without ritual anchors or sacrifice, the paths were fleeting.

Still... he felt something.

Like iron drawn to a buried magnet. A pull.

Not toward power. But toward possibility.

He opened his eyes. The hum of the clinic returned, cold and indifferent.

The sharks were gone.

But Victor Von Doom was still here.

And he was learning to swim alone.

A faint ping broke through the stillness. Victor's eyes opened, iris reflecting the sharp blue flash of an incoming encrypted comm.

He rose without a word and stepped toward the data terminal he'd rigged into Viktor's clinic wall—one of several discreet uplinks he'd quietly installed. The message was simple.

PADRE:

PAYMENT CONFIRMED. 135,000 ED. DEPOSITED TO PROXY ACCOUNT. CLEAN.

Victor watched the screen for a moment. Numbers blinked. Funds rerouted through a synthetic account string he'd spun up weeks ago—a shell behind a shell. Even a half-interested netwatcher would take hours to peel it apart.

Another line came through, this one marked live.

"Heard you don't sleep. Figured now's a good time."

Victor didn't smile. "You'd be correct."

Padre's voice crackled over the line, that practised calm presence even at this hour. "The payment went through, as promised. Clean job, and word travels. There are whispers. Clients are looking for someone efficient. No questions. Would you be willing to take on something... more direct?"

Victor stared at the screen, as if the data might yield some deeper question.

"Gun-for-hire?" he said evenly.

"Essentially."

"No."

There was a pause. Not awkward—Padre was a professional. Just long enough to acknowledge the refusal.

"I thought as much," he said finally. "Still. Had to ask. You're not the usual kind. Most come looking for a reputation. You... you don't want to be known or at least through this channel."

"I want to be paid," Victor said.

"And you have been. Until next time, my friend."

The line clicked off.

Victor sat back, gaze drifting to the far wall where a workbench brimmed with harvested components—synaptic wires, limb actuators, even a prototype Sandevistan Victor had cracked open like a chestnut just to see what made it hum.

He mused aloud, voice like a blade dragged through silk:"Why wager my life for chump change, when scrap can be melted into gold?"

The datapad blinked—new funds, old silence.

He didn't need glory. Or street cred. Or the false esteem of half-drunk mercs trading war stories over watered-down synthshine. 

The world would acknowledge him one day, but for now...

He needed circuits. Power. Clean lines and stable processors. He needed results.

Technology didn't lie.

Technology obeyed.

Victor turned back toward the armour plating laid out for integration, the shell of something new—iron and will fused together. The world wanted noise. He would give them silence.

He reached for the soldering pen. The storm inside him wasn't quiet yet.

But it would be.